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Part 1 of Chained by War and Love
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2018-12-01
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2024-02-28
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Chained by War and Love

Summary:

King Felipe II of Spain and his Portuguese wife, Queen Maria, are in mourning. The Duke of Alba receives an offer for an alliance from Duke François de Guise, but King Felipe quickly dismisses it. In Brussels, Louis de Valois assumes the title of Duke of the Netherlands. In Savoy, Louis of France acts as regent, facing challenges in her marriage to François de Montmorency.

Exiled from England, Anne Boleyn enters into a political marriage to King François when France is ravaged by the Habsburg invaders. The deadly intrigues of the Tudor, Valois, and Habsburg families and courts are entangled with drama, passion, and wars.

This story is a long Tudor-Valois-Habsburg-Medici epic, written with authentic historical detail, plausibly blending facts with fiction. It is a long series of many historical novels about Henry VIII's queens and the Edwardian era while keeping Anne Boleyn alive.

Notes:

Hello, my dear readers!

This is another Anne/King François I AU, and we hope you will enjoy it. The story 'Chained by Love and War' was inspired years ago by the great fanfiction story that we first read on this website – 'Nemesis' by cruelangel101. Although this talented author seems to have left this website and the story, we heartily thank her for the inspiration cruelangel101 provided for me!

All reviews are appreciated. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Disclaimer: I do not own the CBC/Showtime television series The Tudors, or any of the show's characters. I have no rights to the canonical plots and storylines. All the ideas in this AU are mine, although I discuss them with my friends in real life and my readers.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: Prologue

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text


 Prologue: The Scythe of Cronos

Prologue: The Scythe of Cronos 

May 17, 1536, the Tower of London, London, England

“Viciousness has Henry’s face,” stated Anne Boleyn, the condemned Queen of England. “Henry is killing all of us because I haven’t given him a son.”

Assembling all her strength, she compelled herself to stand up from the bed. Fearing that she would be too late, she dashed across the queen’s chambers like a scared gazelle running for its life from a predator. Dragging a chair to the window, Anne climbed onto it and peered out.   

At this moment, George Boleyn, Viscount Rochford, ascended the wooden platform with impressive firmness. Swathed in black cloth, the scaffold was guarded by arquebusiers. Pointing to the White Tower, where she was incarcerated, he said something to Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, and Anne’s heart constricted at the realization that he thought of her.

At the sight of him addressing the spectators, Anne braced herself against the tide of bereft nothingness. She strained her sight to behold her brother’s final moments.

She regretted that she could not hear George’s speech. She saw that there was a peculiar air of serene tranquility about him, tinged with a cast of melancholy. Yet, his eyes were so bright, almost feverish, as if there were death by burning with the resignation of a Christian martyr.

Christian men, I’m born and judged under the law, and die under the law, and the law has condemned me. Masters all, I haven’t come here to preach, but to die, for I have deserved to die if had twenty lives, for I’m a wretched sinner, and I have sinned shamefully.”

As he paused, the crowd that had gathered on Tower Green didn’t jeer, insult, and curse at him. A sliver of sadness veiled their features, a leaden weight of unsaid words upon their lip. Had the folk’s sentiments towards the Boleyns softened? She’d believed that the spectators would be happy to see the alleged traitors. But as her brother went on, a pall of gloom shrouded everyone.   

I have known no man so evil, and to rehearse my sins openly would be no pleasure for you to hear them, nor yet for me to rehearse them, for God knows all. Therefore, masters all, I pray you take heed by me, and especially my lords and gentlemen of the court which I have been among, take heed by me and beware of such a fall. And I pray to God the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, three persons and one God, that my death may be an example to you all. And beware, trust not in the vanity of the world, and especially in the flattering of the court.”

“What is he saying?” Anne asked herself, her scrutiny riveted on him. “What?”

Visions of their childhood flitted through her consciousness. The three Boleyn children running through the Hever gardens… George hugging Anne after her return from France… Her brother teasing her and mocking her skills at chess until Anne had sputtered... Again, George joking that the Boleyns would always have to fight against gory hordes of relentless foes.   

Something vivid emerged in those days, prophetic like a solar eclipse. Perhaps there was an appointed time for every affair under the heavens, as justice was as fleeting as the wind.

Stilling for a split second once more, George moved to the closure. The queen yearned for time to cease, but instead, it was ticked like a slow mortality march.

I cry God mercy, and ask the world forgiveness, as willingly as I would have forgiveness of God; and if I have offended any man that is not here how, either in thought, word or deed, and if you hear any such, I pray you heartily on my behalf, pray them to forgive me for God’s sake. And yet, men do come and say that I have been a setter forth of the word of God, and one that have favored the Gospel of Christ; and because I would not that God’s word should be slandered by me, I say to you all, that if I had followed God’s word in deed as I did read it and set it forth to my power, I had not come to this. I did read the Gospel of Christ, but I did not follow it; if I had, I had been a living man among you: therefore I pray you, masters all, for God’s sake stick to the truth and follow it, for one good follower is worth three readers, as God knows?”  

His expression devoid of earthly trappings, the Viscount of Rochford knelt on the block, courageously and with the grace of an elegant courtier. Perhaps, impressed by the dignity of his farewell, the throng broke into loud cries, their faces anything but hateful. The prisoner veered one sad glance of bitter anguish towards the White Tower, as if remembering his sister.

“I’m here, George,” whispered Anne, tears moistening her eyes. “I’m with you…” 

At the drop of a hat, the executioner raised his hand. The axe flashed and descended like the hatchet of destiny. The head was severed from the torso with one clean strike.   

“It flashed like the scythe of Cronos.” Even in such minutes, her magnificent intelligence didn’t sleep, flowing out of her in whimsical patterns. “Cronus was King of the Elysian Fields, where admission was reserved for heroes. So, my brother shall become a hero in heaven.”

Seizing it with his left hand, the axeman held the head aloft, shouting to the assemblage, “Behold the head of a traitor!” Surprisingly, the folks observed it with mournful eyes.

Her sobs rising like sails, the queen crossed herself. “Rest in peace, sweet brother.”

Her heart broke into numberless smithereens as the two pieces left of George were taken away. Forcing herself to control herself, Anne watched the ghastly spectacle until every of her alleged paramours – Mark Smeaton, Henry Norris, Francis Weston, and William Brereton – were dead. Littered with their corpses, the scaffold was deluged with the innocent blood.

Finally, the tiny thread of her control broke like a tree limb under too much weight. The snap impelled her to howl with horror, and she slipped from the chair to the floor.

“Oh God!’  sobbed a distraught Anne, her face a mask of excruciating agony, wet from tears. “Oh God!” She clutched her chest, as if she were having palpitations.

All of the queen’s ladies had huddled in the corner, staying at a distance from her since dawn. They had all been handpicked by Thomas Cromwell to act as his spies, but some of them emphasized with her. She was grateful that they had left her to her grief.

Her tear-filled eyes flashed like those of a Cyclop. “Henry! It is your entire fault! Your lust for that Seymour strumpet killed them all. The Titan Cronus used scythe to castrate and depose Uranus, his father, and I would gladly have done the same to you.”

A cavalcade of remembrances of Elizabeth resurfaced in her head, reopening erstwhile wounds. Henry had blamed Anne for giving him a daughter, even though their girl had never been a failure. When she’d been pregnant with Elizabeth, the astrologers Anne and Henry had consulted with had assured them that the baby had been a boy, but they had all erred.

Nevertheless, one old woman had claimed: “Your child is divinely gifted. Blessed by the Lord, it is destined to bring the Golden Age to England.”

Based on her daughter’s extraordinary intellect and precociousness, Anne was inclined to believe that prophesy. Elizabeth would attain such a distinguished rank in the earthly realm that her greatness would ring out through all the impermanence of time. That astrologer must be right!

Another recollection stirred in her mental waters. When they had been out of anyone’s earshot, that woman had apprised her of something that Anne had dismissed as baloney back then.

Now the odd oration echoed through her head like the utterance of a messiah: “Two kings! One is your pain and ruin, the other is your joy and life”. Nonsense, so she dismissed it.

Scrubbing the tears away, the doomed queen rose to her feet with a titanic effort. She trudged to the bed, ribbons of her sorrow intertwining with those of her prayer for the dead men.  

“Sleep in peace,” Anne pronounced quietly as she reclined onto the pillows. “You are all innocent victims of a libertine and a monster. You shall welcome me in heaven tomorrow.”

Notes:

Many thanks to EvilFluffyBiteyThing who created the illustrations and provided invaluable assistance in editing the story.

The birth date of King François was changed to 1498 so that he is almost of the same age with Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor. So, François’ sister, Marguerite of Navarre was born in 1496, and their father, Charles d’Angoulême, died in 1501, not in 1496. King Henry’s birth date remained unchanged.

In Greek mythology, Cronus was the leader and youngest of the first generation of Titans, the divine descendants of Uranus, the sky, and Gaia, the earth.

In Greco-Roman mythology, Aeneas was a Trojan hero, the son of the prince Anchises and the goddess Aphrodite (Venus). He is mentioned in Homer's Iliad, where he is a minor character. In Virgil's Aeneid, he is said to have been as an ancestor of Romulus and Remus.

The Elysian Fields, also called Elysium, is the final resting place of the souls of the heroic and the virtuous in Greek mythology and religion.

May I ask you to leave a review of the prologue to Chained by War and Love? In the past, I had so many reviews on this website (reviews to my old story "Anne Boleyn: Life-death-rebirth path", and it was so great. Reviews always encourage an author to update! Thank you in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 2: Chapter 1: Herculean Hands of Fate

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Herculean Hands of Fate

May 18, 1536, the Tower of London, London, England

“Madame,” called King Henry of England sternly, as he entered the queen’s chambers.

The incisive steel in that familiar voice sent a tremor through Anne Boleyn. She rose to her feet and stared at the man who was still her husband, for, their marriage had not been annulled, at least not yet. She had heard that the validity of their union was being investigated, so she would not be surprised if one day, Archbishop Cranmer came to her with the sad tidbits. 

“Please, leave us,” Anne instructed her ladies, who all scurried out of the room.

The King and Queen of England remained alone in the same apartments where, three years earlier, they had spent the night before Anne’s coronation. On the day of her arrest, she had anticipated to be thrown in the dungeons, only to be relieved upon learning that she would be lodged here. The room was Spartan in its furnishings, but tidy and spacious. A dark walnut chest of drawers sat in a corner and matching chairs in the center; a large oak bed, swathed in black satin sheets, was positioned to the right of the east-facing window, which looked down to Tower Green.

Splendidly habited in a doublet of crimson velvet, the placard and sleeves of which were wrought with gold, the English monarch looked every inch a majestic royal. Over his doublet, he wore a mantle of red brocade, trimmed with ermine and decorated with the collar of the Order of the Garter. His red silk hose matched the ensemble, as did his girdle, ornamented with diamonds and rubies. His cap of scarlet damask was adorned with diamonds and a small red plume.

Although a mere three weeks had passed since their last meeting, Henry had transmuted into someone else. His broad countenance had a handsome and burly look in the thoroughly English way, his thick, red hair like a lion’s mane which Anne had once compared jokingly to the flames of a conflagration. A savage fierceness was etched into his every sinew, every breath, and every pore of his skin. His stature and deportment were kingly in the extreme, though tinctured in the hues of brutality, lurking in his aquamarine eyes, somewhat small but penetrating.

“Your Majesty,” the queen greeted.

The monarch ignored that she did not curtsey to him in accordance with the protocol. His gait heavy, he lumbered across the room to the small window, from where she had witnessed the executions of other men unjustly condemned yesterday. As he halted several feet away from her, he glared at her fiercely, as if the darkness had broken from the confines of Hades.

Has the ferociousness I see now in him always been there? Or was I so in love with him that I was completely blind? Such were Anne’s thoughts as she eyed her homicidal husband. He was no longer her knight – no longer her dearest Hal who had fought against the whole world and torn the country apart to wed her. The irredeemable evil of the deeds he had perpetrated to get rid of her had destroyed Anne and her beloved brother. Presently, Henry was Anne’s mortal foe.

Meanwhile, Henry viewed his unwanted spouse from top to toe. Anne had lost weight, but she was not broken: her inner strength shone in her eyes like a beacon in the night. Shadowed by a sense of impending doom, her unconventionally beautiful features immeasurably truer and deeper than the fleeting life which she had lived up to that time. With its long, open, pendent sleeves, her plain gown of gray-colored damask set off the queen’s ghostly pale countenance.

A bellicose Anne commented, “Ah, crimson! It suits you best! In this attire, Your Majesty looks like a fiery dragon that lures prey into its lair. No wonder that I think so, for you have stained your hands in the blood of many innocents, one of them being my own brother.”

“Your tongue is too poisonous,” Henry hissed like a snake.

With glacial arrogance, she articulated, “Sorry if I displeased you, dearest sire. All gods who receive homage are cruel and dispense suffering without reason, because, otherwise, they wouldn’t be worshipped. You became almost God after England’s break with the Vicar of Rome.” Her voice rose an octave. “You think that you can do whatever you want. That is why you are hell bent on killing me in order to marry your slut.” 

“Unfortunately, you will live,” spat the monarch.

At first, she was astounded and then horrified. “No! I’ve prepared for death!”

Grudgingly, he enlightened, “Yesterday, there were riots against your sentence.”

Sheer bewilderment fluttered across her visage. “An uprising?” 

His fists clenched tightly. “Yes. My own subjects dared act against me!” He furrowed at the unpalatable memory that his subjects doubted the charges against the woman whom he hated. Monotonously, he voiced the short tale about the events which shocked him to the core.

She stressed, “They understand that if a queen cannot have a fair trial, then no one can.”

A spontaneous rush of euphoria swept across the queen’s obliterated world. She realized why the witnesses of the recent executions had not cheered the deaths of her brother and other men unjustly condemned. After I had displaced Catherine as Henry’s queen, the entirety of England seemed to have hated me like the worst pestilence. Now they have developed sympathy for me rather than continuing to harbor grudges against me. Currents of joy inundated Anne’s soul. 

The monarch’s words snapped his wife out of her reverie. “I had to hastily convene Privy Council. Master Cromwell insisted that I spare you on certain terms. After careful consideration of the matter, I decided to let you live against my better judgment.”

Perverted mirth rose from the bottom of her soul, and she quaked with wild laughter that scalded her throat. “Cromwell recommended that you do so, didn’t he? Really? The very man whom you employed to manufacture these ludicrous and abominable charges?” 

The ruler’s features flushed with fury, his angry gaze glittering under the reddish, bristling brows. “Shut your mouth, you filthy strumpet! You must be prostrate with gratitude that I allow you to live out the rest of your days instead of sending you to hell where you belong.” 

Anne seated herself on the bed, and snapped defiantly, “I have never betrayed you.” 

“Your fathomless black eyes of a demoness will not bewitch me again.” His voice fell to a dark rumble. “Cromwell told me that you had slept with more than one hundred men.” 

“How can a queen have so many lovers without anyone noticing it?” 

Her laugh scraped over his nerves like a hot blade. “I would not laugh, if I were you.” 

King Henry stepped to the bed, and, instantly, his ferociousness was magnified tenfold by his proximity to her. Uncontainable ire etched into their expressions, they glared at one another like a pair of devils. Such deep and portentous silence ensued that the whisper of the guards’ footsteps outside the queen’s chambers was thunderous by contrast.

His voice forcibly composed, he uttered, “Agree that the marriage never was, give up all rights. You can take Elizabeth, you will be cared for. Set me free. Obey me, you adulteress!” 

Finally, she realized that she would fail to persuade him of her innocence. “Our daughter shall not be a bastard. You promised marriage and the crown. Now you try to dance out of your promise. I shall not have it!” Her voice rose to a crescendo. “If you want to be free of me, Elizabeth will remain legitimate. She will be your heir until that Seymour wench produces a boy.”

Her acrid grin was like a dagger into the gut. “I cannot be sure that she is mine.”

His spouse trembled with a horrible indignation that propelled her to climb to her feet and close the gap between them. “How dare you disparage your own child, Henry? She was conceived after our return from Calais, where you took my virginity and saw the white sheets stained with blood. God and you are my witnesses that I was a true maid when you bedded me for the first time! In England, we were always together, and we spent many nights together. Furthermore, Elizabeth is a Tudor through and through, although she has my eyes and spirit.” 

“Indeed, her hair is like my mother’s and mine.” 

Artfully, the queen applied another tactic that appeared to be working well. “You do not believe me that I’ve always been faithful to you. Let it be so. But you cannot lie to yourself that Elizabeth is not yours. To deny her paternity means to doubt your own virility.”

A long, tense silence stretched between them, lengthening almost into a lifetime.

The reminiscences about his first time with Anne flashed through his head. When Henry had returned to his rooms after the banquet in honor of the French king, he had found there a naked Anne. After disrobing himself and joining her in the bed, he had kissed and caressed her with a lingering gentleness, worshipping the feel of her soft lips that parted for him. Her words spoken back then echoed through Henry’s consciousness like a whisper of nothing, for Anne had failed in her main promise: “Now, my love, let me conceive, and we will have a son.”

Images of their coupling flickered in the monarch’s mind. They had kissed wildly, almost violently, bruising each other’s lips and gasping for air. He had taken Anne with all his passion and love, primeval and vehement, colored with his expectation for a precious son out of her magnificent body. She had not become pregnant on their first night, but soon after their return from Calais, her womb had been blessed with the fruit of their amorous endeavors. To the monarch’s dismay, Anne had later deceived him and birthed him a daughter, but he remembered the resistance upon entering her sanctum of feminity. I did see the blood on the sheets, he recalled.

Her claim about her virginity was a true one. “Yes.” 

“Henry,” she addressed him gently, rewarding his hostility with artificial softness. “You might hate me, but our Elizabeth… She is too small to suffer from the stigma of bastardy. Have our union annulled while keeping her legitimate: Archbishop Cranmer may declare that we entered into our marriage in good faith. I shall say nothing against it and disappear from your life forever.” 

“Very well, Anne,” he acquiesced after a tense pause. “I’ll spare your worthless life, but you must depart from my kingdom. I do not care where you will go.” His features twisted into a truculent scowl. “Elizabeth cannot be under your deleterious influence. I shall not allow you to poison her innocent mind against me. I do not want you to plot behind my back either.” 

“To be separated from my dear girl?” Swallowing her sob, she croaked with resignation, “Well, if she remains a princess of the blood, then you have my consent.” 

He nodded. “Cranmer will bring you all the papers soon.” 

As their gazes locked, the monarch screwed up his face in disgust, as if her mere presence carried the stench of a gutter. He then pivoted like a savage whirlwind and stomped to the exit.

Her steady voice halted him as Anne affirmed, “Before you go, perhaps you should hear one thing. I lied to you, Henry.” As he swiveled to face her, she taunted in a sing-song intonation, “I said that I loved you, but I lied. I was untrue. Untrue with many.”

Was she confessing to her crimes after all of her desperate, staunch denials? The words erupted from his mouth before he caught them. “That is a lie!” 

Her falsehood aimed at hurting her tormentor. “Indeed, you took my virginity. However, later, I was with all of them.” Her voice rose to a mechanical growl, a vocal nail drawn down the chalkboard of her life. “With half of your court, guard, grooms, with stable hands, look for your life at every man that ever knew me, and wonder if I did not find him a better man than you!” 

Dashing to her like a hyena running to an antelope, the ruler slapped her hard across the face and shoved her to the floor. “You whore!” It was the first time he had handled her roughly.

She staggered back and fell, but swiftly rose. She glared at him like the Goddess Athena who was furnished with a suit of armor and weapons. “Such rough handling of your own wife! Well, I should not be astounded. Your version of love – I doubt you know what real love is – has always been the bashful selfishness of a spoiled brat who considers women his toys.” 

“Traitor!” His loathing was so intense that a sheen of sweat burst out upon his brow.

Her belligerent eyes brightened with a prophetic light. “Nevertheless, Elizabeth is yours, and you will see her grow. Get a son off that pale, hypocritical harlot, and hope that her weak brats will live! But my girl shall reign after you! Yes, Elizabeth, the daughter of Anne the Whore and Henry the Tyrant obsessed with sons! She will be a greater ruler than any king of yours!” 

“No!” The monarch shrank away from her, as if she had just cursed him.

Climbing to her feet, his spouse promulgated, “Queen Elizabeth! The most illustrious monarch who has ever ruled England! My daughter shall usher the country into a Golden Age!”

A profoundly shocked Henry blinked, for once his voice forsaking him. At this instant, his visceral, primitive animal abhorrence for Anne surpassed that of the Trojans for the Greeks who had besieged the city of Troy throughout years. Mingled with this feeling was his regret that he could no longer send her to the block for saying the things which couldn’t be true, for his angelic Jane would definitely produce his golden prince. Now I crave to spill the whore’s blood as much as never before, not even when Charles apprised me of her misconduct, he fumed silently. 

“Leave England, you witch!” enjoined the ruler. “You will never see Elizabeth again!” 

In the most sarcastic tones, she answered, “As Your merciful Majesty commands.” 

His wife sank into a deep, gorgeous curtsey – the far-famed Boleyn curtsey. She moved with inimitable and mocking grace, and yet with an air of sinister resolve. 

“Go to hell, Anne Boleyn!” Her husband then stormed out of the room.

§§§

As the door slammed behind him, Anne fell onto the floor beside the bed in a miserable heap, a tempest of sobs assailing her. “Oh God! Why is he so cruel to me?” 

Henry Tudor, I hate you more than I’ve ever loved you! The queen yearned to plunge the lance of vengeance into the monarch’s black heart, to compel him to suffer as much as those sentenced to crucifixion do. In his attempt to inflict inhuman suffering upon her, he had deprived her of everything she loved so dearly: of her brother and daughter, as well as of a chance to ever see the girl again. Anne’s soul withered like grass in the fall, her heart and soul hollowed out.

“What should I do now?” asked Anne herself, forcing herself to stand up. It was not time for weakness. “Where will I go if he wants me out of England?” 

Cascades of memories penetrated Anne’s tormented consciousness, the panorama of all her romance with King Henry, his infidelities and broken promises, her every weakness and every failure, and, finally, the grand finale in the Tower. Then the events of the last few minutes repeated themselves, impersonally and spectacularly, in her brain, and Anne could again hear her mind-blowing tirade about Elizabeth’s glorious future, praying that they would be prophetic.

The topic of Anne’s impending exile was clawing at the fabric of her mind that stretched, thinned, frayed at the edges. And, suddenly, from beyond the mists of time, pictures of the distant past deluged her mental universe with tremulous hope. In her early adolescence, Anne had lived at the most glittering court in Christendom, where she had obtained a stellar education and acquired refined manners, which had assisted her in the quest for Henry’s attention and the English crown. Furthermore, years ago, Mary Boleyn had lived in France as well, and their father, Thomas Boleyn, had served the English ambassador there. Warmth, which was now flooding the queen’s breast, came from the remembrance of the golden life Anne still missed with every fiber of her being, a life of happiness and almost freedom, without the shackles of Henry’s warped love.

“France,” she whispered, her eyes blazing with the vivid inner fire blazing in her soul. “I became the person who I am at the French court. Perhaps I will find my place there again.” 

In the span of a few moments, the queen’s ladies returned to the chamber. They all wore ambiguous expressions, wondering what the monarch had talked about with the prisoner.

“I’ll satisfy your curiosity,” Anne conceded as she settled on the bed. “The king has spared me. Our marriage will be annulled soon, and he will remarry. I’ll have to leave England.” 

“God be praised, Your Majesty!” they chorused, relief written all over their faces. Even though most of them disliked Anne for various reasons, they did not wish her dead.

The queen saw that the question about her ejection from the country was hovering over their lips. She wasn’t inclined to discussing it, especially not with them, as they reported all of her actions to the Constable of the Tower, who informed Cromwell about everything.

“You are all dismissed.” Anne shut her eyes, as if to meditate in silence.

The sound of their receding footsteps was like the sweetest music to her ears. She yearned to be alone, for none of her ladies loved her with silent sympathy that needed no words. Stillness contained universal truth about human beings in all times and all ages, and, at this moment, Anne enjoyed it more than anything else. Her battle would continue in France, and maybe it would last for many years to come, so she needed respite from the unrelenting stress of life. 


  June 10, 1536, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, France

“The former false Queen of England is coming!”

“Her union with King Henry has never been valid!”

“Yet, after the annulment, the man still calls it a marriage in good faith!”

“After losing all her titles and wealth, she has been expelled from England!”   

The approach of the legendary Anne Boleyn to the François I gallery was watched by a horde of amazed nobles, grooms, enquires, and serving men, who had all assembled in the corridor. Unfazed by their stares tinged with awe, the former Queen of England glided along the floor, as if a song resounded in her head, her body swaying to the tune only she could hear.

“By Heaven! What brings the Lady Anne Boleyn here?” 

“Has she come to France to bewitch His Majesty, King François?” 

“The whore just craves to have another king in her bed!” 

“The Boleyn girls are whores infamous above all!” 

“King François will ride the Lady Anne very often!” 

“Her gown is rich despite her current predicament!” 

“She will just humble herself to our liege lord, for she has nowhere to go.” 

“Most likely, Lady Anne wants to become Queen of France!” 

The audience issued versatile comments on the lady’s raiment, their murmurings hovering in the air like whisperings of the ill-natured spirit. They would be forever adding gossip about her to the existing mud of rumors. Nonetheless, despite the contrary attitude of the spectators to her, all those who commanded a complete view of the scene were in spellbound fascination.

Notwithstanding her relative impenetrability, one of their comments hurt Anne. My sister Mary…  I should have found her in England before my departure. Once King François ripped her reputation into tatters beyond repair. Most likely, he would not act so towards Anne. Many years had elapsed, and he must have matured since then. After all, the French ruler had been most gallant and kind to her in Calais, even though later, he had not acknowledged her as Queen of England.

Inwardly, the unfortunate woman was shuddering. Anne’s scarred soul was kneeling with its upraised hands on the imaginary altar, praying as fervidly as possible to Jesus Christ, who was her last hope. Her relatives had died or deserted her before or during her downfall, as if she had been infected with leprosy. Nobody heard her internal wails, her emotions were tangled – fright, despair, and hope alternating like the squares of a chessboard. If King François doesn’t permit me to stay here, I do not know what I will do. I do not even have enough money to travel.  

A young courtier opined, “Madame Boleyn is a desirable woman with style and elegance, although she no longer has the social status she possessed while whoring herself to King Henry.”

Fascinated, several men stared at her, and Anne smirked to herself. In spite of her internal misery and her lack of money, her outfit was truly stunning thanks to her generous mother, Lady Elizabeth Boleyn nee Howard, who had sent her favorite child some of Anne’s old clothes from Hever Castle. At court, nobles competed to outshine one another, and it was important to wear the finest things. At the same time, Anne felt as if she were the most remarkable and pathetic female figure that stood out at the magnificent French court: remarkable, because of her exotic appearance, her strong, smart character, and her idiosyncratic life story; pathetic, because all her energies and intelligence had been directed in a false channel, while her world had crumbled to pieces despite her extraordinary personality and her many talents.

Being stationed on the summit of the lofty stairs, two cavaliers called Anne a whore and hurled other insults at her. She spared no one any glance, moving gracefully, like a long-legged seabird feeding on the shoreline. Her pulse beating like that of a trapped bird, Anne passed through a gallery, hung with white and blue cloth of gold, and emblazoned with the Valois coat-of-arms.

The herald announced, “The Lady Anne Boleyn.” 

Anne walked in the royal inner sanctum, for King François always kept the key from this gallery with him. It had been built to link the royal chambers with the Chapel de la Trinité. 

In the blink of an eye, a slender feminine figure appeared at the end of the gallery. The woman was enveloped in a seductive gown of scarlet cloth, cut indecently low and trimmed with a profusion of diamonds and rubies. Her stomacher of gold, set with precious stones, gleamed like the flame of lust in all of its carnal glory, a golden girdle tied around her waist. Her features of uncanny perfection and the delicacy of her complexion would have dazzled anyone, but there was no noble beauty of truthfulness, kindness, and fidelity in them.

The fire from the woman’s emerald eyes blazed ferociously into the air and exploded with thunderous force as she hissed, “What does that Boleyn strumpet want from my king?”

§§§

The quarters of the Montmorency couple were decorated with brightly colored wallpaper. One of the walls represented a cycle of biblical frescoes by Rosso Fiorentino. Light filtered into the spacious bedroom where the Baron and Baroness de Montmorency froze in front of each other; a large bed, canopied with red and tawny velvet, stood behind them. All the furniture was of oak and mahogany, with chairs and tables set up around the perimeter of the large chamber.

“Stop this jealousy, wife,” implored Anne de Montmorency, Marshal of France.

His spouse glowered at her husband. “You have come from another of your mistresses.”

Barely controlling his temper, he barked, “Not as many as you might think.” 

“But you were with another woman,” she accused him.

“Even if it is so, Madeleine, then what? What will you do?”

The couple’s glares intersected like swords of enemies. They had entered into an arranged marriage in 1527.  Madeleine was a daughter of René de Savoy, who was the illegitimate son of Philippe II, Duke de Savoy, and François’ grandfather. As the baron was his close friend, François had wanted Montmorency to be related to him through the marriage to his half-cousin. 

In 1526, Anne de Montmorency had been made Grand Master of France, having been charged with supervision of the royal household. King François had organized a series of lavish feasts at court in honor of his best friend’s union with Madeleine, trying to make Montmorency and himself a little bit happier, as the monarch’s two sons had been in Spanish captivity back then. François and Queen Marguerite of Navarre had acted as witnesses on the ceremony.

Although there was no love between them, Madeleine and Montmorency had learned to be partners and friends in their matrimony. They already had nine offspring, out of whom five were boys. Madeleine gave birth to his children every year; at present, she was five months along in her pregnancy. Montmorency had paramours, and in spite of their relatively smooth relationship, Madeleine was sometimes jealous of him to other beautiful women.

Montmorency viewed his wife from top to toe. At her twenty-six, Madeleine was a lovely woman of short stature, her features perfect in an icy way. Her expression was cold and never readable save moments when she either hated someone or threw tantrums of jealousy. Her gown of white and green brocade, decorated with diamonds on the sleeves, hugged her slim form tightly, stressing her enlarged stomach. Her long and blonde hair streamed down her back from beneath a tiara of amethysts, sapphires, and rubies, which was one of her husband’s gifts. 

“Will you answer to me, Monty?” she demanded, her eyes flashing with ire.

“Only in such moments there is no coldness in you, Madeleine.”

She stepped to him. “Are you not pleased with me and our marriage?”

“I am, especially with heirs. You have given me many sons.”

Her hand flew to her belly. “I can give you another, but your heart will never be mine.”

“You don’t love me either.” Montmorency was growing tired of this conversation.

“I don’t,” she acknowledged. “I’ve been a model spouse to you, haven’t I?” At his nod, she snarled, “Then respect me and don’t have liaisons with those women who are part of my household. Don’t forget that I’m related to His Majesty and can complain on you.”

The Grand Master of France was certain that their liege lord would not interfere in their family quarrel. “Peace, Madeleine, peace. I had only one affair with your maid, and I promise to never do it again. I’ve never possessed an amorous temperament like that of–” He trailed off.

“Like that of my cousin, King François,” finished his spouse. “Thanks be to God.”

“I shall be more discreet. Please, calm down for the sake of the baby.”

Madeleine assumed her usual chilly expression. “Heirs… Only they worry you.”

He stepped to her and clasped her hands in his. “It is not true. Aren’t we friends?” 

“We are,” she said in an arctic voice. “Remember your promise.”

Montmorency tipped his head. “I shall.”

He studied his spouse again, whose face was if made of millions of immobile snowflakes. Madeleine de Savoy was an icy queen, and their wedding had been like the coming of winter in Montmorency’s existence. His life, which had previous been merry and full of adventures with his beloved sovereign, had lost something of its charm because he was no longer a bachelor. So much interest lay in the growth of sentiments and emotions for him despite his lack of amatory demeanor and his dislike of courtly love, but with Madeleine it was impossible to feel any warmth.

If only Madeleine was less cold, Montmorency fretted. Despite this prestigious match, Montmorency would not have chosen Madeleine if not for the king’s arrangement. He always found his summer with a few paramours at court, at times with servant girls, and whores. He had never had as many lovers as François did, not understanding lewd tendencies of others.

Montmorency led his wife to a high-back chair adorned with flower motifs. After he had assisted her in sitting herself in it, he settled himself in a matching seat next to her.

The baron bared his heart. “Madeleine, forgive me if I’ve ever hurt you. When we married upon the king’s orders, I anticipated a cessation of many active interests and enthusiasms. I didn’t look forward to being with you, and soon I realized that you don’t like me. Yet, I rejoiced when we managed to make the best of our union, and once our first baby was born, I felt that we are tied to each other forevermore because of our children. You have been a good wife to me.”

Madeleine confessed, “I wanted to marry you even less than you wished to wed me. Yet, my father, René, asked the late Madame Louise de Savoy to find a husband for me. My respect to my late father and to His Majesty’s late mother was immense, and I would never have gone against their desires. So, I accepted my fate when I was announced that you would be my fiancé. My father and François both gave you a substantial dowry for me.”

“It was not a matter of getting your and our sovereign’s money, wife.”

A smirk twisted her lips. “You and I had to obey the commands.”

“Yes.” He surveyed her again with concern. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. I’ve long reconciled that I must live the life of quiet contemplation.”

“Summer is for activity, and winter for reflection,” he joked.

 She enjoined, “Have fun and summer with your mistresses, but ensure that I don’t know their names. I might have an icy demeanor, but I don’t want to hear whisperings of your mistresses behind my back. Catherine de Silly, daughter of Charles de Silly, is your lover, and everyone is aware of it. That is enough for me, and don’t you dare sleep with my maids.”

“If you try to give me some warmth, I’ll be faithful to you.”

“I cannot change myself, Monty, and I don’t want to. You are my friend and lover, but you are so far from the ideal of a man I dreamed about in my early youth. I cannot love you.”

Offended, he growled, “Neither can I.”

Madeleine’s gaze veered to a fresco portraying the Virgin Mary. “However, I don’t forget about my marital duties, and you will not dismiss yours – I do deserve your respect.”

“You do,” he agreed. “You will never hear of my affairs again.”

“Good; I trust you.” As her mind drifted to the former Queen of England whom she hated, Madame de Montmorency bristled. “Will that Boleyn slut really beg His Majesty for giving her refuge in France? She has no shame! The king should have her burned for heresy.”

“Your cousin does not imprison or burn women.”

“François is the Knight-King,” she snapped in a tone layered with both condemnation and esteem. “His Majesty should take action against the heretics and evangelicals, for there are a lot of them in this kingdom. It would be good if he had started with that Boleyn whore who slept with countless men, committed incest, and cuckolded that dreadful English heretical monster.”

Montmorency parried, “Come, Madeleine! Every sane person comprehends that Anne Boleyn has been falsely accused, and that Thomas Cromwell arranged her downfall.”

“Do you approve of her presence in France?” Madeleine fidgeted with her necklace.

“No, I don’t, but I pity her because she has nowhere else to go. His Majesty will allow her to stay in France. You are better to get accustomed to her presence at court; he might give her some title in his generosity, for François has always been fond of her.”

She looked bewildered. “Even when he didn’t acknowledge her as Queen of England?”

“Our liege lord couldn’t risk spoiling his relations with Pope Clement the Seventh because there was hope that His Holiness would pay the dowry of Dauphine Catherine de’ Medici. Then François could not do so because of the invalidity of her marriage to King Henry, but if Anne’s fall from his grace did not happen, after Catherine of Aragon’s demise he would have supported her as queen. Henry of England ceased being a bigamist after his first wife had died, so there was no reason to antagonize England. We need more allies again the emperor.”

“I’m surprised neither King Henry nor Anne Boleyn have yet been excommunicated.”

Montmorency steepled his fingers in consideration. “Pope Paul the Third might do it, but only to King Henry. Lady Boleyn will be under our liege lord’s protection from now on.”

She frowned. “How can you guess before my cousin’s meeting with her?”

“I know His Majesty very well, Madeleine. He is a true knight, so our king will always save a damsel in distress. I nevertheless hope that she would be sent away from court.”

Madeleine glanced at the fresco depicting Mary Magdalene. “Such heretical strumpets don’t repent unlike Mary Magdalene. That harlot led the Tudor monarch astray, and now she will work to seduce His Majesty who is attracted to women like her – intelligent and unusual. She will enjoy a lot of chattering idiots swarming about her, but she will aim to become the king’s mistress.”

“I don’t think so,” he put in. “She rejected King Henry’s advances for a long time.”

Hatred glittered in her eyes, which stopped being impenetrable. “She will curse France!”

“It is all nonsense. France will always be a Catholic country.”

“How can you certain of this? The king’s sister is almost a heretic! Queen Marguerite is a Catholic only nominally, for her intellectual circles continuously discuss heresy.”

At this moment, Montmorency thought that he liked his arctic wife more than this angry and fanatical woman. “I recommend that you are careful, Madame. Queen Marguerite is one of the most remarkable women I’ve ever met and who has ever been born in France. I’ll pretend that I did not hear your words, but you must respect Her Majesty. Remember that.”

Madeleine became an emotionless statue again. “I criticized only her heresy.”

He raised his hand. “Enough, wife. Never say such things again.”

A moment later, a servant entered and bowed. “Monsieur de Montmorency, I’m sorry for disturbing you, but there are urgent news from Monsieur Claude d’Annebault.”

The baron stood up. “I shall go talk to Claude as soon as possible.”

As he hastened out of their apartments, his mind drifted to his lover many years ago – Lady Mary Boleyn, who was now Lady Stafford. The words he had told Mary echoed in his mind: “You are so beautiful and very warm!” His inner voice spoke to him about his affair that he had long buried in the depths of his mental chambers, and it was a clear, dulcet voice of the flute that. Unlike Madeleine, Mary was a warm and affectionate lady, he lamented silently.

§§§

Upon entering the gallery, Anne Boleyn fell deadly silent, as if she had stepped out of the world and into an unknown realm. She watched the light stream through the stained-glass window at the opposite wall, the memorial of the French grandeur she had always admired.

A familiar French baritone, confident and melodious, flowed like liquid gold, intuitively finding the right notes. “Madame, you have become more beautiful than Helen of Troy.” 

Swiveling, Anne stared at the French monarch, who stood near the fireplace, adorned with his personal emblem of a salamander. Sinking elegantly into the deepest curtsey she could perform, she demurely cast her eyes down. Her heart swooped into the pit of her stomach. 

She uttered in flawless French, “Your Majesty, I thank you for meeting with me.” 

“Rise.” François approached her.

Grappling with nervousness, she hesitated, her legs wobbling. He gently raised her from the curtsey, and at his touch, she felt so light that she feared she would blow away. 

As their gazes intersected, two depthless pools of liquid gleamed in the opaque shade of Anne’s sorrows. In the past, when François had encountered Mademoiselle Boleyn in Queen Claude’s apartments, his amber eyes, affable and clever, had often observed the young Anne with inextinguishable interest. Throughout years, Anne had not forgotten his attention to her.

Recollections of her companion's recent losses arose in her mind. “Your Majesty, accept my most sincere condolences on the passing of Dauphin François and Queen Eleanor."

Grief shadowed his face for a split second before the sovereign of France bridled his emotions. “Thank you, my lady. My eldest son’s death happened two months earlier. It was a very hard blow to France and our family. He was only eighteen… when God called him home.” He heaved a funereal sigh – deep, tormented, heartfelt. “He never recovered from the years he spent in the Spanish prison.” Another sigh wafted through the room. "The official mourning period is not over yet, but I shortened it according to my son's dying desire. In his benevolence, my dearest François did not want us to mourn for him for long."

“Now your son is in a better place.” Anne was not surprised in the slightest that the king had not mentioned Eleanor of Austria’s death. All knew that he despised the late woman because he had been forced to wed her so as to secure the release of his two sons from the Spanish captivity.

King François had not changed since their meeting in Calais in October 1532. His oval face arrestingly masculine, his stature imperial like that of a Roman Caesar, he was the paragon of chivalrous, yet somewhat saturnine, handsomeness. His countenance benevolent, sardonic, smart, and jovial all at once, its only imperfection was the long Valois nose. His strong forehead pointed to the indomitability and stubbornness of his spirit, his thin, sensual lips to his amorous disposition. François' amber eyes were twin maelstroms of supreme intelligence and noble vivacity, and they also exuded his amicable warmth, his exquisite humor, and his refined grace.

Towering over others like a mythological Titan, the French ruler was the epitome of sheer magnificence. Ornamented with diamonds and sapphires, his doublet of purple velvet was slashed with black silk, wrought with gold. His thick, straight, chestnut hair fell over his ears from beneath the blue velvet toque, encircled by a black plume. Over these habiliments, he was clothed in a mantle of cloth of gold lined with sable. His hose of black silk highlighted his long, muscular legs; his girdle, as well as the handle and sheath of his poniard, were studded with gems.

After a moment’s pause, Anne continued, “Perhaps I'm in a better place as well, although I'm not in heaven, unlike the late dauphin.”

The monarch soothed, “Trials are our greatest mentors, and they make us stronger.”

Obviously, he had deciphered the expression in her eyes. Embarrassed that he had noticed her vulnerability, she schooled her face into blankness. “Brave people never scorn an opportunity, if it comes dressed in trouble’s apparel. But I fear that it is no longer my case.”

He asked forthrightly, “Why did Henry do it?” 

At the mention of her former spouse, her universe broke into numberless shards. “I was unable to give him a son. A leaf has no power to resist when the wind blows.” 

François tipped his head. “The Tudor temper is worse than a hurricane.” 

Anne sniggered bitterly. “Also, it is an axe severing the heads of innocents.”

He gestured invitingly at her. “Let’s take a seat.” 

They seated themselves into matching throne-like armchairs which were adorned with carved shields, on which were engraved the fleur-de-lis of France on an azure field and the Valois escutcheons. A circular, low rosewood table stood between their armchairs.

With an art-worshipping gaze, Anne examined the gallery which everyone admired. Few were permitted access into the place that was considered almost the king’s sacred sanctum.

This abode exuded a breezy, amorous aura of serenity, created by the skilled hand of Rosso Fiorentino, one of the many Italian painters who were patronized by King François. The walls were decorated with stunning sculptures of ancient gods and goddesses, as well as figures of nymphs in languorous poses. Between them were placed fabulous frescoes, framed in stucco and depicting the Gods of Mount Olympus, some of whom resembled the Valois ruler’s features. Anne counted twelve frescoes in total, each enhancing the grandeur of the gallery’s highly ornate design. 

“Few come here,” François broke the silence. “It is my favorite place in the palace.” 

“But you agreed to meet with me here.”

His expression evolved into compassionate seriousness. “As soon as I received your note. I did not want to make you wait for long. Here we can speak away from the eyes of court.”

“Thank you, sire.” She dithered as to how to voice the reason for her visit.

The French king smiled ever so slightly. “I suspect why you are here.” 

An anxious Anne blanched to the whiteness of marble. “Your Majesty, I do not intend to impose upon your hospitality any longer than necessary. All I ask is to let me stay in France.” 

Leaning back in his seat, he latched his gaze on to hers. “One friend in a storm is worth more than a thousand friends in sunshine. You can stay at my court, Madame.” 

Buds of hope stirred in her breast. “Can it be true, sire?” 

François mock-complained, “You are such a ravishing, but pitiless creature! Why are you being so unfair to me, mon amie? You do not trust the word of the Knight-King, do you?” 

A deluge of ephereal lightness inundated Anne, as if the weight of her troubles had been lifted off her shoulders. Several years had elapsed since she had last led such a charming and witty discourse with a gentleman. After their Elizabeth’s birth, nearly all of her interactions with Henry had been laced with ire, disappointment, censure, and hatred. The shrill sound of trumpets braying the insults Henry had heaped upon her regularly was deafening in her ears. 

Her lips curled into a grin. “I’d rather have your word than all the treasure of the world.” 

His smile was scintillating. “Then, Madame, I’m your knight in shining armor.” 

“Indeed, sire.” The hypnotizing inner light brightened her eyes a shade.

François sauntered over to the walnut cabinet beside the opposite wall. He poured out two measures of a fine burgundy wine, returned to his armchair, and passed one to Anne.

Aristocratically drinking wine, the monarch perused Anne as a connoisseur of feminine beauty. Slender and exquisitely proportioned, with her bottomless eyes like two grottos of black water and her long, raven tresses cascading down her back, she typified the goddess Artemis, who governed hunt, animals, and wilderness. Her exotic features emanated an aura of cryptic, pristine nature, her dark eyebrows attractively penciled and sharpening her unusual looks.

His spies had reported to François that Henry had stripped his former wife of all her titles and confiscated most – if not all – of her estates and wealth, giving her only a small pension from the English treasury, which was barely enough to sustain herself in exile.

Nevertheless, today Anne was accoutered as sumptuously as a queen or one of the richest woman in a realm. Her dress was of azure brocade ornamented with emeralds, her stomacher of black taffeta shimmering with gems. Studded with diamonds, a girdle encircled her waist. Over her gown, she wore a surcoat of violet brocade wrought with gold. An enchanting headdress of goldsmith’s work, as well as a massive sapphire necklace and matching earrings, perfectly fitted the ensemble of a sea temptress. Anne’s jewelry was so expensive that the sale of one of her earrings would have allowed her to live in luxury for quite a long time.   

Henry is an utter idiot. How can a man reject such an alluring and intelligent lady? Such were François’ musings about this woman’s situation. His ambassador, Antoine de Castelnau, had written him that Anne’s second miscarriage had sowed strife between her and Henry. But never had he imagined that his English archrival would go to such lengths in his quest for freedom. The other man’s desire for a male heir was understandable, but that could not justify murder.

The ruler settled back into his chair, a goblet clasped in his hand. “Henry still considers himself an enlightened monarch.” With a faint echo of his satiric humor, he continued, “Yet, he has not learned one simple thing. A man should treat his lady love like a flower to let her blossom and be happy. Affection, benevolence, respect, and tenderness altogether are the sun for her.” 

Anne recalled François’ famous quote she had heard on a banquet she had once attended as Queen Claude’s maid-of-honor, more a playmate to her young mistress because of her tender age. Why didn’t Henry view women as flowers and treat them with care, dignity, and respect? Her former spouse had respected Anne throughout their courtship, but her intelligence, willfulness, and headstrongness had ceased being a boon to him after their wedding.

Mannerly, she sipped wine. “Turn your face to the sun, and the shadows fall behind you.” 

His response was direct. “Perhaps only if a woman turns to Henry.” 

“By the way, your comment about royals was prophetic, sire.” 

He arched a brow. “What do you mean?” 

Anne repeated the advice he had given her in Calais. “The station you are to occupy is not an easy one... It is much easier to have nothing than to have everything. If I had not been born to be king, I certainly would not have wished that fate upon myself or anyone else.” A sigh fled her, so deep that it approached to a groan. “I should have listened to you back then.” 

“That is all true and works in life. I also implied the perils of being Henry’s queen.”

The lady’s contemplation was that of someone who had lost their purpose and wandered along the serpentine paths of life. “That Trojan hero, the son of the Goddess Aphrodite.” She took a swig of wine, her favorite Virgil’s work on her mind. “Yes, Aeneas! In Virgil’s Aeneid, he is one of the few Trojans who were not killed or enslaved after the subjugation of Troy by the Greeks. Afterwards, he struggled so much to fathom his destiny for so long. I’m like Aeneas!” 

The monarch drained the contents of his goblet. “Eventually, Aeneas unraveled the riddle and set out to fulfill it. He became the first true hero of ancient Rome and an ancestor of Romulus and Remus. You might have a similar great fate to that of Virgil's Aeneas.” 

She had relaxed a notch. His benign exterior and his unparalleled intelligence seemed formed to captivate those whom he addressed. “Every event is fated and determined to occur.” 

In the manner of a theologian, he averred, “God reveals His will for us through His word. As we read the Bible, He makes a certain verse stand out more than the rest. The Almighty may also guide us through others or speak to us through a persistent inner voice.” 

As if she could see the vault of heavens, Anne veered her gaze to the plafond painted by the best Italian masters. “What is my divine purpose? Why did such awful woes befall me?” 

“Madame, you are alive and out of harm’s way. Your daughter, Elizabeth, is still Henry’s heir.” He paused to let his words sink in. Truth be told, he did not think that Anne’s union with his English counterpart was valid, but he wouldn’t say that aloud. He then continued, “That is all that matters now. The Lord will guide you to opportunities which fit your circumstance.” 

She drained her goblet and set it on the table. “You are right, sire.” 

With an air of brilliance and pride about him, the ruler articulated, “I’ve ushered France into a new era of glorious enlightenment.” He stilled for a split second. “Yet, I feel that there is something else I have to do in my life. I’ll stay encouraged until that purpose is fulfilled.” 

§§§

All of a sudden, the door burst open. Breathing as though he had run a long marathon, Anne de Montmorency, Grand Master and Marshal of France, stormed inside like a blizzard.

“Your Majesty!” Montmorency then apologized, “I’m sorry for disturbing you!”

The monarch furrowed his brows. “How dare you intrude upon me in my sanctum in this terrible fashion, Monty? You are my close friend, but even you are not allowed such rudeness.”

The marshal dropped a low bow. “I apologize!” He then swept a bow to Anne, looking at her with puzzled discomfort, for he had not anticipated seeing her with his sovereign.

Anne remembered the unexpected guest easily as she had seen him in Calais with the King of France. He was the famous Anne de Montmorency, one of the most powerful and wealthiest French nobles and the monarch’s boyhood friend. Though not attractive, he had quite a remarkable countenance, which indicated strength and courage. His rich attire of brown doublet, wrought with gold, and hose of the same material stressed his arrogant and martial deportment.

As her eyes locked with Montmorency’s, the man suppressed a grimace.

As the guest looked at his sovereign, Anne was awash in relief. He dislikes my presence here. He is an important person, for his valor and military skill made him Marshal of France, so he might be dangerous to me. Yet, Montmorency’s opinion did not matter to her, for now she had the king’s protection. She would have to live quietly without interfering anywhere. Hopefully, she would be able to experience a calm enjoyment of the general bounties of Providence, which had saved her against all odds for some reason, in company with a good conscience.

“So?” Slight irritation colored the ruler’s tone.

His subject’s breathing was still labored after sprinting through the hallways. “War! We have just received news! The emperor attacked Marseilles last week!” 

A shaken François shot to his feet. “How could that happen?” 

Montmorency’s narration was absolutely shocking. “Carlos the Fifth, Holy Roman Emperor, has accused Your Majesty of Queen Eleanor’s murder. He says that you planned to dispose of his sister for years, but found the courage to perpetrate the evil deed only now. He has scurrilously maligned you as a royal libertine who annihilated his loyal wife to marry his maîtresse-en-titre.”

“Oh good heavens,” gasped an agitated Anne, her idle hands in her lap.

His visage paling to an immaculate white, the monarch stuttered with outrage, “That is all a pack of blatant lies! It is the most errant absurd I’ve ever heard! Eleanor died of consumption, and everyone knows it! And I’m not marrying my mistress! No one will believe this farrago!” 

“He merely needed a reason to attack us,” pointed out his subject.

“Convene Privy Council meeting today,” urged the king.

The marshal bowed. “I’ll see to it.” He then spun on his heels and exited.

His gaze sliding to his guest, François pronounced mildly, “Tough days, la belle Anne.”

Anne transformed into the brave Arete from the Homeric poems. “Fight for your country, people, and throne. No one can stop your destiny. Isn’t that what Your Majesty told me?” 

He jested, “To save France, I’ll kill the Goddess Eris, Madame of strife and discord.”

As he smiled at her cordially, Anne experienced a feather-brush of appeasement over her physical essence. “Have patience and let things happen in God’s timing.” 

Her eyes alight with curiosity as she peered at François, she recalled the uncanny words of that astrologer. “Two kings! One is your pain and ruin, the other is your joy and life”. 

Another ruler in my life! King François is willing to help and protect me, thanks be to God. Questions blazed through her head like a sacred fire of something wondrous. Was that some stupid blether? If not, what could that mean? Which rulers had been mentioned? The tragic end of her romance with Henry suggested that the English monarch was Anne’s pain and ruin, but she did not dare admit that her meeting with François could result in something good for her. Her thoughts churning like a raging ocean, Anne floundered in a welter of eddying confusion. 

With a bellicose air about him, in the voice of an accomplished general, the sovereign of France proclaimed, “God is on my side, and that is all I need. Our best days are ahead.” 

“I shall pray for you, sire,” Anne promised, and he nodded his thanks.

François voiced his sincere promise before easing himself into his armchair. “Madame, do not worry. Regardless of the war with Spain, you will have my protection.”

“Thank you.” Anne smiled at him, and he smiled back.

Did my arrival in France doom the country and her king to destruction? A blend of dread and compunction assaulted her, but she crushed it, for it was not her fault that the Spaniards had declared war on France. Mired in military filth due to the emperor’s chicanery, the Herculean hands of fate were pulling François de Valois and Anne Boleyn together, like two halves of an invisible universe. Perhaps there was some divine sense behind such unusual twistings of her path.

Notes:

Many thanks to EvilFluffyBiteyThing, who assisted me in the editing of this chapter.

King Henry reluctantly spared Anne's life due to protests of the English people against her execution. However, she was expelled from England after having been stripped of all her titles and wealth. He ejected her to the continent to separate her from Anne's beloved little Elizabeth in order to take vengeance upon his former wife for her alleged crimes and betrayals.

Having nowhere to go, Anne journeys to France and requests an audience with King François. I tried to make her first meeting with him interesting. Their conversation foreshadows some future events in her life, especially in the passage where they talk about Virgil's Aeneas. In the end, we have a cliffhanger that teases you what the outcome of the Franco-Spanish war will be.

Dauphin François, known as François III of Brittany, was the eldest son of King François I and Claude of France. In history, he died on the 10th of August 1536, as he never recovered from the horrible years he spent in captivity in Spain.

In Greek mythology and in the Homeric poems, Arete is frequently associated with bravery, but more often with effectiveness. Anne is going to be very courageous and bold in this AU.

Eris is the Greek goddess of strife and discord. Her name is the equivalent of Latin Discordia, which means "discord".

Virgil gives Aeneas two epithets in the Aeneid: pius ("pious"), which conveys a strong moral tone, and pater ("father"), which enforces the notion of Aeneas' divine hand as father and founder of the Roman race. Anne does have to fulfill some divine mission in this story.

Please, leave a review of this chapter. Reviews always encourage an author to update and make them happy! Thank you very much in advance.

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Lady Perseverance

Chapter 3: Chapter 2: A Defeat of the French

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: A Devastating Defeat of the French

July 11, 1536, the town of Arles, Provence, France

“Today is a cursed day,” muttered the King of France under his breath. 

The air was oppressive with the pungent odor of battle. Once inhabited by the Romans, the Provencal town of Arles was steeped in history. Today, a grim event of the utmost importance colored its history with the crimson hues of bloodshed. The well-preserved remains of a Roman arena and the surrounding valley were littered with corpses and marked with devastation.  

On a hill far from the town’s walls, King François sat on a black stallion, caparisoned in blue silk, its harness embroidered with gold. In front of him, the battlefield was horrifyingly red, stained with the blood of his many soldiers. A warm breeze brought the scent of decay and death to his nostrils, and he sniffed his nose in a blend of disgust, guilt, and bereavement.

Cardinal François de Tournon, who was effectively France’s foreign minister, reached his king. “I’m sorry for intruding upon Your Majesty. We must still keep you out of harm’s way.” 

Veering his gaze to his advisor, the monarch broke into a fit of nervous laughter. “Your Eminence, what does my life cost if most of my men were slaughtered today?” 

Tournon pointed out, “It happened only because we were severely outnumbered.”

Slowing his horse into a slow walk, Anne de Montmorency, Marshal of France, addressed his liege lord. “We did not learn about the emperor’s deceit. I cannot live with myself after today, and I humbly implore Your Majesty to show me some clemency.”

“It is not your fault, Monty,” soothed the king. 

As the marshal stopped near his sovereign, his head dropped in dismay. “It was our duty to ferret out that Ferdinand von Habsburg would join Emperor Carlos. If only we had–“

François interrupted, “All of our spies knew nothing, but I blame myself.” 

Although the King of France had gathered more than ten thousand men in Arles, nothing had been known about the swiftly approaching, huge forces of the emperor’s brother. By the time the first reports had been received, Ferdinand’s troops had already joined Carlos’ armies in the vicinity of the town. It seemed that the outcome of this battle had been highly influenced by the God Ares, who had caused the violence to be singularly bloodthirsty. 

At first, the Imperial cavalry had been making only little raids here and there, doing the French little harm. The Valois forces had not been by any means impeded and moved towards the town of Arles, where King François had planned to crush his foe. This place was of strategic importance: a great many roads, some nine or ten, intersected there, so the French army could easily alter their tactics and diverge from this point, should a further march be necessary. 

King François had given the orders for the concentration of his columns to the north from Arles. The French troops had pushed forward towards the presumable field of victory. Anne de Montmorency had cooperated with other military generals, and today at dawn, the royal forces had promptly engaged the enemy. The vanguard artillery had advanced to open fire on the front of the Spanish, and, having bivouacked the preceding night on a ridge nearby, Claude d’Annebault had rushed to their support. Immediately, a ferocious battle had unfolded.   

The divisions commanded by Philippe de Chabot, Admiral de Brion, had been the first of the infantry to become involved. After having reconnoitered the position, François had charged into the battle with the rest of the infantry, as if he were invincible. The king’s battalions scattered themselves over the opposite sides of the defile surrounding the town from the north. 

King François had stopped in the midst of the fighting men. His armor shining in the beams of sunlight, he had shouted loudly, “I’m like a salamander! I shall survive all fires!”  

Having heard the scream of his French archrival, an incensed Emperor Carlos had struck the pommel of his saddle. His cry in Spanish had boomed across the whole area like a menacing thunder prophesizing death. “I want that Valois douchebag to weep with tears of blood!”  

The Spanish had attempted to stop the advance of the French by an intermittent double fire of musketry. The defile, narrow and steep, and the savage attack of Montmorency’s cavalry had been able to lock the Spanish in the area. Forming the line of conflict to the north of Arles, at a distance of about a mile away, the battle had lasted for four hours with varying success. Then an odd lull had occurred, during which both sides had supervised their formed lines. 

All of sudden, new divisions had commenced arriving from the south, advancing towards the King of France’s batteries. Very soon the position of the French forces, already battered by their merciless opponents, had turned perilous in the extreme. The Imperial hordes, bearing the standard of Ferdinand von Habsburg, had launched a bellicose assault on the French. All those who had opposed the attackers had soon started falling back, and the slaughter had been terrible.  

Encircled in the defile, France’s forces had been outflanked upon either hand. Thousands of muskets had filled the air with a dense, acrid smog that, on a windless summer day, shrouded the battlefield like a pall of ruin. The pitiable cries of the dying and wounded had aroused the spirit of vengeance in the surrounded French, who had made their last stand like demons. The resistance of the French had been exceedingly brave, but the Imperial numbers had exceeded them twice.  

King François had been able to leave the defile only thanks to the noble efforts of Anne de Montmorency, Cardinal François de Tournon, Phillippe de Chabot, and Claude d’Annebault. So thick and overwhelming had the storm of Carlos and Ferdinand’s assault been that Chabot had been seriously wounded during their hasty escape. All the others had perished in the sanguinary fog of fire, blood, and swordfight in the defile – injured, captured, or cut to pieces.

Montmorency’s protest snapped the king out of his reverie, colored with the dark hues of his failure. “We have lost today, but we will recover our losses. Your Majesty led the battle as a competent chief general, and there were no errors in your judgment.” 

“Unlike the Battle of Pavia,” the monarch muttered. 

The marshal shook his head. “You are criticizing yourself in vain. The odds were against us both today and at Pavia. We had the chance to win that battle in Italy, but today we could not."

The king groaned as if from pain, his vitality drained, his strength sapped. “Perhaps. But that does not make things easier. France has been orphaned today, though not crippled.” 

The cardinal’s voice ceased their discourse. “Your Majesty, we must escape now. Right now! Otherwise, we risk being discovered by the emperor’s men.” 

“What?” the King of France growled in exasperation. “How can a knight run away from the battlefield when his fallen comrades have not been buried?” 

“We must,” insisted Tournon. “If you are captured again, France and everything will be lost. If the emperor has you in custody for the second time, he will mete out a slow, lingering death to you, given that he aspersed you as the murderer of his sister, Eleanor.” 

“Your Majesty, let’s leave,” Montmorency concurred.  

Letting go of the reins, François balled his hand into a fist. “We have started off badly, but circumstances were such that we could not win today. I admit freely that I was not the most exemplary military man in youth, but today I’ve done all I could. At present, we have to retreat.” 

Claude d’Annebault mounted the hill. “The emperor has enjoined to find Your Majesty. He dared announce that his sister’s soul is calling to him to avenge her death on your orders.” 

François had a mellow temper. Yet, at this moment, a gust of berserk fury coiled and clawed up through his body. “How can that blasted Habsburg scoundrel proclaim such a crop of brazen lies?  He knows that I would never have physically harmed any royal! I am not him!” 

Anne de Montmorency gritted out, “I myself would have killed that Spanish scoundrel! The more he would have suffered, the better!” 

“He is scum,” spat Cardinal de Tournon. “May God punish him!” 

“We must flee,” urged Annebault, trying to catch his breath. “Right now!”    

Nodding, the King of France asked, “Has Philippe been taken to safety?” 

“Yes, my liege.” Annebault had organized the transportation of a severely injured Admiral of France from the battlefield. “We will escort you to Mazères.” 

Encircled by the men from the Scots guard, the royal cortege galloped across the valley and into the woods. They did not rest until the town of Arles had been left behind, each feeling as if the setting sun were falling from its anchor in the sky to burn them with shame for their defeat. 

§§§

Two men of approximately the same height stood on the other side of the battlefield. The sun sank behind the forest. A hint of an afterglow spread across the darkening firmament.

“Let’s go further away from here. The stench is horrible.”

“Indeed, brother. My nostrils are burning from the stench.”

An authoritative male guffaw rippled through the air. “The battle was amazing!”

They came closer to the soldiers who waited on a bank of the River Rhône. Yet, the two of them kept distance from the others; their personal guard surrounded them while staying at some respectful distance. The huge Imperial camp was located on the other side of the river.

The first knight wore armor with diamond-studded borders, with the ‘KD’ garniture on the raised haute-piece of the left pauldron, which signified ‘Karolus Divus’, or ‘Divine Carlos’. The second one was encumbered in armor adorned with the heraldry on the chest – the imperial double-headed eagle surmounted by a crown, which signified his status as King of the Romans.

All around them, the victorious Spanish, German, Flemish, Austrian, Bohemian, Hungarian, and others cheered their sovereigns – Emperor Carlos and King Ferdinand, their cries deafening like a bass drum. The joined armies of the Habsburg brothers consisted of many nationalities.

A dozen trumpeters, with silken bandrols fluttering in the breeze, arrived from the Imperial camp. Blowing loud flourishes, they proclaimed the victory of the House of Habsburg.   

Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alba, appeared on his white stallion caparisoned in red damask. A party of halberdiers, who had pennons streaming from the tops of their pikes, followed him. Alba was a Spanish noble, general, and diplomat, who had long obtained the great favor of Carlos V. Alba was considered one of the most effective generals of his generation.

The Duke of Alba neared the two men, dismounted, and swept low bows to each of them. “Congratulations on your victory over the French! They were all doomed after we had encircled them in the defile. However, the King of France and his entourage managed to escape.”

Emperor Carlos lifted the visor of his helmet. “That is bad, for I hoped to have that Valois miscreant caged today.” He tittered. “He ran away like a craven!”

Alba apologized, “I’m sorry for my failure to capture him.”

The emperor laughed off the matter. “Perhaps that Valois libertine has become a coward as he aged. He is not as young as he used to be – he is only slightly older than me.”

His younger brother – Ferdinand, King of Bohemia, Croatia, and Hungary, as well as King of the Romans – disagreed. “You do not know that for a certainty, Carlos.”

“Why do you think so, Ferdinand?” Carlos throttled a surge of announce.

Ferdinand flicked his visor up. “Never underestimate your enemy and never assume the best until you have got them absolutely defeated. Isn’t it what you told me years ago, Carlos?”

“It is.” The emperor lauded, “You have always been a talented pupil.”

I am not your pupil, Carlos, Ferdinand growled silently. Once I was just a second heir who depended entirely on your affection for me. Now I’m a king with my own domains and a second man in the Holy Roman Empire. Carlos had made his brother King of the Romans in 1531, having designated Ferdinand as his heir apparent to the empire. The other lands where Ferdinand ruled as a monarch had been obtained through his marriage to Anna of Bohemia and Hungary.   

Separated from Juana of Castile in early childhood, Ferdinand had grown up in his mother’s homeland, unlike Carlos who had been brought up in Flanders. This, coupled with Ferdinand’s personal charm and Spanish manners, had made him much loved in Castile. Wherever Ferdinand ruled and lived, he became popular, and twice this had caused Carlos to make his brother relocate.

Ferdinand articulated, “You have taught me a lot, Carlos. Including caution. Foolish rush in where angels fear to tread. We must substitute courage for caution.”

The emperor placed a hand upon his brother’s forearm. “The art of war teaches us to rely not on the likelihood of the foe’s not coming, but on our own readiness to receive him. The Battle of Arles has demonstrated that the French are not ready for an out-and-out confrontation.”

Ferdinand objected, “Give them time, and they will be prepared better. We have not yet made our position in France solid, although we can march north.”

Carlos spoke as a competent military general. “To fight and conquer is not supreme excellence. It consists in breaking the enemy’s resistance without fighting.”

“Naturally!” exclaimed Ferdinand. “Caution is a must for us!”

The emperor eyed his sibling cordially. “We have done a great job today, my dear brother. Congratulations to us both! I assure you that we will have great success in France.”

Ferdinand shrugged. “Perhaps, Carlos. Time will show.”

The Duke of Alba, who had silently listed to them, moved the topic back to the Valois ruler. “Your Imperial Majesty, the next time, I’ll focus on catching the King of France.”

“Don’t worry about him now, my friend.” Carlos’ tone was most affable. “There will be plenty other cases for you to show off your bravery, which everyone is aware of.”

“What to do with the French prisoners?” quizzed the duke.

Carlos’ response was bone-chilling. “Kill them all.”

“As you command, my liege.” Alba’s eyes were hard, but astonished.

Bowing twice to the two monarchs, Alba rode away with pomp.

Ferdinand grimaced, glad that his sibling didn’t see his disgruntled expression. “Carlos, you cannot murder prisoners of war – you ought to ransom them all.”

The emperor raked his eyes over the corpses that littered the field. “Why should I?”

Ferdinand insisted, “Any general should comply with a code of chivalry.”

Carlos hissed, “Not with the French! Not with that Valois buffoon who got rid of Eleanor!”

The emperor’s brother recollected, “I was taught to hate everything French since childhood, although I’ve never understood the reason for such mortal enmity. Yet, I’ve been interested in French culture, for it is truly magnificent.” Carlos glowered at him, but Ferdinand continued, “I came to France to avenge the murder of our sister Eleanor at the hands of François.”

The head of the Habsburg family proclaimed in a sibilant voice, “That lewd mischief-maker must pay for the assassination of our Eleanor and for her unhappiness. Imagine, Ferdinand: he disposed of her to marry his mistress – Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly.”

A cauldron of animosity boiled in Ferdinand. “And for that François will pay.”

“We shall make him suffer, brother.” Fervency colored Carlos’ voice. “The strength of my hatred for him is proportionate to the strength of my love for our dearly departed Eleanor.”

“True.” At last, Ferdinand removed his helmet. “But you also despise François because he is one of the very few monarchs who refuses to acknowledge your supremacy over him.”

The emperor put off his helmet as well. “The Habsburgs must rule the world.”

Ferdinand remarked, “We are not gods, Carlos.”

The sun had set, but the two brothers saw each other well due to many fires made by their men nearby. The sons of Queen Joanna of Castile and Habsburg Archduke Philip the Handsome contemplated each other with genuine affection. The hazel eyes of Carlos, identical to their father’s, and the pale blue pools of Ferdinand, which he had inherited from their mother.

Carlos embraced Ferdinand heartily. The younger brother responded in kind.

As they parted, the emperor uttered in a low voice, “Never betray me, Ferdinand.”

Ferdinand was offended. “Have I ever given you a reason to doubt my allegiance to you?  I always did what you enjoined me to do, and what is best for the Habsburg family and for you.”

The emperor soothed, “You are my beloved and loyal brother.”

Ferdinand stomped his feet. “What is wrong, then?”

“I do not want something or someone to drive a wedge between us. I must ensure the unity of the House of Habsburg, and your fealty to me is aiding me to accomplish this goal.”

“We didn’t grow up together, but I still adore you, Carlos.”

“I treasure that a great deal. I love you too, Ferdinand.”

Nevertheless, Ferdinand recalled, “After your arrival in Spain years ago, you exiled me to Low Countries because the people wanted me to be their king. I grew up in our mother’s home country, and they knew me too well – I was dangerous for your reign. Later, again because of my popularity, you sent me to Vienna and made me Archduke of Austria.” His lips curved into a grin. “I’m fortunate to have grown to love Austrian customs and the German language.”

The emperor pulled off his gauntlets. “Where are you going with this?”

Ferdinand clasped his helmet as if he were about to fling it at his sibling. “I’ve always submitted to your will, even if I disliked it. Yet, at times you use my affection against me.”

“Ferdinand,” drawled his elder sibling with displeasure. “You need to rest.”

“Carlos,” Ferdinand spelled out in a similar manner. “Your Imperial Majesty!”

After sketching a half-mocking bow, the King of Hungary swiveled and walked away.  

A moment later, Ferdinand nevertheless paused and turned to him. “I do not approve of the executions.” He put a hand to his chest. “It goes against my moral code that I have here.”

Carlos glanced away, at the blood-stained field. “Chivalry is incongruent with war.”

“I do not think so.” Ferdinand headed to his troops from Bohemia.

The guards, who stood near the Habsburg siblings, shared nonplussed glances.

Ferdinand! Always be loyal to me and our family, Emperor Carlos threw his gauntlets to the ground. I do not forgive betrayal, little brother. Not if you ever commit it. Perhaps not even my beloved wife Isabella. Again, he examined the carnage, delighted to see the slaughtered French and yet sad every time his gaze found Spanish morions. The emperor did not feel guilty for lying to Ferdinand about Eleanor’s death – the Valois family were still their enemy.


  July 30, 1536, Château de Roquetaillade, Mazères, Bordeaux, France

Several solemn people trudged through the many dimly lit corridors which threaded through the fabric of the royal residence. Their gait was too heavy for courtiers, as if a ghostly presence of mortality were weighing them down. There was a dismal air about the palace that had originally been built by Charlemagne, the first King of the Franks, on his way to the Pyrenees. 

“How is the king, my brother?” queried Marguerite de Valois. 

Anne de Montmorency sighed grievously. “Your Majesty’s arrival is a pure blessing! Our sovereign has been so crestfallen that it is hard to imagine any kind of good future for France.” 

“His Majesty has shut himself away,” responded Cardinal François de Tournon. “He lacks the mental energy to sort things out. At the same time, we must act as soon as possible.” 

Montmorency muttered, “At least we were able to evacuate him from the battlefield.”

“I’ll try to revitalize my brother’s spirits,” Marguerite promised. 

Tournon opined, “Only you can do this, Madame.”

As they slowed briefly, the Navarrese queen glanced at frescoes portraying scenes from ‘La Chanson de Roland’, telling how Sir Roland, the great Charlemagne’s intrepid and loyal nephew, was tricked by the traitor Ganelon into encountering a Muslim army at Roncevaux.

Marguerite commented, “This chanson has long become the national epic of France. Sir Roland is truly an iconic figure in the medieval era and its minstrel culture. On the way back to France from the Pyrenees, the Franks were attacked by the Saracens and fought with outstanding valor, but they were outnumbered and were eventually killed. Roland died a martyr’s death.” 

“No, Your Majesty,” the cardinal burst out. “Our king will triumph over evil.” 

Montmorency vowed, “We shall keep our liege lord safe at any cost.” 

Marguerite crossed herself. “Of course. It is a difficult time for us all.” Her best instincts communicated that her silent words of prayer were a self-fulfilling prophecy. 

§§§

His head buried in his hands, King François sat at the desk heaped with books, ledgers, parchments, and papers. The whirl of cankerous emotions in his chest was so very powerful that it sucked him down into the depths of grief; his mind would not function normally. 

Though depressed, the monarch was not without knowledge of his future. His troops had been trounced by his Imperial foe, while he himself had narrowly escaped capture. He, the King of France, had been too weak and allowed his adversaries to kill thousands of his soldiers, and, in doing so, he had failed his country, his countrymen, and his kin. Outmatched only by his fatigue, François’ self-disdain was so deep that it was imprinted upon his consciousness. 

Images of the battle of Pavia of 1526 flashed in his mind, ravaging him like a beast. In the course of the day, thousands of his men had lain dead or bleeding upon the ground, while he himself had surrendered to the emperor. The Battle of Pavia had been lost partly due to his own hubris and his foolhardy decisions, as if Atë, the Greek goddess of mischief, delusion, and ruin, had made him, the heroic Knight-King, commit a folly that had resulted in the deaths of too many. 

Tears of shame stung his eyes, but the French ruler didn’t move to brush them away. And now the Battle of Arles…  What have I done to anger the Lord so much?  Such were the musings of the monarch who was sinking deeper and deeper into despair. He had not only lost the battle, but also been called injurious names – ‘the murderer of the sweet Queen Eleanor’‘a queen-killing libertine’, and ‘the most incompetent Valois king’, as the Spanish disparaged him.  

Finally, François looked at the ceiling with pleading eyes, as if addressing the Almighty enthroned in heaven. “God, what should I do?  Every creature is sanctified by prayer. In your divine benevolence, I beseech you to give me strength and show me the right path.” 

Someone knocked on the door, making the ruler half jump out of his skin. All he wanted was solitude and rest, as if only loneliness could purify him from the self-loathing tendencies. 

At another knock, the king barked, “Who is it?” 

The door opened, and Cardinal de Tournon informed, “Your Majesty’s sister is here.” 

“Let her in.” This was the only good tidbit in the past week.  

A moment later, Marguerite, Queen of Navarre, entered and called, “Brother!” 

Dressed in a brown riding habit, trimmed with ermine and smeared with dust, she still looked every inch a princess of the blood. She shut the door and commenced her walk, her pace measured, her posture straight and regal. Arranged in ringlets on the temples and in a bun on the nape of her head, her glossy, long, chestnut hair shimmered with diamonds, woven in the sheen of her chevelure. Her clever amber eyes and her long nose attested to her Valois ancestry.    

“Margot!” The monarch jolted to his feet. His booming voice echoed off the high ceiling, cascaded down the walls, and returned to its source. “Margot!” 

Marguerite rushed into his arms. “François! You are free and alive!” 

Spontaneously, the King of France embraced his beloved sister, pressing himself to her tight, as if he were a baby rooted to his mother’s breast by need. For some time, they froze motionless in this position like two statues of entwined lovers in an ancient temple. 

The Valois siblings were more devoted to one another than most brothers and sisters. During Marguerite’s frequent sojourns at the French court, she assisted her brother in working on state affairs and held the government in her competent hands in case of his absences. On many state documents, she was referred to as ‘King François’ very dear and well-beloved only sister’. 

As he disentangled himself from their embrace, he told her, “I’m glad to see you, sister. You are the only person in the world who can comfort me now.”

She made the sign of a cross in the air. “God protected you in that battle, brother.” 

“Let’s take a seat; then we will talk.” 

François and Marguerite settled into two matching gilded armchairs, decorated with carved lion’s heads on the back. A walnut table, carved with a salamander symbol, was positioned between them. Rich tapestries, depicting the Battle of Formigny, cascaded down the walls. 

She viewed her brother from top to toe with concern. Evidently, he had lost much weight, his features tired and pale, like a death mask, with the brown eyebrows arching above the long Valois nose. His apparel was sumptuous, but somber, consisting of a doublet of black brocade, wrought with threads of Venetian gold and silver, hose of the same fabric and ornamentation, and toque of black velvet. The flamboyant François de Valois was a spectre of his former self.

“You are not taking a good care of yourself, François.” 

“I do not care about myself,” he snapped irritably without looking at her. 

“What will you do now?” Other words stuck in her throat like the twigs of a bird’s nest. Obviously, the endless hell of torment was concealed behind his absent-mind countenance. 

His troubled gaze swung back to his sister. “I have no idea.”

Her voice as firm as granite, she announced, “On the way from Navarre to you, I have been thinking hard of our dreadful situation. I think I know a way out for us.”

His hands fidgeting with the collar of his doublet, the monarch of France asked curiously, “Which plan has your pretty and intelligent head come up with?” 

She was worried about his reaction. “I am not sure you will like it.”

He grinned. “Keeping such company as the Knight-King and not sharing with him your ideas?  Perhaps you are itching to find someone more worthy of our intellect than me.”

One of the things she loved in her brother was his ability to laugh off troubles.  “I don’t think I could, even if I had wanted to. You are the most intelligent man I’ve ever met.” 

His grin widened. “Perhaps, sister. Now tell me, finally, how I can win.” 

Her hands lazily caressed a ring on her finger. “Sometimes, you have to gamble in a way that is colorful, dramatic, and theatrical all at once. The world is like a game.” 

The ruler inclined his head slightly. “The mission of a monarch is to make the best work as the administrator and defender of their kingdom. They take an educated gamble when choosing a political course the country will follow or an alliance to establish with foreigners.” 

“Then marry Anne Boleyn and make her the symbol of the anti-Habsburg alliance which would consist of the Protestant and religiously tolerant countries.” 

Her statement lanced through him like a saber strike. A flustered silence ensued. 

With a vigorous shake of his head, he jeered, “You have developed a warped sense of humor that has mingled nicely with your perverted attitude to France’s salvation.” 

“Thank you, François. Your own wit seems to have been impaired by your afflictions.”

“How could such an outrageous idea cross your mind?”  

With a funereal air of fatality about her, Marguerite articulated, “The end of France! The end of the Valois dynasty! The end of King François I’s reign! Do you want this to happen?” 

“Of course, I don’t!” returned the king, scowling at her. 

The Queen of Navarre stood up and started pacing the room. “Then, you must accept the horrid reality, François. To survive in the battle with the Habsburgs and expel them from France, you must establish alliances with the German States and other Protestant countries.”

He looked like a cornered rabbit, a king caught in a trap. “I tend to agree with you.” 

She strengthened her point of view. “How will you establish these alliances if you are on the sinking ship?  Will the German Lutheran princes ally with the defeated King of France?” 

The French monarch bolted to his feet and plodded to a window. The sky turned a blood red as the last vestiges of the sun slipped behind the hills. Instinctively, he associated the color crimson with the recent vanquishment of his troops by the Imperial hordes. Is the sinking sun a harbinger of the death of France as an independent kingdom and the demise of the Valois dynasty?  What does fate have in store for my country and me?  His mind raced with questions. 

Marguerite’s sharp, steel-edged voice punctured his silence. “Nobody collaborates with the losing party unless it can offer something valuable in return.”

Swiveling to face her, an agitated François harangued, “When under attack, no kingdom is obligated to collect permissions from allies to strike back. But if this country is losing, her rulers have to implore their allies for assistance. As reputation affects how likely your partners are to trust you and work with you, a ruler must think about what you kind of deals they will propose at the negotiation table.” He threw his arms up in frustration. “What can I offer them?” 

His sister approached him and took his hand in hers. “My dearest brother! You must offer the adversaries of your sworn enemy a Protestant symbol of unity against the Habsburgs.”

His mask slipped, revealing his inner turmoil – fear of losing his country combating with the uncertainty as to the best course of action. “To use Anne Boleyn’s role in the English reform to my advantage?  That would be a good idea if she were not a foreign convicted queen.” 

“A former queen,” she amended. 

“A convicted one,” he emphasized as he freed his hand from her grasp. 

A long silence followed as they pondered the situation once more. 

Annoyed, Marguerite returned to her chair. “The whole of Christendom knows that Anne is innocent. The people of England know this, which is why they rebelled against Henry.” 

“Indeed so. Only the riots saved her from Henry’s madness.” 

The king’s sister smiled. “Brother, you have been falsely accused of murdering Eleanor of Austria. Anne has been falsely charged with betraying Henry with several lovers.” She let out a laugh. “This makes you a great couple, for you have both been aspersed.” 

The monarch slanted a glance towards the window. The shadows of the evening were now falling fast upon the city of Mazères, and the firmament was like a curtain of dark silk. 

Marguerite made another attempt at persuasion. “England is not your ally, brother. Henry is waiting for the result of the war against France before choosing the side. He yearns to see your armies annihilated. But if you happen to win, he will congratulate you and offer you an alliance.” 

François crossed to the chair which he had previously occupied. “To marry Anne Boleyn would mean that there will never be normal relations between England and France.”

She refreshed his mind. “Once you called Henry Tudor a turncoat because of his betrayal of your treaty. He perpetrated a plot against you during the Italian war of 1521-1526. At Cardinal Wolsey’s suggestion, he stealthily paid a lot of gold to Emperor Carlos when it became clear that Spain would win. By doing so, Henry indirectly funded your captivity at Pavia.”

“Henry’s courtesy to me was false.” A flood of abhorrence towards his English archrival inundated him, just as it did every time he recalled those events. “I shall never forgive Henry.”

“Brother, do you need a mercurial ally like him?” 

“No,” he agreed at last. 

“Now you must protect yourself with reliable allies.” 

King François climbed to his feet and strode to the table, where a decanter stood. Filling a chalice, he gulped wine, as if it could make the tormenting memories flee like a hamadryad before a dull faun. After finishing off the goblet, he trudged to the desk and sagged into an armchair.  

“My captivity in Spain,” uttered the sovereign of France tightly, controlling himself with a mammoth effort. His gaze latched on to his sister’s eyes as he continued, “You of all people know what and how I suffered at the emperor’s hands.” The hatred for the Habsburg family rolling through him in waves, his voice fell to a raspy whisper. “You came to Madrid to negotiate my release, so you must remember what happened to me back then.” 

“You almost died.” Her voice thinned and broke on the last word. 

All of those remembrances were monumental events in King François’s life. “After I had been transported from Italy to Madrid, the Spanish treated me with a callousness unfitting my kingly position. I was locked in that old, dilapidated castle for many days. As a result, high fever struck me in the early days of my incarceration, threatening to speedily burn me to death.” 

Marguerite recollected, “Initially, Emperor Carlos did not want to meet with you.”

More memories of those ignominious days slipped through the tall mental barriers that the king had placed on those events. “Finally, Carlos deigned to grant me an audience. He came to me out of fear that a foreign ruler would pass away while being in his custody. He was also afraid that my death would lessen his victory over the French. Barely concealing his malicious joy at the sight of my grave illness, the emperor pledged to release me soon.” 

“But it was all a lie,” hissed his sister. 

The amber glare of King François locked with her identical pools of turbulent fury. At this moment, the two siblings abhorred the Holy Roman Emperor more than ever. 

François quoted his words from the old letter he had written his mother from Spain. “Only honor was not lost back then.” His bitter laugh was like a blast of trumpets, jarring and shrill, perhaps an omen of more awful things to come. “A week ago, I was almost taken captive in my own kingdom. My enemies are on French soil, and even my honor was besmirched.” 

Now Marguerite was as depressed as he was. “Don’t dwell on those horrible things. We must keep up optimism and hope instead of trampling them down with our own feet.” 

He flicked his melancholic gaze to her. “That is true, Margot. But there is no pain greater than the present humiliation of France and her king at the hands of the emperor.”

Her confidence being restored, the Queen of Navarre asserted, “Now we must gather all our strength and courage to prevent France from being subjugated by the damned Spaniards.”

Assailed by an impetuous deluge of inner strength, François was suddenly invigorated. “I must save my country,” he stated, his eyes blazing with determination. 

“Excellent. But if you do not want to wed Anne, then I’m afraid France is doomed. Those who supported us are currently deserting us like rats running away from the shipwrecked vessel.” 

He emitted a sigh so deep that it seemed to have come from the bottom of his universe. “But how can we be sure that she will consent to this outlandish arrangement?” 

“I will talk to Anne,” promised the king’s sister. 

“She will not agree.” Compelling himself to display a calmness he did not feel, he leaned back in his armchair. “I remember the love I saw in her eyes for Henry when we met in Calais in 1532. She was married to him for three years – well, I do not consider their union valid, to be honest, but she does not need to know about it. Her romance almost led her to the scaffold.” 

“Anne’s personal story is tragic, brother.” 

“Will she be eager to tie herself to another king?  I think not.” 

Marguerite’s confidence was astounding. “Come now, François! She will not reject this offer without considering it. Of course, Henry’s betrayals traumatized her like nothing she had ever experienced before. But she is a smart and practical lady, who understands politics.”

“And?” he emboldened.  

“Anne is the perfect source for sage counsel. Her intelligence could have been such a boon to Henry if he had appreciated it, and they could have ruled England together.” She stilled for a moment to let it sink in. “There are compelling reasons why she will acquiesce to become your wife, even though she would not have done it under different circumstances.” 

“Name them.” His voice indicated his skepticism. 

She rose to her feet and strode to a table set with utensils such as plates, goblets, and napkins. Having poured out wine, she walked to her brother and handed the goblet to him. 

“Drink it. You will feel better, then.”

Nodding his thanks, François took a long, fortifying sip. “So, Margot?” 

The Queen of Navarre settled back into her chair. “The greatest test of courage on earth is to bear defeat without losing heart and mind. Anne failed in England, but I can hardly imagine a strong, brave, and indomitable woman such as Anne losing herself in the gloom of grief forever. If she has the opportunity to get back what she lost and to take revenge, she shall seize it.” 

“By marrying me?” He swallowed painfully, conscious of the truth of her words. 

“Yes. That would be the best way for her to extract vengeance upon Henry.” 

The French ruler drained the contents of his goblet and set it on the table. “Do you really want Anne and me to live in a sham of a marriage, based on her desire to avenge her woes and on my need to salvage France?  Would that not be cruel to Anne after what Henry did to her?” 

Laughing at him, the Navarrese queen reminded, “François, you once told me that you can fall in love only with the most extraordinary and beautiful woman, who would bewitch you more than Helen of Troy captivated Paris. You said that love for such a woman would be the beauty of your entire life, your sunshine that makes you both blossom, the most brilliant joy in your world, the togetherness of your hearts, and the triumph of heavenly blessing over earthly filth.” She grinned. “Have I quoted your flowery speech correctly, brother?  I think I have.” 

He was taken aback. “Do you mean that Anne may be this woman?” 

Marguerite’s mind floated to her husband – Henry II d’Albert, King of Navarre. Despite him being seven years younger, the couple loved each other dearly. Henry had accepted that his wife spent most of her time at her brother’s court, although their relationship was growing strained lately. Henry d’Albert and I have been happy together. My brother can also find his soulmate. 

“True love is a heavenly gift. First best is falling in love. Second best is being in love. The moment you are in love you can touch the stars without reaching out to the firmament above. The sensation of poignant serenity gives you the placidity of paradise on earth, which alternates with ecstasies of insane gaiety. You feel like you are falling, floating, flying, spiraling down and up.”

Her poetic oration lifted his flagging spirits. “Your artistic tongue might elate even the mood of a dying man. You wish I could experience it, don’t you?” 

Her eyes twinkling, Marguerite stated, “Of course, I want you to be happy, brother. You have never loved a woman, but it is not your fault.” She tittered as she recalled his official mistress whom she despised. “Surely, Anne de Pisseleu is not your soulmate, don’t you think?  She does not own your heart despite your fascination with her uncanny beauty and her stellar education.” 

“I love her in my own way,” claimed François. 

“No, you do not. You are only lusting after her.”

A frown puckered his brow. “I respect the Duchess d’Étampes, and so should you.” 

Ignoring his reproach, she insisted, “I know that you are capable of loving a woman with all your heart and soul. You just needed to meet your own Helen of Troy.” Winking at him, she assumed, “Only a unique woman such as Anne Boleyn can be your Helen.” 

He voiced his opinion of his notorious English guest. “Anne Boleyn is not a conventional beauty. Her fiery temper is a formidable force to reckon with, and it must also be a vehement passion burning brighter than the sun. She is one of the smartest and most alluring woman I’ve met. Her eerie, exotic glamour might inspire dozens of men to move heaven and earth for her.” 

If she believed something wholeheartedly, her confidence was like a shining star. “Even if your marriage is not initially based on affection, I have no doubt that you will fall for her – your feelings will eventually create love. Maybe, something wonderful can come out of this union.”

“You are being too optimistic, Margot. Only God gives true love to His Children.” 

“Literally, I see the benevolent hand of fate in Anne’s arrival in France. She asked you for help, François. You could have refused to house her at your court, but you didn’t.” 

François peered at her in open-mouthed amazement. “Do you believe that I could have thrown a damsel in distress out of my realm when I was the only one who could help her?” 

“Of course, the Knight-King would never have harmed a woman!” 

The monarch grinned, for a moment real amusement dancing in the vivid amber caverns. “Are you serious about all these amorous things?  And about my marriage to Anne?” 

His sister made a valiant effort not to laugh at him. “I shall see to your union with Anne Boleyn. It will not be that easy to persuade her, but I will succeed.” 

“I do not think so. That is why I’m glad that I will not present this deal to her.” 

“Let me at least try, brother. We need this political marriage for France.” 

François moved the topic to its closure. “If she ventures to be my ally, I’ll wed her.”

For a short time, Marguerite examined the room’s tapestries. “The Battle of Formigny of 1450 was a turning moment in the Hundred Years’ War. The destruction of England’s last army in Normandy paved the way for the conquest of the remaining English strongholds there.” She emphasized, “It is a good omen that we can see such scenes on the walls. We shall win!”   

“I pray we will, sister.” His tone emphasized the appreciation of her comment. 

Their gazes locking and brightening a notch, they chorused, “For France!”

§§§

Night had fallen, and a peaceful stillness reigned supreme, sublime and consoling. Lights glimmered in the château, and stars dotted the velvety black heavens. And after a leisurely dinner, King François and Clément Marot, his unexpected guest, decided upon a stroll into the gardens. 

“Clément,” the ruler addressed the poet. “Thank you for coming to Mazères.” 

His companion answered, “Your Majesty needs the support of those who care for you.” 

“Yes.” Arrogant and conceited, François was not someone who ever appeared vulnerable. Yet, he released such a deep sigh that it wafted like a breeze around them. 

Sensing his discomfort, Marot stated, “Whether you are a king or not, the best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart.”

His sovereign let out a laugh. “True! Yet, no one must be a slave to their emotions.” 

An athletic man of average height, Clément Marot was almost the king’s coeval. His noble countenance was handsome and intrepid. On his lofty brow was stamped unquestionable intellect, and his hazel eyes had a melancholic expression in them. His raiment was rich, but somber, consisting of a doublet, hose, and a cap of black satin, worked with threads of gold. 

King François was delighted to have Marot, who was his and his sister’s favorite poet, at his side. Having sent the poet to her brother, an exhausted Marguerite had retired to her quarters. For the most part, Marot resided at the court of Navarre in the past year, being patronized by Marguerite, but he had nevertheless traveled to his sovereign whom he profoundly adored. 

The two men reached a large terrace that opened a panoramic view of the stretches of the landscaped parkland, with riverside walks and countryside beyond. The terrace was enclosed at one end by several fountains, and at the other by an immense loggia and a belvedere in the form of a triumphal arch. Drenched with moonlight, carved arbors, a bejeweled aviary, and colorful abundant planting in the park – these glories of southern France – shimmered silvery white. 

Stopping in a shaft of moonlight, Clément Marot looked around. “A faint freshness is in the air. The bees are humming among the flowers in flowerbeds. Blackbirds are whistling among the trees. The chief part of one’s happiness consists of natural beauty like this!” 

However, the ruler commented in the melancholy accents, “Indeed, beauty is the promise of happiness. But it is what also leads you to desperation.” 

“That is a blackbird,” observed Marot. “Your Majesty, look at it! We can see it well in the moonlight! See it there on the bush with red blossoms. It is all black, except its bill, and that looks as if it had been painted in white. Or does it tell you something else?” 

The king guessed his train of thought. “There is always light in the darkness.”

“Precisely,” the poet confirmed with a smile. “You are the light of all lights!” His voice rose to a crescendo of confidence. “You are the hope of France in this darkest time!” 

Those royal amber eyes lit up with nascent hope. “Nature is powerful! One might derive their strength from it. Then your work becomes a dance with light and the weather. And then it takes you to a place within yourself, and you can discover new facets of your character.” 

"And where does it take you, my liege?"

Staring at the loggia in the distance, the monarch meditated, “Sometimes, you get the best light from a burning bridge. If part of your realm was burned to ashes by your worst enemy, you can use the light from this devastating fire as your beacon in the darkness while searching for your right path. Perhaps our defeat at Arles might function as the Lighthouse of France, just as the ancient Lighthouse of Alexandria guided ships into the city’s port at night.” 

“Even this horrible defeat might lead France to greatness. Have faith, my liege!” 

Moonlight illuminated the entire terrace, and their faces glowed white like ivory. 

“The lives of these birds are simple.” François’ voice vibrated with emotion. “They are happy to play with each other at night. But the life of a king is far more complicated.” 

In response, the poet read aloud one of his own poems to Madame Anne de Beauregard. 

Where are you going, Anne? Let me know,

and teach me now, before your departure,

what I should do, so my eyes might hide

the raw regret of a sad heart in torment.

Yet I know how, no need to inform me.

You’ll take it with you; I give it to you.

Take it, to render you free from sorrow,

that should be far from you, in that place;

and since lacking a heart one cannot live,

leave yours with me, and so say farewell.

As he finished the verse, Marot effused, “Now, Your chivalrous Majesty! Imagine that this poem is for another Anne whom you must marry to save France from that Habsburg devil.”

This time, the monarch’s temper spiked. “You have overstepped the boundaries. My sister and I love you, but you have no right to pry into our affairs.” 

The poet feigned embarrassment. “Oh, I’m sorry, Your dearest despondent Majesty!” He sketched a bow. “If life throws you a few bad notes or vibrations, like the defeat at Arles, do not let them interrupt and alter your song of chivalry and your hymn for the glory of France.” 

“You are forgiven,” said his sovereign mildly. “I know you mean well.” 

“A man’s character is his fate. You are the Knight-King! Take your destiny in your hands!” 

Clément Marot flourished a series of elegant bows and strode towards the loggia.  

The ruler watched sparrows taking bath after bath in the fountains and ruffling their feathers joyfully. The blackbird, which the king had observed before, burst into a ripple of throaty notes, and a nightingale answered with a cry of liquid trills, whistling melodiously, yet mournfully.  The nightingale wept until the blackbird responded, and the sparrows paused in their ablutions. 

France’s future stretched out in front of King Francois like a golden carpet unrolling for him to step onto it and fulfill his destiny. The nightingale bemoaned as if lamenting its woes until the blackbird cried in unison. But they will not groan unceasingly for a lifetime because now they are together. Is it about Anne and me?  Is it a good omen?  The monarch’s spirits pulsated with an odd celestial and intense fervor at the thought of having Anne Boleyn as his spouse.

Notes:

I hope that you liked this chapter. The French were defeated by the joint forces of Emperor Charles and his younger brother, Ferdinand, but King François escaped. Now François has to save his country, nation, and throne from the Habsburgs, and to stall the invasion – he needs Anne Boleyn to accomplish his noble goals.

The descriptions of Carlos and Ferdinand’s armor are taken from historical sources. Both Habsburg brothers are important in this story, but Ferdinand will be a more meaningful person in François’ life. Now the relationship between the two Habsburg brothers is affectionate, but not ideal, but things might change.

The Song of Roland (in French 'La Chanson de Roland') is an epic poem based on the Battle of Roncevaux Pass in 778, during the reign of Charlemagne. It is the oldest surviving major work of French literature, which exists in various manuscript versions and was very popular in the 12th to 14th centuries.

The scene where François and Clément Marot watch birds in the dark garden has a symbolical meaning for the king and his future wife. Symbolism plays an important role in my writing. It produces impact on the reader by attaching additional meaning to an action, object, or name.

In Greek mythology, Ares was the Greek god of war and one of the Twelve Olympians, the son of Zeus and Hera. Atë was the Greek goddess of mischief, delusion, ruin, and folly. Mythology personified Atë as the daughter either of Zeus or of Eris.

Please, leave a review on this chapter. Reviews always encourage an author to update and make them happy! Thank you very much in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 4: Chapter 3: A Political Arrangement

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: A Political Arrangement

August 5, 1536, Chapel of the Trinity, Château de Fontainebleau, France

Reverent silence reigned in the magnificent chapel that bathed in a hazy, orange glow of numerous candles. A former monastery chapel before becoming a palace church during the reign of King François I, it was at the heart of the grandiose history of the French royalty.

Attired in a gown of white velvet, embroidered with diamonds, her stomacher of red silk, Anne strode down the nave, brushing the floor with a footstep as light as that of a fawn.

She reached the first row of the wooden pews and stopped. The interior’s somberness was enhanced by fabulous frescoes depicting the life of Jesus Christ. Each holy representation followed another according to its importance, beginning from the vault and down towards the walls and the floor. Her gaze fixing on the statue of the Virgin Mary, she took a seat.

“Elizabeth,” Anne uttered the syllables related to her beloved little girl. “If only you could be with me in France…  If only I had not been banished from England…” 

She balled her hands into fists as her mind drifted to King Henry. The worst pain comes from the betrayals of our loved ones. He betrayed me and our dear girl in the worst possible way. She could not wrap her head around how Henry had swallowed Cromwell’s and Suffolk’s lies about her alleged adulteries. Her pain was perpetual: it had seeped into her bloodstream, like lethal poison, eating her living entrails and hollowing her out until only her dry skin remained.

In France, she often woke in a frenzy, fearing that the monster of death had laid its grasp upon her. Afraid of darkness, she always slept with at least one candle burning in her bedchamber. She prayed that she would have the strength to overpower the ghosts of the past.

Yet, providence sniggered at her in the most bizarre manner. How could Anne recover from the past when she was about to commit the sheer insanity of marrying the King of France?  Was she capable of playing the role of a dignified Catholic queen?  How would she endure her life with the very man who had slept with her elder sister and defamed Mary Boleyn as a slut?

Shutting her eyes, Anne breathed out a sigh of terror and frustration. There was no sense in dwelling on questions she could not find answers to. She had already promised to Marguerite de Valois, Queen of Navarre, that she would become François’ spouse and help them work against the Habsburgs. For some reason, the Moira Clotho had spun the thread of Anne’s fate to be the Queen of France a mere three months after she had lost the Crown of England.

There was no way back for Anne. Is it my destiny to run away from one king and to be tied to another for the rest of my life?  She could not fathom why she had drifted to the coast of another royal matrimony. A large part of her wondered whether the Moira Lachesis had dispensed the thread of her life in this way to let Anne avenge her brother’s appalling death and her own woes. Nevertheless, she dithered, her soul being as fragile as glass, and the callous world could crack or break it, if the winds of providence had happened to take a fancy to blow Anne’s way.

The King of France’s voice jerked Anne out of her reverie. “I’ve just spoken to my sister. In your apartments, I was told that you had headed to the chapel.”

She rose to her feet from the pew and swiveled to face him. François was appareled in a doublet of tawny velvet, its placard embroidered with diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and pearls. A baldric of balas rubies dangled from his neck, matching his hose and toque of red silk. Suddenly, embarrassment suffused her that her own gown was not as rich as that of other ladies at court.

With her eyes glued to his, Anne’s hesitation evaporated. She would marry François de Valois in order to extract her vengeance upon Henry Tudor – that homicidal narcissist of a singular sort had merited her abject loathing. Against her will, she would lie in the King of France's arms on their wedding night like a lifeless clay doll, but afterwards, her body would never know a man’s passion again. Anne would be alone for the rest of her life, surreptitiously dreaming of her ruined happiness in the dead of night like some crepuscular creature. 

Curtseying to him, the exiled woman spoke whimsically. “If one is afraid of loneliness, then they should never marry. As I do not fear it, I’ve acquiesced to incessantly tolerate it.”

Befuddlement tinctured his visage. “What are you implying, Madame?”

“You have my consent, sire.”

His lips twisted into a rigid smile of disbelief. “You will marry me, won’t you?”

“I will,” she confirmed.

“Why?” He averted his scrutiny to the fresco of Christ’s Ascension.

She did not reply straight away. Emitting a heavy sigh, she flicked her gaze to the stained-glass window above the altar, where saints and Old Testament prophets were depicted. Being a devout reformer, Anne held deep disdain for the corrupt Roman Catholic Church. Her repudiation of Catholic idolatry and some rituals, as well as the doctrine of intrinsic holiness was unequivocal, but she still liked stunning frescoes and multicolored stained-glasses in churches.

“I have my own compelling reasons.” Her voice was quiet and melodious, like the distant sound of a lute. “I do not expect anything marvelous from our arrangement. You will be absolutely free to do whatever you want, including to have as many mistresses as you wish and sire as many bastards as you can. You have my blessing to continue your notorious escapades.”

A spasm of hurt lanced through the monarch. “We are allies, nothing else.”

She veered her gaze to him. “Of course. I’ll become your symbol of unity against the Habsburgs. I’ll aid you to work against them, as I’m yearning to see France as an independent, prosperous country. In return, you will assist me in proving my innocence after we vanquish the emperor.” Her voice thinned to a whisper. “But there will be no marital relations between us.”

An abashed François studied her, as if she were an antique painting. “It is good that you want to restore my war-battered realm to peace. But what else do you mean?”

In a voice layered with finality, Anne elaborated, “I was informed that after Your Majesty had consummated your marriage with the recently departed Queen Eleanor, you never performed your conjugal duties again. That is exactly what awaits us in the future.”

Something flickered in his eyes. “Do you wish us to lead separate lives, Madame?”

“Yes, I do, sire. I’m aware that the non-consummation of marriage is one of the possible grounds for annulment. Therefore, we shall have our wedding night, but nothing beyond it.”

Her categorical statement hurt the ruler more than he could admit even to himself. “Are you certain you want to be my queen?”

“I am,” answered Anne in a tone as hard as granite. “Your Majesty has two healthy sons to succeed you, so I do not consider it my duty to increase your progeny.”  

His eyes glimmered with amused recognition. “Your main motive is vengeance.”

She resolved to be brutally honest with him. “Your guess has hit home. Once France is freed from the Spaniards and safe, you will assist me in my quest for justice.”     

François corrected, “In taking revenge on Henry.”

“I do believe in God,” she swore ceremoniously. Her eyes narrowed like a warrior demon guarding the gate of a temple. “Sometimes, vengeance is justifiable. Henry murdered my brother and separated me from my daughter. His lust for another woman literally killed me: he made me a shell of myself, and there is nothing left in the world for me.” Lifting her chin defiantly, she hissed, “The hatchet of retribution shall fill the lives of my enemies with blood and tears.”

The ruler approached the pew and settled himself there. Staring into space, he did not know what to say and how to react to her fervent declaration. Anne had just massacred his hope that their union could ever be something close to a more or less normal marriage of convenience. His heart pounced into his throat like a lion, and anger stirred in him at the thought that his English archrival had transformed this wonderful woman into a dark avenging angel.

At last, he turned to her. “Very well. I accept your terms.”

“Then, we have a political arrangement.”

The king scrutinized his unwilling bride. Her gown and jewels were far less sumptuous than those she had worn on the day of her appearance at Fontainebleau. Henry had stripped Anne of everything, so the pension Anne continued receiving from England was not enough to maintain her former luxurious lifestyle. Yet, she looks so beautiful and almost innocent in her white gown.

His mind dashed to the wedding. “As it will take days to create your wedding dress, you can use something stunning from Claude’s old royal wardrobe – of course, not Eleanor’s. The seamstresses will need to adjust fit and length of garments. I recommend that you choose a gown of white silk or velvet worked with gold. The color white is a symbol of purity, as well as of new beginnings, of wiping the slate clean. Let’s give everyone a message of your innocence.”  

Her fleeting smile was a rare thing these days. “Your idea about the color is great.” She did not like that she would have to wear Queen Claude’s dress, but there was no other option.

“You can use the Crown jewels thenceforth.”

“You are most kind, Your Majesty.” Deep down, she was profoundly amazed at his unforeseen generosity. She did not deserve it after talking to him in such an unladylike way.

He promised, “I’ll permit you to worship your religion in private.”

“Thank you, sire.” This was so unexpected that her eyes widened fractionally.

“Now let me pray.” He waved his hand, dismissing her.

Anne curtsied to him, and, casting one glance at the altar, crossed herself. She then strode towards the door from the chapel, feeling disconcerted and anxious. His voice halted her.

François’ voice soared into the vastness of space. “The Lord disciplines us in earthly life. He also renders justice for the righteous and judgement for the wicked. Do not rebel against Him, for it carries consequences for us. Regardless of what you want, it shall be as God wills it.”

Confusion as to the meaning of his speech flooded Anne. She was also surprised that he had spoken to her in his charmingly accented English. She echoed, “As God wills it.”

As Anne exited, the silence was complete. Yet, it was so loud, for it had spoken once more about the desire of his bride-to-be to be perfectly independent from the king.  

§§§

The monarch swung his gaze to the fresco of the Last Judgement. His eyes concentrated on the Jesus Christ as the Judge, who was surrounded by an inner ring of twelve paired roundels containing angels and the Elders of the Apocalypse. An outer ring consisted of twelve roundels, depicting the dead, appearing from their tombs, and the angels, blowing trumpets to summon them to judgement. At this moment, François’ entire life narrowed to the Almighty’s judgment.

Words of fervid prayer tumbled from his lips. “Dear gracious Lord, bless my country and me in this difficult hour. My people and I are all your creatures, and the work of your holy hands. Everything comes to us through the Holy Spirit, and I beseech you to help me save France.”

As he finished his prayer, he crossed himself, but did not leave the chapel.

Thoughts of his wedding to Anne scattered about his consciousness, as he pondered his personal situation. He silently laughed at his sister’s words about the possibility of his affectionate relationship with Anne. He did not love Anne Boleyn, but even this woman, consumed by hatred, intrigued, puzzled, and fascinated him, like no other did. Dealing with Anne is more difficult than with the Persian fleet during the invasion of Athens in Aeschylus’ brilliant tragedyThe Persians’.

Truth be told, Anne Boleyn interested the king far more than he expected and admitted to himself. While he had fought against the invaders in Provence, the image of Anne’s graceful entry into his favorite gallery upon her arrival at Fontainebleau had resurfaced in his head from time to time. He had no clue as to how that vision had come to be fastened to his brain like a handcuff.

François sighed at the thought of his maîtresse-en-titre, whom he had sent away to avoid any collision with her regarding his nuptials. Being beautiful like Venus, the Roman Goddess of love, beauty, and desire, Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly, Duchess d’Étampes, was his chief paramour since his return from the Spanish captivity in 1527. He had spoiled her beyond measure and given her so much power that she had become too demanding, too overweening, and too clingy.  

His womanizing tendencies were such that he was not faithful to whoever he romanced with. At present, the monarch also had other constant mistress – Claude de Rohan-Gié, dame de Thoury, who had caught his eye a year earlier. A damsel who had just stepped into adulthood, Claude had not yet been tainted by ambition, although she was curious about all aspects of life, government, politics, history, and, most of all, the arts. In contrast to Anne de Pisseleu, Claude was docile and even-tempered, yet gay and mischievous like a summer insect.

The former Queen of England and his two main paramours were all intelligent and well-educated. Nonetheless, François reckoned that any female creature paled in comparison to his future wife, who was the most unique woman he had ever met. Claude was not a type of person to interfere with politics, but the two Annes were amazons, whose initiatives could create a duel between them for the influence upon the ruler. But Anne Boleyn was not interested in him as a man, so there would be no competition for his heart and for a place in his bed.

The king’s thoughts meandered back to the war. “God help me! Your will shall prevail.”

Rising to his feet, King François made the sign of a cross and quitted the church.

§§§

Meanwhile, Anne Boleyn trudged through the hallways splendidly decorated and full of paintings and sculptures. These were the works of the first school of Fontainebleau which had been established by Rosso Fiorentino and Francesco Primaticcio. Some of these things, however, had been brought from Italy before Fiorentino and Primaticcio joined the Valois court.

“I’m in an artistic paradise,” Anne said to herself as she admired her surroundings.

The fabulous frescoes on the walls exhibited an elaborate system of mythological symbols and allegories. All of the elegant objects of art showed strong influence of the techniques of the Italian Mannerism of Raphael, Michelangelo, and Parmigianino. The eccentric decorative motifs such as grotesques, putti, and strapwork were omnipresent in the château. The rich use of stucco moldings and picture frames added to the atmosphere of extravagant grandeur.  

Anne passed through the corridor adorned with marble nymphs. Her gaze lingered on the frescoes of the Roman Venus and her son, Cupid, the god of desire and erotic love. Usually, she was in awe from such masterpieces, but today, the eroticism of statues and iconography made her blush, perhaps after the discourse with the king and her refusal to perform her wifely duties.

“How was your meeting with my brother?” This compelled Lady Boleyn to pause.

“Your Majesty.” Anne lowered herself into a curtsey. “All went well, just as you want.”

The king’s sister requested, “We do not need any formalities.” She came to her future sister-in-law and raised the other woman from the curtsey. “Address me by my name.”

“I would prefer to remain formal, Madame.”

“Why?!” Marguerite’s voice was layered with hurt and astonishment. “We have known one another for so long! In several days, we will become both allies and sisters, Anne.”

Her countenance perfectly blank, Anne viewed Marguerite from head to toe. The Queen of Navarre was accoutered in a fashionable gown of olive green brocade, her stomacher covered with gems. Over her gown, she wore a surcoat of silver satin embroidered with gold, and having loose, hanging sleeves. Her cap of emerald velvet was festooned with jaunty white feathers.

Although they had not seen each other for many years, the Queen of Navarre was still in her prime. Marguerite had aged exceedingly well, even though her heavy schedule of diligent work in her brother’s and her husband’s governments had frequently exhausted her. Her face looked all soft and smooth, for she had almost no wrinkles, and its alabaster color was so natural that it could have served as a painter’s model. Marguerite was slender, and her figure beautifully proportioned, perhaps because she had not been almost constantly pregnant, like many other wives.

Marguerite and François both have somewhat a saturnine complexion, Anne observed. From beneath her cap, the tendrils of Marguerite’s long, glossy, chestnut hair was streaming down her back in a stylish display of ringlets. Two brown pools of fire and vivacity – those Valois amber eyes which were the distinctive hallmark of the House of Valois-Orléans-Angoulême – held an unparalleled wisdom borne of experience and of a profound understanding of mankind and the world. The royal brother and sister resembled one another unmistakably in their features.

A tide of sentimentality swept over Anne as her mind journeyed to the days of her happy youth. Marguerite de Valois, who was also known as Marguerite d’Angoulême and Marguerite de Navarre, had invited the young Mademoiselle Boleyn to her literary circle, encouraging her to participate in discussions about theology, literature, philosophy, music, and the arts. Although for the most part, the teenage Anne had been tucked away in Claude of France’s apartments due to the queen’s almost annual pregnancies, Marguerite had taken a strong liking to the amicable and intellectually gifted Boleyn girl and frequently summoned Anne to her presence.

In Anne’s early adolescence, Marguerite had been the main ornament of King François’ court, while their mother, Louise de Savoy, had held the reins of power. Over time, Marguerite had become as prominent, formidable, and artful a politician as Louise, and the three of them had constituted the celebrated Holy Trinity, as they called themselves and as poets referred to them. Strong and brave like a female incarnate of a knight, Marguerite was also immensely intelligent and superbly educated, which made her one of the most remarkable women of the era.

“La Marguerite des Marguerites,” Anne referred to the ruler’s sister as her royal brother styled her fondly. “You have always been graceful of person, attractive of feature and abundantly so of personality, dainty in manner, as well as sprightly and active in intellect. Despite all of your numerous achievements, you are quite modest, and, thus, praised; you are also pious and amiable in disposition. You are truly a paragon of virtue in the depraved French court.”

Sighing, Marguerite stepped to her. “Anne, it is not easy for you, and your past is hanging over you like the blackest night. But I swear that my brother is a good man.”

Resolutely, Anne backed away. “Your Majesty, I’ll be honored to be your sister-in-law and to help you save France. However, the friendship of royals is as fickle as their love, fluctuating constantly. Your affection for me might perish if I somehow displease your beloved brother. So, I prefer isolation to the prospect of perhaps being let down again.”

A silent apology in her eyes, Anne quoted Clément Marot’s eulogy in Marguerite’s honor.

Entre autres dons de grâces immortelles,

Madame écrit si haut et doucement,

Que je m’étonne, en voyant choses telles,

Qu’on n’en reçoit plus d’ebanissement.

Puis quand je l’ouis parler si sagement,

Et que je vois sa plume travailler,

Je tourne bride, et m’ébanis comment

On est si sot de s’en émerveiller.

After curtsying to the Navarrese queen, Anne darted down the hallway to her quarters. Her abrupt departure cast a pall of dejection over Marguerite, and over what could have been a joyful reunion of the two women who had liked each other genuinely throughout many years.


August 10, 1536, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, France

Surrounded by his entourage, King François strolled through the corridor, occasionally stopping to chat with someone. But the corridors were almost deserted, as if everything had died and been forgotten. There was no gossip in the corners, no laughter and chatter in hallways, as well as no drama, scandal, and intrigue, all of them interwoven like a bramble thicket.

Due to the swift advancement of the Imperial forces towards Paris, the French court had been evacuated to Château de Villers-Cotterêts, located in the town of Villers-Cotterêts in Picardie. Dauphin Henri and his wife, Catherine de’ Medici, as well as the other royal children – Princess Marguerite and Princess Charles, Duke d’Orléans – had been taken there for their safety.

Anne de Montmorency enlightened, “Your Majesty, the King of Scotland refused to send his troops to us. But I’ve already sent our envoys to many Protestant countries.”

“Excellent, Monty,” the monarch commended as they entered the chamber with dramatic wall hangings of battles and tourneys. “We will have an audience with them after the ceremony. As for the Scots, if they want to dishonor our old Auld alliance, then so be it.”

“The Scots are traitors to France,” grumbled Montmorency.

As they quitted the room into a hallway, the ruler continued bitterly, “I did not expect that James Stuart would betray not only our friendship, but also his own wife – my Madeleine.”

King François remembered his favorite daughter – Princess Madeleine of France, who was the Queen of Scotland. A year earlier, James V of the Scots had contracted to marry Mary de Bourbon and journeyed to France to meet her. During his reception at Fontainebleau, James had noticed the youthful Madeleine, whose exquisite beauty was like the ethereal loveliness of a female saint on the stained-glass windows in grand basilicas. Utterly smitten with the Valois princess, James had forgotten about his Bourbon bride-to-be and begun courting Madeleine.  

That Stuart beggar-king implored me to let him marry my Madeleine, François recalled, his hands clenching in anger. Has he ever really loved my girl? Or did he simply need her huge dowry for his impoverished realm?  Madeleine’s fragile health worried François, so he had initially rejected the match. But his daughter had fallen in love with James so passionately that she had beseeched him with tears to approve of her choice of a husband. Emboldened by her affection for him, James had entreated the king to allow them to be happy together, vowing to love her forever.

Finally, the King of France had surrendered to his daughter’s and James’ solicitations. The wedding had occurred in Paris in October 1535, and, after months of lavish celebrations, they had left for Scotland. Since then, François and Madeleine maintained regular correspondence, and the gradual decline of his daughter’s health was frightening. His fears that the harsh Scottish climate would considerably weaken Madeleine had turned out warranted, and François prayed that the speed with which they reached the lethal heights of disaster would not be too quick.

Cardinal de Tournon began his report, interrupting the ruler’s musings. “Your Majesty, I’ve made all the arrangements for the wedding. Madame Boleyn and you will have a Catholic ceremony binding you to each other through the standard rite of holy matrimony.”

The ruler answered, “I trust you wholeheartedly, Your Eminence. However, we also need to procure a papal dispensation for our marriage.”

“Why, my liege?” interjected Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise.

The cardinal berated, “Monsieur de Guise, you should not ask the king such questions.”

“It is fine,” the monarch said imperturbably. “At the heart of great leadership are people with their curious minds and spirits. Most of my courtiers heard about my erstwhile affair with Mary Boleyn, who is now Lady Stafford.” Inwardly, he was irritated by the mention of his affair with Mary, for Anne must remember about it as well.

François cast a glance at Claude de Lorraine. His subject was a talented general, who had distinguished himself at the Battle of Marignano in 1515, and who had become governor of Champagne and Burgundy after defeating at Neufchâteau the Imperial troops in 1523. For his outstanding service to the Crown, Claude had been elevated to Duke of Guise in 1528, although, up to that time, only princes of the blood had held the title of duke and peer of France.

Duke Claude de Guise was a man of athletic build, with an aura of drama and refined elegance about him. Clad in a doublet and hose of the finest green and black brocade, embellished with gems, he swaggered with a larger-than-life confidence and a unique sense of the Guise pride, yet there was an aggressive air about him. His pompous countenance, framed by a flat cap of brown velvet, was set off by his black mustache and his sharp, hazel eyes.

Guise apologized, “I’m sorry, Your Majesty.”

“It is fine,” reiterated François. “Your Eminence?”

Circumstances beyond Tournon’s control worried him. “I’ll think of what I can do.” He sighed. “The Pope has not upbraided the emperor for his recent actions towards Your Majesty. He will not be happy when Your Majesty allies with Protestant duchies and countries.”

The French monarch stopped abruptly, and his councilors followed suit, the tension in the air mounting. Decorated by paintings by the Florentine master Giovanni Battista di Jacopo, the vast hallway was empty, so they could speak without being eavesdropped upon.

A furrow formed on the king’s forehead. His mind drifted to the Pope’s letters which his spies had intercepted a month earlier. François was still shocked that Sir William Brereton, who had been accused of being Anne’s paramour and executed, had been an assassin sent by Pope Pole III. I’m a Catholic. However, I agree with the reformers that the Vatican is too steeped in politics. A Pope is capable of committing any evil deed. He would tell Anne about it, but not now.

Exasperation lurked in the amber eyes. “Coerce His Holiness into submission, for I need this document. I know something about him that he would not want to be divulged to the public.”

Tournon nodded at the sovereign of France, whose countenance softened. Montmorency and Guise looked at their liege lord with interest, but they did not dare ask him anything.

“Let’s go,” instructed the king as he stalked towards the council room.

Montmorency spoke up. “Any meeting of Military Council is a serious thing! We are all looking for a chance to kill those Spanish dogs and win a great victory for France.”

“I crave to kill them all,” grouched Guise.

There was a low rumble of affirmation from the king and his advisors.

François stated, “If you believe in yourself and have dedication and strength, you will be a winner, even if you lose in the short run. The price of victory is high, but so are the rewards.”

The ruler tried to elevate their spirits, and a roar of laughter rose up from everyone.

§§§

The purple shadows of dusk mantled the palace. The evening was warm and balmy, so the windows in the council room were ajar. A light breeze drifted inside, carrying with it the faint sounds of bird chirping and the intoxicating fragrance of blossoms from the gardens.

The king emitted a heavy sigh. “Which territories have the invaders captured?”

Anne de Montmorency began his doleful report. “Provence, Dauphine, and Languedoc, as well as the Duchies of Auvergne, Bourbon, and Berry are occupied by the enemy.”

King François, Queen Marguerite of Navarre, and royal advisers sat at a table piled with maps, parchments, and scrolls, as well as inkwells and quills. To everyone’s astonishment, and perhaps someone’s dismay, Lady Anne Boleyn was also present at the monarch’s request. Philippe de Chabot, Admiral de Brion, was not there because he was still convalescing from his wounds.    

“Any other awful tidbits?” asked the monarch in a controlled voice. In the flickering candlelight, his pallid face had a light of its own, as did the amber eyes – fatalistic light.

“Nothing, my liege,” answered Montmorency tonelessly.  

François emitted a grievous sigh. “It could have been worse.”

Tapping his fingers onto the armrests, the monarch eyed the map laid out on the table, his scrutiny focusing on the south of France, which was circled in bold. An icy breeze of mortal dread blew through his inner realm at the thought of the monstrous danger his country now faced.

Currently, France's political landscape was bleak. In November 1535, the third Valois-Habsburg war had begun with the death of Francesco Sforza, Duke of Milan. In the absence of Sforza’s legitimate heirs, Emperor Carlos had enjoined his representative to take charge of the Duchy of Milan, and there had been no protests among the local populace. Being a descendant of Valentine Visconti, King François firmly believed that Asti and the Duchy of Milan were rightfully his. On this account, in March 1536, the French army under the command of Philippe de Chabot had entered Turin and captured Piedmont, but it had failed to take Milan.

At least, King François was lucky that the Imperial martial enthusiasm had slackened in Italy, so his country did not need to fight on multiple fronts. In France, the invasion continued, and, since the catastrophe at Arles, the Imperial forces had moved further north, where they had encircled the area around the town of Montpensier. The local French divisions had unexpectedly launched such a fierce attack that, for some time, they had managed to block the previously rapid advancement of the Habsburg forces through the duchy. But Montpensier had fallen after a short siege, so Emperor Carlos together with his brother, Ferdinand, had pushed forward.

When the Habsburg troops had approached Moulins, the town garrisons had declined to surrender, although a number of small skirmishes had occurred. Embarking upon their campaign with élan, Carlos and Ferdinand had turned towards the city of Tours in the center-west of France, having reached the place approximately two weeks ago. To counter them, Guillaume du Bellay, seigneur de Langey and the governor of Piedmont, had arrived from the Duchy of Savoy together with the French army of eight thousand men. Bellay’s divisions had tried to intercept and squash the enemy, but, unfortunately, they had rapidly been sighted by the opponents.

The hostile parties had confronted one another near Tours. A large part of the Imperial formation of about ten thousand men had assembled in lines on the marshes, and the scorching barrage of their artillery fire had annihilated most of the French infantry and cavalry. Guillaume du Bellay's divisions had resisted until the last man had been killed, including Bellay himself. The victory at Tours was a clear and ruthless message that the Habsburgs were not lenient towards those who opposed them. At present, the King of France's troops were in disarray, while the Spanish marched towards their final and much-wanted destination – the grand city of Paris.

The fiasco of the French in Provence and the subjugation of the southern territories had resulted in the urgent necessity for France to make new anti-Imperial alliances. Therefore, most of the royal councilors, even Catholics, had concluded that they needed the king’s marriage to Anne. It was no secret that, even despite her condemnation and exile, Protestant nations saw Anne Boleyn as the symbol of England’s break from Rome and lauded her for her role in the ongoing religious reform. It was better to have her as the Queen of France rather than be crippled by the Spanish and perhaps lose at least half of the country to the Habsburgs. Due to the ruler’s order to evacuate the court to Picardie, the reaction of the French royal family was not yet known.

Cardinal de Tournon informed, “Your Majesty, our spies reported that the Imperial forces had reached the County of Sancerre several days earlier. Emperor Carlos intends to march to either Blois or Amboise, boasting that he will spend a wonderful time at your palaces.”     

The king’s features were pallid, but not a muscle trembled. “It takes a real man to make such a sincere confession. It cloaks one of the seven deadly sins – the envy Carlos feels because his empire’s cultural achievements shall never surpass those of Italy and France.”

Anne listened carefully, catching every word and analyzing it. After wandering around, her eyes rested on François. It was truly impressive how he masked his turbulent emotions with nonchalant sangfroid. Since their meeting in the chapel, the king was very friendly and courteous to her, his demeanor cheerful, as if filled with devilish confidence befitting a conqueror.

Their gazes intersected, and François grinned wanly at Anne. Despite his blank façade, he was overwrought, the impervious darkness of anguish pulsating through him. His head was spinning from the uncertainty as to the end of France’s woes. Moreover, the monarch was still profoundly shocked by the defeat at Arles, guilt eating at him like a festering sore.

Marguerite drummed her fingers against the table. “The more ill-gotten gains people have, the more they brag. But that Spanish barbarian will not destroy our glorious culture.”

The Marshal of France opined, “Although the French southern and eastern armies were crushed, we still have the northern army near the border with Flanders. Our armies stationed in Piedmont and Savoy must be recalled back to France. To stop our foe’s voyage further north, they should join all our remaining forces in the County of Sancerre, where our enemies have hovered for some time. We need to compel the adversary to withdraw south.”

François arched a brow. “When what, Monty?”

In the voice of a legendary general, Montmorency continued, “I would rather not have a cutthroat encounter with the powerful, disciplined, and well-appointed Imperial troops.” He trailed off for a split second. “We might give the adversary a battle that would bleed them of their best officers and men. By doing so, we will ensure the retreat of the Spanish back to Bourbon, Auvergne, and then Provence. If the rest of our army from Savoy and Piedmont intercepts the enemies, we will engage with them in Provence, and we will have a chance to win.”

A frown puckered the royal brow. “You have a brilliant military mind, Monty. However, I do not want the foe to retire from France while we pursue them. I prefer to crush them once and for all. If we play our cards well, we will entrap that Spanish intriguer.”

With a sigh, Marguerite glanced at Montmorency. “More Habsburg armies might arrive during their retreat. They might also recruit more mercenaries and launch a new campaign.”

Deep down, the ruler was extremely frustrated. “As a crafty commander, Carlos might goad us into a fresh offensive while having a trump card up his sleeve. Moreover, even if we win, the French might lose more men while following the enemy in close pursuit.”

The king’s sister heaved a mournful sigh. “Haven’t we already lost enough?”

The initial response to her question was a lugubrious silence. There was a nagging ache in everyone’s chest just beneath the surface. The stillness deepened to the point where it seemed that the assemblage’s mind was perpetually on the imaginings of impending doom. The walls, hung with tapestries depicting tragedies by Aeschylus, added to the despairing gloom.

“More than enough,” the king muttered at last. “At both Arles and Tours…” 

Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, entered the conversation. “I suggest that we do not engage the bulk of the Imperial forces all at once. Instead, we should divide them while they are in the lands of Sancerre, Bourbon, or Auvergne by bringing a large portion of our own armies to bear on their small units in sequence. This tactic exposes some of our units to many small risks and skirmishes, but it ensures the eventual destruction of the entire Spanish force.”

There was blackness in Tournon’s gaze. “How will we defend our divisions which have no effective communications with the central command and cannot request assistance?”

A spleenful Guise swore under his breath. “Your Eminence is France’s foreign minister, not a general. I fought with His Majesty at Marignano and recovered from twenty-two wounds.”

“Enough, Monsieur de Guise.” The king did not want his advisors to be at each other’s throats. “Your offer is worth considering, but I agree with His Eminence’s assessment of risks.”

Annebault chimed in, “Defeating foe in detail can be an effective strategy. Nevertheless, the Imperial armies are fully equipped and unshaken in discipline. They also have powerful chiefs. At the same time, our troops lost the morale due to our losses.”  With an air of melancholy about him, he concluded, “We must restore our confidence before rebuilding momentum.”

The monarch fidgeted with a parchment. “You are right, Claude.” A short silence ensued, as he tapped the quill against the table. “A defensive role brings about a distinct lowering of the morale of the soldiers, who imagine that the adversary must be far more competent in the martial art. If they become possessed by this idea, the battle is as good as lost.”

Marguerite pointed out, “We are fighting not on enemy soil but on our own land. And we were not even able to maintain a successful defense for a protracted period.”

Forgetting that she had not been permitted to speak, Anne interposed, “It is true that the defensive party becomes ignorant of the dispositions and plans of the opponent. Thus, the sooner the defensive strategy evolves into an offensive one, the higher the morale of the French will be. The persistence of the losing party will eventually have a natural effect – victory.”  

“Pray continue, Lady Anne,” François encouraged.

The advisors stared at their liege lord open-mouthed. Marguerite smiled knowingly.

In a bemused tone, Anne quizzed, “Do I really have Your Majesty’s permission?”

The ruler’s lips stretched into a grin. “The more often women sit at the negotiation table and share their ideas in the voice of female intelligence and wisdom, the more feats men will accomplish. Gender doesn’t define astuteness in politics – intelligence and perspective do.”  

Anne’s scintillating smile revealed her awe. “Is it your experience, sire?”

His heart humming with gladness, François thought that it was her first luminous smile since her arrival at his court. “Of course. Impeccably educated and intelligent women have always played an important role in my realm. When my beloved mother, Louise de Savoy – God bless her soul – was alive, Marguerite, our mother, and I together held the government in our hands.”

Marguerite jested, “François is determined to abide by my advice until Doomsday.”

The ruler bubbled into an effusive laughter. “A lady can remain a feminine creature with a touch of sophistication, while also being smart and tough.” Leaning forward across the table, as if closer to the Lady Boleyn, he gazed into her eyes. “I’ve always admired women for intelligence, education, and personality. Beauty is never enough.”

Anne found François’ approach to the mental abilities of the female gender a stark and pleasing contrast to Henry’s. I was degraded to a shadow of my former self during my marriage to Henry Tudor, she silently lamented. His domineering tendencies made me so miserable.  

Truth be told, despite his excellent education, King Henry had never possessed an artistic spirit of refined and delicate disposition. Her former husband had valued the intellectual fabrics of her personality only during their long courtship. After their wedding, Henry had said that her counsel and opinion had not been the hallmark of a good, docile wife, so he had channeled their relationship into a more traditional torrent. Henry had enjoined Anne to submit herself to his rule and guidance in all things, great and small, accepting his judgments on all matters.

King François had ushered France into an era of unparalleled enlightenment. Their union would be purely political, yet he could be willing to benefit from Anne’s intelligence. Educated in humanism, the arts, philosophy, literature, and history, he was a true Renaissance man, who was attracted to feminine beauty and equally admired the sophistication of a woman’s personality. I do not care about François as a man. Yet, he does have a unique eye for life. He is a great patron of the arts, who has attained a genuine alliance between the arts and the court life.

The king prodded, “Do not be so shy, Madame Boleyn. Share with us your thoughts.”

Anne was proud that the ruler had requested that. “I believe that France cannot win the war against the Habsburgs without defying the established rules of warfare. Taking into account our current dire predicament, it is vitally important to convert the unfavorable circumstances into the means of success. Perhaps the time has come for turning a new leaf in the history of war.”

Marguerite’s eyes flashed with curiosity. “Please, elaborate, Anne.”

Anne’s countenance was like that of a painter at work upon a portrait that would become a masterpiece. “With such numbers and location of troops, no advantages can be obtained against the vast and disciplined armies of the Holy Roman Empire. However, if the established rules of etiquette and strategy are abandoned, the rapidity and unexpectedness of motion can utterly surprise the superior numbers of the Spaniards, and in this case, we will defeat them.”

“This is too general, Madame.” Irritation colored Guise’s voice.

Anne stared at the tapestry, portraying scenes from the Persians by Aeschylus. She had always been interested in the Persians’ second invasion of Greece. “In 480 BC, the huge Persian armies assembled and crushed the allied Greek states at Thermopylae. Then the Persians torched the evacuated city of Athens and conquered most of Greece. However, while seeking to destroy the combined Greek fleet, the Persians endured a serious defeat at Salamis. After a short rest, the Greeks counterattacked and won the Battle of Plataea, ending the invasion.”

Claude de Guise sent her an annoyed look. “Too much mythology.”

“It matters a lot,” objected Anne, leaning back in her seat with evident enjoyment. “The Greek troops were totally vanquished by the Persians, losing their country. Yet, they were able to keep their morale up and continue fighting.” She lapsed into silence and raked her eyes over the spectators. “France is now in the same position as the allied Greek states were back then.”

Impressed by the breadth of her knowledge in history, François noted, “We cannot have a naval battle with the Spaniards, who are now almost in the center of France.”

Anne possessed a masterful grasp of politics. “A sea battle can be part of your strategy. The Ottoman Empire is France’s ally, so you can send an envoy to Suleiman the Magnificent and ask him to attack some Spanish ports and Genoa. Spain exchanges the riches from the New World for gold in Genoa, and the city’s siege will result in the lack of funds in the emperor’s treasury. Your enemy will be unable to pay his troops.”

“Bravo!” cried Claude d’Annebault. “That would bleed the Spanish finances!”

Anne smiled at Annebault, who responded in kind. His expression good-humored and radiating energy, his body was thin for a martial man. His mischievous green eyes indicated that he had a quick-witted, warm personality. Claude’s doublet and hose of russet serge corresponded with his mellow temper which was also reflected in his easy manner of leading conversation. Anne would try to befriend Annebault, who was evidently amicable towards her.

Tournon surveyed their future queen with interest. “That is a brilliant idea. The Ottomans might attack the Italian ports ruled by the Habsburgs, including Genoa, as well as Spanish ones.”

The Queen of Navarre surveyed Anne raptly. “Such detrimental external problems would distract the emperor from his obsession to subjugate France.”

The King of France watched his fiancée, as if she were the rarest painting in the world. His mother and sister were the strongest, most educated, and most accomplished women he had ever known, both of them capable of thinking as a man of action. Claude of France, a daughter of King Louis XII and his first wife, had been a strong woman, who had stood firm for her opinions, but her mind had never been as masculine as his mother’s and sister’s. Anne Boleyn is another strong woman who is capable of ruling as a queen regnant, François surmised.

“Ah, I like this option,” murmured Montmorency with an odd note in his voice.

There was a strained smile on Guise’s visage. “That would be a productive tactic.”

The Baron de Montmorency and the Duke de Guise were both devout Catholics. Thus, they both disliked Anne due to her religious beliefs and her role in England’s break from Rome. The Marshal of France had accepted the inevitability of his liege lord’s marriage to Anne, while the duke would never acknowledge the heretical woman he hated as the Queen of France. But despite their differences, they reluctantly admired Anne’s intelligence and her quick thinking.

Anne flipped her eyes between Montmorency and Guise. A torrent of tension flowed between them, and perhaps she could use it to her advantage. Probably, they are rivals for the king’s affections, she conjectured. Montmorency was a powerful man, but so was Guise, who belonged to the House of Lorraine and descended from the Capetian House of Anjou.

The Duke de Guise frowned at the woman whom he labeled ‘The heretical Boleyn whore’ in his mind. These words were on the tip of his tongue, but he did not pronounce anything. Immediately, Anne experienced a strong distaste for the man, finding Montmorency a far friendlier person. The tip of the duke’s nose curved over his mustache, and his eyes pierced her with apparent animosity. With an air of sinister, yet rarefied, daintiness about him, Guise did not look like a martial man, unlike Anne de Montmorency with his severe countenance. Perhaps Guise posed more of a threat to Anne than Montmorency, although they both were against new religious ideas.

François addressed Anne, “Something else on your mind?”

With an acerbic smile, Anne promulgated, “The devious emperor might be defeated only with cunning methods. The trap for him must have a ghastly perfection.” She glanced into the monarch’s eyes as she pronounced, “My union with Your Majesty shall allow France to establish new important alliances. As the Spaniards are currently in Sancerre, they can be encircled by the armies of France and her allies in this county or somewhere nearby. Every movement by the allied forces should be made with celerity, and every blow should be leveled where it is least expected.”

The ruler identified his archenemy’s main weakness. “Carlos’ overconfidence shall help us outwit him. He cannot imagine that we will ally with the German Protestant States and other Protestant nations. He will not know that we will secure the assistance of the Turks. Our allied army will be an army of attack, not of defense; of operation, not of position.”

Montmorency emphasized, “We will have to create a complex plan.”

Everyone nodded at the Marshal of France. It was their first meeting regarding France’s future military actions; many debates would run hot and heavy in months to come.

Marguerite stressed, “As well as Anne’s marriage to my brother.”

“It will happen in a few days.” The king’s charming grin brightened the room.

Annebault looked between François and Anne. He was growing fond of Anne, and her religious background was not his concern. “Will the emperor learn about your wedding?”

The sovereign of France inclined his head. “Of course. Everyone will.”    

Jean de Guise inquired, “Does Your Majesty really need to proceed with the wedding?”

“Yes, I do. Is that clear?” The ruler’s tone was like that of a mother berating her child.

“I’m sorry.” Guise bobbed his head like a bird pecking at grain.

The monarch maneuvered to the topic at hand. “Lady Anne and I are the injured parties in this pyramid of schemes. Woe to the sinners and victory to the afflicted! We shall win!”  

Montmorency broached another issue. “Does Your Majesty plan to ally with England?”

The monarch shook his head. “Definitely not. Henry proved himself to be a bad ally.”

“He betrayed us once,” reminded Marguerite.

The king’s response left everyone flabbergasted. “I’ll deal with Henry later.”

Two dark pools met the amber caverns. Anne and François deciphered the same message: the English king would hate them upon learning about their matrimony, which amused them.  

François pledged, “Anne, I’ll invite you to the next council.”

With unaccustomed shyness, his bride blurted out, “Really, sire?”

The king issued a joke. “I want to see the bellicose Goddess Minerva at my side.”

Marguerite burst out laughing, Annebault and Tournon joining in her laugh. Guise and Montmorency kept their expressions guarded. The perceived divergence of their reactions to the king’s marriage was rather perilous. Dark clouds, as if premonitory, scudded across the vaulted ceiling, but a bit of blue firmament came in sight as Anne and François smiled at each other.  

Notes:

I hope that you liked this chapter. François and Anne are going to marry soon, but she consents to Marguerite's proposal only because she wants to take her vengeance upon Henry. Anne does not want to have a royal friendship with anyone at this stage. The French also have the meeting of Military Council, where Anne can clearly see that François does respect and admire a woman's intelligence.

Aeschylus was an ancient Greek tragedian. His work 'The Persians' was highly influenced by the Persians' second invasion of Greece (480–479 BC), which Anne speaks about during the meeting of Military Council. The Greco-Persian Wars, which are also often called the Persian Wars, were a series of conflicts between the Achaemenid Empire and Greek city-states that started in 499 BC and lasted until 449 BC.

Clément Marot's wrote many poems about Queen Marguerite of Navarre, including the eulogy in this chapter.

Venus was a Roman goddess of love, beauty, desire, sex, fertility, and prosperity. It was believed that she was the mother of the Roman people through her son, Aeneas, who survived the fall of Troy and fled to Italy. Cupid was the Roman god of desire, erotic love, and attraction, who was the son of Venus and the war god Mars.

The Moirai (the Three Fates) were the Greek incarnations of destiny: Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Clotho was spinning the thread of human life. As the measurer of the thread spun on Clotho’s spindle, Lachesis determined destiny. Atropos chose the mechanism of death and ended the life of mortals.

Madeleine de Valois, a daughter of King François I and Queen Claude, became Queen of Scotland as the first spouse of King James V. In history, they married in January 1537, but in this AU, their wedding took place in October 1535. It was normal for a girl to marry at the age of fifteen back then, so I moved their wedding to an earlier date. In this story, Madeleine is in Scotland.

The Franco-Ottoman alliance of 1536 was an alliance established between King François I and Suleiman the Magnificent. It was one of the most important foreign alliances of France, and it was frowned upon by other Christian countries; it was particularly influential during the Italian Wars.

Please, leave a review on this chapter. Reviews always encourage an author to update and make them happy! Thank you very much in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 5: Chapter 4: Sublime Immortality

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 4:  Sublime Immortality

August 15, 1536, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, France

The earth-shattering wedding of King François I of France and Lady Anne Boleyn was a private ceremony. Currently, the court resided in the safety of Villers-Cotterêts in Picardie on the monarch’s orders, so a small number of nobles gathered in the Chapel of the Trinity.

The ruler, his bride, and the congregation occupied their places in the sanctuary near the altar. Candles blazed like belligerent flares on a battlefield. As Mass commenced, the atmosphere evolved into a deep somberness, as if conveying the fatal aura surrounding the country.    

Robed in his rich, crimson vestment, Cardinal François de Tournon led the ceremony, his monotonous voice droning on in Latin. After the introductory rites, he invited the assemblage to pray for France. At the conclusion of the prayer, the Liturgy of the Word followed.  

The responsorial psalm succeeded the first reading, fostering everyone’s meditation on the word of the Almighty. The cardinal read aloud the Book of Psalms from the Bible.

Your ways, oh Lord, make known to me,

Teach me your paths,

Guide me in your truth and teach me,

For you are God my savior.

To you, O Lord, I lift my soul.

Wretched as Anne had long felt herself to be, her former state was nothing compared to what she endured at the present moment. Amazement, helplessness, fright, grief, panic, and even ire – all struggled in her breast, contending for supremacy. As her husband-to-be took her hand and laced their fingers, she cast a timid glance around, as if to ascertain the reality of her fate.

Bending his head to her, François whispered, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” lied Anne, not looking at him.   

He caressed her palm with his thumb. “You can still stop it.”

Her gaze darted to his face. “No.”

In spite of not being a Catholic, Anne eagerly listened to the soul-stirring psalms. She scrutinized the frescoes on the walls, her gaze lingering on the scene of the Annunciation.

Good and upright is the Lord,

Thus, he shows sinners the way.

He guides the humble to justice,

And teaches the humble his way.

To you, o Lord, I lift my soul.

The stream of mind-wrenching and unanswerable questions preyed upon Anne. Was the Lord teaching her His paths by making her a queen once more? Would He bring Henry who had perpetrated many evil deeds against her to justice? Should she accept her second marriage? And what was her destiny? The words from the psalms injected confusion into her.   

At the end of the reading, Tournon crossed himself. “The Word of the Lord!”

The audience responded, “Thanks be to God.”

Anne whispered to herself, “Oh, Jesus, to you I commend my life.”

At the conclusion of the next part, the cardinal declared, “The Gospel of the Lord!”

Those in attendance exclaimed, “Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ!”

Then the Liturgy of the Eucharist, a central rite of Christian worship, was served. To all Catholics and Protestants, it was a memorial action, in which God’s children recalled what Jesus Christ was, said, and did. Anne was entirely concentrated on the ceremony, as if the whole ritual had unburdened her of the heavy load of her countless sorrows and errors.

In a quiet voice that vibrated in his chest, François uttered, “Participation in the Eucharist deepens the communion of believers not only with Christ but also with one another.”

Anne’s hand trembled in his. “Perhaps.”

After the communion rite, the gifts of bread and wine were brought up, along with other gifts. A reformer at heart, Anne would gladly have exchanged wine for grape juice or water, but she could not. Finally, an offertory prayer was recited, and the concluding rites ended the Mass.

At Cardinal de Tournon’s sign, everyone stood up, including the monarch and his fiancée. It was high time for the celebration of matrimony, and a deep silence reigned in the chapel.

§§§

Marguerite, Queen of Navarre, and Anne de Montmorency stepped closer to the bride and bridegroom. They acted as witnesses, but their attitude to the affair could not be more opposite.

“Do not be so sad,” whispered Marguerite to the Marshal of France.

Montmorency shrugged. “How can I feel, Your Majesty?”

She lowered her voice considerably. “You know that it is needed at this stage.”

“I do,” he breathed. “Otherwise, I would never have supported it.”

“Calm down. There shall never be any church reform in France.”

He bobbed his head. “This puts my mind at ease, though only slightly.”

All knew that the Queen of Navarre had presented the idea of this marriage to François and even procured Anne’s consent. No one was surprised to see Marguerite’s smiling countenance today. Like many others, Montmorency had his reservations about the union and looked sullen.

§§§

Dearly beloved, you have come together into the house of the Church so that in the presence of God and the community your intention to enter into marriage may be strengthened by the Lord with a sacred seal. So, in the presence of the Church, I ask you to state your intentions.

The cardinal’s declaration knifed Anne to the heart. Tournon then questioned them about their freedom of choice, fidelity to each other, as well as the acceptance and upbringing of children.

Have you come here to enter into marriage freely and wholeheartedly? Are you prepared to love and honor each other for as long as you both shall live? Are you prepared to accept children lovingly from God and to bring them up according to the law of Christ?

To each of these questions, François and Anne answered, “I am” or “I have.”

The French ruler and his bride knelt on a bridal canopy of golden and blue silk. Joining their right hands, they declared their consent before the Almighty and the Church.

His heart palpitating with unfamiliar reverent emotion, the monarch gazed into Anne’s eyes. “I, François, take you, Anne, to be my wife. I promise to be faithful to you, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love you and to honor you all the days of my life.”

Anne strangled the urge to laugh. Empty promises which will be easily broken. Marital vows are not binding for men, especially not for kings. During their long courtship, Henry had lavished her with innumerable vows of eternal fidelity and everlasting love, but they had all turned out to be falsehood. Words of love were illusive, like the reflection of the moon in the water.

Compelling herself to look and sound composed, Anne articulated, “I, Anne, take you, François, to be my husband. I promise to be faithful to you, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love you and to honor you all the days of my life.”

She throttled the impulse to grimace and snicker at the absurdity of her situation. She did not even intend to spend more than one night with the monarch. Being indifferent to his carnal relations with his mistresses, Anne wanted François to continue his old lifestyle of an inveterate philanderer, for which he was famous. My vows are as hilarious and meaningless as his.

Unbeknownst to her, the King of France experienced an unconventional feeling of wonder and regret. He was convinced that he and Anne could get on well, but she had made her position as to their life together clear. The thought that their union would be as faux as his matrimony with Eleanor gnawed at him, as if part of him would be missing if he were deprived of the sophistication and intelligence of Anne’s personality. At least, there are other women to warm my bed, he mused.

Cardinal de Tournon pronounced, “I hereby declare you husband and wife.”

As her new husband slid the Valois diamond and sapphire golden ring onto her finger, a jolt of fear and embarrassment raced up her hand and spread through her limbs. Anne blinked, like a newborn making sense of the surroundings, and a flurry of spots flooded her vision.

May the Lord in his kindness strengthen the consent you have declared before the Church and bring to fulfillment his blessings within you!  What God has joined, let no one put asunder.

Anne veered her gaze to François, who flashed her a scintillating smile. Astonished by the lightness she discerned in his gaze, she wondered whether he viewed their wedding as a mere adventure. She had no clue that her spouse was as tense inside as a violin string.

In a high voice, Marguerite declared, “God bless King François and Queen Anne!”

Cardinal de Tournon affirmed, “Long Live King François and Queen Anne!” He did not know Anne Boleyn well, but he felt inexplicable sympathy to her, despite her true religion.

“Long Live King François and Queen Anne!” echoed the spectators.

At this, the certainty of her new marriage smote Anne with a sense of dismay too acute to be suppressed. She darted a look of anguish at the French monarch – she could not call him her husband even in her mind. He squeezed her hand, as if he knew she needed the contact to realize she was not alone in the world, and, unexpectedly, this gesture instilled strength into her soul.

§§§

The most sullen countenances in the assemblage were those of the de Lorraine brothers. Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, scowled at the sight of the king and queen who rose to their feet from the bridal canopy. His second brother – Jean, Cardinal of Lorraine – looked gloomier than ever. Louis, Count de Vaudémont and the youngest among them, stomped his feet in anger.

Claude de Lorraine murmured to his siblings, “Long live France and King François.”

“But not that Boleyn witch,” Louis and Jean chorused in a whisper.

Claude pledged, “She will not be the Queen of France for long.”

Jean clenched his fists. “We will take care of her demise.”

“When?” asked Louis with impatience.

“As soon as we defeat the Spanish,” answered the Duke de Guise.

§§§

The rite of blessing and giving of arras took place after the giving of rings. Then a canticle of praise for the Almighty was sung by the choir, and the wedding ceremony was over.

The royal couple pivoted to start the procession towards the exit; others followed suit.

With a regal air about them, King François and Queen Anne strolled down the long nave. Moving liturgically, she looked like a pious pilgrim bedewing with tears Christ’s way from Pilate’s tribunal to Calvary’s heights. He also looked a bit somber, for he did not exude happiness.

The monarch sensed his wife’s discomfort. “Anne, I am not going to eat you like some monster from Homer’s Iliad.” It was the first time he addressed her by her name.

His spouse could not banish all her fears of the future. “I’m fully aware of Your Majesty’s chivalry. After all, you were the only one who extended a helping hand to me in need.”

There was a peculiar expression in his eyes. “They call me the Knight-King, after all.”

A wan smile curved her lips. “For your chivalry and personal participation in battles.”

“Indeed, my queen.” François eyed his wife as a connoisseur of female beauty. “It would be my terrible omission not to tell you that you look absolutely ravishing today.”

Her smile faded. “We both look grand, sire.”

As they quitted the church, a restrained cheer rose in the air. Those courtiers who were still present at court had a conflicted attitude towards the royal wedding, their enthusiasm tempered by the concern over the future of the French religious policy and doctrine.

Nevertheless, everyone admired the grandeur of the French royal couple. Both François and Anne were accoutered in the color white – dazzling, like snow shining in the winter sun. Their splendid habiliments communicated the omnipotence of their union, implying that they two would triumph over the Habsburgs, as well as the purity of their reputations besmirched by foes.

His expression haughty, King François flashed smiles as they passed through the hallway. His doublet, of white brocade velvet wrought with gold, glittered with diamonds, and over it, he wore a white velvet mantle, trimmed with sable. His white velvet toque was plumed with a feather of the same color, and embroidered with rubies. His hose of white silk and his girdle, ornamented with rubies and sapphires, stressed his slender waist and legs. The resplendent ensemble of the king’s magnificence dazzled everyone, like walking out of a dark cave into the bright sunlight.

Staring at his new spouse, the ruler was cognizant of his quickened pulse, and, even more than that, of the stab of pain in the region of his heart. In a breathtaking gown of white brocade embroidered with gold and diamonds, her stomacher of silver silk, Anne embodied a Vestal maid, in spite of her notorious biography. François instantly recognized this dress: years ago, it had been created for Queen Claude of France to display France’s elegant style and riches during the Field of Cloth of Gold in 1520, although his dead wife had never worn it for some reason.  Studded with pearls, Anne’s girdle encircled her narrow waist. A subdued air about her emphasized her innocent confidence, with which she glided along the floor, her hand clasped in his.

“This gown suits you to perfection,” François complimented her.

Anne nodded. “Queen Claude, God bless her soul, had an exquisite taste.”

He grinned at her, but her visage remained stony. Anne is so beautiful that I desperately want her, regardless of her unwillingness to be with me. But I must curb my desires and stay away from her. She struggled as angrily in the net of her new life as a wasp got caught in honey. Maybe she would get accustomed to him later, letting him help Anne open her wings to their full span.

§§§

François and Anne stopped in a vast hall, adorned with frescoes and sculptures of nymphs and ancient heroes. Forthwith, foreign ambassadors flocked to them like fireflies, each of them interested in talking with the couple, whose wedding was the last thing they had anticipated.

With an impressive air of royal hauteur, King François swept his eyes over the group and announced, “Hear you all!  Tell your masters that France will defeat Spain and expel our enemies from our land!” He raised his wife’s hand in the air. “We shall ally with all the adversaries of the Habsburgs, who are a threat to peace and prosperity of non-Spanish nations.”

“Your Majesty is right,” the ambassador from the Duchy of Cleves said.

The envoy from Switzerland cried, “We must destroy the emperor’s troops together!”

The Swedish ambassador interjected, “My king will eagerly ally with France.”

“The emperor has crossed a line, this time,” opined the Norwegian ambassador.

The Venetian diplomat concurred, “Once Emperor Carlos allowed his troops to sack the city of Rome which was plundered by his mercenaries, who killed hundreds of civilians and priests. Now he wishes to subjugate France, and he must be stopped by those who do not want war.”

One of his hands still holding Anne’s, François waved the other for silence. “Carlos von Habsburg will pay for his defiance of the Lord and His commandments. Together, we are strong!”

Sir Nicholas Wotton, the English ambassador to France, asked, “Your Majesty married the woman who was accused of adultery, high treason, and incest. How can you explain it?”

Squeezing his spouse’s hand, the French ruler contradicted, “My dear wife, Queen Anne of France, is as guilty of the crimes she has been falsely accused of as I’m guilty of Eleanor of Austria’s death.” He stilled for a moment and surveyed the foreigners. “Every sane and honest person in Christendom knows that my second spouse died of consumption. However, Emperor Carlos hates me so much that he has transgressed God’s law by attacking my country with the false intention to avenge his sister’s death which occurred of natural causes.”

Locking his gaze with Anne, François continued, “In the same way, my queen is innocent of all the charges her enemies leveled against her.” He paused to let it sink in the heads of others. “We are both totally innocent, despite what our foes want the world to believe.”

“But King Henry–”  Wotton was interrupted.

The monarch’s menacing growl sent shivers down the man’s spine. “Henry Tudor has done many wicked things in his life. Even if he were led astray by his advisers, he is ultimately responsible for his errors, because he rules England. One day, I’ll demand justice for Anne after Henry deprived her of the English crown, as well as of her good name and her daughter.”

As the king nodded at her, Queen Anne told Wotton in French, “King Henry of England, my former husband, was deceived by Thomas Cromwell. Fancying himself in love with Jane Seymour, Henry believed his chief minister and executed several men unjustly condemned, one of them being my own brother.” Her voice took on a higher octave. “God is holy, His punishments are just. I hope that when Henry learns the truth, the Almighty will be able to forgive him.”

François moved the discourse to the closure. “Sir Wotton, pass on our greetings to Henry. It takes many good deeds to build an excellent reputation, and only one bad action to lose it.”   

Swiveling like two snakes being charmed, the monarch and his queen strolled away.

Their departure produced a portentous silence. The message was clear: until the Spanish were all ejected from France, François and Anne would disregard her unfair condemnation, plotting vengeance like vipers – slow and calculative to attack, yet venomous in the extreme.

§§§

As the day was closing in, a remarkable stillness ensued in the palace that seemed deserted and missed the presence of the usually thronged, extravagant French court. By the time the purple of twilight had mingled with the dark, Queen Anne of France was ready for her wedding night.  

“You are all dismissed,” declared Anne with authority. “I will not need you.”

The ladies, whom Marguerite of Navarre had sent to her tonight, bobbed a curtsey. Most of them were uncomfortable with the idea of having Anne Boleyn as their new queen, although some were sympathetic to her plight in England. Obeying, they scurried out.

Tonight, Anne remained in the quarters which had been designated for her after her arrival. King François had said that after the Spanish madness settled down, she would be lodged at new sumptuous chambers, which neither Queen Claude nor Queen Eleanor had occupied before.   

The interior was soothing to her doleful mood. A huge, canopied bed, draped with lace bedcovers as delicate as mist, dominated the whole area. The bedside tables were decorated with marble sculptures, all of the matching chairs upholstered in white and golden turquois. Heavily gilded and ornamented with embellishments of epical topics from Homer’s Iliad, the oak furniture was scattered about the room tastefully. The walls were covered with fabulous frescoes, depicting ancient goddesses and gods, as well as several paintings by Jean Clouet.   

It all seems so unreal, Anne told herself. Her life seemed to her something akin to a play which, despite being an admirable piece of stagecraft, dealt exclusively with fictional plots. Just as Greece evolved and perfected the idealized life of Homeric poems through the ages, Anne had created the dream of being Henry Tudor’s happy consort. Yet, all of her erstwhile dreams had been pathetic illusions, and, instead, life had led her to her former husband’s archrival.

The knock on the door moved Anne out of her musings. “Come in, please.”

The door flung open, and King François entered with a measured, slow gait. He shut the door behind him and crossed the room. His rich night robe of black silk, wrought with gold and embroidered with the Valois escutcheon, accentuated his athletic slenderness.   

“Have you been awaiting me, Madame?” he teased with a wicked grin.

The monarch’s gaze traversed his new wife. In a gown of red brocade, worked with silver and ornamented with patterns akin to those from ancient times, Anne seemed to fit in completely with the interior around her, as though she was an embodiment of mythological beauty.

Anne riposted, “At times, high and mighty men are doomed to disappointment.”

More taunts spilled out of him. “Maybe I should have ordered the standard consummation of our marriage.” He gestured towards the bed. “It would have been so romantic to be together here, separated from my curious courtiers and ambassadors only by bedcurtains.”   

Her temper flared. “Apparently, Your Majesty has always changed mistresses as often as Zeus betrayed his marital vows to Hera. The only difference between you and Zeus is that he was the King of the Mount Olympus, while you are only the King of France.”

He laughed boisterously. “Woman is the only creature whose wit can devour man alive.”

“Are you done with joking?” She did not hide her displeasure.

“You do not like our banter, do you?”

Anne hugged herself, as if she were chilled by his mere presence. “It is our duty to make our union valid. Our time is way too valuable to be wasted on trifles.”

A derisive comment came from him. “Your pragmatic Majesty, I have no intention of spending the entire night chatting with you. My life keeps diminishing if I waste hours, feeding my favorite distractions, although you are obviously not one of them.”

“Let’s start, then.” She took a tentative step to him.

“This reminds me of a card contest.” There was a gleam of laughter in his eyes.

His playful mood did not transmit to her. “Only once, sire. Do not forget this.”

The monarch mocked, “Then, by all means, I must please the fierce creature of yours. It would sadden me to know that I failed to make this only time in our marriage a little enjoyable for the siren with dark, hypnotic eyes which hook men to the soul.”

François walked to an ornately carved table in the corner. He snuffled out all the candles in the Venetian candelabra, and then did the same to all the candles in the chamber.         

“Will darkness make it more bearable?” This time, his tone was considerate.

“Yes, it will.” Her voice vibrated with quiet embarrassment.   

The king approached his wife as quietly as a panther. His queen wrapped her arms tighter around herself, as if she needed protection from what he would do to her soon. In the moonlight leaking in through the window, their silhouettes projected a sculpted image of dejection.

In a philosophical tone, he articulated, “Perhaps it would have been far better for us to sit side by side on a veranda or a lawn, enjoying conversation, book, or parley.”

With a nonchalant air that did not fool him, she said indifferently, “I do not think so, Your Majesty. I want the consummation to happen so that we move on with our own lives, then.”

The ruler deadpanned, “My wife’s desire is a command for me.”

Anne breathed out with a sigh. A wave of nervous frustration washed over her, and she shuddered, as if harried by a wind. Before their wedding, she had attempted to convince herself that her second marriage had been predestined, and that she had no choice but to obey the Lord’s will. She had labored to quench her fears, but now, they came crashing down upon her.

A perceptive man by nature, François fathomed her thoughts. “La belle Anne,” he called in the softest accents. “Are you feeling now like a bird trapped under a cat’s claws?”

“Something along these lines,” she confessed, surprised by his astuteness.   

He stepped to her but halted. “Are you afraid of me?”

Her head dropped like she was saying a short prayer. “Not of you, sire.”

Experienced in matters of the heart, François rapidly understood everything. Anne had never been with another man, except for Henry, and it was a great sorrow for her that she would not be able to keep herself untainted by others. Like many women, she had once dreamed of sharing every trouble, vexation, and perplexity with Henry. But after the English king’s betrayal, her inner realm grew hoary with disillusionment, while outwardly she was immured in ice.

For a moment, their gazes intersected. At this moment, his wife – it sounded oddly natural to him – looked rather forlorn. The bright moonlight lent an indescribable witchery to her lovely countenance that seemed swarthier now, and to her eyes which darkened in sadness.

Driven by the impulse to put her at ease, the monarch closed the gap between them. His arms snaked around her waist, and pressed her to him, aligning her body to his.

“Anne.” He cupped her face with a mixture of emotions neither of them could pinpoint. “Now you are feeling like a maid. The reason is that you do not want to and fear to be with a man whom you do not love. You also think that being with someone whom you consider a libertine is not the right thing to do for a decent woman. I’d wager my arm that it is true.”   

She blanched. “Your Majesty, I mean no offence.”

“Shhh,” he soothed, his gaze intense, as if he were on alert. “It is not necessary for us to ever be together. Everyone shall think that our marriage was consummated.”  

Her resolve solidified. “No!  I will not give you a reason to dissolve our union.”   

His eyes were smoldering amber fires beneath the brown brows. “Then, Madame, let me make this night a gorgeous memory for both of us.”

Picking her up, François carried Anne to the bed. Together they sank into the welcoming softness of the feather-filled mattress. Softly, almost airily, his lips found hers, his teeth gently catching her bottom lip, and a searing warmth streaked through her. He kissed her with an innate tenderness that surprised both of them, each brush of his lips against hers like petals of a lilac.

As his hand gripped the collar of her night ensemble, her heart thumped in the chest like a bass drum. He did not hurry to undress her as he worked on the fastenings of her robe. His hot blood clamored in his veins, his tongue leisurely exploring her mouth. His body was nearly trembling from the force of passion she had unleashed in him, but he kept his control in check.

Soon, Anne’s garments were disposed of and fell in a rumpled heap at the foot of the bed, where François had tossed them. At the sight of his nude spouse, her long, glossy, raven hair falling in a wild array about her alabaster shoulders, his breathing became erratic, like his lungs could not fill up with air fast enough. Two brown pools shone with a dark light of mystery, bewitching like a mermaid’s mellifluous songs, and drowning him into their depths.

Her gaze fiery, not vulnerable as one might expect, Anne looked every inch the Goddess Minerva in all her naked glory. In a silvery beam of moonlight, her body was magnificent, like that of Venus, her breasts small and pert, her waist slender and graceful, her hips well curved. Her lean belly betrayed no sign of having expanded itself due to her previous pregnancies.

The king was conscious of an aching tenderness he had never experienced for any other woman before. “You are more beautiful than all of the goddesses from the Mount Olympus.”

A faint smile flicked across her visage. “Your Majesty is exaggerating.”

“No, I do not.”  He kissed her ardently, probing the honey of her mouth.

Adroitly, the ruler discarded his clothes, and, fully naked, engulfed her into his arms, like a shroud of gentleness. Most tentatively, he fondled her breast, reveling in the feeling of the satiny texture of the smooth skin. Much to Anne’s amazement, this simple contact provoked a lascivious response within her, as the ache in her belly spread outwards, her nipples growing tight.

As if entranced, the queen stared at the king with undisguised curiosity. She took in the high cheekbones and the bold jut of his long Valois nose. His handsome countenance was lordly and arrogant even in the sanctuary of her bedroom, but it was those almond-shaped, thickly lashed eyes, eyes of such an affable amber that she felt a melting sensation just for a moment.

The rays of the moon shone more softly into the chamber, as if subdued for her sake. Yet, the visibility was fine, and she could see his body well. François de Valois was more athletic and taller than her former husband, whose figure had become somewhat burly over years. His magnificent physique, with those straight, slim shoulders and the sleekness of his strong torso, must be fascinating in the eyes of his lovers. I should not examine him, she berated herself.

An impish glint entered his eyes. “Satisfied?”

Anne smothered a gasp of fury. “Speak in this manner to your paramours.”

“Oh, really?” he drawled sarcastically. “As you wish.”

To François, she was the finest wine from a Bordeaux vineyard and sweet ambrosia all in one. At first, Anne endeavored to navigate through the waves of his amatory caresses, lingering like some plangent tune. His talented mouth rained kisses down her throat, shoulders, and bosom, down farther and farther, until she stopped him, her cheeks stained with pink. François laughed at her, but it was the moment when he decided against any experiments with her.

“I will be careful,” he promised, gazing intently into her eyes.

His hands tightening around her hips, the monarch penetrated his spouse with exceeding caution, as if she were a virgin. Buffeted by the elemental emotions which tore through him, he kissed her with urgency, yet holding onto the tiny thread of his self-control. As he froze inside of her, the kiss went on and on, an exploration and a journey into the most enigmatic romantic waters he had ever submerged into. I’ve never been so aflame with desire for any other woman, not even for the other Anne, the king mused as his tongue tasted the inner recesses of her mouth.  

Anne’s entire body was now in the grip of sensual havoc, lustful and long-forgotten, as if eternity had passed since she had last performed the rites of the Greek Goddess Aphrodite with Henry. Unexpectedly, François had awakened in Anne a primordial need for sensuality and fecundity in all senses. It was a mind-blowing revelation to her that the French king’s ministrations had aroused a tangle of conflicted emotions within her. This womanizer is too experienced in the art of physical love, she thought as her blood hummed with the unwanted thrill of anticipation.

“Fear me not.” François lay still inside her.

“I don’t.” Her eyes, which had been smoky with desire moments ago, now overflowed with fatality. “Those who once felt the breath of death upon their skin do not fear anything.”   

He cocked an eyebrow. “You fear men. However, not all of us are immoral thugs.”

“You are wrong,” insisted Anne rebelliously.

This elicited a chuckle from him. “What a bad liar you are, Anne Boleyn.”

The monarch moved inside his wife with a dizzying parade of methodical thrusts, pulling himself almost all the way out and then pushing back as far as her silken sheath allowed him to do. Suddenly, Anne heard the amorous hymn of all nymphs in her ears, and she found herself utterly incapable of fighting against the rapacious demands of her feminity. She enfolded her legs around his waist, locking them at the ankles and encouraging him in farther. Raising her hips to meet his thrusts, Anne was sailing towards the chief center of Aphrodite’s worship – Paphos.

The king gazed into two dazed pools of amatory foam. “Your eyes are shrouded with a Cyprian haze. Have I taken you to Aphrodite’s island of Cyprus, la belle Anne?”

His wife stammered, “We are in France, not on some island.”

“I can see the truth through you.” His kisses grew hotter and more intimate. “Let’s sail to Aphrodite’s birthplace less rapidly.” He then slowed the pace of his thrusts.

His lips like soft rain upon hers, François maintained a musical rhythm of their encounter, as if they were performing a pavane. The airy movements of his hips created tantalizing magic between them – one which neither of them had ever felt before, and which launched them into intoxicating ascent towards the acme of gratification. All of a sudden, a tide of lingering pleasure crashed over them, swallowing both of them inch by inch, until an avalanche of celestial delight rocked over them in limitless succession, the song of procreation thrumming through them.   

Attuned to his new wife in a way he could not quite comprehend, the ruler pulled her into his arms. Brushing his mouth across hers, he murmured, “How are you feeling, Anne?”

Her eyes flashed like steel. “I would prefer to be alone now.”

François wound his arm around her waist. “Acts which produce useful results seem to be ordered by an admirable logic. But even rational scientists such as my dearly departed Leonardo da Vinci sometimes allow themselves to plunge into a sensual laziness of mind and body.”  

She wriggled out of his grasp, which he loosened because she evidently wanted to be free. Avoiding eye contact, she rolled to her side of the bed and snuggled into the covers.

“Your immediate instinct is to escape, but you cannot because I’m a king. Do you really believe that you will forget what has just happened between us?”

“Yes!  As it means nothing to me, I’ll easily efface it from my mind.” Wrapping herself in a sheet, Anne shot off the bed as though she had been fired from a cannon.

“Very well, Madame.” The moon had been concealed behind a cloud, so he scrambled into his robe in the dark. “It is not my pastime to pursue women who do not want to be with me.”

Anne stood in the corner, with her back to him. “Sire, you extol chivalry and call women flowers. We have an agreement, so you must abide by it.”

Concealing his hurt, François jeered, “I shall, Madame. You are a rare, exotic flower that might wither without tenderness. It would be interesting if you found yourself with child after this night.” It was instinctual on his part to say that.

§§§

The King of France closed the door of his new consort’s bedchamber. Leaning against the wall, he stood in the dimply lit corridor, his irritation festering into a hardened attitude to her.

“You have chosen loneliness, Anne,” he told himself, sighing in mingled annoyance and sadness. “So, I’ll live as if I were a free man.”

The contentment of all human beings, men and women, depended largely on the erotic concepts. If they were not joined in matrimony, the amorous rites between a man and his lady were the special urge in their souls. Usually marriage is entirely for procreation, just as my dynastic union with Claude was. But I’ve wed Anne only to save France. So, I can have as many lovers as I wish, in particular because my wife denies me the marriage bed, François meditated.

Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly was the king’s chief paramour, while Claude de Rohan-Gié often warmed his bed. Occasionally, François also indulged in random affairs with pretty female courtiers, at times with expensive courtesans and simple whores. Despite being a staunch Catholic, François would never agree with the men of ecclesiastical rank that physical love was a terrible sin unless it was practiced for procreation. On the contrary, it affected the very root of human life, being a natural and instinctive function for any man, especially a monarch.

As if persuading himself, François muttered, “The other Anne and Claude will both be excellent replacements for my unruly spouse.”

“Your Majesty!” one of the royal grooms cried as he appeared in the corridor.

“Bring me the best wine from my cellars,” his sovereign enjoined. “I’ll be in my gallery.” He stomped away into the adjacent hallway, the grandeur around the king only irritating him.

§§§

After François had vacated the room, Queen Anne lit many candles.  She was flustered and frustrated, as well as intimidated by the odd emotions her husband had roused in her.

As she froze near the bed, she scrutinized her naked form, as if seeing herself for the first time. Bewildered, she felt herself alive, as though the air was thick with transcendental vivacity. Her intercourse with him was not simple: François had transformed an act of duty into an artistic dance of passion, forcing her rigid body to undergo the shattering metamorphosis in his arms.

She had known a man’s passion in the past. Henry had frequently taken her with slavish devotion in the days when he had still loved her, and, as the awful rift between them had been deepening, their couplings had still been charged with primeval need. Nonetheless, she had been unprepared that she could experience such a colossal, exquisite pleasure with another man.   

Anne still felt François’ seed inside of her and wet on her thighs, which disconcerted her slightly. Instinctively, her hand flew to her abdomen, like a pregnant woman touching her belly lovingly. Panic reared in her bosom, and questions circled her mind. What if I conceived tonight? What if I give birth to François’ child? Would it be a boy or a girl? No, that is not possible! 

The feeling that something would go not as she had planned crystallized in her universe. All hope for the future without a man’s presence in her life commenced crumbling. Suddenly shy of her own nudity, she spun around and hastily donned her fashionable nightgown.

“I will not get pregnant,” Anne endeavored to convince herself. She sat at her dressing table and eyed her flushed face in a looking glass. “One night means nothing.”

She trembled at the remembrance of her night with Henry when they had danced La Volta and lost themselves in a bacchic festival of insanity afterwards. In the past, one night had been enough for her to conceive a son, who had died in her womb due to Henry’s adulterous kiss with that Seymour slut. Usually, Anne got pregnant quickly, but had problems to carry a child to term.

It would be interesting if you found yourself with child after this night.  

The French ruler’s voice echoed through her head like prophecy of something wonderful to come. Anne, nevertheless, banished the thought from her head, although she knew that such a possibility existed, because she was still young and fertile. Love, promises, demands to give sons, infidelities, miscarriages…  These words make me want to slap someone, she lamented.

She commanded herself, “I shall not think of such trifles. My marital life is over.”   

§§§

Unable to sleep, the French monarch went to the François I gallery, his favorite place in the whole château. Sitting in an armchair, he held a goblet of wine in his hand, sipping it slowly and savoring the taste, his thoughts churning like a tempestuous sea.

His mind meandered to his two previous wedding nights. François and Claude of France had been very young when entering into matrimony. Fresh, innocent, and fragile like a delicate lily, Claude had submitted herself to him, and he had initiated her into the pleasures of physical love in the most gratifying way. François had disliked Eleanor of Austria so much that he had run away from her immediately after their first intercourse, which had been neither pleasurable nor painful for her, as he had been almost like a stranger with her; they had never been intimate again.  

I want the consummation to happen so that we move on with our own lives, then.  

Anne’s words were a significant blow to the monarch’s pride and vanity. These his two qualities could be measured by nothing but each other, because they were both unbounded in a royal way. No woman had ever dared speak to him in such a high-handed manner. In fact, he had never been rejected before. Years ago, only Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant, had resisted his advances for a short while, but he had seduced her with relative ease.

His wedding night with Anne was different. She had tasted sins of the flesh with Henry of England, so François had not taught her the art of physical love. Passionate and tempting like a nymph, she nonetheless remained loyal to the idea of an undying love which was unblemished by earthly filth, especially betrayal, ambition, and egotism. Admiring her for that, François had made love to her, as if he were worshiping the body of a goddess, taking care of her pleasure before his own. There had been nothing during their encounter he had not wanted to do to please Anne, even though there had been hundreds of things she had feared.

Marguerite is right that I crave to love a great woman, to hold her close to my heart, one I could touch and do amazing things for. He would worship such a lady with a love proceeding from the heart and flowing outwardly in the most beatific ways. In adolescence, dreams of pure, eternal, legendary love – one which defies blood, distance, and destiny – had assaulted him, but, over the course of time, he begun believing that such thoughts had sprung from his lonely heart.

“Anne Boleyn is my wife,” uttered François in disbelief. Having finished off his goblet, he set it on a nearby table. “It is incredible that I begin liking my unusual marriage.”

“Talking to yourself, brother?”

The monarch flicked his gaze to the door, where Marguerite stood. Like him, she was in her night attire – an elegant robe of blue velvet, lined with white taffeta and embroidered on the right shoulder with the Valois escutcheon and on the left one with the Albert coat-of-arms.

“Margot,” he greeted with a smile. “You are the only one who I need now.”

She closed the door and walked to him. “How was your wedding night?”

“You can guess how it all ended. After all, I’m here now.”

“Naturally.” She settled in an armchair beside him. “How does it feel to be rejected for the first time in your life? You broke the hearts of countless women.”

After a short silence, the king stated, “I do not love Anne, so my heart does not hurt.”

Marguerite laughed. “Your pride has been injured. Hear sensational tidings!  Not every lady wishes to be with the magnificent François de Valois.”

A scowl marred his forehead. “Stop making a laughingstock out of me, sister.”

“That is not my intention, my dearest brother. But I have to confess that I find the whole affair amusing from the female standpoint. A great many women weep when kings and all other men do not return their amorous sentiments or break relationships with them. Women – romantic creatures – are frequently enslaved to the illusion of a man’s love, while you men use and discard us, occasionally in a cruel manner. I cannot help but see life’s unfairness to ladies.”

“You reckon I needed a lesson,” the ruler guessed.

“Yes, François. It will be a challenge for you to conquer Anne’s affection.”

The monarch stared at her as if she were a lunatic. “Excuse me, but last time I checked I had no obsessive feelings for Anne such as Henry once had. I find my wife alluring, and I want her as a woman. Yet, I will not waste my time on her when I can invest it in something else.”

She leaned back in her seat. “I doubt Henry has ever loved the real Anne.”

“Perhaps not.” His voice was layered with slight vexation. For some reason, he did not like the thought that his English rival could still harbor feelings for his new spouse.

Marguerite scrutinized her brother, whose face seemed paler than usual even in the flickering candlelight. “I have no doubt that you will welcome Anne de Pisseleu in your bed.” She smiled. “But your mind will always revert to Anne Boleyn – your wife. She is the greatest enigma for you, layers upon layers which you long to discover.”

The king glanced at the fresco of the Goddess Aphrodite’s birth. “I’m not a cat toying with a mouse, and neither is Anne. We will go on separate paths from here on.”

The Queen of Navarre forecasted, “One day, all of your and her claims will vanish into the air as sand sifts through a person’s fingers. Like Aphrodite’s birth, true love emerges from a sea, where adoration, understanding, appreciation, and respect commingle with common values. You and Anne have a lot in common, actually more than she and Henry have ever had.”

A smile twitched in the corner of his mouth. “You are a bad prophet, then.”

“We shall see.” His sister had a good presentiment about her brother’s marriage.

“Margot, I’ve seen the future. It is very much like the present, only longer.”

The ruler’s sister laughed. “The best qualification of a prophet is to have a good memory. And I have a good one: tonight, you and Anne were together, and perhaps she conceived. From what we know about her life with Henry, she must be quite fertile. After Elizabeth Tudor’s birth, her relationship with him swiftly transformed into a corpse, and he could ignore her for months. Yet, Anne was pregnant twice in the past two years, so she must have conceived quickly.”

“Anne suffered miscarriages,” recalled François. “Claude had one as well.”

Marguerite perused the statue of Hera, the Greek goddess of marriage and procreation. “Catherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn!  Their childbearing histories are interesting and look similar even at first glance. Catherine had many miscarriages and stillbirths, and she only gave Henry a daughter, Mary. Anne birthed Elizabeth and then miscarried twice.”

The conclusion hung in the air between them before the king voiced it. “Maybe Henry is not blameless for his lack of male progeny, although he would never admit such a thought.”

“No man will ever deflate his own ego, especially a kingly ego; not even you, François.”

Her brother grinned. “But I’m not Henry, and I have sons.”

Suddenly, a shadow of foreboding crept into her breast. “Let’s just say that you can have male children. No one knows the ways of providence, and we can only pray for God’s grace.”

“True.” He felt the same unease gnawing at his insides.

She switched to another topic. “Something must be wrong with Henry, not with Catherine and Anne. Some curse or illness prevents him from siring healthy children. He does not have many robust offspring, despite having numberless mistresses. His only illegitimate son – Henry FitzRoy, Duke of Richmond and Somerset – died a couple of months ago.”

François crossed himself. “I despise Henry, but I do commensurate with his losses. None of his sons lived to adulthood. My own eldest son passed away so unexpectedly.”   

His words struck the Navarrese queen like a chill of presentiment. “Do not dwell on the sad past, brother. Unlike Henry, you have healthy legitimate and illegitimate issue, both male and female. Anne and you are both young and fertile, so you can have many children in the future.”

A sting of hurt lanced through him. “Only if she stops denying me the marriage bed.”

“She will,” Marguerite assured. “Eventually. No one can resist you magical touch!”

He grinned conceitedly, but then sighed. “No one, save my own wife.”

François mentally pronounced his spouse’s name. Anne Boleyn… These words worked wonders on the ruler, as if transfiguring him into a seeker of something deeply spiritual in the realm of earthly existence. For the first time, the monarch was conscious of a vehement possession and of a poignant tenderness, which he should not have felt for his wife. Even though she was not fond of him, the seeds of sublime immortality had been planted into the fabrics of his life.

His train of thought floated to the kingdom’s perilous predicament. “At present, there are far more important things to worry about. I shall protect France and defeat that Spanish rat.” He clenched his fists into balls of fury. “I just need to understand how to outwit Carlos.”

Notes:

I hope that you liked this chapter. Finally, Anne is the Queen of France.

Finally, Anne and François are married, but she does not wish to be with him for many reasons – she does not want to have another man, especially not a king, in her life. Many reviewers said that Anne and François are more compatible than Henry and Anne are, and I agree with them. However, Anne lost her faith in love, and she hates the very idea of being married to another king.

Do you like Anne and François' wedding night? I tried to make it beautiful despite her unwillingness to be with her new husband. Their emotions are the focus of the wedding night episode. What does fate have in stock for her and her new French husband?

François is not going to discard his mistresses any time soon because he is not in love with Anne at this stage. Moreover, it will take François much time to fall for his new wife because he will be away from court during the Franco-Imperial war. François spends more than a year fighting against the emperor, and although he meets with Anne from time to time as she comes to him or he comes to court, they remain strangers for months. Eventually, François will be in love with Anne and will be faithful to her.

This story consists of three parts: "War" that ends in chapter 17, "Vengeance" that ends in chapter 33 or 34, and "Love". Then it will depend on my creative muse how the story unfolds.

Vesta was the Roman virgin goddess of the hearth, home, and family. Entry to her temple was allowed only to her priestesses – the Vestals, who tended the sacred fire in her temple.

Minerva was the Roman goddess of wisdom and strategic warfare and the sponsor of arts, trade, and strategy.

Aphrodite was an ancient Greek goddess of love, beauty, pleasure, and procreation. Aphrodite was said to have been born near her chief center of worship, Paphos, on the island of Cyprus.

Louis, Count de Vaudémont (he is a younger brother of Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise) died in 1528. However, I need him alive in this AU, so he makes a short appearance in this chapter.

Please, leave a review on this chapter. Reviews always encourage an author to update and make them happy! Thank you very much in advance.

Attention: if you love Anne, I recommend that you check the works of Violet Rose Lily. They are wonderful!

Yours sincerely,

Lady Perseverance

Chapter 6: Chapter 5: The Icy Coldness of a Hand

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 5:  The Icy Coldness of a Hand

September 7, 1536, the Palace of Whitehall, London, England

The sun had already started its upward journey, warming the earth and the white-ashlar, brick-vaulted walls and roof of Whitehall. The wind from the River Thames was pushing a bank of arrow-shaped clouds across the firmament, and a nip of autumn was in the air.  

King Henry directed his scrutiny at his new spouse, Queen Jane Seymour. “Sweetheart, the Lady Mary has become a frequent guest in your quarters.”

“That is true, Your Majesty,” answered his spouse with a jovial smile. “Mary is sweet and affectionate. She is everything I hoped she would be.”

“Very well,” he muttered absently.

The English royal couple sat at the table full of delicious victuals. There was mallard, some vegetables, and custard on the queen’s platter. As the ruler had a special appetite for meat, dishes of spit-roasted meat, venison, heron, whale meat, egret, and so forth were served. A jag of fresh milk and a decanter of wine were brought for the queen and king, respectively.

Her smile widening, Jane continued, “I’m proud of my stepdaughter! It is no wonder that she is so marvelously beloved for her virtue and her goodness in the hearts of people.”

The ruler’s expression was distant, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. “I’m happy that your relationship with Mary has progressed to the point of such close friendship.”

Morning light streamed in through the windows of the royal apartments, providing a soft glow to the creamy eggshell and beige décor. In spite of being quite warm, the light had that mellow, melancholic quality to it that was ordinary for this time of the year.

King Henry had established Whitehall as his chief residence in London in 1530. Before his removal from power in 1529, Cardinal Wolsey had owned the former York Place. Wolsey had had the house expanded and rebuilt on a magnificent scale. Having inherited the core of the cardinal’s mansion, the Great Hall, the Chapel Royal, and the vaulted wine cellars, the Tudor ruler had embarked on an extensive rebuilding program: the turreted Whitehall Gate had been erected in 1531-1532, new gardens and orchards had been set out. Here Henry had celebrated his marriage to Anne Boleyn over three years ago, and his union with Jane Seymour a few months earlier.   

Until his wedding to Jane Seymour, the interior in the king’s quarters had been in red. Henry and Anne had wanted to associate everything around them with the intense color of love, passion, and desire. All of the gilded armchairs and chairs, made out of dark walnut, had been upholstered in crimson velvet. A large canopied bed with the carved headboard had been draped in scarlet silk. Coverlets, carpets, and tablecloths had all been in that color as well. The walls had been swathed in crimson brocade and decorated with frescoes in the French style.

Yearning to start a new life with his beloved Jane, Henry had enjoined to erase each and every trace of his exiled former sweetheart. All the portraits, sketches, and miniatures of Anne Boleyn had been destroyed. The symbols of Anne and Henry’s romance – the entwined letters ‘H’ and ‘A’ – had been removed from the monarch’s quarters and from everywhere else in the palace. It had been forbidden from pronouncing the name of the Boleyn whore.   

In the refurbished ruler’s rooms, against beige-colored walls, some of which were hung with tapestries of hunting and outdoor activities, were set pieces of oak, heavily carved furniture. There were no fabulous frescoes on the walls and no tapestries of mythological scenes, which was too French-like in Henry’s mind and, hence, could remind him of Anne. On the scrubbed wooden floors brightly colored rugs were scattered. The new huge canopy bed, set upon a dais at the far end of his bedchamber, was draped with yards of creamy-white taffeta.

Henry took a goblet of wine and sipped some. “I confess that I’m confused as to your behavior. You have not visited the Princess Elizabeth even once since our wedding.”

Fear lurked in Jane’s eyes. “Your Majesty, I…  I…” 

“What, Jane? Speak instead of stammering.” His tone was censorious.

“I thought that you would not approve of my attention to the girl.” She did not refer to Elizabeth as royalty, because the child was a bastard in her opinion.

Forking a chunk of venison into his mouth, he chewed while talking. “I ejected her Jezebel mother of a whore from my realm.  However, Elizabeth is a princess of the blood and my heir until a son is born out of our union.” He instructed her through slitted eyes, “You must become a motherly figure for Elizabeth. Split your time between my two daughters.”

She finished off her mallard. “I’ll do as you wish, sire.”   

Henry guessed that her consent was reluctant. “She is just a little girl, even though she has the Boleyn harlot’s blood in her veins.” His eyes shone with pride as he added, “She is my daughter! One look at her is enough to see that she is a Tudor through and through.”    

Jane’s countenance revealed confusion. Does he really miss Elizabeth? He did not show any inclination to see her after the whore’s arrest. He even ordered to keep her away from him after the harlot’s release from the Tower. Her husband’s behavior puzzled her, and she wished to learn its cause, and even more to predict the changes in his treatment of the girl.  

After Anne Boleyn’s departure from England, King Henry had sent Elizabeth away from court to her residence, Hatfield House. The Catholic faction, which consisted of Catherine of Aragon’s supporters, were all happy that Anne had been set aside and exiled. Yet, to their utmost chagrin, the girl remained a princess in spite of her mother’s disgrace. The monarch continued generously financing her household, but the child was not in favor.  

Finally, Lady Mary Tudor had been coerced into submission to the royal will. Under the threat of imprisonment, she had signed the Oath of Supremacy and acknowledged her mother’s union with the king as incestuous and illegitimate. Although the ruler’s eldest daughter had been reunited with his father, Henry had not lavished her with affection and kept her at arm’s length, remaining wary around her, as if expecting that she could repudiate her own oath.   

It irked Jane that the daughter of the Boleyn strumpet was still treated with respect. As she had always been devoted to Catherine, the true Queen of England before her wedding to Henry, she viewed Mary as the rightful Princess of Wales until she birthed the king’s son. Thus, her spouse’s requests to replace Elizabeth’s mother had discomfited Jane, to say the least.

Reading her mind, Henry coaxed, “As soon as you see Elizabeth, you will adore her. She is a charming and precocious girl. Even those who dislike Anne tend to love her.”

There was a docile smile on his queen’s visage. “I’ll do whatever you order, sire.”

A baffled rage flickered in the small aquamarine eyes. “You do not even want to see the princess, do you? Do you loathe my little girl because you hate her mother?”

At this, Jane stiffened, his question coming too close to the mark. “I swear I do not have any negative attitude towards the Princess Elizabeth. A child is innocent of its mother’s sins. I just have no idea how to behave around her, for she will ask many questions about her mother. I’m also afraid of doing something that might displease Your Majesty.”

The ruler popped a piece of egret into his mouth before saying levelly, “Elizabeth is not her mother’s creature. Our task is to ensure that she becomes an intelligent, brilliant, and virtuous princess, who shall make the House of Tudor proud and elevate it on the international arena.”

“Of course. You have a father’s pride in your voice.”

Taking her hand in his, the monarch spoke persuasively. “Jane, sweetheart, you have the immaculate heart of the Virgin Mary. You helped me reconcile with my stubborn eldest daughter, and, by doing so, proved that you are as benevolent as only saints can be. We must raise Elizabeth together, which is why you need to try and become a mother to her.”   

The queen drank some milk. “I’ll try to befriend her, then.”

A dawning realization that today was a special day painted his expression. “I should have fetched Elizabeth to court last week. It is her birthday, and she is alone.”

She chuckled. “You can still go to your daughter, sire.”

“That is exactly what I’ll do after our meal!” His gaze flittered to the window, where the sun almost reached its midday zenith. “I’ll ride to Hatfield and meet with my girl.”

“We might invite the princess to court, if you wish it.” She was not fond of this idea, but she would do anything to please Henry, who had already made his position clear.

At the snap of the king’s fingers, a roasted peacock, dressed in its own iridescent blue feathers, was ceremoniously brought by the servants. Dishes of lobster and marzipan, flavored with cinnamon and pepper, were served for Jane, who also ordered pineapple.  

The rest of the meal was spent in grave silence. Jane attempted some small talk, but Henry merely grunted something in response. The sun’s rays, streaming in behind him, shadowed his features, but for one fleeting second, she thought that she had seen a flash of delight in his eyes as she asked him about Elizabeth’s language talents which she had heard about a lot.

While eating the peacock rapaciously, the king boasted, “Elizabeth is so clever! Lady Bryan, her governess, says that my girl has excelled in learning some French and Italian, which she has been teaching her according to her mother’s instructions.” He paused, grimacing at the mention of Anne. “Lady Bryan recommends that we hire a talented tutor for Elizabeth.”  

Jane flinched inwardly, but forced a smile. Questions besieged her consciousness. Did the monarch’s fondness of Elizabeth mean that part of him still loved Anne Boleyn? She had sworn that she would not fail where her predecessors had done. She must be destined to give him a healthy son, the living image of his father, who would displace the whore’s daughter in the line of succession to the English throne. Unfortunately, Jane was not pregnant yet.

A leaden silence ensued, lengthening nearly into a lifetime. When the servants began clearing the table, the ruler still said nothing to his wife, his countenance impenetrable.

“Your Majesty,” the queen addressed him. “Why would you not speak to me?”

“Because I’m disappointed,” snapped the King of England.

Jane’s visage paled. “Why?”

There was a short pause as Henry surveyed his wife. Her countenance demure, quiet and modest grace emanating from her, Jane Seymour was lovely in the traditional English way, with soft gray eyes and silken, long, blond tresses. In a gown of creamy brocade worked with threads of silver, with the high neckline, she embodied purity, compassion, obedience, and dedication to serve her sovereign, just as her motto proclaimed – ‘Bound to obey and serve’.

The queen’s stomacher of silver silk glittered with white pearls, as did her massive pearl and sapphire necklace on the bosom. Jane preferred light colors and favored pearls, which fitted all of her dressing ensembles perfectly. She is as pure as a Vestal priestess, although I made her a woman on our wedding night. She is not a sprightly brunette, with orient orbs, black as midnight. Mentally, the king castigated himself for again comparing Jane to the vile slut.    

In an icy voice, Henry uttered, “You are not yet with child.”

Her face fell, as if the whole earth had crashed upon her. “Your Majesty, I pray for a healthy son every day twice. Nothing can make me happier than the news of my pregnancy.”

“If you do not conceive soon, we will need to consult Doctor Butts.”

Jane laced her hands in her lap like a chaste maid. “I can do this today.”

The ruler shook his head. “It is not necessary, Jane. After all, we have been married only for three months. But I expect that you will fall pregnant by Christmas tide.”  

She nodded timidly. “I’ll pray harder and more for a child.”

His bad temper vanishing, Henry grinned at her and raised his chalice in a toast. “To our son! To the glorious Tudor prince who will rule England after me as King Edward VI!” As he drank heartily, he supplemented, “I love you, Jane, actually more than Catherine and Anne. But if you birth me a male heir, my love for your will be endless and everlasting.”

Her smile communicated some unease. “God will bless us with a son, Your Majesty.”

§§§

After he had left Queen Jane, King Henry set off to Hatfield in the company of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. Sitting astride his white stallion, caparisoned in purple damask down to the ground, with the harness embroidered with gold and a pale of yellow velvet, the king trotted through the streets of London, followed by his boyhood friend and a squad of guards.

“More quickly, Charles,” enjoined the English monarch as he spurred on his horse.

“Yes, sire.” The Duke of Suffolk urged his mount to pick up its pace.

As streets and people flickered before him, Henry reflected on his third marriage. He was happy to have Jane as a wife, who was all sweetness and blessed in a way that the Boleyn temptress had never been. He had convinced himself that his third wife was the love of his life, while his feelings for Anne Boleyn and Catherine of Aragon had paled in comparison to those for Jane.

In the months which had elapsed since Anne’s departure into exile, his mind had gone through some remarkable phases. At first, the excitement of his passion for Jane had obscured everything else, while his hatred for Anne had been growing with every passing day. To his surprise, his life with Jane had moved into the immense inertia of habit and routine too quickly to his liking. Everything in his marriage was smooth and unbearably soft: their relationship was like a waveless calm, the slumber of the dead, without any fire burning and scorching him.

Henry craved adventure and the wildness of amorous sensations with Jane. He wished to spend nights with his wife, discovering body parts and places unseen, receiving a colossal pleasure that was beyond description. But Jane was so submissive and too meek in bed that their encounters were as insipid as the herb waters his physician gave him in his attempts to cure his ulcerated leg. For some time, Henry had labored to experiment sensually with Jane, and once he had engaged her in an intense and a bit rough lovemaking, but she had been too frightened, as if he were Satan preaching a sermon on holiness, despite having submitted her pale form to his wickedness.   

The mind of the lustful Tudor monarch had been disturbed by visions of a lascivious Jane until he realized that they were a mere figment of his imagination. In the past few weeks, the need for fire had started reasserting itself in his unsatisfied body, and so Henry had taken a new mistress – Lady Anne Bassett who served in his wife’s household. His passion for the Lady Bassett was vehement and wild; every time he took her, he felt like a soldier who had been deprived of a woman’s tenderness for too long, while she gloried in their shared heat. Yet, Henry needed the fire of Anne Boleyn, which was still a fever in his blood.

That Boleyn whore is not here – she left my kingdom on my own orders. At this moment, the streets thronged with people, the buildings and markets around him – everything seemed alien to Henry, as if his world had upended, and he walked across the canvass of his life like a stranger to his own existence. A torrent of longing for Anne rushed into the vacuum of his inner realm, and he could not stifle it, for the hunger for her had long crept into the flesh of his being.

Henry veered his gaze to his companion. “I crave to see Elizabeth!” At this moment, being close to his baby girl was tantamount to having a piece of Anne.

Turning away, the monarch did not see Charles frown slightly. The duke held no grudge against the girl, whom his lies about Anne’s adultery had robbed of her mother. He did not want Elizabeth to be in too much favor with her parent. He would always remain loyal to the memory of the great Queen Catherine, who had been treated horribly due to the whore’s viciousness. It is unfair that Mary is a bastard, while Elizabeth is still a princess, Charles thought.

The king’s voice interrupted his subject’s musings. “Elizabeth must be having many good dreams about her papa every night. Today she will be delighted to see me.”

“I’m sure she will.” Suffolk plastered a smile on his otherwise sullen countenance.

Tightening the reins, the ruler eyed their surroundings. They were already in the suburbs of the capital and were now moving further north towards Hertfordshire.

His features contorting, Henry gritted out, “I need my girl to be totally free from Anne’s evil spell.” Softening, he affirmed in a calmer voice, “Children are so innocent that they look up to and imitate those closest to them. That is why Jane must spend more time with my daughter in order to educate her upon pure and undefiled moral principles.”

His loathing for Anne gladdened Suffolk. “Queen Jane will be a far better mother to your daughter than the harlot. She will teach the princess to be truly virtuous and honorable.”

Nodding, the English monarch kicked his horse into a gallop; others followed suit. In the matter of minutes, the city was left behind. They rode across the stubble fields, stretching across rolling hills and the valley, broken up by ravines tinged with verdant trees and shrubs. The thunder of hooves was a growing cascade of sound, as the royal party accelerated their speed and soon entered the Hatfield Royal Hunting Forest that dated to the time of the Norman kings.

In a village in the vicinity of Hatfield, King Henry commanded to pause as a well-garbed couple came into sight. Some landowner and his young wife oversaw the harvesting and threshing of the grain as their tenants worked. As soon as they noticed the royal party, they recognized the Tudor standard and hastened to meet their sovereign. As the ruler hopped down from his stallion, the lord dropped into a servile bow, while his spouse made an awkward curtsey.  

“Your Majesty!” The man had seen his liege lord only once in London years ago. Being the master of a small manor, he did not have enough funds to live at court. “We are overjoyed to see you! We will gladly give you a tour of our cozy estate. We are Lord and Lady–“ 

Henry interrupted, “Your name does not matter at all.” His scrutiny flicked to his wife. “Your spouse will have an exciting dance with me, but you will not be present.”

After a moment’s pause, the lord connected the dots. Rumors about the King of England’s hunting parties in the countryside together with the Duke of Suffolk and his other favorites were infamous even in the provincial noble circles. Charles Brandon’s knowing smirk proved the monarch’s intentions, and the man resolved to use the matter to his advantage.

Dismounting, Suffolk quizzed, “Where can they go to be alone?” It was not the first time when he arranged his liege lord’s extramarital affairs during their hunting trips.

The lord pointed towards a house in the fields. “There! It is our small hunting manor.”

“Excellent.” There was a muffled shout of laughter from Brandon.

Henry’s eyes roamed with increasing hunger over the unknown lady’s plump figure clad in a plain gown of brown velvet ornamented with pearls. Her strawberry blonde curls framed her attractive face tinctured with a hint of befuddlement, which amused him a lot. The English women all rightfully belonged to their sovereign, and all of his random lovers usually remained satisfied. As his gaze rested on her finely formed mouth, Henry hardened with desire.

“Go,” the man commanded his wife. “Do not make His Majesty wait.”

The woman looked abashed. “But...” Her voice faltered.

Her husband barked, “Yield yourself to the king.”

Henry stepped to her. “You will not regret it, my dear.”

In a few minutes, the ruler was already undressing himself inside the cottage. As he closed the gap between them, the woman backed away in uncertainty. He beckoned her to him and suddenly swept her up in his arms, then carried her to a bed hung with old blue damask.

“You are a lovely little piece,” he murmured lustfully. “You will like my passion.”

Some of her hesitation evaporated. “Will you… give me pleasure, sire?”

The aquamarine gaze glittered enticingly. “Your husband is unlikely to be an experienced lover.” He kissed her on the mouth. “But it is a delightful game, so let’s play it now.”

She peeled off her dress, then tossed it on the floor. Henry enveloped her into his arms, and his lips marauded down the side of her neck. The woman was thrilled that the mighty King of England, tall and strong, wanted her; the skin of his slightly burly body was warm to her touch, his voice was so husky and deep. When his hands strayed to her breasts and down her abdomen, taking exciting liberties, a string of groans erupted from her. During the next two hours, the lovers copulated in the lewdest manner, and the monarch did not need to worry about position or mindless patter as she opened to him willingly and matched him each time he thrust into her.  


September 7, 1536, Hatfield House, Hatfield, Hertfordshire, England 

By the time the royal procession had finally arrived at Hatfield, the sun’s disk commenced its decline towards the horizon. As soon as the cavalcade stopped in the vast, green park shadowed by the falling twilight, the Tudor ruler swung off the saddle and headed to the entrance. After dismounting, the Duke of Suffolk led the reins of his liege lord’s horse to a stable boy.

The front door opened, and Elizabeth Tudor appeared outside, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting. At the sight of the king, the women all lowered themselves into curtseys.   

As her initial amazement faded, Princess Elizabeth darted to him, like a dove pursued by a hawk, and launched herself headlong into his embrace. Laughing blithesomely, King Henry scooped her into his arms and twirled her around like a dancer, then held her close.

Lady Margaret Bryan, Elizabeth’s governess, and the others watched the ruler’s reunion with the child with festive expressions. Even Anne’s enemy, Charles Brandon, could not suppress a smile, for the scene was too heartwarming to remain indifferent to it.

As they parted, Elizabeth effused, “Papa! You have come to my birthday!”

The monarch let out a cheerful smile. “Of course, I’m here, my Elizabeth. How could I forget about this special day? I have a wonderful gift for you!”

“What is it?” Curiosity flashed in the dark eyes of Anne Boleyn’s daughter.

All of a sudden, Henry found himself distressed in mind, body, and spirit. Time, which usually alleviated ordinary sorrows, served only to augment the severity of his grief over Anne’s alleged betrayals. He had become an inhabitant of the perpetual realm where the ghost of Anne haunted him like a specter. Today, he had thought of the adulteress all the time against his will, and the familiar sense of wonder gripped him as he peered into his daughter’s eyes.

Two brown pools of magical depth! A pair of dark eyes identical to Anne’s, Henry half-complained, half-grumbled in his mind. They are hooking me to my daughter’s soul, just as Anne’s witchery once enslaved me to her. In Elizabeth’s eyes, he deciphered a faint trace of accusation, as if she were silently reproaching him for separating her from her mother. At this moment, the girl’s two caverns seemed literally to kindle, which reminded him of Anne’s so much that he could scarcely conceive the animation in his daughter’s countenance.  

“Papa?” called Elizabeth, infectious enthusiasm written all over her features.   

Lady Bryan took a step towards them and entered the conversation. “Your Highness, you should abide by the royal protocol and greet your father as a king.”

The girl’s expression changed into sadness. “But I have not seen him for so long!”

Like all the members of Elizabeth’s household, the governess and others were eager to do anything in their power to emphasize the child’s royal status. Most of them were aware that Anne’s condemnation was unfair, so they pitied the former Queen of England who had been ousted of her home country and would probably never see her only child again. They also worked hard to demolish the gossip that the girl’s legitimacy was doubtful.

The monarch hurried to put the old woman at ease. “It is fine, Lady Bryan. The affairs of state kept me occupied at court, but I’ve come to see my dear girl as soon as I could.”

Lady Bryan opined, “The princess is a credit to Your Majesty.”

A smiling Henry shifted his eyes to the girl. “Definitely! She is too young to live at court, for a child of her tender age would fare better in the quiet, healthy countryside. When she grows into the most beautiful and intelligent princess in Christendom, she will be a true ornament of the Tudor court, until she becomes a queen consort of some foreign ruler.”

“Your Majesty loves the girl so much!” The governess was pleased that the king was so well disposed towards her charge. “The princess is too precocious for her age.”

Henry whispered, “I do love her, despite everything.” Margaret Bryan smiled.

“And my gift?” interjected Elizabeth.

Grinning to herself, Lady Margaret bobbed a curtsey and took several steps aside.

“It is here, my Elizabeth!” exclaimed the monarch.   

Henry procured a wrapped object from the pocket of his doublet. As he unfolded it, a small, oval-cut diamond necklace with a ruby pendant came into view. As he fastened it around her neck, his daughter squealed in joy, her smile brighter than a thousand candles.

The royal lips stretched into a grin. “Do you like it?”

Elizabeth looked every inch a majestic little princess in a gown of green silk wrought with gold. She could be only his daughter! The girl’s long, thick hair – the red-gold Tudor, like the gilt-edge pages of the illuminated Bible he had gifted to Anne years ago – framed her delicate features. There was a remarkable air of strength, purity, and enigma about this creature.

The princess admired the glittering jewels on her bosom. “My papa! Thank you, papa! I knew that you could not have forgotten me! I love the gift and you!”

Once more, Henry hugged his daughter tight to his chest. She pressed herself to him as if she wanted to crawl inside him and never let him go. In these jovial moments, Henry’s mind detoured to her mother again: he wondered what Anne was now doing in France.

The girl disentwined herself from his embrace, her expression sulky. “I’m happy to see you, papa! But I want my mama with me! Why have you not allowed her to visit me?”

A sigh erupted from her father. “Your mother left us, my dear girl.”

Audaciously, Elizabeth confronted him, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Lady Bryan does not answer my questions about my mama, because she has an order to be silent. But I heard my ladies gossip that you had punished my mama for something wicked she supposedly did.” Her bottom lip trembled. “But my mama would not do anything bad to you.”

Henry was at a loss for words. “You are too small to understand the truth.”

“I am not stupid!” The princess set her chin at a rebellious angle. “You just wanted to take another wife. If you love me, give me my mama back.”    

Her heart palpitating with anguish, Elizabeth swiveled gracefully. Without curtseying to her royal parent, she fled into the gardens, throttling the urge to weep.   

“Princess Elizabeth!” shrilled the girl’s shocked governess. “Your Highness!’ 

Several ladies-in-waiting ran after the escaping princess, but Lady Bryan dithered.

“I’m so sorry, sire,” Margaret Bryan muttered.

Barely holding onto his temper, Henry instructed, “Go find my daughter. I’ll be staying at Hatfield for some time; soon, Elizabeth and I will depart to London.”

Charles Brandon approached him. “What should I do, Your Majesty?”

“Leave me be,” barked Henry.

The monarch walked away, feeling the pain in his right leg intensify, perhaps on the back of his collision with Elizabeth. Following the governess and the ladies, he dived into the gardens, paying no heed to the beauty of green grasses and variegated flowers, including fritillaries and primroses, as he called for his daughter. He could think of nothing but Anne and how convinced she had sounded when she had promised him that Elizabeth would succeed him as a ruler.   

Queen Elizabeth I! The most illustrious monarch who has ever ruled England! She shall usher the country into a Golden Age!

Anne must have gone mad, or she had intended to enrage him. Nonetheless, today, Henry was surprised to discover, for the first time, the peculiar combination of inner strength, bravery, and defiance in his little girl, which pushed her to counter him. Few people in his life had dared speak to him in such a demanding and fierce manner. In the moments of their confrontation, Elizabeth’s face had gleamed with resilience in the laced shadows of the twilight.

Elizabeth did not cry, like other children would have done, Henry noted to himself. His princess was splendid, courageous, and wise by instinct, despite her youth. Anne and Elizabeth would forever hold the focus of his many thoughts, especially in the dead of night. Regardless of Anne’s transgressions, he still viewed their child as a radiant addition to his life. He just needed to ensure that his daughter learned to live without her mother, relying only upon him and Jane.


September 11, 1536, Hatfield House, Hatfield, Hertfordshire, England 

His countenance impatient like that of a sergeant who thinks he should be the general, King Henry grumbled, “What did you interrupt my meeting with Elizabeth, Charles?”   

As they entered the study, the King of England strode to a gilded armchair, decorated with red and blue designs and studded across the top of its back with precious stones. The Duke of Suffolk nervously crossed to the king and bowed to him a bit stiffly.

The ruler seated himself, stretching his legs forward. The room, richly paneled in dark mahogany, pressed on him as though it had a descending ceiling and contracting walls. Now he would have preferred to face any peril instead of remembering his daughter’s condemning eyes, as he had labored to prove to her that her mother had gone away for Elizabeth’s better future.

Charles Brandon shuffled his feet, uncomfortable about the agenda. “Your Majesty, I have received important news from our ambassador to France, Sir Nicholas Wotton. Probably, you will find his letter in your regular correspondence upon our return to London.”

Questions tumbled from the king’s mouth, like pebbles leapfrogging over one another. “What is happening there now? Has François been defeated by Carlos V again? Have the Imperial forces vanquished all the French troops? Has France become Spain’s province?”  

“Nothing of that sort. King François is still at war against the House of Habsburg. And he did something that can help him gain more allies and expel the Spaniards from France.”

Tipping his head back, the ruler chortled. “Fifteen thousand Frenchmen were slaughtered at Arles, and eight thousand at Tours. The emperor made his way to the heart of France. The Duchies of Auvergne, Bourbon, and Berry, as well as Provence and other southern provinces are occupied by the Imperial troops. The emperor’s well-known promise is to spend a good time at François’ palaces in the Loire Valley, and to celebrate his final victory at Fontainebleau.”

“If this can be achieved.” There was a note of doubt in Suffolk’s voice.   

A venomous grin worked its way across the ruler’s face. “François does not have allies, as they have all deserted him. Even Scotland refused to support him, dishonoring the old Auld Alliance. No one can help him!” His grin widening, he jeered, “I support Emperor Carlos in his righteous quest for vengeance against that murderous French libertine.”

“Do you really believe that King François murdered his second wife?”

The king laughed so hard that the echoes were bouncing off each other. “Of course, not. François and Carlos have long been at odds for the Duchy of Milan and Piedmont; their hatred for each other is eternal. Eleanor of Austria’s death of some illness was a premise for invasion.”  

This was what Brandon and others assumed. “They might stop the enemy.”

“I do not believe it is possible at this point.”

“Your French counterpart is going to create the anti-Habsburg coalition, consisting of the Protestant countries and duchies which are part of the Holy Roman Empire. There are also rumors that the Turkish sultan, France’s ally, will assist France in dealing with the Imperial forces.”

Henry crossed his arms over his broad chest. “How can he do that? Who will ally with the loser who can be deprived of his throne in the matter of weeks?”     

Sighing, the Duke of Suffolk assembled the courage to proceed. “King François created the Protestant symbol for this alliance. Lady Anne Boleyn–”  He trailed off abruptly, hesitating, terror encompassing him. “She became the Queen of France.”

A shaken Henry shot to his feet. “What?”

As Brandon repeated everything once more, the King of England commenced pacing the room to and fro. A sense of sheer unreality was the sanest reaction he could have. His emotions were churning, alternating between shock, incredulity, amazement, and even pain, to his surprise. His disbelief was stronger than it would have been if he had been told that François had broken from the Vicar of Rome and forced the whole of France to convert into Protestantism.

Over two months ago, Henry had received the news from Sir Nicholas Wotton that Anne had been granted refuge in France. He had been so furious that he had nearly destroyed his quarters in an outburst of violent rage. In a week, when his mind had cleared, he had realized that it had been an inevitable outcome: Henry himself had evicted Anne from England, so she had had nowhere to go and, hence, retired to the country where she had grown up.     

After the revolt against Anne’s execution, Henry had reluctantly spared her life. But he had resolved to punish her for her abominable deeds in the cruelest way: by separating her from their daughter and downgrading her to an exiled traitor. The king had taken away all that he had bestowed upon her and the Boleyns, including her estates in Pembrokeshire. Only a small pension from the state treasury had been granted to Anne so that she would not die of famine on the continent. Anne’s expulsion from the English society must have been enough to make her a vagabond, hopping a horse and riding from one place to another after being shunned out.

Contrary to the recommendations of the Seymours, the Tudor monarch had not contacted the King of France to file a note of protest. He had been utterly engrossed in his new marriage to Jane. Back then, Henry had thought that the whore’s arrival in France had been a blessing: she had been far away from him and Elizabeth, just as he wished, and he did not care about England’s political relations with France, wishing to establish an Imperial alliance.

Perhaps his inaction had been a folly on his part. There had been persistent rumors that François would take Anne as his mistress, and Henry wondered who had spread them at his court. The mere thought that Anne could be with another man, all the more with his French archrival, caused ire of primeval potency to rush up from the depths of him, like a cauldron of boiling water. Even though he no longer loved the Boleyn harlot, as he had deluded himself into thinking after the discovery of her crimes, Henry did not want her to ever belong to anyone else.

Whatever the ruler’s sentiments towards her, Anne Boleyn had been supposed to be condemned to the hell of misery and loneliness, which was as infinite and black as the moonless canvas. That whore could not be allowed to be happy! She could not marry anyone else, especially not another king! Normally, he was not interested in the personal lives of his discarded mistresses, but Anne’s case was exceptional. In Henry’s perverted mind, she was his or nobody’s.

Some of his initial shock subsiding, Henry snorted, “Our ambassador must be joking. No monarch will ever marry a convicted queen of another.”

His subject insisted, “It is the truth, Your Majesty.”

The ruler paled to the whiteness of marble. “No, it is impossible.”  

“Anne Boleyn is now the consort of King François.”

These words were like a powerful physical blow to Henry’s heart, and even more to his pride and his inflated ego. His shock was so complete that blood froze in his veins, so he stopped in the center of the room. There was a buzzing in his ears, as if he were surrounded by a swarm of angry bees. The king opened his mouth, but his voice failed him, as if his vocal cords had been severed in some accident. He just stood like a statue, trying to process the information.

“No,” tumbled from the lips of a ghostly pale Henry.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty.” The duke attempted to sound apologetic.

“No,” England’s sovereign repeated tonelessly.   

Charles Brandon braced himself against the imminent outburst of the Tudor temper. He decided against enlightening his liege lord about Anne and François’ speech after the ceremony in the presence of many foreign ambassadors. That announcement had been reported by everyone to their masters, becoming a diplomatic sensation in the entirety of Christendom. In the near future, Suffolk would inform Henry about his French counterpart’s promise to demand justice for Anne.

“When did it happen?” The ruler’s tone was ragged with rage.   

“More than three weeks ago, sire.”

Wobbling, King Henry stomped to the window. Towards the horizon, the sun was sinking behind a curious crimson-tinted haze, which gave it the appearance of a dull red disk. Reflexively, he associated the sky’s color with blood – Anne Boleyn’s blood. A breath of wind brushed his cheeks and neck, like the stroke of a sharp sword. I should have ordered the whore’s execution, ignoring the riots in London. It would have been better if she had died in May.   

“The harlot has defied me again.” His voice wavered like a viol’s string.

Charles inquired cautiously, “What should we do now, Your Majesty?”

The ruler was still staring at the darkening firmament. “I do not know.”

Brandon said nothing more on the subject of Anne’s marriage. Inwardly, he was petrified by consternation, as now Anne Boleyn wielded a great power in Europe. Without a shadow of a doubt, she and her new royal husband would move heaven and earth to prove her innocence after the end of the war against the emperor. Given his role in Anne’s downfall, her vengeance could be more dangerous for him than a savage tempest that affected a densely populated area.

Pivoting at a blinding speed, Henry sprinted to the desk. With a violent movement, he cleared the table of everything: of parchments, of quills and state papers, of the sand-glass. They fell to the floor, the sand-glass clattering noisily against the side of the desk.

Looking like the enraged Minotaur, Henry roared, “Anne Boleyn is a vile adulteress who journeyed from bed to bed while I was married to her. I gave her everything, and she betrayed me with those men, who were executed before the uprising in London.” His voice rose to a shriek. “She is a cheap prostitute not worthy of any man, all the more a king! She must die for her crimes!”

Charles strove to improve his liege lord’s mood. “Maybe King François and his troops will be vanquished by the Imperial armies. The Valois throne can become the Habsburg one soon. Then the emperor might establish Inquisition in France and have the heretical harlot burned as a witch. Perhaps the French monarch will not avoid death either.”

Henry’s features twisted in abhorrence. “That would make me the most content man on earth. I would have brought a torch to the whore’s pyre with my own hand.”

“It would be better to wait for the outcome of the Franco-Imperial confrontation.” Suffolk knew when to tread carefully, just as he must act now. Seeing that his sovereign was incensed beyond measure, he did not want England to be dragged into a costly war.

His eyes narrowing like those of a viper, Henry strode to the table, where goblets and two decanters stood. “Anne and François must both suffer!” He threw a goblet towards the door. “I want that harlot dead and buried! She must be burning in hell!”   

The Duke of Suffolk put fuel into the raging fire and, by doing so, reinforced the concept of Anne’s guilt. “The whore betrayed Your Majesty. You broke from Rome to wed her out of love for her, hoping that she would give England a male heir. She not only feigned her affection for you, but also failed to give you a son. Eventually, she utterly betrayed England by marrying the French king. It is a huge pity that she has not received her punishment yet.”

Propelled by the tempestuous turbulence of his berserk fury, the English ruler hurled all of the goblets from the table into the opposite wall. The wine spilled onto the floor, a burgundy pool forming on the carpet. He then toppled the table to the side, screaming in helpless rage as he heard the snap of timber. It seemed that Lyssa, the ancient Greek spirit of mad fury, made him explode into a frenzied rage. Henry threw both decanters towards the door.

“I hate that blasted slut!” Henry grabbed a vase and flung it across the study. “François de Valois and Anne Boleyn will pay for what they did to me!”

Perhaps the ruler would have destroyed the whole chamber, if the door did not open in the next moment. His daughter, Elizabeth, appeared at the doorway, her gaze piercing him.

The girl asked coldly, “Your Majesty, why are you so angry with my mama?”

Henry froze near the window with a vase in his hand, his mouth agape in a bellow that did not come. The name fell from his lips. “Elizabeth…” 

“Your Highness…”  Charles hastened to take the vase from his liege lord.

His shock receding, the monarch approached his daughter. He stretched out his hand and took hers, but Elizabeth withdrew it. Scarcely comprehending what he was doing, Henry seized it again, struck by the icy coldness of the girl’s skin. Elizabeth tried to take it away again, but he pressed it convulsively, as if it were the last effort to prevent her from escaping him.   

“Have a nice evening, sire.” Elizabeth curtsied to him and regally swept out of the room.

In a faint voice colored with despair, the king murmured, “I’ve lost her! All my reputation in her eyes has collapsed and shattered in a mere moment!”

Suffolk did not know what to say. “It will be all right, Henry.”

Henry stared out the window, his entire being pulsating with poignant emotions. The shadow of the tall trees in the garden in the backdrop of the darkened sky was like nature dancing to the tune of darkness to celebrate the victory of gloom in his soul. He prayed that he would patch up his relationship with his daughter, but only a silence of denial reigned around.   

Notes:

I hope that you liked this chapter. Now we know about the King of England’s family life with Queen Jane Seymour, and how they both feel in their marriage. Part of the dialogue between Henry and Jane in the first scene at the beginning of the chapter is taken from Showtimes' The Tudors.

Are you surprised that Henry has a mistress and wants to have a more active sexual life? Lady Anne Basset will have a unique character arc in this AU, and in many chapters (not until chapter 25 at least), she will become a very prominent character.

I hope you like my portrayal of Elizabeth Tudor as a precocious, strong, and extraordinary child. Even now, we can see the qualities of the great Gloriana in this little girl, who is missing her mama. Do you understand why the chapter is called “The Icy Coldness of a Hand”?

The information about the Whitehall Palace is correct. Henry confiscated many of Cardinal Wolsey’s palaces after the man’s fall from his good graces, which attests to his greed.

In Greek mythology, Lyssa (also called Lytta by the Athenians) was the spirit of mad rage, frenzy, and rabies in animals.
Please, leave a review on this chapter. Reviews always encourage an author to update and make them happy! Thank you very much in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 7: Chapter 6: A Bellicose Spirit

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: A Bellicose Spirit

September 20-21, 1536, Château de Chamerolles, near Orléans, Loire Valley, France

“My brave and honorable comrades,” King François addressed the lines of his soldiers. His voice sounded majestic and unyielding, like that of the God Ares. “Our great country has been attacked by two Habsburg barbarians. They accused me of the murder of Queen Eleanor, my second wife, and I swear upon my eternal soul that I did not do this.”

The monarch of France lapsed into silence. The picture before his eyes was monumental: he stood in the middle of the huge military camp pitched near a large Italianate castle. Everything around him was paved with human countenances tinged with reverent awe.

Located in the northern bend of the Loire River, the city of Orléans had been chosen for the central command of the French armies. François and his entourage had departed to Château de Chamerolles, which was located a short ride north-west of the city, soon after his wedding to Anne Boleyn. The Queens of France and Navarre had been left at Fontainebleau to handle the current state affairs and to communicate with the country’s potential Protestant allies.

The ruler continued, “I am not Emperor Carlos and the likes of him. I would never have harmed a royal person! Eleanor died of consumption which had been draining strength out of her throughout many months.” His voice rose to a crescendo of fury that was right beneath the surface. “The emperor concocted a vile story of his sister’s death. He besmirched his own honor and the memory of his sweet sister. Is a good man capable of such a villainy?”

Laced with outrage, this speech produced a wild roar of implacable hatred.  

“The emperor must pay for his crimes against His Majesty!”

“King François is innocent! His foes have trapped him!”

“Our great monarch is too chivalrous to stoop to the emperor’s level!”

“That Spanish dog must burn in hell for attacking France!”

“Our liege lord is the Knight-King! The emperor is the devil!”

François waited until they quietened. “We have endeavored to defend our country.” He dragged a fortifying breath, his features twisted in anguish. “All of our comrades fought courageously at Arles and Tours, but, unfortunately, those battles ended in a fiasco for us.”

A funereal hush fell over the assemblage, the air vibrating with the sound of mourning dirge. The agonizing collective heartache caused tears to spring into many eyes.

“God’s name…” The monarch’s voice broke like a snapped string. Grasping the hilt of his sword, as if he were in the melee of combatants, he squinted around at the men, encountering the same blackness as the one governing his realm. “For that defeat, I’ll forever beg the Lord for mercy upon my soul. As your king, I ask you all to forgive me as well.”

The soldiers shook their heads vigorously, expressing their disagreement with him.

“Your Majesty is not guilty! We were attacked!”

“Our comrades all died heroes’ deaths in those battles.”

“The Habsburgs are responsible for that heinous slaughter.”

“Those Spanish barbarians did not even take prisoners.”

“They wanted bloodshed, so they destroyed everyone.”

“France is bleeding and crying! But our king must live!”  

“God bless and protect our great King François!”

His heart lightening a bit, the ruler brought one palm to his forehead. He felt the gold of the crown under his fingers, and, all of a sudden, it weighted him down, as if his kingship had cast its chains over his limbs and anchored him to the earth. But the screams of his men moved him back into the resistance mode. I have no right to be weak now, he commanded himself.

“My friends!” the king shouted, the light of life reigniting in his amber eyes. “In these dark times for our nation, we all wonder whether we can make a voyage to the peaceful, prosperous future.” He stilled for a split second. “I’ll answer: we shall win the war!”

His uplifting speech was greeted by a burst of cheers, everyone’s faces brightening.  

François pointed heavenward, as if appealing to the Almighty. “Once we were defeated, but we will not drop our weapons. We are not cowards! We shall not surrender to the Imperial enemies just because they want to make us an outpost of Spain. Honor and chivalry are valued by us above all else. We will defend our magnificent heritage from the invaders.”   

As the monarch fell silent, the air exploded with loud shrieks of approval.

“We are not as uncivilized as the Spanish seem to be.”   

“The French are all true knights, just as our king is.”   

“We won the Hundred Years’ War. We shall win this war, too.”

“We love France and our culture! We shall save the nation!”   

The king waved his hand for silence. “God and truth are on our side!” His ebullient voice was something more exquisite than they had ever heard. “We are all the children of our gracious Lord. His will cannot be the destruction of our country, because Jesus Christ wanted peace to reign supreme on earth. We want peace as well, but we have to fight for it.”   

His expression determined and benevolent, King François continued, “We, the French, know that Christ’s teaching abrogated the old saying, ‘An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth’. For us, clemency instead of punishment is our philosophy.” His raised his voice. “We will inflict a crushing defeat on all of the Imperial forces in a fair contest, and we shall try to eschew from violence whenever we can. Let the world see whose nation is more Christian, then.”   

This magnanimous declaration was followed by shouts of concurrence.

The ruler veered his gaze towards the sky that was painted gold and pink by the rising sun. He then averred, “The Lord never gives His children a duty to do without giving them the means to do it, and without providing an assurance that they can cope with it.”

“God bless France and King François!” the soldiers chorused.

The ruler partly echoed their words. “Gracious Lord, bless France and the French people! Help us restore the glory and honor of our great nation! Let your holy will prevail!”

The king’s confident air was reinforced by his belief in his cause. “To counterbalance the Imperial power, we are now creating the anti-Habsburg alliance. Many Catholic and Protestant rulers across Europe condemned the emperor’s actions in France.” He punctuated the moment of importance by a short pause. “We have already signed treaties with the Schmalkaldic League and Sweden. The German Protestant States will fight alongside us against Spain.”

Further improving the morale, the announcement elicited cries of delight.  

Someone asked, “Was that the purpose of Your Majesty’s marriage to Anne Boleyn?”

“Indeed, and that was the right decision,” answered François, as if those were the words of the Creator. “You all believe in your king. Thus, I ask you to trust my judgment and to be deferential to your queen. Our success depends on the rate of our progress towards the bigger and stronger anti-Habsburg coalition. My union with the Queen Anne serves this purpose.”

“What about the church?” a bold youth questioned.

The royal answer pleased everyone. “France has always been and will remain a Catholic country. Queen Anne shall work tirelessly for the benefit of the realm, and her retention of her faith is not an obstacle to our aims.” Avoiding any further conversation on this sensitive subject, he moved the discourse to the end. “We all believe in the same God – Jesus Christ. We all have the same goal – to crush the enemy and to keep France as an independent country.”

A sonorous roar of consensus reverberated through the air like a morning bell.

“We shall triumph over all of our enemies!”

“The Spanish will burn for their transgressions!”

“God help us save France from the invaders!”

“The truth is with us, and we shall win!”

A satisfied François grinned. Even though he would have preferred to hear his men hail both Anne and him, he realized that it was too early to expect that from them.  

Smiling at his subjects cordially, the French monarch gestured towards the Marshal of France, signaling that it was high time to leave. The crowd parted to let them through, and the king strutted to the exit from the camp, followed by his councilors.

Outside, the ruler and his entourage paused on the road overlooking the river. As always, the Scots guard remained vigilant nearby to protect their sovereign.

“Where is the emperor now?” inquired François, his voice devoid of emotion.  

Anne de Montmorency shared some bits of intelligence. “Your Majesty’s mortal foe has laid dormant in the past weeks. He has been seen in Sancerre, Berry, and the Loire Valley.”

“It is the lull before the storm,” Claude d’Annebault opined.

“I do not like their tactic,” interjected Cardinal de Tournon. “He and his brother – both are spawns of the devil – must be plotting something.”

“They might entrap us again,” François uttered imperturbably.

“Yes,” chorused his councilors. Philippe de Chabot was still not with them, for his wound was too serious, and the royal physician said that he needed several months to recover.

The king quizzed, “How many new men have you recruited?”

Montmorency’s expression was enlivened with a smile. “At present, the whole nation is united against the Imperial adversary. More than twenty thousand able-bodied men have arrived only in Orléans in the past month. The Bellay brothers reported to me that they had recruited more than fifteen thousand in the north of France. These soldiers are being trained now.”

“Good.” The ruler’s shoulders sagged in relief. “It is unclear when the Habsburg forces will launch another assault. We need more time to train our new troops. As we no longer have our southern army while our eastern forces were significantly weakened, our northern troops will not be enough to resist them. It is vitally important to postpone the final confrontation as much as we can, even though it is terrible to have the south of France occupied by the enemy.”

Annebault interposed, “The Protestant allies shall send more soldiers soon. For example, Landgrave Philip of Hesse promised to give us their armies by the end of September.”

François let out a wan smile. “Excellent! What about the Turks?”

Tournon said, “We are awaiting the news from our envoys.”

“Let’s return to the castle,” instructed the king. “I must write to my sister and wife.”

King François swung onto his stallion, caparisoned in white damask down to the ground. He had adopted the color white as the symbol of France’s victory over the invaders. His departure was accompanied by jocund strains from psaltery and blasts from the trumpets.

Surrounded by his loyal guards, the sovereign of France and his advisors all galloped across the field towards the local bailiff’s residence, where they were staying at the moment.

§§§

“François, François, François,” a sulky female voice said like a mantra. The emerald eyes contemplated the sun’s ascendance in the firmament. “I must talk to him.”

An extravagant litter, draped in cloth of gold, passed through the ally of oaks and maples. It contained the infamous Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly, Duchess d’Étampes, the ruler’s second long-term maîtresse-en-titre, and her sister, Péronne de Pisseleu. Over the litter, was borne a canopy of cloth of gold, which was ornamented at the corners with golden bells, ringing forth a convivial tune as it moved along. Each staff was carried by ten knights in Valois livery.

Murmurings arose from the camp all around. The appearance of such a grand litter, which obviously belonged to a high-ranked noble, attracted the attention of officers and soldiers.  

The Duchess d’Étampes wrung her hands in agony. “When that Boleyn creature came to Fontainebleau, I should have expected that she would be dangerous.”   

The mistress had been in a foul mood since learning about the king’s third marriage. The English Anne had already become her mortal enemy, her emotions spinning out of control.

Péronne sighed. “Our sovereign’s new marriage does not affect your status, sister. You ought to accept Anne Boleyn as our queen and respect her at least in the king’s presence.”  

Anne’s nostrils flared, and her lips pouted. “How can I acknowledge that strumpet, who was convicted of adultery and treason, and then exiled from England, as François’ wife?!”

Péronne rolled her eyes. “In rage, you have become irrational. We are both of a noble birth, but our parents come from minor seigneurs. Out of his affection for you, the king married you off to that dull man, Jean de Brosse, to elevate you to Duchess d’Étampes.”

“Do not remind me of my husband. I hate him, and he loathes me.”     

“Aye, that he does,” Péronne said. “You have been a royal mistress for years. Anne Boleyn was King Henry’s anointed queen. Now she is the Queen of France, while you are not.”

Her sister scowled. “Why are you being so cruel to me?”

“I’m trying to reason with you. The other Anne is the king’s wife!”

Despair mingled with fright billowed through the royal paramour. “Péronne, how can I be calm when that Boleyn slut is François’ spouse? That woman, not anyone else!”

The four white palfreys, caparisoned in white damask, drew the litter into the courtyard.

Anne recalled, “François took me to Calais when he met there with King Henry.”

“So, you know how this notorious woman looks like.”

The duchess assessed her rival. “Though not conventionally beautiful, Anne Boleyn is an enchanting temptress. Her dark loveliness is like the red rose in the garden of the white ones. Having grown up at the French court, she is one of the most educated women in Christendom. When she glides across the room, everyone stares at her in rapture, for she is uninhibited, nicely groomed, graceful, and exotic, fascinating men as easily as one breathes.”

“I do not understand where you are going with this.”

The royal mistress summarized, “That Boleyn woman poses a threat to my happy future with my François. She is exactly the type he is attracted to.”

Péronne bit her bottom lip. “Ah, I see why you are so worried, then.”

The litter stopped beside the palace’s rear. The two pages in white and blue satin, who escorted them together with the driver, aided the Pisseleu sisters to climb out.

As soon as her feet stepped onto the ground, Anne rushed towards the entrance to the castle, like a gust of wind. Shaking her head in disapproval, Péronne followed her sister.

The Duchess d’Étampes paused on the front steps. She had never been in this château; the king’s nomadic court hadn’t come here before. With four levels and an imposing gatehouse on the east side, the castle formed a quadrilateral with a large cylindrical tower at each corner. The architectural ensemble was surrounded by moats, as if they had come to a besieged fortress.

“My François,” Anne de Pisseleu whispered. “I’ll help him relax.”

Galvanized into action by these pleasing thoughts, she climbed the steps and ran inside. In the great hall, she stumbled into Anne de Montmorency, who furrowed his brows at her.

The duchess jeered, “Monsieur de Montmorency! You have fought so many wars that you have forgotten it is a man’s duty to treat a lady with respect instead of bumping into her.”    

“Oh?” Montmorency arched a brow. “Where do you see a lady here? Only a whore!”

Snickering at her, the Marshal of France strode away. He despised that woman since the day she had caught his liege lord’s eye, and she reciprocated his animosity. Montmorency was a devout Catholic, while the duchess was at the center of the Protestant-sympathetic faction at the French court. The differences in their religion further intensified their hostility. He preferred Anne Boleyn to Anne de Pisseleu, despite the queen’s role in the English church reform.

The duchess hissed, “One day, I’ll destroy you, Monty.”

In the next moment, Seigneur Gaspard de Chamerolles, who was Bailiff of Orléans and the castle owner, appeared to greet the guests. Bowing to her, he blinked in uncertainty, but as the king’s mistress introduced herself in that arrogant manner of hers, he realized her importance. In a few minutes, she was lodged in one of the most luxurious apartments here.  

§§§

Much to her chagrin, the Duchess d’Étampes was admitted to the King of France only at sundown. After settling in her quarters, she had barged into his rooms, but she had not found him there. Her royal lover had spent the whole day with his soldiers and Protestant ambassadors.  

To fend off the dark, candles were lit in the presence chamber. During the king’s stay at the château, the previously dull appearance of the room was made stunning, the walls being hung with arras which represented the life of the legendary Charlemagne. The massive carved throne stood in the center upon a carpet, emblazoned with the face of the Goddess Athena.  

“Anne,” beckoned the French monarch.  

Holding her head high, Anne de Pisseleu crossed to the king’s throne, her posture elegant and tinged with innate sensuality. Her gait was slow and measured, like that of royalty.

François watched his mistress sink into a deep curtsey, her graceful movements like those of an adroit feline. Anne Boleyn’s curtsey is more enchanting than Anne de Pisseleu’s, although they both have exquisitely refined manners. In the twinkling of an eye, the dart of perplexity hit him as he wondered why he compared these two women.

To her surprise, her lover did not stand up from the throne to hug her. “Rise, Madame. Such a lovely lady should not be at the feet of a man, even if he is a king.”

The duchess scrutinized him. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his pallor accentuated the lack of buoyancy which usually characterized François. Today, his simple attire was a blending of pastel shades: mauve brocade doublet slashed with lavender silk from top to the bottom of sleeves, hose of the same fabric, and toque of mauve velvet ornamented with gems.

“Your Majesty looks tired,” she observed.

His sigh seemed heavier than the load of all his burdens. “I’ve been extremely busy as of late. Life will become more troublesome as the emperor’s troops are nearing Orléans.”

Anne de Pisseleu was genuinely worried about the monarch and, of course, about France’s future. Like all the French, she hated the Habsburgs with every fibre of her being. She wished François to triumph over all of his foes so that the ruler could make the grand entrée into Paris with her at his side. Visions of how they together would ride on white horses to the Palais de Louvre amid flourishes of trumpets and acclamations whirled in her head, like a heady wind.

Most of all, the duchess craved being the only woman in François’ life who would share the future grandiose victory with him. However, her lover had wed another woman to win the confrontation with Spain, so she now was a prey to the persistent alarm. The mistress dreamed of merrymaking and feasting at the extravagant French court, of sleeping in the king’s strong arms after their fervid lovemaking, bacchic just as that of the God Dionysus and his wife, Ariadne.

François is the best and most handsome man I’ve ever been with, the Pisseleu harlot mused. She would ardently have accepted him into her sheath right now. Unbeknownst to him, she had several more lovers, one of them being his favored advisor. Yet, François occupied a special spot in her fickle heart: she fancied herself in love with him. She was haughtily proud of her own alluring charms which had produced such a salacious effect upon him.

Anne’s countenance transformed into concern. “If only I could assist you, François!”

He stretched his long legs further out. “Why have you come here?”

“I’ve missed you so much,” she breathed.

“I see.” It puzzled him that he had spared her little thought in the past months.

At his dry response, her temper spiraled high – a miscalculation on her part. “Why did you marry that woman without asking my opinion on the matter?”

For a handful of heartbeats, King François contemplated his paramour in annoyance. The willing amorous nymph, who usually elated his mood like few other things could, had vanished to leave in her wake this sharp-tongued and presumptuous virago. Whatever remnants of his famed chivalry and courtesy he might have felt disappeared after what she had just said.

His arctic gaze pierced her to the core. “Am I the King of France or your subject?”

The intemperate and spoiled Anne de Pisseleu met his challenge head on. “François, we have long become almost husband and wife. But you wed that witch, who slept with your rival.”   

The slur against his wife angered him. “Madame d’Étampes, do I have to teach you a hard lesson to make you respect my decisions and Queen Anne of France?”   

She burst out, “François, mon amour! This woman is using you! She bewitched you into marrying you, because she yearned to be a queen again!”

A man of mellow temper, François was now enraged. “How dare you slander my wife? Like others, you must understand that Anne Boleyn is innocent of all the charges leveled against her.” He stilled for a moment before saying acidly, “My queen is a more decent woman than you have ever been. At least, she has been only with her two husbands – Henry and me. You were not a virgin when I took you to bed on your seventeenth birthday.”

Anne de Pisseleu realized that she had crossed a line. “I’m sorry, François.”

He shifted in his seat. “You should not have said those things.”

“I’m sorry,” she reiterated. “I fear to lose you, my king.”

The ruler ordered, “Anne de Valois – this is her name now – is my queen, and I shall not repudiate her. You must always pay her all the honors befitting her highest station.”   

The Duchess d’Étampes swallowed a lump. “I understand, Your Majesty.”

I’ve never seen this side to her before, the king remarked. At the present moment, Anne de Pisseleu was not that young, intelligent, and sweet woman who had captivated him years ago. Her continuous attempts to manipulate him had long commenced grating on his nerves. Now the capricious and no-holds-barred facets of her character were revealed to him.

Finally, François stood up. If there were not so much discomfiture on his part, he might have questioned her acceptance of his instructions. “This time, you are forgiven.”

Schooling her features into devilish sweetness, Anne de Pisseleu closed the gap between them. Tears shining in her eyes, she embraced him and put her head onto his chest. As he had never been able to watch a woman cry, François closed his arms around her waist.  

“You sent me away from court to wed her. Why did you act so callously?”

Immediately, he extricated himself from her grasp. “Predicting your reaction in advance, I strove to avoid a quarrel with you. Moreover, I’ve been too focused on the formation of the anti-Habsburg alliance since my sister suggested this great idea to me.”

The duchess disliked the king’s sister a lot, although they both were interested in new religious teachings. “So, Queen Marguerite arranged this marriage for you.”  

“Sort of.” He stepped aside, as if wishing to put a distance between them.

“May I stay with you, my beloved sovereign?”

“I would prefer that you leave. But if your mind is firm, you can be here.”

“It is!” Anne flashed a provocative smile. “My François! Mon amour!”   

François walked over to an oak cabinet at the far end of the room, leaning against it.

He viewed his paramour. A tall, slender woman of fair complexion, her gaze now shining with untrammeled desire for him, Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly exuded a powerful blend of feminity and sensuality. Her classically beautiful features were so perfect, her alabaster skin so smooth and glowing, her breasts, stressed by her indecent décolletage, so ample, and the aura of the Goddess Venus, which radiated from her, transformed her into a vision, a dream too enchanting to last. Her emerald eyes gleamed with the sultry promise of carnal pleasures.

Anne’s magnificent gown of crimson brocade, worked with gold, had a low, square-cut neckline and long, open, pendent sleeves. Her stomacher of white velvet, twisted with threads of Venetian gold, glittered with rubies, sapphires, topazes, and emeralds. Her glossy, blonde hair cascaded down her back from beneath a headdress of goldsmith’s work, which was encrusted with rubies and diamonds. From her neck, dangled a necklace of oval-cut and massive diamonds, which was part of the Crown Jewels and which she wore with his permission.

The Duchess d’Étampes was one of the most fabulous women in France. Being talented in the art of physical love, she had held the amorous monarch captive for years. Neglecting his unwanted wife, Eleanor of Austria, François had let his maîtresse-en-titre wield such power that no royal courtesan possessed in Europe, although she failed to manipulate him in most cases.

She effused, “I love you so much, François!”

“That remains to be seen,” he teased, his smile listless.

Anne de Pisseleu impetuously darted to François and tiptoed, snaking her arms around his neck. Her hand raking through his chestnut locks, she sealed her mouth to his.

The Pisseleu’s erotic conjurations roused all of the monarch’s sensual rapacity. François pushed her back to a table, and the duchess obeyed him, at the same time experiencing a devilish satisfaction at this testimony to her superior power over his male needs. He reached down and shoved her skirts up to her waist, hastily removing her undergarments. Her expert hands were so dexterous that Anne finished unlacing his hose within several blinks of an eye.

Now François typified the god Pan, the master of the wild fields, groves, and glens, who was depicted by the Greeks with an erect phallus. She arched her hips towards him and let a moan rumble in her throat, spreading her legs wide and inviting him in. With a lascivious smirk, Anne beckoned him to herself, and he embedded himself into her in one hard, forceful thrust. He drove into her over and over again, building a furious rhythm of plunder and somehow ending up pressed against the wall. Every time she tightened her sheath around his shaft, the king moaned, and she laughed like the Roman Messalina giving herself to one of her countless lovers.

An utterly aroused Anne crushed her lips into his. For a while, their bodies wriggled and writhed in a mechanical, vehement rite, almost grotesque for old lovers such as themselves. The prurient rhythms of the ruler’s pulsating flesh demanded that he deliver his harlot to the Pan’s homeland in rustic Arcadia so that they could celebrate the culmination in an unspoiled wilderness. Gulping breaths and groaning, he swelled even more, throbbing and burning until he thrust long and deep into her before they both dissolved in an ocean of unalloyed carnal bliss.

His mistress nested her head against his chest. “François …”

Opening his eyes and encountering two emerald caverns, the king frowned as he beheld the marshy swampland with stagnant water. His entire personal life stretched in front of him, barren of love and full of numerous lusts, which he was clinging to with ferocity for years.

I’ve been slogging through the green swampland of Anne de Pisseleu’s eyes for so long, the ground where she steps sucking at my feet, François realized. Physical aroma wafted from this smart and wanton creature, tying his body to hers, though not to his soul. For so long, their feverish lovemaking had usually been followed by intellectual discourses and many merry days in a row, but today the moments after their coupling were sour-mouthed and nauseated him.

A mangled groan erupted out of his throat. “We should not have done that.”

Her eyes widened fractionally. “Why?” Her lips curled in a grin. “I only regret that you didn’t take me in natural settings, in a cave or a grotto, just as Pan slept with nymphs.”

Pushing her back, he adjusted his hose. “I wish to be alone.”

She rearranged her skirts. “But I crave to be with you again!”

Lust had evaporated from his loins. “Do not annoy me, Anne. I’ve always been kind to you. But if you ever disparage my wife again, you will lose my favor.”

The Duchess d’Étampes retorted meekly, “I’ll do what you want. That I promise you.”

The amber eyes turned affable. “Go to your apartments. We will talk later.”

“As Your Majesty commands.” Bobbing a curtsey, she backed away to the exit.

After she had vacated the room, François was conscious of guilt at the thought of hurting his mistress. Relationships were rarely unselfish, so he had not evicted Anne de Pisseleu for her lapse of manners. His life would evolve into a dry, desolate desert without ladies, while his English spouse would probably never become his secret oasis. Part of him still hoped that the duchess could become his cool waterfall, but this illusion was evaporating, like mist in summer.

These feelings were superseded by the contrition that he had copulated with Anne de Pisseleu. An axe of guilt stabbed François in the stomach: he had just broken his marital vows, smearing his marriage to Anne Boleyn with the grime of his infidelity. That was a new sensation for him: throughout his matrimonial life with Eleanor of Austria and even with the almost ideal Claude of France, he had committed adulteries without compunction, sometimes in a scandalous manner. Anne, my wife…. Forgive me for what I’ve just committed, the puzzled king mused.     

§§§

François de Valois was awoken by the sounds of loud screams and the hurried march of footsteps in the corridor. Apparently, a frenzied commotion was escalating outside.

“Again the Habsburgs?” His mind raced in the cool way, like a commander’s.   

Pushing aside the silk sheets, the monarch scrambled out of bed, and made his way to the window. The firmament was brightening in the east, heralding dawn. The courtyard was swarmed with dark forms, moving stealthily towards others, whirling in the internecine dance of mortality. Even from his bedchamber, he could hear the muffled cries of the wounded and dying.

The door flung open, and Anne de Montmorency rushed in. “We are under attack!”

A thoughtful François swiveled to face him. “They planned it beforehand.”

“Your Majesty, you must sneak out of the palace!”   

“Never!” The ruler struggled into his garments in haste. “We fled from Arles because the situation was critical. But here we will make our last stand here, if necessary.”

His subject would not persuade him otherwise. “I’ll protect you, then.”

“My burgonet!” demanded the king. “It originally belonged to my father.”

His groom delivered the crowned burgonet studded with carbuncles and King François’ emblem – a salamander. It had been commissioned by the king after his return from Madrid.  

François donned the helmet. “If they want to kill the king, they can easily find me.”

“Oh, Your Majesty…” Montmorency heaved a sigh. His sovereign’s foolhardiness was both admirable and reckless, so his generals were always on high alert to keep him alive.

“The ruler drew on his gauntlets. “Fortune favors the brave.”  

In a few minutes, the monarch and his subject strode through the hallways.

Clad in his fancy golden armor, King François embodied the most extravagant Christian knight. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, which was studded with rubies and the salamander. A poniard hung at his waist, the scabbard encrusted with the salamander as well.

In the great hall, Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly ran towards her royal lover. “Your Majesty, are you all right? What should I do? How can I aid you?”

He stopped beside her. “Anne, return to your rooms. If the situation worsens, we will evacuate you.” Then he and Montmorency spun on their heels and exited.  

Outside, a bloody gale blew the ruler and the marshal into the scrimmage.   

Pulling his sword, François exhorted, “Crush the Imperial ruffians in the name of God!”

His cry was repeated by the French, encountering their opponents in the lethal cascade of steel and bone. Exacerbated by their recent losses, their temper broke the grip of their traditional chivalry, paving the way to the fiendish mutilation of their foe. Bloodlust seized them like the claws of a ravening beast, torrents of crimson liquid fire gushing everywhere around.

The king charged into battle like a warrior possessed by a bellicose spirit. Wielding his sword in one hand and brandishing his poniard in the other, he dissolved into the bleeding and screaming chaos. The insane abhorrence towards the emperor, the hatred towards the Spaniards, and the doom they could face tonight – everything fused in the heat of his righteous wrath. The ruler cut the threads of countless lives, his weapon arcing in dark, sweeping blows.

“To the gate!” Claude d’Annebault bellowed as he stabbed a Spaniard in the torso. “All arms to the gate!” He spun around like a whirl, blocking and parrying.

“Repel the invaders!” The monarch’s poniard bisected someone’s abdomen.

The monarch’s voice rang out loud and clear across the courtyard. More warriors, some still sleepy, stormed out of the château and nearby buildings, drawing their weapons and strapping on armor. The battle raged ferociously, and the French artillery was firing incessantly.   

Above the human mass, the canvas exploded with hues of scarlet and gold. The rising sun transformed into an oriflamme of indescribable, yet lethal, gorgeousness that presaged ruin.

The Valois king morphed into an incensed Zeus battling against the Titans for the Mount Olympus. “Send someone to the camp! We need our men’s aid!”   

“Done, my liege!” Staying in his sovereign’s close vicinity, Cardinal de Tournon skewed the man, who labored to slain François, through the side. “They must appear soon.”   

Someone shouted in Spanish, “The King of France! Kill him!”

François howled with laughter, as though it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. “My Imperial friends, take me alive or murder me, if you can!” He slashed in a horizontal cut.

“Protect His Majesty!” Montmorency’s blade pierced his rival’s heart.  

Gifting a fatal blow to his opponent, Annebault paused for a fraction of a second, as he eyed the carnage. “Those fucking Habsburgs have performed a sneak attack at night.”

“For France!” The ruler’s sword was carving its bloody path.

The warriors repeated his rallying cry, “For France!”

Led by Annebault, a French squad took the battlements. Corpses, some smashed beyond recognition, spread around like a crimson carpet, oozing with the mingled blood of the dead and wounded. At Montmorency’s command, a train of artillery fired at the enemy again.

“That man!” yelled a Spanish knight who was dangerously close to the king. “He wears the burgonet with salamanders! He is King François! Destroy that Valois dog!”   

“Die, you scoundrel.” Anne de Montmorency impaled the instigator.   

The universe narrowed to two goals: to defend the king and to overpower the attackers. The gates were opened by an attack, as more of the Imperial men pressed the French into the courtyard, only to have a division of shield-bearing French warriors crash into them.

Montmorency apprised, “Our men from the camp have arrived!”

The French troops were finally here, pouring into the courtyard in a torrent. The two parties came close together, then retreated and engaged again, their swords colliding and scraping together with the violence of their mutual aversion. The Spaniards could not withstand the onslaught of the French, who were in the better condition compared to their opponents.

The King of France fought at the heart of the conflict. “We are winning!”

The sun’s glow illuminated the towers of the castle as the French welcomed the daylight and victory. Suddenly, warriors, bearing the standard of Philip I, Landgrave of Hesse known as the Magnanimous, entered through the gate. Among them there was a lady, wearing beautiful shining armor inlaid with silver filigree, her figure shining like a beacon of truth. Next to her, stood a knight of average height with manacled hands, the visor of his armet flipped down.

Sizzling heat rushing up through his essence, François froze as his opponent tumbled to the ground. “Anne,” he whispered, his lips stretching in a grin. “Anne!”

Someone announced, “Queen Anne has brought the German forces!”

Veering his gaze to his marshal, François urged, “Monty, safeguard my wife.”

His friend nodded. “I shall! Just be careful, my liege.”

Silhouetted against the red halo of dawn, the queen and Montmorency huddled together. He defended her from all perils, as the French and German knights charged at the Imperial men.

Soon most of the invaders had been vanquished. Those who remained alive were goaded into the ferocious resistance in the face of their impending doom. At the sight of the prisoner who stood beside Anne, the Spanish soldiers raced through the melee towards him, as if saving him was the matter of life and death. However, they were encased in a thunderous cascade of artillery and musketry fire, waves of their pitiful moans rolling over the area.

As cannonades proclaimed the French triumph, the fighting died out. For a skirmish, the carnage was so unthinkable that the battlefield looked like some scene on a tapestry of Crusades.

Sheathing his weapons, King François approached his wife and removed his burgonet. In a voice dripping in amazement, he enquired, “Although it is amusing to see you in armor, Anne, I wonder what you are doing here. You must be with my sister at Fontainebleau.”

Her countenance expressing her haughty pride, Anne answered, “Your Majesty should not be angry at the two women who have done everything in their power to help you.” Gesturing towards the unknown warrior, she proclaimed, “This is His Highness Ferdinand von Habsburg.”

The amber eyes widened. “What?”

Montmorency sniggered. “At first, I could not believe that, but it is true.”   

Philip I, Landgrave of Hesse, bowed to the ruler of France, who swept a bow in response. François was startled to see the key leader of the Schmalkaldic League in front of him.

Her countenance expressing her haughty pride, Anne answered, “Your Majesty should not be angry at the two women who have done everything in their power to help you.” Gesturing towards the unknown warrior, she proclaimed, “This is His Majesty Ferdinand von Habsburg, Archduke of Austria and King of Bohemia, Hungary, and Croatia.” 

The amber eyes widened. “What?” 

Montmorency sniggered. “At first, I could not believe that, but it is true.”  

Philip I, Landgrave of Hesse, bowed to the ruler of France, who swept a bow in response. François was startled to see the key leader of the Schmalkaldic League in front of him. 

“Your Majesty,” Philip addressed the Valois monarch. He spoke in French, his accent heavy. “I’ve led my army from Hesse and my other lands to assist you in punishing the Spanish Catholic invaders. When we arrived at Fontainebleau, your sister, the esteemed Queen of Navarre, offered us to join you near Orléans. Your queen accompanied us on the way here.” 

“Thank you.” Pointing at the prisoner, the king asked, “How did you catch him?” 

Anne surveyed her husband, unaccustomed to seeing him encumbered with armor. François winked at her, conveying that it was unusual to see such a belligerent lady. 

The queen explained, “The emperor’s brother perpetrated the attack on the castle. When his plan was foiled, he attempted to escape, but we intercepted him in the central alley.” 

“I know him well.” The Landgrave of Hesse gestured towards the captive. 

François stepped to his mortal foe’s younger brother. Switching into accented Spanish, he pronounced, “Your Majesty, welcome to France! You must feel that your dignity has been compromised because you are now standing in front of us – your enemies. However, it is your fault, and you must also blame Carlos for your current predicament. As your stay in our country will be a long one, you will have the chance to learn the famous French etiquette and courtesy.” 

After a moment’s dithering, Ferdinand flicked up his visor to reveal pale blue eyes full of impotent fury and scorn. “I yield,” he ground out in Spanish. 

“Take him away,” ordered François. “Treat him with the respect befitting his station.”  

After the notable prisoner had been led away, the king stared into two dark pools. Anne… How natural it is to call her my wife…  She has arrived like a general on the parade. He was used to desire women, but his stirring emotions towards his spouse had an exotic quality, as if looking at her was the piquant experience of seeing a rare treasure from the Orient. François wondered what future held for him and his new spouse who had quite a strange effect on him. 

§§§

Montmorency escorted King Ferdinand, guarded by fifteen knights, to quarters in one of the château’s towers. Montmorency opened the door, letting the prisoner enter, and followed him. Then the lock clicked as the door was closed, and ten sentinels stood outside the rooms.

“Your Majesty,” began Montmorency in highly accented Spanish. “I hope that you will find everything to your convenience. If you want something, you just need to ask.”

Ferdinand took off his helmet. As he tossed his brown-haired head, a few locks fell onto his eyes, and he tucked his hair behind his ears. He answered in accented, yet flawless, French in a jeering manner, “How very generous of you, Monsieur de Montmorency, I suppose?”

Montmorency scrutinized the prisoner with interest. Although he had met Carlos V during François’ Italian campaigns and their Spanish captivity, he had never seen Ferdinand before. The emperor’s younger brother remained in the shadow of Carlos. Nevertheless, Ferdinand was an important European monarch, being Carlos’ closest ally, King of the Romans, and governor of the Austrian lands in his brother’s name, as well as King of Bohemia, Croatia, and Hungary.

I wonder how much Ferdinand resembles his grandfather, Montmorency mused as he held the captive’s penetrative gaze. This man shares his customs, culture, name, and even his birthday with Ferdinand of Aragon. Although his expression was combative at this moment, the prisoner was a handsome and still young man, tall and athletic, though shorter than François. Ferdinand’s swarthy complexion, set off by pale blue eyes, somewhat reminded the Valois dour one.

Ferdinand guessed, “Trying to understand how similar I am to my illustrious grandfather?”

Montmorency hid his surprise at the guest’s astuteness with a sour smile. “Your Bohemian and Hungarian Majesty speaks our language rather well. You will have a lot of time to improve your French, perhaps even get rid of that unpleasant Spanish accent.”

Ferdinand added arrogantly, “You should have said ‘Your Croatian Majesty’ too.”

“Ah, I beg your pardon.” Montmorency sketched a mocking bow. “Of course.”

“Contact the emperor,” Ferdinand advised in a demanding tone. “My brother will pay any ransom for me.” There was not a shadow of a doubt in his voice.

“I would not be so sure of the emperor’s generosity. You overestimate it.”

The King of Hungary claimed, “Carlos will have me freed. He will defeat you.”

This wiped out Montmorency’s neutral demeanor. “You will all be expelled, just as those wretched Englishmen were over a century ago. That demon Carlos will be crushed.”  

Ferdinand insisted, “Carlos is a great military commander.”

Montmorency narrowed his eyes. “Your Majesty will rot in France for long, perhaps for the rest of your life. But you will be treated well. We are not barbarians like Spaniards.”

“You are all frivolous satyrs playing the most cultured court in Europe.” Ferdinand was interested in French culture, but his animosity towards his adversaries spoke for him.

Montmorency spat, “One day, you might regret your fealty to your brother.”

Ferdinand’s eyes flashed. “Carlos will triumph over you, and you will regret your words. We are from the Houses of Trastámara and Habsburg – we don’t bow to anyone.”

“The Valois do not bow to anyone either,” fired the French marshal. His eyes traversed the prisoner’s form. “You will be given necessary garments, rich but designed in French fashions.”

Casting a disgusted glance at him, Montmorency bowed and exited. The lock clacked as the door was shut, and the footsteps outside signaled that the sentries took their positions before the chamber. The King of France’s order was to guard Ferdinand with impeccable strictness.

“Damn!” roared Ferdinand in Spanish, a wave of helpless rage slashing through him.

Ferdinand examined his surroundings. A stone fireplace took up a large portion of one wall. Flemish tapestries, depicting landscapes of Brussels familiar to him, adorned the walls. Luxurious carpets in jeweled tones of sapphire and burgundy covered the polished wooden floor. Pieces of furniture, elegant in rich woods and green silks, were scattered haphazardly about the room. In the distant corner, a large bed with the headboard carved with the Valois heraldry stood.

“Damn,” repeated Ferdinand, this time in German. He spoke many languages.

He crossed to a window. Ferdinand threw the shutters open and looked out into the darkness. He was confined to the highest tower room so that he could not try to escape.  

Ferdinand dragged an agonizing breath, his mind racing. Carlos, whose camp was not far from this place, had sent his brother with a thousand men on this mission – to make an assault on the château where the King of France resided and capture ‘that Valois miscreant and parvenu’, as Carlos called his nemesis. The Habsburg siblings had thought that they would catch the French unawares, which would let them emerge victorious quickly, but they had been mistaken.

I’ve always been loyal to Carlos, Ferdinand thought. I’ve never disobeyed him. My brother will swiftly lead his armies to Chamerolles and have me liberated. Yet, the ease with which the French had defeated the small Imperial army astonished Ferdinand. The Habsburg brothers had won the Battles of Arles and of Tours without great difficulty, but the French had just not been prepared for the invasion. At present, the adversary seemed to be stronger and fiercer. 

The emperor’s brother had not been fond of the idea to invade France from the very beginning. Part of Ferdinand had doubted their success, given the results of One Hundred Years’ War, and this feeling was gnawing at him. He had voiced his opinion, but the emperor was adamant about subjugating France and the House of Valois. Ferdinand had had to comply.  

Extreme fatigue was taking its toll on him, tinged with anger with himself and even Carlos for his capture. An overwrought Ferdinand walked over to a chair and tumbled into it. He put his helmet on the floor and discarded his armor, remaining only in his leather vest, shirt, and hose. His sword and dagger had already been taken from him by Montmorency’s men.

Cousin Ferdinand, please try to convince Carlos against invading France. This ill-fated adventure might result in nothing good for Spain and the Habsburg domains. There are important lessons from history that Carlos is not taking into account: has anyone ever been able to conquer France, even if they accomplished temporary successes? The Valois realm is economically powerful, and the French treasure their freedom.

The words of Empress Isabella, his brother’s wife, rang in Ferdinand’s head, overpowering in their colossal force. Isabella, who had always supported her beloved Carlos in all his endeavors, had objected to their escapades in France. Yet, even she, who had a considerable influence over Carlos, failed to curb his lust for power. Although Ferdinand had seen Isabella only several times as he lived in Austria since the 1520s, they frequently corresponded.

“Perhaps Isabella was right,” muttered Ferdinand, wiping sweat from his forehead.

Tonight I met King François and Queen Anne, he recalled with amazement. Grudgingly, the prisoner admitted that the Valois ruler’s prowess with weapons had impressed him, and so had done the enemy queen’s bravery. Most of all, now Ferdinand dreamed of going back to Vienna and Prague where his wife, Anna of Bohemia, lived with their many children. He also prayed that the Turks had not taken advantage of his absence and had not attacked his lands.

Notes:

I hope you liked this chapter. Please leave a review and let me know what you think!

Now we know what François is doing to counter the Imperial aggression, although he is not going to do this with an equal aggression of his own, as he said to his men. In this AU, François is not portrayed as an ideal king and man, but his chivalrous nature will be fully revealed in later chapters. Do not forget that he was called the Knight-King due to his personal participation in battles and due to the code of chivalry, which he accepted for himself and which he extolled throughout his life.

Just as I warned you, the Valois monarch is not planning to discard his mistresses any time soon, and in this chapter, Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly made her first appearance. As you can deduce, she is not happy with her royal lover’s wedding to Anne Boleyn, whom she considers her rival and enemy. It is easy to notice that François is tied to her mostly by the bonds of physical lust.

In ancient Greek mythology, Pan is the god of the wild, shepherds, and flocks, nature of mountain wilds, rustic music, and impromptus, as well as companion of the nymphs. The worship of Pan began in Arcadia which was always the principal seat of his worship; Arcadia was a district of mountain people, culturally separated from other ancient Greeks.

The information about Château de Chamerolles is historically correct. In history, Seigneur Gaspard de Chamerolles was indeed Bailiff of Orléans and the castle owner.

Burgonet was a close-fitting 16th century helmet with cheek guards; it was the successor of the sallet. Armet was a late and perfected medieval helmet of many light parts closing neatly round the head by means of hinges following the contour of chin and neck. Armet was extensively used in Italy, France, England, the Low Countries and Spain, while burgonet was mostly used in France.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 8: Chapter 7: On the Brink of Changes

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: On the Brink of Changes

October 5, 1536, Château de Chamerolles, near Orléans, Loire Valley, France

“Your dearest Majesty,” began Anne de Pisseleu.  “I’ve come to greet you in person.” 

The Duchess d’Étampes curtsied to her lover’s wife, endeavoring to move as gracefully as she could.  It was as if she intended to compete with the famous elegance and style of Anne Boleyn.  As the royal paramour rose, the emerald pools of faux sweetness encountered the ever-penetrating dark gaze which pierced her to the core, like a scorching ray of sun.  

The antechamber was lit by candles, but not a single shadow faltered or hue flickered.  Anne Boleyn waved her hand, dismissing a lady to stay alone with her guest. 

Her gaze traversing the visitor, Queen Anne of France bestowed a smile upon her.  Her husband’s maîtresse-en-tire possessed the flamboyant and lascivious beauty of the mythological goddess of beauty and desire.  It was no wonder that Anne de Piselleu d’Heilly had won the contest for the place in the royal bed with the older Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant, and become the ruler’s chief mistress.  The Valois monarch compared his most favored paramour’s body to that of Venus, which was a true testimony to her perfectly formed figure.

The genius Michelangelo could not have sculptured a finer statue, the queen concluded.  I’ve never lacked for admirers, but this woman is more beautiful than me.  Her mind conjured appalling pictures: Anne de Pisseleu peeling off her night robe so that her sexual allure could shine everywhere in blinding attraction, and King François kissing her possessively while grounding his hips into her in slow, erotic circles.  For some peculiar reason, this made the queen angry.    

The royal wife grinned.  “I hope, with good intentions, Madame.”  

“Yes, of course,” answered the king’s courtesan with an artificial smile.  “I’m honored to be here and meet with the sheer legend of Christendom.  Your persona has long become the symbol of feminine grace, topnotch intelligence, amorous feats, and religious novelties.” 

“And so has your name,” the Queen of France pointed out.  

Bewildered, the mistress said in a lowered tone, “What?” 

Her voice as silken as the finest velvet, the ruler’s spouse said, “Most definitely, Madame la Duchesse.  You have kept the monarch of France’s interest for so long that it deserves profound admiration and praise.”  Stilling for a moment, she regarded the courtesan.  “The gallants of the French court say that you are ‘the most beautiful among the learned and the most learned among the beautiful’.  They are right, for you are a prime example of loveliness and intelligence.” 

Anne de Pisseleu was flattered, but she surmised that the queen was testing her.  “Your Majesty is most kind to me.  However, my personal virtues are naught compared to yours.” 

Anne Boleyn seated herself in a chair.  “You are belittling yourself.” 

The duchess raised her chin defiantly as she quoted one of the king’s poems in her honor. 

A flush, a glow on the morning skies,

Earth smiles in her happy awakening;

Whispers the wind, “Arise now, the Knight-King!

Your Venus is waiting for you, right next to you!”

The dawn of our passion is beaming again.”

And his affectionate eyes look on her form,

And their faces shimmer like the sunny brook,

He flashes a smile that has conquered many hearts

But that is only for his Venus and her heart. 

The goddess tells her king: “I love you! 

You are my dawn that comes every new day!

Your voice is only for me in this sweet time,

We are bathing in resplendent joy together.” 

Together we watch the gorgeous sunrise,

And the songs of our lives ring gaily out there

The eternal spring of our passion is here!

Anne de Pisseleu was so engrossed in the verse that a strong rush of desire went through her.  “This lovely poem illustrates how deeply His Majesty feels for me.”

“It is interesting that the king speaks about your passion, but not his love for you.” 

The royal harlot boasted, “François wrote this poem to me while we were in bed.” 

The queen’s smirk turned into a painful twist of lips.  “His feelings for you are a primitive carnal passion?  Men are lustful creatures who chase after nymphs because of their beauty.” 

“Love and passion!”  the duchess objected. 

The queen was astounded with the duchess’ frankness.  She knew that François composed poems to some of his paramours either to seduce them or to paint his continuing affairs with the hues of romance.  Endowed by nature with the most remarkable gifts of body and mind, the ruler had acted in the same manner during his seduction of Mary Boleyn, who had easily fallen victim to his unparalleled allure.  Despite having been a girl back then, Anne had seen the king’s poems for Mary, and she remembered how her sister had ‘ahed and ohed’ while reading them. 

These memories unsettled Queen Anne.  “Over the course of time, countless women have willingly surrendered to King François’ expert charms.  My sister was once like liquid in his arms, only to be later cruelly defamed by him.  His escapades dubbed him a notorious heartbreaker.” 

The mistress led her vanguard against her rival.  “François has been with many women, and I’m aware that he has other mistresses.  At the same time, he loves me so wholeheartedly and endlessly that he would do anything for me.  His love for me is a gift he gives daily, expecting nothing in return.  He walks at my side, as the light from me is a torch to guide him along the path of heavenly delight.  I own the king’s heart, and nothing will ever change that.” 

“Do you fear that I can alter it?”  asked the queen, her eyebrow arched. 

Taken aback, Anne de Pisseleu didn’t reply straight away.  All-pervading fright gripped her in its pitiless hands.  It was exactly what she was afraid of since she had learned about François’ wedding.  One glance into the mysterious, dark hooks of the Boleyn temptress, which were more haunting than visions of paradise for a sinner, was enough to enslave a man.  I shall not let that woman take my François away from me.  Woe betide her if she tries to make him fall in love with her, just as she did to the English ruler.  Such were the duchess’ unsavory musings.    

The mistress’ face was uncertain.  “What do you mean?”   

Mirth flashed in the eyes which turned opaque.  “You think that I’ll ensnare King François like my first husband.  A flicker of fear in your eyes and the rigidity of your frame prove this.” 

The royal courtesan let her breath out in a sigh.  “With all due respect, you are mistaken.” 

With a philosophical air about her, Anne Boleyn pontificated, “Every woman is looking for that blessed hope and glorious love she can read about in chivalrous romances.  With joyful longing, she waits for her gallant knight to court her, to confess to loving her, to marry her, and then to make her the happiest woman on earth.  She entreats the Lord to grant her a content and life-long marriage, yearning to become her beloved’s devoted, faithful wife.”

Confusion filled the emerald eyes.  “I do not understand.” 

With paralyzing sagacity, the royal spouse commented, “Once I was such a woman.  I was drawn to the King of England like a moth to a flame – and I was burned.  However, you have never wanted any man out of pure love, for you do not know what true love is.”  

The duchess’ temper flared.  “Your Majesty does not know me!” 

The queen assessed the other woman’s character.  “I can see through you.  Your capacity for mischief in affairs arouses passion in the hearts and loins of men.  You are proud of your enormous skill in ridding married women of their husbands.   For many men, the very prospect of catching your glance at them is like a rare dream.”  A smirk puckered her mouth.  “Over time, your ordinary life widened to the royal universe, where you became the king’s powerful maîtresse-en-titre.  Your sovereign indulges you beyond measure, and you believe that being with him is the supreme purpose for which you were born.  Is that not true, Madame d’Étampes?” 

The courtesan was totally abashed.  “François and I are–”

Queen Anne interrupted, “At some point in time, a lover – whether he is a king or not – realizes the truth about his mistress, even if now he adores her.  Inevitably, reality will intervene, and in this case, her talent in amours will become worthless, like a mirage in the desert.  Everything has its beginning and its end, and the end of any liaison occurs as soon as the lover grasps the dismal truth.”  Tittering, she concluded, “These thoughts have long started nagging you.” 

Her cheeks purpling, Anne de Pisseleu throttled her rage.  For once, her intuition had been at fault before this meeting.  She had initially believed that she would assure Anne Boleyn of the total security of her relationship with the French ruler.  But she had underestimated the dratted woman, whom she refused to call a queen in her mind.  Not only had the king’s new wife defeated the duchess in their philosophical, yet acrid, discourse, but also had backed her into a corner. 

“That is not true,” lied the ruler’s chief mistress, her voice laced with steel.  “Our mutual love with François has been blessed by the Almighty.  Nothing could be better than that.” 

“I’m glad His Majesty has such an ardent lover, but for a different reason.” 

Truth be told, the queen regretted that the duchess had proclaimed herself Anne’s enemy.  At the beginning of their conversation, she had been inclined, in her genuine sincerity, to inform the king’s paramour that she had no part in her own spouse’s life, and that the other woman had nothing to fear.  However, Anne de Pisseleu’s arrogance was so overwhelming and overweening that the queen was determined to put the harlot in her place, no matter what. 

In France, Anne Boleyn could discuss her erstwhile life only with Queen Marguerite of Navarre, so she felt lonely, as if stranded on a barren island.  Her only comfort was memories of her dearest daughter, Elizabeth – her sacred mental abode from troubles, yet she feared to dwell on them for too long for long to avoid hurting herself even more.  I’m all alone and need allies, not foes.  But now I have a new dangerous adversary, so I must watch my back.   

“You are dismissed, Madame,” stated Queen Anne with arctic chilliness. 

Gritting her teeth, the Duchess d’Étampes swallowed her ire.  “I bid you a good day, Your Majesty.”  She compelled herself to curtsey, spun on her heels, and stormed out.

§§§

As the door behind her slammed shut, the Queen of France rose to her feet and stalked to the window.  The last vestiges of sun were a tenuous streak across the firmament, and, together with them, the remnants of her good mood faded, like a wisp of smoke. 

That was both preposterous and hilarious: the confrontation of the jealous harpy and the spouse, who hates the very idea of marriage.  At this moment, Anne acutely felt the difficulties of her second matrimony.  The word ‘wife’ made her discomfited, terrified, and furious all at once.  François and she had agreed to give little meaning to their relationship of mutual convenience, but she was haunted by the thought that soon her life would be upended in some dramatic way. 

Suddenly, a wave of dizziness swept over her, and Anne’s eyes fluttered shut in response to the nausea that followed.  “I did not sleep well today.  I just need to rest more.” 

Anne prodded across the room to a large, canopied bed, draped in gray brocade, its thick draperies tied back.  Two walls were frescoed with images from Sophocles’ Greek tragedies, and the others were covered with more gray brocade.  The bedside tables were made of walnut and marble.  All of the armchairs and coaches were silvered and upholstered in dove-colored silk. 

Climbing onto the bed, she snuggled under the covers, intent on falling asleep.  Instead, her thoughts were whirling, like leaves in an autumn wind, drifting towards her husband. 

Separated by an insurmountable, ugly wall of superstition and custom, spouses in most arranged marriages were unlikely to develop knowledge of, and respect to each other, without which every union was doomed to failure.  In Anne’s case, the situation was worse:  her husband was a monarch, who could burn her to cinders lest she outlived her usefulness.  Dante’s motto over his Inferno applied with equal force to marriage: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” 

Anne had taken huge risks when she had wed another ruler.  “God, I beseech you to guide me.  It cannot be that I was born to suffer in each of my marriages to two kings.” 

Another of the queen’s numerous phobias was that King François would demand absolute obedience in all things.  To Anne, such a turn of events would be the most horrible thing, at which her soul revolted, roared, and wept at the same time.  The subjugation of female nature by husband was worse than ruination, for it led to the soul’s poverty and its sordidness.  Anne’s heart wounds were still deep, raw, and bleeding, like a prisoner’s multiple injuries from the rack.   

Anne again found herself weak with dizziness, her stomach pitching with slight nausea.  Ignoring her discomfort, she told herself, “I shall not be governed by François.  Never ever!  If one day he decides to destroy me, I’ll fight against him tooth and nail.”   

Monarchs always expect their subjects to fulfill their wishes.  I am not François’ mere subject, but he is still my sovereign, so he can order me to do anything.  By the natural significance of the matrimonial institution, he had the right to force his queen to perform her conjugal duties.  She entertained for François all kinds of feelings, except for amorous ones, and she wanted their union to remain one based on their mutual political needs.  It was not in the power of the new Anne Boleyn to bestow even a shred of affection upon any man, even her own husband. 

“I’m not destined for happiness,” the queen speculated, her arms folded over her chest.  “Only young people allow themselves the luxury of romance.  And they are pounded by the rough hands of fate until they get wiser.  Henry made me more than sensible.” 

Suddenly, the world spun around, like a dancer performing a spirited tarantella.  Anne leaned from the bed and emptied the contents of her stomach onto the floor.  As she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, she thought that she could have eaten something that damaged the balance of her humors.  It is nothing.  Soon I’ll feel better, the queen persuaded herself. 


October 10, 1536, Château de Chamerolles, near Orléans, Loire Valley, France

The military council was held in the royal presence chamber.  The shadows of the evening stretched out across the land.  The candlelight illuminated the room that was filled with the French councilors, who were cheerful after the capture of the emperor’s younger brother. 

The detailed map of the Loire Valley was laid out on the long table.  It was full of small notes about all of the territories, which were currently occupied by the Imperial forces, as well as about the fortresses and other places, which belonged to the French at this stage. 

King François leaned back in his throne-like chair, adorned with the Valois heraldry.  “We should launch an offensive on the Spanish.  Since Ferdinand’s capture, the opposing parties have been staying close to each other but not attacking.  It is a lull before the storm.” 

Anne de Montmorency concurred, despite his usually conservative approach to military operations.  “The emperor’s ultimate goal is to capture Paris.  He has not tried to attack us only for one reason – we have Archduke Ferdinand in custody.  But he has not acceded to our main demand to withdraw his forces to the south, so now he might be plotting.” 

Cardinal François de Tournon estimated their sworn foe’s talents.  “Charles von Habsburg is a cunning strategist.  All of his battles are products of art.”  

Concentrated, Queen Anne didn’t miss a word.  A sense of alarm and unease crept along her spine as questions assaulted her consciousness.  What if the emperor endeavored to attack the French troops in order to liberate his brother?  Did François ever consider that his armies could be vanquished again?  Her mind recoiled from such thoughts, like an exorcised demon. 

Montmorency’s voice was laced with worry.  “One of the emperor’s maxims is that war should be undertaken with forces proportionate to the obstacles a general must overcome.  Now there are two hurdles to his victory: our Protestant alliance and his brother’s captivity.” 

A muscle twitched in the monarch’s jaw.  “So, he might try to harm my wife.” 

Queen Anne remained silent, but a shadow crossed her otherwise blank countenance.  As her gaze intercepted the king’s, she discerned a momentary flash of fear in his eyes.  Emperor Charles was her adversary since King Henry had started the Great Matter to dispose of his first wife, Catherine of Aragon.  The man had not acknowledged her as the Queen of England, and he must have rejoiced when Anne had been defamed by Henry as a treacherous adulteress. 

“That is possible,” opined Tournon. 

His eyes flying to his spouse, King François encapsulated, “Anne is France’s symbol of international unity against the Habsburgs.  She is the very reason why the German Protestant States have allied with us, and the emperor shall not condone it.  As now we have his sibling jailed, he might attempt to capture Anne and then exchange her for Ferdinand.” 

Anne set her chin at a defiant angle.  “I am not afraid of the emperor.” 

The monarch retorted, “Fearlessness is like a muscle.  The more one exercises it, the more natural it becomes not to let one’s fears overrun them.  Is that right, Anne?” 

In Orléans, the queen avoided her husband like a plague.  To her surprise, now she was glad to indulge in light conversation with him.  “Fearlessness is our great joy.” 

François guffawed heartily.  “What a magnificent situation we have found ourselves in! The intrepid Anne Boleyn and I are together against the Habsburg Empire!” 

An involuntary smile curled her lips.  “It is the union of brave hearts!” 

“That is true, Anne.”  His expression evolved into seriousness as the king emphasized, “Anne, you and I’ve both been falsely accused of things we have never committed.  That is why we have created the coalition of two courageous people whose reputations were besmirched.  I swear that we will reinstate them in due time and call our offenders to answer.” 

The advisors wondered what sort of deal existed between their king and queen.  It seemed that Anne and François intended to create some stratagem against the English monarch.  

There was a bellicose blaze in the dark eyes.  “God is on our side.” 

Nodding at his wife, the ruler turned to Annebault.  “Claude, I want you to have my queen watched every hour.  Fifteen most skilled men from the Scots guard should always guard the doors to her apartments and accompany her wherever she goes.” 

Claude d’Annebault promised, “Your Majesty, I’ll ensure the queen’s safety and have the security measures toughened.  I swear I’ll safeguard her with my life.” 

The monarch trusted Annebault.  “Thank you.” 

Montmorency moved the discourse back to the military agenda.  “In most of his previous battles, the emperor’s armies usually had their two wings resting aside or upon some natural obstacle, such as rivers, ravines, or chains of mountains.  At present, only one flank of their forces is stationed on the Loire River, and we can use it to our advantage.” 

“The other wing is exposed,” concluded the ruler. 

“Yes,” confirmed the Marshal of France.  “I’m in agreement with Your Majesty that we should attack him soon, before he has a chance to invent something against us.  If we give him a battle near the city of Orléans, only his supported wing will launch a counterstrike.  We can destroy the exposed divisions while simultaneously engaging the rest of their troops in battle.” 

François contradicted, “In this case, Charles will depend upon a central formation.  Then he will not allow the different divisions under his command to depart from him.   Thus, we will be unable to split the Imperial wings and then destroy the unprotected flank.” 

Annebault interposed, “The easiest way to be cheated is to believe yourself to be more cunning than your adversary.  That is why we simply need a crafty plan.”   

A thought lanced through Anne’s brain.  “It would be difficult for the emperor to contend with us if his both flanks are exposed.  Therefore, if we could make the unprotected wing of his troops retreat south from the river bank, then we will be able to exploit his weakness.” 

Once more, her intelligence surprised Anne de Montmorency.  “That would be the best thing to achieve.  If their divisions retreat a few miles from the river, we will try to further split the adversary.  The question is how we can accomplish that.” 

Anne schooled her features into modesty.  “The art of war is similar to that of winning in chess.  In life and war, as in chess, forethought, craft, and strategy win.”

François encouraged, “I want to know your opinion, Anne.” 

The queen demonstrated her brilliant knowledge of history.  “I mentioned the second Persian invasion of Greece during the military council at Fontainebleau.  Now I cannot help but remember it again, especially the Battle of Plataea.  It was the final land confrontation between the Greeks and the Persians.”  She stilled for a fraction of a second, collecting her thoughts.  “After a series of disastrous losses, the Greeks assembled a large army in the Peloponnesus in the summer of 479 BC.  They then marched to Plataea, where the Persians erected a fortified camp.” 

The king smiled, for he and his wife both liked the ancient history of Rome and Greece.  “If my memory serves me well, upon their arrival there, the allied Greek forces didn’t engage the foe straight away.  They remained at some distance from the Persian camp, and, after spreading a rumor that their supply lines were disrupted, they feigned a retreat.” 

His wife grinned at him.  “Your memory is perfect, sire.  Thinking that the Greeks were in precipitate retreat, the Persian general Mardonius ordered his forces to pursue them.  The Greeks halted and took the offensive against the enemy, annihilating the Persian infantry and Mardonius.” 

Impressed, everyone gave an exclamation of amazement. 

François admired Anne’s intelligence, which he had already seen in full display.  Yet, he had never known any lady – save his mother and sister – who could be as shrewd and pragmatic as a weasel.  It was what he had lacked in early youth.  Anne would make a great consort, so the king would let her rule alongside Marguerite and him.  Maybe she will understand that I am not like Henry and do not need women only for childbearing.  This thought surprised him.   

The royal smirk was quite jaunty.  “We will approach the emperor’s protected flank near the Loire River.  After pausing nearby, we will spread gossip that we will not attack because our supply and communication lines were disrupted.  Then we will feign retreat to goad Charles into launching an onslaught on us while being ready to make a fierce counterattack.”  

Annebault conjectured, “If we act quickly, we may have a large portion of the Spanish army trapped in their camp.  So, we can end up having a skirmish, not even a battle.” 

Montmorency advocated caution.  “This plan may result in our resounding victory.  Yet, I expect a bloody battle.  If we win, the exposed Imperial flank will be razed to the ground, and the rest of the Habsburg armies will move south, where we will split them further.”  

The queen’s gaze was glued to the Marshal of France.  Once King François had mentioned that Anne de Montmorency and Diane de Poitiers were allies and friends.  Diane could become her enemy: the dauphin’s beloved mistress would hate to be outshone by Anne and to lose some of her influence at court after Anne’s wedding to the monarch.  On the other hand, Montmorency was a foe of Anne de Pisseleu, who was also the queen’s adversary.  Having a good relationship with Montmorency may help me.  The enemy of my enemy is my ally, the queen mused

In the next instant, Anne noticed Montmorency’s unblinking scrutiny riveted upon her.  In his eyes, she deciphered a grudging respect for her talent and her genuine desire to help France.  Perhaps she would find common ground with the marshal, despite his being a devout papist.    

Tournon predicted, “Then he will withdraw south to ensure his brother’s safety.” 

The queen reveled in the prospect of the French victory near Orléans, especially if it would be based on her plan.  “Emperor Charles is a devious spider, who weaves a web to catch his prey.  We should act in the same fashion: like the most competent chess player, we will take his flanks out of the game, and then split his remaining troops into more exposed wings.”  

The King of France was exalted at this stratagem.  “Chess and war are not for timid souls.” 

Tournon quizzed, “Does Your Majesty approve of the plan?” 

“I do.  Ensure that our men know what they must do.”  The ruler’s smile testified to the nascent hope that they would succeed in their endeavors. 

“I shall see to it,” promised Montmorency. 

From the beginning of the invasion, all of the military debates had run hot and heavy.  But the final word lay with the King of France.  In the art of war, one of the main premises for success was to confer the command upon one individual.  If the authority was divided in battle, the opinions of the commanders often varied too drastically, and, consequently, the operations were doomed to be deprived of that strategic ensemble which was the first essential to triumph.  Moreover, all the generals believed in their liege lord’s ability to succeed in the enterprise of France’s salvation. 

Annebault supplemented, “Landgrave Philip of Hesse and I’ve been training our men to coordinate their actions in battle, and I’m satisfied with the results.  In a couple of weeks, the armies of Philip’s allies from the German Protestant states will join us at Orléans.” 

“Excellent!”  There was something else the King of France wished to know.  “Any news from our Turkish allies?  Have our envoys returned from Constantinople?” 

Tournon managed international affairs, so he regularly received the information from foreign courts and the bits of intelligence from their spies.  “The Turks received our call for help.  They earnestly consented to coordinate their actions with us.  They are currently assembling their huge armies to move them towards the city of Vienna, for they want to seize the chance to partition Austria in the absence of both the emperor and his brother.” 

This announcement drew malicious smiles from the congregation.  

The ruler exploded with laughter.  “God is apparently with us!  It would be spectacular to watch the Ottomans take advantage of their superior numbers.” 

Montmorency’s features twisted in disgust.  “Your Majesty knows that I’ve never been fond of our alliance with the heathens.”  Then his countenance softened.  “Nevertheless, now we have to rely on them.  The threat from the Turks will place the emperor in a difficult position.   He will have to choose whether to continue his attempts to subjugate France or to move his armies to Austria and defend Vienna.  Perhaps he will remove all of his mercenaries from France.” 

Anne had a different forecast.  “The emperor will do that, but not before he labors to crush the French once more and to have his brother released.” 

“Perhaps Your Majesty is right.”  As usual, Montmorency found her words reasonable.  

“What about the Ottoman navy?”  The monarch wanted the Turks to attack Vienna while also undertaking some operation against the Spanish fleet at sea. 

In the candlelight, Tournon’s grizzled beard glistened like snowflakes in the winter sun.  “Sultan Suleiman will also order his fleet under the command of Hayreddin Barbarossa to blockade Genoa and Spanish ports, particularly Seville, Malaga, Almería, and Cádiz.  They think that the best tactic would be to blockade the mouth of the Guadalquivir river in order to keep ships from getting to their ports.  The trade will be paralyzed, and there will be no delivery of gold either.” 

A whoop of joy echoed through the room, like the hymn of their upcoming triumph. 

At this moment, the monarch’s frame of mind was nearly airy.  “With all the bad events which have transpired during the invasion, this outstanding tidbits is like an oasis.” 

“We must all pray for France,” asserted Anne with reverence. 

“God help us!”  chorused the councilors. 

François summarized their today’s discussion.  “Time for doubts and scruples has passed.  Now we must hope that providence or our own wisdom will avert demons from France.”

At their sovereign’s sign, his advisors stood up and swept bows to the King and Queen of France.  Then the assemblage quitted the room and retired to their chambers. 

§§§

Queen Anne rose to her feet.  Before she could take a step, her whole world commenced swirling clockwise and then anticlockwise.  Caught up in a vertigo, she felt like she was close to fainting, so she tumbled into her chair.  Suddenly, all the strength seemed to have been sucked from her.  A wave of nausea assaulted Anne, sending a lot of bile into her throat. 

“Ah,” she breathed as she shut her eyes, touching her forehead. 

A concerned François approached her.  “You look rather pale, Anne.” 

“I’m fine, sire.”  Her quiet voice was layered with ire.  She was furious with herself for being so vulnerable in the king’s presence.  “I’m feeling much better now.” 

As she opened her eyes, the monarch stood beside her, his visage imbued with concern.  Wounding an arm around her, he hoisted his wife to her feet and steadied her as she wobbled. 

The ruler offered, “Let me walk you to your room.  Then I’ll summon my physician.” 

After the weakness receded, Anne protested, “I’m unworthy of Your Majesty’s care and attention.  You must have other important affairs to attend to.”  

The queen curtsied and hastened out of the room without a backward glance. 

A spasm of hurt knifed François like a poniard in the heart.  The walls, created by his wife between them, seemed as impregnable as the thick stone battlements of an unassailable fortress.  Anne’s misery was fully attributable to Henry’s atrocities towards her, and the roots of her decision to distance herself from François lay in the horrible blackness of her recent past. 

Anne had grown up at her husband’s cultured court that was frivolous.  Yet, any French girl was told from infancy that marriage was her ultimate goal, so her training and education were directed towards that end.  Maybe a French maid knew more about her function as wife and mother than other virgins.  As most nobles married strangers, love and happiness were mostly incongruent things in their pygmy lives, and François himself had not loved any of his previous wives. 

Anne Boleyn was a Frenchwoman in many ways, but she was not like the king’s female courtiers.  There was no doubt in François’ mind that Anne was a person of high moral code and values, one who was more decent than most of the French noblewomen.  Nonetheless, she knew how to use her allure and education to the utmost benefit, which had assisted her in conquering the volatile Tudor monarch.  In any country, a woman could wed someone only to find herself repelled by his mere presence, but it should not have been the case in Anne’s marriage to François.  

Poisonous fumes of hatred penetrated the Valois monarch.  We were on good terms before our wedding.  I believed that our friendship would last into our marital life.  Because of Henry’s transgressions, I cannot have a normal life with Anne.  His spouse was no longer a maiden, who considered it filthy for her to know anything of the marital relations.  Nonetheless, Anne despised the foundations of matrimony, for she had no desire not only to share a bed with François but also to be in his company.  The King of France blamed his English counterpart for that. 

“How can I change my marriage to Anne?”  King François said aloud, staring at the door.  Not wishing Anne to suffer, he was puzzled as to why he cared about her sentiments.   

§§§

After returning to her quarters, Queen Anne asked the few ladies who had accompanied her to Orléans from Fontainebleau to leave her to a deep and much-desired solitude. 

She stood near the window, pressing her face to the glass.  The sun had descended to its nighttime home, and the heavens were dark, like a black glass.  It would start raining soon, torrents of water gushing forth like a breached dam.  The summer had long departed, and autumn was in full swing, so the chill seeped into the room, as well as into Anne’s skin through the glass. 

It would be quite interesting if you found yourself with child after this night.

The words spoken by François on their wedding night had turned out to be prophetic.  Her frequent dizziness and nausea had confirmed her suspicion.  Those words reverberated through her brain and drowned out the tragic melancholy of her current personal situation.  Anne eagerly clung to them, never wanting to lose the feeling of the truth as it settled into her bones.   

“I must be pregnant,” Anne Boleyn whispered to herself, tears of gladness brimming in her eyes.  “God, I conceived François’ child on the wedding night.” 

At present, she was positioned on the brink of tremendous changes, moving towards the realm of motherhood.  Since her departure from England, the bleak slopes of loneliness had risen towards the shark-finned ridges of Anne’s barren existence in France.  Now a new life was growing inside of her, and Anne could feel the rhythms of her baby’s tacit little soul.  No longer would her desolation be intensified by frigid moonlight, if she awoke in the dead of night. 

“I love this unexpected child.”  She let out a laugh of delight, her hand sliding to her belly. 

A veil of sadness tinged her countenance.  Despite being an ambitious woman, she viewed motherhood as the highest fulfillment of feminine nature.  Any child needed love and care, and its parents should love each other in the ideal situation.  However, according to her experience, marital bonds could defile a mother’s happiness, just as Henry’s disappointment with Elizabeth’s gender had once smashed Anne’s life into pieces.  I do not love the father of my baby, and François does not love me either.  Will he care for the child as much as I do?  And what if it is a girl? 

She swiveled and crossed the room, yearning to escape from her apartments.  The interior was too somber and had lacked the warmth of human occupancy for quite some time.   Everything around was gray, and the ceiling, swathed in dark brocade, hung overhead like a canopy of gloomy clouds.   She was too delighted with her discovery to stay here for another night. 

As Anne exited into the antechamber, there was a genuine smile on her face.  “Ladies, I want to be lodged in another room decorated in vibrant colors.” 

The hymn of life streamed from the heart beating in her belly.  This time, her motherhood was not of free choice, of love, of ecstasy, and of passion.  Even if Anne had a son, the babe would not have a crown upon its head, for François already had two sons to succeed him.  But her child would not need anything, and Anne would love it with every fibre of her being. 

§§§

As the evening tumbled into night, the monarch retired to his quarters.  In spite of being spacious, they were not nearly as luxurious as his apartments at other royal châteaux.  The walls were draped in tapestries depicting colorful fairies and birds.  This room would better suit Anne than him, or both of them if they had shared a bed.  Pushing these thoughts aside, he surveyed the heavy ebony furniture which certainly belonged to the years of King Louis XI’s reign.   

At the knock on the door, the king stood up.  “Come in.”   

The door opened.  “It is done, my liege.”  Anne de Montmorency stood on the threshold of the bedchamber, but he did not enter.  “I’ve arranged everything as discreetly as possible.” 

“Thank you, Monty,” François responded with a grin.  “And you?” 

There was an odd embarrassment in Montmorency’s visage.  “Annebault has fetched two pretty courtesans from the best brothel in Orléans for us both.  I’m a martial man, but sometimes, I need to relax.  It is worse than an affair with a noblewoman, but we are at war.” 

The monarch patted his shoulder.  “There is no reason to feel ashamed.” 

The Marshal of France attempted to smile, but it was a rather lopsided effort.  “I hope that you will like the woman who obviously wants to be with Your Majesty.” 

Montmorency bowed and left the room.  Then the lady, who was the wife of Gaspard de Chamerolles, Bailiff of Orléans, walked in.  As she sank into a deep curtsey, her lips curved in a salacious grin, and her cheeks flushed like the petals of an apple blossom.  

“Rise, Madame de Chamerolles,” François permitted as he closed the door.    

Straightening, she met his assessing gaze.  “Good afternoon, Your Majesty.  Thank you for inviting me to your chambers.  I’m Dangereuse for you.” 

“Dangereuse!  It is such a lovely ancient Poitevin name.” 

“I was named after Dangereuse de l’Isle Bouchard, Eleanor of Aquitaine’s grandmother.” 

His breathing quickened.  “Your parents had a fine taste for names.” 

A lewd light came into her eyes.  “I’ll not disappoint you, my liege.”   

“What about your spouse?  Will he challenge me to a duel, then?” 

His jest sent her into a fit of laughter.  “He knows that every dame must please her king.” 

“As always.”  Many fathers and husbands sent their daughters and wives to court.  In the hope of obtaining privileges, they were instructed on how to catch the king’s eye. 

Dangereuse de Chamerolles removed her cloak of violet damask ornamented with silver.  As she did not wear any undergarments beneath it, now she stood nude in front of her sovereign.  Her head was tilted so that her long, auburn hair flowed back in bronze waves, almost touching her waist.  Although she was approximately of Anne Boleyn’s age, her young body was not the envy of all women and was not desired by all men, for it bore some marks of her pregnancies by her husband.  However, Dangereuse was voluptuous and shapely, her feminine curves enticing, while her face was attractive with verdant eyes, thick golden eyebrows, and full mouth. 

His silence unnerved her.  “Is everything to your liking?”

François howled with laughter.  “Of course.  I admire your boldness, Madame.” 

Her lips were moist and vividly colored.  “An indecent boldness meets with friends.  And its best friend is the most amorous and handsome monarch in the world.” 

He observed the lust-dazed expression of her eyes.  “Then fall into my arms.” 

Compelled by an ageless male need, the ruler engulfed her into an embrace and kissed her.  His lover pushed aside his robe and stroked his chest, exploring his muscled torso.  Soon they were in a big bed canopied with pink taffeta curtains.  Without restraint, she unashamedly offered her body to him, her arms closing hungrily about his shoulders as François pounded into her, alternating slow and frantic rhythms, their cries and groans intermingling.  Frequently, Dangereuse interrupted their couplings to lavish the king with the most audacious caresses, and the carnal arching of their entangled forms reflected in their sinuous movements. 

At midnight, Dangereuse wanted him to make love to her again. “No woman can ever withstand your overpowering attack on her senses.  Take me again, my king!” 

To her surprise, François rolled to the other side of the bed.  “Leave.” 

After the offended woman was gone, the king donned his robe.  He lit a candle and sat at his desk, slowly drinking wine while composing a verse, his mind fully on his spouse. 

The Knight-King was a picture of delight

When first Queen Anne gleamed upon his sight.

She was a lovely apparition, sent

To be just a moment’s ornament,

Her eyes as shadows of twilight dark,

Like twilight’s colors, too, her luscious hair. 

But all things else about her drawn

From their short friendship and their former dawn,

A flickering joy and, worse, a shadow

Remain to haunt, to startle, and to waylay.

He saw Anne upon nearer view,

A dead spirit, yet a woman, too!

Her motions no longer light and free,

And steps of grace, yet doom, to heavy! 

A countenance in which did once meet

Vivacious smile and sweet records,

A creature too bright to ever exist

For human nature’s daily food, even his,

Anne is for transient sorrows and for bliss

For praise, love, smiles, and kisses, especially his.

As he finished the verse, the monarch repeated the last words depressingly, “Anne Boleyn is not for eternal grief – she is for praise, love, smiles, and my kisses.” 

François thought of his wife, despite his body being sated tonight.  His affairs no longer entertained him as much as they had done before his marriage, and this conundrum consumed him, robbing him of sleep.  He did not care that Anne de Pisseleu would be angry with him for his liaison with Dangereuse, for his mistress had no say in his life.  Yet, he felt guilty for again cheating on Queen Anne, which had become a recurring feeling during his rendezvouses.    

“You will not see this poem, Anne.”  He folded the parchment and slipped it into one of the drawers.  “You are an apparition of your former self.  But even your shadow delights me.”

Tomorrow, the king would relocate to the rooms closest to his consort’s apartments, where she had moved in the afternoon.  Maybe if he was closer to her, she would talk to him, because he knew that she appreciated their intellectual parleys.  However, optimism was a good hypothesis that did not always work, so he sighed regretfully.  Nevertheless, François was drawn to Anne far more than any of his mistresses, and the very idea that they could spend a mere hour together inundated him with a rapture beyond the power of words to express. 

Notes:

I hope you liked this chapter. Please leave a review and let me know what you think, for it will encourage me to continue writing and posting this story.

Anne Boleyn met with Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly, Duchess d’Étampes, who is the King of France's long-term maîtresse-en-tire. Their relationship will be rather toxic in later chapters, for the monarch’s mistress will be jealous of her royal lover’s new wife. The duchess is afraid of the queen’s ability to take the French ruler away from her, together with her power at court.

Queen Anne is with child after her wedding night with François, which is going to change Anne’s situation in France dramatically. Of course, Anne’s condition will have a certain impact on her relationship with François. Don’t think that the baby will bring Anne and François closer quickly, for it would have been implausible, given Anne’s horrible trauma caused by Henry in England. François’ one-night affair with Dangereuse is consistent with what I said about him before: he is not going to repudiate his mistresses any time soon because he has no reason to do that, and he will also engage in random sexual encounters.

The references to the second Persian invasion of Greece are historically correct. As Anne knows ancient history well, François rapidly understands what she suggests to win the next battle.

I composed the two poems given in this chapter, and I hope you like them.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 9: Chapter 8: Battles of Love and Hate

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Battles of Love and Hate

October 20, 1536, the Palace of Whitehall, London, England

“Fetch me Lady Anne Bassett,” enjoined King Henry as he eased himself onto the bed.  

He stretched his body along the red silk sheets, letting out a sigh of frustration. His gaze veered to a window, and he saw the leaden firmament that pressed down upon the earth.  

Five months had elapsed since his former queen’s release from the Tower. Five months of tranquility and peacefulness on the surface, but underneath a seething cauldron of inner tumult and boredom. Since he had learned about the sensational wedding in France, Henry’s emotions alternated between berserk fury, chasmal desolation, and satanic hatred. Each of them was caused by the only woman who could make his mood swerve in all directions – Anne Boleyn.

Heartache was an overriding emotion, excruciating like a knife point jammed through the skin all the way to the bone. Day and night, Henry was haunted by visions of Anne and François, which were devouring him like hungry lions would do to a prey. Anne and François joining hands and exchanging vows. François making love to his new wife, who moaned in pleasure, begging him for more. François and Anne laughing maliciously at Henry, calling him a wretched fool.

“Damn you, Anne!” Henry roared, as if she could hear him. “Why did you marry that French bastard?  How could you betray England and me so utterly?”

“Your Majesty,” called his paramour, struggling to keep her voice devoid of displeasure. She had entered exactly at the moment when the ruler had cursed his former queen.

A tall and slender woman, Lady Anne Bassett, with her golden fluff of hair, bright golden-green eyes, and lush, rosy lips, was the cynosure of all eyes at court. Many nobles admired her beauty and wanted to be her partner in the lewd dances of pleasures; she frequently received indecent offers from them. But she would be with none of them, as at present, her body belonged to the King of England, who, however, was not someone she could ever fall for.   

Her femininity surpassed the appeal of her youth. Her innocence had long dissolved in the whirlwind of court life. Her sultry smile was as natural to her as breathing. Her red robe, ornamented with pearls, stressed her slim waist and ample bosom, drawing the ruler’s attention to the roundedness of her hips. I do not care whether she loves me. I want her body, Henry mused.

The monarch beckoned, “Come to me, my sweet Anne. Make me happy tonight!”

I’m just a poor replacement for the woman the king cannot have, Lady Bassett spat in her mind. Though burly, Henry was handsome and still quite athletic in build, so it was not unpleasant to be pressed by his broad frame to the sheets. His red-flaming hair was like the fingertips of a raging fire which burned a woman from the inside out when he made love to her. Regardless of the monarch’s tyranny, he was an ardent and skilled lover, whose appetite was voracious.

The royal paramour plastered a smile on her face. “I’ll do whatever my king wishes.”

As she approached, King Henry pulled her down on the bed, his body covering hers. The touch of his mouth at hers was so bruising, yet intoxicating, that Lady Bassett unconsciously arched up closer, her head thrown back, and her eyes closed in the sensual delight she always felt in his arms. The anger she had felt with him moments ago abated, and she snaked her arms around his back. They both held each other willing prisoners of passion in their embrace.  

His breathing shallow and ragged, Henry commented, “You are so experienced.”  

“Is that good or bad?” Her face was flushed, her mouth red from their kisses.

Grinning cynically, he pontificated, “Normal for a lover, but not for a wife, especially not for a queen. A royal mistress nourishes and feeds her liege lord’s body. She must possess perfect physical beauty that delights the eye of her king. She must express her knowledge in lovemaking with unstinted eloquence in a way that is the most gratifying for her sovereign.”

A gush of fury surged through Anne, but she forced a stiff smile. “Your Majesty’s desire is the law. All of your subjects must serve your pleasure, needs, and wants.”

He was as selfish as a screaming infant who thinks that the universe is there waiting to answer their cry. The appeal of being a royal harlot suddenly waned like the ebbing tide, to expose once hidden doubts about her future after he discarded her. Lady Bassett had once been a mistress of Sir Henry Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, and the ruler had not taken her virginity. Yet, her liaison with the king, which everyone was aware of at court, had ruined her marriage prospects.

Her response pleased the monarch. “Then let me enjoy your body in all the ways I need.”

Anne Bassett was torn between rage and submission. The manner he conversed with her was condescending, but she craved the rapture of their dissolution. “Dearest sire, you are the God Eros. Any mortal woman who catches your eye surrenders herself to your passions and is happy to give her love to you willingly, abundantly, and faithfully for every moment of her life.”

“You are obedient,” uttered Henry thickly. He began kissing her neck, his hands roaming over her figure. Breathing against her flushed skin, he muttered, “Yet, you are also a wild cat in my arms who, however, quickly bends to my will. You are both fire and milk!”  

“Such an unusual combination.” Her ire began simmering again.

Henry jerked her head up, his mouth finding hers in a possessive kiss. Their clothes were discarded and thrown off to litter the floor until they were both stripped bare. The pristine hunger in the aquamarine eyes inflamed the mistress as much as the sight of his aroused body did. Their blood singing with epicurean excitement, they kissed, explored, caressed, and found themselves in numerous pleasurable positions, which Henry could never try with his wife, Jane Seymour.

As the monarch lay on his back, his mistress kissed and licked his throat, chest, ribcage, and stomach. Her head slipped up and down as her mouth was being assaulting his torso. As there were no inhibitions in their lascivious games, her lips slid to his hips, and she sucked his manhood for a long time, his groans almost ear-piercing, punctuated by her laughter. In these moments, they were just sinners, drowning in a deluge of gorgeous carnal enjoyment.

Moaning wantonly, the royal paramour fell back onto the soft sheet, crooking her finger in invitation. “My king, take me!  Please, fill me with you!”

Satisfaction nickered across his face. “That I will, my frolicsome cat.”

As he lay on top of his lover, Henry pulled her legs apart and penetrated Anne with one hard stroke. To avoid the uncomfortable feeling of his heavy body on her lithe one, she managed to climb atop of him, and for a moment, he was sprawled out beneath her. However, soon Henry dominated her again, putting her beneath him on the bed, and he began pounding into her violently, as if he were plundering a conquered city. His thrusts became so wild and too strong that they pushed the coverlets and sheets off the bed until they rested on the mattress.  

It was as if the god Dionysus of wine and ritual madness infused drunken violence into Henry tonight. The vehemence of this indecent and unrestrained lovemaking surpassed that of all their previous encounters. Henry instinctively hoped to achieve with his passionate paramour the same feverish and celestial fulfillment as the one he had experienced with Queen Anne. Images of his last intimacy with his exiled wife, when they had danced La Volta and conceived their lost son, tormented the monarch like fiends, and he clung to his mistress tightly, wanting to possess every part of her and to allow the heat of their bodies to shelter him from these memories.

The ache in the king’s loins was quickening until he convulsed, as waves of exquisite rapture shuddered through him. In an instant, his harlot was flying, her body quaking hard and fast, as she found the pinnacle, heat from their bodies swirling around her like a lover's caress. At this moment, his lips were not on hers, and Henry shifted to the other side of the bed, as though she repelled him tonight, like something cheap and filthy that could not be scrubbed off.

“Leave,” commanded the monarch in an uncompromising tone.

Still dazed, Anne blinked. “Your Majesty, have I done something wrong?”

“I said leave!” he bellowed, his glare blazing like a bale-fire.

The scared woman clambered out of bed. She donned her robe and curtsied to him, even though he stared vacantly into space. Then she scampered across the chamber and stormed out.

His emotions tangled, Henry flicked his gaze to a nearby window. During their coupling, a rainstorm had started outside, and now the wind drove against the shutters with violence. The trees waved and thrashed, as if in the throes of agony. There was an almost human sighing and moaning in all these ominous sounds, as if portending some imminent trouble.

It was a long time since weather and nature in London had been in a more dismal mood. The dreary weather mirrored the impervious blackness in Henry’s inner realm. Never after Anne’s condemnation, had he been more cast down in heart and hope for the better future.

The king’s heart hammered in resurfacing anger, as if propelled by a raging gale. With dull wonder and dismay, Henry realized that tonight, his mistress had not quenched his need for the fire which only his former spouse could give him. Despite her betrayals, he still had voracious hunger for the Boleyn whore, even though now she belonged to another king. As the ire simmered, the loathing for Anne grew in equal measure, like a poison tree in his consciousness.

Henry recalled that he had not slept with Jane in the past week. Although his third wife was a sun of kindness and joy, gathering light and storing it, she no longer excited him as a woman, for she was too shy and phlegmatic in bed to his liking. The months, which had elapsed without a child in Jane’s womb, cemented the king’s misery and increased his hankerings for affairs with other women. But I have a marital duty to fulfill to sire a son, he sighed wordlessly.   

§§§

The vacant aquamarine eyes stared into the gray ones. His hands tightening on her hips, Henry thrust into Jane deeper than before. A guttural sound fled his throat as he shuddered and spilled himself into her. He then rolled to his back, pulled the covers over his wife, and climbed out of bed, picking up his robe of tawny brocade ornamented with gold and Tudor roses.

Suddenly, the queen felt cold despite the warmth of the sheets. “Your Majesty, are you leaving me now?  Have I displeased you?” Her voice was fragile like a thin string.

His mistress had asked him the same question. Now his spouse’s words exacerbated his temper, and the ruler snapped, “I did not plan to stay long, Jane. As your king and husband, I can do whatever I want to you and anyone in England. I do not need your permission.”

Having put on his robe, Henry strode to the door with a forbidding expression. Outside, the rainstorm still whistled, torrents of water pelting the shutters, like handfuls of rocks.

“I’m sorry, sire.” There were tears in her voice and an edge of panic.

Standing in the doorway, the king swiveled to face her. “Jane, you are a lovely English rose. However, only one thing can settle things right in my life and kingdom, as well as between you and me. I need the healthy Prince of Wales who will carry on the Tudor legacy.”

Jane grimaced ruefully. “I do not know why I’m not pregnant yet…” She schooled her features into calmness. “I’ll beseech the Lord to take mercy upon us and give us a son.”

He arched a brow. “Upon us or you?”

Us,” replied his wife confidently. She then voiced her thoughts on the institution of marriage. “Matrimony is holy and unbreakable. Husband and wife are together, on the same side, and they can count on each other as a great source of encouragement and strength.”

At this moment, all the good disposition towards his wife seemed to have left his nature.  “I’m the King of England, and if I speak to the Lord, He hears me and guides me to carry out His will. I’ve done nothing wrong, so I have no reason to beg for His forgiveness.”

Henry took several steps forward and paused in the center of the bedchamber. His slitted eyes exuded such savage ferociousness that it caused Jane to feel as though her body had been wedged between two vice grips. A chilly wind of his suspicion hit her like a physical blow.

He gritted out, “Jane, have you sinned in a way that can taint our marriage?”

Fear flashed over her pale countenance. “I’ve never lied to Your Majesty. I do not have any secrets from you. You know that I was a maid when–”  She broke off, blushing.

Most of his brutality vanished, but there was still a slice of distrust lurking in his eyes. “I remember our wedding night, Jane.  Don’t be afraid of me, and do your duty to me.”

She averred, “I’ll give you a son, sire. I shall conceive soon.”

His confidence was somewhat restored. “I pray that it is true. Good night.”

After he had vacated the room, Jane dissolved into a flood of tears, sobbing like a heroine of some Greek tragedy. She felt sick to the core – sick of her continuous unhappiness, of Henry’s insane obsession with male heirs. Every day was a torture: Henry reminded her that her sacred duty was to give him a son, while her relatives blamed her for not falling pregnant quickly.

Her thoughts tangled and coiled. Why does he tell me that I’m the sun of his life and then suspect me of being a sinner?  But I love Henry with all my heart, and I’ll do anything to keep him as my husband. Jane persuaded herself that her life would go back to normal when she finally conceived. Once she birthed Henry’s baby boy, her achievement would appeal to that part of him that cherished all beauty and chivalry he had demonstrated to her during their short courtship.

“I just need a son,” Jane murmured like a mantra, sobbing into the pillow.

The door flung open, and Edward Seymour’s voice set chills down the queen’s spine. “Indeed, you must give the king a son as soon as possible!  Your task is to ascertain that there will be a Seymour king upon the throne of England, not the whore’s bastard daughter.”

The queen pulled the sheet over herself in instinctive caution. “Edward, a man is not allowed to be in my bedchamber. Please, get out!”

“Rules matter not for our family,” Edward stated with a ring of finality.

Elizabeth informed, “Your others ladies are sleeping. They will not see us here.”

“Jane, don’t be so coy. You are no longer a virgin!” Thomas was making fun out of her.

Edward crossed the chamber, followed by his other siblings; only Dorothy said nothing. Edward and Thomas settled in two matching oak chairs by the fireplace, where flames were licking over logs. Lady Elizabeth Cromwell née Seymour and Lady Dorothy Smith née Seymour seated themselves on the edge of the royal bed, and Dorothy took her sister’s hand in hers.

His brows furrowed, Edward inquired forthrightly, “Has the king plant his seed into you tonight, Jane?  We know that he spent the previous week with Anne Bassett.”

Thomas interjected, “Is there hope that he could get you with child?”

Jane was conscious of disappointment, anger, and embarrassment at this interrogation.  “Brothers, why do you never ask me about my wellbeing?  Are you indifferent to me?”

Annoyance painted Edward’s countenance. “Enough melodramatics and foolishness out of you, Jane. Each of us wants only the best for you, but our family’s interests are our first priority. Without a Tudor son in the royal cradle, our position at court is vulnerable. To accumulate more power and to become invisible, we must prove our worth to the king.”

Thomas concurred. “Jane, only you can ensure that our family will become the noblest and richest family in the English realm in years to come. Why have you not conceived yet?”

The queen felt her sister squeeze her both hands. “I don’t know.”

Elizabeth made a report to the male members of their family. “Jane is healthy, and her courses come regularly every month. His Majesty bedded her every night in the summer and last month, but he has been too smitten with the Bassett prostitute since October.”

Dorothy entered the conversation. “As well with two other whores.”

Clenching his teeth in frustrated rage, Edward got out, “We need to think how to ensure that the king continues to sleep with Jane every night until she has a babe in her belly. But he is so lustful that his satisfaction seems to be dependent upon having a variety of women in bed.”

His lips curved in a debauched grin, Thomas ventured, “Maybe I can seduce Anne Bassett to drive her away from the monarch. What do you think about it?”

Elizabeth opined, “You are the most charming and gallant man at court, Thomas.”

“Oh my Lord…” Shocked bemusement in Dorothy’s eyes mirrored Jane’s.      

“That might work,” drawled Edward. “His Majesty must take a mistress whom we can control. My wife is beautiful enough to attract his attention, but she is pregnant now.”

Elizabeth sighed. “It is a pity that Anne Stanhope cannot help us now.” She veered her scornful gaze to Jane, who shifted closer to Dorothy on the bed. “Janie is not capable of bewitching the king and at least to make sure that he is faithful to her for a few months.”

Thomas sneered. “The harlot married His French Majesty. What if she gives her second husband a son, while Jane remains childless?  Being a famous philanderer, King François must be bedding the whore every night, if he is not on the battlefield.”

A tense silence stretched between them, threatening to lengthen into a lifetime. The air was heavy with the shock they had experienced upon learning about Anne’s second marriage.

Edward balled his hands into fists. “Damn Anne Boleyn!  I hope she perishes in France together with her damned spouse and the French nation. We already have her daughter in one step from the throne, which is something that we cannot tolerate.”

Jerking to her feet, Elizabeth speculated, “If the whore bears a son for the French ruler, King Henry will hate her more than ever. Yet, Jane will also find herself on the receiving end of his wrath, if she fails where the harlot succeeds, even though Anne’s child is not a Tudor.”

Edward concurred. “In the king’s eyes, Anne’s ability to bear sons will raze Jane’s value to the ground, even though His Majesty will not forget about the whore’s crimes.”

Thomas smiled. “That is why Edward and I will work hard to safeguard our interests.”

Rising to his feet, Edward barked, “We will discuss everything later.”

Elizabeth agreed, “We should go.”

As he stood up, Thomas addressed the queen, “Now try to rest, Jane. Pray every day – better, every hour and every minute – that the king’s seed is growing inside of you.”

Pausing near the door, Edward muttered, “You have done your job for today, sister.”

Without a backward glance, Edward, Thomas, and Elizabeth quitted the chamber.

“Why are they so cruel?” Jane asked Dorothy, her eyes brimming with tears.   

A veil of sadness blanketed Dorothy. “Once we were a friendly, loving family.  But after our arrival at court, our brothers and Elizabeth morphed into wolves hungry for power and wealth.”

The queen knew what they wanted more than anything else. “They think that we all have a common goal – to make a Seymour monarch succeed my husband.”

Dorothy nodded. “Yes.”

Tears trickled down Jane’s cheeks, like rain on a window. “Henry… He is not as tender and caring as he used to be in the summer. I believed that I would be content with him.”

Her sister brushed off the wetness from her face. “I am not sure that the king knows what love is. I am under the impression that he is more in love with himself than he has ever been with any woman. There are men whose greatest passion in life is for themselves.”

“No!” Jane shook her head. “He still loves me!”

Dorothy eyed the queen with pity. “Jane, your head is full of illusions. You are clinging to the idea of king’s love for you. Over time, you will understand the truth.”

Queen Jane had a fatalistic air about her, as if she knew that the months of her queenship were numbered. The vision of her own death flickered through her brain, and she shuddered, as if mortality itself had embraced her. As if foreshadowing something bad, a sharp gust of wind hit the shutters which rattled violently. God I entreat you to help me conceive a son to save myself and my family, Jane beseeched as she threw himself into Dorothy’s arms and wept. 


October 25, 1536, Château de Chamerolles, near Orléans, Loire Valley, France

King François paced back and forth before a window in the highest tower of Château de Chamerolles. Claude d’Annebault patiently waited at the far end of the small room that served as a vantage point to observe the valley and the forest surrounding it.

After climbing the stairs, the ruler threw open the wooden shutters and looked out. What he saw troubled him a lot: the Imperial troops had moved closer to Château de Chamerolles and now were stationed only about five miles from the palace. The weather was cold, but clear; there was no moisture in the atmosphere, no fog or haze, yet the sky was a gray pall.  

François ran his fingers through his hair. “We should evacuate my queen now!  I should have sent Anne away last week, when the Duchess d’Étampes and her many ladies, as well as Madame Dangereuse de Chamerolles and her family departed.”

Claude d’Annebault concurred. “It is the best course of action, Your Majesty.”

Turning to face his advisor, the ruler stared intently at the chessboard on his desk, loaded with papers. “Anne says that to wage war is like playing chess. I’m certain that our enemy has the same opinion and, hence, will endeavour to checkmate us, using my wife.”

“We should take the queen to safety today.”

“Claude, you must safeguard Anne.” The ruler crossed to him, and administered a pat on his shoulder. “I cannot risk her life – she must live at any cost.”

“I’ll do what you order,” Annebault consented eagerly.

François smiled wanly. “Thank you. You should both depart right now.”

“Is Her Majesty ready?  How long do we need to wait before her trunks are packed?”

A frown tucked between the monarch’s brows. “Yesterday, I instructed Anne to prepare for departure. But I didn’t think that the Spanish rodents would flock to our doorstep so quickly.”  

Annebault released a sigh. “Perhaps our optimism was a bit premature.”

The king veered his gaze to his councilor. “Now it matters not. We will act in accordance our plan and defeat Carlos in the Battle of Chamerolles. But Anne should be here.”

“I’ll take care of the queen.” Bowing, his subject spun on his heels and left.

Sighing, King François trudged to a window. The Hapsburg standard was at that moment being unfurled in the wind, snapping and slapping at the air around it. A wave of hatred ripped through him, and it had to get expunged by means of his victory over his mortal adversary.

§§§

In the afternoon, the clouds dispersed, as if they were reluctant to witness the imminent battle. The grayness of the sky became exceedingly clear, and it was also intensified by the soot and ash, coming from chimneys warming houses near the château and nearby local villages.

In the French military camp, the monarch of France arrived at the army’s rear. He was accompanied by his loyal councilors: Anne de Montmorency, Cardinal François de Tournon, and Philippe de Chabot, Admiral de Brion, who had recently joined them after his recovery.

Flanked by his commanders, the ruler stood in the circle of his soldiers. He proclaimed, “Comrades!  Today we will fight against the invaders, whose intention is to destroy France and her people, their homes and loved ones. They will have to rip the hearts out of every Frenchmen, before we yield to their will and allow them to take our country from us and our children.”

The vigilant men looked, as if they had stood at attention for hours. They then roared in unison, “France is our land!  Death to the Spaniards and all other invaders!”

Waving his hand for silence, François continued, “I’ve been your king for years, in times of peace and war. Now we must stand together united against the external threat to prevent our enslavement to Spain.” His voice rose in a crescendo of passionate conviction. “Come and let us fight together the battle of the Lord. For France and for our children!  We shall win today!”

This speech had a resounding impact on everyone, further charging them with resilience.   

“For France and our children!”

“Long Live King François!”

“Death to all the villainous invaders!”

“We shall expel them from our country!”

The throng parted the way for the king and his men, who walked along the front lines.    

Turning his head to his advisors, François inquired, “Any news?”

Anne de Montmorency reported, “The Imperial troops are on the move towards us.”

The ruler nodded. “I shall lead my cavalrymen to victory tonight.”

Montmorency, Tournon, and Chabot exchanged smiles. Their liege lord’s courage was as great and impressive as that of the Trojan hero Hector during the siege of Troy by the Greeks.

The knights bowed to their sovereign, who strolled across the camp, his generals trailing after him. Some high-ranking nobles, including Duke Claude de Guise, saluted, and the ruler returned the greetings enthusiastically, but his mind was otherwise occupied. François knew that now more than ever, he had to present a confident, imperial façade of a warrior king.  

The royal subjects hurriedly prepared to encounter the enemy. Swords slid harshly over sharpening stones, and horses were armored for the charge with light plates, strung on tough fabric. Archers checked and rechecked their bows, fletching arrows and sharpening arrowheads.  

As François mounted his black destrier, he asked his generals, “My wife and Claude left an hour ago. Have they slipped out of the city unnoticed?  What do our spies say?”

“I think so, Your Majesty.” Philippe de Chabot suppressed a grimace of distaste. After learning about his sovereign’s wedding to Anne Boleyn, he had cursed for hours, for he had never felt even a shred of respect for the English whore. He had not accepted Anne as his queen.

Tournon chimed in, “They must be out of the city.”

Montmorency opined, “Annebault will take care of the queen.”

Relief washed over the monarch. “At least, Anne will be safe.”

Anne must survive. The thought of her death is like a dagger to my heart, mused the King of France. In his mind’s eye, Anne and mortality moved through the earthly world like things apart, as though they belonged to some other mode of existence. His dreams lingered on the new phase of his life – his matrimony with the most extraordinary woman he had ever met, and then he chased them away to concentrate. He would not have this life with Anne if the emperor had won.

François steered his stallion towards the men, who picked up their weapons and mounted.  

§§§

“Signal the troops into position,” the monarch said to Philippe de Chabot.

As the Valois royal standard rose high into the air, the effect on the army was astonishing. The eyes of every soldier blazed with the fire of determination and faith in their victory.    

Everyone recited prayers to the Almighty. Then officers, captains, and sergeants started prowl the ranks, barking orders and arranging the divisions in the strongest formations possible.

Clad in his extravagant armor, François was at the head of the cavalry, with Chabot at his side. Montmorency jumped into the saddle as he readied himself for the charge onto the exposed wing of the Imperial army, which was stationed close to a lake near the château – Miroir d’eau.

Everyone froze in amazement when they saw Queen Anne’s splendid litter, swathed in cloth of gold, and drawn by four white palfreys caparisoned in white damask.

The ruler felt a lump in his throat. “Why is she here?”

“I don’t know, Your Majesty,” mumbled Tournon. Montmorency and Chabot shrugged.  

Postponing the attack, the ruler rode through the military camp. He brought the beast into a snorting standstill at the same time when the queen’s litter stopped near the entrance to the castle. Claude d’Annebault dismounted and genuflected in front of his sovereign’s horse.

“Why have you returned?” François demanded harshly.

His wife stepped onto the ground from the litter. “I don’t want to leave.”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” muttered a bemused Annebault, as he rose to his feet.  

The ruler berated, “Anne, you imperil your life.”

The queen scoffed. “Don’t tell me that the battlefield is not a place for a woman.”

For a short time, Anne was petrified with fright. There was someone in her belly whose life she treasured above all things, and maybe she should not have come to the camp on the eve of the battle.   Avoiding her husband, she hadn’t informed him about her condition yet. Nevertheless, Anne was tied to François by chains of war, and so her vehement desire to prove her courage outweighed her other feelings. Nothing bad will happen to me if I stay here, she convinced herself.

Her husband parried, “I was not going to say this. Your safety is too important.”

She made the sign of a cross in the air. “God save and protect Your Majesty!  Lead your army to the greatest victory!  Cripple the Spanish armies!”

“Anne…” François was overwhelmed with both awe and fear.

“I’ll be waiting for you here,” affirmed Anne with a reassuring smile.    

A few moments later, Chabot appeared. “Your Majesty, they are attacking.”

Then Cardinal de Tournon came to them. “Annebault and I will protect the queen.” He was a man of God and could not fight, but he could help in the camp as much as he could.

Regret that he had to leave Anne colored the king’s thoughts.  Given her return to the Château, François would have left the command of his forces to Montmorency so that he could escort his wife out of danger on his own. However, his men would follow only him now.   

Turning to the Marshal of France, the king enjoined, “Monty, I lead the cavalry charge at the Imperial protected wing. You will attack their exposed wing.” His scrutiny slid to Annebault. “Claude, stay here and command the artillery. You will also be responsible for the queen’s safety.” He glanced at Chabot. “You will both be with me, Philippe and Your Eminence.”

Casting an ambiguous glance at Anne, the ruler headed to the rear of the army. Torrents of tension, mingled with dread for his wife’s fate, flowed through his veins like a rampant disease.

§§§

“Charge at them!” commanded King François in a majestic voice. “Charge!”

The monarch of France and half of his troops galloped across the fields, which stretched around the Château. Despite the horses’ breakneck speed, they maintained a perfect formation not less than two miles in depth, which consisted of twelve thousand people.

Long lines of warriors in armet and morion helmets against the field indicated that ten thousand enemy riders were approaching fast. The thunder of their horses’ hooves drowned out the muttered curses in the French lines. The opposing parties unsheathed their weapons. The birds, which had roosted in the nearby trees ablaze with the colors of autumn, took to the air.   

“Archers!” the monarch’s voice rose like the Creator’s own fury. “Fire!”

François flipped down his visor and lifted his shield. The field, where he had chosen to engage the foe, was surrounded by the woods. Trees protected the flanks of the French.    

“Ready to fire!” Guillaume du Bellay shouted from nearby.  

The volleys of arrows were loosed, most of them finding their marks. The archers weren’t encumbered with armor, for it would hamper their ability to move on their feet and fire rapidly.  Therefore, the archers were protected by knights’ shields, because they were all in the rear to be able to shoot over the heads of the enemy vanguard, executing the king’s plan.

The shafts cut down quite many Imperial mercenaries. Horses bolted, and hundreds of soldiers were tossed from their saddles onto the ground. The surviving men raced on towards the French lines, brandishing their weapons above their heads or in front of themselves.

“Stop!” the ruler bellowed as he tightened the reins sharply.     

The French cavalrymen all reined in their stallions, as if they were under some spell of a sorcerer. With a fluid movement, hundreds of archers ran ahead of their comrades: each of them drew an arrow and sent the flaming arrows towards the shocked enemy.  

Annebault’s voice was carried clearly by the crisp, cold air.  “Artillery!  Now!”

A moment later, the French artillery fired. Screams of the wounded and dying resounded pitifully. The Spanish horses toppled, men somersaulted, their momentum carrying their bodies into the fray. Another swarm of flaming arrows passed over the Imperial troops.   

“Fire!” Annebault shrieked again. “Help our cavalry!”

Barrages of gunfire were launched on the Spanish warriors, many of whom were unhorsed and slid to the ground with a thump. The entirety of the Imperial party seemed simultaneously perplexed and frightened, for they had not anticipated such crafty tricks from their foe, whom they had defeated in Provence. Their befuddlement and the lack of action on their part resulted in more casualties, as the French archers and artillery promptly renewed their attacks.

As the fire started spreading in the Imperial ranks, someone shouted, “Contain it!”

“Attack!” shouted the Valois monarch while adjusting his burgonet. “For France!”

“For France!” repeated the French warriors.    

“For King François!” roared Cardinal de Tournon, and others echoed him.

The whole formation charged into battle like men possessed by the deities of war. As both parties moved in bacchic mortality dances, the French steel met the Spanish and Italian steel with a deafening clang. The fight was very ferocious, but the French warriors did not perform any deadly slaughter, even though blood gushed in all directions, like fountains of wine. The battle din was so horrifying and loud that one would not have heard God thundering.  

“Germans!” Emperor Carlos exclaimed in Spanish. “How is that possible?”

The terrible rumble of the horses pounding the ground crossed the field. A multitude of warriors, bearing the standards of Philip I, Landgrave of Hesse, and John Frederick I, Elector of Saxony, arrived at the field in accordance with the Valois ruler’s stratagem.

Plunging his sword into his opponent, King François apprised, “The emperor is here!” He would never have mistaken his mortal foe for anyone else. “Find him!”

I want to capture Carlos. The French king strained his eyesight, swiveling his head back and forth. He wielded his weapon in a flurry of blows, feasting wounds on his opponents. His blood heated with an unquenchable fire of his hatred for Carlos, as François finally spotted the emperor, disguised as one of Spanish generals for the sake of concealing his identity.

The king’s destrier was forcing its way through the crowd. The powerful thrusts of his sword made those who stood in his path fall dead or scatter. François noticed that Carlos was panicking, his fighting style becoming more chaotic and his movements more strained.

“Now!” yelled Philippe de Chabot while retracing his sovereign’s path.

The Imperial cavalry withdrew to the other side of the field. With startling suddenness and unexpectedness, their lines hit the traps. At first, only a few stallions stumbled, but that was enough to wreak havoc in their ranks. As more horses lost their footing and fell, shrieks of panic pierced the air, which was intensified by the French gunfire.

“Retreat!” Carlos screamed in a high-pitched voice. “Retreat to the woods!”

François’ boisterous laughter echoed over the battlefield. “Carlos, I have a surprise for you!” he addressed his rival in Spanish.  “Your exposed flank must already be destroyed!”

“No!” the Habsburg ruler deflected blows of the many opponents, who wanted to reach him. His bodyguards dispatched all of those men, keeping him safe. “That cannot be true!”  

“We have outwitted you, Carlos!” taunted his Valois rival in a high voice.  

For a split second, all seemed to quieten down, as if the universe had gone still to listen to the exchange of the two rulers. Then the field resounded with noise, swords colliding and men shouting. The cries of the wounded were muffled by the bursts of artillery fire. During the battle, the Spanish artillery had not been used because of Montmorency’s assault on their other wing.  

Delivering killing blows here and there, the emperor instructed, “To the camp!”

Now being in full retreat, the Imperial forces were compelled to ride far closer to each other than they normally did. As they entered the adjacent pastures, some horses staggered, and others quickly followed. As the bulk of the surviving Imperial cavalry hit more traps, man after man tumbled out of their saddles, and the sickening sound of bones breaking rang out.

The French king’s jeering voice boomed. “Dearest Spaniards, urge your horses into the illusory terrains, only to have them drop one leg into a hole.” He guffawed. “That is so romantic!  Don’t you think so, Carlos?  Do you like our French eccentricity, my friend?”    

To the scared foe, everything seemed surreal, as if an invisible wall had been thrown on various parts of the battlefield to paralyze them. Nobody had considered the surrounding terrains perilous until it was too late.  Everyone was now escaping, like birds from the snares of fowlers.  

“Charge after them!” Chabot ordered. He murdered a few Italian mercenaries, who got dangerously close to his liege lord. “Kill or capture them!”

“Protect the king!” Bellay dispatched a Spaniard who could stab his sovereign. He then commanded, “Take those who are entrapped prisoners!”

“Capture Carlos!” shouted King François, who neared his bitter adversary. His sword slashed, sliced, and parried with amazing precision. “I want him unharmed!”

A panicked murmuring broke out among the Imperial men. An incensed Emperor Carlos admitted in French, “François, you should watch over your whore of a wife!”

A colossal shock sprang through the Valois ruler. “Philippe, assume the command!” His mind set on finding Anne, he commenced making his way out of the fighting mass.   

§§§

Oblivious to everything around him, King François flew on his horse across the fields, as if he were on a steeple-chase. Anne’s fate and their future depended upon his speed. As he entered the French camp, he hopped down from the saddle, leaving his destrier riderless.  

“Anne!” vociferated François. There was a desperate edge to his voice. “Anne!”

Several soldiers appeared, their faces abashed to see their liege lord here.  

“Where is my queen?” demanded François as he neared them.  

A lad stuttered, “Monsieur d’Annebault escorted the queen to Your Majesty’s tent.”  

The monarch rushed through the camp, like a strong gush of gale. His heart thumped, as if endeavoring to pump thick oil of baleful presentiment through his veins. It seemed to him that the pillars of his reign rested upon his marriage to the very woman who did not want to be his wife. Anne might despise me as a king and a man, but I want her alive more than any of my men.

As he stormed into his own tent, a breathless François looked around. As his gaze found her, a scream clogged in his throat, awful and too big to choke down, yet too horrible to release.  

His wife lay on the bed, her eyes wide, her visage tinctured with consternation.  Three knights, wearing morions on their heads, froze near the bed, like menacing shadows. One of them lifted his sword, poised for the finishing strike, his lips stretching in an evil grin.

“The heretical Boleyn whore,” hissed the queen’s would-be murderer in Spanish.

“No!” cried the queen, her arms wrapped around her abdomen.  

A horrified Anne cowered, expecting the penetration of steel into her body and then fatal oblivion, but no blow followed. The warrior, who had insulted and threatened her moments earlier, gurgled with blood and lay slain, a crimson lake pooling out of him onto the ground.

Her husband’s figure in armor came into view.  “Anne, get out of here!”

The King of France battled with the two other assassins. He spun his sword in his hand a couple of times, and then rained it down vehemently on one of his opponents. The man nearly sidestepped, but the ruler’s blade sliced his shoulder and sent him careening backwards. As the other rival lunged at him, François moved to the right and feigned a movement to the left. The assassin swung his blade to deflect the blow when the monarch decapitated him.  

Suddenly, the second assassin emerged next to the king, as if out of nowhere. Blood was flowing out of the wound on his shoulder, but he assembled the strength to ram his fist into the ruler’s midsection. With a groan, a disoriented François staggered backwards.

The man unsheathed his dagger.  “I’ll murder you, French parvenu, and then your harlot.”  

The small weapon flashed silver as the Spaniard raised it for the kill. Before he could swing it downward, a poniard murmured across his back. With a howl of pain, the knight swooped forward. A stream of blood trickled out of his mouth, and then he turned still.

Sprawled on the floor, the king looked up at his wife.  “Anne!  You have saved me!”

His queen was so pallid that she looked almost luminous in the tent’s gloom. Her spouse’s poniard, its hilt encrusted with the royal emblem of a salamander, was clasped in her hand. She had not complied with his order to escape, watching him fight against her almost murderers, and then the ruler seemed to have been on the brink of death, she had just acted on impulse.  

“And so have you.”  She didn’t recognize her own voice.  

Having removed his burgonet, he climbed to his feet. “It is over. We are both alive.”  

Anne stared at the bloodied poniard with glassy eyes. A spear of terror cut through her to the bone.  “I’ve never… taken a human life before…” She trailed off.  

“It is all right.” He took the dagger from her and put it on a nearby table.

Tears splashed onto her cheeks, and François hugged Anne tenderly. She went willingly into his hug, melting against him with a soft cry. He still wore his armor, but she didn’t care, allowing him to support her fragile weight and letting the tears flow unchecked.  

“Anne,” he murmured, rocking her in his arms.

All of a sudden, his spouse went limp in the sanctuary of his embrace. Her eyes fluttered shut, and her chin sank to her chest, indicating that she had fainted. He carried her to the bed and gently laid her down, determined to go find his physician so as to examine her.  

François observed Anne’s chest rise and fall smoothly with every breath. His emotions were tangled and knotted, until torrents of relief inundated his whole being. A sense of something larger-than-life engulfed him, refreshing and enigmatic. I feel as if I were Orpheus who reached Eurydice in the underworld, but, in contrast to him, I succeeded in bringing her back to life.  

Anne de Montmorency's urgent shout invaded into his musings. "Victory! The emperor has retreated with his surviving men! His unprotected wing has been crushed!"

“Victory!” The scream of the Bailiff of Orléans, who owned Château de Chamerolles, proved that. The triumphant cries of the royal soldiers echoed all around like a mullion bells.

“Thanks be to God,” whispered the ruler to himself with a cheerful smile.

Cardinal de Tournon slipped into the king’s tent. As he saw the unconscious queen, he asked worriedly, “What happened, Your Majesty?  Are you and your wife unscratched?”

The monarch turned to him. “Yes, we are. Take care of Anne until my doctor comes.”

“Of course.” Tournon eased himself into a chair near the bed.

Casting a warm glance at Anne, François walked out of the tent, for now she was safe. Although he had defeated the Imperial troops today, he had not vanquished them utterly. The ancient instinct of a warrior called to the monarch to brace himself for new confrontations.  

Notes:

I hope you liked this chapter. Please leave a review, for it will encourage me to continue writing.

King Henry is haunted by the memories of Anne Boleyn. He cannot forget her, despite having Anne Bassett as his chief mistress and other lovers. Born in 1520, Anne Bassett was very young, and her charms attracted the attention of the lustful English ruler, but in this AU, it happened in 1537 – two or three years earlier than in history. Jane Seymour is still not with child yet, and Henry is no longer excited with bedding his shy and virtuous wife, marital duties became an unfortunate necessity for the monarch to sire a male heir. The Seymour family were introduced in this chapter, and I wonder what you think of them.

In France, the Battle of Chamerolles results in France’s victory over the invaders, but the war is far from over. King François leads the cavalry attack with fearless resolution, just as he did in history. He was called the Knight-King not without a reason, and even though he was not the best military commander of the time, he was a foolhardy and capable warrior. In this AU, François must learn from all of his past mistakes, including the Battle of Pavia, because he has to save France and to keep the country independent. Therefore, François is portrayed as a king who uses all of his knowledge and talents of a general for the liberation of his nation. Queen Anne has not told him yet about her condition, but at the end of the battle, she unexpectedly saves her husband’s life.

I remind you that burgonet was a close-fitting 16th century helmet with cheek guards; it was the successor of the sallet. Armet was a late and perfected medieval helmet of many light parts closing neatly round the head by means of hinges following the contour of chin and neck. Morion was a type of open helmet originally from Castile (Spain), used from the beginning of 16th to early 17th centuries. Thus, Imperial soldiers wear armets and morions on their heads.

I hope that you like the battle described here. It took place near Château de Chamerolles, which you can find on the Internet as it still exists near the city of Orléans, and tourists can visit it.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 10: Chapter 9: A Spiritual Backbone

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: A Spiritual Backbone

October 27, 1536, Château de Chamerolles, near Orléans, Loire Valley, France

Covered with green silk sheets, Queen Anne rested on a canopied bed, whose headboard was inlaid with carvings of tournaments. Sunlight danced across the glass casement windows which lined the king’s bedchamber, intensifying the gleam of the gilded furniture. Two walls were draped in emerald silk, and the other two in paintings of the romance ‘Lancelot du Lac’.

“Ah,” tumbled from Anne’s lips as she turned to her side, her eyes closed.

King François stood near the bed. Two days had elapsed since the battle, during which his spouse had been sleeping, as if cradled in the hands of Hypnos’. He was transfixed by her lithe figure, concealed from him by the bedcovers, by her exotic features, with her dark eyes and long, sweeping lashes, her clearly penciled brows, and her rosy lips, parted slightly as she breathed.

“Anne,” he murmured, his heart beating faster. “Why didn’t you tell me about the baby?”  

As the day progressed, the monarch returned to his rooms three times. Jean Fernel, the best royal physician at court, had said that the queen was so utterly exhausted from the constant worry and fear that she would sleep for a couple of days. When Anne awoke, the sunset tinted the palace’s roof and towers in shades of mauve, giving her an inkling about the time of day.

Stretching her body across the sheets, a befuddled Anne surveyed her surroundings. As she noticed a doublet on a nearby coach, a sense of unease crept down her spine.

“Where am I?” she asked aloud, as though expecting someone to answer her.

A sound, as if a barely perceived whisper, sighed in the depths of the chamber. Light footsteps resounded in stillness, and then the King of France came into view.

“In my bedroom,” answered François as he took a seat in a gilded chair by the bed.

Anne dragged a fortifying breath before speaking composedly, “Why am I here, Your Majesty? The last thing I remember is that we were in your camp.”

“You fainted, and I carried you to the palace and then to my apartments. My physician examined you.” He did not add that the doctor had apprised him of her condition.

His declaration let loose a deluge of terrifying remembrances with a force and freshness which could only be known to someone who had been on the brink of death but evaded it. Anne had been waiting in the royal tent, where she had been escorted by Claude d’Annebault. Despite her cold attitude to François, she had been worried about the very man whom she still refused to call her husband in her mind. The queen had prayed for France and her king during the battle.

Staying true to his word to safeguard her, Annebault had come to the queen several times during the battle. He had put a squad of guards near the king’s tent, but the Imperial assassins had somehow sneaked in. Frightening visions whirled in Anne’s head: several Spaniards anxious not to miss a single instant of what they had anticipated being her final agony, the mortal dread she had experienced not for herself but for her baby, and, finally, her salvation by the French ruler.

Gratitude inundated Anne, and now she beheld her husband with the gaze of a long-lost friend. “Your Majesty saved me, and I thank you for that. I owe you my life.”

Her spouse was relieved to see the warmth in her expression. “You owe me nothing. As soon as I realized that you could be in danger, I left the battlefield and went to ensure that you were safe. I thank the Lord that I arrived in time before the worst could happen.”

The king was shaken by the memory of that attempted regicide on his wife. The same unutterable despair that he had felt in those moments petrified him for a split second.  His mental machinery ceased operating, if he imagined that the worm of ruin could break into the circle of his marital life. I would have been absolutely bereft if Anne and our baby had died on that day.

She quizzed, “What is the outcome of the confrontation?”

A triumphant François stated, “We won the Battle of Chamerolles! The Imperial troops withdrew from the Loire Valley to Auvergne and southern provinces. Many of the emperor’s men were not slaughtered but trapped or injured, eventually becoming our prisoners. However, about four thousand of our troops died in battle, but Carlos lost more than ten thousand men in total.”

“That is a great result! Congratulations, Your Majesty!”

“Now I’m sure we will expel the enemy soon.”

His wife crossed herself. “Let it be so, sire.”

His confidence and joy were palpable. “In several months, the war will be over.”

Her mind floated to their meeting in the tent. “Did you leave your army to check on me?”

The ruler smiled. “Yes, I did. Philippe de Chabot assumed the leadership.”

A sense of incredulity enveloped her. “Really?”

“Yes, Anne. I do treasure your life.”

“It is so unexpected that Your Majesty acted so.”

Disbelief shadowed his visage. “Do you really think that I would have allowed someone to kill you? Do you really have such a low opinion of me?”

The queen had the decency to look ashamed. “No, I don’t, sire. It is just that we are in a political marriage, so I did not expect any chivalry towards me on your part.”

Injured by her candor, he impulsively spoke in a breathless rush. “I’ve been called the Knight-King for years. Everyone knows that I’ve always tried to avoid doing things which could be unworthy of one who aspires to be the best knight in Christendom.”

François had spoken the truth, but his overweening manner blew away her apologetic mood. “It is not a sword, but a chivalrous heart that makes a true knight. Your Majesty is a valiant man on the battlefield, but you are not always gallant in interpersonal relations. As we are almost strangers to each other, I do not demand that you sacrifice yourself or anyone else for me.”

Anne saw a wince of hurt flash across his face. It is necessary to make the reality of our situation clear to him again, she decided. Yet, guilt was eating away at her like gall, corroding her insides. She felt herself like the most ungrateful creature, but she would not apologize to him.  

His countenance evolved into the impenetrable wall, separating him from her chilliness. “I am not Henry Tudor. I do not have the habit of getting rid of my wives when I’m bored with them and desire to marry someone else. No woman has ever been imprisoned at my behest.”

A twinge of regret went through her. “I should not have said that.”

A sharp edge to his voice, the ruler castigated, “Actually, I cannot wrap my head around the truth which I know now. You returned to the camp, where you put yourself and the life of our child in jeopardy. I must admit that it was too reckless of you to act so.”

In silence full of trepidation, their gazes of steel intersected like hostile swords. His eyes gleamed with harsh disapproval, while she contemplated him with ire mingled with umbrage.  

At last, the queen turned her head away to the window. The fading sunset split the gray clouds and lit the sky red for a moment before dying, coloring her whole world in blackness. The comprehension that her secret had already been divulged to the king was overwhelming in its solid force. François knows that I’m expecting his baby, and he has power over me, Anne panicked.     

The monarch emitted a grievous sigh. “You resolved to stay in Chamerolles to prove to everyone that you are my warrior queen who is aiding the Knight-King to save France.” Another sigh followed. “You kept silent about your condition for weeks not to give me power over you. However, you are mistaken that I want to cause you any harm.”

Her mouth was hanging open. “How have you guessed that, sire?”

“Perhaps I understand women better than other men do.”

The dark eyes morphed into two pools of indignation that a woman feels for an unfaithful husband. “Of course, a philanderer is capable of predicting a woman’s behavior pretty well.”

His laughter reverberated throughout the room like a cry of a six-winged seraph. François climbed to his feet and settled on the bed next to his wife, who did not pull away this time.

The king issued a joke in a serious undertone. “It would have been perfect if these words were spoken out of jealousy. If a wife happens to be jealous in a marriage of convenience, it is like having all the happiness in the universe, but still being infelicitous.”

An exasperated Anne parried, “I am feeling nothing of that sort!”

“True,” he uttered with some harnessed emotion which he couldn’t define. “I heard from my ambassador how you behaved when being jealous of Henry in public. I do not delude myself into thinking that you care for me.” His wounded ego goaded him into adding, “I am not envious of Henry, and I am not eager to emulate his doubtful attainments in marital life.”

The mention of Henry discomfited her. “I do not want to talk.”   

Her categorical statement cut through his heart like a hundred knives. “At the same time, Anne, I have to confess that a large part of me desires to increase my knowledge about your unique personality. No woman in the world is as sophisticated as you are, and if a man ever manages to peel away the layers of your character, he will become the cleverest scholar.”

Abashed by his sincerity, the queen felt contrite for her earlier impoliteness towards him. “Your Majesty, I meant that I did not wish to discuss the King of England.” She referred to her former husband in a formal way, for it helped her increase a distance between them.

A spark of joy flickered across his countenance. “I do not want to think about him either.”

A sensation of protectiveness swept over him, and the monarch pulled his consort to himself. She surprised him by putting her head onto his shoulder, and he looped his arms around her. One of his hands slid to her stomach beneath the covers, stroking it tenderly.

Kissing the top of her head, the ruler whispered, “Anne, I’ll always come to your rescue. You are my wife, so I am responsible for your life and wellbeing. Regardless of what happens to France and my throne, you have to live, especially now.”  

Anne blinked at him, as if he had just suggested doing an in-depth study of life origins on earth. “Your Majesty does not have any obligations towards me.”  

“You are wrong,” protested François vehemently, his hand fondling her abdomen. “I’ve married three women out of necessity. I do not expect from you any affection. But I have a duty to you as your husband and the father of our child, and I shall never try to weasel out of it.”  

The marital restrictions were the very last thing she wished to hear. As she endeavored to extricate herself from his grasp, the king pressed her to himself tighter, yet gently. Still rubbing her belly, he buried his head into her hair, as though he were a weary warrior, whose life had been in upheaval for so long that now he was glad to have a moment of repose with his lady love.

Frozen in this position, François murmured, “When my physician told me about the baby, I felt as if I were flying without wings.” A sigh spilled from his lips. “This year, I lost my eldest son, which nearly destroyed me. The tidings of your condition had a healing effect on me.”

As he parted from her, Anne discerned vivid traces of profound grief, which were etched into his features. “I do commensurate with Your Majesty’s loss.”

His smile was sad. “Thank you, Anne.”

Nodding at him, she voiced her concerns. “I swear that I want this child. But I’m afraid I will not be able to carry it to full term, given my history of unsuccessful pregnancies.”

The monarch cupped her face and gazed into her eyes reverently. “Anne, I beg you not to think about the past that poisons you with fear and desolation. Do this for our baby, if not for me. I shall take care of you and the child, my best physicians will watch over you.”

“One of the most painful things a woman can go through is a miscarriage. I promise to be careful to avoid it, providing the best self-care to help welcome a healthy baby.” The thought that this child in her womb could die sent jolts of heartache through her bosom.

His thumbs caressed her cheeks. “Everything will be all right.”

“What if it is a girl?” Words fled her mouth like scared deer.

His arms encircled her waist like the outer walls of a stronghold. “Anne, I know where your fears come from. I am not obsessed with sons, and I shall love any child you bear.”

His wife measured him with a skeptical glance. “I just want it to be healthy.”

“You are afraid to believe me. But, over time, you will see that I am not lying.”

The queen’s soul rejoiced like a gospel choir singing the praises to the Almighty. The revelation of her spouse’s innermost thoughts about his departed son had revealed the arcane layers of his complex personality. His suffering indicated that his outward lordly raiment masked his deep, rich inner world. His affectionate attitude to her and their baby elated Anne, pulling her to François by invisible cords. What does this all mean for me? He is not like Henry, is he?     

To diffuse the tension, François jested, “You cannot be the pregnant Goddess Minerva on the battlefield. Thus, you will join my court in Villers-Cotterêts as soon as possible.”

His joke did not offend her. “It was foolhardy and foolish of me to return to Chamerolles. But I strove to continue being the symbol of our victory over the invaders.”

He deposited a kiss on her forehead. “I admire your bravery, but I want you to be safe.”  

“You are of course right, sire.”

The King of France removed his arms from her and rose from the bed. Therewithal, the queen felt empty and chill, yearning to be entangled in his embrace once more.

The depth of his scrutiny directed at the queen was immeasurable. “We are the most illustrious couple, Anne. We stand against the Habsburg Empire together. We wrestled against Hades and came to one another’s rescue in time. Poets will compose ballads about our chivalry!”

Her fluted laughter exuded excitement and novelty, which François had not heard from his wife yet. It steamed to him like a marvelous fantasy discovered in a dream, bound to last for only a handful of precious moments before perishing in the troubled waters of reality. He laughed back, as if their current lives were as smooth as the surface of an ocean on a serene day.

“We will win!” cried an exhilarated Anne with a touch of pride. “Legends are like deep-rooted trees. They live on forever and flourish with every new generation. So, the legend of our victory over the mighty Holy Roman Emperor will be glorified in centuries to come.”

“Smile more often and feel more confident, Anne.” His mouth stretching in an exuberant grin, he affirmed, “I’m delighted that you conceived on our wedding night, and that my prediction came true. Pregnancy suits you: you are glowing like an exotic flower, and so is my heart.”

Before she could chastise him for his conceited tendencies, the Valois monarch sauntered out of the chamber. The sound of his footsteps mimicked the drumbeat of Anne’s heart.  

The queen smiled slightly, staring at the closed door. Her eyes were dreamy with a vague, undefined happiness, for the ruler’s astounding care for her melted her heart. His indifference to the baby’s gender produced in her chest something like an actual flame, as if Anne had entered some profound transformation, and a new personality had perhaps been created in the process.

Anne looked out the window and noticed that nightfall was descending quickly. It was an ideal day for improving her marital relationship. However, she could not allow her guard down and her hopes up too high. Matrimony, even if it is based on love by a miracle, is by no means joy, but agony. There can be no contentment in a royal marriage. She hoped that François would spend all his time with his lovers after his return to court, leaving her without his attention.      


November 10, 1539, Château de Villers-Cotterêts, Villers-Cotterêts, Picardie, France

The gallery, which formed the principal ornament of the ground floor, was thronged with richly attired courtiers. Chief among them, not merely in rank, but for her magnificent stature and deportment, was Queen Anne of France, who had arrived at the court’s current residence a week earlier and made her first public appearance after spending the first few days in seclusion.

“I’m glad to see all of you here,” declared Anne in flawless French, with a brilliant smile. “You all know that our sovereign won the Battle of Chamerolles. We must all pray for him so that the omnipotent Lord helps him in his most sacred mission of France’s salvation.”

A murmur of approval rippled through the group. Regardless of their conflicted feelings over the queen, the nobles perused the lovely planes of Anne’s swarthy face, their gazes lingering on her enigmatic dark eyes, with her night-kissed hair, cascading down her back to the waist.  

Pivoting in unison with several ladies, the queen slowly glided through the corridor, as if she were a swan moving across the smooth surface of a pond. Anne admired the grand gallery, where walls were adorned with figures of goddesses and nymphs carved in oak, as well as several rows of caissons. The ceiling was decorated with salamanders, foliage, flowers, and fleurs-de-lis.

Anne, who looked particularly feminine these days, was in the full éclat of her exotic beauty. Her sumptuous habiliments – a grand gown of purple brocade, wrought with gold, with open, pendent sleeves and sable trimming on the low-cut square neckline – tastefully accentuated her royal status and bearing. Her stomacher of black silk was studded with diamonds, sapphires, and amethysts. The girdle, which consisted of precious stones, encircled her waist. Her oval-cut, diamond necklace and matching earrings created a shimmering halo of elegance about her.

As the queen and her ladies disappeared in the corridor, the crowd broke into whisperings.

“Anne Boleyn really became the Queen of France.”

“She managed to wrap King François around her finger.”

“That woman forced our sovereign to wed her.”

“No, you are mistaken! His Majesty was not coerced into this marriage.”

“Obviously, our liege lord made her his wife out of duty to France.”   

“We formed a useful Protestant alliance thanks to this union.”

Most of the courtiers still struggled with the idea of having Anne on the French throne, even though they had grudgingly accepted it. Everyone was bewildered that the king had permitted his wife to worship her heresy in private, which had scandalized the Valois court.

The assemblage repeated what they had learned about the confrontation near Orléans.

“We have to thank Queen Anne for saving King François!”

“She was very courageous during the battle.”

“They saved each other’s lives like true heroes of France!”

“Her Majesty aided His Majesty to capture the emperor’s brother.”

A moment later, Clément Marot, a poet highly favored by the Valois siblings, appeared in the corridor. “I’ll compose a multitude of poems about King François and Queen Anne. Their bravery must be immortalized through words and remembered by succeeding generations.”

Duke Claude de Guise was one of the nobles in attendance. “Monsieur Marot, you are too sympathetic to heresy. I recommend that you curb your artistic interest in the blasphemous teachings of Luther and Calvin, or one day, the holy Inquisition will knock on your doors.”  

Marot threw a fulminating glance towards the duke. “Although I belong to the Catholic Church, I am also a poet and a humanist, Monsieur de Guise. A humanist without the knowledge of mankind’s history, origin, culture, and new tendencies in the world is like a tree without roots.”

Before the Duke of Guise could retort, Cardinal François de Tournon entered the gallery. As he approached the assemblage, everyone fell silent in anticipation, for they all knew that he supported the king’s marriage to Queen Anne. Many had seen the cardinal smile cordially at the queen when they had disembarked from the litter upon their arrival at the palace.   

In harsh accents, Cardinal de Tournon addressed Guise, “I must remind Your Grace that our country follows the course of religious tolerance. Intellectual works, where artists don’t spread ideas of religious reform in our Church, are not interpreted as heresy.”

Claude de Guise glared between the poet and the cardinal. “Of course, Your Eminence.”

Sweeping his eyes over the throng, Tournon proclaimed, “You are all aware that I’ve worked hard to fight against all kinds of heresy at court and in France. Our nation will always be a Catholic one, but there are cases when His Majesty may make an exception for someone, just as he did in the queen’s case. None of you has any right to question the king’s decisions.”

After the prelate’s departure, a grave silence reigned in the gallery for quite some time. Then the courtiers began dispersing, their countenances strained and pensive.

Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly, Duchess d’Étampes, stood at the far end of the gallery. Her sworn foe, the Queen of France, had just passed her, not sparing her a single glance. Her sister, Péronne de Pisseleu, was at her side, observing the grumpy royal paramour.

“This headache is awful,” complained the king’s mistress, as she touched her throbbing temples. “Since that whore’s arrival, I cannot sleep at night, so I feel so bad.”

A scared Péronne glanced around. “Be careful, sister.”

Anne de Pisseleu ushered her into a nearby alcove, where they could converse quietly.

Balling her fists, the Duchess d’Étampes spluttered, “The mere sound of her name makes me feel sick. It also awakens in my breast a fresh agony of pain, for I fear so much that I might lose my beloved François. Especially if what my spy – one of her ladies – told me, is true.”   

Péronne connected the dots. “Do you mean the queen’s rumored pregnancy?”

Her sister hissed, “Don’t call that harlot a queen.”

The other woman pointed out, “Anne, you must accept the reality.”

Ignoring her insinuation, the duchess gritted out, “I was informed that François sent Anne Boleyn away from the Loire Valley to protect her and their child. Nothing has been announced yet, and she has been secretive regarding her condition, but her morning sickness proves it.”   

Péronne’s penetrating gaze assessed her sister. “Are you really going to make shipwreck of Her Majesty’s life for the sake of your obsession with our ruler?”

The heat of wrath creeping up to her cheeks, Anne de Pisseleu vowed, “I shall never allow that Boleyn witch to take my François from me. If she is with child, revenge will be part of my agenda, for I do not want her to be connected with him by such solid bonds.”

Her sister spoke sagely. “Retaliation perpetuates the cycle of ire and fear. At the same time, the only way out of the labyrinth of suffering from jealousy is to let it go.”

“I cannot,” the duchess got out, her teeth clenched. “That English slattern humiliated me during my audience with her, and I shall never condone it. She cannot imagine what a dangerous enemy her sharp tongue earned for her. I shall make her regret that she came to France.”     

Péronne whitened as a terrible suspicion crept into her consciousness. “Anne, it would be high treason to do something against the baby.”

“That is not what I’m planning. Fear not, sister: I know what I am doing.”

“Don’t dig your own grave,” sighed Péronne.

Affronted, Anne de Pisseleu responded, “I will not act against her child, for it is fathered by François. I love him so wholeheartedly to ever harm anyone through whose veins the Valois blood is coursing. In the meantime, it does not mean that the babe’s mother will be content.”

“It is hopeless, I judge, from your speeches, to try and dissuade you from leaving Their Majesties alone and accepting the place which the king will choose for you in his life.”

“Péronne, have you ever loved as deeply as I love François? I think not, or you would not have used such hackneyed words to describe what I should do in my situation.”

“I’m sorry, but I do not think that your feelings for our liege lord are that strong.”

The incensed duchess exploded, “I love François with all my soul and mind!”

Her sister groaned, “Why do you betray him with other men, then?”

Anne de Pisseleu narrowed her eyes. “Will you not keep my secrets?”

“I shall,” the other lady assured with a sigh. “I love you, sister, and I do not want you to suffer.” She sighed. “But I think it would have been better, if Louise de Savoy had never placed you in the king’s path so that you could catch his eye. Our sovereign’s mother despised Françoise de Foix so much that she resorted to many tricks so as to move her out of her son’s life.”

“Don’t you dare say that!” the duchess riposted severely. “François is my greatest love and happiness! The passion we share will always thrive in our bodies and hearts!”

Swiveling, Anne de Pisseleu stared through a window out into the courtyard. As her gaze fell on the King of France’s portrait that hung above a stunning loggia, a torrent of loathing for the rival surge through her. These days, her whole being was overwhelmed with the most pernicious sentiments towards the English slut, who had become the bane of her previously merry existence.

“François is only mine,” the duchess swore. “Forever and ever.”

The royal mistress hastened to retire to her quarters. Her sister followed her, praying that the envious woman would not commit some grave mistake that would shatter her life.

§§§

Queen Anne stood by a window in her apartments. Her art-loving soul was overflowing with sentimentality and awe at the sight of the sheer magnificence around her.   

With an enlightened air about her, the monarch’s wife articulated, “The main distinctions between styles of architecture depend on the methods of roofing a space such as a window, a door, or a space between pillars. The Greek and Roman architecture is distinguished by round arches, while the Gothic one is linked with pointed arches or gables.”

Anne examined the courtyard that was framed by the palace’s two long wings. She had never visited this château before, for it had been erected in 1527-1529. She admired the stunning façade, surmounted by a colonnade of Corinthian columns. The Ionic pillars supported a series of foliated consoles and a grand loggia, whose niches housed mythological statues. Above the loggia hung the portrait of King François, who wore the necklace of the Order of St. Michael.

Her gaze veered to the ruler’s portrait. These days, François was heading south from the Loire Valley, pursuing the retreating foe. She nonetheless felt his powerful presence everywhere.

Anne eyed the grand ensemble with an artistic eye. “His Majesty brought to France the Italian style which was masterfully merged with the great French constructions. In all the palaces which were built or renovated after the king’s accession all those years ago, the emphasis is made on symmetry, geometry, and proportion. The antiquity combines a timeless classic feeling with picturesqueness of expression, creating a link to the ancient architecture.”

Françoise de Chabot approached her. “The French feeling is obvious in our architecture. Yet, the modern style is breathtaking, together with its orderly arrangements of columns, pilasters, lintels, and arches – it is more elegant than irregular profiles of old buildings.”

The queen turned to the woman, whom she had appointed her première dame d’honneur. Ladies, representing the highest French nobility, were traditionally selected for this office. Anne liked the young Françoise de Longwy de Chabot, Dame de Pagny and de Mirebeau, who was Countess de Charny and Buzançois through her marriage to Philippe de Chabot, Admiral de Brion.

“Indeed, Madame de Chabot,” concurred Anne.

The other woman exclaimed, “His Majesty has achieved perfection!”  

Gazing out, the queen dived into the discussion about the arts. “What we see in France is like spring before summer. The artists, whom His Majesty invited from Italy, mingled the best Italian traditions with the French spirit. Those who are employed at court work hard to create the national style, ushering the country into the summer of French culture.”

The royal wife pivoted to face her ladies-in-waiting, who had all ceased embroidering to listen to their mistress. Now they were impressed by the queen’s famed intelligence.  

Anne regarded them with interest. They had all arrived at the palace from Fontainebleau after the court’s relocation to the town of Villers-Cotterêts. Marguerite had written her about who she could take into her service, so Anne had followed her sister-in-law’s advice.

In addition to Françoise de Longwy, her ladies included Jeanne d’Angoulême, Countess de Bar-sur-Seine, who was François and Marguerite’s illegitimate half-sister. Marguerite insisted that Louise, Anne de Montmorency’s sister, should serve the queen. Anne could not ignore the Guises and the House of Bourbon in order to keep potential adversaries close. As a result, Marie and Louise de Lorraine, offspring of Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, and Marie de Bourbon, a daughter of Charles de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, were part of the queen’s household.

Many of Anne’s former English maids-of-honor had given false testimonies against her, and a shiver of alarm raced through her. Her French ladies seemed friendly and eager to please their queen, but naïveté was no longer her weakness. When will one of them betray me? I must always watch my back lest someone serves my Catholic enemies or Anne de Pisseleu, she resolved.     

Queen Anne dismissed them. “I’m tired and must rest for a while.”

Curtseying to her, the women all climbed to their feet and quitted the room. Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant, bobbed a curtsey, but halted near the door.

The queen issued a strict reprimand. “Madame, you have to obey your queen.”

Françoise inquired, “Does Your Majesty need something?”

“No, thank you. You may leave.”   

Anne crossed to a gilded armchair, adorned with the Valois device. As she settled into it, she stretched out her hands to the fire that danced jocundly in the marble fireplace, decorated with salamanders. A tension-filled silence ensued, as if by mutual arrangement.

The countess broke the uncomfortable pause. “Our sovereign asked me to become your lady-in-waiting so as to keep you informed of all the undercurrent trends at court.”

Grinning acrimoniously, Anne jeered, “The king is immensely generous to his queen, and I heartily thank him for that. I do not object to being served by his famous former mistress.”

The queen behaved exactly as François had warned the countess in his summons. “With all due respect to Your Majesty, I have to say that you are obviously not indifferent to the matter. The stiffening of your shoulders and your barbs prove it.”   

This came too close to the mark. “A man is known by his deeds and conquests; a woman by her wit and manners. Your indecorous conduct might sully your courteous reputation.”

The older woman replied levelly, “I am His Majesty’s friend, although he terminated our relationship years ago. As I’ve always served him well and loyally, I have nothing to fear. As he wishes me to take care of you, I’ll gladly comply with his order.”

The woman’s boldness was rather impressive, but anger with her husband overrode all of Anne’s other feelings. “His distrust is offensive to me, and I’ll not tolerate it.”  

Her tone suasive, Françoise explained everything at length. “My queen, I am not your enemy. Your husband’s true intentions are far from being dishonorable.” She stilled, letting the words sink in. “The king strives to keep you out of harm’s way, for you have many enviers and foes at court. We do not even know what your ladies have on their minds.”

Anne eyed the Countess de Châteaubriant, as if she were a rare painting. Françoise was a celebrated beauty in France, who had been at the very center of the court’s brilliant life when teenaged Anne had lived in France with her father and her elder sister, Mary. Anne remembered how the monarch had paraded Françoise around his court, much to Queen Claude’s chagrin.

The former maîtresse-en-titre had aged, but she remained exceedingly attractive. A tall and exquisitely proportioned creature, Françoise wore a fashionable gown of azure damask worked with silver, with loose hanging sleeves. From her marble neck, dangled a cordeliere – a necklace imitated from the cord worn by Franciscan friars, which displayed the Foix coat of arms. Her countenance was luxuriously delicate, her large eyes of a tender blue. Her long, blonde locks were contained by a French hood studded with gems. Her noble features are so lovely that I cannot understand why François chose the depraved Anne de Pisseleu over her, wondered the queen.

She seemed to be sincere, so Anne quizzed, “Does the king really care about me?”

Françoise smiled at her heartily. “Of course, he does. You are his wife, whom he wants to be hale and hearty. He also wishes to ensure the child’s safety.”

The queen released a sigh. “Ah, any ruler wants another male heir.”   

The countess attempted to illuminate the flaw in the queen’s reasoning. “Please, pardon me for speaking out of turn. Years ago, I had the privilege of being our liege lord’s lady, and he made me extremely happy. I can attest to the fact that he has never been unkind to me, although in early youth, his hot blood prompted him to break many hearts.”  

“What are you telling me this, Madame?”

Françoise took a direct, but polite, approach. “You seem to have the wrong understanding of your spouse. François de Valois is incapable of perpetuating atrocities towards women. He has a mellow temper, although he might be deadly in politics.” After a pause, she continued, “He has never been obsessed with male heirs. You might remember that he was happy when Queen Claude gave him two daughters before his first son, the late Dauphin François, was born. Unfortunately, both girls died in childhood, while his eldest son passed away several months earlier.”   

Both women crossed themselves before chorusing, “God rest their souls.”

Suddenly, Mary Boleyn’s cries after her abandonment by the Valois monarch resounded through Anne’s consciousness, like claps of thunder. The pitiless reality reinforced itself, burning away the fantasies of the honorable King François. The soul of a ruler nests itself in the realm of petty conceits, underhanded deceits, and covert meannesses, and François is not an exception.  

“His Majesty cares for his loved ones.” With a sibylline smile, the countess ended with, “In adolescence, he dreamed of marrying his true love, but he has not found her yet.”   

An agitated Anne failed to decode the other woman’s hint, then switched to another topic. “Can you organize my meeting with the king’s children?”

“Of course, Your Majesty. When do you wish it to take place?”

“In a few days, Madame. Just not today, for I’m too tired.”

Françoise read her mind like an open book. There was one more thing she needed to say on the matter. “Your husband is a good man, and I pray that one day you will see it.”

The queen did not berate the lady. “Thank you for your consideration.”

After the older woman had vacated the room, Anne sat in silence. Her gaze traversed the bedroom, dominated by a spacious bed, whose canopy of cloth of gold was supported by massive pillars of mahogany. Pieces of gilded furniture were all ornamented with leaves of acanthus and flowers.  A cassone, which stood near the bed, added to the elegant Italian interior. The stunning ceiling and the walls were frescoed with scenes from the life of the Goddess Aphrodite.

All at once, in the feverish dreaming that ruled her thoughts, the King of France seemed the God Hephaestus, emerging from a vision of mists and destined to rescue her from death and misery. Anne reminisced about how her husband had held her in his arms on their wedding night. I did not believe that we would create this baby, but it happened, she mused with a smile.   

The queen cut the thread of these pleasant memories by wielding a hatchet of reality towards them. Despite all his assurances, one day, the King of France would probably no longer need her, and then Anne would have to fight against him to save her marriage not for herself, but for her baby with François, for the tiny soul in her belly was a Valois prince or princess. However, Anne could not forget her recent conversation with the Countess de Châteaubriant.

Part of her longed to believe the woman, but the other one leered at her fantasies that her second husband may be different from the narcissistic, tyrannical Henry. At present, only love for the queen’s unborn child and for Elizabeth was real, sustaining Anne like her spiritual backbone.


November 20, 1536, Château de Plain-Marais, Manche, Normandy, France

Moonlight streamed into the bedroom equipped with mahogany furniture and rich, Flemish arrases depicting the Hundred Years’ War. Two lovers rested upon a bed canopied with copious masses of tawny velvet. They were King Henri II of Navarre and his clandestine mistress – Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly, Duchess d’Étampes. After their vehement lovemaking, they could lay in each other’s arms for hours, just kissing gently and intentionally in the right areas.

“Aren’t you afraid, Henri?” asked Anne de Pisseleu.

The ruler lavished her throat with kisses. “Afraid of what?”

“Someone might learn about our affair one day.” A frisson of fear passed along her spine.

Henri d’Albert sucked in his breath painfully. “It has always been my greatest terror.”

She sighed as he pulled away. “Then why do you continue writing to me, asking for another meeting in secrecy? You can come to court and spend time with your wife.”

The monarch said in a chagrined voice that also expressed admiration, “Margot is France’s regent during the invasion. She has long decided that her duty is primarily to France because Navarre’s alliance with the Valois safeguards my realm. While I agree with her, she knows that I don’t approve of her choices. I need my wife and queen by my side, yet I cannot have her.”

She kissed his nose. “So, you need me among others to satisfy your needs.”

“Yes and no.” He kissed her on the lips. “I desire you as a woman, but I also want you for other reasons I cannot fathom out. There is something special in you, Anne.”

His paramour slithered her hand to his arousal. “Or perhaps you want me because our secret affair gives you the thrill of danger that we both need.” As his breathing turned erratic, she grinned lasciviously. “Moreover, isn’t it your revenge upon François? Marguerite serves France and her brother who she idolizes, and by sleeping with me, you take away something from him.”

He did not like this. “François is my friend despite everything.”

The duchess laughed boisterously. “He is your friend and my lover. Our relationship is my way to punish him for his affairs with other women. Neither you nor I are faithful to him and Margot. We are taking vengeance on François and Marguerite. Isn’t it amusing?”

Needing to have a more intimate contact with her, with one swift motion he pulled the sheet off her. They remained naked on the bed, the moonlight making their bodies glow a ghostly white.

He jerked her body next to him. “I spent days traveling from Navarre to Normandy alone. My soldiers are fighting against the Spaniards who invaded my country, God bless my generals, and they think that I came to meet with François. I’ll journey to him after our rendezvous.”

“Will François give you more soldiers? You need them, don’t you, Henri?”

“Yes, he will, as he promised in his latest letter. But you speak too much.”

As they began kissing, the tight ache of lust throbbing in Anne’s loins dominated her entire being. She trembled at the sensation of his kisses and caresses, her breasts pressed against the soft hair of his chest, her hips and thighs molding to his warm, hard body. Their long, intoxicating kiss lasted for an eternity until his lips began a fiery exploration of her face and shoulders.

Anne’s body was on fire, both of her breasts aching with the tautness of her nipples. She had known carnally many men, King François being the most experienced of them, but Henri d’Albert was also an exquisite lover. The King of Navarre had had a rich experience of conquests before he married Marguerite in 1527. Due to their separation, Henri was not faithful to his wife.

Her whole being throbbing for his possession, the Duchess d’Étampes straddled him and let him penetrate her fully. As she rode him frantically, her mind drifted to the beginning of their clandestine affair. She and Henri had first met in 1530, when the Navarrese royal couple had arrived in Paris to attend Eleanor of Austria’s coronation. Anne had caught his gaze of interest on herself during the ceremony. She had become Henri’s concubine on the same night in one of the rooms at Château de Louvre, when he had taken her many times in all poses.

Since then, Henri of Navarre and Anne de Pisseleu had been lovers. Every time he had come to the French court, they had indulged themselves in their delicate, yet wanton, lovemaking. For years, King François, Queen Marguerite, and others had suspected nothing. Neither of them regretted their liaison because a toxic blend of carnal exhilaration and danger thrilled them both to an extreme degree. Only Péronne de Pisseleu, Anne’s loyal sister, knew everything.

It complimented Anne de Pisseleu that another king desired her and perhaps had feelings for her. Henri d’Albert’s letter to her, which she had received while being at court five days ago, had implored her for a rendezvous in one of her castles where they would be safe. Although there were Imperial agents in different provinces, the Navarrese monarch had disguised himself as a merchant and traveled to Beuzeville-la-Bastille in Normandy to meet with his paramour.

As they changed positions, Anne was beneath him, her legs wrapped around his waist. He dropped passionate kisses on the lids of her eyes as he moved inside her, his tongue sliding to the lobe of her ear and the sensitive area where her neck joined her shoulder. He must desire me madly if he had left his kingdom and journeyed to me despite all dangers. What do I feel for him? I miss Henri when we are apart for a long time. This discovery puzzled the duchess.

After the amatory dance, Anne and Henri lay entwined. “You must depart at first light.”

“You think of my brother-in-law again.” His sharp tone betrayed his jealousy.

“You are wrong, Henri.” However, her sigh convinced him otherwise. “I think of you and Navarre. To defend it from the Spaniards, you need more knights and to coordinate your plans with the King of France. You must then visit Marguerite at court as well.”

He assumed, “You must be jealous of François to Anne Boleyn.”

“Don’t speak about her.” Anger tinctured her voice.

A spirit of rivalry awakened in him, and Henri’s mouth imprisoned hers, his tongue sliding inside. Deep and hungry, the kiss lasted for minutes until he unwillingly parted from her.

The ruler demanded, “Do I kiss you better than François does?”

She rolled her eyes. “Your drivel is grating on my nerves. Are you are envious of him?”    

“This will please you, sweetheart.”

The monarch’s dark head nestled between Anne’s legs. A series of loud groans erupted from the duchess as she pressed her thighs together and savored these moments of pleasure.

François was perhaps better than Eros in bed, and he could have kissed Anne from top to toe. They had done to each other numerous things of the utmost indecent and flagrant lewdness. However, there had always been some emotional distance between them. It is so because François desires me and many women. He perceives our relationship as my duty to please him in all senses. If only François had been faithful to me, then I would never have taken any lover.

The monarch grinned. “You are not picturing the Knight-King, are you?”

“No! Henri, can we dedicate the rest of the night only to each other?”

He did not need any other words as he pounded into her again. They were making love, both gently and ardently, until streaks of dawn colored the sky, pink rays like brush strokes.

King Henri climbed out of bed and commenced dressing himself quickly. His mistress eyed him: Henri d’Albert was not as tall as the Valois monarch, his height average. His hazel-gray eyes were staring at her with undisguised attraction, and his oval countenance was flushed. Henri was handsome and slender, yet muscled enough, which was accentuated by a beige damask traveling outfit. He put a cap of black velvet upon his head full of brown hair and cut short.

Anne stretched her body on the bed; only her private parts were covered by a sheet. “You don’t look like a merchant now. What if some French nobles recognize you in Normandy?”

His highly-arched brows shot up. “I’ll say that I’m on the way from Picardy to the Loire Valley where the Valois troops are stationed. No one will suspect anything.”

“Shouldn’t we say goodbye properly?” She beckoned him to her.

Henri neared the bed and settled himself on the edge. His lips captured hers for a long, long moment. As he ceased the kiss, he whispered, “I’ll miss you.”

“You also miss Margot. I know that.”

“I do. I miss you both.” A feeling of guilt speared through him.

The door flung open, and Péronne de Pisseleu entered. She was relieved that the king was not nude. “Your Majesty, your horse is ready in the stables.”

Henri nodded. “Take care of her, Madame Péronne.”

§§§

King Henri of Navarre spurred his stallion and raced away from the castle. His destination was Orléans in the Loire Valley to have a planned meeting with his brother-in-law. Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly would return to court to Villers-Cotterêts. Then Henri would voyage to Picardy as well, for he needed to meet with his wife, Marguerite. He prayed that he would not encounter any danger because he was accompanied only by one most loyal page riding next to him.

For a split second, Henri glanced back at Château de Plain-Marais that had been built on the hill surrounded by marsh land in the 14th century. In the 15th century, the castle had been owned by Jean d’Arclais and later by Jean de Talbot until the Talbot line had died out. A few years ago, the Valois ruler had granted this château to his long-term mistress. I’ll miss Anne. What do I feel for her? Yet, I need Marguerite so much and always long to see my wife again.

They entered a forest, where bare trees shimmered in the rays of sun rising from beneath the crowns. Crippling guilt lanced through the monarch at the thought of his affair with his brother-in-law’s paramour. Marguerite! Henri loved her and wished that his wife did not place her duty to both France and Navarre over that to him and their family. Forgive me, Margot. I do not deserve your trust and you. Forgive me, François. Perhaps I do not deserve your friendship.

“Forgive me, God, but I need Anne,” Henri whispered as he urged his mount forward. His confusion congealed into anger with himself for his lack of understanding of his own feelings.

Notes:

I hope you liked this chapter. Please leave a review, for your reviews always encourage me to continue writing.

Now François is aware of Anne's condition; his doctor told him about it after he had examined his wife. As most of you expected, he begrudged Anne for keeping her pregnancy secret during the many weeks of her stay at Château de Chamerolles. When François spoke about his son's death, Anne could see a glimpse of her husband's inner world, but then she pushes him away again. François sends his consort to his court for her safety and for their child's safety.

At present, the Valois court resides in the town of Villers-Cotterêts, in Picardy, which is located far enough from the Loire Valley and the battlefield. The courtiers have conflicted feelings over their new queen, but they have to accept her status. Anne de Pisseleu is angry to see Queen Anne at court, and she has a nickname for her rival – the English slattern or slut. Some of the queen's new ladies-in-waiting and the king's former mistress – Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant – make their first appearance. I wonder what you think about the Countess de Châteaubriant who will often appear in later chapters. Françoise is right that the court is full of Anne's enemies, but I cannot say more.

Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant was the maîtresse-en-titre of King François for a decade (between 1518 and 1528). Unlike Anne de Piselleu, Françoise had no political influence, only managing to persuade the king not to disgrace her brother after his defeat at the Battle of Bicocca in 1522. After his return from the Spanish captivity, the king became smitten with Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly, and his affair with Françoise ended. However, the monarch and his former mistress remained friends, and they frequently exchanged letters; François visited Châteaubriant many times. Although in history Françoise de Fox died in 1537, she will have a longer life in this AU.

I hope you are interested enough to google Château de Villers-Cotterêts. This magnificent monument of the Renaissance architecture was built by King François, and nowadays many tourists visit it.

In ancient Greek mythology, Hephaestus is the Greek god of blacksmiths, carpenters, craftsmen, artisans, sculptors, metallurgy, fire, and volcanoes. Aphrodite is considered his wife, but she is said to have had an affair with Ares, the god of war, despite being married to Hephaestus.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 11: Chapter 10: Unwelcome News

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Unwelcome News

December 2, 1536, Greenwich Palace, Greenwich, near London, England

“Fetch the French ambassador!” shouted King Henry, his expression strained. His voice was so loud that the ceiling of the great hall could shake. “I must hear news from France!”

The assemblage of the nobles quieted down, as if they had suddenly fallen asleep. One of the grooms raced out of the room to comply with the royal order.

Attired in a red satin doublet ornamented with rubies, as well as matching hose and toque, the King of England was seated upon a massive, ornately carved throne beneath a canopy of crimson velvet, embroidered with the Tudor arms. Queen Jane occupied the place to his left. The Seymour family clustered a small distance from the thrones. The ruler’s eldest daughter, Lady Mary Tudor, stood together with the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk, close to the Seymours.

Many English courtiers, including Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, and Sir Francis Bryan, were not present. The royal court had relocated from Whitehall to Greenwich only a couple of days ago; some nobles would arrive here right before Christmastide.

The herald cried, “Antoine de Castelnau, the French ambassador to England.”

All the heads turned towards the entrance to the chamber.

Antoine de Castelnau, Bishop of Tarbes, was an experienced diplomat. Nevertheless, he often failed to control his fear when facing the English monarch, whose temper could flare like a tinder from a candle. Since the news of King François’ marriage to Anne Boleyn had reached English soil, the Tudor temper was volcanic almost every day, and Castelnau was afraid that one day, the ruler would send him to the block, in spite of him being a foreign diplomat.

His expression impenetrable, Castelnau sauntered across with a confident gait. Stopping in front of the thrones, he swept a deep bow, displaying his French gallantry.

“Monsieur de Castelnau,” commenced King Henry in accented French. “I trust that you regularly communicate with François. What tidings do you bring?”

Castelnau dithered as to in which language to respond. During their latest audiences, Henry had compelled the French ambassador to speak English, perhaps to demonstrate his lack of respect to France. The English nobility were taught Latin, Greek, and French if not other European languages, so the ruler could not wish to hide their talk from the courtiers.

The monarch gauged the man’s thoughts. “Let’s speak in French.”

“As Your Majesty wishes.” Castelnau narrated the story that everyone was already aware of. “King François won the Battle of Chamerolles. The invaders suffered heavy casualties, and many were taken prisoner, but Emperor Carlos escaped. Archduke Ferdinand, King of Hungary and Bohemia and the emperor’s younger brother, is my master’s captive.”

Henry supplemented, “And the Turks invaded the Holy Roman Empire.”

“Indeed, sire,” confirmed the ambassador.

There was something ominous in the silence that now prevailed.

Most courtiers comprehended the discourse and looked tense with curious anticipation. Those who did not know the language were confused; whisperings arose among them.

Henry eyed the ambassador from the country ruled by his worst enemy. A middle-aged man with green eyes and head full of grizzled hair, Antoine de Castelnau was not handsome, but he had a strong and smart countenance. Yet, something like a shadow lay upon the man’s face, as if he were working hard to suppress his fright, which gladdened the ruler.  

The king bombarded the other man with questions. “Has the emperor started negotiating his brother’s release? Where are the Imperial armies now? What are the French troops doing?”

“I apologize, but these things are known only to my sovereign’s inner circle.”

“Will François win the next battle?” The ruler’s voice was harsh.

Castelnau saw that the Tudor monarch wanted France to be conquered by the Habsburgs. “The entire French nation is praying that the invaders are expelled. My liege lord, King François, is correct that God is upon our side, and we all support him.”

Henry smiled ambiguously. “Perhaps you are making a mistake, Your Excellency.”

The other man blinked. “What does Your Majesty mean?”  

Spiteful words slipped out of the ruler’s mouth. “France will be more prosperous under Carlos von Habsburg’s rule than under that of François de Valois. My hope is that a day will come when the emperor’s name will be as much honored in France as it is now execrated.”

Those who knew the French tongue gasped in startlement; others also felt the palpable tension in the air. The king’s declaration displayed his outright loathing of both the Valois dynasty and France, bordering on the open proclamation of his enmity towards François.

A man of amicable disposition, Castelnau could not suppress his rage. “The emperor will not subjugate my homeland!”

The King of England was barely holding onto his temper. “You may believe that François is the best choice to rule your country. However, his reign has been besmirched by his captivity at Pavia and the current Spanish invasion of France. The above makes him the most incompetent Valois king, as Spaniards and their allies rightly assess his weak personality.”

With an air of the utmost superiority about him, King Henry further defamed his French counterpart. “François has long been labeled the most gallant and most eccentric personage of the most gallant and eccentric court in Christendom. My opinion is that your sovereign’s prodigality is too excessive, and his audacity in affairs unparalleled.” He guffawed vehemently. “I wonder what would befall the French realm if François continued exhausting his treasury by the immense sums he has always lavished upon his numerous mistresses and favorites.”

Castelnau gritted out, “I’ll avouch to the contrary, Your Majesty. King François is loved by his subjects who trust him to lead them to triumph. The Valois court is rightly considered the most magnificent and enlightened one in the entirety of Christendom.” His baritone rose to a crescendo of indignation. “Almost every monarch has mistresses. And my king is not the one who resorted to the most extraordinary stratagems so as to conduct his amours.”

Henry bounced to his feet. “What did you say?” he snarled, this time in English.

Switching to English, the diplomat counterattacked politely. “If Your Majesty wants me to repeat it in your native tongue, your request will be my command.”

“How dare you confront me?!” The ruler’s voice was a hissing whisper that nevertheless carried throughout the chamber. “I’ll punish you for speaking out of turn.”

Castelnau blanched. “I’m a foreign ambassador.”

“Lord Hertford!” called the king. “I made you an earl, so serve me well now!”

Jane’s troubled gaze darted between her brother and husband.

Edward Seymour approached and bowed. "I shall do anything for Your Majesty."

“Silence!” barked Henry as he stepped forward to him.

Unexpectedly, the enraged monarch ripped Hertford’s sword from the scabbard and then nearly pounced at the hapless ambassador. Grabbing Castelnau’s shoulder, Henry brought the blade to the man’s throat while glaring into his eyes. In these moments, Henry exuded murderous hatred, and his countenance contorted into an expression of abhorrence.

This drew gasps of consternation all around. Then stunned silence ensued, every pair of eyes fixed upon the king and the mistreated diplomat. A horrified Jane shot to her feet, but Edward put a restrictive hand onto her shoulder before she could walk to her spouse.

“You are a blasted Frenchman,” pronounced the ruler between set teeth. “I’m dreaming that your master will lose his throne to the House of Habsburg.”

“My liege lord will win the war!” Calmness veiled the ambassador’s face, as if no sword were pressed to his neck. “Every adversary will be captured, killed, or expelled. My countrymen will never surrender to any invader, whether they are Spanish, English, or Italian.”

Henry hissed, “François should not be the King of France. In 1328, Charles IV of France died without any male issue, so the throne should have passed to Edward III of England, Isabella of France’s eldest son. Thus, I have the valid claim for the French throne.”

The squabble was now happening in English. Everyone listened to the flagrant exchange.

A surge of patriotism went through Castelnau, making him bolder. “No, sire! France is our land, and no one will take it from us! King François is our only rightful sovereign!”

Through slitted eyes, Henry ground out, “In the future, I’ll lead my army into battle. Then François and his Boleyn whore will burn in hell together with the whole Valois family.”   

The blade scratched the diplomat’s skin, and droplets of blood smeared his white collar. With the intention to land a blow to the English king’s inflated ego, he exclaimed, “My master’s family will become bigger soon! Queen Anne will give birth to a little Valois!”

Castelnau spoke so loudly that everyone heard it. This elicited murmurings and sighs of astonishment from the courtiers. Their gazes oscillated between Henry and his consort, for they all suspected that the monarch was growing weary of his wife’s failure to conceive.

“What?” muttered the king’s pallid wife, her eyes wide. Her shaking legs gave way, and she slumped back into her throne, averting her eyes from her relatives’ glares.

King Henry was still threatening Antoine de Castelnau with Edward’s sword. A shaft of shock rendered him speechless and motionless, and his grip on the blade loosened.

A sense of wonder enveloped Henry. “That is not possible!”

Castelnau audaciously reiterated, “King François’ spouse is with child.”   

A grave silence reigned, breathing with unspoken amazement and tense anticipation.  

The ruler blanched, and then telltale crimson color suffused his visage. His brain was laboring to process the ghastly information, but his mind was frozen, blocking anything from the now to enter. Once awareness set in, his universe flipped in a fraction of a second, and his blood turned exceedingly thick with the deadly poison of his jealousy, like oil of vitriol in vapor.

Thomas Cromwell, who stood next to Richard Rich, was paler than the monarch. It was not in his interests if Anne gave birth to a healthy son by the French king.

“You are lying to me, you French earthworm!” bellowed the king, simultaneously shaken and bemused, his lordly bearing somewhat diminished.

Castelnau enjoyed the king’s torments. “It is the truth, sire.”

Slowly, King Henry released the ambassador. Staggering backwards, he dragged himself towards the exit and then stormed out, as though his whole life had just been ruined.

A hush in the great hall deepened. At this moment, it was a different silence, like the one which usually preceded the most tragic acts in the history of mankind.

Antoine de Castelnau scurried out of the chamber. He had never been fond of the brutal English ruler, but during their confrontation, his dislike for the man had grown in line with Henry’s disdain for his sovereign. If only King François recalled me back home. It is becoming more and more dreadful and too risky to navigate the perils at the Tudor court.

§§§

Swooning in relief, the French ambassador hastened through the hallways towards his quarters. He was approached by Eustace Chapuys, the Imperial ambassador to England.

Antoine de Castelnau paused reluctantly. “How can I assist you?”

Chapuys forced a smile. “If you have a moment.”

They spoke in French that was the language of diplomats at the time.

Castelnau’s gaze gleamed with a hostile light, like the spears of foes in sunlight. Since the French occupation and annexation of Duchy of Savoy in 1536, Chapuys’ aversion towards the House of Valois and everything French had magnified to an extreme degree, for he was a Savoyard by birth. The two men avoided each other like a pestilence. If they met by accident in a corridor or during official receptions, the French ambassador greeted the other man stiffly, with shallow bows, and spoke to him in an arctic tone, while Chapuys kept a thin veneer of politeness.  

“What do you want?” Castelnau no longer addressed Chapuys as ‘Your Eminence”.

The Imperial ambassador jeered, “Where is your famed French courtesy? Your king is famous for his majestic deportment, and so are the gallants of his court. Perhaps the magnificence of the French court is exaggerated, which might explain your lapse of manners.”

A look of disdain splashed across Castelnau’s features. “Your country has invaded mine. Your bellicose master killed thousands of my countrymen. I hate every Spaniard!”

“It was not my decision to attack France.” 

“It matters not,” snapped Antoine de Castelnau before pivoting to leave.

“Your king married that Boleyn slut,” growled Eustace Chapuys.

Spinning around, his French colleague spewed with abject contempt, “Every sane person in the world knows that Queen Anne is not guilty of adultery, incest, and high treason. She has been falsely accused by Thomas Cromwell and her other enemies, just as your master has leveled false allegation of Queen Eleanor’s murder towards my sovereign.” 

Chapuys’ eyes grew wide with astonishment. “You are a devout Catholic, Castelnau! Do you mean to say that you acknowledge the Concubine as the King of France’s wife?”

“Yes,” Castelnau collaborated. “Chapuys, you are an ostentatiously religious man. You must know that sacramental marriage is indissoluble. Queen Anne and King François were wed over three months ago, so every Catholic must consider their marriage valid and legitimate.”

A sense of inextinguishable hatred rushed through the Imperial ambassador. “The harlot bewitched King Henry and drove him from the Bishop of Rome. She poisoned the sainted Queen Catherine and persecuted the poor Princess Mary. The whore also betrayed His Majesty with many men, even her own brother; perhaps the brat, Elizabeth, is not the king’s.”

The French diplomat refuted all the allegations. “These are nothing but rumors spread by villains such as yourself. We are both aware that Queen Anne is innocent, and that she has never betrayed King Henry.” He made a special emphasis on the word ‘queen’, although he referred not to Anne’s queenship in England, but to her undoubted royal status in France.

Instinctive rage reared in Chapuys. “I see that the Concubine put a spell on all the French who now call her the savior of France and King François. Unfortunately, Satan must have spared her, and she lured another monarch into matrimony through witchcraft.”     

“If someone has so much hatred in their heart, they cannot enjoy life to the fullest. You are just a superstitious idiot, if you believe in sorcery, but I think you are pretending.”

Antoine de Castelnau spun on his heels and stomped away towards his apartments.

“Damn your king,” cursed Eustace Chapuys, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Damn the Concubine and the French! I wish my master could destroy them all.”

On the way to his quarters, the Imperial ambassador was overwhelmed with the burning desire to get his claws on the Boleyn demoness. Due to Catherine of Aragon’s dethronement by Anne, his hatred for her was so deep and so intense that he sought her demise on every occasion. Gracious Lord, help His Imperial Majesty crush the French forces. Aid him to bring down his Valois archenemy and let the Boleyn whore die at the stake, where she belongs as a heretic.

§§§

In the meantime, Queen Jane knelt at her prie dieu in her bedroom. After dismissing her ladies, including her kind younger sister, Dorothy, only Mary Tudor remained in the room.

Jane requested, “We need more light, Lady Mary.”

The bleak winter sun was setting above the River Thames, and in the east, the shadows of twilight were advancing. The queen’s quarters were nearly dark, and only a huge bed, draped in dazzling white silk, glowed like a white halo. The floor, walls, and ceiling were a dark colored wood that matched the massive, dark mahogany furniture and the overall austere decor.

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Her stepdaughter lit several silver candelabra.   

“Pray with me,” requested the queen.

Nodding her affirmative, Mary knelt at another prie dieu beside Jane. After her return to court, the two women had befriended each other. Mary was grateful to her stepmother for Jane’s role in her reconciliation with her previously estranged father. They often spent time together, sewing clothes for the poor and praying in Latin, just as good Catholics should do.

Each of them was in rather a precarious situation. Jane’s relatives, save Dorothy, blamed her for the inability to conceive. Mary witnessed it on a regular basis, which irked her a lot, so she supported her stepmother, who in turn worked hard to further heal the still existing rift between the king and his eldest daughter. Together with Dorothy, they frequently discussed the monotony, sordidness, and inadequacy of typical aristocratic marriages, wondering why most spouses did not enjoy not only harmony, but even basic understanding in their relationships.

At this moment, Jane and Mary sought relief from troubles of life in prayer. Their heads bowed low, they chanted several psalms and then the Pater Noster in Latin.

Jane’s prayers shifted to her personal situation, her soft voice flowing through the room, like a gentle waterfall. She was so full of sorrow and fright that she had difficulty pronouncing the prayers she knew well. A tremble of pain cascaded down her back at the thought of being set aside by the king, who already neglected her, lest she failed to give him a son.

Blessed Virgin Mary, you were graced by the Almighty with the privilege of bearing our Divine Savior. God acted upon you in the first moment of the baby’s conception, keeping you immaculate. Your life was blessed with conceiving Jesus and seeing him grow from infancy into his adult years of preaching the true religion. Please intercede before the Lord, that I, His loyal child Jane, may conceive a son for England – a son who will prevent civil war and bloodshed.

Crossing herself, Jane sprang to her feet, pale with emotion. “God, I beseech you to help me!” She plodded over to her bed and seated herself on the edge. “Only He can save me.”

Mary climbed to her feet and crossed to the bed. She settled herself in a chair, where her mother had often sat by the hearth while sewing clothes for the downtrodden or shirts for the monarch. The armrests were decorated with the Tudor rose and an ornately worked pomegranate – Catherine of Aragon’s symbol, while the chair’s back was adorned with the profile portrait of Queen Isabella of Castile. A week earlier, many things had been delivered from Kimbolton Castle, where the disgraced former queen had breathed her last, and now Mary owned them.

Assurances poured out of Mary’s mouth. “Your Majesty, after my mother’s death, you are the king’s true wife. Soon God will bless your marriage with a son.”

As soon as the words left her lips, Mary felt a stab of guilt in her chest. She did not wish her father to have more children with any woman, for they would all become her rival claimants for the English throne. Although she had signed the Oath of Supremacy and acknowledged her illegitimacy, she still viewed herself the rightful heir to the crown. My father can proclaim Elizabeth his heir, but the people of England love me and consider her a bastard.

Despair was etched into her countenance as Jane supplied, “Every day, I beseech the Lord to give me a child. I do not know why I have not conceived yet.”

“Calm down,” soothed Mary, her voice compassionate. “You have been married only for six months. You need to wait for some time and continue praying.”

The queen’s train of thought meandered to Castelnau’s announcement. “Anne Boleyn has been married to King François only for four months. She is already with child!”

A surge of hatred deeper than a bottomless abyss rushed through Mary Tudor. The fervor of her scorching desire to see Anne dead squeezed her hands into tight fists. “That Boleyn harlot deserves the most gruesome end possible. I rejoiced when she was arrested, stood a fair trial, and was condemned to die for her crimes. I would gladly have brought a torch to her pyre myself.” She raised her hands in frustration. “But she escaped her death.”

Jane winced at the metallic sound of her voice, laced with visceral loathing. “Lady Mary, I understand your feelings towards the very woman who usurped your mother’s throne and place in your father’s heart. Yet, I want to give you my advice, if you wish to accept it.”

Mary let out a small smile. “I’m always eager to talk to you.”

The queen verbalized her thoughts. “If you truly want to improve your life, you have to travel lightly. That is, you must learn to let go of detrimental emotions such as rage and hatred. It is going to be difficult for you, if not impossible. But otherwise, you will not find peace.”

As arrows of truth shot through her, Mary felt deafened by the agitated rush of her own blood. With the utterance of her stepmother’s verdict, a terrible comprehension dawned upon her. She had been entrapped into the most horrible fate: she was gradually being strangled by the chains of her bastard status that was fixed by the laws enacted by the king and Parliament at the royal behest, and there was nothing she could do to liberate herself from them.

Jumping to her feet like a tigress, Catherine of Aragon’s daughter paced to and fro. Her feelings alternated between deep anguish, unutterable despair, and impotent fury. But above all of her destructive emotions was the sense of ignominy and of intense hatred towards the villainess who had caused her departed mother and her so much harm. That unholy feeling welled up like a stream of fire in the young woman’s breast, extinguishing all other emotions but thirst for revenge. I should not blame the king for my current predicament – only the whore is at fault.

Her features disfigured with anger, Mary bared her heart. “It must be immoral of me to say such things, for I am a devout Catholic. But I want the Boleyn whore a head shorter or burned. Her viciousness wrecked my country and my beloved mother’s life, and it also caused irreparable damage to me. It is no wonder that I crave her punished, is it?”

Queen Jane eyed Mary Tudor with admiration and sympathy. A graceful, yet not tall, woman, just as her mother had been in youth, Mary had high cheekbones, aquiline nose, and hazel eyes, smart and doleful. It was a beautiful face, but there was a halo of dejection about it, which was seldom found in so youthful a countenance. Her gown of black and bronze velvet, trimmed with gold, stressed her feminine curves in an appealing way, despite being modestly cut. Mary’s long, red-gold Tudor hair was confined by a Spanish hood, studded with diamonds.  

Jane empathized with her sufferings. “I understand you, Lady Mary.”

Her stepdaughter stomped from the door to the bed, then crossed the chamber once more. “The harlot is no longer with my father, who cast her out of the English realm. Yet, the country remains a heretic land, and we are forced to worship the king as the spiritual leader of the nation.” A desperate edge to her voice, she spluttered, “The witch’s spell has not been removed from His Majesty completely. My father is unwilling to restore England to the flock of Rome, not caring that his subjects will be kept away from Holy Father’s table in the afterlife.” 

Being a Catholic herself, Jane concurred. “For a short time after our wedding, I hoped to guide His Majesty back to Catholicism, but I’ve failed. Every time I mention the religious matters or anything political in his presence, he becomes so incensed that all I want is to run away from him. He says that my only duty is to birth a Tudor prince who will carry on his legacy.”

Mary stopped near the chair, which she had occupied before, and tumbled into it. “At least, you have tried. God bless you for your wish to win the kingdom back for Rome.”

The queen murmured, “I fear we cannot stop the reformation in England.”

Once more, the bastardized princess exuded sheer contempt, causing Jane to flinch. “It is the fault of the Boleyn sorceress! Her spell over my father is too strong, but I shall pray harder that God leads England back to the true faith. A few months earlier, the harlot used her witchcraft again, and her marriage to the King of France and her new baby are the result of it.”

Jane saw that antagonism billowed up inside of Mary Tudor, threatening to crush all other good sentiments. Despite her affection for the girl, Mary’s religious fervor and her fanatical scorn for Anne sometimes left her discomfited. Queen Catherine would have been upset to see her only child so bitter. Maybe I should attempt to persuade the king to find a husband for Mary.

Unable to contain her nervousness, Mary rose to her feet and resumed pacing. “My sister, Elizabeth, is considered the king’s heir, according to the current English law. It is unbelievable that my father overlooked her mother’s sins and had my half-sister declared legitimate by Letters Patent, which was how his illegitimate ancestors were legitimized. This proves that the harlot bewitched him into doing her bidding before her departure to France.”

The queen did not concur, but she didn’t voice it. “I spoke to my husband about your reinstatement to the line of succession. However, he always turns berserk with rage.”

Stopping near a window, Mary looked out. In the courtyard, the buildings lay so white and silent in the snow of the first December day. Yesterday, the first snow had fallen from the steel-gray sky, and now everything was enveloped in an icy mantle. The royal gardens were knee deep with snow, and the tree branches bent to the earth with their heavy white burden.

“There is eternal winter in my soul,” confessed Mary, her cheeks moist with tears. “I’m so miserable at times that it seems to me I may die. Now I want to cry hard, and to scream, and to beat my head against something hard.” A sigh from the deepest recesses of her scarred soul fled her lips. “However, I must bow to the king, as well as his sycophants and heretics. I must always remember that I’m supposed to be the king’s complaisant natural daughter. If I behave differently, my father can prosecute me for treason, as Francis Bryan told me once.”

A distressed Jane stood up and approached her distraught stepdaughter. “I know that your tender, young heart is sore. It will take more than the superficial reconciliation with His Majesty to heal it. I swear that I’ll aid you in any way I can, Your Highness.”

For the first time, the Queen of England addressed Mary as royalty, which increased her respect to the king’s wife. Mary spontaneously hugged Jane, who responded in kind.

Disentangling from their embrace, Mary broached the subject that always made the other woman uncomfortable. “I know that one day, the witch will face the holy vengeance for the evil she perpetrated in England, and for the one she is currently heaping upon France.”

These words pierced Jane’s heart like a knife-thrust. “Let the Lord judge Anne Boleyn.”

“I’m certain that God will have her end up at the pyre, sooner or later.”

The queen wanted to gift something to her stepdaughter in order to distract her from self-destructive thoughts. “Lady Mary, this chair once belonged to Queen Catherine. At my behest, some of her things were brought here from Kimbolton Castle so that I could give them to you.”

Mary’s visage was imbued with gratitude. “You are as sainted as my mother was!”

Jane continued, “You deserve to have these things in memory of the true queen.”    

Tears stung Mary’s eyes. “I don’t know how to thank you for this.”

“Just find some solace in them,” answered her stepmother.

Queen Jane strode to a chest of drawers in the corner and opened the top drawer. She retrieved Catherine’s jewelry box and strolled back to the bed. Jane settled herself onto the bed, while Mary returned to her chair. Then the queen handed the box to her companion.

A radiant smile graced Jane’s features. “You must recognize it, Lady Mary.”

“I do!” exclaimed Mary, her heart overflowing with joy. She opened the box and saw a multitude of expensive jewels and her mother’s rosary inside. “Thank you!”

As the girl touched the rosary reverently, Jane prayed that fate would instill into Mary some salutary warmth that would eject the bitterness. She would endeavor to find a good husband for her – a man who would not make her life as flat, narrow, and drab as her own marital landscape had become. However, if the king does not listen to me, I’ll be powerless to save Mary.

§§§

In the meantime, King Henry paced his bedchamber, as if he were an incensed Minotaur. His countenance was like that of Julius Caesar betrayed even by his friend, Brutus. It seemed that the infamous words ‘Even you, Brutus?' would tumble from his lips. Nonetheless, he was silent, his expression imbued with some sinister emotion, the veins in his neck stuck out in ire.

Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, stood near the door. As he observed his sovereign stalk from one wall to another, he wondered whether only Henry’s pride had been injured by the unwelcome news. But he could also see a trace of furious envy in the king, which fired through him with every step, for the ruler’s whole being emanated destruction and death. Henry is jealous of Anne, and he cannot accept that she carries his rival’s child, inferred Suffolk.

Finally, the monarch stopped in the middle of the room. “That whore will shame François and the French royal family! She cannot behave like a dignified queen!”

His subject inclined his head. “Most definitely, she cannot.”

The king resumed his agitated pacing. “Before I had the harlot arrested, she spent her energy in fits of rage and tantrums of jealousy. She must have concentrated on her only duty – producing my male progeny – but she did not. Her family and she are hated in England! Anne created countless enemies for herself, and she alienated those who were sympathetic to her.” His fists balled, he ended with, “The damned adulteress betrayed me with all those men in an attempt to sire a son, and for the sake of carnal pleasure. Eventually, she went further and married my French sworn foe. Now the entirety of Christendom laughs at me!”

“Your Majesty is exaggerating,” soothed Charles.

“No!” shrilled the ruler. “I look like an utter fool! Anne betrayed me and wed François! At present, everyone in England knows that she became the Queen of France!”

The duke’s mind formulated the speech to disparage Anne. He could not say that almost nobody believed in the charges against her. “The whole world is aware of her abominable crimes. Now the French king looks like a wicked man who married the worst Jezebel in history. Your Majesty is not blameworthy for her actions, and your subjects support you.”

Henry halted near the desk loaded with papers. He grabbed a bronze sand-glass, adorned with diamonds, and hurtled it towards the fireplace. “That bitch has almost damned England and me! But now I’m free of her spell! She shall make François and France suffer!”

The Duke of Suffolk sighed: his liege lord still cared for the woman on some level. So, he strove to cement the king’s abhorrence towards her. “The whore must be charged with high treason against Your Majesty. She has merited to be burned for sorcery, for it is obvious that she has bewitched you and the King of France. She is the worst kind of witch.”

However, Henry did not listen to the duke. Under the influence of the most excruciating emotions, he paced, sometimes stopping and throwing things around. The images of the Valois ruler making love to Anne ripped through his consciousness, like poisoned barbed wire. François must already have taken Anne many times, Henry fumed. These thoughts filled him with such unbearable pain that he could scarcely endure the stress and strain of the daily grind.

“François de Valois and his Boleyn courtesan!” roared Henry. He stopped near the wall, tapestried with the scene of the Great Fire of Rome, which had been instigated by Emperor Nero to later build an elaborate series of palaces without the senate’s consent. “I’d love to see them tied to the pyre and writhe in the flames. I would have watched every moment of their agony.”

Suffolk nodded. “Their viciousness is notorious.”

Henry snarled, “Anne’s new pregnancy is her ultimate betrayal of England and me.” He then sprinted to a table, grabbed a vase, and tossed it towards the opposite wall.

Shards of glass coursed through the air. Charles Brandon ducked to avoid being injured.

“If it is François’ child,” remarked the Duke of Suffolk. He knew that Anne had always been faithful to Henry, and he had no doubt that François was the father of her new baby. But he had to ensure that the king’s sentiments towards her would remain hostile.

As if he hadn’t heard him, the king choked out, “She might bear a son for another king.” His countenance evolved into abject misery. “This child in her womb should have been mine!”

King Henry fell into a frenzy of berserk rage. Within the next few minutes, the luxurious interior was destroyed, like a town pillaged by a victorious army. The room became a total mess of broken vases, chairs, and tables, as well as tapestries which he had ripped from the walls. Cushions, books, parchments, and candelabra were scattered across the floor in chaotic patterns. His temper was leaking out of him, like a torrent of water from an upturned cauldron.

“I want Anne dead!” The king threw the last whole chair towards the door.  

Brandon sidestepped in the last instant. “She may miscarry this baby, just as it happened to her twice in the past. She seems to be incapable of bearing sons.”   

With a howl, the monarch stomped across and skidded to a halt near the wall, swathed with the tapestry of the Great Fire of Rome. “If the emperor fails to conquer Paris, I’ll accomplish this feat in due time. I’ll torch the French capital and watch it burn while playing on the lute, just as Nero observed the conflagration of Rome while merrily playing on the lyre.”

His face like that of a wild beast, Henry shrieked like a stallion in a gelding stall. He then peeled this tapestry away from the wall, threw it away, and tramped it down with his feet.

Finally, the exhausted monarch fell onto a huge bed, canopied with masses of gorgeous white and beige velvet. The royal apartments in this palace had also been refurbished after Anne’s arrest, and the broken interior was entirely in white and pastel colors.

“Leave me,” moaned Henry, his voice fractured like everything around him.

After his subject had vacated the room, the King of England lay in ghastly stillness for a while. After the many months of denial, he admitted to himself that part of him still craved the empyreal fire of Anne. While being with her, he had touched something divine, as if he would set his spirit free to soar, until it returned to his body endlessly happy, regenerated, and strong.

Anne had awakened something incredible in Henry, but now he was hollow, like the gaping mouth of a monster. He longed for her as much as he had coveted the throne when Arthur Tudor, Prince of Wales, had been alive and he had envied him because of his brother’s first place in the succession. But even if she were innocent – which was not true in Henry’s mind – it was too late to rescue his life’s joy, for Anne was married to François and carried his child.

Being riven with these contradictions, Henry resorted to self-pity, blaming Anne for all of his afflictions. His dear Jane would bear him the finest prince on earth. The whore cannot have a son with another man. Charles is correct that she must be as barren as the desert land, he labored to convince himself. Yet, he famished for her and dreamed of having children with Anne, begotten and reared in love, of enjoying the glory of parenthood together with her.

The knock on the door jolted the king out of his reverie. “Who is there?”

Pushing the door open, Charles Brandon peered inside timidly. “Your Majesty, I’m sorry for disturbing you. The urgent affairs of state require your immediate attention.”

“Come in,” Henry permitted grudgingly. “Say what you want, and get out.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the Duke of Suffolk garnered his courage and delivered a blow to his sovereign. “There is a large uprising in Yorkshire, and it is rapidly spreading to other parts of the country’s north. They call themselves the Pilgrimage of Grace.”

At this, Henry jumped from his feet, as if he had been fired from a cannon. “Convene the Privy Council. Dispatch a page to His Grace of Norfolk’s estates, for I need him here.”

Bowing, Charles assured, “All will be done, Your Majesty.”

Left in the accursed solitude of his bedchamber, King Henry examined his surroundings. It seemed that his life was destroyed, just as the interior in the room was. His current existence was a shallow, empty mockery, which he would eagerly have repudiated if he only could. Then he reminded himself of his kingly duties to his country. The riots in the north against me and Anne’s pregnancy are the most dreadful news. I cannot change anything in Anne’s case, but the rebels will pay with blood and tears for their opposition to my supremacy, he resolved.

§§§

At the same time, Thomas Cromwell sat at his mahogany desk, reading through the papers which informed him about the upheaval in Yorkshire. His face shone with a sheen of sweat, and wrinkles of strain burrowed into his forehead. His austere attire of raven velvet, padded with wool, stressed his excessive pallor that was an indication of his inner perturbation.

His son, young Gregory, studied him before opining, “Father, those Catholic insurgents will be arrested soon. Our sovereign just needs to send his armies to the north.”

“You are mistaken, son,” his father’s grave voice resonated. “The forces of the rebels far exceed the numbers of the king’s men. I’m afraid the country’s future is at stake.”

“Do you think… they will make His Majesty restore the Catholic faith?”

“No,” assured Cromwell as he stood up. “Henry is too proud to bow to the Pope.”

The royal chief minister paced back and forth. Due to his high status, his quarters were one of the most spacious at the palace. Yet, the oak furniture, polished to perfection, was limited to a cabinet, two chests, his work desk, wooden chairs with spiral turned legs, and the massive, ebony wardrobe. As he had been rising in the social hierarchy, Cromwell had begun to love luxury and pomp, but he still strove to stress his simple tastes when he lived at court. At the same time, his home at Austin Friars in the City was grand enough to receive a monarch.

“Father, please stop!” Gregory begged. “It is grating on my nerves.”

Nodding, Cromwell strode back to his high-back, carved chair upholstered with leather. This piece of furniture stressed his authority as he sat there, talking to those lower in rank.

The minister sighed. “His Majesty has just elevated me to Earl of Essex. In honor of my friendship with the king, a celebration was to be arranged at our home at Austin Friars. Now we will have to cancel it, so please have all the food in stock given to the poor, Gregory.”

“I shall,” complied his son. “Anyway, we cannot eat all those victuals.” 

Thomas characterized their sovereign. “King Henry loves luxury. He enjoys his jester’s performances; he loves opulent feasts and masques; he plays tennis, chess, and cards, gambling regularly and aggressively. He buys a great deal of magnificent clothes and jewels, although he will never wear all of them in his lifetime. He squandered his frugal father’s inheritance long ago. This year, the meager taxes we have collected barely cover the royal expenses. The sheer diversity of our liege lord’s needs meant that I had to find alternative sources to finance them.” 

“And you filled the royal coffers with the monies from the corrupt monastic houses.”

“The dissolution of the monasteries…”  At this moment, Cromwell wore an incongruous expression of anxiety and dejection. “I sought to abolish the entire religious system so as to put its riches at the king’s disposal, and to break opposition to royal supremacy.” He stilled for a split second. “You and I are follow the teachings of Luther and Calvin, so we understand how important it is to lead the king away from the tenets of the Catholic faith, which he refuses to give up despite the ongoing reform. The mood of Englishmen is far more conservative than that of the continental Protestants, whose revolutionary zeal is well known, but they have long been prejudiced against the wealthy clergy. And I’ve worked so hard to eradicate the old faith from our land!”

Years ago, Cromwell had learned a lot about the business of appropriating ecclesiastical property from his former master – Cardinal Wolsey, who had dissolved about thirty religious houses. In 1535, the chief minister had introduced the ‘Valor Ecclesiasticus’ in order to determine how much property the Church owned, so he had sent out his commissioners to all the religious houses in England, Wales, and Ireland. The Act of Suppression in 1536 guaranteed that even the small monasteries would be shut down, while their riches and land would be confiscated by the Crown. Thanks to Cromwell, the state treasury had gained millions of pounds. I did not expect that there would be a rebellion, but Anne Boleyn warned me about it, recalled Cromwell.

Gregory came to his parent. Cromwell lifted his eyes to him, asking, “What?”

His son’s expression was not gloomy. “You are high in the royal favor. After the uprising is squashed, everything will go back to normal, and you may become Lord Chancellor.”

“His Majesty might order my arrest today. Pray tell, are you really such a dreamer, son?”

“Father, you and I are both determined optimists. Of all men, you know for a certainty that optimism is the faith in yourself, which leads to achievement. Nothing can be done without hope and confidence, and, of course, without cunning.” Gregory smiled at his last words.

Thomas climbed to his feet and hugged his son. “Optimism is the ultimate definition of a leader. But now the insurrection poses a threat to our family that cannot be underestimated.” 

Gregory smiled. “God will protect us and help you finish the reforms in England.”

The minister clasped the young man’s hands in his hands. “Son, your presence at court at this tumultuous time is not a good idea. You should relocate to our home with your wife.”

A shadow crossed Gregory’s visage. “Elizabeth will prefer to stay with Queen Jane. I’m the heir to your new title and your estates. At first, my marriage seemed to me an obvious duty, but I thought we were a good match. Although she has two children by her first deceased husband, Elizabeth is young, pretty, intelligent, rich, and, best of all, related to the Queen of England.”

“She is also sharp and practical,” Cromwell voiced his observation. “Women like her have not a particle of reverence or respect for young lads, unless they are sons of someone who has power – and this is your case. So, all is in your favor, Gregory.”

Gregory chuckled bitterly. “My wife has amassed countless items of expensive clothes of the utmost elegance. They are the envy of other maids employed at the queen’s household.”

“Extravagance is a question of degree, so you need to control your wife.”

“It is impossible, Father. She always reminds me that she is the queen’s sister.”

Cromwell drew a long breath. “Your mother and I loved each other, but it didn’t happen immediately after the wedding. Once we realized our feelings, our happiness was enormous.” He sucked in his breath. “Her death devastated me, as long as the deaths of our daughters.” 

Tears brimmed in his son’s eyes. “She must be in heaven now.”

They crossed themselves, giving silent tribute to the minister’s dearly departed wife.

Thomas eyed his son. Tall and lean, Gregory was handsome in a gentle way, like a poet, with honest, often dreamy, gray eyes and candid expression, a fusion of shyness and intelligence. His hair was blonde, his complexion ruddy – features he had inherited from his mother. An avid reader, he enjoyed literature and history. The young man had received the best possible education at Cambridge to prepare him for adult life. Unlike Cromwell, Gregory was not an intriguer – he was a man of great kindness and concern for others, and with a wonderful sense of humor.

Before dismissing his son, Thomas told him in a poignant voice, “I shall pray that your spouse will realize that marital happiness is more precious than her ambitions.” 

Hours later, Thomas Cromwell still sat at his desk, with his hands behind his head, leaning back in his chair. In whatever direction his thoughts turned, he was faced with possibilities that were too disconcerting. The uprising might cost him his life, but he would fight tooth and nail for everything he had accomplished after the many difficult years of hard work. Cromwell

Notes:

I hope you liked this chapter. Please leave a review, which will encourage me to keep going. I'm trying to respond to all the reviews I receive, but sometimes, it takes me a long time to answer as my business life is very hectic, but I always respond, eventually.

The King of England's conversation with Antoine de Castelnau is full of tension. Henry insults the French ambassador because François became his mortal enemy after the King of France's marriage to Anne Boleyn. Moreover, now Henry is aware of Anne's pregnancy, and he considers her marriage and her pregnancy with François' child as the worst of all her "betrayals". His jealousy sends him into rage as he threatens Castelnau with Edward Seymour's sword. In another scene, we see Henry's aggression in the aftermath of his conversation with the French diplomat. The Duke of Suffolk and even the monarch himself understand that part of Henry still craves Anne's fire.

Antoine de Castelnau is not a fictional character. He was Bishop of Tarbes, and he served as an ambassador to England and Spain during the reign of François I. He was in London during the dramatic downfall of Anne. He died in 1539, and I'm not going to change this date.

Lady Mary Tudor was introduced in this chapter. She and Jane Seymour befriended each other after Mary's return to court. I stressed several times that Mary's reconciliation with Henry is superficial, and later you will see that he is treating her with suspicion and coldness. Full of her aversion towards Anne Boleyn, Mary hates her so much that even Jane feels somewhat discomfited. Mary will have an unconventional character arc in this AU. As for Jane, she is not with child yet, but she may conceive in later chapters – I cannot tell you anything now.

The Pilgrimage of Grace started in the north of England. Thus, Cromwell is worried about his fate, but he will not die anytime soon. I also introduced Cromwell's son, Gregory, portraying him as someone who is not like his father in many ways. Gregory was a well-educated and intelligent man, but in history he was outshined by his famous father; he will appear in this story from time to time.

Yours sincerely,

Lady Perseverance

Chapter 12: Chapter 11: The Valois Children

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: The Valois Children 

December 5, 1536, Château de Villers-Cotterêts, Villers-Cotterêts, Picardie, France

In the queen’s apartments, the light from Venetian candelabra shone down softly upon gilded, red cedar furniture, carved with images of Hera and Zeus. Queen Anne and Dauphin Henri were playing piquet, sitting beneath a canopy of state of white and blue silk with fleur-de-lis.

“Will you win, Madame?” asked Henri, his scrutiny focused on the cards.   

Anne released a deep sigh. He resisted calling his stepmother by the rightful title, despite spending time with her. “As we are both skilled in piquet, it is difficult to predict the outcome.”

His intense gaze was directed at her. “If I win, will you permit me to ask you a question?”

A silence, full of trepidatious apprehension, ensued. The queen set her goblet onto the table that stood between them, and the clink on the marble surface sounded loud in stillness.  

The queen viewed the Dauphin of France from top to toe. In 1519, she had served Queen Claude as her lady-in-waiting and, thus, remembered the prince’s birth. Somewhat lean and athletic in stature, he was a handsome youth with upturned, brown eyes and stony countenance. Unlike his royal father and his younger brother, he didn’t have the Valois long patrician nose. His handsome face, imbued with a hint of youthful naiveté, was framed by short-cut, brown hair.

Having already seen all of the royal children, she thought that Henri’s appearance was different to that of Prince Charles and King François. There was no aura of magnificence about the dauphin, who lacked the lordly bearing of royalty. Not being charismatic and mischievous, his frigid demeanor was like an unassailable fortress, in which he stored his emotions and guarded them. The years he and his brother, the late Dauphin François, had spent in the Spanish captivity had impacted him to a substantial degree, but, fortunately, they had not broken his spirit.

Dauphin Henri preferred unostentatious outfits, which recalled Spanish fashion with their rich, yet gloomy, splendor. He frequently wore heavy black velvet that was a hallmark of wealth and influence in Spain. Today, Henri was accoutered in a doublet of black velvet, worked with gold and adorned with onyxes, as well as in matching toque and hose of the same material.

Her calmness belied the fear coursing through Anne. “Your Highness can ask me any questions. Don’t be shy; we can talk about anything, and I’ll answer truthfully.”

His gaze was piercing her soul. “Very well, Madame. Let’s start, then.”

“Agreed,” Anne echoed as she picked up a card deck from the table.

The dauphin began shuffling the cards. “England has a game like this.”

The queen watched him cut the deck. “During my tenure as Henry’s consort, I introduced piquet at the English court. But I’m not sure that it is still played by courtiers.”

As he cut the higher score, it was his turn to deal. As the dealer, he would have the choice of cards at the commencement of each partie that consisted of six deals.

He commented, “Jane Seymour is said to be a virtuous English lady.”

She suppressed a grimace of distaste. “Perhaps you can characterize her in this way. But most English gentlewomen are better educated than her; she can barely write her own name.”

An astounded Henri quizzed, “How did she attract the English king, then?”

“She is my opposite,” answered Anne.

He studied her closely for a long moment, and she returned his penetrating stare.

She was awash with relief when Henri started dealing twelve cards to her. The remaining eight cards, which formed the talon, were placed face down between them. They exchanged cards then: he took five cards from her and placed them face down, and an equal number of cards was then drawn from the talon. Then Anne took three cards from him and three from the talon.

After the deal, the queen and the dauphin sorted their cards in their hands. As the game went on, Anne found it difficult to concentrate, being rankled by her fright that her stepson would mention her religion. They did six deals, and, eventually, Anne lost the partie.

“I’ve beaten you, Madame.” His voice was like a cold wind sweeping through the room.

His stepmother grinned. “You have convinced me of your prowess at the card table.”

Henri’s countenance was shadowed by an unutterable melancholy. “Unfortunately, not my prowess in state affairs. Nothing will ever be enough to please my father.”

A sigh broke from Anne. Such a young man should be vivacious and joyful, but he is not. Sadness is seeping from Henri like blood from a wound. Was the impact of the Spanish captivity on him really so profound that memories still poison him? Obviously, discordance existed between the dauphin and the ruler, but she had no clue as to their disagreements. She would have to observe the king’s relationship with his heir apparent once François returned to court.

She interrupted a short silence. “You have won, so I’m at your disposal.”

His clever, sharp eyes spoke more eloquently than his tongue. They could communicate more than his lips, and now Anne saw that Henri was a man who yielded to no one, not even to his father. She sensed an inner strength in him, which no other youth of his age possessed. In the years ahead he could become a capable state administrator and a strong leader.

“The King of England,” commenced the Dauphin of France. “Did you betray him with those men who were executed on his orders, one of them being your own brother?”

The question struck her in the chest like a dart. Nonetheless, Anne masked her umbrage and pain, articulating, “Never, not even in my wildest dreams, has the wicked thought of betraying Henry crossed my mind.” She stilled for a split second, as her hand flew to her enlarged stomach. “I swear on all I hold dear – on the life of my daughter, Elizabeth, and that of my unborn child – that every word I speak is the truth. Moreover, I’m a good Christian, and I’m aware that such a terrible sin would have condemned my immortal soul to the eternal fires of hell.”

Henri was quiet for a long moment, his eyes locked with hers. He discerned only sincerity in her features with their exotic boniness that was shadowed by weariness and hardness. She did not betray Henry of England with anyone, I have no doubt of it, the dauphin inferred. Now she has confirmed it, and that is enough for me. But many other things might make us enemies forever.

Queen Anne was unlike other women the dauphin had ever met. She was an enigma to him, with both positive and negative facets of her character. Ladies at the French court were beautiful coquettes attired in eccentric fashions, many of whom were frivolous and too eager to slide under the sheets of their sovereign at the first invitation. Unlike them and in contrast to what Henri had heard about Anne’s far-famed flirtatiousness, his father’s new spouse seemed reticent and nevertheless bold in speech, her bearing majestic, as if she had been born into royalty.

Looking her straight in the eye, Henri broached the most sensitive subject. “Hasn’t your role in England’s break with Rome condemned your soul to hell?”

A discomfited Anne confronted him like a warrior. “In the eyes of the Catholic Church, heretics are all those who separate themselves from the so-called true faith, and who reject dogmas or add new doctrines to it.” Her voice took a higher octave. “Your Highness is a Catholic, but you are also a Renaissance prince, enlightened and impeccably educated. Have you ever admitted a thought that some things that the Vatican does are incongruent with Christian principles?”

He furrowed his brows. “What do you mean, Madame?”

Her expression was tinged with wisdom. “Canon law is a set of rules which are made by prelates. Some of them are distinct from those found in the Bible, like the Ten Commandments. The reason is that rules are created by human beings, who force others to abide by them. Perhaps many people do not know what God wanted His children to do in different settings. Moreover, you cannot find in the Bible a dogma that there is only one correct way to worship the Almighty.”   

He shook his head. “It is clear from verses in Scripture that all of the Apostles were swift and severe when it came to heresy in the Christian Church. The same severity can be found in the teaching of the Catholic Church in the centuries thereafter. It is essential that all Catholics examine how they practice their faith and do not do anything that is not approved by the Pope.”

Grim nervousness palpitated in Anne’s bosom, for one wrong word or move could break the carefully wrought tension between them. At the same time, an agitated Henri had bouts of anger which he fought to control so that they could maintain a veneer of politeness.

The queen brought the pope’s most controversial deed to his attention. “Nowadays, the Catholic Church is selling lots of indulgences. From what I know, the proceeds help the Pope pay for the rebuilding of Saint Peter’s Basilica in Rome. These funds must also fill the Pope's coffers.”

“And what?” the prince prompted.

Her heart thumped with repugnance towards the corrupt popery. “An indulgence is the remission of all or part of the temporal punishment due to sins which have already been forgiven. Do you think that one’s sins can be forgiven just because they pay for some paper issued by priests? Do you not think that abuses of indulgences have become rampant in the Church?”

“Yes, if the Pope says so,” Henri answered unhesitatingly. “You are a staunch supporter of Martin Luther. I’ve read all of his books, and I’ve found them the most horrible heresy. In his critique of the Catholic Church, Luther dared drop his belief in purgatory, and he also denied that a person’s actions play an important role in salvation, saying faith alone is what counts.”

“That is true.” Now she itched to finish this discourse as soon as possible.

At this moment, Anne was sad beyond all imaginings of melancholy. Henri is a radical Catholic, who will never accept that there can be at least some grain of truth in teachings of Luther and Calvin. Most likely, the prince did not support his parent’s policy of religious tolerance, and if he ever ascended the throne, he would work hard to reverse the current situation in France.

His voice jolted the queen out of her reverie. “As for indulgences, if their sale is abolished by the Pope, then I’ll consider it right and valid.” Leaning forward, he glared at her across the table. “Jesus Christ founded the Papacy in the 1st century, when he chose St. Peter, the leader of the apostles, to be his earthly representative, from whom His Holiness is directly descended.”

“Your Highness, I respect your opinion and will never argue with you again.”

At this, the prince’s façade of civility cracked, and his temper spiked. “Damn the heretics to hell!” His fists clenched as a tide of sizzling, scarlet rage assaulted him. “I wish my father well, and I love him dearly. But when I become King of France, I shall burn as many Protestants as I need to eradicate the seeds of heresy from the French land once and for all.”

The queen ventured intrepidly, “In my opinion, Catholics and Protestants need to find common ground as brothers, for now they are a divided family of Christians. They should ask themselves which commonalities they have, for there is only one God above all of us.”

“I do disagree!” His glare was piercing and condemning. “You drove King Henry from the flock of Rome. England has been wandering through the labyrinth of heresy, and it will never cease until the country is restored to Rome. But here, in France, you must hide your preferences.”

She emphasized, “Your father permitted me to worship my faith in private.”

“I’ll speak to him about it as soon as he returns.”

Against her will, an acerbic smile manifested upon her visage. “If Your Highness is so set on burning Protestants, I must be prepared to meet my maker at the pyre.”

His ire fully abated, now Henri regretted his outburst. “Your Majesty is my father’s wife and my sibling’s mother, so you are safe. None of Valois is like that Tudor monster.”

A wave of exhilaration swept over Anne. Henri has acknowledged me as the Queen of France! It is the first time he has addressed me by my title. The guilt in his eyes bespoke that now he was silently reproaching himself, because he had not wanted to distress her in her condition. Maybe over time, their hostilities would cease. However, she did not hold her hopes high, for their religious differences separated them from each other like an insurmountable wall.

The Queen of France smiled at her stepson. “Of course, Your Highness is not capable of committing such an atrocity. But I grieve that you do not want us to be friends.”

The affability and sincerity Anne exuded touched a chord in the prince’s heart. To Henri, Anne was an honest woman of principles, who spoke her mind, stood for what she believed was right, and fully embraced life. The eagerness and confidence of her manner to converse with him made the utmost impression upon him, hitherto limited by the warnings of Diane de Poitiers, whom he had fallen in love with. I must be careful around Anne Boleyn, the dauphin cautioned himself.  

Henri’s laughter was biting, without the joyousness of youth in its sound. “What can make people friends? Many things! Yet, the passion of friendship is of such a sweet and enduring nature that it may last a lifetime, unless people have great differences.”

Anne smiled cordially. “We count on the Almighty, and not upon ourselves, to give us certainty. In His Name we practice, and His word directs we us to do and act.”

He rose to his feet. “Indeed, Your Majesty. Now allow me to leave you.”

“Of course, Your Highness. The court is awaiting you.”

Sweeping a bow, Dauphin Henri stalked to the door and vacated the chamber. Silence reigned, punctured only by the cracking fire in the hearth adorned with salamanders.

Anne dropped her face into her hands. “Catholics will always be my adversaries.”   

The turbid flood of reality came crashing down upon her like waves pounding endlessly along a rocky beach. She needed to create her own faction to counterbalance the powerful Catholic party at court, to avoid all possible pitfalls, and, most importantly, to live sanely and sensibly.   

§§§

Standing near a window, Queen Anne observed snow swirl and leap in gusts of wind. A faint, crescent moon lit up the dark firmament. The courtyard, swathed in snow, and the trees, as if clothed in a mantle of thick, white fur, glittered brilliantly in the torchlight.

“Your Majesty, do you wish to rest? This is important in your condition.”

Pivoting, Anne smiled at her guest. “Madame de Châteaubriant, you were sent here to be the king’s eyes and ears. Yet, I’ve been granted a friend to whom I can turn.”

At the Valois court, the queen was lonelier than a caravan crossing the desert. She was incapable of distinguishing friend from foe among all of her handmaidens. The Countess de Châteaubriant, whose frankness had impressed Anne weeks earlier, seemed to be a noble-minded and honest person, and, most importantly, King François had sent her to take care of his wife.

Françoise de Foix crossed to the window and dropped a curtsey. “I’m honored to be your friend. Please, let me know if I can be of any help.”

“Thank you.” The queen strolled to a coach near the fireplace.

“There is no need to thank me, Your Majesty.”

The countess aided the queen to settle comfortably on the couch draped with green velvet.

Now Anne was about four months along in her pregnancy. In the daytime, her condition was not yet entirely apparent, for these days, she favored gowns with high waist and ample skirts. Now she was clad in a robe of steel gray satin, embellished with images of naiads, the soft material enveloped her tightly enough to see the swell of her growing stomach.

Anne gestured towards an armchair next to the couch, and Françoise seated herself there.

The queen confessed, “I first looked upon you with profound dislike. That was bad of me to have any unsavory thoughts of you, for you have never wronged me in any way.”

“You simply remember the past,” inferred Françoise. “I mean the years of my tenure as His Majesty’s chief mistress.” She smiled mistily, as if her dreams had materialized before her. “I resisted him at first, as I loved my husband and wanted to be faithful to him back then. However, soon the monarch charmed me with his remarkable personal accomplishments and graces.”

Anne regarded her with a perceptive look. “You are still not over His Majesty.”

The Countess de Châteaubriant blushed like a maiden who felt awkward in her skin. “I think it is impossible to forget a wonderful man such as your husband. In spite of the fact that he discarded me years ago, we have remained friends. Sometimes, I even hoped that our attraction would be rekindled, but to no avail. Then I realized that I’ve never been his true love. Yet, there are moments when I cannot tear myself loose from my fascination of him.”

Françoise’ candor was her major weapon in winning Anne’s friendship. As her arrival had looked suspicious, she had resolved to act in the most refreshing manner for the Valois court, full of politics, intrigues, deceits, and betrayals. My frankness is the only reason why now Queen Anne is talking to me. She may be the king’s true love! Françoise prayed that one day, they two would discover the natural pulse of devotion to and a healthy flow of trust between each other.

Queen Anne fended off the impulse to snap at her companion. Unexpectedly, a tide of petty jealousy washed over her at the thought that her spouse had bedded Françoise on numerous occasions in the past. There was no love in this sensation, but it was still burning in her bosom. In spite of her recent close brush with death, Anne saw herself as an accomplished noblewoman who had conquered the throne of England, albeit she had made some fatal mistakes which had aided her enemies to destroy her; a unique temptress who could make any man eat from her palm. And even though Anne did not harbor any romantic feelings for King François, the selfish part of her did not like the thought of him having many paramours. No one will ever accuse me of jealousy towards the flamboyant King of France. Nobody and never! This was what Anne resolved.

Anne’s voice was as bland as it could be. “It might seem rather anticlimactic to a woman when her husband sends his former paramour to serve and spy on her. Do you understand me?” This sounded very reasonable and moderate, and above all, not suspicious.   

“I do,” the countess confirmed. “Now you know that the king’s purposes were different.”

The queen would have expressed her contempt towards men, if they were not discussing their sovereign. “The truth is that we never know what is happening in the heads of men.”

“That is extraordinary,” commented Françoise, her voice dripping in amusement. “To hear this from the woman whose feat was the Crown of England!”

“Actually, that is usual,” objected the ruler’s wife. “Feminine charms and wiles may be strong, but they do not make us invincible. The male mind is certainly a devious one.”

The countess heaved a sigh. She had observed the queen slip into a painful apathy, in which one day was much like another, but Françoise wanted Anne to be on good terms with the king. She would need to persuade Anne not to dwell on her abhorrent first matrimony.

Anne stretched out her hands to the fire. “Dauphin Henri spent today’s evening with me. Every time he comes, I dream that that the ice of his antagonism may disappear as if by magic, and warmth will then burst out in full bloom in its stead. But it has not happened yet.”

Françoise comprehended her concerns. “Give the youth more time to get accustomed to his new surroundings. Not raised to be king, he became the dauphin mere months ago.”

“And the Spanish captivity…”  Anne’s voice broke off.

“Henri has been affected by that ghastly experience to an extreme degree. His eldest brother, François, was prone to sickness since their return from Madrid; he never fully recovered his heath, which resulted in his untimely death and a great tragedy for France.”

The queen sighed mournfully. “I was in England when the awful rumors reached me. I was told that he had died of consumption, although nothing was mentioned of his long illness.”

In a hushed tone, Françoise opined, “Although the late dauphin was rather frail, he did not exhibit any symptoms of consumption before his sudden passing.” She lowered her voice. “The king suspected poisoning, but there is no proof, so no one was arrested.”

Anne’s visage morphed into horror. “Poisoning? How is that possible?”

It occurred to the countess that she should not have said that. “It is not known for sure, Your Majesty. Most likely, these are the fantasies of my overactive imagination.”

Her nervous pallor was noticed by the queen. “Perhaps, Madame.”

Françoise switched to their previous topic. “You will get on well with Dauphin Henri. In all of his relationships, he is about to do something that will test his own nerve and resources, something that, if successful, will allow him to acquire his own belief in himself.”

Anne breathed out a sigh. “I hope so, Madame.”

“He is a good and smart lad, Madame. Everything will be all right.”

As Françoise chattered about books and plays, Anne could not help but feel a nasty taste in her mouth. The queen could not divert her mind from the possibility that the late dauphin had been poisoned. Anne had the cohort of unknown Catholic enemies at court, and a frisson of fear tingled her spine at the thought that her baby could be in peril. God bless and rest the soul of the hapless dauphin. Lord save and protect my own child, Anne prayed, her hand on her abdomen.


December 12, 1536, Château de Villers-Cotterêts, Villers-Cotterêts, Picardie, France

Queen Anne breathed in the cold air and shivered, but she felt less lonesome and more hopeful. The winter sun glittered through the windows and bounced off burgundy floral brocade that hung the antechamber’s walls. The flecks of fresh snow kissed her cheeks with icy lips, the forerunner of a snowstorm that would wrap the earth in a cloak long before the sunset.

“Is it not cold, Your Majesty?” inquired Françoise de Longwy, Anne’s principal lady-in-waiting. “Do you want us to put you to bed, and bring you a cup of warm spiced wine?”  

Anne closed the shutters and spun around to face her. “No, thank you. We are safe from the nipping winter blasts. As December draws to a close, frosts will become harder.”

Françoise de Foix emerged next to them. “I guess the frosts in France are not as harsh as they are in England. The local climate must be milder and more humid.”

“That is right, Madame de Foix,” replied the queen in a very friendly tone, much to the astonishment of all the others in the room. This was perceived as a sign of Anne’s favor towards the ruler’s former maîtresse-en-titre. “Bordered by four seas and by three mountain ranges, France is a country with diverse climatic conditions, resulting in versatile weather patterns.”

A surprised Françoise let out a tremulous smile. “I’ve never been to England. As I studied geography, I assume that the parts of England closest to the Atlantic Ocean experience the mildest temperatures, although these must also be the wettest. The areas in the east must be drier and less windy, but also colder. The cold and windy winter lasts from December until February.”

“Your tutor schooled you most well.” The queen’s accolade was sincere.

The door burst open, and young Marie de Bourbon slid inside, crying, “Your Majesty!”

Jeanne d’Angoulême, Countess de Bar-sur-Seine, left her embroidery and climbed to her feet. At the sight of her upbraiding countenance, Marie de Bourbon paused in her tracks.

“What an awful lapse of manners,” grumbled Jeanne. “Shame on you, Mademoiselle de Bourbon! You are in the queen’s presence! How can a genteel maiden from an old and respected family display such ignorance of elementary rules of etiquette?”

Marie dropped her head. “I’m sorry.”

Queen Anne strolled over to them. “Be at ease, Madame de Bar-sur-Seine. I prefer you all to be in an elated frame of mind rather than in a sullen one.” She flicked her gaze to Marie. “There is no need to apologize. Tell us why you are so joyful.”

The young woman lifted her facetious eyes to the queen's face. “The dressmakers have finished Your Majesty's new stunning gown.”

A sudden hubbub of laughter and jocund chatter floated through the closed doors. Then the door opened, and several ladies with the most delightful expressions entered.

“Your Majesty!” Louise de Montmorency exclaimed in exhilarated accents. “Your gown will be delivered by dressmakers in moments! You will be able to try it on!”

A chorus of exclamations rose in the air, for Anne’s singular style was well-known.

“That is awesome!” cried the euphoric queen.

Within the matter of minutes, the dressmakers carried inside the queen’s new gown and then departed. After a gauntlet of smiles and laughs, Anne was assisted by her maids to put it on.

As Anne froze in the middle of the chamber, her ladies gawked at her in fascination. The gown was a masterpiece of the tailor’s art, blessed with a great talent in sewing. At the same time, the queen reminisced, with a twinge of regret that those moments had long elapsed, the first merry months of her marriage to King Henry when her former husband had liked watching her dress in gowns he had bought for her, and when they had awaited a golden Tudor prince, not Elizabeth, while deities of joy had reigned in Anne’s universe. With a sigh, the queen prohibited herself from thinking about her first marriage and tried not to concentrate on it.  

Her eyes of a soft brown, the Queen of France eyed her ladies with a scintillating smile. A tastefully low-necked, fabulous gown of dazzling white brocade, wrought with threads of gold, was decorated with diamonds, scattered about the bodice in the design of a military parade. The gown’s ample skirt had several layers of lace design and a long train of silver taffeta, passmented with gold. Studded with massive black pearls, the stomacher was of silver velvet, while a girdle of diamonds encircled her waist. Marie de Lorraine brought a gorgeous headdress of goldsmith’s work, which now confined Anne’s dark tresses, setting off her swarthy countenance.

Anne twirled around and glanced at a looking glass that was set on a table. “Ladies, what do you think? Should I say ‘thank you’ to the dressmakers?”

“Most definitely, Your Majesty,” Jeanne d’Angoulême concurred with a smile.

Marie and Louise de Lorraine chorused, “Ah, Your Majesty! You look like a goddess!”  

“The most wonderful dress I’ve ever seen!” twittered Marie de Bourbon.

With a smile, Françoise de Longwy chimed in, “Madame, you are beautiful like the most exotic white rose on earth. The whiteness of your gown creates an air of innocence about you, and the unusual design symbolizes something from mythology.”

Françoise de Foix assessed, “The magnificent gown does accentuate how tall, slim, and exquisitely proportioned Your Majesty is.” She then recollected, “In ancient Rome, the priestesses of the goddess Vesta dressed themselves in white robes, a white shawl, and a white veil. If we add a white shawl or veil here, you will look like an ancient goodness.”

Anne liked the idea. “Order a white gauze veil that can be fastened to the headdress.”

For a while, the queen walked to and fro, enjoying the feel of the soft material against her skin. According to the monarch’s advice before their wedding, she had chosen the color white to reassert the truth of her innocence before the whole court on Christmas.

Anne stopped near the fireplace, where flames were licking over logs. In the same way, memories of her happiest months were burning her from the inside out. With tears in her eyes, Anne recalled how she had been trying on her coronation gown of purple velvet, furred with ermine. At the time, Henry had loved her so much that a verse had been composed by the English playwright Nicholas Udall at his behest, where she and her then unborn child – Elizabeth – had been proclaimed England’s hope, while Anne’s name had been equated with holy grace.

Momentarily despondent, the queen murmured to herself, “Have I been damned with perennial sadness? Why did all the good in my life perish in the haze of the past?”  

Unbeknownst to her mistress, Françoise de Foix stood behind her. Her voice as quiet as a whisper, she uttered, “True love is the condition in which the happiness of your beloved is essential to your own. Was it present on both sides in your former marriage, Your Majesty?”

“What do you imply?” Anne’s startled voice was as gentle as a butterfly’s wing.

Françoise sank into a deep curtsey. “Nothing that you cannot fathom out.”

The herald announced the arrival of Prince Charles, the new Duke d’Orléans after the late dauphin’s passing, and Princess Marguerite de Valois. They both wore blithesome expressions as they crossed to the hearth and greeted the queen in accordance with the royal protocol.  

“Rise,” Anne purred. “No formalities with me in private, please.”

Princess Marguerite examined her stepmother with a keen eye. “Your Majesty looks fabulous! You are more beautiful than the mythological Helen of Troy is supposed to be.”

Prince Charles came to the queen and kissed her hand. “Madame, let me be your gallant knight at least for tonight. When you appear at the Christmas festivities in this gown, everyone will be utterly charmed. Your intense, dark eyes will hook everybody to the soul, the enchanting music of your voice will make them like clay in your hands. Your appearance of a goddess, who has descended from the Mount Olympus, will move all the spectators all to you, as if they were sailors drawn to the rocky coast of the sirens’ island, which Roman poets called Sirenum scopuli.”

Charles’ ebullient, romantic, intelligent speech was similar to his father’s tirades, and Anne chortled. “The courtiers will not voyage to that island. They do not even know where it is located, for it is as enigmatic as the origins of earth are.”

The prince jested, “They will not reach you because my father will not allow them to.”

Marguerite grinned. “The king will guard his lovely wife as his rarest jewel.”

Anne eyed her stepchildren. The prince and princess were easy-going and carefree, unlike their elder brother, Henri. After their first dinner with her, they had been pleased to discover that all the tales about Anne’s tremendous wit and intelligence had been true. It began to seem to Anne that in her relationships with young Charles and Marguerite she would grasp one of the most beautiful qualities of true friendship – to understand and to be understood.

An attractive girl of thirteen, Princess Marguerite was of slender build. In her amber eyes, Anne could see King François and his sister; her long Valois nose also attested to her royal origins. Marguerite’s angular, yet delicate, features reminded Anne of Queen Claude, but her complexion was leaning towards the Valois dour one. The princess did not have the petite figure and fragility of her late mother, and the strength of her will was evident in her clever, stubborn eyes.

Anne’s gaze traversed the prince, whom she had wished to wed her daughter, Elizabeth. Apparently, Charles’ appearance had many of the French monarch’s traits: almond-shaped, amber eyes, the Valois nose, high cheekbones, and saturnine handsomeness. Moreover, he was far taller than an average man of fourteen, and he would tower over the tallest man at court in his early adulthood, just as his father had once done. Charles’ conceited grin and the mischievous twinkle in his eyes, as well as his wit and eccentricity reminded Anne of her own husband.   

Unlike their elder brother, both Marguerite and Charles were both fond of extravagant fashions. The prince’s stylish doublet of purple velvet, ornamented with diamonds, sapphires, and rubies, was furred with sable. His chestnut hair fell over his ears from beneath a toque of black velvet, adorned with a white feather and jeweled with a diamond brooch – an affiquet. His sister’s tastes were a bit less ostentatious: her nice, lilac silk gown, which had open, pendant sleeves trimmed with white lace, was embossed with a floral motif of embroidery, stressing the freshness of her youth, while her French hood of yellow velvet confined her long, brunette hair.

Anne’s gaze darted between her stepchildren. “Your Highnesses are both exaggerating.”

Marguerite contradicted, “No, we are not. Our father will be enchanted as he sees you.”

Prince Charles affirmed dramatically, “Good heaves, I’ve forgotten why I’ve come!”

Marguerite divulged, “We have a letter from the king for Your Majesty.”

Charles explained, “It was delivered by our most trusted spies. It was given to me so that I could pass it on to you or the Countess de Châteaubriant.”   

Marguerite was curious as to the letter’s content. “Father is a marvelous poet!”

The prince handed a parchment, stamped with the Valois seal, to Queen Anne. As she took it in her hands, they trembled, as if she were in a fit of argue. Grinning at her, he interpreted it as the excitement she must have felt at the thought of his illustrious parent. His guess was correct as Anne’s insides were foaming with a blend of delight and relief that the ruler was alive.

Notwithstanding the above, Anne showed neither interest nor emotion as she commented, “Finally, after almost two months of silence, the sovereign of France has written to his wife.”   

The queen made her way to the window. “Fetch the musician!”

Charles and Marguerite traded glances of incomprehension, as her reaction puzzled them.   

Anne halted near the window. “Play a Burgundian chanson by Guillaume Dufay!”

The princess queried, “Maybe something bright and cheerful, Your Majesty?”

The queen’s question was expected. “But doesn’t a chanson fit the time of day?”

As the plangent tune resounded, Anne pivoted to the window, the parchment clasped in her hand. She gazed out, into the swirling whitish darkness, surrounding the cloud-hidden moon and the palace. The snow was heaped up in the courtyard to an uncommon height, and a thick, white carpet also blanketed the hills and the valley. She wondered whether the monarch would be able to return before the Christmastide, provided that he intended to leave his army.   

Her heart thumping like a broken wagon wheel, the queen broke the seal, unrolled the parchment, and then started reading. The king’s handwriting was calligraphic and handsome, with a touch of flair, and there was nothing pretentious or coy in his expression.

Dearest Anne,

I believe that you have not thought of me. After our marriage, you have always avoided me, as if I were the worst pestilence in your life. Therefore, I decided not to intrude upon your time and privacy, so I have not kept in touch with you.

At present, we are in Toulouse. As you may have heard, a battle took place in Auvergne, and we won it. But Carlos is still somewhere around, although he cannot reach Ferdinand, who is being held in the north. There will be more battles when the weather improves.  

I’ve missed you, although this means nothing to you. I’ve been keeping your lovely face in my mind. Perhaps you were my talisman in battles. 

I hope you will like my gifts. Take care of yourself and our babe. 

François, King of France

As she finished reading, Anne held the letter between her hands, as if not wishing to part with it. For so long, she had been offended by his ignorance of her, thinking that he had not cared not only about her, but also about their child. The thought that the barriers she had deliberately erected between them were the reason for his silence was oddly painful for her. The reality was opposite to her fears: all this time, François remembered Anne, needing her to give him strength.

“He has missed me,” the queen whispered to herself, clutching the letter to her chest.

Her lips trembled, and bitter words towards herself were on them. She should not have been so unfeeling towards a warrior, who could have died on a battlefield while saving his country. The spectre of deeply ingrained fear for François’ wellbeing and guilt rose up inside of Anne like a shadow to choke her. Unbidden, tendrils of relief mingled with inexplicable happiness spurted in her inner world. In spite of all her loathing towards matrimony, she did miss François not as her husband, but as an intelligent conversationalist and as someone to whom she was grateful.

In mythology, Hephaestus was married to Aphrodite by Zeus to prevent a war of the gods fighting for her hand. Will my marriage to François stop the war in France? Will something good follow our victory? They could be invincible together, and their reign could be long and grand if they defeated the emperor, even though there would be no love between the two of them.  

Still holding the letter, Anne looked out and attempted to distract herself from her spouse. “His Majesty is fond of the talented figures such as Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo Buonarroti, Giulio Romano, Baldassare Peruzzi, and so forth. This fondness has heralded a great awakening of architectural energy in France, and I’ll never cease admiring this grand palace.”

The prince’s voice ceased Anne’s pontification. “If this letter has failed to improve Your Majesty’s mood, then his gift will most certainly impress you a lot.”

Anne swiveled and gaped at her ladies, who put a velvet-covered case at a marble table. Prince Charles approached the table and hefted the lid, revealing an oval-cut, massive necklace of six rows of diamonds, set in spectacular garnets. The prince took it in his hands, and gasps of wonder erupted from the assemblage, for the necklace’s magnificence was unparalleled.

The queen and the prince met in the center. Charles fastened the item about Anne’s neck, and exuberant acclamations broke from the concourse. The ruler had always been extravagant, and they assumed that this gift was one of the many which would follow soon.

Anne caressed the “AR” pendant of the necklace, which meant ‘Anna Regina’ and rested over her stomacher. “It was nice of the king to ask the goldsmith to create my initials on his gift.”

Marguerite appeared beside the queen. “Our father shows his adoration for you.”

Anne ignored her stepdaughter’s statement. “I’ll heartily thank His Majesty for this gift.” She still refused to refer to her husband by his first name, despite his request.  

The princess stated, “The gown and jewels make you shine like a sun.”  

This extracted a smile from Charles. “The magnificence of our father’s court is matched by the brilliance of French literature and architecture during his rule. French manners, art, and dress are becoming the models of culture and signs of elegance and grace.”

“At the French court,” continued Anne enthusiastically, “everyone shines in the reflected light, illuminated by the rays of King François, who has brought enlightenment to the nation.”   

The prince stressed, “You shine in your husband’s rays like a huge diamond.”

His sister nodded. “Brighter than others.”

At this moment, Queen Anne felt the erstwhile, sprightful, unworldly spirit of a seductress resurrect.  The greatest gift of life is love, and once I thought that I had been blessed with Henry’s love. Yet, I was mistaken, and I shall never be deluded into thinking that I can be happy again, especially not with another king. Her mood tumbling into an endless black hole, she compelled that merry spirit to retreat into her inner self, although its flame was still burning in deep in her.  

Notes:

I hope you liked this chapter. Please leave a review, which will encourage me to keep going.

I thought that we needed a chapter about Anne Boleyn's meeting with the King of France's children. Now Anne met Dauphin Henri, Princess Marguerite de Valois, and Prince Charles, Duke d'Orléans. While Henri was extremely influenced by the several years which he and his late brother – the late Dauphin François – spent in Spain, Charles was too young at the time when their father was defeated at Pavia in 1526, so Charles did not suffer at the hands of the emperor. That is why Henri and Charles are so different, and these differences are showed in all the episodes in this chapter. Obviously, Anne is going to have friendlier relationships with Marguerite and Charles than with Henri, mainly due to the queen's religious background. Her conversation with Henri illustrates their differences and shows that their relationship will remain tense and cold, at least for now.

Now King François is fighting against Emperor Charles, so he is staying away from court and has almost no contact with Anne. As you deduced, he does not write her often because Anne made it clear that she wants them to live like strangers in marriage. Yet, Charles delivers Anne a letter from the king, which proves that François didn't forget about Anne and is worried for her and their unborn child. Neither François nor Anne love each other at this stage, but, of course, the monarch feels more affection for his wife than Anne has for him. Strictly speaking, she feels disdain for matrimony and men in general, and even though Anne is delighted to receive news from François, this delight does not come from something akin to her growing affection for him – she is mostly relieved that her husband is alive. It will take Anne a long time to start trusting François.

As Anne needed allies, she realized that at present, her closest ally is Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant. They are not intimate friends, but Anne kind of trust her husband's former mistress more than she trusts her other ladies-in-waiting. Anne and Françoise may become friends in the future, but it will take Anne a long time to start trusting anyone, especially her royal husband and anyone associated with him, except for his two youngest children – Charles and Marguerite. Françoise is frank with Anne because she knows that it is the only way to win the favor of the king's wife so that she can protect Anne from potential enemies, just as the monarch asked her to act.

I'm sorry, but I cannot tell you whom Anne will have – a boy or a girl. You will have to wait and see.

Yours sincerely,

Lady Perseverance

Chapter 13: Chapter 12: Political and Amatory Things

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: Political and Amatory Things

December 20, 1536, Palais de Poitiers, Poitiers, county of Poitiers, France

The huge and well-illuminated great hall was thronged with sumptuously attired French courtiers. Surrounded by his entourage, the King of France strolled across to the massive, carved throne under a canopy of cloth of gold. Although they all trailed behind him like a robe’s train, there was no noise, for each footfall was silenced by the vastness of the chamber’s space, which was why the room was called the hall of lost footsteps, or salle des pas perdus.

Outside the chamber, the palace was alive with servants, who, even at such an early hour, were bustling about their duties. Those who were not admitted to the great hall staggered through the corridors, bleary-eyed from their beds. The thick walls of the castle could not ward off the winter cold, so in all the rooms and hallways fires danced merrily in the hearths.  

A week earlier, the Valois monarch had come to the city of Poitiers, which had been the seat of the Counts of Poitou and Dukes of Aquitaine centuries ago. Together with his generals and his advisors, he had arrived in Poitiers from Toulouse to meet with Protestant envoys.

“We can start now,” François stated as he seated himself into the throne.

A groom went to fulfill the order. A cacophony of voices was bubbling from the nobles.

“Today is a great day,” said the ruler to his three advisors.   

Anne de Montmorency admitted, “Your Majesty, at first, I did not like the idea of creating an alliance with Protestant nations. Now I see that my assessment of the situation was incorrect.”

“Of course, it was wrong,” barked Philippe de Chabot.

Glowering between his two subjects, François admonished, “In youth, we were all close friends. However, later you started competing for my affection and for power.” He heaved a sigh. “Rivalry between factions at court always plants the seeds of an inevitable conflict.”

“I apologize,” began Montmorency, “if I displeased you, my liege.”

“I’m sorry,” Chabot echoed.

Cardinal de Tournon chimed in, “The rivalry should be not with others but with yourself. I always try to improve myself. I fight against my own weaknesses, not against others.”

The king tipped his head. “The kinder and wiser you are, the better people, situations, and opportunities you will attract into your life. Small and good things count.”

Montmorency and Chabot nodded, but the king saw that they had dismissed his words.

François reminisced, “I’ve always had an amicable relationship with each of you, Philippe and Monty. Together we played games in the gardens at Amboise, where I grew up. Together we learned to handle sword, rapier, and other weapons. We have fought many battles together, and we have also suffered in captivity together. I shall not allow you to destroy our friendship.”

The two men had the decency to cast their eyes down, but said nothing.

The herald announced the arrival of ambassadors. A hush fell over the room.

Several men entered and walked to the throne. They were all dressed in unusual foreign fashions, austere and richly embroidered. They swept bows to the ruler almost in unison.  

King François greeted, “Welcome to my war court. It is an honor to see you here.”

All the diplomats spoke the French language, so no translator was needed.

The ambassadors examined the vast chamber, which had been created by the illustrious Eleanor of Aquitaine in the 11th century. The lofty stone ceiling, with its innumerable ornaments and the painted Valois coats-of-arms, invoked admiration in them. The walls were swathed with tapestries, depicting scenes of life from Eleanor’s merry and chivalrous court.

Everyone’s eyes were glued to the King of France. His expression like that of a Roman triumphator, his regality was emphasized by his doublet of purple brocade, embroidered with gold and diamonds. Upon his head, there was a majestic crown, with a large diamond in the fleur-de-lis at the top of the arches, as well as hundreds of diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires.

A Swedish ambassador spoke in a heavily accented French. “My sovereign, King Gustav of Sweden, is most delighted to sign the treaty with France against the bellicose Habsburgs. The emperor’s brutal attack on France, under the false pretense of seeking revenge for his sister’s death against Your Majesty, has showed that the Spanish are dangerous for every honest ruler.”

The monarch displayed his knowledge of the Swedish affairs. “I’m glad to be Sweden’s ally. My fellow king, Gustav, liberated his country from the Danes. Since then, he has worked hard to make the Crown more powerful. I wish him to have a long and prosperous reign.”

The man gushed, “King Gustav has the highest opinion of Your Majesty. He has always been impressed by your country’s glorious culture. Without a shadow of a doubt, the French court is the most enlightened one in the whole of Christendom.”

Gesturing towards his courtiers, François boasted, “They all call me a French Zeus, who has brought the light of knowledge into the darkness that once filled medieval France.”

A hubbub of joyful voices came from the assemblage; they adored their sovereign.

The ruler moved his gaze to the ambassador who represented the Elector of Saxony. “I’m most pleased to see the envoy from the leader of the Schmalkaldic League at my court.”

The diplomat from Saxony affirmed, “Your Majesty, the pleasure is all ours. My liege lord, His Highness Johann Frederick, has been horrified by the barbaric actions of the Imperial army in Arles and Tours. Please, accept our sincere condolences on the deaths of so many brave Frenchmen, who served you well and were not spared by the bloodthirsty Habsburgs.”

A stab of pain ripped through the ruler’s chest. “Their courageous souls must have found peace in heaven. I appreciate your master’s sympathy to my subjects.”

“That damned Carlos von Habsburg is at fault!” hissed the elector’s ambassador. “My master is outraged that the emperor has invaded your kingdom. We are aware that Queen Eleanor died of natural causes. Her brother has committed a horrendous sin when he has accused Your Majesty of killing her so as to mask his real intension to overthrow you.”

François tipped his head. “Carlos and I have been mortal foes since Pavia.”

Another diplomat asserted in a German-accented French, “I represent Duke Ulrich of Württemberg, who has long been worried by the rising power of Emperor Carlos. The Spanish invasion of France and the emperor’s lies prove that Carlos is not a good Christian.”

The ambassador from the Duchy of Cleves entered the conversation. “His Highness, Duke John of Cleves and Count of Mark, sends his greetings to Your Majesty. We must combine forces to deal with the emperor’s appetite for conquests. We will punish him for the immoral lies which he has heaped upon you – the most Christian Catholic monarch, who has demonstrated your benevolence in the decision to follow the course of religious tolerance in France.”

The Valois ruler was satisfied that his approach to the religious affairs in France allowed him to secure the partnership of the German Protestant States and other countries, which reformed their Church. France’s tolerance was his strategic, long-term game against the House of Habsburg, which intensified the erosive process of religious nature within the Holy Roman Empire. The king also understood that it was an effective way to keep his own countrymen in peace.

Leaning back in his throne, François smiled affably. “France is grateful for your master’s desire to assist us in punishing the worst pestilence the world has ever seen – the emperor.”

Accoutered in a doublet and hose of black tylsent, Philip I, Landgrave of Hesse, left his courtiers and approached the throne; his army had participated in the recent battles against the Spaniards. His presence added to the paramount importance of today’s event.

Bowing deeply, Hesse addressed the diplomats in French. “I’m honored to be among the defenders of France. Years ago, I understood how sly and perilous Carlos von Habsburg is. The Lutheran reform in my lands has disturbed the peace of the Holy Roman Empire, earning for me the emperor’s enmity; he would gladly charge me with heresy.”

“But Carlos will not do that,” François asserted.

Hesse predicted, “We will crush that thug with a protruding lip before he can cause more harm to those rulers who do not wish to depose other dynasties.”

The French nobles bellowed, “We will destroy the emperor!”   

“Misery to the Habsburgs!” roared the Protestant envoys.  

With an air of imperious dignity about him, François proclaimed, “Our alliance will create a military, financial, and governance framework that shall ensure our key objective – the defeat of that villainous invader. Only together we are strong enough to counter a threat from him and the Habsburg family, and to safeguard the freedom and security of its member countries. We will defend any nation should it be threatened or attacked by any aggressor.”

The throng exploded with applause, cursing the Spaniards.  

“Let’s make our friendship as solid as stone.” The king’s words closed the discourse.

The Norwegian ambassador was fetched. It had been pre-agreed before the audience that the Norwegian and Swedish diplomats would be together in the same room for as little time as possible. The deposition of the Danish-Norwegian King Christian II as regent of the Kalmar Union in Sweden by Gustav Vasa, who currently ruled Sweden, was still too fresh in the minds of the two opposing parties, so any misunderstanding or argument could re-open old sores.

Guillaume Poyet, the recently appointed Chancellor of France, brought a large parchment – the treaty for the Valois monarch and ambassadors to sign. The concourse assembled near the throne, where King François signed the document and stamped it with the Valois seal.

This was welcomed with acclamations and murmurings of joyful relief. Jocund strains proceeded from sackbut and psaltery.  Caps and toques were flung into the air, for the French had just been reassured that they would be able to eject the Imperial forces from their country. A new historical alliance, called the Grand Anti-Habsburg Coalition, was formed.

The King of France promulgated, “We shall wage war together and together make peace in the greatest confidence that we act only in our mutual interests.”

The envoy from Norway affirmed in his barely understandable French, “Nothing will tear the fabric of our great alliance to pieces, regardless of our religious beliefs.”

Hesse opined, “This alliance makes any further attack on France unthinkable.”

Sadness flickered in the king’s eyes. “Our land has been battered enough by the Spanish.”

The diplomat from Saxony touched upon the topic that was sensational in Europe. “Your Majesty married Anne of England, who is a devout reformer. Will you permit freedom of religion in France so that people can practice their faith without government intervention?”  

King François vocalized the only answer he could give. “France has always been one of the principal Catholic countries in Christendom. In spite of the interest of my enlightened subjects in new teachings, Catholicism has remained our predominant religion.” He stilled for a moment to let it sink in. “I’ve allowed my wife, Queen Anne of France, to worship her faith in private. However, she must attend Masses and some other ecclesiastical rites as my queen.”

The Saxonian man persevered, “Will you let Protestantism spread?”

The ruler shook his head. “I’ve made an exception only for my spouse.”

Montmorency, Tournon, and other French advisors breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Hesse quizzed, “Will there be harsh persecutions of non-Catholics in France?”

“No,” the monarch answered. “I punished the Protestants only once – after the Affair of the Placards. I’ve no intention to inflict suffering on those who are interested in reform.”

François recollected the Affair of the Placards. In October 1534, anti-Catholic posters appeared in public places in Paris and several other cities. The placards had been posted on the door of the ruler’s bedroom at Château d’Amboise, where François had resided at the time. The king had ordered a search for culprits. Antoine Marcourt, the author of the placards, had escaped to Switzerland, while many heretics had been either imprisoned or executed. Afterwards, the monarch continued the policy of religious tolerance.  At present, there was no organized Protestant movement in France, and there were no signs that it would take shape in the near future.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Hesse muttered.  

It was the only answer they could get, and it was enough for now.

“My friends!” The ruler’s voice brought all conversations to a halt. “We have received marvelous news: the Turks have attacked Spanish ports and the Republic of Genoa. The Ottoman Empire has declared war upon the Holy Roman Empire. This will lead us to our victory!”

This elicited murmurings of delight and discontent from everyone. The establishment of France’s diplomatic relations with the Ottoman Empire had caused quite a scandal in the Christian world. Every Catholic and reformer considered this alliance controversial, to say the least.

Stepping forward, the Norwegian man audaciously asked, “Will Your Majesty support the heathens if they attempt to conquer Vienna and the whole of Europe?”

“Never,” ascertained the king. “They will be stopped, but so far they are helping.”

Satisfied, the envoys smiled at the monarch’s slyness. With mannered slowness, François rose from his throne, and everyone dropped into bows. The monarch strolled over to the exit.  

Before the king exited, the congregation chorused, “Long Live King François!”  

§§§

Mon amour,” the Duchess d’Étampes addressed her royal lover, stretching her body on the bed. “I’ve been waiting for you so impatiently that I cannot describe it.”

Frowning at her, François divested himself of his doublet. A servant took it from him and was then dismissed, hurrying to leave his liege lord with the mistress.  

As he froze in the middle of his bedroom, the King of France eyed his paramour. Clothed in a robe of golden taffeta lined with ermine, Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly rested on a wide, canopied bed, draped in the Oriental style with black and emerald brocade and topped with ostrich feathers. She locked her salacious gaze with the monarch’s, beckoning him with a curl of her fingers.

Her melodious voice ebbed and flowed, a pulsing mass of prurient energy. “Come to me, my sovereign. Start a fire, and I shall be your amorous light, burning bright and forever.”

At first, the king didn’t move. “Anne, why did you come to Poitiers today?”  

I do want Anne de Pisseleu, but she is only one of the many women whom I’ve bedded. Such were the monarch’s thoughts as he beheld the temptress, who still made his blood boil with lust, but whose personality nevertheless no longer attracted him. At times, the duchess’ annoyance and her demanding nature irritated him like a burr under the saddle of a cavalry horse.

Confusion colored her countenance. “François, are you not happy to see me?”  

He settled himself into a nearby armchair, decorated with leaves of acanthus. “I do not have enough time to write even to my family. My primary concern is the safety of my country.”

Out of curiosity, she queried, “How is your wife faring?”  

The ruler measured her with a suspicious glance. “Queen Anne is doing well. I pray that she and our child will be fine. Her health is being monitored by my best doctors.”

“I heard that the queen had lost two babies. With her sad history, she must be extremely careful.” Although the royal paramour would never have done anything to trigger her namesake’s miscarriage, part of her hoped that her rival would suffer another similar setback.  

“I’m aware of what happened to my Anne during her… erm… life with Henry. I consulted with my physician, who told me that miscarriages are common, and that they might occur early in pregnancy or a bit later.  My first wife, Claude, miscarried once, but she nonetheless birthed me many children. With God’s blessing, Anne will carry our babe to term.”

His response irked Madame de Pisseleu. The king had not only mentioned his pregnant consort, but had also referred to her as ‘Queen Anne’ and ‘my Anne’. It did not sit well with the mistress that he was so worried about his spouse and their unborn child.  Is François developing affection for that English slattern? For many years, he was so smitten with me that he gladly made me his queen and wife in all but name, despite not being faithful to me.  Is my power over François waning? The duchess gritted her teeth in an attempt to swallow her terror.

Anne climbed out of bed and walked to the ruler, swaying her hips. The carnal aura about her was like that about Messalina, the third wife of the Roman emperor Claudius, who had led such a lewd life that she had besmirched herself with the seed of her numberless lovers. Anne de Pisseleu was a stunning seductress, whose one glance or smile made a man crave to pump himself into her with the desperation of a dying warrior yearning to have his last rites.

“My most magnificent king,” his chief mistress called him with absolute adoration. “The Almighty will bless your new marriage with many sons and daughters.”

He sighed. “If it is God’s will, then it will happen.”

Anne tilted her head to one side. “Mon amour, if a woman loves a man deeply, she is jealous of him.” She smiled enticingly. “And you are the sense of my whole life!”

“Are you really so devoted to me?” A flicker of guilt was prominent in his gaze.

“Of course, I am, François. How can you doubt that?”

Now he was flirting with her. “Do you worship me as much as Venus did her lovers?”

“You are the only man in my life, mon amour! You are my soulmate! I’ve always been faithful to you since you made me yours!” Lies slipped out of her mouth with ease.  

He believed her, but said as if warning her, “If I learned that you slept with someone else since I first bedded you all those years ago, you would have felt my wrath.”

The ardent enthusiasm of Anne de Pisseleu’s confession went out of her features, blown by a sudden gust of fright.  No! François cannot know anything about my affairs…  He does not suspect that one of his councilors is still my lover. And he cannot know that his own relative knew me carnally. Then the duchess stifled these fears, though with effort. Her sister, Péronne, loved her dearly and promised to hide her indiscretions, so her secrets would not be unveiled.  

Adrenaline rushed through the Duchess d’Étampes, mingled with her determination to paint herself in the ruler’s eyes whiter than the color immaculate white. Taking a step to him, she placed a hand over her heart. “I do love you, François. You can never marry me, but I am content to be your maîtresse-en-titre. You are my God and my sovereign, and I would sacrifice my own life just to let you live and breathe for another moment so that you can kiss me again.”

Desire inundated his loins, making the ruler pleasurably and painfully alert. He grabbed his paramour and kissed her hard on the mouth. His actions banished all of her previous fears, and Anne kissed him back with an insane eagerness that propelled her to tear the collar of her magenta rose gown, trimmed with multicolored lace. She groaned like a petted cat as his lips moved to her neck and then down to her breast, which he liberated from her gown and then sucked at it.

François did the same to the other breast. “Anne… lovely Anne…”  

Cupping his face, the harlot provoked him with a frivolous talk.  “My king, claim me as yours until you are so tired that you cannot submerge yourself into my depths anymore.”

“You are mine!” The ruler pushed her towards the bed.

His paramour clambered onto the mattress and stood on her fours, swaying her bottom. Installing himself behind her, he lifted her robe. She moaned and wriggled as his fingers caressed her opening and stroked her slim hips before drawing to the laces of his hose.  

“I like satisfying all your whims, François.”

“Do it now, then,” the king muttered, letting his hose drop to the carpet.  

As he slid into her from the back, Anne arched herself to meet the invasion. In the grip of his overpowering need for release, François could barely get close enough or deep enough as he pumped into his lover again and again, his every thrust harder than the one before.  

He fell next to her on the bed, interlinking his hand with hers. Her own hips fell, spent, to the mattress, and she let out a long, heated breath, satisfied that he was so passionate with her tonight. For a short time, the lovers rested in silence, until Anne jerked him to her, tore apart his shirt, and feasted kisses upon his bare chest. Then their carnal dance started again, passion sparking and igniting like a raging inferno, then ebbing away until their senses recovered.  

François kissed her nose. “You possess a talent in pleasing me, Anne.”

His chief mistress licked his throat. “My dearest Majesty!”  

The Duchess d’Étampes indulged his appetites for hours. She was one of the few of his lovers with whom François acted as an absolute libertine in bed, and with whom he tried each and every caress, intimate pose, and way of lovemaking. In his ardor, he had been somewhat restrained in bed with the gentle Queen Claude and most of his other paramours, and he would not have offered them to do some totally indecent things, which he frequently enjoyed with Madame de Pisseleu. The duchess was the king’s Messalina who, François believed, belonged only to him.  

§§§

With first rays of light, the ruler left his mistress asleep. He went to his private chambers, where he worked and received his councilors and diplomats for unofficial audiences. Its walls swathed in silk-threaded tapestries depicting scenes from Eleanor of Aquitaine’s life, the room had a high, domed ceiling; a fire crackled in the hearth, banishing the December chill.

As François observed sunrise above the ice-covered Clain River, the mental image of Queen Anne Boleyn resurfaced, and with it a recollection of their wedding night. Anne was heart-stoppingly beautiful, as she lay naked on the bed, afraid of the consummation. I would have given anything for a second in my wife’s arms, but not in my mistress’. Words were of no use to explain his consort’s odd presence in his inner realm, for he was puzzled with his feelings.  

Since their parting, the monarch’s heart was shrouded in a melancholic light, as though he were living in gray twilight. His adventures in bed with Anne de Pisseleu had not improved his mood.  Yet, every time he thought of his queen, the waters of his life’s river surged through his veins at a rapid pace, swelling and cresting into a vortex of inner tumult, which he masterfully concealed. It was a storm driven by the winds of his fears – would his matrimony with Anne ever find a safe harbor in the calm waters of their camaraderie, if not affection?

At the knock on the door, François uttered his permission to enter. Anne de Montmorency slipped inside, his expression sleepy; he was holding a candle in his hand.

“What, Monty?” enquired the king absently.

Bowing, Montmorency saw that his sovereign still wore the nightclothes. “Your Majesty, Madame Adrienne d’Estouteville, Countess de Saint-Pol and de Chaumont, is here.”

The king gaped at him. “What? She must be in Normandy.”

“She arrived an hour earlier; she has an urgent matter to discuss with you.”

“Have my grooms bring my garments. Then show her in.”

In the next thirty minutes, the royal servants aided François to get dressed in an Italianate attire of blue velvet, richly laced with gold and trimmed with ermine. After a morning washing and dressing routine, the monarch invited his unexpected guest to his private chambers.

Adrienne d’Estouteville arrived shortly and curtsied. “Good morning, Your Majesty.”

“You may leave,” the king dismissed Montmorency, who swept a bow and obeyed.

As the door closed, François commenced, “Rise, Madame. What did you leave your estates and risked your life traveling through France during the invasion?”    

Adrienne informed forthrightly, “Your child is in my womb.”

His brow shot up. “I beg your pardon?”

Her visage whitened in either fear or indignation. “Your Majesty voyaged through the French provinces, including Normandy, in order to recruit men into the royal army.  Do you not remember the five nights you spent with me two months earlier in my castle in Estouteville? My husband was away, so we both did not object to succumb to our passions.”

François perused the young lady, who froze in the center. Adrienne, Dame d’Estouteville, had been the only surviving heiress of the Norman House of Estouteville, for whom the monarch had arranged a marriage to a prince du sang – François I de Bourbon, Count de St Pol. The king’s cousin was the second son of the late Count François de Vendôme and his wife, Marie de Luxembourg, Countess de Saint-Pol. Later, the County de Vendôme had been elevated to a duchy.

Duke François d’Estouteville had been captured together with his sovereign at the Battle of Pavia of 1525. Adrienne had brought to her husband several rich baronies, which comprised the lands of the House of Estouteville – Vallemont, Varengeville, Berneval, and Cleuville. In 1534, these territories had been transformed into the dukedom of Estouteville by royal letters patent registered in the Parliament of Rouen and the national Estates General, in reward for François de Bourbon’s loyal service to his liege lord, King François, and their shared sufferings at Pavia.

Her countenance quite shy, Adrienne was quite short in stature, with auburn hair, narrow forehead, and small, gray eyes. Attired in a yellow riding habit trimmed with black lace on the sleeves, she was not a beauty, but she held herself with dignity and grace. Adrienne reminded him of Françoise de Foix, who nonetheless was far more beautiful. Adrienne d’Estouteville has class! My wife, Anne, possesses style and class as well, just as Françoise de Foix does. This woman also has her own charm. When I look at such women, I think that Anne de Pisseleu lacks class.

“I remember our short, consensual liaison. But I’m aware that your spouse returned home sometime after my departure, so I have to ask: are you certain that it is my child?”  

Tears filled her eyes, for he had hurt her by asking her about the paternity of their child. “I swear by all I hold dear that it is your baby,” she panted every word out, her cheeks red with embarrassment. “My husband did not touch me for more than six months.”

“I believe you, and don’t be afraid.” The king’s voice was silky.

She blinked away the tears. “Thank you. You are very kind, my liege.”

“Let me help you, Madame.” He walked her to a coach draped in green satin.

As he aided her to settle herself comfortably, Adrienne admired the monarch’s handsome features and his perfect attire. “I’m sorry for disturbing Your Majesty.”

I’ve missed even the sight of our king, Adrienne remarked to herself.  François de Valois is a magnificent man! In 1534, she had entered into matrimony with François de Bourbon, Count de Saint-Pol and de Chaumont, but in a month or so, she had discovered that she could never love the count. Adrienne tolerated him in bed only because it was her conjugal duty to be his in all senses.  She had agreed to become the monarch’s paramour because François was the first man whose sight caused her heart to leap with longing for a merry life. Adrienne did not love the ruler, but she was attracted to his physical prowess and his chivalry, not to his kingly power.  

François kissed her hand. “There is no reason for you to apologize.”

She regretted that it was just a courteous kiss. “I… I feel so… ashamed of myself.”

A startling kindness was etched into his countenance. “It is so rare that I see someone at my court or any of my subjects embarrassed with what they feel or do.” He smiled at her in that charismatic and charming way that caused women to be besotted with him. “You are carrying a little Valois, and there is no shame in this. Any baby is a God’s blessing.”

She found herself smiling. “I want this child.” Her hand flew to her stomach.

“Good,” the monarch said with evident relief. “I can easily guess what is tormenting you, Madame. Your husband, Monsieur de Saint-Pol, will accept the child as his – I shall make sure of that. He will treat both you and the baby with respect, and he will take care of you both.”

Adrienne assumed that the French sovereign could have many bastards, but he had never acknowledged any of them, and now she comprehend why it was so. “As you command.”

Later, King François accompanied Adrienne to Montmorency, who pledged to safely escort her back to Estouteville. As the husband of his former paramour governed the province of Dauphiné since 1527, Saint-Pol rarely visited his wife in Normandy, and his union was not a happy one. The monarch resolved to keep the man far from his spouse, but he would need to speak to his subject so as to issue all the necessary orders for him regarding Adrienne and the baby.  

The ruler’s mind drifted to his pregnant consort. Like Anne, now another of the numerous women, with whom he had slept occasionally, was pregnant with his baby. In the past, the king had two wives and many mistresses, having been unfaithful to all of them. Yet, never before had François been stabbed with guilt as if by daggers at the thought of the result of his amours – his illegitimate issue. The ruler hoped that his wife would never ask him about his bastards.  


December 25, 1536, Château de Villers-Cotterêts, Villers-Cotterêts, Picardie, France

The black fingers of night were reaching out across the winter firmament, engulfing the last rays of sun and deepening the chill in the air. Stars and a crescent moon illuminated the snow-blanketed gardens and town streets with pale light; the same stars which years earlier had shone above teenaged Anne Boleyn who had enjoyed the splendors of the French court.

As the moon disappeared behind a bank of clouds, the sky’s darkness became akin to the one that reigned in Queen Anne’s universe. Tonight, her soul wept like that of a bereaved person, and a sinking sensation of despair in the pit of her stomach was creeping over her.

“Oh, God,” gasped Anne as she snuggled under the silk covers. “This babe cannot die like its brothers…”  Her voice was thin, like a woodwind instrument with an old reed.

Although it was Christmas, the Queen of France was bedridden, after the heavy bleeding she had sustained two hours earlier. The festivities had been cancelled due to the frightening events with Anne. The king’s children all waited outside in the antechamber. In the meantime, many courtiers crowded in the hallway near the entrance to the royal apartments.

Doctor Jean Fernel stood near the queen’s bed. Anne was so pallid that her skin seemed nearly translucent, like milk that had been watered down. Even her lips were as colorless as the carved alabaster chest pieces, which she often used while playing chess with her ladies.   

“The baby lives,” the physician declared. “But there is still a possibility of miscarriage.”

“Thanks be to the Almighty!”  Queen Marguerite of Navarre cried in heartfelt tones.

Standing next to the bed, the king’s sister beheld her sister-in-law, her heart palpitating with terror. She had arrived at court yesterday to attend the Christmas banquet. As her brother could not leave his army and, hence, remained in Poitiers, the task to deliver this news to his spouse had fallen to her. However, Anne’s incident precluded everyone from celebrating.

“Amen,” Françoise de Foix seconded the sentiment. Reaching towards the bowl of warm water, which one of the ladies had brought, she dipped a cloth in it, dabbing at her mistress’ brow. 

“God save the queen and the baby,” others intoned, crossing themselves.

Marguerite sent away the Countess de Châteaubriant and the others.

Anne bemoaned, “The Lord cannot be so cruel…  He cannot take my child from me.”

Her sister-in-law allayed, “Anne, your ordeal is over.”

The physician pledged, “We will take the best care of Your Majesty.”

§§§

Marguerite of Navarre and Doctor Fernel walked out of the bedroom to the antechamber, where the royal family and the queen’s ladies awaited news. Marguerite wanted to talk to the medic in the presence of her brother’s children, who all rushed to their aunt.

“Tell me the truth,” demanded the monarch’s sister. “Only the truth!”

Dauphin Henri looked as frigid as always. Yet, his voice was laced with notes of worry as he asked, “What is your prognosis for Her Majesty and the child?”

“Does the baby live?” chorused Prince Charles and Princess Marguerite.

Doctor Fernel dithered for a handful of moments before answering, “Her Majesty has almost suffered a miscarriage.  I would be guilty of a falsehood if I had assured you that she would carry a child to term. Nevertheless, if we take necessary precautions and if she stays in bed until her labor, she will have a good chance to deliver a healthy child.”

“Poor Queen Anne,” young Marguerite murmured.

Charles promised, “I’ll pray for the queen and the baby every day.”

A sigh wafted from Henri’s lips. “I do not want my sibling dead.”

As she regarded her brother’s offspring, the Navarrese queen smiled at them in turn. She was especially pleased that the Dauphin of France, who had the most conflicted feelings over her brother’s matrimony with Anne, was so concerned about his stepmother’s condition.

Marguerite nodded. “No exertion, distress, and excitement for Anne.”

The physician inclined his head. “Exactly. The queen needs a good diet and as much rest as possible. Even if she is bored, she cannot leave the bed for her and the child’s safety.”

Charles questioned, “Can the queen miscarry later?”    

“How do you assess this probability?” inquired the dauphin.

Fernel shrugged apologetically. “I’m afraid I do not know. It is in God’s hands.”

Marguerite wondered, “Everything was fine yesterday and today in the morning. Three hours earlier, Anne suddenly felt pains, and her skirts were stained with blood.”

The medic speculated, “I’ve watched Her Majesty’s pregnancy for several months. She did not have any complications until today, but stress could have caused them.”

Something serious must have happened today, deduced Marguerite. She had last seen her sister-in-law four hours earlier, when they had played cards and dice, and Anne had emptied Marguerite’s personal treasury after winning most of the games. Anne had been in an elated frame of mind until she had been given her newly arrived correspondence. Maybe some bad tidbits had caused her sister-in-law to experience the despair that had cleaved her chest in two.  

“I’d like to visit Her Majesty tomorrow,” Princess Marguerite verbalized her wish.

“And so do I,” Charles joined.

Henri proposed, “I can come to her, too, and we can play cards.”

The medic nodded. “Her Majesty will need someone to keep her company and her spirits up in months to come. But I reiterate that she must be guarded from strong emotions.”

“We will take care of her,” Marguerite vowed. Everyone nodded their agreement.

§§§

In the matter of minutes, the Queen of Navarre returned to the bedchamber. She found her sister-in-law asleep, and tiptoed over to a rosewood chest of drawers in the corner. She pulled out the upper drawer, where, she knew, Anne kept her letters. After sifting through the documents, her attention was captured by the folded parchment stamped with the Tudor seal.

Marguerite unrolled the paper and began reading. As her eyes skimmed through the text, her features paled and then purpled, as a kernel of ire simmered in her breast.  

The Boleyn harlot,

I’ve long realized that you feigned your love for me and bewitched me. Your marriage to that French bastard proved that you have never cared for me even in the slightest.    

I should not have spared your worthless life. A whorish bitch such as yourself has merited the most gruesome end and eternal damnation in the afterlife.

Elizabeth will curse you once she grows up and understands that her mother betrayed her father with numerous lovers. I’ll ensure that she will know the truth about her mother’s past so that when she becomes queen of a foreign kingdom, she will not shame her husband. Jane will be the role model of a dignified, pious, and noble-minded queen for Elizabeth.

Henry Rex

An incensed Marguerite tore the parchment into ribbons and flung them up into the air. As they landed onto the floor in a heap, she trampled them with her feet.

The French ruler’s sister had never believed that Catherine of Aragon had consummated her first marriage to the long-departed Arthur Tudor, Prince of Wales. Thus, Marguerite had loathed Henry of England since the Great Matter. Repudiations of queens and casual lovemakings with hundreds of women – these seemed to be Henry Tudor’s main activities. After what the man had done to Anne, Marguerite’s contempt for Henry was as thick in her veins as her blood.

Fury reared up within Marguerite. “Damn that iron-hearted Tudor beast to hell!”

“My baby…”  Anne’s voice was no more than a whisper, scarcely to be heard.

The ruler’s sister flicked her gaze to the queen’s face tinged with all-absorbing terror.

Marguerite’s vision went red around the edges at the thought that Henry was again the reason for her misery. “You should be resting, my dear. What keeps you awake into the night?”  

“I just cannot sleep…”  Anne swallowed a rising sob.  

The Queen of Navarre strode across, lit more candles, and set them over the fireplace. Then she crossed the room and seated herself on the bed. “I’ve learned what has happened, Anne.”

Fat tears trickled down Anne’s face, like drops of water from the petals of a lotus. “He hates me so much that he will poison Elizabeth against me.”

Soon after Anne’s arrival in France, Marguerite had suggested that they drop formalities, and Anne had supported her initiative. They had known each other for years, and the young Anne had once been Marguerite’s favorite in the Queen of Navarre’s literary circle.  

Marguerite emanated black anger. “That accursed man contacted you to hurt you. He is raving with rage because you married his archrival. The fact that you are carrying another king’s child drives him to the point where he would gladly kill both François and you.”

Anne’s heart swooped like a sparrow winging from a branch. “That does not make it easier for me. I cannot bear a thought that Elizabeth will abhor me in the future.”

Her sister-in-law squeezed her hand that felt clammy to her touch. “That mongrel’s letter is the bravado of a jealous man. Your wedding drove him to the brink of insanity, because he lost the very woman with whom he has been obsessed for years to his bitter rival.”

The Queen of France didn’t share her opinion. “That obsession faded a while ago, and now he loathes me. In his eyes, I must be held accountable for all his misfortunes.”

Marguerite snarled, “Henry is the worst bastard who has ever stepped upon the earth.”

A shower of tears deluged Anne’s cheeks. “He will teach my daughter to despise me.”

The monarch’s sister shifted on the bed and embraced a distraught Anne.

Anne buried her face into her sister-in-law’s shoulder. “I did love Henry more than life itself, but he betrayed me in the worst possible way and deprived me of my George. He separated me from my Elizabeth. Now he strives to break my spirit, for I’m untouchable in all other ways.”

The lamentations bubbled out of the French queen in a rush, for there was too much grief in her. I loved Henry more than life itself, but he betrayed me in the worst possible way…  Usually, she was reserved, but now, nothing could stop her confessions. She had lost her footing in the world and could not regain it, for everything appeared dreadful, while faith had deserted her.

Stroking her hair, Marguerite murmured, “It is a mystery to me why some women are so eager to be with intemperate and fickle men. They know that such men might be terrible for them. Yet, they do it anyway, because they are thrilled at the thought that they may be the one to tame such a man and become his greatest love. But even if he treats you like gold at first, his true colors will eventually show, and your heart will be broken into countless pieces.”

“Yes.” A choking sob erupted from François’ spouse.  

“Marriage to a tyrant such as Henry Tudor is a barely unendurable existence.”

Anne’s sobs were gradually subsiding. “After our wedding, I was certain that I was the queen of Henry’s heart. I intruded where the average woman would not have ventured. I thought that he appreciated my character and valued my intelligence, but I was mistaken. Nonetheless, I stood my ground courageously, intent upon having the way of what I felt was right and just.”

“That was one of the reasons why Henry got rid of you.”

More tears spilled down the Queen of France’s cheeks. “Precisely. That is why he was attracted to that Seymour strumpet, who is nothing compared to Catherine and me.”

Marguerite was startled that Anne fairly assessed the strengths of her dead Spanish rival. “Set your mind at rest. Think of the child and the harm you might cause it.”

Anne pulled herself together. “Thank you for talking sense into me. I must give a prayer of thanksgiving to the Lord for preserving my baby’s life.”

Marguerite was awash with relief that she had calmed down. “Henry’s inability to treat women well is explained by his lack of chivalry. My brother is Henry’s opposite. A rich intellect and a fine soul are necessary attributes of a beautiful personality, like François’ and yours.”

“I do not know.” Caught in a whirl of memories, Anne lapsed into silence.    

Neither François de Valois nor Henry Tudor was the epitome of Anne Boleyn’s maidenly reveries, which had long evaporated in the haze of Lethe. Years ago, Henry Percy had caused her youthful heart to flutter with amatory dreams like a garden of butterflies. Much to her chagrin, both men whom she had once loved had betrayed her: Percy had voted her guilty at her trial, while her former husband had nearly destroyed her and killed her brother. At present, no man had power over Anne, and there was no room for love in her life – only for ambition and vengeance.

Yet, to her surprise, Anne had a feeling of longing to meet a congenial male companion, who would see in her not only a trophy with attractive appearance, like she had once been for Henry, but also the human being, the friend, the comrade, and the strong personality. Against her will, her mind floated to François, and no talk, tune, or poem could convey her tangled emotions. Words are useless when it comes to my second marriage. Even worse – they are misleading.

Even though she attempted to block it out, Marguerite sensed her anguish. “You and your child will be fine. Our benevolent Holy Father will protect you both.”

“It is all my fault. I should not have been so nervous.”

“Shhh,” Marguerite hushed her. “I’ll ask François to come as soon as possible. Maybe he can leave the French troops under Montmorency’s command for some time.”

In a few minutes, the Queen of Navarre invited Doctor Fernel, who concocted a drink of calming herbs for the French queen to reduce her deep-seated anxiety.  

I loved Henry more than life itself, but he betrayed me in the worst possible way.

Those words seeped into the lonely chambers of Anne’s soul, filling them with arctic chill and a heartache beyond bearing. But as Marguerite’s fingers soothingly danced through her mane, vision of François blazed through Anne’s consciousness, bringing with it serenity.   

After falling asleep, Anne alternated between dreams of meeting her beloved Elizabeth again and those of her future baby. She saw herself pass an affectionate thumb over her future baby’s cheek, and in such moments, the world seemed right and just. Yet, as a nightmare gripped her, and the all-too-familiar darkness and despondency returned to her universe. An unsatisfied craving for a full life intensified in Anne’s entire being, her inner unrest resulting from the lack of it. Perhaps her soul was too complex to adjust itself to the slimy woof of harsh reality.

§§§

On the same night, torrents of rain with hail began to pelt the palace. In a small room on the ground floor, a young woman stood close to a man, their complexion swarthy, their hair dark brown, their skin light olive, and their hazel eyes brisk; they looked like Italians.

“Sebastiano, you are so stupid,” the lady started in a voice tinctured with scorn.

Her companion was Sebastiano, Count de Montecuccoli. In his maroon satin doublet, garnished with gold to an excessive degree, he resembled an upstart who had made a fortune and was now showing off his riches. His unattractive countenance, with wide-set eyes and pudgy nose, bespoke his guilt at his failure. Montecuccoli had come to France together with Catherine de’ Medici, and then he had been appointed secretary to the late Dauphin François.

She hissed, “That slut has not lost her child. You must have used too little poison.”

“I…  I can try… again,” he stammered.

Condemnation flickered across her face. “You are a damned idiot! In the previous case, you used a sufficient dose to kill our dear prince, but today you failed. We need her baby dead because if it is a boy, our position will weaken. Now we cannot make a new attempt.”

Another woman walked inside.  Arrogance, boredom, and superiority carved themselves into her perfect features, making her stunning beauty cold and distant – the beauty of a star. Her blonde tresses were smoothly coiled to form an elegant chignon that was secured with sapphire hairpins. In contrast to her, the first lady with bulging eyes did not possess eye-catching prettiness.         

“Now we can only pray that the child will be a girl,” the blonde woman interjected after shutting the door. “Whether we succeed or not, I cannot imagine a good outcome for us. If we are caught or someone starts to suspect us, they might also uncover our other conspiracy.”

“Forgive me,” implored the Count de Montecuccoli.

“Pleading does not suit you,” the newly arrived lady uttered acridly.

The second lady gushed, “Our previous success proves our mission’s power in the face of hardship which France experiences now due to the king’s unholy religious tolerance.”

A hot wave of color burned in his cheeks. “I shall act in accordance with your will.”

The two women stormed out. Night had long befallen, wrapping the town in its opaque blanket, so the corridors were lit by both pendant oil lamps and torches. Outside, lightning flashed, thunder rumbled, and the snow was falling from the heavens like silvery tears. There were no people in the hallways, but they were so cautious that in silence, they tiptoed towards a long, wide corridor connected with the great hall, and before reaching it, they parted their ways.  

Notes:

I hope you like this chapter. Please leave a review, which will encourage me to keep going.

King François met with Protestant and Lutheran ambassadors. They signed a treaty against the House of Habsburg, so now France officially has many allies with Protestant nations. This alliance will help France defeat the invaders and expel them from the country. But as you see, all of the diplomats are thinking of religious tolerance, asking François whether the Protestants will be persecuted in France. And there is a matter of Queen Anne’s religious beliefs…

Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly came to Poitiers because she wanted to be with her royal lover. She always comes to François because of her obsession with him, and because of her desire to ensure that no other woman becomes as dear to the monarch as she is. Now you know that François is an absolute libertine in bed with her, so you understand that their relationship is based primarily on lust.

I’m sure that you are angry with François because one of his former lovers – Adrienne d’Estouteville, Countess de Saint-Pol and de Chaumont – is pregnant with his child, which was obviously conceived after the king’s wedding to Anne. But you must understand that now François has no reason to be faithful to his wife who can barely tolerate him. In history, Adrienne d’Estouteville was a mother of François’ only acknowledged illegitimate son, Nicholas d’Estouteville, who was born in 1545.

Fortunately, Queen Anne Boleyn did not lose her child, although she sustained quite a heavy bleeding. Marguerite and Anne believe that Anne’s almost miscarriage was trigged by her distress caused by Henry’s horrible letter. But at the end of the chapter, you can deduce that Anne’s ordeal was caused by poison which several conspirators managed to put into Anne’s food or drink. Perhaps you can guess who the conspirators are; Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli was introduced in this chapter, and there are some hints at their other plot. The poisoning plot will not be uncovered any time soon.

King Henry’s letter to Anne is horrendous, but it is the only way he can try to hurt her because she is untouchable in all other ways. This letter is Henry’s response to the painful fact of her pregnancy.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 14: Chapter 13: A Show of Affection

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: A Show of Affection

January 16, 1537, Greenwich Palace, London, England

“A messenger has arrived from York,” apprised Thomas Cromwell tonelessly.

The royal chief minister shuffled his feet in discomfort. At first, his sovereign did not pay any heed to him, as if he were not in the king’s private chamber. Instead, Henry sat at his desk, laden with books and parchments, holding a quill and a sheet of paper in his hand.

As his liege lord flicked his gaze to him, Cromwell shivered in mortal dread. Vehement fury flashed across the royal aquamarine glare that was now nearly opaque, like the minister’s black robes. Cromwell felt as if he were looking death in the eye, wondering whether the king had exuded such indescribable enmity when he had last met with Anne Boleyn in the Tower.

Henry inquired, “What do you know about the uprising?”

Cromwell emitted a sigh before voicing the tidbits about the unfortunate turn of events. “The discontent of the Catholics with our religious and fiscal policies has spread throughout the north of the country like wildfire. Thousands of people in Yorkshire and Lincolnshire are involved in the rebellion. The royal forces under the Dukes of Norfolk’s command were defeated a week earlier. Our soldiers lack weapons and the desire to fight against their countrymen. Moreover, many insurgents are experienced in battle, having fought the Scots in the past.”

“What do they want in order to disperse?” Henry bounced to his feet so swiftly that his stool and cushion both overturned. He commenced pacing and hand wringing.

“Their temerity is absolutely shameless.” Gathering his courage, Cromwell listed their demands. “The cancellation of the Ten Articles. The end to the Dissolution of the monastic houses. The change of the taxation policy. The repeal of the Statute of Uses.”

Ceasing to move in the middle of the room, the ruler was holding onto his temper by a tiny thread. “Cromwell, you assured me that most of my subjects are delighted to have escaped the Pope’s clutches. You convinced me that they would be receptive to our novelties.”

His inner realm tinged with consternation, Cromwell defended himself to the best of his ability. “They all signed the Oath of Supremacy, and by doing so, acknowledged Your Majesty as Supreme Head of the Church and Clergy of England. Even if some do not support our policies, they must comply with their king’s decisions, just as most of the nobles have done.”

“Thousands have risen against me!  Only craft can put an end to their treasonous actions!”

Grasping the lifeline his sovereign had tossed him, the other man offered, “Robert Aske’s call to arms is not as perilous as it might seem at first glance. Let’s pretend that we have accepted their terms, and later, we will crush all of them like bugs underfoot.”

In a heartbeat, the monarch grabbed Cromwell’s collar and shook him violently. “See to it that it is done. If we do not quash the riot, I’ll have your head.” He then stormed out.

With hindsight, Cromwell thought that he had gone too far in his religious zeal and rushed the dissolution of the religious houses. As a result, at present, he needed to stave off the threat of his execution, looming over him like an axe. He must circumvent the rebels, and an evil plan had formed in his head. It was vital for him to remain composed, for panicking would be compounding the already great folly he had committed by acting too ruthlessly and precipitately when he had sent his loyal commissioners to shut down nearly all of the abbeys and convents.

His mind drifted to his last confrontation with the Lady Anne. She had spluttered outrage when she had castigated him for giving his luxurious rooms to the Seymours. She had said: “You have placed yourself in very great danger. I still possess the power to crush you. Although she was no longer the Queen of England, her words echoed through the minister’s head like a prophecy of his demise. After all, during one of their arguments over the disbandment of the monasteries, Anne had predicted that one day, Cromwell would have an ignominious end on the block.

Cromwell crossed himself. “God help me deal with this nightmare.”

§§§

“No!” cried the Princess Elizabeth. Her mood was foul from the moment she had opened her eyes half an hour earlier. “I’ll not wear this dress!  You cannot make me!”

Lady Margaret Bryan, the girl’s governess, heaved a sigh. This reminded her of the scene that had taken place months ago. At the time of Queen Anne’s arrest, Elizabeth had been at court, but the Tudor monarch had enjoined to keep the child away from him and the public eye. The girl had struggled as her attendant had attempted to dress her in a cloak and hat. They had all thought that Elizabeth would be declared a bastard, so they had been too strict with her at the time.

Much to everyone’s astonishment, Elizabeth had remained legitimate under English law. Personally, Lady Bryan was overjoyed that the girl had not lost her royal status. Yet, this also meant that her charge must be treated with the utmost respect, while at the same time ensuring that she was taught to behave like a princess. However, since her mother’s exile, Elizabeth had become so intemperate and so irritable that her ladies did not know how to handle her.

Margaret coaxed, “Her Majesty Queen Jane gave you this lovely gown as a sign of her benevolent intentions. It will be awfully disrespectful to her if you do not wear it today.”

Elizabeth shook her head vigorously. “I hate the queen and her gifts!”

Terrified, her governess veered her gaze to the door that, to their luck, was closed. “Your Highness, please do not say that!  Her Majesty is a good woman!  She is your queen!”

The girl persevered, “Lady Jane made my mama go away.”

“She is your father’s wife!” stressed Margaret. “You have to address her properly.”

“I will not!” Elizabeth threw the gown to the floor.    

Now they were in the antechamber to the princess’ bedroom. After Elizabeth’s arrival at court yesterday, they had been lodged at the apartments close to the monarch’s.

A bewildered Elizabeth looked past the heavy mahogany furniture, which had replaced the gilded items she remembered from the time when her beloved mother had been the Queen of England. The walls were swathed with tapestries depicting the history of the Tudor court, and the girl could recognize her own father on some of them. Yet, the whole room seemed unfamiliar to her, because the palace had been renovated and refurbished after Anne’s arrest.

Elizabeth approached a window, climbed a chair, and stared out. Snowfall was increasing every moment, so the ground and the gardens were all white. She liked the color white, but these days, her black mood contrasted too sharply with it. Her gaze dashed to the firmament that was a leaden gray, and she begged the Lord to let her feel her mother’s arms around her once more.

Usually, her visits to court had meant feeling happy and loved, for she was always agog to be reunited with her parents. The king – her papa, as she had referred to him in the past – would lift Elizabeth in his arms and twirl her around, until squeals of laughter rolled out of her and she was dizzy with joy. This time, everything was different: Elizabeth did not want to see her father, who had taken her mother away from her. All I wish is to be with my mama, the girl mused.

The old woman went to the girl and stopped behind her. “I beseech you to listen to me. Your mother had to leave England, but it is not Queen Jane’s fault. You must accept that Her Majesty is your stepmother, and you should befriend her.”

Elizabeth jumped down from the chair. “I cannot.”

Margaret insisted, “You must!  You are so fortunate to still be a princess.”

Elizabeth’s control slithered. “I want my mama!  The king has separated us!”

Her heart breaking for her distraught charge, Lady Bryan stepped forward and pulled her into a comforting hug. Elizabeth dissolved into sobs and struggled against her, for she did not wish anyone to touch her, unless the person was Anne. Yet, her governess held her tight, pressing her to the chest, as if this embrace could protect Elizabeth from the savageries of the world.

“I need my mama!” wailed the princess as she buried her face into Margaret’s chest.  

A sense of helplessness enveloped the old woman. “My poor girl…” 

Elizabeth wept in Margaret’s embrace until there were no tears left, until her nose stuffed up and her eyelids swelled, until her breath came in short, staccato hiccups. Her small heart was broken into countless fragments, which only Anne could put back together.  

Her sobs subsiding, the princess muttered, “Why is the king so cruel to me and mama?”

As Lady Bryan released her, Princess Elizabeth stepped back and surveyed her governess. The girl was surprised that the woman looked as though she was on the verge of a breakdown. Her governess always told her that a highborn lady, all the more a princess of the blood, must always be in control of her emotions, especially at court and in the presence of others.  

Lady Bryan dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. “I’m sorry, but you cannot meet with the Lady Anne. Life is not fair to women who are powerless to change their fates.” Her expression turned apologetic. “Your mother is gone from England for the rest of her life. No amount of crying, throwing tantrums, or begging the king to permit you to see her will bring her back.”

Seeing fresh tears spill from Elizabeth’s dark eyes, Margaret Bryan was contrite that she had explained the whole matter to the girl with a bluntness that was bordering on brusqueness. At the same time, she believed that being as straightforward as she could afford to be was the best approach in this case. The woman thought that Anne was innocent of all the allegations Cromwell had leveled against her, but the Tudor ruler was unlikely to ever change his mind.  

Making her voice as gentle as she could, the governess continued, “You must comprehend that you must never speak of your mama again, especially in front of your father. Stop rejecting his love and saying something that might displease him. You must also respect your stepmother.” A sigh fled from her. “Do this for your own good, Your Highness.”

King Henry had already visited his youngest daughter at Hatfield several times since the girl’s birthday in September. Every time Princess Elizabeth had refused to see him, and Margaret Bryan, together with the girl’s ladies, had failed to convince her to be polite towards the monarch. The child had never been afraid to blame the ruler for her separation from Anne, and once her defiance had irked Henry to the point where he had been inclined to strike his daughter.

Elizabeth scrubbed the tears away from her cheeks. “I heard that His Majesty wanted to behead my mother. Will he want to cut off my head, too?”

Staring into the girl’s clever eyes, Margaret found herself terrified. Elizabeth was still such a young child, not yet three, but she was old enough to know what being beheaded or executed meant. Normally, her phenomenal precociousness was a wonder in itself, but today it was not amusing: if she had ever said to the king something like that, he would be furious beyond measure.   

“Your Highness!” Lady Bryan labored to hush her. “His Majesty would never do such a terrible thing to you, regardless of what your mother has or has not done. You are his flesh and blood, and he loves you so dearly that he would punish anyone who might harm you.”

Having collected herself, Princess Elizabeth however assumed her bellicose demeanor towards her parent. “The king hurt me when he sent my mother away!”

Her governess attempted to talk sense into her again. “You might land in trouble if you continue defying His Majesty. Queen Anne does not wish you to suffer.” She lowered her voice. “She wants you to be in your father’s good graces so that you remain his heir.”

This sobered the girl. “I’ll do anything to please my mama.”

Margaret let out a smile of relief. “Then you must do as I said.”

“I shall.” Elizabeth’s firm voice was laced with resilience and strength, which were both atypical for a toddler. “I’ll pretend that I love my father and his new… wife.”

“You must do this, or the consequences will be severe for you and perhaps your mother. Promise me that you will behave well while meeting with Queen Jane and King Henry.”

The girl muttered, “It is difficult.”

Her governess stroke her red-gold hair. “I know, Your Highness.” A sigh tumbled from her lips. “It would have been better if your mother had not been a queen and had not interfered with the course of history. She could have married some rich nobleman, one who would have worshiped the ground she walked upon and appreciated her intelligence.”

A female voice interrupted their conversation. “Your Highness!”

They swiveled in unison to face Lady Margery Horseman, who walked in.  

With a regal air about her, Princess Elizabeth slowly walked over to the visitor. As the woman stopped beside her, she sank into a deep curtsey before her beloved mistress’ daughter.

“Rise,” permitted Elizabeth. “Is it time to meet with Their Majesties?”

Lady Margaret Bryan, who stood behind the girl, was relieved. For the first time since the ruler’s wedding to Jane Seymour, Elizabeth referred to the woman by her title. She prayed that the audience with the girl’s mercurial father and her stepmother would go smoothly.

Straightening, Margery nodded. “Yes.” In her hand, she had something wrapped in cloth of silver. “At first, I’ll give you your mother’s gift, which she sent you from France.”

Elizabeth jumped in unalloyed exaltation. “My mama has been thinking of me!”

The women were both glad to see the child’s mood brighten, like the sun escaping a cloud.

I’ll keep my word I gave to Anne, thought Margery Horseman. I’ll take excellent care of Elizabeth. She treasured her friendship with Anne, her loyalty to the current Queen of France being as fierce and unwavering as that of the most chivalrous knight in the entirety of Christendom. Although many of Anne’s former ladies-in-waiting had given false testimonies against the former English queen, Margery had not betrayed her mistress. Soon after Anne’s release from the Tower, Margery had managed to become Elizabeth’s lady, just as she had promised to Anne.

Margery handed the gift to the toddler. “Take it, Your Highness.”    

Elizabeth unwrapped the object. A scintillating smile lit up her visage as a stunning, small sapphire necklace with a gold “ET” pendant, hanging from the center, came into view.

Smiling, Lady Bryan watched Margery fasten the necklace on her charge’s neck. As soon as Lady Horseman had appeared in the princess’ household, she had implored Margaret to allow her to take care of the girl. Being one of Anne’s aunts, Margaret had eagerly agreed, and she had also supported Margery’s initiative to let Anne keep in touch with her daughter.

Margery enlightened, “I’ve received a letter from your mother today. She asked me to give you this necklace and all the love she feels for you. She misses you wholeheartedly!”

Elizabeth’s fingers caressed the sapphires. “I’ll treasure it!”

Margaret Bryan volunteered, “We will tell the king that it is my gift.”

“That is a good decision,” Margery Horsman concurred. “His Majesty would not suspect anything, then. His Highness will be able to wear it without any trouble.”

Tears of gratitude brimmed in the girl’s eyes. “Thank you!”

Margery added, “Your mother wants you to be a good daughter to the king.”

Elizabeth could not tear her gaze from the necklace. “I’ll do whatever she wants.”

Margery and Margaret traded hopeful glances that the girl would not rescind on her word.     

Margaret affirmed, “Your Highness, we must dress you.”

Elizabeth flicked her eyes to the gown on the floor. “It is ugly, but I’ll wear it.”  

During the next hour, Elizabeth Tudor completed her ablutions with the assistance of her governess and several maids. Soon the princess was clad in a gown of beige brocade ornamented with Jane Seymour’s favorite pearls, Anne’s new gift glittering on her breast.

§§§

“Your Majesty!” Queen Jane cried as her husband entered her quarters.

King Henry strode past his wife without looking at her. He did not want to see the woman whom he had adored less than a year earlier. She was a failure as a wife because she had not conceived in the months which had followed their wedding. On top of that, now Henry thought that Jane was not pretty enough, or clever enough to hold the attention of a passionate, intelligent man such as himself. He wondered, how could I marry such a plain and boring woman? 

“Rise, Jane,” permitted the monarch as he stopped next to her.

His aloof voice stung her in the heart. “Thank you for your kindness, sire.”

As the queen straightened, Henry stepped to her. Lifting her chin, he mock-chided, “You are strained in your spouse’s presence. Has my presence filled you with trepidation?”

Uncertainty seized the queen, who had no clue as to why he had told her that. Had Henry insulted Jane for her lack of pregnancy?  Had he attempted to intimidate her in order to keep her in her place?  Had he taunted her, entertaining himself at her expense?  She had an unsophisticated and ductile mind, so she could be easily influenced, which was why she was frequently browbeaten by the king and her brothers into doing things which she did not like and even hated.

The ruler’s smile was ambiguous, but it still made a bouquet of hope blossom in her breast. Pushing her dark thoughts aside, Jane took a tentative step to him. I should not have such unchaste thoughts of my beloved husband. Henry is an equitable, benevolent king, and he honored me by marrying me, a country girl of humble origins, she labored to convince herself.  

“Your Majesty!” she exclaimed in blithesome accents. “You have come to me!  Thank heavens!  I was beside myself with anxiety!  You were absent since the Christmas banquet.”

Henry didn’t reply straight away. His wife hoped that he would patch up their relationship after his return to court, even though she had given him no reason to be content in their matrimony. Her happiness at seeing him exasperated him like some intentional spitefulness of destiny. He stomped over to an ornately carved chair near the fireplace and seated himself there.

Blinking hard, Jane remained standing in the center of the room. Her heart gave a painful thump at the thought that the monarch had put a distance between them to be as far from her as possible. The realization struck her that she would not regain his affection until she birthed his long-awaited Prince of Wales, and if something had happened to her before she conceived, the monarch would remarry, quickly and gladly. Her stomach felt hollow, and she was cognizant of a feeling of lightheadedness. No, Henry does care for me enough to keep me as his queen.

At last, the king informed, “I was in the manor of Iron Acton in Gloucestershire.”

“Alone?” Her throat constricted in grief.

In tense silence, Henry discerned the knowing light in his spouse’s eyes.   

The ruler blew out a breath, as a series of remembrances flashed through him, playing carnal havoc in his groin. After the Christmas festivities which had been everything but merry, Henry had enjoined Lady Anne Bassett to accompany him on the trip away from Greenwich, for he had needed the solitude and the silence of some village to clear his head.

The monarch and his lover had spent three weeks in the moated manor house, which was owned by the Poyntz family in Iron Acton, South Gloucestershire. The castle was not grand, but it was welcoming, with its luxuriously furnished chambers and gracefully arched windows. In winter, an extensive stretch of park was covered with a thick mantle of snow, and from the front veranda, there was an excellent view of the snow-capped forest and fields.

Every night, Henry had plundered his paramour’s body in the apartments where he had stayed together with Anne over a year ago during the court’s progress. Against his will, he had imagined that he had slept not with Anne Bassett, but with his former wife. As he had kissed his mistress hungrily, his hands caressing her, the name ‘Anne’ had been on his lips, husky and low, although she had not known that her lover had dreamed of the exiled woman. His paramour had felt and tasted far better than warm wine on a winter’s eve, but she was not Anne Boleyn.  

The monarch glowered at his consort. “Do not follow in the Boleyn whore’s footsteps: do not meddle in my affairs. I might eject you and your ambitious relatives from court.”

A shaken Jane gasped. “Do you want to repudiate me?  But we are husband and wife!” Her unexpected boldness came out of her deep-seated fear to be cast aside.

Angered by her audacity, Henry glared at her, as if she had launched a full-scale war to bend him to her will. “I do as I please because I am the King of England. And if I do something, I enjoy every bit of it.” Narrowing his eyes at her, he hissed, “Be careful, sweetheart. You know what happened to my two previous queens. We do not want you to fall more swiftly than Anne.”

A frightened Jane shuddered at the king’s reference to the fates of her two predecessors. At this moment, her husband seemed to have transformed into an omnipotent monster, who was capable of killing many innocents and enslaving thousands more.

She staggered to a nearby chair. “I’ve always been your most humble spouse.”

“Excellent, Jane. Do not ever cross a line and remember your place.”

“I shall.” She nervously fidgeted with a topaz collar that shimmered on her bosom.

Henry’s expression softened. “As you have realized the error of your ways, I’m no longer inclined to castigate you, although that was my initial intention.”

At this, her usually quiet tempter spiked a notch. “I know why Your Majesty is angry with me. I’m not pregnant yet, but it is not my fault. Every day I pray for a son, and if God has not blessed us with a child, it does not mean that the blame lies only with me.”

“What are you implying?” Barely contained rage colored his words.

“If only my husband had not disappeared with his mistresses for days…  If only he had visited his wife’s bed more often…  Perhaps I would have been pregnant now.”

His nostrils flared, and his reddish brows lowered forbiddingly. “You have no right to talk to me in such a disrespectful way. I am not some worthless peasant.”

Jane’s breath caught sharply. “I beg Your Majesty’s pardon.”

His countenance twisted in abhorrence. “That was a big mistake of yours, Jane. Our argument reminds me of that harlot. To challenge me gave her great pleasure.”

“I’m sorry,” muttered Jane, her features paler.

Henry jumped to his feet and stomped over to her. Stopping beside her chair, he glanced at her with dislike. “In spite of Catherine’s and Anne’s sins, I’ve never laid hands on a woman in my entire life, save the only time when I met the harlot in the Tower before her release.” He stilled to observe his wife’s reaction to his confession, as if savoring her obvious fear. “Considering the provocation, you are damned lucky I’m not going to beat you, although you have merited it.”

“Henry, do not…  Do not hurt me, I beseech you!”

The king grabbed Jane by the upper arm and roughly hoisted her to her feet. “I promised that I would not beat you!  Do not make me repeat myself!  Do not rebel against me!”

“Forgive me, sire,” Jane implored. “For the love of heaven!”

This particularly lovely January morning, the queen had prepared for the meeting with the king, who had returned to the palace yesterday. Her ladies had aided Jane to dress in a modest gown of azure silk, lavishly ornamented with pearls and sapphires. Then she had awaited her spouse, humming joyfully to herself. However, their quarrel had shattered her tranquility.

His hands tightened painfully on her arms. “Do you understand me?”

With a titanic effort, Jane bit back the furious recriminations which sprang to her tongue. I cannot antagonize the king more than I’ve already done today, she speculated grimly.  It is not the time to take him to task for his affairs. Once the current crisis was past, she would have to try and find a way back into the monarch’s good graces. God, how much Jane longed for her mother’s guidance and affection, for she did not know how to salvage her seemingly dying marriage.

Henry uttered through slitted eyes, “Now I’ll endeavor to put a child in your belly.”

As he unlaced his hose, Jane entreated, “No, please!  Not like this, Your Majesty!”

Her protestations fell on deaf ears. “You owe me a son.”

Everything happened in a blur. There was a moment of “Please, no!” as the queen cried once more, and then a falling sensation as the ruler shoved her to the floor. He pulled up her skirts, parted her legs, and pushed himself inside of her, hard and without hesitation. She yelled at the urgency of his entry as he compelled her reluctant body to allow him admission. As he pounded into her like a man possessed, she was biting her bottom lip to stifle the groans of discomfort.

As his punishing exercise in her flesh was over, Henry climbed to his feet and laced his hose. “If your womb is not barren, you may bear a fruit before the year is out.”

Not sparing her any glance of sympathy, the English ruler left his consort weeping on the floor. Her universe was splintered and fragmented between the lingering effects of the forceful intimacy she had just endured and the continuing tributes to the affection she thought she still had for the king. Her sister, Dorothy, found Jane curled up on the floor in a miserable heap.

“Do you still love our liege lord, Jane?” Dorothy assisted Jane to get to her feet.

The queen rearranged her skirts. “One day, he will see the error of his ways.”

“Why are you really so naïve, Janey?  Your husband regularly betrays you not only with that Bassett prostitute, but also with many others. He does not respect you, and I doubt he loved Catherine of Aragon or Anne Boleyn more than himself. He is a ruthless and selfish man, one who thinks that he can do whatever he wants because he is God’s representative on earth.” Hurting her sister was the last thing Dorothy wished to do, but she strove to break her sister’s illusion.   

“It is not your place to criticize His Majesty,” chastised Jane.

Her sister gave a bitter laugh. “Well, thank you for the reminder.”

The queen murmured achingly, “Dorothy, please do not make my life more complicated than it already is. I cannot discuss Henry and what he has done to me. I just cannot…” 

Dorothy put out a long finger and brushed away Jane’s tears, gently erasing each one as they slid out from the queen’s eyes. “Do not torture yourself, Janey.”

The king’s wife requested, “Help me prepare for the meeting with Elizabeth.”

§§§

Queen Jane Seymour made her way to the monarch’s private chambers. Like the queen, Dorothy pretended that everything was all right, although her heart ached at Jane’s tense features, which were pallid from the shock she had recently experienced. Their other sister, Elizabeth, sensed that something was wrong with the queen, but her questions had been dodged.

Her expression bland, Jane sat in a throne-like chair at the far end of the room hung with multicolored silks. While observing King Henry greet Princess Elizabeth, she was fighting against the headache that had been building since the recent awful encounter with her spouse.   

Henry strode over to the red-haired girl, who had just risen from her curtsey. He lifted her in his arms and kissed her on both cheeks. After a short hesitation, the princess hugged him.

“My Elizabeth.” The king planted a gentle kiss on Elizabeth’s forehead.

“Papa,” the princess lisped. Her hostility towards her father had not abated, but despite her tender age, she had realized that she had to feign love for him.

He twirled with the girl before setting her back on her feet. He acknowledged Lady Bryan and Lady Horseman with a slight nod, who both curtsied when his gaze landed on them.

The king beamed at his daughter. “My dearest Lizzy, I’m marveling at what a lovely girl you are growing into. The reports of your prettiness have all been true.”

“Thank you.” Elizabeth’s faux smile seemed natural even to her father.

Jane chimed in, “She will be a beautiful woman in adulthood.”

Although the queen labored to keep her voice devoid of emotion, she failed to do so. Her husband instantly noticed that her smooth tone lacked the warmth that always colored it when she communicated with his eldest daughter, Mary. As he frowned at her, his spouse’s skin turned clammy, a shiver running down her spine as a cold sweat broke out on her forehead.

Henry proclaimed, “The strong Tudor blood is coursing through my daughter’s veins.”

At this moment, the ruler could almost pretend that Elizabeth was only his daughter. He could almost forget that she was also a Boleyn. Almost…  Yet, he could not ignore that the black-eyed child was so alike her mother that the resemblance was nearly uncanny, except for the Tudor red-gold hair that she had inherited from him and her grandmother, Elizabeth of York.

Elizabeth and Henry peered into each other’s eyes. An odd silence ensued.

Neither the king nor the princess could guess that they both recollected the moments when Anne, Henry, and their daughter had last met together. For the rest of her life, Elizabeth would remember the day when a scared Anne had carried the girl, who had been utterly frightened, but had kept quiet in her arms, while having desperately chased after the enraged monarch. Until his dying day, Henry would not forget the terrified black pools of his former consort and the identical eyes of his youngest daughter, which had stared at him with plea as Anne had reached him in the garden near a fountain. These memories were engraved upon their minds forever.

Henry broke the pause. “Elizabeth, are you happy to be at court again?”

“Yes, I am. Have you prepared a gift for me?” Her voice did not show her inner tumult.

He burst out laughing. “Of course. Later you will receive a lot of gifts.”

Elizabeth let out a smile. “It is nice of you, papa.”

Her parent laughed. “Everything for you, my sweet princess!”

Everything, excluding my mother, Elizabeth fumed inwardly. Her father’s words irked her, and she fended off the impulse to sputter her indignation. It took the girl all her strength to keep her calm façade and to smile at the ruler when he lavished her with affection.

“You must greet your stepmother,” he demanded.

Nodding, Elizabeth walked to the queen, her posture and deportment royal. Lady Bryan and Lady Horseman both prayed that the girl would be courteous, as she had promised.

Jane flinched as she beheld the girl’s curtsey. If she looked at Henry at this moment, she would have seen him wince. Elizabeth’s stunning curtsey was so much like Anne’s! 

“I’m delighted to see you, Elizabeth.” The queen did not address her by her title, which, she believed, rightfully belonged to Mary Tudor. “It must be lonely at Hatfield.”

“I’m never alone, Your Majesty,” answered the princess evenly, taking in the woman she loathed wholeheartedly. “I’m with my ladies.” The words that memories of her dear mama were always with her hovered over her lips, but they did not come to her tongue.

Henry emerged behind the child. “At present, you are with us, Elizabeth.”

The girl’s eyes flew to her stepmother. “Thank you for greeting me, Your Majesty.” 

Jane’s smile was genuine. “You are most welcome.”

To her amazement, the queen was indeed glad to see the girl, despite her ill parentage on her maternal side. Perhaps she felt so thanks to the yearning for her own child. In spite of her loathing for her expelled rival, Jane must stand in a mother’s place to Elizabeth and teach her to be a decent lady. With God’s help, I’ll make this girl a devout Catholic.

Henry’s approving smile was scant comfort to Jane, but it emboldened her to add, “I hope that over time, we can become as close as mother and daughter.”

The king glanced down at the girl. “Elizabeth, you must respect Jane in the same way as you would treat your own mama. She will take good care of you, helping me raise you.”

“As Your Majesty wishes.” The princess’ tone was cool.

This let her parent realize that the child did not like his request, despite all her pretense. “Jane is your stepmother, and nothing, except for my will, will change it.”

“Of course.” Elizabeth inclined her head in comprehension.   

The ruler’s statement caused Jane to tremble like the stem of a reed in the wind. She had figured out her spouse’s veiled hint that her fate was in his hands. I just need a son!  Only a male child will secure me on the throne and in his heart. Nonetheless, she could not deny that Henry was fickle and volatile like a tempestuous ocean, and she had already seen that it could take merely one word, misstep, or move for the object of his fixation to fall from grace. Maybe Dorothy and Elizabeth were correct that his volatile nature was an obstacle Jane would not surmount.

During the next hour, the queen witnessed the king converse with his child. It discomfited her that Henry treated Elizabeth so affectionately, for it meant that he could not efface memories of the nefarious adulteress, who had whored herself out. Henry loved his second daughter more than Mary, whom he had degraded to a royal bastard. Given the above, Jane wondered whether the king’s feelings for Anne were stronger than those for Catherine of Aragon had once been.

When Elizabeth’s gaze locked with her stepmother’s, Jane saw the intelligence shining in the girl’s eyes. Their color was dark and reminded Jane of Anne’s hooking eyes so much that she thought they carried a false innocence, and the queen imagined that the princess’ expression was like that of a hawk about to pounce on her. What am I doing?  Elizabeth must not be held responsible for her mother’s sins, Jane scolded herself for such ridiculous thoughts.

Deep down, Jane Seymour admired the girl, who was as extraordinary as her mother. She had a feeling that Elizabeth was no timid little bird, but some powerful, proud, and independent being, reincarnated for a while within the confines of her strong spirit, for the princess had to obey her parent to avoid any quarrels with him. Jane hoped that after the initial stiffness between the two females, Elizabeth would grow fond of her, and that she would love her future brother.

Watching Henry play with Elizabeth, the queen fantasized that she would give birth to a brood of Tudor handsome princes and princesses. Her and Henry’s red-haired, mischievous, little imps would run around and play noisy games, and their antics would leave their parents uncertain upon occasion whether to smack their bottoms or laugh aloud. Her dreams were tinctured with light hues of much-desired happiness, which she did not have in real life. Jane prayed that her love for Henry would unlock all the doors separating them from contentment.

At the same time, Jane was conscious of a chance that she would stumble exactly where her predecessors had done. Her worst fear was that she would never have her prince, although Doctor Butts had assured her that she could conceive and carry a babe to full term. Her boy would take the throne after his father and restore England to the flock of Rome in the future.

Jane’s hand flew to her abdomen. “I must give Henry a son,” she murmured to herself. Yet, the wings of some sinister presentiment fluttered in her chest.  

§§§

“Make way for Lady Mary Tudor!” At the herald’s cry, the crowd in the hallway, which connected with the Princess Elizabeth’s rooms, parted, clearing a path for Mary.

Her gait measured, slow, and confident, Mary kept her back straight and her head high, just as a princess should. Her expression regal, she was bestowing beaming smiles upon courtiers and servants alike as she strolled over to the entrance to her sister’s apartments. Mary gleamed in her gown of purple and golden satin embroidered in a lavish pattern of diamond flowers, fitting her thin, but quite short, form tightly, save where it swirled around her gold-sandaled feet.

As she passed the courtiers, Mary heard the approving murmurs and noticed the benign smiles on their faces. Most of them had loved or at least respected her late mother. Now they saw in her the only chance for England to join the Catholic Church again. Apparently, they reckoned that she had the right to the title of princess as Catherine of Aragon’s legitimate daughter.

Her father’s words, which he had spoken years ago, resurfaced in Mary’s consciousness. “My Mary, the pearl of my entire world,” King Henry had told his teenaged daughter. Then he had addressed the courtiers who had watched them with broad grins. “To all nobles here present, let it be known that Mary is the noblest Princess of England, my most beloved daughter. Soon she will be given her own court at Ludlow Castle and depart for Wales.”

My father loved me back then, Mary mused. He did not make me Princess of Wales, but he considered me his heir. Everything in her and her late mother’s lives had been fine until the Boleyn whore had bewitched the monarch. At present, deprived of everything she had loved, she felt as hopeless as a passenger who had fallen overboard while on a ship at sea. The high waves of her pain threatened to submerge Mary, her soul screaming against the water choking her.

As she approached the door, she took a fortifying breath. No one should see her distress, for royals ought not to show their emotions. Moreover, the ruler’s spies would report to Henry if she allowed herself to look disgusted or frustrated before entering Elizabeth’s chambers.  

Schooling her features into perfect blankness and forcing a smile, Mary slipped inside the room. Anne Boleyn’s little daughter was half-asleep in the arms of Lady Margery Horseman, who had spent two hours tonight with the princess after the girl’s meeting with the king and queen. Margery had told Elizabeth bedtime stories and reminded her of a happier time when Anne had come to Hatfield and stayed there, spending the evenings with her dearest daughter.

“My Lady Mary,” Margery began, her countenance apologetic. She could not stand up and curtsey to the king’s daughter because the princess was in her arms. “I’m sorry for–”

“It is fine, Lady Horseman,” Mary uttered before the other woman could finish.

“Thank you.” Margery let out a wan smile. She had always supported Queen Anne and Princess Elizabeth, but she respected Mary. “Our little princess is almost asleep.”

Mary approached them. She bent down to Elizabeth’s level and stroked the child’s hair. “You may go. It is quite late, and I shall put my sister to bed.”

Elizabeth opened her sleepy eyes. “Mary!  Mary!”

At the sight of the girl’s delight, Mary smiled cordially. “Yes, my dear sister!”

“I’ve missed you,” Elizabeth murmured. “I want to play with you.”

Catherine of Aragon’s daughter took Elizabeth into her arms. “Aren’t you tired?”

“I am.” Elizabeth yawned. “Tomorrow, then?”

Mary laughed softly. “Of course, Lizzy.”

“Thank you for taking care of her, Lady Mary.” There was a look of genuine gratitude on Margery’s face. She then curtsied to Mary and vacated the room.

“Why did you come so late?” Elizabeth inquired.

“I spent the whole day reading, sister. I like solitude.”

Mary carried Elizabeth to the adjacent room, which served as the princess’ bedchamber. She placed the girl onto a small, canopied bed swathed in beige silk; only one candle burned on a table. Tapestries with scenes from the life of the Virgin Mary adorned the walls.

“Sleep well, Lizzy,” Mary uttered as she tucked blankets in around Elizabeth.

The child yawned and held out a hand. With a grin, Mary touched her hand for a moment and kissed Elizabeth’s forehead, feeling sentimental tears prick her eyes.

“Good night, Mary,” whispered Elizabeth. She quickly fell asleep.

For a short time, Mary stood near the bed, as if she were guarding her sister’s sleep. After Elizabeth’s birth, Mary had tried to hate the girl, but it was unfair to blame her for her mother’s sins. The charming Elizabeth had enchanted Mary, who had grown to care deeply for the child.   Despite all her loathing for the harlot, Mary would never believe her younger sister capable of evil, although she would never acknowledge Elizabeth as the king’s legitimate daughter.

Nevertheless, Mary’s feelings for Elizabeth were highly conflicted since Anne’s exile. You are not a princess of the blood, Lizzy. You are a Boleyn bastard. Yet, His Majesty has kept you in the line of succession. Why is he so blind and unfair to me?  Catherine’s daughter ruminated, painfully and enviously. I pray that you will not follow in your damned mother’s villainous and wanton footsteps. Mary suspected that the older Elizabeth would become, the less understanding they would have; even now, when Mary looked at her sister, her envy was sometimes so profound that it poured into her usually good sentiments towards the girl, and she could barely conceal it.

Mary foretold, “Most likely, our relationship will be on a shaky footing when you grow up, Lizzy.” Immediately, she glanced around, fearing that someone could overhear them.

The ruler’s eldest daughter berated herself for such thoughts. For the sake of this innocent child, who did not deserve her disdain unlike her mother, Mary refused to let her attitude towards Anne sway her decision to be a kind and caring sister to Elizabeth. But, deep down, Mary felt that if one day they were destined to become rivals for the English throne, she would be able to tear her sympathies from her heart so as to fight for what she believed rightfully belonged to her.

Mary shifted her gaze away from the sleeping girl, as if it could help her distance herself from Anne’s daughter. She stared into the dying fire in the hearth for a handful of moments, failing to relax. She kissed Elizabeth again as if to atone for her bad thoughts, and then left.

Notes:

I hope you like this chapter. Please leave a review, which will encourage me to keep going.

The Pilgrimage of Grace is spreading through the north of England like wildfire. The demands of the pilgrims, which are mentioned in the first scene, are historically correct. Thomas Cromwell invents a crafty stratagem to squash the rebellion.

Elizabeth still blames the king for her separation from her beloved mother, Anne Boleyn. Despite her tender age, she is phenomenally precocious and knows that her father ordered to behead Anne, but then exiled her. After her mother's arrest in May 1536, Elizabeth was kept at court, though away from the public eye; she could have heard her ladies gossiping about her mother's "crimes" and Anne's punishment – execution through beheading. That is why the princess says to Lady Margery Horsman and Lady Margaret Bryan that the king wanted to behead her mother and asks them whether her father will want to behead her as well. The girl is rather traumatized by memories of her last meeting with Anne in the gardens.

Queen Jane Seymour is not pregnant yet, and, therefore, King Henry is upset with her. He considers his consort plain and boring, but he still hopes that Jane is capable of giving him a son. The monarch has many paramours, and he spent three weeks with Lady Anne Bassett, who became his chief mistress, away from court. An incensed Henry forced himself on Jane, hoping that she will conceive. Despite her conversation with Dorothy who endeavors to make her sister see the truth about her royal husband's fickleness, Jane believes that Henry loves her and will not discard her.

Elizabeth has to be cautious in her communication with Henry, so she follows the wise advice of Margery Horsman and Margaret Bryan. Jane is not happy to see little Elizabeth, but she is not blind to ignore the child's intelligence and charm. As for Mary Tudor's short meeting with the sleeping princess, you can see that the girl has a warm relationship with little Elizabeth, but Mary also knows that everything may change in the future.

Yours sincerely,

Lady Perseverance

Chapter 15: Chapter 14: The Lonely Monotony of Life

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: The Lonely Monotony of Life

January 24, 1537, Château de Villers-Cotterêts, Villers-Cotterêts, Picardie, France

“Make way for the king!” the herald shouted. “Make way for His Majesty!”

Clad in elegant brown traveling attire, King François marched through the corridor, surrounded by guards and watched by the bowing and curtseying courtiers. The monarch’s arrival was expected since the queen’s almost miscarriage several weeks earlier; he had been delayed in Poitou by the foul weather as the heavy snowfall had made roads nearly impassable.

The ruler’s expression was impenetrable, as if nothing threatened his spouse’s health. However, a muscle twitched in his jaw as he neared the queen’s apartments. There was a sense of urgency in his quick, as always regal, gait that communicated haste and anxiety.

After entering the antechamber, François paused and looked at his wife’s ladies, who all curtsied to him. As his gaze rested on Françoise de Foix, he gestured towards an adjacent room. His former mistress followed him inside, and the king closed the door behind them.

Stopping in the middle of the room, he fired questions one after another. “How has Anne been fairing?  What does Doctor Fernel say?  Is there any threat to her life?”

Françoise surveyed her liege lord curiously. He had always been an exceptionally gallant man who showed respect to women, whom he referred to as ‘flowers’. It was well-known that he loved his mother and sister fiercely, lavishing them with affection and relying upon their counsel. To everyone, his current worry about his spouse would seem usual, but not to the countess.

Busy with her observation, she didn’t respond straight away. Her silence caused the king to cover the gap between them before repeating, “Is Anne’s life in danger?”

“No.” She discerned an immense relief in his relaxing features.

“And?” he prompted, his voice laced with concern.

“Now the queen is resting. Thanks be to God, there has been no sign of miscarriage since that unfortunate Christmas evening. Doctor Fernel thinks that Her Majesty has a good chance to carry the child to term, provided that she remains on bedrest until its birth and follows all of his strict recommendations. Actually, her condition and mood have both improved.”

The ruler crossed himself, and a smile lit up his visage. “The Lord has kept Anne safe!  Her health is more important than anything else. Even if the child is lost, she must live.”

Françoise allowed her lips to part in a smile. “You care more about her than the babe.”

“That is true. In spite of Anne’s hostile attitude towards me and all men, I do not care whether she ever gives me a child or not. She is my wife, and my duty is to keep her safe.”

At this, she laughed, as if his claim were the most amusing tidbit of information she had ever heard. “Obligation, Your Majesty?  Or maybe it is your heart’s desire?”

“Both,” he realized. “More my heart’s desire than anything else.”

“That is what I thought. You cannot live without her.”

François pondered his sentiments towards his queen. “Anne is like a good old wine for me: the longer I know her, the more I crave to grasp her enigma. My state of yearning for her is reminiscent of a drunken swoon, and when she is close to me, I often struggle to think coherently.” Sadness shadowed his eyes. “Her rejections do not turn her into water from wine.”    

The countess giggled. François is quickly falling for his spouse!  For the first time in his life, he may fall in love with a woman because he has found his match and equal in her, she mused with delight. The countess was still immensely devoted to the King of France, and she always would, but she wanted him to find marital contentment and wished him all the best.

The Countess de Chateaubriand recalled her personal discourses with the king. Marriage, François used to say, was a matter of tradition and duty for procreation. A matter of necessity for royalty to provide a country with heirs. In most cases, no man married until he was obliged, and then only did so to better himself and his noble house. Love in matrimony was too absurd a thing for a man who possessed common sense. The king had once confessed to Françoise that he could lust after women, but would never fall a victim to the tender passion. Despite being friends with him, Françoise did not know why he had not believed in love since his youth.

Life had proven the French ruler wrong after he had wed Anne Boleyn. He had slept with numberless women and was perhaps more experienced in extramarital affairs than Zeus himself. He had hugged and kissed beauties countless times, but his heart had been closed. Until now…

“François,” she called. The ruler frequently allowed her to address him by his name.

“What?” His quizzical brow shot up.

Her smile widened. “You are falling in love with Queen Anne.”  

“I do not know.” His breath caught as he imagined his wife’s dark eyes.

“Think about it. But now go to her.” She touched his arm, encouraging him to leave.

The ruler let out a smile. “Thank you, Françoise. You are such a precious friend of mine!  In my absence, you have taken the best possible care of my queen.”

“Just as I promised you in my letter. I’ll continue watching over her.”

The king spun on his heels and exited. He didn’t see the countess wipe an errant tear from her cheek, for her heart ached with her unrequited, deep and everlasting, love for François.

§§§

As the monarch entered the queen’s bedchamber, his heart sped as a thrill of elation seized him at the sight of his spouse. The music of longing, which he had so long combated with during their separation, echoed behind the closed doors of his inner realm.

Crossing to a canopied bed where Anne rested, François studied her closely. Now she was visibly pregnant, the dome of her belly accentuated by the covers hugging her form. Despite her pallor, her exotic beauty was enhanced by the impending motherhood, glowing like a flower. Such a scintillating emotional weather reigned in his universe that he gasped with pure joy. But he fended off the impulse to embrace his wife and caress her abdomen, where the new life they had created on the wedding night was growing, for she would certainly not appreciate that.     

He seated himself on the edge of the bed. Instantly, she snuggled to the other side. Her eyes turned frantic, as if she were on the verge of tears, and fright flashed in them.

Her reaction disappointed him. “I’m not going to harm you, Anne.”

She relaxed. “I’m sorry.”

“There is no need to apologize.” With a sigh, he stood up.

Her hand halted him. “Please, do not leave.”  

He pressed her hand to his chest. “Does the past preclude us from being friends?”

Bewilderment painted the queen’s features. Questions blazed through her consciousness like meteors. Did François fantasize about having a happy ending with her, and, if he did, why?  Anne was clueless as to the matter, and her face as warmthless as ever.

Her arctic voice cut through the air like the twang of a ricocheting shot. “Our practical arrangement of convenience was a bold step for us both, one of the few available solutions for us at the time. We have been audacious in the most dangerous of ways – in the calculating manner of cunning people who strive to achieve goals by any means. There is no greater happiness in a royal marriage than that when the king and queen work as allies; I prefer to keep it this way.”

Inwardly disheartened, he appeared outwardly unruffled. “Marriage confines man to the world of either duty and formality or love and ruin. This is especially true for royals.” His biting laugh was comprised of irony and regret. “To wed a woman for whom you feel something and who returns your sentiments is to lay a wager with her as to who will stop loving the other first.”

She was hurt by his caustic words. “Marriage is like a cage for a woman, particularly for a queen. If she happens to fall in love with her spouse, she is forced to watch his little birds – his paramours – outside the cage. They are so desperate to have him that, once they get inside, they peck her love for him to the death. Thus, for most of the time, she is desperate to get out.”

“In the Anacreontea, Eros once failed to notice a bee sleeping among the roses. He was struck in the finger and ran to the beautiful Aphrodite. He told her, ‘I’ve been killed, mother. I’m dying. I was struck by the winged snake that farmers call “the bee”. She responded, ‘If the bee-sting is so painful, what pain, Eros, do you suppose all your victims suffer?”

She remembered this tale. “Is it from some Greek collection of love poems?”

“Your intelligence has always been a lure for all those blackguards whom you call men.”  

Anne chuckled, and François grinned at her. They laughed airily as a sense of exultation overmastered them for a fraction of a second. He suppressed the inclination to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless, until she cheerfully braced herself for his sensual onslaught.

Nevertheless, the magical moment had passed and was gone. Such an ethereal moment of perfect bliss, however, could not become a perpetuity of rapt joy, for she did not love him.

The queen shifted closer to her husband. “It is good to see Your Majesty at last.”

Capturing her hand, the monarch brushed his lips against her palm before stating half-smugly, half-hopefully, “Obviously, you have missed me, Your mysterious Majesty.”

She extracted her hand from his. “You are too conceited for my liking, sire.”

He playfully conceded, “More than you can know. But you like it.”

She smirked. “More than I hate it. You may be amusing.”

All of a sudden, François cupped her face and kissed her with a reverent tenderness. In a handful of heartbeats, he parted from her and stared into her dark pools, full of confusion and astonishment. In these moments, they both felt absolutely content, as if they had stood within the gilded gates of heaven, but they were called to reality by the Almighty’s judgment.

He traced the contours of his wife’s face, gentling her, observing as anticipation replaced confusion in her eyes. He felt a brief glimmer of hope that at this moment, Anne experienced a faint stirring of warmth within her breast, which a woman feels when her beloved enfolds her into his arms. Yet, the sudden coldness in her gaze ceased the movement of his hand.

His formal tone was devoid of the inner tumult as he pronounced, “True amusement lies in knowing how to live. I’m not sure that the new Anne who married me knows this.”  

There was no hint of gentility in her demeanor as she declared, “When a man talks like that, Your Majesty, it generally means that it is time he entertains himself with a new beauty.”

He retorted acridly, “Isn’t that an outstanding remedy for a man whose wife is colder than the snow?  As a king, I can give up any mistress if she bores me too much. I can also give up most of my other amusements, even carnal ones, but not our union as we exchanged vows before God.” His sneer caused her to wince. “Our marriage shall always entertain me in a way.”  

Something glistened in her gaze. “You have never loved a woman.”

“You know,” he commenced, “I’ve always dreamed of love – true love, though I do not believe in it, partly due to my parents’ situation. Indeed, where does one find it nowadays?”

Anne blinked like a startled doe. “I do not know.”

“Very rarely,” her spouse continued in a grave undertone. “I’ve never felt it myself – not what should be called love. I’ve chased various women, and I’ve been keen enough over some of them. But none of them has ever given me a spiritual contentment, while you can do that.”

This was his defense against his spouse’s indifference that sometimes alternated with disdain. At the present moment, he felt as lonely as a sailor lost in the ocean, and his head-over-heels physical attraction for her now seemed to be an onerous burden. Nonetheless, the words that he had never been as attracted to a woman as he was to his third wife hovered upon his lips. The king was swimming in a sea of confusion that had only one focal point: why he cared for Anne so much, and why she haunted him like a sensual ghost determined to win his soul.

She regarded him scornfully. “So, I was right about you.”

He put his hand to his chest, closing his fist there, as if he would draw something out. “We men are as prone to infirmity as any lady, but we are trained from childhood to deny it.”

Anne swallowed her umbrage. “That is so kind of you to say that.”

He climbed to his feet. “Man is his own worst enemy, as Cicero said.”

My wife is her own sworn foe, François silently fumed as he vacated the chamber. Not her adversaries or anguish, but her clinging to the past might defeat her. His affection for her sprang up into the fiercest flame of jealous passion, as he berated Anne for her unwillingness to meet him halfway and to at least make their marital life a little pleasant. He was jealous of her to Henry, even though he was not certain that she still loved his English counterpart.

In the meantime, the French queen lay in her bed; her gaze glassy and absent. Being confined to bed, she delighted in reading books, which were brought to her from the library; she preferred chivalric romances and satires. Her marriage seemed to Anne a fathomless enigma that encircled her like a waft of sensuality; no talk, tune, or poem could convey her tangled emotions. Words are useless in my marital life. Even worse – they are misleading, she lamented.

§§§

As the king returned to his quarters, a young lady rushed to him. Her impetuous welcome, accompanied with a volley of girlish giggling, goaded him to envelop her into his arms.

“Your Majesty!” The woman placed her head against his chest. “My knight!”

The monarch whispered into her ear, “Welcome back to court, Claude.”

As they parted, François perused his guest. Attired in a gown of auburn velvet worked with gold, its sleeves long, pendent and its neckline low, Claude de Rohan-Gié was a picture of majestic charm, which was attributable to her refined manners and her innate elegance. A month earlier, Claude had turned seventeen and was now emerging into adolescence. The king had sent her a gift for her birthday: on her bosom there was a cordeliere, which, being imitated from the cord worn by Franciscan friars, was formed of red silk twisted with threads of gold.

The freshness of her youthful beauty was tinged with sensuality that she had developed thanks to the romance with her amorous sovereign. During her service to Eleanor of Austria, she had quickly became one of the finest ornaments to the French court and caught the king’s eye. Her father, Charles de Rohan-Gié, who had fought at Marignano long ago, approved of his daughter’s liaison with François because of the privileges and wealth it had brought to the House of Rohan. For a short time, François had been so smitten with Claude that her coat-of-arms had been carved on some walls at Château de Chambord, where they often had rendezvous.   

Claude’s scintillating smile and her long, thick, honey-gold hair, which was hidden by a hood studded with gems, set off her hazel-green eyes strikingly. Tall and slender, her well-curved body boasted a narrow waist, flared hips, and shapely legs, which she liked wrapping around his body in a dance of lust. Her gaze barely concealed an early awareness of her femininity and also intellect that she used at random. At the same time, Claude lacked the unrivalled majesty of Anne’s deportment and the indescribable exoticism of the queen’s appearance.

Claude flashed him a dazzling smile. “I’m wearing your gift, my king!  I love it so much! It is so expensive, and I’m surprised that you gave it to me.”

Although his prodigality was sometimes excessive, François enjoyed seeing a lady’s joy upon receiving his lavish gifts. “Women are the finest blossoms of beauty men can find.”

Her arms snaked around his neck. “Your Majesty is the most gallant knight.”

Her admiration of him pleased and amused the ruler. “The truest definition of chivalry is that a man should protect a woman against every other male but himself.”

She chortled. “Do not protect yourself from me. We need each other too much.”

“Perhaps.” His response was skeptical, but she paid no heed to it.

“Blessed are those in love,” purred Claude with a coquettish smile. A graceful tilt of her head had the precise angle to showcase her alabaster neck. “I love you, my heroic François!”

Although François laughed, an amalgam of sadness and bitterness inundated him. “The sun, rising and setting in glorious colors, never grows tired of its admirers.”

“You are the sun of France!” Her fingertips caressed the contours of his face. “I shall always treasure your adoration for me, just as no lady ever gets tired of pretty flowers.”

“My dear Claude, we ought to remember what makes an enlightened French woman: the bright and inquisitive mind, the inclination to learn new things, the aspiration to keep apace with mankind’s progress, and the ability to live sagely and well.” He lifted his hand to her cheek, his fingers sliding along the curve of her jaw. “You are all these things altogether, chérie!”

Batting her eyes, Claude flirted with him audaciously. “The gist of it all is this: it takes the brilliance of intellect, the splendor of sweet womanliness, and the glory of honorable grace to complete the picture of a perfect woman for a great king such as yourself.”

“What a clever way of thinking!  A brainless woman cannot be beautiful.”

Claude de Rohan-Gié tiptoed to kiss King François, whose towering height prevented her from reaching his mouth. Bending his head, he caught her lips in a searing kiss that made them quiver, the tongues of carnal yearning flicking excitedly against their clothed bodies.

The monarch pulled away, and his mistress issued a groan of protest. His mind conjured the image of Anne’s rare smiles. Her breezy laughter, which he had last heard in Calais, rang out in his ears like Aphrodite’s peremptorily irresistible tune of love. A moment later, the sadness over Anne’s rejections of him bled into his consciousness, blurring these heavenly visions with a stamp of his melancholy. My spouse hates me so… Nevertheless, any of my mistresses, whether another Anne or Claude, are always at my disposal, François fretted.

Since adolescence, the king had lived in a seemingly perpetual dissolution. His queen obstinately refused to jump into his romantic extravagances, all the while weaving their relationship into an existence as infinitesimal as sunrise or sunset. Anne’s coldness intensified his desire to resort to his traditional hedonistic ways, while also hurting him like bereavement.  

“I want you,” he said hoarsely.

She eagerly complied. “I’m yours, my beloved!”

François kissed a trail to the hollow of her neck, and Claude responded in kind, her body pliant in his embrace. The color of her dazed eyes softened to a warm honeyed hue, drowning him further in her allure. He carried her to a canopied bed in the corner, and then she undressed them. Spasms of hunger raved through them as his lips marauded hers, as if her mouth were the only source of tenderness, which could make him forget his wife. As their naked forms entwined, her limbs became soft pillars of an amorous temple, as she straddled him and rocked to and fro.

Their bodies came together many times until the streaks of dawn colored the firmament. Their needs sated, François lay next to her, feeling the meaninglessness of his life. Claude was a goddess of elaborate intimate pirouettes: as always, tonight she had practiced all the refinements of physical love, one moment withholding her indecent caresses and the next lavishing her lover with them. Yet, now the king’s universe was shifting, tumbling in its lonely monotony.

Sliding into a robe of blue velvet, François went to the antechamber. He sat there, a goblet of wine clasped in his hand, lost in thought. His sister’s light footfall did not reach his ear.

The Queen of Navarre mocked, “Has your sanity restored itself?”

The king flittered his gaze to her. “Sister, why are you not sleeping?”

A livid Marguerite huffed, “You are a complete fool, François!  Your desire to be loved, to be held close to the other shape, to see the eyes full of devotion…  What about it?”

“Why are you angry, Margot?  Deign to explain.”

She stomped her feet in exasperation. “You wanted to make your marriage work. And what happened tonight?  You ran into that Rohan harlot, didn’t you?”

He narrowed his eyes. “By heaven!  My wife loathes me and all men!”

“She can hardly be blamed for that.”

François sucked in a distressed breath. “There must be a way of countering Henry’s curse that Anne can never love again. When she is with me and not angry, she looks at me sadly.”

Marguerite stated forthrightly, “You must restore her faith in justice and love.”

His eyes were beseeching, searching. “It may not work.”

Stopping beside his chair, she touched her brother’s arm. “Stay committed to Anne and discard all your mistresses; it will bind you two together. Learn to love her through thick and thin – yes, brother, you are falling for her, although it is not deep love yet.”

He clutched Marguerite’s fingers. “We do not know our future.”

Marguerite cupped his hands over hers. “Do that, or you shall never be happy!”

After administering a compassionate pat on his shoulder, the Navarrese queen exited.

The ruler swung the goblet around and sloshed some of the contents onto the floor, then swigged it down. A raven of despair perched at the mast of his marital ship, being tossed by a storm of his discord with Anne, and every day it pecked the rest of his wife’s respect to him, as she grew increasingly distanced from him. The king was awash with guilt over another betrayal of his vows to Anne, as suffocating as the one he had felt while being with his other lovers.

François wondered, “Am I falling in love with you, my queen?” Silence was the answer, but a laughter dancing in the air almost confirmed his suspicions. “Perhaps, perhaps.”


February 1, 1537, Château de Villers-Cotterêts, Villers-Cotterêts, Picardie, France

Books were shelved on both sides of the study, illumined by candles burning on rosewood tables. A desk, filled with papers, stood near a window, from where one could see snow falling out of a steel-gray firmament. Consuming every inch of the walls were tapestries and paintings.

The King of France paced the study like an expectant father near the door to the birthing chamber, although his wife would give birth to their child in three months. His consciousness was teeming with the images of their recent quarrel: an exasperated Anne had not accepted from him a sapphire and diamond necklace that had once belonged to his mother, Louise de Savoy.

His steps were like those of a man searching desperately for something precious. Indeed, he was laboring to find an explanation for the aversion Anne seemed to be experiencing towards him. Since his return, she had erected a thick wall of ice between them, as though she hated him and was hell bent on bruising his pride and heart. His attempts at closeness had been thwarted.

Anne’s harsh tirade echoed through his scull like circling vultures. “I do not want any gifts from Your Majesty!  No ruler is a good fit for a husband, so go to your mistresses and spend everything from your treasury on them. Leave me alone!” Her rejection of his mother’s necklace, which had a special meaning for the Savoy family, was as painful as a physical wound.

“Father!” exclaimed Prince Charles de Valois as he entered.

François finally ceased pacing. Plastering a smile on his face, he plodded to his guest and embraced him. “Charles!  Look how you have grown in my absence!”

The door opened, and Dauphin Henri walked in to see his brother in his father’s arms. Henri cleared his throat to secure the room’s attention, and the two other men instantly parted.

“Henri,” the monarch called softly. “It is so good to see you, son.”

The dauphin surveyed his royal parent with undisguised jealousy and ire. He had long been furiously envious of the special bond, which his father shared with Charles. After the return of Henri and the late Dauphin François from the Imperial captivity, Henri’s relationship with his parent was strained, to say the least. François and Henri disagreed about all kinds of things, their lives dampened by their frustrations over their arguments. I still cannot forgive my father, Henri mused bitterly. He allowed my now dead brother and me to languish in the Spanish prison for years. In the meantime, father lived in luxury and entertained himself with his paramours.

As the eldest prince kept silent, the ruler came to him and pulled him into his arms. After disentangling himself from their embrace, François watched Henri attentively for a moment before a benign smile blossomed on his features, his joyful gaze darting between his offspring.

“Come here, sons!” The monarch gestured towards chairs, which lined the further wall.

The three men seated themselves comfortably, and servants brought wine for them.

François took a hearty swig of claret. “Since my arrival at court, we have not had much time to talk. I’ve heard that you have both excelled in your studies while I was away.”

Slowly drinking wine, the Duke d’Orléans informed, “Henri, our sister Marguerite and I spent all the time here, at Villers-Cotterêts, but I would prefer to return to Fontainebleau and Saint-Germain-en-Laye once the Spanish are defeated. Our tutors have praised our accomplishments in English, Italian, Flemish, German, and Latin.” He paused, his censorious gaze flickering to the dauphin, and castigated, “However, Henri dines in private with Madame Diane de Poitiers too often, neglecting our company. He strongly prefers to be with her instead of his wife.”

The monarch flicked his troubled gaze to his elder son. “Is that true, Henri?”

The dauphin emptied his goblet and slammed it on the table, positioned between his and his brother’s chairs. He stared at his parent with a blend of challenge and rebellion. “Yes, it is. Your Majesty knows that I did not want to wed that Italian daughter of merchants. Nevertheless, you forced me to enter into a marriage I loathe more than I despise the Holy Roman Emperor.”

Charles’ glare condemned Henri. “Henri, do not you dare disrespect our father! You–” 

“Let him speak, Charles,” interrupted François, his gaze never leaving the dauphin’s face. “Henri, I know which thoughts are hovering at the edges of your mind.” He raised his voice to accentuate the point. “You have not forgiven me for your sufferings in Spain. You crave to hold me accountable for my selfishness, and for what you might call cruelty towards you.”

This candor caused the dauphin’s control to slip. “I can neither forget nor forgive!  Your Majesty has long become more selfish than Narcissus. You do love yourself, your court, and your countless mistresses far more than you feel for your own children.”

Charles frowned at his sibling. “That is falsehood!  You are despicable!”

Henri glowered at his brother as if he were an insect. “Charles, you blame me for lying,” he stilled for a second, his glare dashing to his father, “when he is the one who is lying!  He says that we are precious to him, yet he sent our deceased brother and me to Madrid so that he could return to France and be happy with his whores – Françoise de Foix, Anne de Pisseleu, and other prostitutes, whose names he can barely remember. He betrayed our poor mother with numberless paramours, and she was so broken that she cried her eyes to sleep every night.”

François reached for his goblet, lifted it to his lips, and drained the contents in an attempt to maintain the illusion of control. “That is enough out of you, son.”

His anger boiling like hot lava, Henri bounced to his feet. “Everything I’ve said can be proved. The whole court is aware of your countless amours and my mother’s unrequited love for you and your neglect of her. The entirety of Christendom knows that you abandoned your two sons and dispatched them to Spain.” His voice rose in a crescendo of rage, ringing through the air. “We starved and cried in our small, damp cell, while you thrived and enjoyed life.”

Charles spat, “Henri, shut up!  Never insult our father who is your king in the first place.”

François’ response was surprising. “It is all right. Do not berate him, Charles.”  

Dauphin Henri beheld his father fearfully. He anticipated that his outrageous misconduct would be punished severely. Instead, his parent covered the gap between them and engulfed him into a tight, affectionate embrace, and Henri’s arms went around the king’s back.

After a short while, the king disentwined himself from his son. “Well, we could have smothered each other. Then who would have won the last battle against the emperor?”

Charles was relieved that their father’s temper had not been exacerbated by the dauphin’s shenanigans. “Our legendary Father!  Soon you will expel the Imperial barbarians!  Even brave and powerful Hercules is not as great as our beloved Knight-King is!”

Grinning, François intoned, “You are flattering me.”  

“No!” protested the Duke d’Orléans. “It is as true as the fact that night follows day.”

The monarch strolled back to his chair. “Hercules was mentioned in some Roman myths. The famed Mark Antony considered him a personal patron god, as did the wicked Roman Emperor Commodus.” A laugh spilled out of him. “I’ve always sympathized with the tragedy of Mark Antony’s life and his fatal love for Cleopatra. Nevertheless, I cannot be associated with Hercules, because the hero was also used by Commodus to stress his own false divinity.”

The Dauphin of France and the younger Valois prince returned to their chairs.

François regarded the two youths with warmth. The king loved both of his surviving sons dearly, but Charles was undeniably his favorite thanks to the boy’s likeness to him. Charles had taken after him in both looks and appearance, and the prince’s eccentric deportment was appealing. Henri’s somberness and reticence were in stark contrast to his younger sibling’s vivacity, charm, and outspokenness. After their return from Madrid, the young François – the eldest Valois prince and once the heir apparent to the throne – had been as serious and somber as Henri, but still more easy-going and optimistic than the seemingly always depressed Henri.

The ruler’s thoughts dwelled on his difficult relationship with the dauphin. The horrible imprisonment in Madrid had upended the previously blithesome childhood of Henri and François. Their trauma had been so deep that both princes had started wearing dark colors after their return home. That damned captivity!  François cursed mentally, his fists clenched to his sides. At least, my eldest son was not hostile towards me; he understood why I had no choice but to send him and Henri to the emperor’s prison in my stead. Will Henri ever comprehend and forgive me? 

They desperately needed a frank conversation, so François braced himself against a wave of contrition and anguish. “Henri,” he addressed the dauphin. “I’ve long felt guilty for the ordeal you and your elder brother suffered in prison. Every time I remember those awful days, I almost expect that the fire and brimstone will fall upon me from heaven.”

The heat of shame colored Henri’s cheeks. “Father, I’m so sorry for my words. I had no right to pronounce those horrendous things, which slipped from my tongue.”

Charles commented dryly, “At least, you have finally realized that.”

The king shook his head towards Charles, and then told Henri, “On the contrary, I’m glad that you voiced important matters which have long troubled you. You are my son, but sometimes, your mind seems to be like a thick midnight forest, through which you cannot even wander.”

“I, too, often think so,” put in Charles.

Henri blushed more. “I do apologize if my behavior frustrates everyone.”

“No!” the king hollered. “I blame myself for my failure to find a way out of the mess I dragged myself into after the ignominious defeat of the French at Pavia. Perhaps, after my capture, I should have fallen onto my sword instead of surrendering.”

“No!” This time, it was Henri from whose lips had produced the strong words of denial. “Do not say that, Father!  You had no choice but to capitulate.”

François loathed himself for his old political missteps, which had led to all those events. “Henry of Navarre, your Aunt Marguerite’s husband, fled, while I did not even try to. To escape would have gone against my code of honor, so I waited for my transportation to Spain.”

Prince Charles growled, “The emperor is a skunk without honor and conscience. He can be defeated only through craft, and he does not deserve any mercy.”

The ruler sighed. “I understand that now. That failure changed me a great deal.”

Henri did not concur. “Father, chivalry is a rare gem in a dark and inequitable world. It makes you who you are – the honorable Knight-King who is loved by his subjects.”

The king gave him a long stare. “Do you really think so?”

The dauphin inclined his head. “Yes, I do.”  

The monarch’s consciousness floated to his heir’s reproving speech. “In early youth, I was impulsive and restless. Being hungry for power, land, and fame, I dreamed of conquering the Duchy of Milan, which belongs to me by my birthright, and even the whole of Italy. I was prone to making rash decisions and acting on emotion without thinking of the consequences.”

Charles confided, “I’m dreaming of attaining glory on the battlefields of Italy.” His face twisted into a soundless sob. “Those brave Frenchmen who were slaughtered at the Battle of Arles and in our other provinces…”  His voice halted as a tide of anguish swept over him, and a flush of ire colored his cheeks crimson. “We must avenge their deaths and kill those Habsburg thugs.”

Henri scowled. “Father, I crave to join our army to smash the Imperial foe into pieces.”

The king’s response was a strict prohibition. “Never!  I cannot lose either of you.”

In spite of their disagreement, Charles and Henri nodded their comprehension. François looked at them like a proud, devoted father, and these moments of their nearly tangible mutual affection erased the bitter taste of the dauphin’s earlier confrontation with the monarch.

When François and Henri exchanged smiles, the world seemed so perfect. In such rare moments, we are just loving father and devoted son, the dauphin cried silently with delight.

François blew out a puff of air in vexation. “We should not have engaged with the enemy at Pavia. Our first success – when the entire force of our gendarmes scattered the Spanish – went to my head. What a fool I was to think that I was invincible like salamanders!  Another day and night passed, and once light streaked through the sky, a mass of Imperial pikemen and arquebusiers descended upon our cavalry from all sides. We did not realize the magnitude of the attack at first, while lacking room to maneuver because of the neighboring woods. Thereupon, our gendarmes were encircled and brutally killed, while our infantry was broken and routed.”

The two princes had already been taught the arts of war, but it was the first time that their royal parent had told them a real war story. “That is horrible!” they chorused.  

The king recollected, “I fought on until my horse was killed. Then I was surrounded by Spanish arquebusiers, taken prisoner, and escorted from the field.”

Charles snarled, “I hate the emperor!  We must capture him!”

“We will,” Henri hissed with a hint of overconfidence that was noticed by his father.

François regarded his son suspiciously. “Henri, what is on your mind?”

The dauphin was a picture of innocent confusion. “I do not know what you mean.”

The ruler enjoined, “Henri, you must be actively involved in state affairs. Monty is your friend, but you need to make acquaintance with my other ministers.”

A grin flowered across Henri’s visage. “Gladly!  Thank you, Father!”

“My dear sons, you are not rivals!” the monarch insisted. “You both ought to be true brothers: loving, caring, and ready to support one another at any time. Henri is my first heir, but I believe that you must both be knowledgeable about politics and government.”

“With great pleasure,” effused the Duke d’Orléans.

The dauphin’s eyes darkened like thunderclouds. “Fate tends to destroy even the most best-laid plans. I may predecease all of you, and then Charles will inherit the throne.”

Charles drew an irritated breath. “Your petty jealousy poisons you.”

“I cannot,” the other prince barked.

“Do not be envious, Henri,” François chastised. “After your elder brother’s death, you became my heir. Despite the persistent rumors that I will replace you as Dauphin of France, you must not be worried: I shall never betray you by taking your birthright away. Someone must have spread this gossip with the intention to drive a wedge between us.”   

Henri smiled. “Thank you for the assurance, Father, and I beg your pardon, again.”

“Do you believe me now, son?” enquired the king.

“I do,” the dauphin answered sincerely.

François emitted a sigh that had come from the depths of his soul. “I married Claude not out of love, but out of duty. Our marriage was agreed on by King Louis XII and your grandmother, Louise, without any regard for our desires.” His brain was forming words to best describe his attitude to his first spouse. “Claude was intelligent, kind, and pious – a model queen, although she could also be as a strong and opinionated woman. Over time, I grew fond of Claude, but I never loved her. I believed that it was my kingly right to take a mistress whenever I wanted.”

Charles interjected, “Father, you do not have to–“ 

The ruler interrupted, “I’m not justifying myself – I’m just explaining. I had a great many affairs in youth. Despite being discreet in most cases, I still paraded some of my mistresses around the court. Your mother knew of my infidelities, and they broke her heart because she fell in love with me.” Contrition colored his tone as he supplemented, “I failed to return her feelings. I could have treated her more respectfully, and I’m sorry for my mistakes.”

The dauphin looked thoroughly touched. “Thank you, Father.”

François continued, “Claude and I were tied by our dynastic marriage and our children.” His gaze fastened to Henri’s face. “Your political union with Catherine de’ Medici should have secured for France an alliance with the Pope and the Medicis. The previous Pope died and did not pay out Catherine’s dowry, but I still think we may benefit from this marriage. I must admit that I’m also impressed with Catherine’s intelligence and her keenness to please.”

Henri frowned in disgust. “Catherine repels me.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “And Diane does not?!”

The dauphin fired back, “Do not insult Diane!”

“Enough!” The ruler’s voice boomed through the room like a canon blast. “There must be no clashes between brothers. I do not want to ever hear or see anything like this again.”

“Of course,” the two princes rasped, although neither of them meant it.

 Their father switched to the dauphin’s marital problems. “Henri, your marriage, though unwanted, may become interesting for you. Your mama and I were allies and friends, in spite of our differences. You two may find common ground. Give this marriage a try!”  

Henri’s brows furrowed sullenly. “After she gives me a son, I’ll leave her bedroom.”

“That is the least you must do,” acquiesced François.

The Duke d’Orléans inquired, “How is our stepmother fairing?”

To conceal the anguish in his eyes, the monarch gazed out at the small hill hunched in opaque silhouette against the darkening heavens. “Anne is feeling quite well. Doctor Fernel says that if she stays in bed until the delivery, she and the baby will be all right.”

The King of France was pleased that his sons – even Dauphin Henri who advocated the persecution of heretics – seemed to like Anne. Henri was not happy that Anne had been permitted to worship Protestantism in private, but he had accepted her as his stepmother. Unlike the dauphin, Charles was a member of his Aunt Marguerite’s literary circles, where the teachings of Calvin and Luther were read and discussed, and the prince had much in common with Anne. François was both relieved and delighted that his queen had been respected and admired by his relatives.

§§§

The afternoon was wearing away when Catherine Maria Romula de’ Medici, Dauphine of France, appeared in the queen’s suite. She strode into Queen Anne’s bedroom like a breath of fresh air, in the splendor of her adolescence; like a force of nature showed by her determined gait.

“Your Highness,” Queen Anne greeted. “Welcome to my humble dwelling.”  

“I hope I’m not intruding.” Catherine’s voice was flat.

A hint of a smile twitched across Anne’s mouth. “Of course, not.”

A teenaged woman strolled to the queen’s bed. Dauphine Catherine carried herself with regal dignity and unattainability, and Anne’s attention attracted the inquisitive expression of her hazel, deep-set eyes separated by a straight, narrow nose. The singular mobility and intelligence of Catherine’s strict countenance unusually contrasted with her shyness, which she, however, could have displayed only because of her first private meeting with the queen.

Catherine’s short stature looked heartbreakingly petite in her Italianate gown of purple velvet, with brown velvet sleeves trimmed with golden lace; the neckline and the bodies were lined with fur. Wound with ribbons and twisted up into knots of various shapes with the ends hanging free, her long brown hair was covered by a Florentine headdress. Everything about Catherine was blandness, timidity, and insinuation, from the angle of her jaw to her sharp chin, to every controlled motion, slow and gracious, a slight smile lending a wisp of kindness to her pale face.

The dauphine lowered herself into a curtsey. “Your Majesty, I wish you all the best.”

At Anne’s nod, Catherine seated herself in a chair by the royal bed. Their gazes locked, while the atmosphere of tense inquisitiveness around them was growing thicker and heavier.

“How is Your Majesty feeling?”

Anne chuckled. “If French ladies learn how much free time I have to devote exclusively to myself, they would be envious enough to bite their thumbs off.”

The dauphine smirked at her jest. “They are simply jealous of you. Everyone at court is aware that His Majesty is worried about his wife; far more worried than he has ever been about any of his wives and mistresses. Many courtiers are discussing that.”

“Let them talk. Even four horses cannot overtake the tongue of scandalmongers.”

At this, Catherine laughed. “Yes, no one can sew buttons on their neighbor’s mouth.”

The queen perused the dauphine more closely. Catherine was not stunning at all, and her budging eyes were her least attractive feature. However, there was a certain charm of intelligence and mystery about her. As Catherine smiled, her eyes changed, becoming extraordinary – warm and trusting, and at this moment, Anne felt as if she could look into the woman’s soul.

Anne broke the pause. “I’m glad you have paid me a visit, Your Highness. My husband and some others told me many awesome things about you.”

“King François is an extremely enlightened man, who takes pride in his unparalleled role in the spreading of education and culture throughout France. He has not annulled my marriage to Henri only because he admires my education and intelligence.”

Her straightforwardness surprised the queen, who also spoke directly and comfortingly. “Be at ease!  You are young and can bear many heirs for Dauphin Henri.”

“My husband spends too much time with his mistress,” Catherine complained.

Anne made obvious conclusion. “Are you seeking an alliance with me, Madame?”

Catherine chewed her lip. “If it is possible, Your Majesty.”

“Cheer up!” The queen pointed a finger at her. “There is a remedy against your lack of pregnancy. I’ll bring your problem to His Majesty’s notice and ask him to talk sense into Dauphin Henri. You cannot conceive if your husband frequents his paramour’s bed relentlessly.”

Gratitude flooding her features, Catherine flashed a sweet, but cautious, smile. “Thank you so much, Your Majesty!  You are my guardian angel!  God bless you and your child!”

A joyful Catherine was a pleasing sight to behold. Having experienced difficulties with childbearing in England, Anne felt closer to the other woman after their candid conversation, and even blessed to have the opportunity to assist her in salvaging her marriage.

Suddenly, blandness filtered into Catherine’s eyes, the secrets of her soul concealed once more. If Anne had not seen the soft look in them before, she would not have believed such a quick change was possible. The warmth in Catherine’s orbs cooled, their color becoming darker until her eyes resembled a pair of sparkling onyxes – remote and withdrawn. The dauphine’s face Anne was seeing now was the one Catherine showed to the world, the one most people saw.  

“I have a gift for Your Majesty,” the dauphine apprised.

One of her Italian ladies-in-waiting, who waited for her in the antechamber, entered. She passed the object wrapped in golden and blue brocade to Catherine, who gave it to Anne.

“This is wonderful!” Anne cried while unfolding it. “The Prince by Niccolò Machiavelli!  You must have brought this book from Florence because it was prohibited in France.”

“That is true. I have many books by Italian humanists and philosophers.”

“Does His Majesty know about that?  Did he permit you to have these books?”

“Only to me,” Catherine pointed out. “I’m sure he will not mind if you have it.”

Anne smiled her slimiest smile. “Well, I hope he is not greedy.”

The dauphine’s gaze drifted to a black marble table in the corner, where a multitude of books lay stacked, a few open. “May I have a look at them?”

“Of course, but I fear you will not consider my stock of books very interesting.”

Catherine stood up and crossed to the table. She read aloud the titles of a few volumes. “Commentaries on the Gallic War by François Desmoulins de Rochefort, Paraphrases of the Whole of Aristotle’s Natural Philosophy by Jacques Lefèvre d’Étaples, as well as the Praise of Folly, the Education of a Christian Prince, and Foundations of the Abundant Style by Erasmus.”

“These are wonderful works!” the dauphine assessed. “I guess you have many more.”

“I do,” the queen confirmed. “I especially love reading Erasmus.” She had developed this habit during her long courtship with Henry when they had debated about many books.  

Catherine picked up one of the volumes by Erasmus and began turning over the pages. “May I borrow the Ecclesiastes by Erasmus?  It is his new work published three years ago. I know that it is about effective preaching, and I’m interested in this subject.”

Anne nodded. “Of course.”

“I’ll return it to you soon.” The dauphine strolled back to the bed.

“I’d like to take a nap.” The queen yawned, her hand flying to her mouth.

As Catherine bobbed a curtsey and stepped backwards, Anne exhaled her breath in a rush. As soon as her stepson’s spouse exited, relief swathed over her, like flickering shadows from candles. The dauphine was someone who could undergo metamorphosis several times just within half an hour, like a chameleon. God in Heaven!  Catherine has done nothing wrong to me, but I do not want to have any contact with her, Anne speculated with a sense of confused wonder.

“I do not like her,” the queen said to herself as she shut her eyes and fell asleep.

Notes:

I hope you liked this chapter.

King François arrived at court that now resides at Château de Villers-Cotterêts. He could not come earlier because of heavy snowfalls. His conversation with Queen Anne shows that François is worried about his wife and their unborn child, but she does not want them to become closer because of her fears. After his quarrel with Anne, the king reverts to his traditional hedonistic ways so that he can forget Anne’s almost hostile attitude to him, and then he sleeps with Claude de Rohan-Gié.

Both Françoise de Foix and Queen Marguerite of Navarre, the king’s sister, tell François that he is falling for his wife. It is true that François is slowly falling in love with Anne, but they are still almost strangers to each other. François spent a great deal of time away from court because he is fighting against the Imperial invaders. As soon as the war is over, and the monarch returns to court, he will have more time to spend it with his unwilling queen and to allow her to get to know him better.

In this chapter, you also get insight into the relationship of Prince Charles and Dauphin Henri with François. Henri blames his royal father for his captivity in Spain – captivity that deeply traumatized him. Fortunately, François swallows his rage and has a candid conversation with his eldest son. At the same time, Dauphine Catherine de’ Medici pays a visit to Anne and asks her to become her ally because Henri spends too much time in Diane de Poitiers’ bed, which is why she cannot conceive. I wonder what you think of Anne’s conversation with Anne and of Catherine’s portrayal. Anne is wary of Catherine because she feels if not the other woman’s pretense, but something in Catherine that makes her alarmed, and Anne is right because Catherine does not want her to have sons with François.

Please let me know what you think in your reviews! Thank you very much in advance!

Anacreontea (Greek: Ἀνακρεόντεια) is the title given to a collection of some 60 Greek poems on the topics of wine, beauty, erotic love, Dionysus, etc. The poems date to between the 1st century BC and the 6th century AD, and they are attributed to Anacreon. All the works of Erasmus, Jacques Lefèvre d’Étaples, and François Desmoulins de Rochefort (King François’ tutor) really exist.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 16: Chapter 15: Murder and Triumph

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: Murder and Triumph

February 20, 1537, Palace of Whitehall, London, England

Numerous lords and ladies had congregated in the royal presence chamber. A sense of urgent curiosity was pervasive among them, as they watched their liege lord’s meeting with the leader of the dangerous revolt in the north of England against King Henry. A trepidatious silence ensued as Robert Aske crossed to the throne and made his obeisance, his head bowed low.  

“Welcome to our court,” the monarch’s voice boomed like a cathedral organ.

Attired in a doublet of flame-colored brocade, a furred velvet mantle of the same hue, and orange hose, the Tudor ruler sat in his gilded throne under a red silk canopy of state. With his reddish brows lowered forbiddingly, the line of his mouth grim, Henry regarded the assemblage sternly. His countenance softened a little as his scrutiny concentrated on his guest.

Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex, was as pale as a whitewashed gravestone; he stepped away from the throne. At the foot of the throne stood Will Sommers, the king’s favorite jester, and near him the Duke of Suffolk. The Seymour brothers, and a number of other nobles – all Cromwell‘s open enemies – were present as well. Queen Jane Seymour and Lady Mary Tudor, who were both dressed in modest white gowns ornamented with pearls, wore expressions of anticipation.

Lady Mary Stafford née Boleyn had found her refuge in the distant corner, together with her uncle – Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk. For an instant, no one breathed, and Mary’s chest was tight with fright as she observed Aske, who froze on his knees in front of the monarch.

“This long silence,” began Norfolk, “is an effective way to make Aske frightened. This man is leading the rebellion against the Crown. So, His Majesty must put him in his place.”

Her heart galloped like a panicked horse. “Will clemency be extended to them all?”

He disregarded her question. “The king keeps the traitor on his knees for so long in order to humiliate him. Aske does not want to die, and he knows it is best to stay meek.”

Mary inwardly shuddered, for Norfolk’s sneer was a mixture of derision, scorn, and something ominous that she could not fathom out yet. What does his unsavory smile communicate? Does it foreshadow something bad? Why am I feeling as if the end of the world were now upon me? A tangle of questions tumbled through her head, and her dominant emotion was mistrust.

Thomas Howard was a self-serving man driven by ambition and a thirst for wealth and power, as well as an absolute faith in the superiority of the Howards over anyone else. Mary Stafford would never forgive Norfolk for the vile betrayal of Anne and George as the duke had condemned them to death while having presided as Lord High Steward over their unjust trials. However, in the situation when William Stafford was one of the leaders of the Pilgrimage of Grace, Mary had overlooked her hatred for the man and begged him to intervene on her husband’s behalf.

Several weeks earlier, the royal forces under the command of the Dukes of Norfolk and of Suffolk had spotted the troops of the so-called pilgrims, which consisted of about forty thousand men, near Yorkshire. Aske had coined the phrase ‘Pilgrimage of Grace’ to describe their actions as a pilgrimage to the sovereign of England in order to stop the attacks on the monastic houses and to have the realm restored to the Holy Father in Rome. The insurgents were not a rabble: they were a disciplined and well-organized force, many of whom had fighting experience as they had faced confrontations with the Scots on the country’s northern border for years. Being significantly outnumbered, the royal troops had not engaged with the foe.

After William Stafford had joined the rebellion, ignoring his wife’s pleas not to participate, Mary had gone to the north together with their two children. She had been in Lincoln when the royal page had delivered the monarch’s invitation to court for Robert Aske and his close followers, including Robert Constable and William Stafford, for negotiations. Fearful for her spouse’s life, Mary had accompanied him to London, where she had found the Duke of Norfolk immediately upon their arrival. At Whitehall, Stafford, together with Mary, and Constable had been lodged in modest, but comfortable, rooms, but only Aske had been allowed to meet with their liege lord.

Whatever more her uncle said to her, Mary paid no heed to it, as her attention was focused on the rebel, who finally climbed to his feet at the ruler’s sign. As the piercing stare of Henry’s chilly aquamarine eyes rested upon Robert Aske, a shiver raced down her spine, raising a trail of anxious goose bumps on her arms. It occurred to Mary that the monarch could have lured them all into some kind of trap, and Henry’s leer presaged what the outcome might be.

Mary voiced her conclusion. “His Majesty will make false promises so that the rebels decide to disperse. But once the pilgrims go home, Aske’s head will be on a spike.”

“When has the flippant mistress of two kings become so astute?” Norfolk then changed his sarcastic tone for one of faux sadness. “Perhaps you are correct. Yet, it matters not, niece.” He snaked a hand around her waist in an exaggeratedly protective manner. “Whatever happens to them, your pretty head will remain attached to your neck because I want it to be so.”   

She recoiled in revulsion, but he held her tight. “How dare you–”

“I dare,” he barked, “because I have power. Shut up and watch.”

Mary glanced at the rebel, who awkwardly dropped into another bow to his liege lord.

“Your Majesty,” Robert Aske pronounced coarsely.

“Mr Aske, come closer.” King Henry motioned for him to move forward.

“Thank you.” The man took a series of tentative steps towards the throne.

The ruler’s expression of fake sweetness disgusted Lady Stafford. “I’m very glad to see you, Mr Aske. I must confess that, for a long time, I believed that I was badly misinformed about the causes of disturbances in the northern part of our kingdom. However, I’ve recently read your full and frank explanation, and I’ve been persuaded by the justice of your cause. You see I deem the commonwealth of our realm and love of my subjects as far more precious than any riches.”

This evoked repugnance in Anne Boleyn’s sister. The same feeling she had experienced when years ago, a grinning Henry had discarded her – a love-struck foolish girl back then – with his child in her womb, and wished her happiness with her cuckolded husband. The king is lying through his teeth. Lying has long become his second nature, Mary lamented, disbelief and horror vying for the upper hand. His cold eyes and his presumptuous grin speak louder than words. He has sentenced all of the participants of the uprising to cruel death. Henry portrayed himself as a benevolent ruler, while in reality he did not care about the people, hankering to spill their blood.

Mary’s veins were freezing like ice. “There is the look of the monster he has become in his eyes. He would kill anyone to meet his lusts and to punish disobedience.”

“Fortunately, no one hears you, save me.” Norfolk’s voice was strained.

They concentrated on the unfolding scene. Everyone’s inquisitive looks indicated that they had not figured out Henry’s scheme. The silence deepened, as if the monarch’s speech brought forth a deeper endless night in the realm, as well as a tangible feeling of some sinister premonition.

Smiling broadly, Aske replied, “I’m humbled by Your Majesty’s words. Thank you so much for being so wise and so kind! But I must ask whether Your sacred Majesty intends to fulfil those pledges made in your name by the Duke of Norfolk and the Duke of Suffolk.”   

“In every part,” Henry continued the charade. “I’ll be more merciful than any other king. The general and liberal pardon shall be extended to all our northern subjects. There will be a free and lawful election to a Parliament of York every year, where all of the clergy and churchmen, without fear to cause our displeasure, will display their learning and speak their minds. Furthermore, next year, we ourselves shall come to York to show our great love for the English people.”

Robert Aske bestowed a grateful smile upon his sovereign. This poor man does not sense any danger, Mary inferred dejectedly. He and his friends are all as trapped as fishes in a fisherman’s net. My dear William…  Oh, my goodness! Not him! With a gargantuan effort, she stifled a howl of dread and pain, as her consciousness conjured the pictures of her husband’s gruesome end. There must be something she could do to aid him, but her thoughts whirled in disjointed disorder.

As if reading her mind, the Duke of Norfolk growled, “Mary, stay here with me.”

“I cannot,” she mumbled, stepping forward. “I must save him!”

The grip of his hand held her firmly in place. “You cannot.”

“He is my husband.” Her voice was quieter than a whisper, but full of despair.

The duke admonished, “Stop panicking, you idiot! Your husband is a traitor whose days are numbered.” His voice lowered to a dull growl. “Think of your children with Stafford.”

Flashing him a hateful look, Mary answered nothing, and veered her gaze to the rebel.

Aske was still under the delusion that his liege lord wished them all well. “Your Majesty is truly so magnanimous! I swear that you shall find no more loving and loyal people in the whole of your realm than northern Yorkshire. We will glorify your name for all eternity!”

At the monarch’s gesture, Robert Aske strode closer with a smile.

Henry broached another topic. “You have also written against some of my advisors, protesting at their lack of noble blood. It is too bold on your part, I must say.”

Mary’s lips lengthened into a vicious smirk as a muscle twitched in Cromwell’s jaw. She abhorred that murderer, who had fabricated the charges against her siblings, with a loathing that deepened as time went by and was to sour for the rest of her life, unless she could avenge her sister’s and George’s downfalls. Now her spouse was in peril because of Cromwell’s wickedness.

The mutineer flushed in spite of himself. “Your Majesty, I–“

The monarch cut him off. “I fully agree with you, but don’t say anything. I assure you that all the enemies of the country will be dealt with.” There was no malice in his stiff grin, only a trace of amusement, like when one watches a child mispronounce a word in a funny way.

Once again, a sense of loathing to the Tudor beast overwhelmed Mary Stafford. Her hate for the king ran so deeply that it was now embedded in her skin and bone, flowing through her blood unabated. Such a potent sentiment was more than she could bear, and she flicked her eyes to Queen Jane, whose face was all joy and pride for her royal spouse’s mercy towards the folk. Jane’s poor awareness fueled Mary’s disdain further, and she wrenched out of Norfolk’s grip.  

Mary stomped towards the thrones, but her uncle pushed her back into the crowd.

She felt Norfolk’s irate breathing upon her temple. “Don’t dig your own grave.”

“You are a godless scum, Your Grace!”

“Go!” Howard shoved his niece into the corridor and nearly dragged her to his apartments.

Having calmed down, Mary followed Norfolk, sullenly and submissively. They ascended the staircase and into another corridor, lined with portraits of English monarchs, which startled the unaccustomed eye here and there, as if they had been reflections cast from an ethereal world.

Mary paused in front of the portrait of King Henry VII. “His Majesty’s father is looking at us with a promise of long-awaited peace for his war-battered realm.” A laugh bubbled out of her. “Henry Tudor must now be spinning in his grave. If he could see his second son, who once seemed to have been destined for the Church, he would have been disappointed.”

Norfolk emitted a sigh in partial concurrence. “I’m a Catholic, and I shall never abjure the true faith. His late Majesty, King Henry VII, could have been… bewildered.” His words were mild, for he would never criticize his sovereign aloud. “He would have been proud as well.”

“Really?” She made a face of disdain.

“As a reformer, you must thank your former lover for breaking with the Pope.”

She retorted, “How could Henry VII be proud of that monster?”

“Watch your tongue,” Norfolk advised gruffly. “Your stupid behavior and the revenge you crave will inflict only disgrace upon your offspring. Only I can save you, Mary.”

The duke ushered the confused woman into his quarters and slammed the door.

§§§

Lady Mary Stafford opened her eyes with effort. She lay on a canopied bed that stood in the center of the room on a dais with marble tables and couches scattered around it. The surroundings were unfamiliar, and a handful of flickering candles did little to illuminate the shadowed area.

“Where am I?” Mary wondered, disoriented and somewhat perturbed.

She climbed out of bed and plodded over to a window. Her gait wavered, as if she suffered from vertigo, and she nearly stumbled; her temples and the back of her skull were hurting. She felt as if she had drunk herself into a stupor, although she had not consumed any alcohol today.

Cupping her temples with her both palms, Mary looked out. The royal park had gone into darkness, and snowflakes swirled like feathers falling from the firmament. The white blanket over the gardens stretched as far as the eye could reach, and the dark city loomed in the distance. With a degree of certainty that startled her, she presumed that she must have dozed off a while ago.

At the sound of footsteps in the adjacent room, she pivoted to face the door that bulged open to reveal the Duke of Norfolk. She gawked at him as he strode over to where she froze.

“What happened?” inquired Mary.

He stopped beside her. “They were all arrested and jailed in the Tower.”

“Who?” She was now nothing but panic stitched together with threads of terror.

“Robert Aske, Robert Constable, and William Stafford were all apprehended. You are lucky to have been asleep while the arrests took place. There was too much noisy drama in the palace.”

In a funereal silence, Mary swiveled to the window. The dainty shimmer of stars, draped across the black heavens, mimicked the sprinkle of snow caught up in the crisp breeze. The frosty weather mirrored the chill in her soul, which only the sound of William’s laughter could warm.

She could not believe her uncle. “Where is my William?”

His response cut through her like a million daggers. “In the Tower. Soon his bill of attainder will be passed. Then he will be executed without trial, like his conspirators.”

Mary fumbled backwards to a nearby wall. Desolate, she leaned against it and slid to sit on the floor with her legs folded and her knees under her chin. “William,” she sobbed. “No, he cannot die! Not my beloved William! He cannot just disappear from my life!”

There was something so piteous in the distraught woman’s cries that they raised compassion in Norfolk’s cold heart. He approached her and stood, watching her weep for a handful of heartbeats before putting an arm around her and hoisting her to her feet, then steadying her.

“Mary, you are alive. That is all that matters.”

She hiccuped. “My father expelled me from the family and disowned me after my wedding to William. Why have you suddenly started caring for me, uncle?”

It was the moment of truth for Norfolk. “Whether you believe me or not, I did not wish any harm to come to Anne and George. However, the king yearned to be free of Anne and to wed Jane Seymour. To safeguard the Howard family, myself, and my power, I had to distance myself from them because they both were a lost cause.” He heaved a sigh. “I paid a heavier price than ever to keep myself safe. But… I could not allow His Majesty to destroy you.”

Perfect befuddlement painted itself across her visage. “Why?”

“You reckon that I’m an unfeeling man, who disposes of those who stand in my way to power without compunction. But even men like me may have moments of weakness.”

Mary deduced, “Did the king order to arrest me as well? He must wish to take my life after his failure to murder Anne. After all, I was in the north during the uprising before coming here.”

“Yes,” confirmed the duke. “After the audience with Aske, I led you to my quarters. We talked for a short time, and then I gave you a slumberous draught. After you had fallen asleep, I commanded to bring your children to my rooms; they are waiting for you here.”

Hope brightened her tearful features. “My Annie and Edward are both unscratched?”

“Hale and hearty; they must now be asleep. But you will still have to travel.”

“What?” A puzzled Mary wiped the tears away.

“My niece,” the Duke of Norfolk said, pointing to the cord with a Boleyn pendant around her neck. “Although Anne has always been considered the most spirited and opportunistic one of the Boleyn siblings, you are also seeking your own will. You yearn to live the way you like and act the way you believe is right, even if it goes against the law and society rules you are bound to obey. If you were like other women, you would never have married William Stafford – a soldier with nothing in his pockets. How will you find your path? It is not a thing of choice, but a thing determined by destiny that leads you to where you must be. And now your place is not in England.”

Confusion tinted her eyes. “Explain.”

He clasped her hands in his. “Mary, you cannot help Stafford. No one can.” He stilled as he discerned reprehension in her gaze. “Not even me,” he underscored. “Your husband made his bed when he supported the revolt. His Majesty will have the heads of every man who dared rebel against him; he enjoined to have even women and children punished.”

Horror manifested on her countenance. “King Henry is a callous beast! He shall be damned to the deepest pits of hell if he goes through this plan!” Her hand flew to her mouth as a realization dawned upon her. “Our children! Have they been condemned too?”

The agitated glint in his gaze spoke more loudly than any words. “Catherine and Henry Carey have been estranged from you since your second marriage. Therefore, nothing bad will happen to them. Catherine is His Majesty’s daughter, though an unacknowledged one, and so she will be all right. At the same time, you must take Stafford’s children out of England.”

The sight of her uncle’s uncharacteristically worried face aroused in Mary a sharp longing for her family – for all her offspring, Anne, and her mother, Lady Elizabeth Boleyn née Howard, but not her father. “That monster will learn that you aided me to escape.”

“I’ll weasel out of any charge. But as a king’s man, I’ll do my duty regardless of my opinion.”

Solemn glances of comprehension were interchanged. A tide of fledging respect for her uncle rushed through Mary, but then the old sensation of caution around the man superseded it.

Touching her shoulder as if to say farewell to her, Thomas Howard uttered, “You will join Anne at King François’ court. Everything has been arranged for your voyage.”

“Oh, Anne, my sister!” Mary broke into a bemused chuckle. “I’ve missed her so! And I’ve been afraid for her safety since learning about the invasion of France.”   

Norfolk walked to a table in the corner. “Be vigilant during your journey, especially in France. Some provinces are occupied by the Spaniards, but my men know which places to avoid.”

She noticed that he was emotionally exhausted; such a rare thing when one could see this man without masks of pomposity. “You going really to be okay, Uncle?”

Norfolk grinned uncharacteristically kindly. “Niece, you are addressing me as Uncle again? Well, perhaps not all is lost for a devil like me. The past year has had its toll on me.”

“Be careful,” was all Mary could say. “Will you safeguard Princess Elizabeth?”

“Anne’s daughter is at Hatfield, and I have no access there without the king’s permission. Do not worry about her:  Lady Margaret Bryan and Lady Margery Horsman are taking good care of her. Lady Horsman joined the princess’ household after Anne had gone into exile to France.”

“My sister must have asked Margery to do that. Anne and she are close friends.”

The Duke of Norfolk grabbed his cap of black velvet with two ostrich plumes from the table. As he adjusted it on his head, he said, “Tomorrow is another day, Mary. Don’t think about the past – focus on the future. Trust me: everything is going to be fine. We ought to leave.”

§§§

Abysmal grief crashed upon Mary while Norfolk and his three most reliable servants escorted her and her children through the maze of corridors. Visions of her life with William Stafford flashed through her mind: their meeting in Calais, their marriage, the birth of little Annie and Edward, and their happy life in poverty, short like a winter day. Her heart was slipping into a void of hurt.

At midnight, the hallways were empty, yet footsteps were clacking against the floor.

“Wait here,” the Duke of Norfolk instructed.

Nodding at her uncle, Mary ushered the children into a niche in the wall.

Annie yawned. “Mama, are we leaving?”

“Why are we hiding?” Edward also yawned. “I want to sleep.”

“Shhh!” Mary put a finger to her lips. “We must escape before… it is too late.”

“And papa?” Annie and Edward chorused.

“Be quiet,” Mary whispered. “Please…”  A tear fled from her eye.

One of Norfolk’s men interjected, “We are awaiting His Grace.”  

Footsteps were approaching, and discovery seemed imminent for the fugitives. Then Norfolk spoke, and Mary recognized the voice of the man who responded to her uncle.

“Not sleeping, Your Grace?” Sir Nicholas Carew enquired.

“Insomnia,” the duke answered. “You don’t look happy, Sir Carew.”

Carew grouched, “Years ago, I was frequently sent on embassies to Paris. King Henry wanted again to dispatch me to the French court so as to help Sir Nicholas Wotton – but I refused.”

“It was reckless of you to act so. You must obey His Majesty.”

Carew spat, “I cannot when the Boleyn whore rules the Valois court.”

“You still hate Anne so?” Norfolk then listed the privileges the man had obtained. “The king appointed you knight of the Order of the Garter. Once you lost the royal favor because of Wolsey’s intrigues, but later you were restored to the Privy chamber. You were made the junior knight of the shire for Surrey. All these thanks to Anne! Moreover, Anne and you are relatives.”

Mary fisted her hands into balls. Nicholas Carew and the Boleyn sisters were related via their great-great-grandfather – Thomas Hoo, Baron Hoo and Hastings. It irked her that Anne had helped their many greedy relatives, but they had all abandoned her or turned on her. None of them treasured the privileges Anne’s ascendance to the royal position had secured for them.  

“That witch is nothing to me,” Carew blustered. “I’m sad that she had not been executed, or better burned. Her place is not on the throne of any country, but in hell.”

Norfolk looked around. “Be quiet, Carew. The king does not wish to hear her name.”

“I should have been more careful; thank you, Your Grace.” Carew’s head swiveled back and forth, as he fearfully examined his surroundings several times. “Nobody heard us.”

“So, you are staying in England?”

Carew spoke freely, for the duke had cut Anne out of the Howard clan. “Despite being angry with me for my refusal, the king also offered me to go to Bologna on a diplomatic mission, and I consented. I hope not to be absent for long, for I must take care of the king’s eldest daughter. Poor young princess…erm... lady! She returned to court, but her father has been distant from her.”

“Good luck, Sir Nicholas.” Norfolk reckoned that the man was a fool to trust him.    

“Likewise, Your Grace.” Carew was surprised by such an abrupt end of their conversation.

After Carew’s departure, Norfolk hastened to find his niece and the others.   

“All is well.” The duke took Annie in his arms. “Quickly!”

“I loathe Carew,” Mary stung icily. “He is an ungrateful douchebag.”

“Gratitude is nothing in power games.” He indicated towards the right corridor. “This way!”

As soon as they exited the palace, Mary was swept by a profound sense of bereavement at the realization that her former life was gone forever. At present, she hated the English ruler with an insane fervor, which made her ready to sacrifice her soul to this all-consuming passion, as if it were a deity to be worshipped with self-destruction. Henry Tudor is guilty of William’s imminent death and of George’s demise. If only I could extract vengeance upon him, Mary mused.  


March 21, 1537, near the city of Poitiers, Poitou, France

The previous weeks had been unusually chilly for this time of year. The snow hadn’t yet thawed since the temperature was low, as if Thallo, the Greek goddess of spring, had no power.

The day was cold and crisp; it had stopped snowing in the morning, so the visibility was normal. Hours before sunset, the French troops were camped near the forest of Nouaillé. The army, which had arrived in Poitiers a week earlier, consisted of approximately three thousand bowmen, five thousand men-at-arms, and a force of five thousand infantry and six thousand cavalry.

As the Valois leader walked to the front ranks, the knights bowed to him.  

“Please!” King François paused in the circle of his soldiers. “There is no need for that. We are here as brothers-in-arms to fight for our country against Emperor Carlos.”

Yet, the men bowed again in reverence. Others began streaming for where the ruler stood.

In a voice dripping with conviction, François proclaimed, “Now Ferdinand von Habsburg is our prisoner. The Imperial troops are depleted on the back of our victory in Chamerolles, and they suffer from decreasing morale due to their losses.” He surveyed them, his eyes glimmering with sacred knowledge of their success. “Conditions are ripe for triumph. We shall win!”

“Long live His Majesty King François!”

“Our great Knight-King will lead us to victory!”

“God bless our chivalrous sovereign!”

“Save and protect our ruler from the vile emperor!”

The monarch saluted his subjects. “Today, we face one of the most compelling challenges in our history. Some might die as heroes today, and they shall never be forgotten.” His voice rose in a crescendo of devotion to their homeland. “With faith in our honorable future, our triumph will be a great achievement not only for the nation, but also for all the people who value harmony above dissension, friendship above animosity, and prosperity above devastation.”

A chorus of approval boomed like a hundred cannons firing at once.

The monarch’s countenance was imbued with endless gratitude to his subjects. “I thank all those who have been staunch in their loyalty to me, your sovereign, and unflagging in their efforts to help France overcome our difficulties. I’ll keep resolute in our quest for victory.”

Deafening shouts of adoration for their liege lord rang out like a million bells.

François moved his speech to the closure. “God shall bless us, my beloved subjects!” He then quoted Julius Caesars’ illustrious words, “Veni, vidi, vici!”

“Lord save and protect the Knight-King!”

“Death to that Spanish barbarian and his brother!”

“We shall destroy the Imperial foe, utterly and completely!”

“Long live King François and Queen Anne!”

At this, the monarch smiled, pleased that his spouse was hailed. The French courtiers and even many commoners had conflicted feelings over having Anne as their queen.

The next proclamation was aimed at cultivating the new queen’s reputation. “My dearest wife, Queen Anne, saved my life in the Battle of Chamerolles. She assisted us in securing alliances with the Protestant countries. She is a true heroine of France, and I’m proud of her.”   

This time, the response was less enthusiastic and even somewhat reluctant.

With a sigh of disappointment, the ruler prompted, “Ready for battle!”  

Many approached the king, one of them Anne de Montmorency, Marshal of France.

François walked to Montmorency. “What of your report?”

A knavish grin creased the marshal’s mouth. “Our spy counselled Emperor Carlos and his generals that their attack ought to be delivered on foot. He pointed out that their horses were vulnerable to our arrows at Chamerolles, which resulted in the heavy casualties on their part. The emperor heeded this advice: his army left its baggage train behind and formed up nearby.”

The monarch broke into laughter. “Notwithstanding his valor and military talent, Carlos seems to have lost his vigilance due to fatigue. He has forgotten the lessons of history.”

“Yes,” concurred his companion. “This time, the French will win the Battle of Poitiers.”

“The Lord hear thee in the day of trouble.” The king crossed himself.

§§§

The prayer done, the Valois monarch returned to his tent and donned his armor. He then went back to the front lines and ordered the commanders to array their men in a defensive posture among the snow-laden hedges and, beyond them, an expanse of blinding white orchards and pastures.

For the French, the present situation mirrored that for the English before the Battle of Poitiers of 1356. The royal armies occupied vantage points on the natural high ground so that the bowmen would obtain a considerable advantage over the heavily armored Imperial masses. Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, deployed several divisions of archers behind a prominent thick hedge.

King François addressed his marshal. “During that dratted Hundred Years’ War, Edward the Black Prince won the Battle of Poitiers thanks to the English longbow. Today, France will wash away the old shame of her ignominious defeat at the hands of foreign invaders.”

“Amen to that.” Montmorency raised his gaze to the heavens.

“How is the siege of Genoa progressing?”

“The Turks have been besieging Genoa, but the city is still resisting.”

The monarch called for his men from the Scots guard to join the column. The Spanish footmen were now crossing the snow-covered field that was like white paper, on which the metallic figures of warriors cast the eerie likeness of startling phantasies of war. After ordering the French archers to be at the ready, François contemplated the front ranks of the Imperial cavalry rounding a bend of a frozen stream as his mind replayed the battle plan over and over again.  

Suddenly, a recognizable Spanish voice cried, “Keep close together, men!”   

An angry François gripped his reins. “That bastard is again disguised!”

Instantly, Montmorency barked to the guards, “Do not leave His Majesty alone!”

“Fire!” The king dismounted, and grabbed his own bow from his shoulder.

The Duke de Guise snickered. “Many insects will die in the next moment!”

At Guise’s signal, many archers, who had been deployed on the wings in front of the cavalry, poured a volley of arrows upon the foreigners, many of whom slipped onto the earth, although some climbed to their feet. Arrows were again loosed to inflict more damage upon the foe before the Spanish infantry could advance. The compact bows of the French fighters, made of wood, horn, and tendon, could fire arrows with enough velocity to punch through even plate armor.

Smirking at the sight of their first success, François nocked an arrow. He chose a target: one of the front men carrying a broad standard, emblazoned with the Habsburg arms. Holding his breath, he let it fly and watched it strike the man in the thigh, below the shield. The Spaniard fell, and those behind tripped over him and helped him stand up just as François shot again.

Most of the Imperial men kept marching towards the French columns. Only a dozen yards to François’ right, four of his men were injured, while another two spread out, firing crossbow bolts on the attackers. Someone hoisted his spear to throw it at the monarch, only to receive a bolt in the throat. The French rained down arrows and javelins on the adversary; François also continued shooting while being protected by Philippe de Chabot, who held a shield before him.

Many arrows hit home: hundreds of invaders were now piled up in the snow, reddened with their blood. Within the space of a few minutes, they were temporarily repelled.    

“We have done it!” François lauded, and his men joined in his cheering.

“Retreat slightly!” Carlos shrilled to his comrades in Spanish. “Regroup!”

The emperor and his men started moving backwards in step and reached the center of the battlefield. The French gave chase to preclude them from escaping into the safety of the juxtaposed woods. The Imperial warriors had just enough time to form a semicircle around their master for his protection, which allowed François to figure out where his archrival was hiding.

“Capture Carlos!” François shouted above the din of the collision. He then shouldered his bow and ran to his destrier. “My men! Follow me!”

“Protect the king!” Montmorency enjoined. “At any cost!” He was awash with relief as Chabot and a small squad rushed after their foolhardy liege lord.

A horn sounded, and the French heard the rumble of hooves. That would be the foreign cavalry charging forward to aid the emperor, countered by the French cavalry that surged forward, pushing back the foe. This time, the French strengths matched those of the Holy Roman Empire, and the cavalries battled for half an hour, but eventually, the Spanish had to withdraw.

Someone killed the horse behind the Valois monarch, just as it had happened during the Battle of Pavia. Surrounded by adversaries from all sides, François remained as tranquil as one is in a serene hour of quietness. The king spotted the broad Habsburg standard of the approaching knight, who suddenly hurled a spear towards him. It struck François in the flank, but the blow was turned aside by his mail; he spun and slashed down, snapping the spear shaft in half.

“Who is it?” Straining his sight, François discerned the warrior whom he had wounded in the thigh at the beginning of the confrontation. “It is him!” he soliloquized.

Drawing his weapon, the ruler impaled one of his opponents; others glared at him through the visors of their helmets. A moment later, a sword rang off the back of François’ helmet, and he staggered forward, blinking at the knight who came into view – the man was his worst enemy.

In these historical moments, Carlos von Habsburg personally faced François de Valois on the battlefield. The emperor’s gray eyes exuded malicious glee, for he had circumvented his Valois counterpart, and his colossal hatred darkened them to the color of steel. Leering, Carlos wielded his weapon towards François, who instinctively veered away to evade a fatal blow.  

“You will lose, Carlos!” promised François in accented Spanish.

The King of France cut down another adversary. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a sword flashing towards his skull. He swiftly ducked, avoiding Carlos’ assault, but another blade was thrusting towards him, which he blocked at the very last moment. François spotted Chabot beside him, his gaze frightened because of his king’s close brush with mortality.

“Thank you, my friend.” The ruler smiled at his subject.

“Safeguard His Majesty!” Montmorency was trapped amongst the fighting mass.

The sun hung low in the dim gray firmament, throwing inky shadows across the field that was now littered with mutilated corpses and dead animals. Where the sun’s bleak light fell, the snow on the blood-soaked ground glittered like rubies. From their mythological realm, the deities of war curiously observed the dramatic spectacle performed by the two powerful archenemies.

An anxious Guise endeavored to help his sovereign. However, the Swiss mercenaries, who also obeyed the emperor, launched a ferocious assault on the team of archers.

Propelled by his unbridled fury, King François slashed across the leg of Emperor Carlos. His opponent dropped to one knee, and François jumped to him, landing beside Carlos and glaring at him down with such Cyclopean loathing that the emperor anticipated that the blade would pierce his heart. However, the ruler of France froze until his eyes lost their murderous zeal.

François stepped back before hissing in Spanish, “I do not kill a fallen man.”

Nonplussed, Carlos articulated in his native tongue, “Your code of honor might lead you to your grave.” For the most part, they had spoken this language during François’ captivity in Madrid.

All of a sudden, Don Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alba, who had distinguished himself in the Imperial conquest of Tunis, steered his unit to his master. Distracted, François and his men were pushed back a few feet before the charge was stalled by Montmorency’s divisions.

The Duke of Alba and the emperor retraced the route Carlos had taken earlier to reach François for a duel. Countless arrows whizzed and whizzed on, and Alba raised his shield above his master’s head and held it sideways. Thousands of French emerged out of the woods under the leadership of Claude d’Annebault, swarming the area like hungry vultures. However, the Spanish, though a losing party, showed rather stubborn resistance. Claude de Guise had the archers redeployed to a position where they could hit the unarmored sides and backs of the enemy’s horses.

François joined the fight and soon lost track of the number of opponents he dispatched. All the time, Chabot and Annebault stayed by the monarch’s side, both attentive and ruthlessly efficient. As the sun was setting, the sky glowed crimson, as if symbolizing the slaughter of the invaders. A French horn sounded three short blasts, signaling that now the Imperial forces were in full retreat. The war cries were replaced by groans of the dying and wounded, rippling through the frosty air.

The Valois ruler galloped around the perimeter of the field, searching for his mortal foe. His guards split up in their pursuit of the emperor, who had just disappeared with his loyal commander. The Duke of Alba’s cries to evacuate the emperor steadily grew more dispersed.

A chagrined and indignant François reined to a halt on some flat land before the piles of red snow. “I’ll inspect the breadth and depth of the battlefield to find him.”

“For King François!” Guise roared as he fired an arrow.

“Kill them all!” bellowed Montmorency.

François coveted to take his Habsburg rival prisoner. “Find Carlos!”

Two arrows lodged in the legs of Annebault, who slipped from his stallion. The king’s men divided, riding in a circle to safeguard their liege lord and his injured advisor. Meanwhile, Guise’s archers directed myriads of arrows at the fleeing foes, while the French cavalry reached the rearmost Imperial knights and slain many, chopping off limbs and scattering bodies left and right.

“To me!” the Duke of Alba shrieked in a voice colored with urgency and unutterable despair. “The emperor has been shot! For the love of Christ, take him to safety!”

At this, a dozen of the French cavalrymen, with François at their helm, dashed to Alba’s soldiers, who were carrying the unconscious Habsburg monarch. As they neared the panicking Spanish, another shaft slammed into the emperor’s chest. Being close to his rival again, François saw no blood because the arrows had penetrated Carlos’ mail, but not the leather vest beneath.

“It is the emperor!” apprised Montmorency. “Do not let him escape!”

The small Imperial cortege urged their steeds into an insane gallop. Some of Alba’s soldiers steered their beasts to the King of France and his guards so as to divert their attention, and by doing so, allow others to vanish into the safety of the woods. François came alongside a Spanish warrior, who hacked at him, but he parried before swinging backhanded and catching the man in the chin.

“After them! Now!” François blocked and spurred away, his horse knocking aside some of the enemy’s mounts. “For France!” His knights hurried after him.

§§§

François urged his mount faster, but there were nonetheless too many men between him and the Habsburg monarch. As they dived into the forest, a group of Imperial warriors appeared from around the side of a road. François raised his shield just in time before a lance slammed into it, sending him flying down from his destrier and into the cold, yet soft, pile of snow.

The ruler clambered to his feet. “I wish all the Spaniards had been at the bottom of the sea!” He repeated Anne’s infamous words about his enemy’s nation.  

The Imperial knights were gone, Emperor Carlos with them. Many French soldiers were pursuing them; others huddled nearby, awaiting the royal orders.

Montmorency, Guise, and Chabot brought their mounts to a halt.   

“Your Majesty,” said the Marshal of France cautiously, “there is no sense in trying to find the emperor now. It is nightfall, and we might get lost in the dark woods.”

“Damn!” François peered at the road, shadowed by the snow-capped trees.

Montmorency worked to diffuse the tension. “We have won the Battle of Poitiers!”

Chabot intoned, “Our ancestors who died here have been avenged!”

The Marshal of France commended, “The soldiers of the great King François are far better trained and braver than those of King John II had once been. In spite of being your forefather, King John lacked military prowess, wisdom, and cunning, unlike Your Majesty.”  

However, their sovereign’s mood was as gloomy as the blackest void in Tartarus. “John and I have something in common: we were both captured by invaders.”

“Today, you avoided that,” underscored Chabot.

“But Carlos fled,” François rasped.

His subjects were all cognizant of their king’s scorching disdain towards the emperor. Alarm crawled beneath their skin, like a worm through wet earth. They were a little terrified of the ruler’s immeasurable animosity towards the Habsburgs, which had burrowed into François’ very soul.

The distant roar of ordnance from the French camp heralded their victory in Poitiers. Now it was only a matter of weeks, perhaps days, before the invaders were ejected or destroyed.

It seemed a long time later when the drum of hoofbeats was heard.

The king’s eyes flashed. “Maybe they have got him.”

His friends prayed that the monarch would not rush into the darkened forest.   

“There you are, Your Majesty!” The Italian accent was so thick that the words uttered in French were not easily comprehensible. “Congratulations on the demise of your foe!”

Ercole II d’Este, Duke of Ferrara, Modena, and Reggio, slid from the saddle and hugged the monarch. Clad in Spanish armor, he was a handsome young man, his dark hair tousled and his face unshaven because of his continuous martial exploits. His tall, well-proportioned figure was seen well as he parted from the embrace and then, for the better convenience in walking, divested himself of the mantle, embroidered with gold, which was slipped over his shoulders.

François was Ercole’s father-in-law by the man’s union with Renée of France, Queen Claude’s younger sister and the king’s niece through marriage. The Duke of Ferrara’s loyalties had once fluctuated between the rulers of France and the Holy Roman Empire. Nevertheless, the Habsburg invasion of France had caused him to drift towards the allegiance to François, for Ercole had realized that one day, Carlos, who did not comply with treaties, could invade or annex his lands.

“My most inconstant spy!” François joked.

Ercole criticized in a jesting manner, “Don’t be ungrateful, Your Majesty! I’ve aided you to win today’s confrontation.” His lips lengthened into a grin. “The emperor escaped, but he is injured. Yet, we have Ferdinand and also someone of importance to your new wife.”

The ruler quizzed, “What do you mean?”

“This bonny lady,” the other man answered. “And her children.”  

The Duke of Ferrara gestured towards the Lady Mary Stafford, who wore a warm cloak lined with rabbit skin. Everyone’s astonishment bordered on incredulity as they eyed the King of France’s ex-mistress, whom François had defamed as a whore years ago.

Her features as pale from the cold and worry as the finest alabaster, Mary sat on a horse nearby. Her children, Annie and Edward, were in the cart behind their mother’s palfrey.

The monarch was shamefaced at the remembrance of the insults he had rewarded Mary with during the Field of Cloth of Gold of 1520 and later so long ago. The others stared at the infamous former mistress of two kings, as if they could see the touch of every man she had been with.

Anne de Montmorency and Mary Stafford avoided eye contact. When she had lived at the Valois court, he had taken her maidenhead before she caught François’ eye, and it was their secret. The intersection of their gazes aroused in both of them a forbidden fluttering of memories of their encounters in the past. In youth, Mary had been flippant enough to have had several lovers.

The marshal’s hardened warrior heart skipped a beat as his scrutiny focused upon Mary. She had aged well and had no wrinkles, and she could be considered a woman in her prime. Her cloak hugged her figure tightly, still slender and finely curved, despite her several pregnancies throughout Mary’s two marriages. She was still quite a lovely woman, and he recalled that Anne Boleyn’s elder sister had once been considered the grandest English rose at the Tudor court.

“Why are you here, Madame Stafford?” inquired King François, taking a step to her.

Masking her inner tumult, Mary responded in flawless French, “His Grace of Ferrara saved me from the Spanish camp, where I had spent the previous week.” At the sight of his befuddlement, she elaborated, “My children and I were travelling from England to find my sister.”

The king was shocked. “Didn’t you know about the invasion?”  

She blurted out, “I’m a widow! King Henry executed many rebels, my husband among them, and he would have murdered me if my uncle hadn’t helped me to run away. I knew that France was a dangerous place now, but I had no choice. The weather was bad, so we found refuge in Normandy, where Imperial agents discovered and delivered us to the emperor in Poitou.”

Ercole explained, “I took her with me during my own escape.”

Mary wiped away tears with her palm. “I’m sorry for my lack of restraint.”

François appeased, “That is all right. Now you are safe.”

Once more, a tempest of sobs assailed Mary. Montmorency perused her, his mouth open, his chest tightening with atypical anguish. To him, this suffering creature was more beautiful than Anne Boleyn and even than the copy of the Madonna by Sandro Botticelli, which hung behind the altar of his private chapel in one of his estates. Meandering tears whitened paths down her cheeks as she wept anew, making her blue eyes almost as translucent as the clear seawater.

“Madame, time heals all wounds.” The marshal’s voice sounded hoarse.

Mary huffed in annoyance. “Monsieur, I heard that your wife is hale and hearty, giving you a babe almost every year. What do you know about bereavement?”

“I did not want to…”  Montmorency fumbled for words, but found none.

Guise mocked, “All paths in France lead to the two Boleyn girls.”

Montmorency growled, “You are a fool, Guise.”

Philippe de Chabot, who despised both of the Boleyn sisters, intervened, “Sophocles said that silence gives the proper grace to women. I’m certain that Lady Stafford knows this.”

The marshal glowered at Chabot. “Philippe, do not be rude.”

François reprimanded, “Where are your gallant manners, Philippe?”

The Admiral de Brion held his ground firmly. “I’ve simply quoted Sophocles.”

“Indeed.” The Duke de Guise believed that Chabot ought to have concealed his scorn towards the queen’s sister, just as he did. “But should a lady stay in the forest for so long?”

The king closed the topic. “Let’s return to the camp and check on Annebault.”

Soon the small party left the forest of Nouaillé behind. As they neared the camp, the cries of triumph were as loud as those of the god Mars, announcing another Roman conquest. Soon they were joined by the heavy beat of drums and the fanfares of trumpeters.

Exhausted and agitated, Mary observed the snowflakes churn up white waves in the air. As her consciousness swerved back to William Stafford’s tragedy, tears suffused her eyes. She thought of Anne, while the horses and the cart slowly trudged along the snow-laden road. Anne must crave revenge upon that Tudor monster. I’m burning with hatred for him! Together we shall become the unstoppable gale, Mary swore again as the cortege came to a standstill.

Notes:

I hope you liked this chapter. I’m going through a difficult period in my life, so your reviews may brighten my day. Thank you very much in advance.

Many readers asked me when Mary Boleyn would be introduced. At last, she entered the stage under tragic circumstances. Mary's husband, William Stafford, participated in the Pilgrimage of Grace, which was squashed thanks to King Henry's crafty plan revealed to Mary by the Duke of Norfolk. The rebellion ended off stage, but you see that the king was as cruel to the insurgents and their unfortunate families as he was in history. Henry's conversation with Robert Aske is taken from the Tudors show's script.

I’m certain that you wonder why Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, is not as heartless as he is often portrayed in fiction. I’ve read about him a lot, and I’m not sure that he had a conscience, but I wanted to make him a better character in this work than he was in history. Besides, Princess Elizabeth will need him a lot, as well as Anne once King François launches his plan to prove her innocence. That is why he has some good moments while talking to Mary Boleyn.

Some reviewers complained that there was little action in the previous chapter. However, you need to understand that there are many characters in this AU. I’m striving to portray vivid pictures of François’ relationships with his family members. But in this chapter, there is a great deal of action as the Battle of Poitiers results in the defeat of the Imperial forces. Hopefully, you like the scenes of war and the contest of Emperor Charles/Carlos and King François. The battle is portrayed in the similar way to the Battle of Poitiers of 1356 that occurred centuries earlier during the Hundred Years’ War, but where the French were defeated.

Ercole II d’Este was Duke of Ferrara, Modena, and Reggio from 1534 to 1559. He was the eldest son of Alfonso I d’Este and Lucrezia Borgia, as well as husband of Renée of France. As you see, François had a spy in the Imperial camp, and Ercole aided him to win the battle of Poitiers.

I changed the name of Emperor Charles to Emperor Carlos in all the previous chapters and in later chapters. Let’s use the Spanish version of his name. We have several Charles in this AU.

I shall respond to all reviews soon. Even if it takes me many days to respond, eventually I will.

Please let me know what you think in your reviews! Thank you very much in advance!

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 17: Chapter 16: End of the Invasion

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: End of the Invasion   

April 5, 1537, the city of Bourges, Duchy of Berry, France

“Those Spanish demons are doomed,” Anne de Montmorency effused.

“They will all be crushed,” Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise. “Today!”

The high and thick walls of Bourges loomed in the distance, making both men feel somewhat insignificant. Today’s battle would take place outside the city, so no Frenchman perceived this sight as something ominous. Although the invasion of France had been almost routed, King François had enjoined to send the Habsburg troops to the deepest pits of the netherworld.

Surrounded by a squad of knights, Montmorency and Guise stared at the field swarming with Imperial and French men-at-arms. It stretched ahead of them far south, where the sun began to flirt with the treetops, which stood defiant along the field’s western edge. Commanded by Claude d’Annebault, an hour earlier, the French cavalry had advanced beyond the ravine in the rear of the Imperial troops. The moment of Montmorency’s and Guise’s glory was also approaching.

An enraged Montmorency gripped the reins. “Pity that Emperor Carlos fled.”

“He is wounded and might not live for long.” Guise’s voice was muffled.

“I cannot wrap my head around how the emperor vanished as if into the thin air.”

Guise shifted in the saddle nervously. “Well, he is a cunning man.”

“Infantry! Attack!” Annebault’s scream boomed in the background.  

The Duke de Guise crossed himself and intoned, “The Almighty will protect us. He did not allow France to fall and will aid us to destroy the enemy here once and for all.”

“God is with us,” Montmorency agreed, also crossing himself.

At the same time, Philippe de Chabot ensured that the French bombardment had slowed the foe’s retreat. As the boom of the last gun faded, silence laced with anticipation ensued.

“Ready, men!” Montmorency prepared his shield and sword.

“For France!” Guise barked his orders to his divisions of bowmen.

The rasp of thousands of swords being drawn resonated in the air. An onrushing horde of the French infantry swarmed the battlefield. Ten thousand strong, they let loose a blood-curdling collective scream, and their cry ‘For France!’ was soon joined by the loud beat of drums. Once more on French soil, it seemed as if the mouth of hell had opened up before the invaders, who were now screaming like fatally injured animals as the French butchered them.

The armies of the German Lutheran and Protestant princes went on the offensive, pressing the Italian soldiers under the command of Ferrante Gonzaga with a series of rampageous attacks. The Norwegian and Danish troops collided with the Swiss mercenaries, who were desperate to try and break through the thick lines of the advancing French infantry. The din of the battle was deafening, a mad blend of shouting, firing, and moaning as men fell on both sides.

Although the recent victory of the French in Poitiers ensured France’s ultimate triumph, King François still needed the assistance of his Protestant allies to utterly destroy the adversary. Thus, it had been decided that the French and their allies would launch a coordinated attack on the rest of the Imperial forces, which still plundered the French territories in the Duchy of Berry. As many Swiss and Italian men also served the Habsburg monarchy, the mission of the Protestant allies was to confront them, while the bulk of the French divisions dealt with the Spaniards.  

The Swiss mercenaries had the initial advantage after their first charge. They managed to damage the right wing of the German Lutheran princes commanded by Philip I, Landgrave of Hesse. When their charge was over, light Norwegian cavalry and Danish infantry counterattacked, and the Swiss heavy armor put them at a disadvantage to their adversary. In the center, the Italian troops failed to push back the Germans and were barely holding off the assault. In an hour, the Protestant allies inflicted disproportionately heavy losses on the Italians and Swiss parties.

Meanwhile, Anne de Montmorency galloped along the Yèvre River past the fields and orchards. He slowed as he caught up to the escaping Spanish cavalry, forcing them to engage his infantry. At the same time, the Duke de Guise ordered a deadly archery attack on the enemy. A horn sounded, and the French – both left and right wings – swooped down on the remainder of the Habsburg divisions, which under their onslaught turned to flee into the juxtaposed woods.

The Spanish, Italian, and Swiss survivors resisted with a desperation that indicated their intention to fight to the death. In spite of having been deprived of their two Habsburg leaders and disorganized due to their enemy’s advantage in this battle, they preferred to die with honor rather than be captured. The French encircled their adversaries like a venomous serpent, and their swords started the fatal descent onto those whom they abhorred with every fibre of their beings.

The slaughter would have become absolutely brutal if King François had not appeared and roared, “Stop this madness! The Lord is gracious, slow to anger, and great in His mercy. He has saved our nation from the Spanish slavery! Be merciful, just as God has been to us!”

The ruler’s sonorous voice carried across a sea of corpses and a mass of fighting men. As the slaughter ceased, François left the command to Montmorency. As though they had been satiated with blood, his generals no longer killed and commenced taking the survivors prisoner.   

Anne de Montmorency and Claude de Guise observed François return to the camp.

“I admire our liege lord,” Montmorency affirmed sincerely. “Intelligence, benevolence, honor, strength, and foolhardiness merge together in him in the finest combination.”

Guise was not in accord. “It is a matter of politics. His Majesty’s magnanimity is largely based on a just confidence in the truth of his cause to liberate France from the invaders.”

“We have both known King François since boyhood. We met him at the court of the late Louis XI, when Madame Louise de Savoy took him there, and we have spent much time together since then. However, you do not appreciate François’ chivalry and his high code of honor.”

His disapproving glower discomfited Guise. “You are wrong, Monty. I’ve always been loyal to France. I admire our liege lord’s bravery and chivalry.”

Montmorency was deeply devoted to his sovereign. “François de Valois is called the Knight-King not without a reason. This recognition for his chivalry is perhaps the best legacy he can bequeath his progeny, something they will someday look back on and be proud of. As Sophocles said, a man of honor would prefer to fail with honor than win by cheating, and this is applicable to our liege lord. King François’ name will dazzle future generations.”   

Guise flung back, “But where did it lead him at Pavia?”

“I know what you are implying, Claude. But His Majesty and I are cut from the same cloth: we keep our word and honor commitments, which will also honor the nation.”   

“It is illusion, Monty! The king and you are both dreamers!”

Montmorency spotted the tattered Habsburg standard on the ground. “I do hate that dratted thing.” He maneuvered to another topic because he did not want to argue.

“I hate everything Spanish,” spat Claude de Guise. “And everything Protestant.”   

“Do you mean our queen?” Montmorency quizzed.

Guise’s mouth twisted into a snarl. “I’m a man of royal blood, one who has not abjured the true faith. The Guises are descendants of the Capetian House of Anjou, and I’m almost a prince of the blood. Unlike you, I cannot accept that heretical whore on the throne.”

“Be careful, Claude. King François should not hear such things.”

The Marshal of France spurred into a gallop and sped past Duke de Guise’s brothers. He did not need to stay here to know the outcome of the battle: France and her international allies had again won today, and the Battle of Bourges would be the final one in this Franco-Imperial war.

§§§

The day had come and gone. Now nightfall was at hand, and the sky was a full, dark blue with the first stars emerging, whose brilliance signified the end of the invasion.

Guise loathes Queen Anne, Montmorency mused. Is he plotting against her? It surprised him that he referred to her as queen without a pang of revulsion. He was not entirely comfortable with the idea of having Anne Boleyn as his sovereign’s wife, but they could not change anything. From the beginning, he understood the necessity of François’ marriage to her, for France would not have triumphed over the Holy Roman Empire without the anti-Habsburg coalition. Moreover, Montmorency was grateful to Anne for rescuing his liege lord in Chamerolles.

Their short exchange irked, mystified, and worried Montmorency. There was discontent among some fanatically zealous French Catholics, who did not support France’s policy of religious tolerance. King François’ marriage to Anne had driven a wedge further between these nobles and the House of Valois, and Duke de Guise could be one of them. Guise’s mention of his being of royal blood alerted Montmorency to a possible conspiracy perhaps against not only Anne, but also François. To focus on the battle, the marshal pushed his thoughts from that venue.

Vigilant, Montmorency kept glancing around, slowly steering his destrier in the direction of the French camp. The knights, bearing Valois blue and golden standard, were marching across the battlefield, their boots squishing in the blood-drenched earth. The distant horns of the scattered Imperial army heralded their continuing escape, which was followed by the cries and drums of the pursuing French. Eventually, the field fell silent, save the moans of the dying and wounded, and the soulless cries of the ravens, which were descending to feast upon the fallen.

“Thanks be to the Lord!” Montmorency crossed himself. “We are free.”

Arriving at the camp, the Marshal of France dismounted. As he neared the royal tent, several nobles came out to meet him. They stepped away to reveal the Valois monarch encumbered in his extravagant armor, a fur-trimmed cloak of purple velvet thrown around his shoulders.

François bestowed an exuberant smile upon him. “Monty, I must express my thanks for your wise leadership of our troops and your invaluable friendship with the House of Valois. I’ve always offered you my love in return, and today I appoint you Constable of France.”

Montmorency genuflected to his sovereign. “Your Majesty, I’ve always been and shall always be loyal to you. I shall gladly die for you! From the bottom of my heart, I thank you for the honors that you have conferred upon me, but they are not necessary. Everything I’ve done for you has been done with love for your gracious person and for our great country.”

“I know,” answered the ruler benignly. “But you deserve all the best.”

“Thank you, my liege.” The new Constable of France pulled himself to his feet.

Philippe de Chabot interjected, “I have news from King Henri of Navarre. Finally, he was able to expel the Spaniards from his kingdom. The invasion of Navarre is finally over.”

François sighed with relief. “My brother-in-law has done a great job. He could not help us because he was obligated to save his own kingdom. Now it all is over!”

Chabot continued, “The siege of Genoa by the Ottoman fleet is finally over. The Genoese surrendered a couple of weeks ago, and now the Turks will have their fleet stationed in Italy. And Hayreddin Barbarossa is currently raiding Spanish ports.”  

This elicited from the congregation a gasp of incredulity and consternation.

“The Turks in Italy?” Philippe of Hesse rasped in thickly accented French.

“Those heathens!” The Norwegian and Danish commanders looked horrified.

“So dangerous.” The ramifications of their unholy alliance frightened Montmorency.

The monarch was conflicted over his entanglement with the Turkish sultan. “I’ve always known about the peril of our alliance with the Ottoman Empire. But I needed to save my country! We will have to think carefully as to our actions.” He then walked away.

Guise approached Montmorency from the back. He mocked, “Monty, now you are the First Officer of the Crown. But do not follow in the Constable de Bourbon’s treacherous footsteps.”

Montmorency glared at him. “Jealousy has warped your judgment, Claude.” Turning his back on the duke, he strode away; a distinct sense of unease settling over him.

§§§

“I’ve won another deal!” cried Lady Mary Stafford as she opened her cards.

“Though not the game,” Ercole d’Este, Duke of Ferrara, contradicted with a smile. “Lady Stafford, you spent your youth at the French court. Yet, I have to remind you that when one plays a piquet, a deal consists of three parties, and a game includes a set of six deals.”

They lounged in matching chairs upholstered in an emerald velvet. An array of candles illuminated a spacious tent, furnished with silver brocade-covered couches and a large bed draped in yards of green silk. A thick wheat-colored carpet flowed throughout the area. Mary had never lived in a military camp before, so her tent’s luxury surprised her a lot.

Mary and Ercole had befriended each other in the past few weeks. The French ruler had not let her travel to Villers-Cotterêts through the territories still occupied by the enemy.  Ercole d’Este had been charged with the task to safeguard Mary as long as she remained with the royal troops. Ercole and Mary had frequently dined together in the privacy of her tent, as – for obvious reasons – she did not wish to mingle with the French nobles and councilors.

She made a face. “What a gallant attempt to teach a woman her proper place. You think that you cannot lose to someone who is inferior to you in some ways.”

Ercole refuted, “You are mistaken, Madame Stafford. My brother-in-law, King François, reckons that women are like flowers who blossom in men’s care and affection. To me, ladies are jewels created to do important things for a change.” His voice tinged with tenderness, he asserted, “Just take my illustrious wife, Renée de Valois. She is a prime example of beauty, grace, and intelligence. I call her the greatest jewel of Ferrara and celebrate her uniqueness.”

Embarrassment suffused her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, if I misjudged you.”

The Duke of Ferrara laughed. “Women always challenge men!”

“They do.” Her lips curved in a smile.

The game continued, and Ercole was dealt twelve cards. “Renée often challenges me, as if things could all be decided in our verbal contests. She teases me like no one ever dares, rolls her eyes at me, and fights for what she wants to do with the fierceness of a lioness.”   

Mary took her own twelve cards. “And you like it, don’t you?”

“I do. My marriage will never be like a dull landscape of undulating hills.”

Grinning, Ercole looked through his cards, grabbed the deck, and then fingered his way through it. They discarded a number of cards in turns and replaced them from the talon, declaring various features in the hand and then playing the cards in tricks. At the end of the partie, he burst out laughing, and Mary joined in his laughter as he had scored the highest number of points.

“I told you that I would win,” he boasted.

“You must be the best gamester in Italy,” she flattered him.

They put the cards on a table of polished oak positioned between their chairs.

As their gazes met, Mary did not miss the gleam of lust in his eyes, and her stomach recoiled. Evidently, the duke was exceedingly fond of his wife, the cultured Renée of France, but carnal pleasures were openly advocated at his court in Ferrara, and he himself kept several mistresses. In spite of her rather flippant past, Mary had matured into a dignified woman of refined taste and class, and now Ercole’s philandering ways were taking a toll on her nerves.

“Your Grace has a lovely spouse in Italy,” remarked Lady Stafford scornfully.

Ercole d’Este grinned conceitedly. “I do like women and instantly connect with them, just as your new brother-in-law does. I’m no different from him and any other man.”

Mary grimaced, but she said nothing. Visions of her erstwhile liaison with the young King of France flashed through her mind like a leaf being carried on a hurricane. François had not been her first lover, but it was he who had taught her the art of physical love, having turned her from an inexperienced woman into someone fully aware of her body and all the pleasures it held.  Whether their couplings had been short and frantic, or long and delicious, they would always end sated and content, and Mary had learned the secrets of her own femininity in his bed.   

Eventually, the French ruler had discarded Mary and disparaged her as a whore, smashing her reputation into shreds. She had believed that François had been the love of her life, and the thought of never being in the cocoon of his masculinity again had been worse than the physical pain of torture. Later, after her return to England, Mary had set herself in King Henry’s path on her father’s orders, but ultimately, she had fallen in love with the English ruler and had birthed his daughter, Catherine. After Henry had dismissed her, just as François had done a few years earlier, Mary had suffered as if she had been crucified on the amorous altar of her womanhood.

Her first marriage to William Carey had never been a love match, and she had not cared that she had brought King Henry’s bastard into the Carey family. At his liege lord’s behest, Carey had accepted the girl as his own and give her his name and home. The king had provided for the girl well and granted his cuckolded subject several manors and estates in compensation for his spouse’s unfaithfulness. Afterwards, Mary had endeavored to become a good wife to Carey in gratitude for his benevolence towards her, but he had not attracted her as a man in the slightest.

In two years after Catherine’s birth, Mary had finally given Carey a son. The boy had been named Henry after the monarch, and for a short time, she had found contentment. However, Carey had later set up celibacy as the highest ideal for their union that had been besmirched by Mary’s infidelity. In the insistent tones, he had proclaimed the permanent abstinence a paragon of marital happiness in place of the narrower human love of home and children. For the rest of his life, Carey had lived like saints, sages, reformers, and dogmatists, who modelled their lives on this ideal.

Men such as William Carey are out of the main human current, Mary mused dolefully. They are branches which may flourish only for hours, but never fruit in a bodily form. She had sought solace in more affairs and been ensconced in the arms of several English courtiers, just as she had once been drowning in the amatory ocean at the Valois court. After Carey had died of the sweating sickness in 1528, the widowed Mary had changed several more lovers within a span of several years, some of whom had abandoned her, and each time it had hurt her like a burning.

The eldest Boleyn girl had not felt the blessedness of pure and unconditional love until her meeting with Sir William Stafford of Chebsey. He had been one of those who had accompanied King Henry and Anne to Calais for the meeting with King François in October 1532. A commoner by birth, Stafford had served as a soldier, and been the last person on her mind. In addition, Mary had been convinced that no matrimony could be happy, so she had not wished to marry again.

A lump rose in her throat, and she warded off the urge to weep. William, when I first saw you, I could not know that I would love you so much. Images of their first meeting swirled in her mind. Mary had first seen Stafford among the arquebusiers who had been stationed on the towers and walls at the castle where Anne and Henry had resided in Calais. Staggered by a sharp lance of hunger, they had surrendered to their passions in the darkness of that French autumn. That night, their wanting had been huge, recklessly primitive, and she had conceived his child.

After learning about her condition, Mary and William Stafford had wed in secret. In the aftermath, her father, Sir Thomas Boleyn, had expelled her from the family and disinherited her. The old Boleyn had also compelled Anne to banish Mary from court for marrying a man far below her station. A bold, principled woman despite her all her gentleness, Mary had not begged her relatives for aid, and she had relocated with William to Essex, where he had owned a farm.

I loved you wholeheartedly, Will, Mary bemoaned silently. We were so happy together, but you left me and our children alone in this cruel world. Why did you need to join the rebels, despite all my pleas? Although William Stafford had been a Catholic, he had despised the corruption of the Vatican and prelates, so he had supported the Church reforms in England. Nevertheless, he could not bear the ruthlessness with which Thomas Cromwell had implemented the dissolution of the monastic houses. Driven by a desire to protect religious shrines and abbeys from destruction, Mary’s second husband had joined the insurgents and become one of their leaders.

She envisaged their last meeting as an elated Stafford had hugged her and assured that the King of England would fulfill all of his promises. With these memories came the plangent rhythm of her grief over Stafford’s death, which rankled her heart like a needle piercing the flesh. William is dead, her inner voice repeated over and over again. Learn to live without him. And, suddenly, his image faded like mist as she pushed memories back into dark recesses.

Breaking out of her reverie, Mary ruminated, “Marriage is far less delightful than it appears at first glance. Too many wed expecting joy, only to be disappointed later. As their desire for freedom grows, men stray from their wives. They refuse to admit that their own behavior is more likely to have been the origin of their personal misery than the marriage-bond.”

Ercole assured, “It is not my case. I’m not unhappy with Renée.”

“Yet, it is apparent that Your Grace has extramarital relationships.”

“That is true.” He had the decency to blush.

In the voice of a sage woman who had experienced true family happiness, Mary pontificated, “Every heart desires a soulmate. Nature has so created us that we are incomplete in ourselves. However, it is never easy to make matrimony a lovely thing. If spouses become happy, it is an achievement beyond the powers of the selfish or the cowardly.” Her lips twisted into a grimace of abhorrence. “Men like Henry of England are incapable of making a woman happy.”   

The Duke of Ferrara tipped his head. “The King of England must be the worst kind of a tyrant. I’m sorry for what he did to your sister and you, Madame Stafford.”

Her fists clenched under the table as seething rage gushed through every pore of her being. “He killed my husband. He murdered my brother, George, and almost destroyed Anne.”

“Try to forget it,” Ercole advised in a voice layered with sympathy. “Soon you will see your sister, Queen Anne. The two of you will be each other’s consolation.”

Mary laughed with an odd mixture of amusement and admiration. “My sister is the Queen of France. I could never have imagined that she was destined to always be royalty.”

Ferrara laughed back. “She is the wife of the magnificent King François! It is such a rare situation to become a queen twice! And it is a great honor for her.”   

“Anne is capable of achieving incredible things,” she lauded.

He poured out a drink for them and handed a goblet to her, then sipped from his own cup. “Like your sister, I played a role in the liberation of France, and I’m proud of it.”

Mary welcomed the change of subject. “Have you been François’ spy all along?”

“Yes,” collaborated Ercole, enjoying his wine. “I gathered many bits of intelligence about the emperor’s martial stratagems. I’ve long realized that only a fool can trust that man who does not honor alliances and his own word. I contacted King François soon after that Habsburg rat had summoned me to serve him in France together with my five thousand men.”

This was the most curious circumstance, Mary silently commented, especially in view of the King of France’s penchant for intrigue, which she had not seen in her former lover years ago. Her life in France would be a never-ending journey of discoveries, and of growing, evolving, and refining who she was as a person. As her mind drifted to Anne de Montmorency, she wondered whether his old impressions of her had been effaced, altered, softened, or weakened.

§§§

Mary Stafford made her way to the King of France’s tent. Above her the night sky looked like a curving bowl of black liquid. Near the royal tent, sentries dropped into bows to her.

“I request an audience with His Majesty,” Mary demanded.

“The king is resting,” one of the guards answered.

“I must see him,” she reiterated, albeit a bit harshly.

They were afraid of Mary, for she was the sister of the formidable Queen Anne, and none of them wanted to make an enemy out of their new queen. At last, Anne’s sister entered.   

As the tent’s flap opened from the opposite side, King François walked in. He had been in the adjacent part of his quarters, which served as his bedchamber. His rumpled doublet of blue brocade, bedecked with pearls, was hastily thrown on, indicating the quickness of his coming.   

He froze as his eyes locked with Mary’s, curiosity written all over his countenance.

“Good evening.” Mary’s expression was absent-minded.

“It is well past midnight,” François noted. “Perhaps good morning?”

Visions of their affair floated in their mind’s eye. Their dance at a banquet at Château de Blois. His numerous expensive gifts for her. The lovely, romantic poems he had penned for her to dramatize his attraction to her. Their first night of passion on an enormous bed under a canopy of cloth of gold, when François had carried the young Mary to the acme of carnal euphoria.

Her pulse was a wild thrumming of sensuality that had once given her heavenly pleasure. With a perturbed stare, she glanced around to calm down. A handsome man with a bewitching physique, François frequently had such an overwhelming effect on female senses.

“Are you all right, Madame Stafford?” His voice was edged with worry.

This snapped Mary out of her trance. “Of course, I’m fine.”

François stepped to her, then halted. “Your tone sounds quite rude, as if I had displeased you. What have I done to make you ill-disposed towards me?”

Her cheeks flushed. “Nothing, sire. I apologize.”

He studied her closely. “How can I help you?”      

For a moment, Mary dithered. “Your Majesty, I’ve come to plead with you to allow me to depart from Bourges tomorrow at first light with my children.”  

The king figured out the reason, but he said, “Why? I hope the Duke of Ferrara has not offended you. I required him to grant you all the courtesies due to a lady of superior station.”

“No, he has not. His Grace has been a wonderful friend to me.”

“Is it about Anne?” He eased himself into an armchair with intricately carved salamanders.

Mary flashed a blithesome smile of her longing for Anne. “Yes, sire. It has been several weeks since my arrival in France, and I’ve had many misadventures here. I had both gladsome and dreadful days in England, but as of late, my existence has been filled with tragedies, ironies, and pettiness. I’d like to be reunited with my sister because only she can help me heal.”   

“As romantic as always,” he voiced his thoughts, which were now on their affair.

She repressed her frustrated ire. “Forgive me, sire, but I’ll not discuss anything from the past. It must be your intention to provoke me, or make a fool out of me.”

“Why do you think so?” Her outburst puzzled him. “Take a seat, Madame.”

Ignoring his invitation, her lips produced the tirade borne out of her still existing umbrage at his mistreatment of her. “It is spectacular that now Your Majesty is polite with the very woman whom you once defamed as ‘the English mare he rides so often’ in a casual conversation with your fellow English monarch. I can recall your other disparagements of me, each of them more poetic than those verses you wrote to seduce me.” Pausing for a fraction of a second, she spewed, “I’m ‘the great whore, infamous above all,' and I do not deserve your courtesy.”

There was a long, enigmatic silence full of unspoken meaning.

Maybe for the first time in his life, the Valois monarch felt so utterly embarrassed in the presence of a woman that he did not know what to say. He recollected that drunken discourse between two equally inebriated royal rogues on a banquet during the Cloth of Gold in Calais years ago, and his vulgar words resounded in his ears: “La grande pute, infâme avant tout”. A wave of hot shame rolled over him again, adding to the nervous tension gathering inside him.

During this pause, Mary inwardly cursed her forthright manner. “I beg your pardon.”

With an air of his celebrated courtesy about him, François articulated, “It is I who must be sorry. I was too young and impulsive at the time. I did not treat you well.”

His sincerity startled her. “You do not have to apologize, sire.”

“On the contrary, Madame. I owe you this apology.”

“Thank you.” A smile broke over her face like the sunrise.

The ruler switched to the topic at hand. “I cannot allow you to leave my camp. Several weeks ago, you tried to reach Villers-Cotterêts, but you were intercepted by Imperial agents in Normandy. We are fortunate that His Grace of Ferrara rescued you. Bands of Imperial deserters might still roam over France, raiding towns and villages for shelter, booty, food, and horses. Now I’m responsible for you and your offspring, so I must keep you safe.”

“Your Majesty, please!” Mary entreated. “I’m dreaming of seeing my sister! If you give me enough guards, and if I travel in disguise, no one will comprehend who I am.”

“No.” There was a ring of finality in his tone. “You will have to wait.”

“But…” Her impatience was overriding her politeness.

He smiled conspiratorially. “Both Boleyn girls are too audacious.”

Blush inundated her cheeks. “Sire, your compliments are… embarrassing.”

A boisterous laughter spilled out of François. “My dearest sister-in-law, you are no longer in England! Have you forgotten the essence of France? Here beauty of life, court splendor, refined manners, majestic culture, and unparalleled enlightenment blend into the finest reality.”

His merriment transmitted to her. “Qui vivra verra!”

“Most definitely, Madame Stafford.”

As she still stood in the center, François stood up and towered over her like a giant. Mary and Anne were both tall, but the King of France’s height had long become stuff for legends.

“Who is my sister faring?”

A certain amount of honesty was necessary, so he admitted, “You see I do not consider your sister my enemy, but she does. Life can turn what is good into bad.”

“What?” Mary’s eyes widened. “Anne has always liked Your Majesty.”

Seizing the opportunity, the monarch enlightened, “That is exactly the case, Madame Stafford. When Anne came to me after her banishment from England, she called me one of her very few friends in her stormy life. I believed that we would have a good marriage before Anne has almost declared me her adversary, someone she cannot even bear to look at.”

Mary was clearly taken aback. “But you helped Anne!”

A sliver of melancholy painted his features. “That is true. I’m perfectly aware why Anne behaves so: Henry’s cruelty traumatized her profoundly. At present, she hates the idea of marriage and men in general. Nonetheless, she has forgotten that I am not a servant boy who must run errands for her. I’m the King of France, and I shall not waste my time on a woman who does everything in her power to demonstrate how much she loathes me and all men.”

Her mouth tightened at the unwelcome tidings. “Anne must leave the past behind.”

King François bared his mind to his sister-in-law. “Although Anne and I wed for political reasons, I still think we can become good friends. At least for the sake of our unborn child. If she takes one step to me, I shall take two to her, and perhaps we will have a normal life, then.”  

“She must.” She resolved to talk sense into her stubborn sister.

His brows arched. “That she should do. But would she?”

Mary left the royal tent in a better mood than she had been in for quite a while.

§§§

Lady Stafford stopped near the entrance to her tent. The sentinels bowed, but she did not pay any heed to them. She gazed up, and the night firmament seemed a great cosmic book, which fulfilled a need for her soul – to dream about a better future in France.

“Not sleeping so late, Madame?” a quiet male voice spoke.   

She turned to the intruder. “What are you doing here, Monsieur Constable?”

Her harshness slashed through Anne de Montmorency like an unspeakable twinge of hurt. Questions circled his mind. Did Mary not want to see him at all? Did she feel aversion towards him, just as she seemingly experienced it towards some of those Frenchmen who were present at the camp and dared discuss her lustful nature behind her back? Montmorency despised them.   

I crave to hear Mary’s voice, Montmorency acknowledged to himself. But it should be musical and gentle, not severe or laced with anguish. A series of remembrances flashed through his brain, of the storytelling clandestine afternoons when he had told the young Mary Boleyn about France and his adventures in Marignano, of notes exchanged, of secrets whispered and silent, and of the night when he had taken Mary’s maidenhood after a splendid masque at Château de Cognac.

He imagined that he saw a hint of condemnation in Mary’s cerulean eyes. Montmorency would not say that aloud, but he still blamed himself for having terminated their relationship years ago so that King François could enjoy her youthful body. His sovereign had wanted to bed Mary, and the loyal Montmorency could not stand in his way. When she had later fallen for François, Montmorency had been hurt beyond measure. Neither Montmorency nor Mary had ever loved each other, but something had linked them like a chain wrapped around them with artifice.

There had been a time when Montmorency had yearned for a sense of union with her soul. However, many years had passed, and the winds of time had eroded the emotional details of their rendezvouses through the inconstancy of the human universe. Unlike his liege lord, Montmorency did not possess a lascivious temperament: he was a man of war and blood, one for whom warfare always came before his quiet family life with Madeleine de Savoy. Yet, his meeting with Mary Stafford had a strange impact on him, acting on his senses as both a tonic and a poison.

“I was passing by,” Montmorency lied. He had come to see her.

Mary shifted her gaze to the sky. “The dark heavens are like a cavernous cathedral, where dim light penetrates through strained-glass windows. I cannot help but think of my husband.”

“I wish you had not suffered so much.” His voice was poignant.

As their gazes met again, an outpouring of grief and relief flowed through Mary’s heart, like water gushing from a spring stream. She did not comprehend the roots of her feelings. She should not stare into his eyes as if they could give her a repose. She had to gather her wits, to face her situation, and to go forward to accomplish something what would make her whole again.

Mary promptly answered, “Thank you, Monsieur Constable; good night.”

After shooting a dispassionate look at his unrevealing features, she dropped a quick curtsy and hastened into her tent. She did not hear Montmorency sigh at her departure.

In the next moment, Ercole d’Este appeared beside Anne de Montmorency.

“You seem to be interested in her,” the Duke of Ferrara commented.

Montmorency snorted. “Do not pry into my life, Your Grace.”

Stepping to him, Ercole patted the other man’s shoulder. “Any man, even Monsieur de Montmorency for whom fighting is the pre-eminent purpose of his entire life, needs a woman’s tenderness. When did you pick up flowers of delight with Madame Stafford? Years ago?!”

Montmorency took a step back. “That is none of your business,” he barked, trying to sound as the roughest and toughest general could speak to his sergeant. “Go back to Ferrara and speak to your courtiers in this manner. Give my warmest compliments to Madame Renée.”

The duke saluted to him. “Thank you for your kind wishes! But the truth is obvious. And, yes, I’ll gladly return home from the battlefield.” He walked away, laughing.  

“Damn him,” cursed Montmorency; he hoped that Ercole would not gossip.

§§§

The following day, Montmorency sighed with relief as the Duke of Ferrara departed to his homeland after having an audience with the King of France, who invited Ercole to visit the Valois court together with Renée de Valois. Mary Stafford avoided the Constable of France as if he had some contagious disease – he found her behavior rational, but it saddened him.

“I want to see my wife and children,” Montmorency told himself as he watched the d’Este knights ride away. Yet, the remembrances of his family were interrupted by a string of memories of his affair with Mary Stafford, as if her image had been burned into his brain like a brand.


April 15, 1537, Rue du Four, Paris, France

The rising sun painted the firmament pink and orange. At such an early hour, the streets were empty, and the silence was so complete that Dauphine Catherine de’ Medici had the illusion the Parisians were far away. Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli waited for her nearby.   

“I shall be back soon,” Catherine told them in Italian. She felt uncomfortable in a shabby old cloak of black satin with a hood and leather boots, which she wore for disguise.

The dauphine entered a two-storied house made of gray stone and a tin roof now brown with years of rust. It was the residence of her Florentin astrologers – Cosimo and Lorenzo Ruggieri. Having feigned her sickness, Catherine had secluded herself in her bedchamber and surreptitiously left the court that still resided in Villers-Cotterêts. She would have to go back as soon as possible, although her two most loyal ladies-in-waiting would conceal her absence well.

After ascending the stairs, Catherine walked into the chamber where the brothers Ruggieri conducted magical experiments. Wrinkling her nose due to the sickeningly sweet smell, she swept her gaze over the room furnished with three chairs and tables, all of which were overloaded with bottles, cups, powders, charts, and bowls, as well as skeletons of animals and people.

Cosimo and Lorenzo stood in a stream of light filtering through the shutters. The dauphine looked at them, and a smile flickered across her countenance as she noticed bottles with the blue powder and the black liquid on a nearby table. These were fresh love potions for her husband, Dauphin Henri, and herbs to increase fertility; she had arrived in Paris to collect them.      

The astrologers swept bows and greeted in Italian, “Madame Dauphine.”    

“Cosimo and Lorenzo,” Catherine commenced in the same language. In mock irritation, she uttered, “You have become as pompous and haughty as sycophants at the royal court.”

“We want to please you,” Cosimo acknowledged.

Lorenzo redirected the discourse. “Your Highness, do you have good news?”     

Irritated, she paced back and forth. “My life is darker than a moonless night! My husband is bewitched by his whore. Imagine my humiliation: Henri performs his conjugal duty to me only with her permission, very rarely. I am not pregnant, despite all your herbs and potions.”   

Cosimo assured, “Your Highness will get pregnant if you continue taking our herbs.”   

Catherine stopped near the table with frightening skeletons. “Are your potions effective?” Her eyes narrowed like a cat’s. “If you are lying to me, you will both die agonizing deaths.”

There was not a shadow of fear on the astrologers’ faces.   

“Our potions work well,” Lorenzo responded evenly. “When we first met in Florence, we pledged our allegiance to Your Highness. We have never betrayed you.”

Cosimo picked up a bottle with amorous powder. “If you continue putting potions in your spouse’s food or drink, the change of sentiment within him will eventually happen.” After a pause, he broached an issue. “Your Highness, I beg your pardon, but it seems that you cannot conceive while taking the herbs due to the infrequency of your encounters with the dauphin.”    

Her anger deflated, leaving behind the grief that she could not get what her heart most desired – Henri’s love. “You are right. I’ll have to do something about it.”

Lorenzo rejoined, “You need to consume them twice every day.”

“I remember.” The dauphine inquired, “Have you analyzed my horoscope?”

Cosimo tipped his head. “Yes.”

Then his brother declared, “We looked at your horoscope for the next ten years, and I’m sorry to inform you about the troubles which will beset you in the future. You have a new powerful enemy, and your spouse’s mistress should be the least of your concerns.”

“Who is it?” she asked impatiently.

“The Queen of France,” Cosimo emphasized.

Lorenzo crossed to one of the tables. He grabbed a chart, where strange lines were drawn, and showed it to their guest.  “According to the dauphin’s horoscope, he might lose his place in French history, and this may be caused by the queen. Your life is longer than his.”

Catherine’s heart pulsated with fear and ire. “How can I prevent that?”

Cosimo shook his head. “To be honest, we need to think about this. The stars revealed that Queen Anne of France has a unique life. Her horoscope is somewhat similar to that of Eleanor of Aquitaine because they both married two monarchs. Despite her English birth and her previous marriage, Queen Anne has found her destiny in France, just as Virgil’s Aeneas did in Rome.”  

She slumped into a chair and let out a deep sigh. “Like Virgil’s Aeneas?” Her eyes widened in horror. “That Trojan hero journeyed to Italy and eventually became the ancestor of the Romans. Do you mean that that Boleyn harlot may become the founder of a new dynasty?”

Lorenzo asserted, “Your Highness, horoscopes speak about possibilities. Besides, the chart of the queen’s life displays two dark streaks among the white canvas that symbolizes her victories. One of them illustrates her sufferings in England, the other – her woes in France.”

A malignant grin spread across the dauphine’s features. “So, the slut can be imprisoned by her own husband, just as Eleanor of Aquitaine was after her uprising?”

Lorenzo said, “Queen Anne will be beleaguered by threats, but not jailed.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “She is not a fool to rebel against King François.”

Lorenzo added, “The queen will possess the king’s heart soon.”

Catherine raised her hands in frustration. “Will she give him a son?”   

Cosimo nodded. “They will have several children.”

“Can I get rid of her?” It was natural for her to dispose of those who stood in her way.   

Cosimo shook his head. “Your Highness, it is not the time to work against your foes, Queen Anne in particular. Our charts predict that if you bring her to ruin, you will perish as well.”   

There was a lurid light in her eyes. “Should we rid of the king, then? Poisoned perfumes or gloves? There are also books: just turn a page, and the poison enters through the skin.”   

Cosimo warned, “Your Highness, if you destroy His Majesty, it might be the end not only of you, but also of your husband and the Medici family. Do not act on impulse.”     

“I thought you would aid me,” snapped Catherine.

“We will serve you for the rest of our lives,” Cosimo vowed. “But we must be cautious, especially taking into account what we did to Dauphin François a year earlier.”   

The astrologers’ pallor attested to their fear at the memory of their crime. Not long ago, they had shuddered in indescribable agonies of terror until the end of the court’s mourning for the late dauphin. They did not want to be again involved in Catherine’s lethal intrigues.

Lorenzo was the first to find his voice. “The Italians are not loved in France, and if someone unveils our secret–”  He broke off and emitted a sigh. “If you want to protect Dauphin Henri’s interests, take these herbs and ally with Madame de Poitiers so that the dauphin begins to perform his marital duties regularly. Tell your husband not to quarrel with King François.”   

Catherine nodded her concurrence. “You are of course right.”

Cosimo took three bottles and crossed to their mistress. Bowing to her, he handed them to her. “They are ready. If you need more, send us a letter.”

She smiled. “Thank you. However, I must know when I’ll have a child.”   

“We cannot see that now,” replied Lorenzo. “We will look at the magical charts later.”

Catherine stood up. “See you soon.”

As she swung around and stalked to the door, Cosimo’s voice halted her.

“Everything will be crimson. Blood will gush like liquid fire. Nevertheless, there is strength in blood, and it does not always mean death. A new sun will rise, and shadows will fade.”  

His words reverberated through the dauphine’s bones, pouring out from her mouth. “Blood will gush like liquid fire…  Isn’t it the blood of the French spilled during the invasion?”

“No,” Lorenzo put in. “New wars will unfold in France, but not now. Years later.”

Confused, she demanded, “Who is this new sun?”

Lorenzo uttered, “We do not know everything, Your Highness, and we apologize. When we are in a state of hypnotic trance, we have visions, but most of them are unclear.”

Frowning at them from the doorway, she commanded, “Study the charts again.”

Their enigmatic words buzzing in her mind, Catherine skittered out of the room and house.

Outside, unable to wipe the grin off his face, Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli cried, “Our dearest Highness!” At the sight of her gloomy expression, he quizzed, “What has happened?”

The dauphine managed a smile. “Aside from an occasional unexplained attack of nerves, things could not have been better. We just need to be more careful than ever before.”

“How can I assist you?” Montecuccoli asked.

“I’m in need of temporary shelter where I can rest, Montecuccoli.”

“My mansion in Paris is at your disposal.”

Catherine pulled a hood onto her head. “Where are our horses?”

“This way, Your Highness.” Montecuccoli extended his hand to the right.

They dived into a narrow lane, where two stallions were tied to a tree. As they rode into the bowels of the city, the odors and sounds assaulted their senses. The streets, riddled with houses and trash, merged with the stench of urine, so they battled against nausea.

Catherine’s mind was preoccupied with thoughts. The astrologers’ predictions were as misty as a feverish dream. She believed her astrologers, even though she could not interpret all of their words correctly. Her life was that of someone fumbling for support in the darkness, but she hoped that one day, beams of light would stab through the canopy of her matrimonial sorrows.  

Everything will be crimson. Blood will gush like liquid fire. Nevertheless, there is strength in blood, and it does not always mean death. A new sun will rise, and shadows will fade.

This speech terrified Catherine like evil beasts. Will there be another Habsburg invasion? Or will there be other conflicts in France? Is my Henri the new sun that will shine brightly after François’ demise? To her frustration, there were no answers to these questions. So far, she would continue being a shy and pious girl, deprived of her spouse’s love and trying to please the Valois ruler. Nonetheless, Catherine was a Medici in her heart, and her dreams were shaped like a queen from a chess set. One day, she would become Queen of France because it was her destiny.

Notes:

I hope you liked this chapter. I hope you will let me know what you think of this chapter. Thank you very much in advance.

The Imperial invasion of France is finally over. King François and his troops won three battles: the Battles of Chamerolles, of Poitiers, and of Bourges. Before the French lost thousands of soldiers in the Battles of Arles and of Tours when the emperor's troops crushed the enemy. The House of Valois won the confrontation with the House of Habsburg, but it does not mean that the Habsburgs will never turn the tables on the Valois family. I did not plan to have Emperor Charles/Carlos captured, for I believe that it is enough François has Ferdinand, the emperor's younger brother.

Mary Boleyn remains in the French camp because it is dangerous to travel to the French court now. Some reviewers asked whether there will be more insight into Mary's life, and I hope that you like Mary's personal story that is given in her memories of her first marriage to William Carey and her second marriage to William Stafford. Some historians and fans think that both of Mary's children with Carey were fathered by Henry VIII, but it cannot be proved. In this AU, Henry's affairs with Mary resulted in her eldest daughter – Catherine Carey, who will become an important character in later chapters (between chapter 40 and 50). We do not know whether Mary loved her first husband or not, but in my opinion, she tried to be a good wife to him, but she never loved him. The story of Mary's meeting and life with William Stafford is based on historical research, but in fact, many moments are so vague that it left me a great room for fantasy and my own interpretation.

I hope you like Mary's conversation with King François. They kind of reconciled, and she is surprised that the monarch is sorry for his mistreatment of her years ago. Her short liaison with Anne de Montmorency had happened before she caught the king's eye. You will learn more about them in later chapters, and maybe Montmorency will become her friend or even someone dear to her. Ercole II d'Este and his wife, Renée of France, will appear once the action takes place in Italy.

“Qui vivra verra!” is a widely used and understood proverb that literally means, “He/she who lives, shall see.”

Catherine de' Medici visits her Italian astrologers – Cosimo and Lorenzo Ruggieri. According to my research, they lived on Rue du Four in Paris. You wonder what their prophesies about blood and death mean. "Everything will be crimson. Blood will gush like liquid fire" – this refers to future religious wars in France, but they will happen far later. "A new sun will rise" – you will be surprised with what I am planning, and I wonder what comes to your mind.

I have a poll. how do you see Mary Boleyn’s future life in France? (2-3 answers are possible).
A. Mary and Anne reconcile and take revenge on Henry. Mary is single for the rest of her life.
B. The Boleyn sisters reconcile, and later Mary marries some French courtier.
C. Mary is killed by one of French Catholics who hate the Protestant Boleyn queen on the French throne.
D. Mary becomes an accidental victim of Catherine de’ Medici and her accomplices.
E. After her wedding, Mary and her new husband stay away from politics and live in the countryside.
F. Mary dies soon after her wedding together with her children.
G. Mary and her third husband have two or three children and live long lives.
H. After her wedding, Mary travels to the Ottoman Empire as her new husband becomes the new French ambassador at Sultan Suleiman’s court.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 18: Chapter 17: The Queen’s Disaster

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: The Queen’s Disaster

May 15, 1537, Eltham Palace, Greenwich, Kent, England

The first fingers of dawn painted swirls of violet across the surface of the River Thames. Two months ago, the Tudor court had arrived at Eltham Palace by water. King Henry desired to reside at this memory-filled place, where he and his siblings, save Prince Arthur Tudor, had spent many blithesome days in childhood, blossoming in the care of their mother, Elizabeth of York.

“The queen has miscarried,” Doctor Butts informed in a voice layered with compassion and sadness. “The child has the appearance of a male about four months in gestation.”

The pinkish-gold hues of the light, streaming into the royal apartments through the windows, were incongruent with the blackest mood that reigned supreme inside. An ill-omened stillness percolated the walls, tapestried with biblical scenes and covered with creamy brocade, so full of all-encompassing consternation that everyone could almost taste and sense it.

Lady Dorothy Smith, Lady Elizabeth Cromwell, and Lady Jane Boleyn née Parker were all as silent and gloomy as the bleakest stars. They all comprehended that something sinister might happen as soon as the tidings of the queen’s disaster circulated and reached the king’s ears.

Queen Jane Seymour rested in an enormous walnut bed, canopied with masses of gorgeous immaculate white velvet. These fell in sumptuous folds from somewhere near the ceiling, as if swaddling the bed in a cocoon of purity. The queen used the color white in her clothing and in her rooms to highlight the goodness of her character and the innocence of her mind, body, and soul. Nevertheless, the bloody spots on the floor reminded everyone of the recent calamity.

Elizabeth pointed at the bloodstains on the carpet. “Lady Rochford, clean the floor.”

“Of course, Lady Cromwell,” Jane Boleyn obeyed.

In the tormenting silence that followed, the Viscountess Rochford washed the floor and hurriedly left. She was grateful to Queen Jane for having accepted her into the queen’s household, despite her disgrace after her husband George Boleyn’s execution. However, she despised the overbearing Elizabeth Seymour, who was tremendously proud of her position as the principal royal lady-in-waiting, but whose domineering tendencies appalled each maid of honor.

Gathering her strength, Jane mumbled, “Maybe you are mistaken, Doctor Butts.”

Doctor Butts released a sigh. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. We could not stop the bleeding once it started. All that remains of the child that you were carrying will be buried soon.”

Her hope against all odds was now extinguished. Although her eyes were shut, the queen felt as if everything and everyone were leering at her, waiting to assail her like a pouncing predator. As the full impact of bereavement hit her, Jane dissolved into uninhibited sobs.

A dejected Dorothy approached the bed and settled herself on the edge. Stroking her sister’s hair, she coaxed, “My dearest Janie, please calm down. It is not the end of your life.”

At the opposite end of the chamber, Doctor Butts shuffled his feet. His wrinkled face was impenetrable, but an occasional twitch of his lips revealed his inner tension. Educated at Gonville Hall in Cambridge, he served at court for more than twenty years, and he had already seen the chains of Catherine of Aragon’s and Anne Boleyn’s miscarriages. Now Jane Seymour was experiencing the same frustration, and he pitied all the women who struggled to give his sovereign a son.

Elizabeth came to the physician. “Is Jane capable of producing male progeny?”

Butts flinched at her chilly voice. “Her Majesty is still young. Even the healthiest women might experience miscarriage sometimes. It is an emotionally and physically draining thing, but it does not mean that a woman cannot conceive again and carry the baby to term.”

Elizabeth noted, “But she will have a higher risk for another miscarriage.”

“Yes,” the physician agreed. “Her Majesty will have to be more careful next time.”

“You are dismissed,” Elizabeth barked. The physician was glad to vacate the room.

Meanwhile, Dorothy was laboring to assuage the distressed queen’s anguish. A cavalcade of apprehensive thoughts sent a shower of sparks through Jane’s brain, but out of them all, one burned fiercer:  I’ve failed Henry in the worst possible way. Now our love is in grave peril.

The queen had found out that she had been pregnant after the rebels’ executions. King Henry had flourished in selfish joy, but Jane had basked in his affection, although he hadn’t abandoned his paramours. When their gazes had locked, she had stared at him affectionately, for she had dreamed of their happiness, yet weeping when he had kissed her and then gone to Anne Bassett or another lover, although Henry had vowed to love his wife forever after Jane had conceived.

Jane’s tearful eyes dashed to a window. The charming gold in the firmament painted the mist in the gardens in ethereal pastel shades, but she cursed the serene beauty of this hour. She wished her husband to be with her as gentle as a nun’s tenderness, but her failure would sow the seeds of animosity in the monarch’s soul, just as it had happened to his feelings for the exiled harlot.

Dorothy whispered, “You will get pregnant again, Jane.”

“God!” The queen’s voice was barely audible.

“Five months earlier, I had a miscarriage, so I know what you are feeling now, but I’m going to try and give my husband again. God is testing us so that we can grow in our Christian faith.”

“Henry…” Jane broke off as a series of stronger sobs tore their way through her trembling form, nearly squeezing the breath from her lungs. Gulping for air like fish out of water, she clung to Dorothy’s hand, as if it were her lifeline. “The king… will blame me for the loss of his son.”

“All will be fine, Janie,” Dorothy soothed, but her voice lacked conviction.

Elizabeth emerged in front of the royal bed. “Jane, His Majesty will be both heartbroken and furious. He does crave a son far more than anything else, and he has waited for decades to get it.”

Gradually, the queen’s sobs receded until she only had an occasional hiccup. “I would have given anything for a healthy son. I prayed fervently for a male child.”

Lady Cromwell poured salt onto Jane’s wounds. “But your boy is dead, just as the male children of Queen Catherine and the Boleyn harlot. His Majesty married you because of his hope for a son, but now you are no better than your predecessors in his eyes.”

Dorothy castigated, “Elizabeth! Do not be so pitiless!”

“I cannot,” Elizabeth countered. “Now our family might lose power.”

Dorothy sniffed. “You are disgusting!” Elizabeth did not react at all.

“It is not my fault,” Jane choked out.

Elizabeth’s fingers brushed her temples. “That is what the harlot told the king when she had her last miscarriage. Do you remember how he dodged that accusation?”

The queen was now shaking with the force of her fast-rising sobs, which echoed around the room ominously. They were the most gut-wrenching cries her sisters had ever heard.

They remembered Anne’s exchange with the monarch after the abortion caused by Jane’s escapades on the king’s knees. This infamous episode had traveled through the length and breadth of the Tudor court. Now this recital thundered through the minds of these three women.

You have lost my boy. I cannot speak of it. The loss is too great. But I see now that God will not grant me any male children. When you are up, I’ll speak with you.

The Seymour sisters considered these words distasteful, but they had nevertheless thought that Anne had merited the suffering for her viciousness. Now the ruler might hurl a similar draconic accusation at Jane, and tongues of mortal terror were licking their earthly forms like flames.

Jane was wringing her hands. “He will not be as inhuman to me as he was to the whore!”

Elizabeth caught sight of her sister’s countenance imbued with bottomless grief. “You are naïve, Jane. This disaster has besmirched your purity in the king’s eyes. Your abortion happened on the Feast of the Ascension of Christ, and he will interpret it as a bad omen.”

Dorothy hugged the queen, who was now wracked by uncontrollable sobs. “The whore’s last miscarriage occurred on the very day when Catherine of Aragon was interred.”

“Jane is in a worse position. Today is Ascension Day!” Elizabeth then exited.

Dorothy was tireless in her efforts to console Jane, who was crying on her shoulder for a long time. At noon, the sun reached the peak of its strength, but the queen felt as if the awful abode of lost souls awaited her after death. Eventually, Jane’s sobs subsided into the drug-induced darkness after Doctor Butts had concocted some mixture of herbs to stop her hysteria.

§§§

“Jane’s womb is cursed!” the Tudor monarch shrilled like a fiddle string wound too tight. He grabbed a vase and hurled it at the Seymour brothers. “She has lost my son! My heir!”

“Forgive us, sire!” Edward and Thomas Seymour chorused as they ducked.

Taking another vase, Henry shouted, “She owes me my boy!”     

After the queen’s miscarriage a couple of hours earlier, the Tudor temper had transmuted itself into a gale of perilous exasperation. Ire and pain vying in him, Henry had razed his grand presence chamber to the ground. Now everything was a chaotic shambles of cups, decanters, plates, candles, candelabra, as well as books, ledgers, parchments, and chairs shattered into pieces.

“She promised me a son!” yelled the ruler. A moment later, the last whole chair in the room landed on top of the other broken ones. “I wed her because I need sons!”

Edward and Thomas were terrified, as if they were in the presence of one-eyed Cyclopes. At the other end of the room, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, was shuddering inwardly.   

Henry ran to the chair he had thrown moments earlier. “A queen’s duty is to provide an heir for her husband.” He grabbed the chair and slammed it through a nearby window, breaking the glass in the process. “She has failed me, just as that Boleyn whore and Catherine did!”

The Queen of France was expected to give birth to her child soon. The three men were afraid even to imagine how volatile Henry would become if Anne had given her French husband a son.

“All my wives have betrayed me!” King Henry threw a multitude of parchments to the floor and trampled them with his feet. “At least, Jane has not slept with other men!”

Damn Jane’s sick womb! Edward cursed silently. How could she bring this disaster upon us? We might lose power and privileges, which His Majesty has granted us. He observed the king’s temper spike to a new magnitude as Henry rammed his fists into the wall. A power-hungry, down-to-earth, and crafty man, Edward took more joy from meetings of Privy Council and state affairs than any time spent with his wife and relatives. Yet, at this moment, fear clouded his mind.

Edward articulated, “My sister loves Your Majesty. She has always been yours.”

The monarch swiveled to his brother-in-law. “Jesus ascended into heaven on the Feast of the Ascension. However, my son died on such a holy day. Does it tell you something, Hertford?”

A wave of panic rushed over the Seymours, the same tide of fright that occasionally hit them in the past several months, turning their limbs to jelly and their voices to feeble croaks. After Jane’s marriage to the ruler, Edward had been elevated to Earl of Hertford, and had also become Warden of the Scottish Marches. Thomas Seymour had been created Baron Seymour of Sudeley. It seemed that now the royal favor they had enjoyed so far could evaporate like fog.

Henry came to them and spat, “Has Jane sinned, and the Lord has punished us by taking our son on this holy day? Was she a virgin when I bedded her on the wedding night?”

Edward’s expression was impassive, unlike Thomas. Charles observed them from a distance.

“Your Majesty, I….” Thomas’ words shuddered to a halt.

Edward garnered his courage. “My sister has never known carnally any man other than you, sire. She grew up at Wulfhall together with us and our other siblings. Our mother, Lady Margery, taught her that only her husband has the right to claim a woman’s virtue as his.”

Henry recalled, “She told me that her virtue was the most valuable thing for her.”

Edward continued, “You must remember that Jane’s virtue was carefully guarded during your courtship. We never left her alone with you, for neither our dearly departed father nor any of our relatives would have allowed her to have any affair, not even with a monarch.”

The king dragged a tormenting breath. “I saw the bloodstained sheets on our first night. And yet…” His mind drifted to his first wife. “That Spanish woman lied to me about her virginity for years. God in His wrath punished her by taking away from us all of our children, except for Mary.”

Charles Brandon cringed, for he respected the late Catherine of Aragon and considered her the true Queen of England. “Your Majesty, how is it related to Queen Jane?”   

Their liege lord’s roar cut like a whip. “The Almighty condemned Catherine to bareness for her lies. Now Jane has miscarried my son. What has she done that God punished her so?”

Suffolk strode to the monarch. “Miscarriages are common. My wife lost our child two months earlier.” At his last words, his heart constricted in his chest. “The Lord will bless your marriage to Queen Jane with a robust Tudor prince in due time. We must all pray for this.”

Thomas breathed out a sigh of relief. “The queen and Your Majesty are still young. You will have many children, both girls and boys, in years to come. Our mother is fertile: she gave birth to ten children, and most of them survived to adulthood. Jane must be fertile as well.”

“I do not need girls!” Henry’s voice echoed through the air, charged with his anger.

Propelled by insane rage, the King of England darted to a nearby wall hanging, depicting the painting ‘The Deposition’ by Raphael, where the well-dressed Mary Magdalene was clutching the hand of Christ’s body as Jesus was carried to his tomb. With a howl of fury, the monarch ripped this tapestry from the wall and threw it to the floor, then stamped upon it with his feet.

“Catherine and Anne!” a belligent Henry hissed. “Arthur deflowered Catherine before I took her to bed! Anne had more than one hundred lovers! They were both whores, and neither of them regretted her transgressions. At least, Mary Magdalene was a repentant prostitute.”

“Your Majesty, my sister was a maid,” Edward reiterated.

The ruler flung back, “Jane must repent of the horrible sin she apparently committed, even if it was not some illicit affair. Tell her to take an example from Mary Magdalene.”

Henry continued destroying the remainder of the room’s luxury. The interior transformed into something akin to the ruins of imaginary ancient Greek cities, which could have been caused by the fierce struggle for supremacy between Zeus, King of Mount Olympus, and Cronus, Zeus’ father and the leader of the preceding generation of Titans, had Cronus broken out of Tartarus. Henry paused only when he touched the tapestries portraying the Resurrection and Ascension of Christ.

At last, the king reined in his emotions. “It is as though God has now stopped me. He has spoken to me: I must pray harder for a son, and Jane must atone for her sin.”

Henry stormed out. His subjects were dizzy with relief as the door slammed behind him.

§§§

The English monarch intended to celebrate the Feast of the Ascension of Christ in the Chapel Royal. It was well past midday, but he did not wish to forsake prayer on such an important day for every Christian just because his dreams of having a son had again been crushed.  

Garbed in auburn silk attire wrought with gold, King Henry led his nobles through the splendid gardens. Everybody was already aware of what had transpired in the queen’s chambers at dawn.

“The sun is high in the sky.” Henry squinted his eyes. “I’m glad for the warmth after–”  He abruptly trailed off, gulping for air like a dying man. “I’ll not speak of it.”

“As Your most magnificent Majesty commands,” purred Lady Anne Bassett.

There was no official position of a chief royal mistress at the Tudor court. Nevertheless, today Lady Bassett walked several paces behind the monarch, together with the Duke of Suffolk and Sir Francis Bryan, as though the ruler was demonstrating Queen Jane’s disfavor. Having not been invited to join the procession, the Seymours had retired to their quarters or the queen’s.  

“This place is so dear to me.” The ruler surveyed the moated manor surrounded by acres of rolling green and bloom. “It is my boyhood home, such a sweet place for me.”

At present, Brandon and Bryan were both in the monarch’s highest favor. Charles had always been the ruler’s close friend; Bryan had paved his path into the royal sanctum years ago. However, Suffolk’s beliefs did not waver in the face of their sovereign’s mood swings and radical changes in his opinions or policies. At the same time, Bryan was a crafty turncoat who had always kept himself in the king’s good graces by manipulating Henry and dancing to his every whim.

“Your Majesty spent many gladsome days here,” recalled the Duke of Suffolk.

Francis Bryan recollected, “Erasmus, a famed Dutch scholar and humanist, traveled to Eltham in 1499 to visit our future king. He remarked that Your Majesty ‘had a vivid and active mind, above measure to execute whatever tasks you undertook’. He called you a genius!”

Suddenly, Henry halted. A twitch of his upper lip indicated his increasing perturbation. “I was a boy of seven summers back then. Sir Thomas More brought Erasmus to me.”

“Yes, sire.” Bryan figured out that these memories were unwelcome to his liege lord.

”That Boleyn witch!” The words were twisting the universe, bending it, reshaping it, as he attempted to persuade himself that Anne was the worst harpy on earth. “She killed More!”

At this, the assemblage stopped in their tracks. An icy shard of fear slashed through their fleeting remembrances of Thomas More’s and Bishop Fisher’s executions. Most of the Catholic courtiers blamed Anne for their deaths, for these two men had been condemned for their refusal to sign the Oath of Supremacy, and to acknowledge Elizabeth as the king’s legitimate heir.

His eyes flashing with animosity, King Henry eyed his retinue. “There is something else you must all know. France defeated Spain, but that Valois peacock will not enjoy peace for long. In the future, I shall invade France and win a battle as legendary as Henry V’s triumph at Agincourt.”     

Everyone blanched like a relic unearthed from a grave. The ruler’s implacable hatred of Anne had long become known at court, but nobody wanted England to wage war against the House of Valois. After all, the mighty Emperor Charles had attempted to subjugate France, but he had failed, and his fate was still unknown after the Battle of Poitiers. In the past, English kings had endeavored to reclaim “their” lands in France, but all their attempts had ended in fiasco.

“Doubtless you will succeed, sire,” chanted Bryan with a grin.

Nevertheless, Brandon noted, “Peace is necessary for survival in the disordered world.”

Henry glowered at Suffolk. “You are my soldier, Charles! Do not embellish yourself with softness when we talk about enemies of England such as Anne and François.”      

“I apologize,” Brandon intoned for appearance’s sake. As visions of the butchered pilgrims, who had been murdered on his orders, blazed in his mind, the spear of his guilt shattered the shield of his conscience. Yet, he said, “I was born as your loyal subject, and will die as one.”

The king’s expression brightened. “That is why I love you, Charles.”

“Where is the Duke of Norfolk?” inquired Bryan.

Henry apprised, “He went to his estates at Arundel.”

Anne Bassett affirmed servilely, “Your Majesty is such a glorious warrior! You can conqueror France or any other land! After all, you subdued those revolting Catholic insurgents in the north. All others will bow to you as soon as they see your prodigious strength.”

The mention of the revolt’s suppression sent shivers down the spines of those Catholics who had signed the Oath for form’s sake. The inhuman brutality with which the rebels and many of their families had been punished horrified them. Lady Mary Tudor brushed away a tear.

King Henry regarded his subjects, knitting his reddish brows forbiddingly. “I’m the King of England and the Supreme Head of the Church of England. Your sacred duty is to obey my wishes and commands. Anyone who dares rebel against me shall go to hell!”    

A stab of dread ripped through the Catholics. Many paled to the grayness of death.

Through the maze of gardens, they strolled to the North Bridge above the moat and crossed it. Trumpets blared and kettledrums boomed as they entered the Chapel Royal.

When everyone gathered in the oratory, Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, came to the altar, while the choir sang the Entrance Chant. The Archbishop venerated the altar with the cross and went to his ceremonial chair of state. The gathering crossed themselves.

Cranmer proclaimed, “In the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen,” answered the monarch; the congregation echoed him.

The Penitential Act followed, and the Archbishop promulgated, “Brethren, let us acknowledge our sins, and so prepare ourselves to celebrate the sacred mysteries.”

The lords and ladies then recited together the general confession.

I confess to almighty God

and to you, my brothers and sisters,

that I have greatly sinned,

in my thoughts and in my words,

in what I’ve done and in what I’ve failed to do

through my fault, through my fault,

through my most grievous fault.

The king endeavored to find a reason why the Creator had not yet blessed him with a son. For years, he had implored God to give him a prince to carry on his legacy and create a new epoch in England. He had married the pure Jane! However, when the queen had not conceived for months, he had begun thinking more of frivolities of life. Henry had been back at his old merry time when he had slept with countless mistresses, his favorite concubine being Lady Anne Bassett.  

The monarch’s thoughts were interrupted by the people’s voices.

Therefore, I ask blessed Mary ever-Virgin,

All the Angels and Saints,

And you, my brothers and sisters,

To pray for me to the Lord our God.

The absolution from the Archbishop of Canterbury was pronounced.

May almighty God have mercy on us!

Forgive us our sins, and bring us to everlasting life.

“Amen,” everyone chorused.

After crossing himself, Henry eyed the oratory with its exquisitely carved stalls and frescoes depicting Christ walking on water, healing Mary Magdalene, his fructification and resurrection.   

At the sight of Magdalene, the ruler’s mind floated back to Jane. I’ve done nothing wrong. It is my right as king to have paramours. The Lord and the Virgin must have seen that Jane sinned somehow, so she miscarried. All of his accusations and his barely surpassed rage sharpened into a single point: Jane had lost his son because she had deceived him of something.

The Liturgy of the Word was sung. The choir’s music was somber in comparison to the lofty church atmosphere, but it still dazzled everybody, bringing tears to eyes of pious women and men. Soft light filtered in through stained-glass windows, giving the chapel a celestial glow. It seemed that in these moments, divine energy filled the air with the pure vibration of love for Christ.

Prayers for the Day of Accession from the Book of Hours followed.

O God of earth and sky,

As Jesus came among us in Bethlehem to raise us up to heaven,

So today we recall his departing from us at Jerusalem to be in all places.

Though he is hidden from our sight,

Enable us to abide in him by the power and grace of the Holy Spirit,

Until his mercy and grace fill your whole creation.

Amen.

King Henry was restless during the rest of the Mass. Archbishop Cranmer started the Liturgy of the Eucharist, and irritation festered in the pit of his stomach as the ruler watched Catholic rites performed. In spite of the break from Rome, the Church of England still remained largely Catholic. Cranmer’s ‘Ten Articles’ had been crafted as a rushed interim compromise between conservatives and reformers, and it also kind of solidified the Catholic resistance to the religious reform.

Our Church is called the Henrician Church, mused the monarch. Was it a mistake not to go down the road towards Protestantism? Is God punishing me for that by denying me a son? Even François – a staunch Catholic – allied with Protestant countries. Henry failed to concentrate on the Mass, and thoughts of religious and international matters were whirling across his consciousness.

Cranmer took the chalice and the paten. Raising both, he ended the Mass.

Through Jesus Christ, and with him, and in him,

O God, almighty Father,

In the unity of the Holy Spirit,

All glory and honor.

The monarch then led the courtiers out of the oratory. As they promenaded through the park, the variegated clothes of the richly dressed nobles and their jewels gleamed in the sun.

King Henry stopped. “As your spiritual shepherd, I must establish Christian unity among my people. We shall continue giving the Bible in English to let everyone obtain the true understanding of the Christian theology, and to steer them away from the superstitious nonsense of the past.”  

“God Bless Your Majesty!” Archbishop Cranmer cried with a smile. He and other devout reformers broke into loud cheers, perceiving it as their victory.   

Lady Mary Tudor came forward from the crowd. “Your Majesty, is it the right decision?” She ignored the admonishing glances of the Duke of Suffolk and many other Catholics.

The ruler’s reply was laced with anger. “Lady Mary, you signed the Oath and payed homage to me, your sovereign and father. You have to atone for the stubbornness you displayed under your late mother’s detrimental influence. You will help me make some political deals.”

“As you wish, sire.” Mary was hurting from the injuries inflicted upon her by her parent.

“Do not cross me, Mary.” Henry deigned to grant her a haughty smile.

As the monarch strode away towards the palace, Mary remained rooted to the spot, her mind in turmoil. “What does my father mean? Which alliances?”

The Imperial ambassador Eustace Chapuys approached her. “I do not know, my lady.” He would have addressed her as a princess, but they could be eavesdropped upon.

“I cannot tolerate it anymore, Your Excellency.” Tears spilled over her eyes and down the side of her face, wetting the earth of the heretical land, as she called it silently.   

Chapuys took Mary’s hand and squeezed it to lend her his moral support. His eyes were shadowed with concern about her future in the wake of the king’s words, but he said nothing. He regretted that Sir Nicholas Carew was still in Bologna, awaiting the man’s return impatiently.

§§§

“Anne, where are you? Wife!” Edward Seymour called upon entering his quarters.

In a handful of heartbeats, his spouse appeared in the antechamber. Her brows arched, she glided to him, her hands resting on her swollen belly. “What do you need, husband?”

Some of his ire deflated at the sight of her smile. “You look radiant, wife.”

“A woman glows when a new life is growing inside of her.”

Edward crossed to his wife. “At least, you have not miscarried.”

She sent him a look of disgust. “You are scum.”

He broke into a cynical laughter. “But you married me!”

Edward winked at the Lady Anne Seymour née Stanhope, Countess of Hertford. A couple of years ago, he had wed this woman, the only child of Sir Edward Stanhope. She was an heiress to her father’s wealth and had royal blood in her veins, for she was a direct descendant of Thomas of Woodstock, the youngest son of King Edward III of England. Nonetheless, it was not the main reason why she was his choice of a spouse – they just were alike in all practical ways.

“I did, and gladly.” She burst out laughing. “When my father told me about our betrothal, I consented because it was obvious that you and I are both more presumptuous than Lucifer. We are ambitious and unscrupulous in the use of tools which we need to achieve what we want.”  

Edward’s grin was conceited. “You and I have enough, but we are covetous of other’ wealth.”

They saw eye to eye on this point. “We will be more powerful, husband.”

A sudden twinge of lust and tenderness passed through the Earl of Hertford, prompting him to approach his spouse. He gathered Anne into his arms and stroked her head, his fingers tangling into her silky golden hair. They froze in this position, as though they had stepped into the palatial building of their warped happiness after earning all the riches in the universe.   

As they parted, Edward viewed his wife from top to toe. Anne Seymour was a wonderful creature: her hazel-green eyes glistened like leaves after the rain, nicely setting off her porcelain skin and her strong, attractive face. She was appareled in a silvery gray damask gown ornamented with gold; her long, curvy, brown hair was arranged in a chignon. Her baby bump was increasingly visible in the light leaking in through the windows and glinting along her soft curls.  

Anne Seymour scrutinized him with equal intensity. A tall man of athletic build, Edward had a strict countenance, pleasing enough and full of calculative intelligence. His piercing eyes of ice blue color, deep and clear, as well as his prominent forehead, and his pointed chin attested to his fabulous intellect. His rich, doublet and hose of black satin, worked with threads of gold, added to the air of unprincipled severity about him. Anne was satisfied to have him as her husband.

“I see lust in your usually cold eyes,” she observed carefully.  

Indeed, his loins swelled with the memory of her naked in their bed. “If you were not with child, I would have taken you now with a passion that is a rarity for both of us.”

Anne mocked, “You have become too soft and perhaps even weak, my dearest cunning Dolus, for that ancient Greek spirit of trickery and guile has long taken over you.”

“Dolus! You call me so in bed.”

“Cunning, deception, and craft – these words sum up this Greek mythological deity.”

Edward kissed her on the mouth. “Dolus’ female counterpart is Apate, the Greek goddess of fraud and deceit.” He hugged her briefly, whispering into her ear, “You are my Apate.”

Anne appreciated their common traits. “Love is a missing factor for us. Because we lack that affection, that gentleness, that contentment, we escape into plotting, which produces further desire for privileges and simultaneously deepens our relationship based on ambition and greed.”

He admired his wife’s character. “What a perfect summation!”

She put her hand on her enlarged stomach. “But you must be a good husband to me, for I’m carrying our babe. Any nobleman, especially an arrogant earl such as yourself, needs an heir.”

“A male heir.” His hand flew to her belly.

Discomfited, she refused to continue their banter. “Edward, a woman is not a sorceress who can bewitch the male seed spilled in her into becoming a boy.”

The Earl of Herford grinned as the child moved inside of her. “Be at ease, I know this. If it is not a boy this time, we will try again. The next time, we will have a son.”

The countess smiled merrily. “I feel it will be a boy.”

“Me too,” he shortly.

They headed to their bedchamber, and the Countess of Hertford broached another subject. “I pity Queen Jane. It is not her fault that she lost her child. It can happen to any woman.”

Edward paced their bedroom swathed in blue silks. “The angry king resembles an enraged Minotaur. He thinks Jane could have feigned her virginity. I fear he might annul their marriage.”

Anne eased herself into an azure-brocaded chair. “What will we do?”

Pausing next to her, her husband murmured, “Anne, will you help me?”

She read his thoughts with ease. “As always. Do you want me to seduce King Henry so that I can control his mind? I can do this for the family after our baby is born in October.”

“Yes. Just as I seduced Anne Bassett when Thomas failed to do that.”

The Hertford spouses discussed his plan. Their minds worked as quickly and whimsically as a witch’s spell, and no courtier would want to encounter the demons of their craft at the doorstep.

Edward ceased pacing. “I’ll make Jane understand that she must stop weeping like a sultry wench abandoned by a lover. Now she must recover to later conceive again.”

“She will accede to your commands in order to keep her weakening hold on His Majesty.”

“That stupid ninny must obey me, or everything will be lost.”

Anne Seymour hugged her own abdomen fondly. “There are thunderstorms in any marriage. But no one can guarantee that the queen will be able to birth the king a healthy son.”

“Why?” Edward’s anxiety was mounting. He seated himself in a chair beside her.

She held out her hand, which dropped before it could touch his. It irked her that men never held themselves responsible for their own mistakes. “Men, especially narcissistic kings, blame their wives for the lack of male issue or children at all. Sleeping with their spouses whenever they want, wishing more, refusing to love and respect them, yelling and complaining about trifles. Such are nearly all of the men I have met! Yet, maybe not a woman but a man is guilty: perhaps his seed is contaminated with some disease, preventing them from having his much-desired sons.”

Edward tensed. “Do you mean that the king is incapable of fathering boys?”

“Given Catherine’s and Anne’s histories of miscarriages, this seems plausible.”

“I pray you are wrong, wife.” Yet, he admitted to himself that it was a real possibility.

The Countess of Hertford stood up and climbed into a canopied bed, hung with cloth of silver. “I wonder whether Anne Boleyn will give King François a son. Even if it happens not in her first pregnancy, then something must be wrong not with King Henry’s wives, but with him.”

Dismay flashed in his eyes. “I do not want to think about it.”

Interested in foreign ways of life, Anne Seymour knew a lot about European courts. “The King of France had many children with Queen Claude, but some are no longer alive. His escapades are infamous, and he is rumored to be so male that any woman feels all the rewards of being his lover.” A titter fled her lips. “I’m sure Anne Boleyn will find herself pregnant many times.”

Edward eased himself onto the bed. “I’ve never seen King François, but I heard the same. He seems to be somewhat healthier than our sovereign, even though they are both virile. At least, that Valois mate does not have ulcerated legs because of falls on tournaments.”

“If we play our cards well, a smile will spread across the devious face of Dame Fortune.”

§§§

On his way to the queen’s apartments, guileful ideas took shape in Edward’s brain. His spouse would captivate the king after their child’s birth, making Henry a clay in her vulpine hands. He would continue his clandestine liaison with the Lady Bassett. Everything will go well, and Jane will get another chance. But if the king’s seed is defective, we will all fall, he ruminated bitterly.

A familiar voice halted him in the corridor. “Lord Hertford, where are you going? The queen is sleeping after Doctor Butts gave her a lot of sleeping draught.”

Pivoting to face her, Edward smiled. He despised the king’s mistress, but he could not deny that she was beautiful. Over her gown of caramel brocade embroidered with pearls and triangles of bronze damask, Anne Bassett wore a surcoat of violet tissue, and a short mantle of the same material lined with sable. A diamond necklace adorned her bosom, from which also dangled a golden cross. Her toque of black velvet was festooned with tulle and an affiquet.

Edward’s gaze fell upon her head. “Now you wear even an affiquet, Madame.”

“I love French fashions.” Lady Bassett moved towards him, her hips swaying like a bed of reeds in the confines of her gown. “They are seductive. His Majesty appreciates them.’

“I like them, too.” Now it was a matter of paramount importance to drive this whore further from the monarch so that Henry could still visit Jane’s bed after her recovery.

She giggled. “You can strip me of this dress.”  

“Gladly.” Daggers of desire slashed through him, carving a trail to his loins.

Anne extended her hand to Edward. As he took it, she ascended the stairs, pulling him along behind her. It was obvious what she planned, and exactly what he hankered at this moment. Edward suspected that this woman could have other lovers in secret, and he craved to learn their names so as to blackmail her. Yet, now Edward surrendered to his primitive male needs.

§§§

“For pity’s sake!” Gregory Cromwell bemoaned. “At least, pretend that we are married!”

His wife didn’t respond. The walls draped in arrases of religious scenes were pressuring her into obeying her husband, but she resisted with all her might. The room was still, he could hear her breathing quicken, an additional distressing counterpoint to the sound of the opening door.

“All out!” He was uncharacteristically rude.

The footsteps receded, and Elizabeth assumed, “You have frightened my maids.”

“They are used to you being alone here. But it will not always be so, my darling wife.”

Elizabeth Seymour was a remarkable sight in a gown of beige and emerald silk, with a cap of red brocade rounded with ribbon and sprigs of orange blossoms. Her features were attractive: eyes cerulean like blue seawater, peach-tinged lips, wide brown brows sharply penciled as if for drama, full lips, and satiny skin with just enough freckles to hint at a sharp-tongued nature. The incongruous blend of feminity and a harshness in her countenance produced an intoxicating effect.   

“Why did you arrive at court, Gregory? Definitely, not to ask after my family.”

“I’m here to be your husband, as it should have been from the beginning.”

With a sigh, Elizabeth plodded over to a canopied bed, which was swathed in burgundy velvet. Even in the dimness of the candlelight, a welter of emotion in her face was apparent, but it was not happiness to see her spouse. Perplexion, fear, and, most of all, anger.  

“Be more specific. What do you wish to do?”

Gregory stepped to the bed. “We have not consummated our marriage.”

Elizabeth’s first husband – Sir Anthony Ughtred of Kexby – had passed away in 1534. The last thing a widowed Elizabeth wanted was to wed Cromwell’s son, but their now dead father, Sir John Seymour, had forced her into his marriage. Gregory and Elizabeth had married a month after Jane’s wedding to King Henry, but Gregory had been gallant to postpone the consummation.   

She jeered, “Are you seducing me, Gregory? Acting like a beast such as your father is?”

“Enough,” he growled, stepping closer to the bed. “I did not want to make you my wife, but my father compelled me to create an alliance between our families.”

“As we both dislike each other, let us live separately.”

His patience was at an end. “Damnation, I shall not continue this sham of a marriage. My father demands that I give him heirs because I am his only surviving son. And I shall no longer be the laughingstock of the whole court as they watch you live alone in your rooms.”

His wife gaped at him. “Gregory, you will not–”

His voice and features softened. “Elizabeth, I want us to find common ground. No one knows that we have never been intimate. You had enough time to get to know me, but I had to depart from court until the Pilgrimage of Grace was not squashed, so we had little time together.”

Elizabeth stood up to face him like a tigress. “When you left for your father’s estates, you did not think that those insurgents could reach London and kill us all. You were kind to me on our wedding night, and I am grateful for the charade you have played. My relatives would have forced me to be with you, if they had learned the truth. Nevertheless, later you displayed such selfishness that it negated the noble image of you which I formed in my head.”

“Sorry.” However, his guilty look was fleeting. “My father advised me to act so. If the rebels had won or if the king had punished him unjustly, then I would have been in peril.”

She settled herself back on the bed. “Why the bloody hell do you want us to be a couple when all you care about is Cromwell’s advancement in politics?” Her acrimonious laugh hit his ears like barbs. “As your father’s lapdog, you married me. Why are you playing the role of a perfect knight now? Go seek for intimacy elsewhere; there are many loose women at court.”

“Our marriage is not a bliss,” he observed dryly. “But I’m not like other men.”

She misunderstood the meaning of his words. “You are not as bad as Cromwell?”

“I will not have mistresses.” Gregory took a seat on the other side of the bed. “My father was always faithful to my mother. I think it is the right thing to do for a man.”

“So, I’m stuck with you for years, while you will live in celibacy.”

“If you keep showering me with your disdain, it will change nothing.”

“Gregory, leave,” his wife pleaded. “Do not complicate my life with your snooping about the Seymours’ affairs. I’ve got enough troubles on my plate after Jane’s miscarriage.”

His gut tightened. “What would I be looking for? I’m not your enemy!”

She stiffened. “You are clearly intent on watching my every step.”

“Mere expedience. So that you don’t make others laugh at me more than they already do.”

“What else did you expect to feel? Did you anticipate me to fall for you?”

Elizabeth was so caught up in reprimanding him that she had missed his impetuous movement. A moment later, she was in his arms, and they were rolling over together on the bed. As Gregory was on top of her, she clutched his shoulders and pushed him away, but unsuccessfully.

“You are beautiful, Lisbeth,” Gregory whispered while removing her cap. Her hair tousled on the pillow, and he entangled his fingers into her tresses. “Let’s become a little happier.”

Gregory kissed her like a man deprived of tenderness for years, hot and deep, his hands sliding down her body. For a short time, his mouth left hers, and they froze in an embrace that no longer repelled Elizabeth. The softness mingled with melancholy in his eyes made his wife quiver with guilt that she had ignored him for so long. Her lips parted, and, at this encouragement, his tongue met hers, and he did not stop until he reduced her to a boneless mass of jelly.

§§§

From a window, Jane Boleyn watched a rainstorm unfold over the park. After Jane Seymour’s awakening, the king had visited her, and now there was no calm soul in the queen’s household.

Lady Mary Zouch shook her head in shock. “His Majesty said such dreadful things.”

“Poor Queen Jane!” lamented Elizabeth Somerset, Countess of Worcester.

“Once the king threatened Anne Boleyn!” cried Anne Parr, Countess of Pembroke.

Dorothy Seymour barked, “Don’t blabber! Keep sewing clothes for the poor!”

They occupied themselves with embroidery. Yet, these threats echoed through their heads.     

I married you to beget heirs! Baby boys! You have disappointed me so! Remember the fates of your predecessors! Every day! If you fail me again, your punishment will be worse than theirs!     

Jane Boleyn eased herself in a chair and picked up her embroidery. Nevertheless, she could not sew and studied the queen’s ladies. Dorothy’s hands trembled as she was making stitches. Lady Pembroke and Lady Worcester wore looks of anxiety, blinking at every flash and rattle of lightning and thunder outside. Lady Zouch and other maids were better at masking their emotions.

The raindrops pelted the windows. Lady Rochford believed that nature was crying for the dead child. She had grown fond of Queen Jane thanks to the kindness from the king’s wife after her return to court. She could not help but think that Jane Seymour would fail to give the monarch a son, like his previous wives. Is the king cursed to never have a son? Jane Boleyn wondered.  

As she glanced askance at Lady Worcester, white-hot rage boiled in Lady Rochford’s veins. The Countess of Worcester was the chief informant against Anne Boleyn, so her lies had sent Anne into exile and annihilated her brother George. The Rochford spouses had not selected one another, but they had gotten along amicably, even though George’s infidelities had irked her. However, Jane had never wanted George dead, having been powerless to save him after the Boleyn siblings’ arrests. I’m yearning to see George’s and Anne’s foes pay for their crimes, George’s widow dreamed.  

“No! My baby!” the queen’s desperate shout resonated.  

“She needs us.” Dorothy jolted to her feet, so did Lady Worcester and Lady Pembroke.   

These three women darted to the bedroom. The others remained in the antechamber, except for Lady Boleyn who stood up and followed them, but paused in the doorway.

“Drink some of this, Janie,” urged Dorothy, whose arm was about her sister’s recumbent form. “Doctor Butts left these herbs for you. You will be asleep in a few minutes.”

“God bless Your Majesty.” The Countess of Worcester brought a cup to the queen’s lips.

Jane Seymour was slowly drinking the medicine. “He hates me so.”

“Don’t think of him,” Dorothy instructed. “You must recuperate.”

Anne Parr stood near the bed. “We will pray for you, Madame!”

Needless to say, Jane Boleyn emphasized with the queen. Yet, she was angry that those who had harmed Anne and George were now taking care of the very woman who was the reason for the tragedies which had beset the Boleyns. Remembrances of her spouse’s execution were so painful that they could pulpify her bones. Unable to watch the scene in the bedchamber, Jane walked away. Her way forward was to lie low at court; solitude offered her a refuge from her sorrows.  

The Viscountess Rochford returned to her place; there was no more talk between the ladies. The rain intensified to an extent that the windowpanes seemed to be quivering in the frames. There was something different from ordinary storm in this tempest. The tumult of rain and wind linked together, producing a wild roar, as if prophets were predicting something sinister.

Notes:

I hope you liked this chapter. Let me know what you think, and thank you very much in advance.

New characters were introduced: Sir Francis Bryan, as well as Lady Anne Seymour née Stanhope, Countess of Hertford, and Lady Jane Boleyn née Parker, Viscountess Rochford. They are not main characters, but they will appear in the story from time to time. Jane Boleyn will appear very rarely until King Henry is willing to launch a new investigation into Anne’s case.

Those who dislike Jane Seymour can be happy now. Jane had a miscarriage in this chapter, and Henry is not only upset, but also extremely angry with her. The king thinks that Jane’s miscarriage on a holy day (the Feast of the Ascension is celebrated on the 15th of May) might be a sign that their marriage is cursed. I cannot tell you whether Jane will have a son or not; perhaps her second pregnant, if she conceives, will be successful, and Edward will be born. Hopefully, fans of Anne who loathe Jane will find in their hearts sympathy for Jane after this chapter.

Perhaps Henry cannot father healthy sons, as Jane Boleyn and Anne Seymour hypothesize; or perhaps he could. Anyway, it seems that Henry could have blood incompatibility with his wives or even blood disorder. The latest diagnoses for Henry are the coexistence of both Kell blood group antigenicity (possibly inherited from Jacquetta Woodville, Henry’s maternal great grandmother), causing related impaired fertility, and McLeod syndrome, resulting in psychotic changes. I’m sure that you can google these illnesses, so I will not describe them in this note.

In ancient Greek mythology, the Cyclopes were gigantic, one-eyed monsters. At first, there were three of them: Arges, Steropes, and Brontes – they were supposedly the sons of Uranus and Gaea and the brothers of the Hecatoncheires and the Titans. Cronus imprisoned them in Tartarus, and upon being freed by Zeus, they pledged their fealty to him and fought for him against the Titans.

Here is a new poll! How do you see Edward Seymour’s fate in my Anne Boleyn/François I fiction?
A. Unexpectedly, Edward dies young of sweating sickness or any other illness.
B. When/if Jane has a son, Edward becomes Prince Edward’s loyal protector.
C. If Jane gives Henry a male heir, Edward becomes a powerful man at court.
D. Edward is banished permanently after Jane is discarded by King Henry.
E. Unlike his relatives, Edward is not banished after the annulment of Jane’s marriage.
F. After Jane’s death or exile, Edward manages to keep some of his offices.
G. Edward gradually earns the royal favor again after Jane’s death or exile.
H. The Earl of Hertford follows in his historical footsteps in this AU.
I. Edward is executed for a crime or because he displeased the monarch.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 19: Chapter 18: Water under a Layer of Ice

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 18: Water under a Layer of Ice

May 15, 1537, Château de Villers-Cotterêts, Villers-Cotterêts, Picardie, France

“I love my dear baby girl!” Queen Anne cradled her newborn daughter. “Her eyes are light blue, nearly translucent, like fresh water under a layer of ice. They are wonderfully tender!”

The royal apartments bathed in bright daylight streaming in through the large, high arched windows. Despite Anne’s difficult pregnancy, the labor with her new daughter had been fast and easy, having taken only seven hours. The arrases on the walls, depicting the mythological wedding of the God Zeus and the Goddess Hera, added to the festive atmosphere in the room.

The first daughter of King François and Queen Anne had arrived on the Solemnity of the Ascension of Jesus Christ. The queen had felt her first pains at early dawn when the all-night vigil had been celebrated in the royal chapel with the monarch and his court in attendance. Queen Marguerite of Navarre had been summoned to her sister-in-law’s chambers from the church.

Marguerite appeared beside the queen’s bed. “Your daughter has our mother’s eyes. Her complexion is lighter than my and François’. She also has the Valois long nose.”

Anne glanced at her sister-in-law. “We can call her Louise, if the king agrees.”

“My brother will be overjoyed! The girl’s resemblance to our late mother will move him.”

A heavy dose of doubt shadowed Anne’s countenance. Fears of her husband’s reaction to her having a girl had plagued her for months like a feral ghost. Visions of Henry’s disappointed face as he had first seen Elizabeth had haunted her with vicious persistence. As King of France, François must secure the succession, which is extremely important due to the Salic law. However, I’ve birthed him a daughter…  Will he loathe me for that? Anne could not help but shudder.

The Church, whatever Catholic or Protestant, and theologians demanded the nearly complete celibacy from all men and women, except for the purpose of procreation. Of course, few adhered to this principle, but men considered matrimony necessary only for producing progeny, while a wife must live in absolute continence, save those times when her husband bedded her to let her conceive. François must be no different from others, viewing marriage as the source of begetting male heirs to continue the father-son Valois line, while keeping many mistresses.

Since the monarch’s return to court a fortnight earlier, Anne and François were as distant as constellations were from the earth. The triumph of the Valois over the House of Habsburg was so glorious that she was exhilarated. The fact that Ferdinand von Habsburg was France’s prisoner added to her elation. At the same time, her loneliness was like a disease slowly rotting her from the inside out, and Anne secretly longed for François to come to her, but he did not.

Marguerite figured out her thoughts. “François is not obsessed with male children. Claude gave him two girls before the late Dauphin François was born. My brother never blamed her for that, the Lord bless their souls.” She crossed herself. “François loved his daughters and mourned for them when they passed away in early childhood. He adores all of his kids.”

Anne made the sign of the cross. “God let the little Louise and Claude rest in peace.” She remembered the names of the long-departed small Valois princesses. Her husband had lost several children, but they had not been close enough to discuss that; she empathized with his woes.

The Navarrese queen seated herself on the edge of the bed. “I would name her Louise. However, I am not sure that François would opt for the name of his dead daughter.”

The king’s wife kissed the baby’s cheek. “Superstitions are the religion of feeble minds.”

“A great man is not afraid of such trifles. He is a beacon in superstition’s darkness.”   

“Are you lauding your beloved brother, Your Majesty?”

Marguerite emitted a sigh. “You have erected a wall between François and yourself. You have denied me our friendship, although I’ve always liked you. You and I were close in your early youth when you were part of my literary circle. Why are you pushing me away, Anne?”

Anne had the decency to blush. “I’m sorry. I’m just so afraid…” 

“Let’s discuss it later. At least, address me by my first name.”

“Marguerite.” The Queen of France’s lips quivered in a shaky smile.  

The Queen of Navarre grinned. “That is better.”

The infant fussed in her mother’s arms, her tiny pink mouth twisting as she worked herself into a fit. Anne cradled the child and began humming a tune while rocking her daughter until the girl smiled. Roses of pure, unconditional maternal love rushed through Anne’s entire being like torrents of vivifying river, enlivening her with the strength to thrive and evolve.   

“I love you so, my girl,” Anne whispered to the baby.

Do not die, my princess, the Valois queen implored the child. Do not leave me like my other unborn babes, and like François’ two daughters. She prayed that her daughter would have a long and fortunate life. A shard of guilt speared through her at the thought that this creature had not been supposed to exist, for she had planned to spend only the wedding night with François.   

Lady Mary Stafford approached the queen’s bed. “This is such a charming picture, sister. You and your daughter can be like Bellini’s Madonna and the baby Jesus.”

“Someone should paint them,” concurred Marguerite.

“Mary, have you called the king?” inquired Anne, her voice trepidatious.

Her sister nodded. “He is coming.”

“Oh!” The Queen of France’s thoughts were on her daughter.

“François is not Henry,” Marguerite stressed. “He will not be callous.”

Anne breathed out a sigh. “I hope so.”

Queen Anne had no clue as to what to expect. François had told her that it did not matter to him whom they would have. Yet, memories were scratching at the edges of her consciousness: Henry venting his frustration of having another daughter, Elizabeth, upon her; Henry screaming that Anne’s womb was cursed because she had miscarried his sons twice; Henry roaring that no girl could ever rule a country. These unsavory images would haunt Anne until Doomsday’s.

“But the Salic law,” Anne spoke her thoughts aloud.

“François has two sons.” However, Marguerite’s words did not dissipate her fears.

“I’ve missed my Elizabeth so much,” Anne lamented. “She would have been happy to have another sibling. But she will never meet her younger sister.”

Her sister-in-law smiled whimsically. “Fate works in mysterious ways.”

§§§

The door opened, and the French monarch strutted inside. Everyone, excluding his sister, dropped into a curtsey. Marguerite dismissed the other ladies from the queen’s room.  

“I hear we have a daughter,” François commented in the most cheerful accents.

His spouse flicked her gaze to him. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty.”

Marguerite and Mary stepped aside. The king’s sister grinned at her brother; Mary was full of apprehension, fearing that François would be disappointed with his daughter’s birth.  

“For what?” François quizzed as he settled himself on the bed.

Tears gleamed on Anne’s lashes. “It is a daughter.”

His sigh was as depressing as Anne’s mood. “The Almighty, not a woman, determines a baby’s gender. Children are His greatest gift and blessing for mankind.”

“The girl bears uncanny resemblance to our late mother,” Marguerite observed.

A soul-stirring emotion brightened the ruler’s amber eyes a shade. “Let her be Louise.”

“Mother would be most delighted,” Marguerite effused. “This name suits the girl.”

François’ scrutiny focused on his queen with something akin to innate fondness. “Anne, would you mind if she became the most beautiful and dearest Louise in my realm?”

“As you command, sire.” Anne planted sweet kisses on the baby’s cheeks.

He pointed out, “We can choose another name.”

“No!” The French queen bestowed upon him a luminous smile, which he had not seen on her face since their wedding. “Louise means a famous warrior and fighter. Although I was very young when serving Queen Claude, I met Madame Louise de Savoy many times. I admired her intelligence, courage, strength, and prominence. I’m happy to name our daughter after her.”

François flashed her a grin. “Thank you for praising my mother.”

“I’ve just spoken the truth,” Anne assured.

Mary stayed at a distance; her heart swelled with relief as she observed the king. “Princess Louise was born on the Feast of the Ascension of Christ. That is a good omen!”

“Indeed,” Marguerite assented. “She will grow up a clever, strong, and lovely girl.”

The monarch’s amber eyes shone with the paternal affection he felt for his new child. “She will be the finest small jewel of our family. She will beautify our lives!”  

Anne’s misgivings dissolved. “Do you want to hold our Louise, sire?”

“Of course!” François theatrically extended his hands to Anne. “She is my treasure!”

Anne handed the infant to her father. “Be careful,” she requested as the child settled in the king’s arms. “You want to grab her in the same theatrical way as Oedipus pulled Antigone into his arms in Sophocles’ Theban plays. But she is not a woman to be treated so.”

“Louise is my girl!” François cradled the baby in the crook of his arm. “The ancient Greeks valued the power of spoken word, and oral storytelling flourished back then. Any word, poem, and gesture expressed emotion, so they glorified it. Are we worse than the Greeks?”

Anne, Marguerite, and Mary burst out laughing. The other ladies-in-waiting also tittered from the nearby room, where the door was left ajar, so they could hear the conversation.

My and Anne’s baby with our mingled blood! the monarch effused silently.  Several years had elapsed since one of his mistresses had birthed his child. Dauphin François and his two little daughters had been ripped from the world of the living. The king had not yet recovered from these tragedies, but now his bereavement was superseded by unconditional devotion to the baby Louise.   

As the infant stared at him, the ruler reminisced, “In childhood, I loved our mother’s eyes. When our father died, I was a heartbroken child of two summers, but the azure tenderness in our mother’s eyes lulled me into calmness. And to see these identical eyes again...”

A tear slid down Marguerite’s cheek. “That is true, brother. Our mother’s eyes were the most mesmerizing shade of azure with a touch of dark blue when she watched us together.”

The ruler brought his baby closer to him. As if in puzzlement, the child touched his cheek tentatively and peered into her parent’s eyes. François kissed the girl on the forehead, and little Louise giggled, which elicited laughs from Anne, Marguerite, and Mary.

François held the child, as if showing her off to an audience. “Anne, look at our daughter! She will be more intelligent and more formidable than her female relatives are altogether.”

Anne arched a brow. “You place such importance on her intellect.”

The king bounced the babe up and down in his lap. “I dislike brainless women. I respect only those ladies who make the most of themselves by fanning the sparks of possibility into the flames of accomplishment. How can we have stupid progeny, Anne? We are too smart!”   

This sent Anne over the edge. “Your Majesty must have fathered numberless bastards. Are all of your paramours and their illegitimate issue as smart as you want our daughter to be?”

“Oh my Lord,” Mary Stafford gasped.

“That is such an insult,” one of the queen’s maids opined in the adjacent room. Mary hurried to close the door, and then retired to the other side of the room.

“Anne!” Marguerite stepped closer to the bed. “Are you deliberately ruining this moment?”

“Family?” Anne rasped. “Do we have it?”

“Stop it!” the Navarrese queen berated. “Why do you need this clash?”

The monarch shot back, “My queen has simply reminded me of the terms of our marriage.”

“Brother, forget it. Anne, you should not–” Marguerite was interrupted.

“It is normal for my wife and me.” King François heaved a sigh as the infant’s eyes became chilly, as if her mother’s chilliness had transmitted to her. “Louise’s eyes are the color of water under a layer of ice. Our mother could be very cold as well, in particular in politics. The color of our daughter’s eyes will not let it slip from my mind that my wife loathes me.”

“I do not hate you, sire.” Anne sighed against the rush of stinging shame.

After kissing the baby, the ruler passed her to his queen. “You are my Antigone, Anne.”

His consort was bewildered. “What?”

The ruler’s gaze oscillated between the Boleyn sisters. “Sophocles portrayed his Antigone as a heroine who recognized her filial duty, unlike her sister Ismene. He outlined his ideal of the female character in Antigone, and I admire such women above all others. The bold Antigone went against King Creon’s decree in spite of the consequences to honor her deceased brother.”

He paused to let his speech sink in. “Anne, you do not need to defy anyone, for you have enough freedom in our marriage of convenience. But at least display the same loyalty to me as Antigone did to her family. Do not continue down the self-destroying path that will take us to a point where we will be willing to get rid of our misery by any means, perhaps even to die, just as Haemon, Antigone’s betrothed, committed suicide after finding Antigone dead.”

“Forgive me.” The Queen of France realized that she had crossed a line.

The ruler rose to his feet. “Be at ease: you will not see me until the court moves to Paris.”

“Oh.” Anne clamped her mouth shut.

“Maybe your love for our daughter will cleanse your soul of negative memories. But, as Socrates said, I only know that I know nothing.”  His low voice was flat like frozen floodwater.

Without a backward glance, a despondent François marched to the door and quitted the chamber. Marguerite followed him like a shadow of exasperated melancholy.

§§§

“What have you done, Anne?” Mary Stafford reproached her sister.

Leaving her younger sister alone in the bedroom, Mary ran after King François and Queen Marguerite. She found them in the antechamber with Doctor Jean Fernel.

“Is my wife all right?” questioned François with concern.

The medic inclined his head. “Being a strong young woman, she will bear more children.”

As the man bowed and exited, Mary approached the royals and curtsied to them.   

“Another child!” François snickered sorrowfully. “My own wife abhors even my touch, and I’ll abide by the terms of our deal. So, little Louise is the last addition to the Valois dynasty in the near future, unless Catherine de’ Medici is fertile and bears Henri’s child.”

Mary was biting her bottom lip. “Your Majesty, I apologize for Anne’s behavior.”

The king soothed, “You have no power over your obstinate sister.”

Marguerite lamented, “Oh, brother! Anne thinks that affection poisons marriage. She is pushing away her happiness with her own hands, depriving you of peace.”

“I’ll talk to Anne,” promised Mary, her expression resolute. “Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forward. I’ll explain that to her.”  

Disbelief painted his handsome features. “Anne is pertinacious, undaunted, and loyal to a fault, though not to me. She always stands by her beliefs, and they do not waver. If you succeed, Madame Stafford, you will deserve to be made immortal by Zeus.”

Mary parried half-seriously, half-jokingly, “I’ll not be ravaged by Zeus’ lust again.”

He heaved a sigh. “I thought that we left our affair and my unfairness to you are in the past.”

“Yes, sire.” She continued audaciously, “Yet, I remember the wonderful moments I spent with Your Majesty. I do not regret that we were… erm… close: you made me happy and more knowledgeable of myself, despite the heartbreak that followed your break-up with me. As I said, I’m grateful for your kind words, but you are not obliged to say them – you are a king.”

François’ affable gaze seemed to swallow her whole. “I’m glad that you have kept some fond memories of us. I consider you my friend, Madame Stafford.”

Mary would always remember this unforgettable man, even though she had realized that she had never truly loved him. “First impressions are the most lasting.”

Marguerite interposed, “Madame, you have survived through many trials and tribulations. Nevertheless, you are aware that a loveless life is like a living hell, and the old Anne Boleyn knew that as well. I pray that your sister will come to her senses.”

An aura of dejection encircled the ruler’s whole being. “I do realize the extent of the dreadful damage caused by Henry to Anne. I’ve been as gentle with her as possible. I’ve never asked for her love – all I need is friendliness, or at least no hostility towards me.” He sighed. “To be honest, it is no wonder Anne frequently collided with the intemperate Henry. Rage is not a typical feeling for me, but it is hard to handle such an unruly wife. Yet, I do not want to withdraw from her life.”

Mary’s shoulders slumped. “Anne cannot squander her second chance at happiness.”   

Marguerite counseled, “Brother, being slow and steady wins the race.”

“From your mouth to God’s ear.” A sense of futility permeated every cell of his body.

The sovereign of France spun on his heels, with his sister trailing after him.

Staring at the closed door, Mary huffed, “Oh, Anne.”

Anne and Mary Boleyn. The Boleyn girls, as they were labeled at European courts. They were as different as the Goddess Hera, the great Madame of marriage and procreation, and the lustful, flippant Goddess Aphrodite were in mythology. Anne had always been more intelligent, more serious, more willful, and more headstrong; and she had also been a darker and crueler person than Mary. Yet, Anne possessed the ability to attain the seemingly unachievable, and behind the layers of her ambition, her capacity to love was as immense as the heavens.

Mary was rather conflicted over Anne’s new union. I know how superficial the flamboyant François de Valois might be in his amours. Nonetheless, he may cease his profligacy, provided that Anne will put effort into rescuing their marriage. Years had passed since Mary’s liaison with the King of France, and their two personal conversations proved that he had matured into a better man. She had been prejudiced against François, but now her attitude changed.

“The king went to his rooms.” Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant, walked in.

This snapped Mary out of her reverie. “Yes, he did.”

The two former mistresses of King François scanned one another. Since Mary’s arrival at court, they maintained a distant, yet friendly, relationship. The two women were interested in each other in the light of their connection to the monarch; they were also worried about Anne.

Françoise shared her observations with Anne’s sister. “His Majesty is gradually falling for Queen Anne, but he does not understand that yet. One day, his sentiments towards her will morph into an overmastering love. No woman can resist such a strong feeling, unless she is as ill-disposed towards men and the idea of marriage as Her Majesty is at present.”

This was a befuddling turn of events. “Can François really love my sister? Or will he spend one night in her bed and then fly to someone else’s like a butterfly?”

“Yes, he can,” the countess assured with supreme certainly. “François never loved a woman before because he never met his female equal in all senses. Your sister is this woman. He may set aside others and pledge his heart to his lady love if she ceases shunning and disrespecting him.”

Mary tipped her head. “As a powerful king, he will not tolerate any insults.”

“King François extols chivalric courtship and noble marriage, but only if his lady is the most extraordinary one. Claude of France, Eleanor of Austria, and his mistresses were not this type of person, but your sister is. I hate the Spaniards, but I like ‘Amadís de Gaula’ by Garci Rodríguez de Montalvo. François is like Amadís who worshipped his Oriana for a long while, despite the postponement of their wedding and enmity between Amadís’ and Oriana’s fathers.”   

“I do not know the king enough to make such conclusions.”

“I shall always love François.” Madame de Foix’s countenance was imbued with her eternal adoration for him. “He discarded me years ago, but we have retained our friendship. I want him to be happy with your sister. I know him very well, and I swear that my words are as true as the fact that your sister is innocent of all the charges leveled against her in England.”

A dart of awkwardness struck Mary. “I believe you, Madame de Châteaubriant.”

“It is painful to watch Anne hurt François while also traumatizing herself. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, and if she takes it to him, he will make her content.”

Smiling at her own candor, the Countess de Châteaubriant fled the chamber. Her usually repressed amorous feelings for the ruler had resurfaced and hit her with a force so blinding that the harsh reality, where she was not loved by her idol, almost knocked the breath out of her.

Mary stood frozen to the spot. François wants their relationship to work, she observed critically. Even if there is no love between them, it is still far better for Anne to be François’ wife than Henry’s. François was far nobler, not volatile, and incapable of any atrocities perpetrated to inflate his ego or satisfy his vices. Once Mary’s sister had kept the attentions of the mercurial English king for nearly ten years, having driven him from his Spanish wife and the Vatican.

Would François fall in fervent, yet pure, love with Anne? Given that Anne and François had a great deal in common, Mary reckoned that it was a realistic possibility. Like Henry, François was a man of untamed amatory wildness, but he was a creature of far more subtlety than his English rival. In contrast to Henry, François needed a clever and talented consort. Love required peace and could not live upon the pitiful remnants of the past, Mary knew that for a certainty.

“We have a sister,” Charles de Valois, Duke d’Orléans, interrupted her musings.

A few moments later, Dauphin Henri, Prince Charles, and Princess Marguerite, together with Mary, entered. They had been invited to their stepmother’s apartments to meet their new sister.

§§§

“She is so bonny!” Princess Marguerite exclaimed.

“Little Louise is a Valois through and through.” Prince Charles voiced his observation.

“Louise after our grandmother,” Dauphin Henri said. “This name suits her.”

The king’s children surrounded the bed, where Queen Anne rested with her daughter.  

Henri was nervous about what he was going to ask. “Your Majesty!” He paused, this word still unfamiliar on his tongue relative to Anne as his father’s consort. “My friend would like to see the newborn if you don’t mind. Actually, she is waiting outside your rooms.”

“Dauphine Catherine?” quizzed Anne.

Henri shook his head. “No, Madame de Poitiers.”

The queen’s brow shot up. “Ah, I see.”

Charles huffed, “Your mistress, Henri? What has come over you?”

“Please, do not quarrel!” Marguerite did not want any arguments between them. It hurt her that her brothers often behaved like rivals for both the throne and their father’s heart.

“It is no use, sister.” Henri’s countenance tightened, becoming reminiscent of that feral look he had worn when he had confronted his father all those months ago. “Charles – not me – started this. He never misses an opportunity to disparage my best friend.”

Charles blustered, “A friend of yours? She is your putain! Henri, how dare you insult Her Majesty so? I bet our father, whom you blame for his philandering ways, has never asked our late mother, Claude, to meet with any of his lovers on the day of your birth.”

Henri’s look turned more ferocious. “Charles, don’t humiliate me and my lady love!”   

“God!” Marguerite could not stop these two stubborn mules.   

“Enough!” the queen interjected. “You will awaken my daughter!”

“Sorry,” Charles and Henri chorused.

“Charles, you are impulsive,” Anne berated the king’s youngest son. “A trait that you share with your father. You have to be more down to earth; otherwise you will never get success.”

Charles was genuinely sad. “I did not mean to upset you.”

The queen flicked her gaze to the dauphin. “Your Highness, I’ll meet your friend. And I hope it is the last time I see you and your brother at each other’s throats because of a trifle.”

“Remember that!” Marguerite was pleased that their stepmother had chided them both.

“I did not cause a scandal,” Henri defended himself.

The princes and the princess were gone. Soon Henri returned with his mistress.   

Diane swept a curtsey. “Congratulations on your daughter’s birth, Your Majesty.”

Henri and Diane approached the queen’s bed, and a short silence ensued.

Involuntary, Anne shivered under the woman’s seemingly affable gaze. As she peered into Diane’s eyes, she discerned only cold, as though she contemplated a realm of eternal snows.

Diane’s beauty, truly rare and incredible, impressed Anne a lot. Diane seems to be a flawless goddess, too perfect to be a mortal, she observed while perusing Madame de Poitiers. Although Anne remembered the woman from her early years in France, she had rarely seen Diane so close. Even after her arrival at court, Henri kept distance from his stepmother, and so did Diane.

A gown of black and white silk ornamented with pearls stressed Diane’s classic elegance. Yet, her beauty was icy cold, like that of an exquisite marble statue.  Her perfect face, with a petite nose and well-formed rosy lips, was framed by straight, waist-length, blonde hair falling down her back. Her eyes, crystal blue like the sky after a spring rain, shimmered with a chilly light, like the flashes of the steel blade on which the torchlight falls. Diane’s imperious brow and her proudly set chin, as well as the gaze of an empress accentuated her self-assumed superiority.   

With an aura of sweetness about her, Diane asked, “Is Your Majesty feeling well?”  

“I’m fine,” Anne answered, her scrutiny briefly touring to the sleeping infant in her arms and then back to Diane. “The newest addition to the royal family is also healthy.”

The other woman let out a smile. “I’m so very happy for King François and you. Although we women have to play many roles, none is more important than motherhood.”

Anne fired, “They should not interfere with politics. Is that what you are implying?”

Diane held her gaze unflinchingly. “We both have two daughters, but our intelligence makes us inclined to vehemently discuss things considered by many forbidden for females. What I meant to say is that in a man’s world, we still have to devote most of our lives to our children.”   

The dauphin supported his mistress. “Now, when our queen has a child, it will ease the pain stemming from her estrangement from her firstborn daughter, Elizabeth Tudor.”

It irked the queen that her stepson had not referred to her dear Lizzy by her proper title. Nevertheless, she responded evenly, “Somewhat, but not entirely.”

Diane put in, “The king and you can have more daughters for your happiness.”   

Henri nodded. “I’d love to have many sisters around me.”

They want me to have only girls, the incensed queen concluded. A surge of wrath filled her, and she warded off the desire to snap at them. “If it is God’s will, let it be so.”

Diane’s scrutiny shifted to the baby. “The girl’s name means a warrior. It reminds me of Madame Louise de Savoy, who was a true female knight of unprecedented intelligence.”

Anne kissed the child. “If my girl is like Madame Louise, it will be good for France.”

“Indeed,” admitted Henri. “Madame, we will not impose upon you anymore.”

Diane curtsied. “It was a sheer pleasure to see you and the princess.”

Henri bowed to his stepmother. “See you soon.”

As the lovers walked to the door, Anne observed Diane’s swan-like movements. The greater the distance between them was getting, the warmer air blew towards Anne. How could Henri fall for such a cold woman? Her beauty must have captivated him despite their age difference.       

When Dauphine Catherine came to her, Anne was so exhausted that she quickly dismissed her. After the little princess had been taken to the crib, fatigue vanquished Anne.

§§§

King François and Queen Marguerite strutted through the great hall. In the midst of marble statues, salamanders, and garlands, they looked every inch like the God Pan and the Goddess Demeter in their matching black-slashed attire of the finest asparagus silk wrought with gold.

The nobles bowed and curtsied to them, curiosity written across their faces.

All at once, François and Marguerite paused in the center of a long hallway.

The monarch announced, “Friends! Today, my wife, Queen Anne, has been delivered of a healthy girl. I’ve named her Louise in honor of our dearly-departed mother, Duchess Louise de Savoy.” With a smile, he twirled around to showcase the gladness he however did not feel after the quarrel with Anne. “Pray for the health and long life of my queen and our new child!”    

The jubilation of the courtiers was mixed with the murmurings of surprise.

“I’m the happiest man,” the ruler reiterated, displeased by their lackluster reaction. “Years ago, God called my two little daughters home.  I’ve wanted another daughter for so long!”

This worked like a spell on the assemblage.  Handkerchiefs were waved as the older women burst into tears at the remembrance of the two girls whom the youthful François had carried in his arms in front of his court, showcasing them in a prideful display of his paternal affection.

Marguerite shouted, “Long live King François and Queen Anne!”

“Long live Their Majesties!” the congregation echoed.

Anne de Montmorency, Constable of France, appeared behind his liege lord and the king’s sister. “Long live King François, Queen Anne, and Princess Louise!”  

“God bless Queen Anne!” cried Cardinal de Tournon. “She has given us a new princess!”  

This time, the cheers were unbridled as they congratulated their sovereign.

François leaned closer to his ministers. “Thank you both.”

“I’m always at your disposal,” Tournon answered with arrogance.

Montmorency’s smile was pompous. “I’m always where I must be – at my king’s side.”

“I’m a haughty creature, too,” the ruler acknowledged with a grin. “But an arrogant person considers themselves perfect. That is the chief harm of arrogance.”

Having administered friendly pats upon their shoulders, François and Marguerite strolled through the corridor adorned by busts of the heroic Heracles and his adventures in myths. In the contiguous hallway, an irate Claude d’Annebault was castigating Philippe de Chabot.

Chabot sniggered. “That Boleyn woman cannot bear sons.”

“How dare you slander Her Majesty!” Annebault fumed.

“Philippe,” François called harshly, and Chabot’s snickering died away.

The Admiral of France swept an obsequious bow. “How can I serve Your Majesty?”

The monarch scowled at him blackly. “Believe nothing of what you hear and half of what you see. I do not trust those groveling toadies who hover around me, hanging in faux awe on every even banal word that I utter. But I did not know that you are one of them, and I’m most vexed.”

A bit frightened, Chabot’s lips twitched. “I beg your pardon, my liege.”  

François forewarned, “Never speak of Queen Anne in this way again.”

“Or you will pay for it,” Marguerite supplemented.

The royals stomped away towards the staircase that led to the second floor.

“Do you want to be alone?” Marguerite asked her brother as they climbed the stairs.   

“Yes,” confirmed the ruler. With a sigh, she nodded and hastened to her rooms.


May 25, 1537, Château de Villers-Cotterêts, Villers-Cotterêts, Picardie, France

King François decreed, “Your reports must be ready by the end of the week.”

His gait like that of an annoyed, domineering master, the ruler crossed the presence chamber to the door. For his advisors, his mood swings were unusual, for he had a mellow disposition.  

Every day the barbs of his marriage scratched at the monarch’s consciousness. A week ago, Princess Louise had been baptized. Marguerite de Navarre and Maria, the Duke de Guise’s elder daughter, stood as the godmothers; Anne de Montmorency and the ambassador from Landgrave Philip of Hesse were the godfathers. François had not visited Anne after their collision.     

In the upper gallery, through the king marched, the walls were frescoed with mythological scenes. His gaze landed on the depiction of the Roman Goddess Venus in all her erotic beauty. A rapier of carnal hunger ripped through him, and his mind floated to Anne d’Heilly.   

“Groom!” the king shouted. “Fetch Madame d’Étampes.”

“A moment, Your Majesty.” The lad hurried to fulfill the order.

François directed his scrutiny at the plafond, fixing it upon the birth of Venus of sea-foam. A chaos of anguish, fury, and desperation was plundering him from the inside, and he needed the incarnation of Venus to yield to him. Anne is not inclined to be with me, and her attitude to me is brusque, to say the least. However, I still have my mistresses. Then he entered his apartments.

§§§

“François, mon amour!” Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly curtsied gracefully.

The King of France was lounging in a gilded armchair decorated with carvings of dryads. He wore only his hose and shirt after having stuffed his doublet into a large vase that stood near a table piled with books. He stood up and stepped to her, wrapping his hands around her waist.

Anne disentwined herself from his grasp and backed away. As she stopped near the table, she raised her skirts up enough that it was only barely covering her private parts.

He cleared his throat. “Is it a new game of yours, my Venus?”

She chortled. “I like having fun with you, my Zeus.”

The monarch closed the gap between them. “You are a naughty girl, Madame d’Étampes. Today, you will become my Antigone, and you will expel my sorrows.”

His mistress moaned wantonly. “I’ll do whatever you want, my king. But Antigone died in that great tragedy of Sophocles. Do you want me to live in the underworld?”

“Of course not. Just give me rapture.”

Grinning waspishly, the duchess uttered a cry of triumph in her mind. I’ve won the battle against that Boleyn slattern, she exulted in her mind. She birthed him a girl, and he came to me, just as he always does. The confidence of his immortal devotion to her instigated her to act.

Anne laughed. “Your Venus will beautify your life tonight.” Tossing her hair, she slid her skirts down to her knees, and then slowly removed her gown.

Suddenly, his desire ebbed away like the river rushing out of the estuary. Anger with himself for his initial intention to bed her ripped through François. The thick air of prurience about Anne was enhanced by a salacious glint in her eyes, and by her inviting gesture as she beckoned him to her. Oddly, to François at this moment, her image was repugnant rather than attractive.   

The king stepped back. “Get dressed.”

Her puzzled eyes bore into hers. “What? You are my second half, and I’m yours.”

Moving to the depths of the chamber, he cautioned, “Anne, your possessive and overbearing ways are perhaps the worst of all your weaknesses.” He returned to his armchair and took a deck from a black marble table that stood between two armchairs. “Let’s play Primero.”

His paramour donned her garments, struggling against the swell of tears in her breast. She seated herself next to him, and François dealt four cards to both of them according to the rules. In Primero, each player had three options: bid, stake, or pass. Every time Anne passed instead of staking the previous bid. Her thoughts were elsewhere: ideas on how to warp the monarch into her sticky web again whisked through her mind as fast as she was losing at the card table.

The last rim of daylight was gone. Servants lit candles and hurried to leave.   

“You have lost,” the king marveled.

“True.” Her voice sounded breathy.

“You are usually a brilliant gamester. What is wrong today?”

“You!” Anne repeated, “You, François!”

The ruler threw the deck at the table. His silence confused, tormented, and irked her.

The duchess expressed her wishes aloud. “François, I know that we cannot be married. But I’m yearning to be your official maîtresse-en-titre as long as we both live.”

For a long time, François was silent again. “I do not know, Anne.”  

Panic lacerated her insides. “Why?”

Her eyes searched his, but he averted them. “Something is happening to me.”

“What is it?” She stretched her hands to him, but he shoved them away.

Silence! Again! The lack of the monarch’s response was grating against the charred remains of the dreams of her happiness with François. Anne de Piselleu scrutinized his countenance: it was devoid of emotion, his eyes as blank as those of a stranger. He has changed since his wedding, but he continued bedding me regularly. Until today. Why, my king? She craved her lover to ride her hard until they reached many strong climaxes, but he had not touched her today.     

“François, I do desire to be yours!” The duchess stepped to his armchair and swatted him on the chest. “You are only mine! You do not belong to any queen or anyone else!”   

Something shattered in the king. “A wrong move, Madame d’Étampes.”

“François, I love you more than life itself,” she affirmed fiercely, gripping his forearm. Quite baffled, she put in, “You have always liked the tempestuousness of my nature.”   

Brushing her hand away, he crossed to the walnut cabinet adorned with geometrical motifs and moulded console frieze. “No one will ever dictate to me what to do.”

At present, the King of France looked at his chief paramour with fresh eyes, wondering how she had once ensnared him so utterly. I can take Anne de Pisseleu right now, and she will give me enormous physical gratification. Nonetheless, our encounters have long started to leave me as hollow as a tomb robbed of its corpse. His passion for her seemed to have faded after this fateful realization, like a funeral torch trampled out at some symbolic moment of a procession.

The emerald eyes brimmed with fear. “Mon amour, you cannot–“

The ruler interrupted, “Madame, for so long, I invested a great deal of my energy and time in doing many things to please you. I indulged you like a goddess. You and I were content together until you began taking my generosity and affection for granted, as though I owed you everything. As a result, now you reckon that you wield power over your own sovereign.”

The shock rooted her to the bed. “You are mistaken. Together we have fully experienced everything one could desire in life. Only moments earlier, we were together!”  

His ire deflated a little. “We celebrated my successes and expanded our ability to engage with life on a deeper level. Yet, you have long been pushing the boundaries too far.”

Anne feigned submission. “What should I do to please you?”

“Nothing, save leaving me alone.”

She yelled, “It is all because of that dratted English slattern! She gave you a daughter, just as she did to King Henry. But you prefer her over me, despite our long-term romance.”

His temper exploded in a boiling eruption, in an uncharacteristic way for the even-tempered François. “Get out! I warned you not to disparage my queen, but you have done so again, and that is unforgivable. Disappear now, or you will regret that we met all those years ago.”

He no longer loves me, does he? But how can it be true? the Duchess d’Étampes wondered, her face drenched in nervous sweat. An impermeable cloud of fright encompassed her, blinding her to all beyond the appalling picture of the king’s glare shooting daggers at her.

The duchess got dressed. “I shall remember this, Your Majesty.”  

“Go to one of your estates. If I forgive you, I’ll send a page to you.”   

She winced at his hostility. “I’ll wait for your letter.”

The noise of the shutting door behind her marked the end of the old era for the king.   

Although his wife continuously rejected him, François banished his maîtresse-en-titre. How to explain the hollowness in his heart, the grief over Anne’s estrangement from him, which were harrying him day after day? As he envisaged little Louise’s eyes glittering like water under a layer of ice, the ruler prayed that the love for their daughter would melt the cold in his consort’s soul.


June 10, 1537, Quirinal Palace, Rome, the Papal States

The sun had risen over the Quirinal Hill, the highest of the seven hills of Rome. Crowded with churches, aristocratic palazzos, and villas, this place housed the papal residence as well.

Inside the pontifical apartments, the gilded furniture glowed in the sunlight like tongues of flames. Those inquisitorial flames which incinerated the Protestants and all those who refused to recant. The interior’s luxury was fabulous: biblical frescoes by famed painters, bronze chandeliers, gilded ornaments whenever possible, golden statues, and the floor overlaid with red cloth.

Pope Paul sat at the black marble table, a half-empty goblet of wine in his hand. At the age of sixty-nine, he was still in good health and energetic. A grizzled beard framed the bottom of his wrinkled face that was the home of deep-set sly hazel eyes, which danced with life.

“Your Holiness!” Sir Nicholas Carew cried. “Let me kill Elizabeth Tudor!”  

“Pull in your horns, Carew!”  The Bishop of Rome drained the goblet and set it on the table.

Carew persevered, “I’ve been here for days. I must know what to do next.”

“Wait, my son.” The Pope gestured for him to be seated on a low stool beside him.    

“Thank you.” Carew made himself comfortable, stretching his legs out.   

Alessandro Farnese, known as Pope Paul III, was in a foul mood as of late. Everything was going wrong: the harlot had not only escaped her death in England while keeping her daughter as King Henry’s heir, but also married King François. Under her influence, England had broken with Rome, and France had formed the coalition with the Protestant nations. The prelate’s animosity towards Anne Boleyn was so intense that he would have burned her at the stake himself.

When the conclave had elected Farnese Head of the Catholic Church after the death of Pope Clement VII, he had obtained the pontificate in a turbulent era following the Sack of Rome in 1527. The worst danger for the true faith, as the Catholics called it, was the Protestant Reformation that had started in several countries, including England, and in German duchies. Additionally, the Holy Roman Empire was rife with spreading heresy and now also with internal political chaos in the aftermath of the emperor’s defeat in France and his brother Ferdinand’s capture.

The Pope was awash in relief that the rapacious appetites of Emperor Carlos for power had been curbed. He had reveled in the news of the injured emperor’s escape from the battlefield of Poitou. It was when his terror of seeing the holy city sacked once more by the Habsburg troops had relinquished its hold upon him. On the flip side, Farnese did not need an excessively strong France, also fearing the consequences of having the Protestant queen on the French throne.

She is a capable slut, that Boleyn girl, Farnese thought with abject loathing and yet grudging respect. She ensnared both Henry and François. Only Eleanor of Aquitaine married two kings. It did not matter whether Catherine of Aragon had consummated her marriage to Arthur Tudor. Like his predecessor, Paul would never have annulled Henry’s union with Catherine out of his fear before the emperor. When the Imperial invasion of France had been launched, he had been silent on the matter for the same reason. The Sack of Rome was too fresh in everyone’s mind.

Farnese leaned forward on his elbows with a tiny smile, fingers meshed. “Carew, now you are my main agent in England. Does it sit well with you?”

Nicholas Carew felt himself as important as Alexander the Great. “Most definitely, Your Holiness! It is an enormous honor for me to serve you in any way you sit fit.”

“Some of my orders might be unpleasant. Anyway, they will all be justified by the necessity to restore England back to the flock of Rome. It will be a long-term game.”   

Carew’s eyes blazed. “I shall be blessed to help you purify my homeland.”   

“I have a plan.” The Pope trailed his fingers across his chin. “It will take time for it to come to fruition. Perhaps years, depending upon how lucky we are in eliminating heretics.”   

“I’ll most eagerly destroy your enemies upon my return to London!”  

“Shhh!” Farnese created a steeple of his fingers, pressing them to his lips. “Do you know what makes a successful strategy? Patience, calculation, observation, and again patience!”

“I understand. Should I send you codified messages about the happenings in England?”   

“Yes. I need to think how to implement my stratagem.”   

Carew waved this aside impatiently. “Only letters? What else?”

The Pope regarded him forbiddingly. “Rage, rashness, and indiscipline. Even one of these qualities might lead to a blunder. I do appreciate your zeal, but I’m worried about you. You are ruled by strong emotion: urges and drives I cannot control. What if you are discovered?”

Carew clamored, “I’ll better die than disappoint you.”

Farnese raised a palm for silence. “William Brereton was my competent agent in England. His soul was full of fervor too, but he was skilled at pretense and hiding his true emotions. I loved him as my own son. Unfortunately, William died in vain despite all our efforts to dispose of the witch. Every day I pray that his brave soul finds peace in eternity, for he is surely in heaven. Your execution – God forbid it happens – will be another blow to our cause, perhaps a lethal one.”

A short silence ensued when the Pope prayed for Brereton, and so did Carew.

Nicholas Carew respected the dead agent; they had worked together for quite some time. “Brereton used to say that passion subdues reason. Not an uncommon affliction these days, for the lust after that whore led both Kings of England and France astray.”

“Indeed. Even François, once a staunch Catholic, was ensorcelled by the harlot.”

Carew kept nodding while Farnese spoke about Anne’s “transgressions”. Truth be told, the Pope’s sharp intelligence denied the existence of witchcraft, in spite of his sermons about it being pure evil. Any Supreme Pontiff was not only a churchman, but also a politician who governed the Papal States and interfered with international affairs. Farnese was skilled at swaying people to his point of view, just as he had done with Brereton upon the man’s recruitment as his assassin.   

“Your Holiness, will you send someone to France in order to rid of the whore?”

“I have enough allies at François’ court.” The Vicar of Rome pressed his fingertips to his mouth. “Quiet, my son! Your excessive curiosity and impatience might be your downfall.”

Carew toyed with the hem of his tunic. “I hope they will send the witch to hell.”

Farnese noticed Carew’s nervousness, which irritated him a lot. In contrast to him, Brereton had been a calm, smart man who had survived at the Tudor court for several years, having feigned his fealty to King Henry and his trollop. Brereton had played his limited number of cards deftly from first to last, and he could not have predicted that the riots would compel Henry to exile Anne. Fortunately, I have other agents in England. If Carew fails me, I shall still have them.

“They will,” the Pope said with confidence. “France will not be allowed to leave the fold of the Catholic Church. I’ll ensure that François’ trollop will not be a queen for long.”

“Your Holiness, I admire your craft and cunning!”

Farnese thought of Dauphine Catherine de’ Medici, the true daughter of the Roman Church. He maintained regular correspondence with her: both official one and secret one through his spies at the Valois court. If only she had given Dauphin Henri as many sons as her body could bear, the kingdom of France would have been under the leadership of the Catholic Pontiff forever, and all the seeds of heresy on French soil would have been purged with fire and sword.  

“At least, the Boleyn witch has failed to give François a son.”

A diabolic ardor ignited in Carew’s orbs. “I would gladly kill both of her daughters.”

Farnese inclined his head in his guest’s direction, wagging one finger in his face. “Bridle your enthusiasm, my son. You might never attain what we seek because of your emotions.”

This dampened Carew’s spirits. “I’ll do my best to discipline myself.”

The Pope rose to his feet and came to his agent from the back, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Our sacred duty is to serve Jesus Christ and spread the true faith across the earth as far as possible. Know this: regardless of the outcome, your soul will be in heaven for your courage.”

The Pope’s hand slid off his shoulder as he pivoted towards the door and exited.

Notes:

Happy New Year and Merry Christmas! I hurried to post this chapter before the end of the year. I want to finish this year on a positive note, not on Jane's miscarriage.

Please let me know what you think of this chapter. Thank you very much in advance.

Anne gave birth to François' first child, and it is a girl. Some readers may be disappointed because most of you wanted Anne to have a son on the first try. However, I do not think that it would have been interesting, and I want Anne to have a unique character arc with regards to her childbearing history. Her quarrel with François widens the rift between them, but ironically it also leads to the king's decision to discard his maîtresse-en-titre – Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly, who has an unconventional character arc.

Some readers are displeased that François still has mistresses. Even though Anne de Pisseleu was set aside, he still has Claude de Rohan-Gié. Let's look at François' relationship with Anne through the lens of a medieval/Renaissance monarch, and through the prism of logic. François and Anne do not have a marriage based on love at this stage: their union is a political arrangement, and Anne asked him to go on separate paths after their wedding, so he continues living like a free man. At the same time, François does not offend Anne: he is kind and attentive to her, but she pushes him away because of her understandable negative attitude to men and marriage. François realizes the damage Henry caused to Anne, but what can he do apart from being kind to Anne? Should he discard his mistresses if his queen does not want to be with him and refuses to perform her marital duties? Should François pursue her? Or should he dismiss all of his paramours just to please the woman who is cold to him? No king would have done that! Even in the modern setting, no man would have invested his time and emotions in such a marriage unless his wife changed her attitude to him. Moreover, François does not parade his mistresses in front of Anne and the whole court, and if he sleeps with them, it happens in his apartments. I think François does deserve more than Anne's hostility, for he is respectful of her and allowed her to stay in France when she came to him, which was a chivalrous thing to do.

That said, I want to make you happy: Anne's attitude to François will change soon. It will not happen in the next chapter, but it will occur quite soon. Anne is not heartless.

As usual, I have my characters quote or refer to classics, for example philosophers and ancient artists such as Sophocles and Socrates. They live in the Renaissance era! Sophocles is one of three ancient Greek tragedians whose plays have survived. The most famous tragedies of Sophocles feature Oedipus and Antigone: they are generally known as the Theban plays.

Primero is a 16th-century gambling card game, of which the earliest reference dates back to 1526. Well, the characters cannot always play piquet!

Pope Paul III (Allessandro Farnese) is plotting, and he will create many problems for Anne, Henry, and François. All the historical information about the Pope and his pontificate is correct.

I shall respond to all the reviews to the previous chapter in January.

Happy New Year! Yours sincerely,

Lady Perseverance

Chapter 20: Chapter 19: Lessons of History

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 19: Lessons of History 

June 25, 1537, Royal Palace of Valladolid, Valladolid, Spain

“There are traces of fatigue on your face,” observed Isabella of Portugal as she entered her royal spouse’s private chambers. “You have not slept well for many nights.”

“It is insomnia, wife,” Carlos V, Holy Roman Emperor, replied as he leaned back in his seat. “These days, sleep eludes me because I’m still feeling rather unwell.”

The Habsburg spouses peered at each other for nearly an eternity.

“At least, you are alive, husband.” Her expression turned despondent as Isabella thought back to the calamitous events which had transpired as of late.

At the beginning of May, Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alba, had delivered the wounded Emperor Carlos from France to Valladolid, the current seat of the Spanish court. The injuries, which he had received from French arrows in the Battle of Poitou, had been almost fatal, and Charon, the ferryman of Hades, had started transporting his soul along the Styx. For many weeks, the royal doctors had fought tooth and nail for the emperor’s salvation, and there had been a great celebration at court when their sovereign’s fever had broken.

The dawn light filtered in through the windows, filling the room with a soft golden glow. Its beam fell on the haggard face of Emperor Carlos with dark circles under his eyes. His pallor was sickening white, and his narrow face looked thinner than ever before. Although he was still relatively young, now Carlos looked older than his real age because of the considerable physical and psychological toll that his French disastrous campaign had had on him.

Nevertheless, Carlos was a handsome man of athletic build and average height. Marred by a protruding jaw, the distinctive mark of a Habsburg, his handsomeness was not perfect but remarkable, his strong features impressive, his deportment imperial. His smart hazel eyes were a shade darker than flaming torches. His appearance held the gentle sadness of a warrior deprived of a victory and simultaneously the jaded cynicism of a crafty ruler who practiced deception in his chicaneries. There was an air of supreme pride befitting a monarch around him.

Isabella stifled a cry of horror as she scrutinized her husband once more. At present, he was so thin that his bones seemed to have pressed into the fabric of his austere tight-fitting, high-collared doublet of black velvet slashed with silver tinsel. His black silk trunk hose accentuated his spindling legs, which had been far more muscled before his departure to France.

“Should I summon the physician?” She came closer, concerned.

He briefly touched the gray velvet cap that hid his short brown hair. “No, mi amor. You have been worried for me for so long. Now look after yourself and our children.”

She stopped in the middle of the room. “Your wellbeing is my priority, Carlos.”

A tiny smile warmed his countenance. “You are a model wife and queen, Isabella. I do not know what I would have done without you.” Then his expression transformed into blankness again. “I awoke in the dead of night and looked through my latest correspondence. The attacks of the Ottoman ships on our fleet are so unsettling that I could not fall asleep again.”

The empress looked away, contemplating tapestries of biblical stories and lives of the saints. “That is the result of your own mistakes.”

His fists clenched into tight balls. “You keep calling my invasion of France a grave error! I cannot tolerate your daily reminders of something I seek to cleanse from my mind.”

“But you cannot, and you never will.”

He inclined his head. “That is true. We lost, and my honor as a general was besmirched.”

“What about the King of France’s honor? You attacked him!”

He uttered rhetorically, “For the most part, integrity and politics are incongruent.”

Her footsteps light and measured, Empress Isabella crossed to his chair. “I must say that I’m not accustomed to seeing the mighty Habsburg monarch so helpless, so pitiable, and, even worse, full of self-pity. Now you resemble the defeated Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus who fled from Gaius Julius Caesar with his tail between his legs after the Battle of Pharsalus.”

Emperor Carlos bounced to his feet like a wild caged animal. “Damn the French! I’ve become the Habsburg Pompeius! I ran away from the battlefield of Poitiers! Or, strictly speaking, my loyal commander, the Duke of Alba, evacuated me because I was severely wounded.”

She stiffened, uncertain why her words unsettled him so. “You almost died.” She crossed herself, for the thought of his passing was more tormenting than would be that of her own sudden demise. “Each and every wee hour, I thank our gracious Lord that you are alive.”

Isabella had spent many anguish-filled days and nights nursing Carlos back to health. She had prayed fervidly for him, shedding lakes of tears and crooning to him about their eternal love and their offspring, until one afternoon he had opened his feverish eyes. When a sense of doom had prevailed all over the Habsburg domains, her voice had guided him back to reality. Carlos is alive, and I do not care whether he was defeated or not, Isabella bemoaned silently.   

Pacing to and fro relentlessly, the emperor was frowning like a fiery spirit of exasperation. His thunderous demeanor was matched by the chamber’s austere and unusual luxury. Two walls were swathed with Flemish biblical tapestries, which had been delivered from his native Ghent. The decoration on the other walls was a peculiar combination of Moorish, Renaissance, and Gothic elements. Many pieces of massive ebony furniture with inlays of precious stones and gold were tastefully scattered around the room; bone and ivory inlays showed Moorish influence.

Passing by a line of X-shaped walnut chairs, Carlos shrilled, “The Habsburg Pompeius! That is how that damned Valois miscreant calls me! Even when my fate was not yet known in Christendom, and we kept my bad condition secret, he already labeled me so.”

After the Battle of Bourges, King François had embarked on an extensive campaign of defaming Emperor Carlos in versatile colorful and memorable epithets. Clément Marot and other poets, patronized by the Valois siblings, had issued pamphlets celebrating the brilliant victory of France and her Protestant allies over the Holy Roman Empire. Carlos was nicknamed ‘the most evil Spaniard’, ‘the most incompetent Habsburg ruler’, ‘the Flemish devil whose reign crippled Spain’, and ‘the Habsburg Pompeius’, and he was also called a murderer, a liar, a thug, and a broken cur. It was François’ retaliation for the earlier aspersion of his own character.

His wife eased herself into a frailero next to a walnut table, where her husband’s Book of Hours lay. “King François is merely using the same weapon against you as you applied against him. But the difference is that you calumniated him, while he is defending himself.”

Pausing beside the ebony cabinet, Carlos glowered at her from beneath his furrowed brows. “Or perhaps His Grace of Alba’s escape plan was a work of genius. That Valois libertine must have commanded men to capture me, just as he took Ferdinand prisoner.”

“Ah, Ferdinand.” Isabella was fidgeting with her rings, twisting them back and forth on her slim fingers. “He is another victim of your animosity towards François.”

He resumed wandering around the chamber. “Contrariwise, my brother supported me. But what has happened to you, mi vida? Once you were a pillar of strength for me, helping me through all the difficulties in my life. Nonetheless, now you castigate me time and time again.”

Isabella’s dispassionate voice cut through the stuffy air. “Drama begins where logic ends. Human beings lose their logic in their vindictiveness.” Her voice took on a higher octave. “And you have lost the sight of everything, except for your hatred of François.”

She rubbed him the wrong away again. “A wife must always be the greatest strengthener for her husband, in particular if he is a monarch who lost his honor on the battlefield.”

Her irritation was growing. “Now you resemble the enraged King of England. According to gossip, the Tudor temper is so volatile that aggressive gesticulations are the least that his courtiers have to behold when their mercurial sovereign erupts his rage, burning them with it.”

The emperor halted, looking at her in surprise mingled with hurt. “Now you compare me to that heretical man whom I once called my uncle?! I do not kill women!”

The Holy Roman Empress shot to her feet, and poured the truth into his face. “No, you are not a queen-killer, Carlos. Yet, you are capable of accusing another monarch of murdering your elder sister, while knowing perfectly well that François is totally innocent, and Eleanor died of natural causes.” She stilled for a moment, then emphasized, “Your French archrival is many things, but he is the quintessence of chivalry. François neglected poor Eleanor and preferred to be with his paramours, but he would never have harmed her or any other of royal blood.”

Carlos looked puzzled like someone who had continuously failed to untie the Gordian knot throughout years. “Isabella, why do you–” 

Her voice rose like a shriek on the wind as she interrupted him, “Husband, you find no fault with your behavior. You have conveniently ignored that you have been keeping your own mother, Queen Juana of Castile, locked in the palace in Tordesillas for years. You visit her very rarely and tell the whole world about her madness while knowing that she is not sick.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “I’ve long asked myself how you can do this to the woman who birthed you.”

Though shocked, Carlos had the decency to look ashamed. “Isabella, I–”

“Sometimes, rulers must compromise their integrity and even to hurt their loved ones for the greater good of their countries, as they say to themselves. Is that what you want to say?”

“Yes. That is true, wife.” His voice was cold.

This time, Isabella started pacing nervously, occasionally glancing at her spouse. “Since 1517, you have been the sovereign of the Kingdom of Aragon and its territories, as well as the Kingdom of Castile and León and its lands. You have power thanks to Queen Juana, Carlos!”

His gaze flicked to a window where rainy clouds were scudding across the summer sky. “It will rain soon, as if the heavens wish to mourn for my mother’s misery.”

“That must be true!” she cried in a most reproachful tone. “At first, our grandfather, Ferdinand of Aragon, had Aunt Juana confined to her residence in Tordesillas. He invented this horrible lie and spread rumors about her insanity so that he could rule in her stead. Years later, you relocated to Spain from Flanders, and she invested you with power, perhaps in the hope that you would release you, but you did not – instead, you have strengthened the legend of her insanity. Juana’s own son and father made her life a life-long night without sunrise.”   

He acknowledged, “Yes, I’ve caused her afflictions.”

Stopping near the window, Empress Isabella implored him, “Then release her.”

“I cannot.” There was a ring of finality in his voice. “No one in Spain would ever consent to have a woman with my mother’s history as their queen regnant.”

She did not resist the urge to take umbrage at his casual admission. “I’ve served as your regent several times, and you have always been happy with the result.”

Emperor Carlos approached his wife. “Isabella, you are my jewel,” he effused, clasping her hands in his. “You are the most remarkable woman! Despite our enmity, there is something François and I do agree upon. Female intelligence is a real treasure, and it should be a boon to any husband. Men who have trouble with clever women are sad specimens of manhood.”

The empress squeezed his hands in hers, entwining their fingers. “I like what you say – it is so fair and charming. Your rare wit is carrying me to paradise on earth.”

Carlos pulled her into his arms. “Then don’t berate me and assist me in everything.”

Forthwith, she disentangled herself from him. “Will you be kinder to Aunt Juana?”

His expression regained its austerity. “I’ll not let her live at court. You should think of Prince Philip and our other children instead of interfering on my mother’s behalf.”

Isabella stomped over to the other side of the room. “You are a God-fearing man, my dearest spouse. However, you are capable of perpetrating awful things for the sake of power.”

“Greatness might be achieved only with sacrifices.”   

Her voice was thick with bitter disappointment. “At times, I do not recognize the gentle and caring man I married all those years ago. Queen Juana and King François have taken the brunt of your detrimental lust for power. You made your mother your prisoner to rule in her stead. You dreamed of subjugating France to amass more power and wealth, but the Lord stopped you.”

“What are you implying?” He settled himself into a nearby ladder-back chair.

She plucked up the courage to pronounce what would enrage him again. “No foreign realm, with their own culture, their traditions, and their legitimate ruling dynasty, is yours to take. I must confess that I’m glad you did not succeed in conquering France. This country suffered enough at the hands of the English invaders during The Hundred Years’ War.”

“You are defending my enemies! The House of Valois must fall!”   

The queen continued coolly, “Your armies plundered and pillaged the French land far and wide while carrying out their unholy work, which their sovereign ordained. How many people lost their loved ones? How many were deprived of their homes, falling into destitution? François will need a lot of money to restore his war-battered realm to economic stability.”

“According to the Duke of Alba, the French stole all our wealth from our deserted camps.”

“Fair enough!” As her gaze fell to her bosom from where dangled a golden cross adorned with diamonds, her heart compressed into a knot. “Dear God, Carlos! I was told that you did not take prisoners at Arles, but brutally slaughtered fifteen thousand Frenchmen. Your friend, the Duke of Alba, enlightened me that after Ferdinand joined his forces with yours in the defile near the town, you had the opponent encircled and enjoined to destroy them all without sparing anyone. At Tours, your men murdered eight thousand French soldiers because you commanded to kill them all. Alba confided in me that even Ferdinand was surprised with your barbarity.”

“And what?” Anger whitened his visage to an ashen color.

“At least, François did not kill every Spanish, Italian, German, and Swiss man who served you. He took prisoners after his victories in Orléans, Poitou, and Bourges.”

“He is such a valiant, noble knight!” At this moment, he loathed his French counterpart more than ever equally for his fiasco in France and for his wife’s sympathy to the foe.

“King François is not in the wrong – you are.” As if to back up her words, the firmament rumbled, and a crack of barely visible black lightning shot across the sky.

His shoulders sagged like those of someone crucified at the altar of his ambition. “Your words sadden me a great deal, Isabella. When have you become so charitable towards the French? Our glorious grandparents, the greatest Catholic monarchs, despised them wholeheartedly.”

Isabella admired her husband’s martial prowess, but his obsessive hunger for power was daunting. “You have forgotten lessons of history. The legacy of earlier wars includes unfinished business from incomplete or partially implemented peace deals and treaties, some of them being a mere product of fiction to procure a temporary break and then to attack again.”

His ire deflating, Carlos felt weak. “I do not yet know what to do. Spain is in a terrible situation, with our treasury empty, the Turks being in Genoa and also blockading our ports.”

Outside, the rain had begun in earnest. The firmament darkened with thickening clouds, their massive shadows creeping eerily above the palace. Morning was dawning, but there was not enough light, as though if it were a portentous sign of the approaching Day of Judgement.

His consort glanced at a stunning tapestry depicting the Virgin Mary and the baby Jesus. “Looking at this wall hanging, I imagine Spain as God’s child in the Virgin’s hands. But will these hands be gentle to our realm? You should not have invaded France, Carlos.”

However, the monarch stood his ground firmly. “I had to punish that Valois satyr for my elder sister’s unhappiness. I also had to settle scores with him; he remains my mortal foe.”

“Eleanor was a sweet, noble-minded, and pious woman. She wrote to me that she had longed for François, but he could not overlook what you did to him and his sons after his surrender to you at Pavia. He could not bring himself to bed her even once after their wedding night. Yet, she loved him! Do you really think that she would have approved of your deeds?”

“Politics is a multifaceted thing not related to love.”

Her eyes followed the rivers of raindrops on the panes. “I’m so very afraid for your soul. Is this heavy rain not a mystic sign of nature’s mourning for it?!”

Swiveling sharply, Empress Isabella stormed out, tears brimming in her eyes. During their discourse, she had been tenacious and persistent in her attempts to convince her husband of the necessity to steer him from his vengeful path towards the road to peace with France. I’ve been checkmated, and now dread has encompassed all that has not happened but might, she noted.   

§§§

Swearing under his breath, Emperor Carlos rose to his feet. As he stomped over to the window, the pain in his ribcage intensified, grimly reminding him that he was still convalescing. His physician had informed him that he would make his full recovery in the next few months, but that his scars would probably throb in bad weather or if he strained himself excessively.

He gazed out at the rainy gardens. “Isabella!” he pronounced her name in a voice laced with everlasting devotion. “Do not leave me, mi amor…  I’ll eliminate the strife between us.”

The answer was the strong downpour of rain onto the roof and against the windowpanes. The lightning flashed like a serpent of mortality, and, as if in the moment of sudden illumination, Carlos was disturbed by the anticipation of death. Diverting his mind from what he had dismissed as superstition, he admired the park where pines and cypresses watched over the colorful foliage.

“All will be well,” the ruler persuaded himself, his forehead pressed to the glass. “Isabella and I have a glorious future ahead.” But why did he have an unknown sick presentiment?


 July 10, 1537, Royal Palace of Valladolid, Valladolid, Spain

The Holy Roman Emperor and Empress sat at the heads of a long ebony table; Spanish advisors occupied their respective places. The council room was lit by torches in wall sconces, revealing the beauty of tile mosaics with geometrical patterns reminiscent of textiles.

“The Turks attacked Buda again,” grouched Emperor Carlos, reclining in a walnut chair.

Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alba, enlightened, “The Austrians are currently defending Buda to the best of their ability. However, the other Hungarian forces stationed to the south of Buda experienced a brutal slaughter at the hands of the Ottoman Sultan Suleiman’s troops. Their chief general, Wolfgang von Rogendorf, proved to be incompetent and was killed.”

“The Turks might annex the whole of Hungary.” The ruler’s frown was so fierce that it seemed to form a single line above his eyes. “That would be horrible for this country.”

Francisco de les Cobos, who was the secretary of State and Comendador for the kingdom of Castile, underlined, “That would be a disaster for the entire Christian world.”

Once more, Carlos studied the alarming missive from his sister-in-law, the spouse of Ferdinand von Habsburg. “Queen Anna of Bohemia and Hungary is entreating that we send her fresh, well-equipped forces to hold back the hordes of the heathens.”

In 1521, Anna of Bohemia and Hungary had married Ferdinand in Austria. At the time, Ferdinand had governed the House of Habsburg’s Austrian lands on behalf of his elder brother.   Being the only daughter of King Vladislaus II of Bohemia and Hungary, she was also known as Anna Jagellonica, a member of the Jagiellonian royal dynasty of Poland. After Anna’s brother, Louis, had perished in the Battle of Mohács against the Turks in 1526, the thrones of both Bohemia and Hungary had become vacant. Therefore, Ferdinand had claimed both kingdoms and been elected King of Bohemia on the same year, making Anna Queen of Bohemia.

Ferdinand and Anna had a good marriage, just as Carlos and Isabella did. Although their union had been an arranged one, they had grown to love each other, but Ferdinand’s eye wandered to pretty women from time to time, unlike his brother’s. Nevertheless, Anna was almost constantly pregnant since their wedding, and the couple had many offspring. Like Carlos, Ferdinand adored and respected Anna’s intelligence and her formidable strength of will, which set him apart from other men of the time, and which she held close to her heart, loving her husband for that.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Cobos addressed his sovereign. “We cannot do this.”

“Damn François!” The emperor crumpled the letter and tossed it on the floor. “If only Ferdinand had not been captured, he would have protected his lands. Now we must pray that his smart wife will be able to raise funds and hire more mercenaries for her army.”

The councilors all nodded in unison, seething with hatred for the French king.

“Indeed, we cannot spare any men,” Empress Isabella chimed in, her scrutiny focused on her husband. “Six months earlier, the Ottoman fleet launched assaults on our ports – Alicante, Algeciras, Ceuta, Almería, Malaga, Valencia, and Barcelona. We immediately dispatched many war ships to these ports so as to repel the foe, but the Turkish ships are lighter and can attack more quickly than ours. Moreover, the Ottomans carry powerful artillery on board: their cannon and muskets annihilated our initial forces and all the reinforcements which arrived later.”

The Spanish ruler briefly touched the tight, high lace collar of his black brown doublet, which made his head seem detached from the body. “The rise of Ottoman naval power commenced with the decline and ultimate fall of the Byzantine Empire. However, the Turks are not unbeatable, and we proved it during the Conquest of Tunis a mere two years ago.”

Cobos recalled, “Several years earlier, Hayreddin Barbarossa established a strong naval base in Tunis. He used it for their violent raids in the region, especially on nearby Malta. Yet, we destroyed Barbarossa’s fleet, partly thanks to the protection of the Genoese navy.”

“Barbarossa is a talented martial man,” the Duke of Alba assessed. “Unfortunately, His naval victories have secured Ottoman dominance over the Mediterranean sea. Yet, we made him run away from Tunis, because we summoned troops which were in far greater numbers than his.”

Isabella interjected, “As far as I remember, Barbarossa abandoned Tunis well before the arrival of our forces there, sailing away into the Tyrrhenian Sea.”

Alba furrowed his brows, and told her, “Exactly, Your Imperial Majesty. But that seaman comprehended the futility of his resistance to our mighty army, so he fled.”

As his gaze locked with his spouse’s, Carlos commented, “Fernando, my dearest friend, you became a true hero in Tunis. Moreover, you saved my life in France.” A smile flittered across his countenance like a ray of sunshine. “That is so admirable and very commendable!”

“Bravo, Your Grace!” Francisco de les Cobos lauded. “You attained the unachievable and rescued our beloved liege lord from the claws of our mortal adversary.”

“God bless Your Grace!” Isabella’s voice was gentle and friendly. “I’ll never repay you back for what you did for my husband, and neither will our empire.”

“Thank you so much!” A flush of pride and embarrassment suffused Alba’s cheeks. “But I just did my duty to my liege lord, for whom I would eagerly have given my life.”

“I do appreciate it,” the emperor said sincerely.

Isabella veered her gaze to the Duke of Alba. “I’m astonished that Your Grace succeeded in taking my husband out of the French encirclement and through the territories of France and Navarre back to Spain. You crossed the Pyrenees with my incapacitated Carlos.”

“The French had a spy in our camp.” The emperor alluded to Ercole d’Este, whom he was itching to punish for betrayal. “But we had our accomplice among the Catholic French nobles, who dislike François’ union with the Boleyn whore and his policy of religious tolerance.”

Carlos and his subjects snickered. Isabella raised a quizzical brow, but asked nothing.

The monarch glanced at the duke. “However, I agree with what my wife said about our triumph in Tunis. Your Grace, do not allow your success to go to your head and cause your growth to stagnate.” Reluctantly, he added, “My overconfidence was our downfall in France.”   

The Duke of Alba concurred. “We underestimated the French.”

Cobos sought to lift the king’s spirits by flattering, “Your Imperial Majesty remains the best general in the world. As you always beat your own records, we will crush King François.”

“I hope not,” Isabella parried. “The invasion of the Valois realm was a mistake.”

Alba and Cobos directed their apprehensive scrutiny at the ruler. They were aware of the empress’ attitude to their operation in France, as well as of the discord between the royals.

The emperor barely reigned in his temper. “I would rather not speak about it.”

“Why not, Carlos?” she deadpanned, her mouth curved in irony. “There are important lessons of history, but you ignored them before the invasion. The English endeavored to subjugate France for longer than a century, but they were eventually ejected from the continent, save for Calais. It was clear from the beginning that the French would fight for their liberty with arms, men, and intelligence at their disposal, and that the fruits of their labors would pay off.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Carlos acquiesced.

Cobos switched to the topic at hand. “What will Your Imperial Majesty do now?”

The ruler glanced at the duke. “I appoint Your Grace the chief commander in all of my domains. Tomorrow, you will travel south and prepare to break the sea blockades.”

Many of the ports had been blockaded after the Turkish fleet had sunk the Imperial one near the southern coast of Spain. Accordingly, foreign trade choked off, and the farmer’s markets became a dominant force in the food supply, so at least the agricultural industry bloomed.   

The Duke of Alba jumped to his feet and approached the emperor. As he genuflected, he vowed, “I’m honored, my liege! I shall serve you well until my dying day.”  

“I know, my friend.” Carlos patted his shoulder. “Now rise.”

“My life belongs to my country and you.” Alba returned to his place.

The empress broached the most unnerving subject. “The problem is that the state treasury is almost empty. We funded the expedition to Tunis with the gold and silver we received from the New World after they had been exchanged to money in Genoa.” She stilled to gather her thoughts. “Unfortunately, the majority of Genoese fleet was obliterated by Barbarossa’s forces during the siege of Genoa, which capitulated and is now occupied by the Muslims.”

The emperor finished, “As a result, the Genoese bankers cannot give us anything.”

“God save us!” Cobos and Alba crossed themselves. “The heathens are in Italy!”

An agitated Carlos started drumming his fingers against the side of the table. “It is the entire fault of that Valois rat. His alliance with the Ottoman Empire has long been a thorn in my side. François and Suleiman must be still plotting against my family.”   

Francisco de les Cobos wondered, “Will the Pope condemn the King of France for his alliance with the heretic nations and for his arrangement with the heathens?”  

“His Holiness has been silent so far,” noted the Duke of Alba.

“That Boleyn witch!” The Habsburg monarch cringed in abhorrence. “She ensorcelled two rulers. She compelled the King of England to break from the flock of Rome, and replaced my aunt, Catherine, on the English throne. Now she must be driving François away from the Vatican, for France will surely become far more tolerant towards the heretics.”

Cobos bobbed his head. “Anne Boleyn must indeed be a witch.”  

“I do not believe in sortilege,” contradicted Alba. “As for my opinion about the matter, I think we need to wait and watch your enemy’s steps and moves.”

“That is the best course of action,” Carlos assented.

Anne Boleyn is such a controversial woman, Isabella of Portugal mused. Doubtless she is not a whore. If she had been the Tudor ruler’s mistress before their marriage, she would have gotten pregnant quickly, just as she did after her marriage first to King Henry and then to King François. Isabella’s sentiments towards Anne Boleyn were conflicted, and she was interested in this notorious lady. While Isabella scorned Anne for her role in the religious reform in England and for Catherine of Aragon’s sorrows, she had a grudging respect to the unique woman who had changed England and later assisted the King of France in winning the Franco-Spanish war.

Her response was neutral. “I would rather not judge a person without knowing them.”

Her husband was surprised by her oration. “Anne Boleyn is a heretical strumpet who has perpetrated innumerable crimes, and whose soul must be burning in hell. As she is now married to that French blackguard, His Holiness must excommunicate them both.”

She shook his head. “Rash conclusions are usually accompanied by ignorance and lack of knowledge. They tend to be a manifest injustice. Nobody knows the Lord’s will.”  

A pause stretched between them. Carlos contemplated Isabella in befuddlement.   

Francisco de les Cobos coughed to secure the room’s attention. “Your Imperial Majesties, what about King Ferdinand? Should we start negotiations about his release?”

“Of course, do this,” the Habsburg king decreed. “If only we could pay my brother’s ransom…  I hope Anna of Bohemia will collect it.” Bitterness colored his intonation.  

The ruler’s wife pointed out, “Be calm regarding Ferdinand’s fate. At present, he is being kept in a comfortable château, so he will not catch some deadly fever. Just negotiate the terms of his release, which will undoubtedly be far harsher than those of François’ release.”

“The meeting is over,” barked Emperor Carlos, glaring at her.

Rising to her feet, Isabella echoed, “Over!” After curtseying, she vacated the room.

§§§

The two Imperial subjects did not dare break the murky silence that followed Isabella’s hasty departure. While admiring and respecting the empress, they were more traditional men than their liege lord, thinking that a woman must run her husband’s household and bear his children, in particular sons. Despite Isabella’s successful governorship, Cobos secretly dreamed that one day, the emperor would appoint him regent of Spain during his frequent, long absences.

“We must fill our coffers,” the emperor repeated again and again.

“We will have to raise taxes,” Cobos assumed, and Alba nodded.

The ruler snarled, “Those heathens have lost any shame.”

“The Muslims have no heart,” opined the Duke of Alba. “They are barbaric and perilous to the civilized world, and they have neither shame nor any good feelings.”

A low, rough male voice spoke from the doorway. “The heathens are the most dangerous threat to Christianity. It pains me that François de Valois, who was once called His Most Christian Majesty, allied with them. And he even wed that English heretical demoness.”

Carlos, Alba, and Cobos turned their heads to Alonso Manrique de Lara y Solís. Clad in red cardinal raiment, their guest was Bishop of Badajoz and of Córdoba, Archbishop of Seville and Inquisitor General of the Spanish Church. His small, harsh eyes, which glittered with steel of inquisitorial torture, showed no pity to those who abjured the Catholic faith; they were framed by black eyebrows that resembled an eagle’s wings, and his beard was white and sagging.  

The emperor tipped his head. “François has sinned by marrying the Boleyn slut.”

With a truculent air about him, the chief inquisitor walked in. “The Valois king and queen are sinners. The Almighty will forgive neither him nor his pagan courtesan.”

While Cobos nodded, a shiver ripped down the spines of Carlos and Alba.

While crossing the room, the prelate bowed and affirmed with fanatical zeal, “It is our sacred duty to eradicate the heathens from the face of the earth. To accomplish this, we must deal with our inner troubles and then launch a crusade to re-conquer Constantinople.”

This time, everybody was in prefect agreement with the cruel man who sometimes made even Carlos von Habsburg, a devout Catholic, feel uncomfortable in his presence.

§§§

“Carlos,” Isabella drawled the name of her beloved. “Our relationship is deteriorating.”

Leonor shook her head. “His Imperial Majesty loves you madly, more than the chance to see his next sunset. Soon you will reconcile; there can be problems in any marriage.”   

Doña Leonor de Mascarenhas was the empress’ chief lady-in-waiting. She loved Isabella and was her close friend, having come to Spain from Portugal with her mistress in 1526.

The empress was not optimistic. “Oh, Leonor! You know how stubborn Carlos is. Will he ever realize that there are hollow victories when the cost outweighs the gain? What happened in France is not even a Pyrrhic victory – it is a calamity for us all and for Spain.”

When Emperor Carlos returned to his bedchamber, he found his spouse lounging in a high-back, pine chair adorned with the Habsburg coat of arms. Her melancholic expression was accentuated by the somber interior that seemed to have been designed to sadden visitors.

Hoping that they would reconcile, Leonor curtsied and retired.

The walls, swathed in brown brocade and frescoes from the Life of St. Carlos Borromeo, had alternating niches and windows. The ornamentation of columns and niches was splendid, but dark. All of the furniture was ebony, and the carpet a deep maroon. The needlepoint cushions on black-brocaded chairs and coaches must have taken months for a master to embroider so prettily. A large bed, canopied with golden velvet curtains edged with bright yellow tassels.

Isabella stood up, slowly and regally. “I’ve been waiting for you, mi amado.”

“I’m glad you have come here, mi vida,” Carlos murmured, mesmerized by her.

The spouses sighed so deeply that their sighs seeped through their entire beings. Outside, the weather was hot, and the air was scented with variegated blossoms in the park. Yet, it was again raining, and the sky was gloomy, just as it had been on the day of their last serious quarrel, as if the summer sunlight wasn’t going to grace this part of Spain with its benevolence.

“Our woes are debilitating,” she complained.

His brows knitted in a momentary line of consideration. “Can we forget about them just for a moment? We are together, and we will cope, Isabella.”

Afraid that her unspoken yearnings had made her misinterpret his words, Isabella gaped at him. After all, their collisions had been frequent since his awakening from fever, to her profound chagrin. But, at this moment, Carlos was smiling at her with spiritual fondness – a smile of such warmth, of such tenderness, and of such devotion which he reserved only for his spouse. Grinning back at him, her heart hummed a melody of marital happiness in her breast.

She spoke breathlessly, “Can you give me your word that you will not undertake another risky foreign expedition? Never again! I cannot bear the thought of losing you.”

Carlos could not promise his beloved wife what he would not do. “It will depend on the enemies of our empire. Adversarial politics towards them always demand the immediate taking of stands and the exaggeration of even minor differences so that we can defend ourselves.”

“But you will not leave me and our children anytime soon, will you?”

The naked hope in her lovely eyes goaded him into striding over to his queen. He had spent countless nights under the skies of France, on the battlefields and in his military tent longing for the sight of Isabella’s smile and her eyes smoky with yearning for him to deny himself the taste of her mouth for another moment. He hugged her and crushed his lips into hers.

As they parted, Carlos eyed his consort. Isabella of Portugal, Holy Roman Empress, was lovelier than any of the women who had caught his eye throughout his bachelorhood.

Tall, shapely, and leggy, the mature Isabella was still an exquisitely beautiful nymph, with golden hair rippling down to her shoulders, almond-shaped eyes of cerulean azure shadowed by long, light eyelashes, a rose-bud mouth, a retroussé nose, and a well-formed, determined chin that was not protruding, unlike her husband’s. Her flawless skin was porcelain, save the blush that spread over her cheekbones thanks to her growing desire for her spouse.

In 1521, Carlos had become betrothed to Mary Tudor, who had been King Henry’s legitimate daughter back then, and who had been sixteen years younger. The Italian War of 1521-26 had caused his serious financial hardship, and he had desperately needed Isabella’s huge dowry to refill the Spanish state coffers. The emperor had called off his English engagement; he had also needed legitimate heirs, having been unable to wait for his young bride to grow up.     

When Carlos had first seen the young Isabella in Seville in January 1526, her ethereal loveliness had taken his breath away, and his heart had soared. Their union had originally been a political one, but only for several months. The generous Hymenaeus, the Greek god of marriage ceremonies, had blessed the couple with deep and ardent mutual devotion. Since their wedding, his soul belonged to his wife, and Carlos never strayed from the marriage bed, despite his frequent absences in Spain, as he journeyed through the vast territories of the Holy Roman Empire.

Carlos whispered against her lips, “You are the Goddess of beauty and love.”

Isabella stroked his cheek. “Husband, you are not a romantic. Years ago, you approached our relationship from a business perspective, knowing that you had to plan for the future of Spain and the Habsburg line. But when you speak such sincere and poetic things on rare occasions, there is no charm equal to the tenderness of your heart that is beating for me.”

The monarch caressed the skin of her neck that was largely hidden by the high lace collar of her gray and black damask gown worked with gold. It had split hanging sleeves trimmed in bows with single loops and metal aiglets. The ample skirt showed an embroidered kirtle beneath, and the bodice did not open in the front, unlike in French and Italian fashions. Today, Isabella’s hair was elaborately dressed and uncovered, with golden threads woven throughout it.

Having grown up in Flanders, without his mother’s love, Carlos was not a tender man, although he was generally even-tempered and rational. Therefore, he had not known how to court and woo a woman, and there had been a void in his life crying to be filled by a well-bred woman of benign disposition. Carlos had never been a philanderer, but he had been interested in women and had kept several mistresses long ago, although most of his amours had been occasional.

Once Carlos had believed that the only purpose of matrimony was rebirth of the individual in his descendants. However, Isabella had proved to him that the true value of marriage was love. The natural tranquillity of her sweet disposition could cool off the heated surface of his power-hungry heart, although the flame of ambition would always burn in it. But when Carlos was with his wife, his soul was in harmony with all the universe, not in the power of demons of discord.    

“We need candles,” Isabella opined, enjoying the feel of his strong arms around her.

His blood thickened in his veins. “I do not think so, mi amor.”

The emperor’s bedroom was now bathed in semi-darkness, with only an occasional light seeping inside from torches, which were burning in the antechamber.

Carlos admired her perfect face that now looked vulnerable in their repose in contrast to her previous headstrongness. When Titian had painted ‘The Portrait of Carlos V with a dog’ in 1533, he had called the empress an artistic work of nature, or a natural work of art. His queen was so very worthy of being worshiped by him thanks to her excellent qualities and their immortal devotion. I’m a blessed man that Isabella is my wife. She is so beautiful in her mature bloom.   

“Isabella,” the emperor commenced as he deepened their embrace. “I love you with all my heart. I’ve been in love with you practically from the moment I laid my eyes upon you during our first meeting in Seville. You are the love of my life and my most precious possession.”

A scintillating glow spread across her visage. “Carlos, you are everything to me! You are my husband and king, my light and darkness, my exaltation and pain. I think I’ve loved you forever, even before meeting you. I remember how I feared that you would never reciprocate my affection, but it was long ago… And I was so happy when you confessed to loving me on the day when I announced my pregnancy with Philip. Whatever you do, I shall always adore you.”

“Sweetheart, without you, my life will lose its purpose.”

A half laugh, half sob erupted from her as she flung her arms around his neck. “I cannot imagine myself without you, and I need you to always be at my side.”

Desperate and famished, their mouths met in a vortex of hot passion. Carlos had kissed his wife before numerous times and in many different ways. Nonetheless, this time, the touch of his salacious, yet tender, lips against hers was the sweetest of all kisses he had ever lavished upon her, more heavenly than the ambrosia drank by the Greek Olympians. As Carlos carried Isabella to his bed, their hearts pulsated with divine relief at being together, and the alliance of all their senses and souls was then exercised in their most intimate, ravishing lovemaking.

§§§

Having left her husband asleep in his bed, Isabella of Portugal strolled through the elegant gallery with elliptical arches. Her footsteps marked her nearness to the decision she had just made.

Perturbed beyond measure, the empress struggled to appear outwardly calm. Today, the grandeur of moderate flamboyance did not impress her spirit. The royal residence in Valladolid had been built by Francisco de les Cobos, who was fond of the Italian Renaissance, unlike most Spanish who preferred unostentatious splendor. The walls were adorned with golden medallions with allegorical depictions of mythological characters, as well as paintings and statues.

Passing by the royal chapel and the state rooms, she darted out of the palace and into a stunning, Italianate-styled courtyard. The pavement glittered with rain from earlier in the day, and an ornate fountain babbled, as if these were erupting notes of encouragement to her to proceed to her goal. The place had been designed by Luis de Vega, a royal architect at court.

“Your Grace!” Isabella crossed the courtyard. “I was told that you are here.”

The Duke of Alba swept a low bow to her. “How can I serve Your Imperial Majesty?”  

For a short time, she dithered, her hand fidgeting with a sheet of paper in her hand. Her gaze embraced the grand façade, which had three storeys and was dominated by two high towers at both ends. As confidence inundated her, she handed the parchment to the duke.

“What is it?” He scrutinized the missive stamped with Isabella’s personal seal.

“Send it to Queen Anne of France,” Isabella requested flatly. “Make sure that my husband knows nothing about it. Otherwise, this letter will not reach its intended recipient.”

He was puzzled. “If I may ask, why do you need it? She is our enemy!”

“No, she is not. Although she was responsible for my Aunt Catherine’s misfortunes, she has done nothing wrong to Spain, Carlos, and me. Now only she can aid us to calm the storm.”   

“I’m afraid I need clarification.” Alba’s bewilderment was too profound.   

The empress glanced in the direction of the garden full of trees, fountains, flowerbeds, and sculptures. “Carlos has lost sight of everything, save his animosity towards King François and the House of Valois. It will beget more hatred and culminate in a never-ending cycle. As soon as they recover from their losses, either Carlos or François will launch a new offensive.” Shifting her gaze back to him, she stressed, “This must be stopped before it is too late.”

The Duke of Alba nodded in comprehension. “Indeed, history shows that violence always begets more violence. And we must learn hard lessons from God’s guidance.”

“How will another war end? The economic and social consequences for our countries are harrowing. Neither the death of Carlos nor that of François will bring stability to Christendom. And I do not want my son, Prince Philip, to be a mortal foe of Dauphin Henri.”

“Why do you wish to contact Anne Boleyn? Do you recognize her as royalty?”

“Without a shadow of a doubt, she is the Queen of France. I did not acknowledge her as Queen of England because King Henry was married to my departed aunt. But she had a Catholic wedding to King François, despite being a Protestant.” She emitted a sigh. “There are important things I must tell Queen Anne, and maybe she will listen. I would have written to François or his sister, Marguerite of Navarre, but neither of them will respond to me, for they despise us.”

“I’ll send it,” the Duke of Alba consented after a moment’s hesitation. “Be at ease, Your Imperial Majesty. The emperor will know nothing. And perhaps it will lead us to peace.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Her smile was so bewitching that it charmed every man.

As he bowed to her, Isabella strolled away, her heart lighter than it had been in months. The evening twilight was blanketing the buildings. All of a sudden, the firmament cleared, as if a sponge had wiped out the episode of something wretched, and she construed it as a good omen.   

Entering the palace, the empress emerged in the room, where the dome was painted with pairs of satyrs, holding medallions representing the four elements: earth, water, air, and fire. France’s earth had been sodden with the blood of the fallen French heroes, and at present, Spain was going through the incarcerating fires of punishment for the invasion. Isabella prayed that Anne Boleyn and she would pour water onto the hatred between their nations.

Notes:

Hello, my dear readers! I hope that the new 2020 has started well for you all!

We finished the previous year on a positive note when Anne gave birth to her daughter with François. This chapter is devoted to Emperor Carlos and his wife, Empress Isabella. Please, let me know what you think about this chapter and the characters. Thank you very much in advance. I need inspiration!

The Holy Roman Emperor was seriously wounded in France. His friend and general, the Duke of Alba, evacuated him from the battlefield of Poitou, where the Imperial troops were defeated by the French and their Protestant allies. Those who remember this story well may remember this episode. François had a spy in the Imperial camp (Ercole d'Este, Duke of Ferrara), while Carlos had his own spy in the French camp, as the emperor says to his advisors. The Imperial spy aided the Duke of Alba to take an injured Carlos out of France to Spain. Any thoughts who he can be?

I read a great deal about Emperor Charles/Carlos and his wife, Isabella of Portugal. I must say that despite my dislike of Charles, I'm very fond of his empress and of their love story. Carlos was one of the few monarchs who seems to have been faithful to his spouse during their marriage because he loved her wholeheartedly. If in history Carlos had had any dalliances, we do not know anything about them. I think that he was faithful to Isabella, who was perhaps his only weakness. After her death, Carlos was grief-stricken and never remarried, which proves the depth of his feelings for her.

I enjoyed writing Isabella's marriage to Carlos in this chapter. I attempted to reflect the great love they have for each other. They will not be the main characters in this AU, but they will appear from time to time. In this AU, there are two cornerstones in their relationship: the imprisonment of Queen Juana, for Isabella wants her husband to liberate his mother, and the emperor's insatiable lust for power, which leads to his war-mongering tendencies and various invasions, like the recent Imperial invasion of France. A gentle, smart, and noble-minded woman such as Isabella cannot approve of Carlos' insane desire to subjugate France and to depose the House of Valois, and this creates significant tension between them.

Isabella will play an important role in this story. Ferdinand, the emperor's brother, is imprisoned in France, although he is treated well, unlike François' captivity in Spain.

Frailero is a Spanish Renaissance armchair that had a leather seat and a leather back stretched between plain wooden members and having a broad front stretcher. Spanish fashions described in this chapter are historically correct; they were not as frivolous and lavish as French and Italian fashions of the era were.

It seems to me that I've now responded to all reviews to chapters 17 and 18. If I forgot to answer to someone, then it was not done intentionally.

Yours sincerely,

Lady Perseverance

Chapter 21: Chapter 20: Turn of the Tide

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 20: The Turn of the Tide

July 16, 1537, Palais de la Cité, Paris, France

Queen Anne stood near the high and arched strained-glass window. The sun blazed down from a cloudless sky, and the myriad sunbeams danced through the landscaped gardens laid out in Italianate style, burnishing the greens and the varicolored blossoms with splinters of gold.

A week earlier, the Valois court had arrived in the capital of France. The king and queen were as distant as ever: they avoided one another, having met only during the banquet in honor of Princess Louise’s birth and having occasionally seen each other during the court’s progress from Picardy to Paris. Everyone had noted that the royal couple were growing more morose as the time went by; the absence of Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly was a sensation as well.

“You should see your husband, Anne,” Mary Stafford admonished.

Her younger sister turned to her. “Sister, it is all so difficult. Even my gratitude to King François for giving me refuge in France and for marrying me is complicated.”

Mary’s eyes revealed her wisdom. “You are no longer a girl, Annie. You must know that gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for the present, and creates a vision for tomorrow. What you feel for His Majesty might unlock the fullness of your life.”

“But I…”  The queen’s voice faltered.

“What, sister? Are you confused as to your sentiments towards King François?”

Anne gazed out and studied the castle’s surroundings. In some places, the River Seine stretched unhindered from shore to shore; in others, it wended its way through a maze of small islands. “Indeed, I do not know how to approach our matrimony.”   

“You need to become closer to His Majesty.”

The queen looked out. A bank of clouds concealed the sun, and the colors in the park now seemed dull, as if imploring to be rekindled. At this moment, she felt cold and dead inside, and a pang of loneliness speared into her very soul, so sharp that she could almost taste the blood from the wound in her mouth. I want to see François…  My husband…  This word still sounds foreign to me, but at least, I can now pronounce it in my mind, Anne observed silently.

The king’s wife heard her sister’s voice like it was someone else’s from far away. “The reason that the Almighty gave us the emotion of loneliness is so that we must know we were designed to need a connection with Him, our loved ones, and ourselves.”

Pivoting to her, Anne requested, “Help me change my clothes. I’ll visit the king.”

Mary stood up. “Sister, it is the right decision.”

“I’ve written to our mother,” Anne notified. “I want her to come to France.”

Her sister was overjoyed. “We both need her a lot!”

“Soon you and I will go to Saint-Germain-en-Laye to visit our children.”

At the queen’s behest, the young Edward and Annie Stafford had joined the household of Princess Louise de Valois, which had been established at Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye.

“Thank you, Anne. I miss them so!”

The queen garnered her courage to ask the question that had been gnawing at her vitals since their reunion. “Mary, I’ve not always been a good sister to you. Have you truly forgiven me for banishing you from court after your wedding to Sir William Stafford?”

A smile blossomed on Mary’s features. “Yes, I have.” It then crystallized into the hatred that was always simmering beneath her skin. “I do not blame you for that. You were forced to expel me by King Henry and our treacherous father, who abandoned all of his children.”

“I would rather not talk about them now, Mary.”

Bobbing her head, Mary enthused, “Oh, Anne! I love you!”

“I love you, too, Mary!” The queen enveloped her sister into her arms.

Mary returned the hug. “We are together, and that is all that matters.”

In a frenzy of happiness, the Boleyn girls stood locked in their tight embrace. It was the connection of the two sisters whose filial bonds were solid and strong. Of two persons lost in a cruel world in which they had only each other to understand the pain that life had dealt them.

§§§

Queen Anne summoned her two ladies – Jeanne d’Angoulême and Adrienne de Cosse. They brought a fashionable gown of cloth of silver, studded with precious stones, and having open, loose, hanging sleeves trimmed with golden lace. Mary prepared a stomacher of black brocade embroidered with threads of Venetian silver, as well as a stunning girdle of diamonds.

“Anne, you will be like a silver nymph!” Mary Stafford predicted.  

“Especially with this tiara,” Jeanne d’Angoulême underlined. She was holding something wrapped in a cloth of gold. “The king asked me to give this gift to Your Majesty.”  

Mary looked more joyful than her sister. “How amazing! Anne, you love gifts!”

“Show me.” Though outwardly neutral, Anne’s curiosity peaked.

As her ladies unwrapped the object, they all peered at it in fascinated astonishment. It was a pearl and diamond tiara of extraordinary sumptuousness. The piece of jewelry was of foliate scroll design, surmounted with twenty drop-shaped pearls, each in a mount embellished with rose and white diamonds, with the massive button-shaped pearl at the center of a cluster motif. Jeanne informed that the tiara had been made in the early 15th century in Milan for Valentine Visconti, Duchess d’Orléans, who was the King of France’s ancestress on paternal side.

“What a fabulous item!” Mary effused. “This is such an expensive thing!”

Jeanne d’Angoulême elucidated, “It attests to His Majesty’s Italian ancestry and, hence, is precious to him. He took it from the Milanese crown jewels in 1515, after the brief conquest of Milan, which was unfortunately lost later.” She felt sentimental about the matter, for she was an illegitimate half-sister of the Valois siblings, so the three of them had common ancestors.  

Adrienne de Cosse emphasized, “Family gifts of such importance always have a special meaning. They should become keepsakes that are cherished forever.”

The queen glanced between Adrienne and Jeanne, understanding why they had said that. They both wanted her to appreciate their sovereign’s gift and to soften her attitude to him. All of her ladies, in particular Jeanne, disapproved of Anne’s alienation from the monarch.   

The two women and Mary Stafford traded glances of solidarity.

“You must thank the king,” Mary insisted. “Heartily.”

The Queen of France felt like a maid punished for her lack of decorum. A faint trace of embarrassment suffused her visage. “I’ll do this. Maybe it is a time of togetherness.”

Mary lifted her eyes to the ceiling adorned with biblical frescoes. “Thanks be to God.”

At first, they aided Anne to put on a farthingale and underskirt under the gown. As their hands worked on her ensemble, her head was spinning from the amount of time the standard ritual was taking. Normally, she enjoyed the excitement of such occasions and liked dressing up in the most fashionable, extravagant clothes. Nevertheless, now her agitation was too violent to contain it, but Anne forced it to subside into calm determination to see her husband.

As her sister placed the tiara upon her head, Anne stared at her own reflection in a looking glass. With her hair streaming down her shoulders and back in a dark river, Anne was the perfect image of a mystical primordial goddess of earth silvered with the pristine moonlight.

To her utter surprise, Anne wanted the monarch to be bewitched by her today. She had seen how he admired other pretty women, and now she craved to be the object of his adoration for the first time since their wedding. I hope François will like me in this raiment. How strange my feelings are… I’ll speak to him in an affable manner, for he deserves my friendship.   

“Brilliant!” Mary’s smile was wide and infectious; the others smiled as well.

A moment later, Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant, walked in. Nearing the queen and her ladies, she stated, “Fashion is about dressing according to what is popular at court.  Style is more about being yourself, and Your Majesty’s personal style is just unparalleled.”

“Exotic and enthralling,” Mary defined it. Everyone dipped their heads.

Smiling at them, the queen swiveled towards the windows. She saw the crest of the sun peaking over the sky’s horizon, and the clouds were rapidly vanishing. A deep blue flooded across the sky, as if foreshadowing a positive turn in her relationship with her spouse.

§§§

Queen Anne sauntered through the maze of hallways, followed by Jeanne d’Angoulême and Adrienne de Cosse. Most of the walls were swathed with Flemish tapestries, as well as shields, trophies, and weaponry. In some places, the chambers and corridors resembled an ancient fortress with their austere appearance enhanced by the bare walls of stone and low archways.

“I do not like this place,” Adrienne complained.

Jeanne concurred. “I, too, would prefer to relocate somewhere else.”

“I’ve never been here before,” Anne articulated. “I like Château de Fontainebleau the most. But His Majesty is going to convene the Parliament of Paris, and to host meetings with foreign ambassadors, which is why he chose this traditional venue for such occasions.”    

Much to the displeasure of his courtiers, King François had moved his court to this palace.

The Palais de la Cité was the headquarters of the French treasury, judicial system, and the Parliament of Paris, although it had been a royal residence between the 6th and the 14th centuries. Yet, the French rulers still visited the palace to preside over special ceremonies in the Grand’Salle and sessions of the Parlement of Paris. From time to time, kings returned here to display for the veneration of the court the sacred relics that King Louis IX of France, known as Saint Louis, had acquired in 1238 from the governor of Constantinople, at Sainte-Chapelle.

The queen and her ladies entered the large, splendidly decorated assembly hall. It was the famous Grand’ Salle, which had been constructed by King Philippe IV of France – called the Fair – at the beginning of the 14th century. The chamber’s double nave was covered with a high arched wooden roof, and a row of eight columns in the center supported its framework.

Anne’s gaze lingered on the polychrome statues of the Capetian and Valois kings, which were placed upon the pillars and the columns. “All here is steeped in history. France’s rich history has now overwhelmed me, and I almost wish for the time to be turned back.”

Jeanne agreed, “I, too, feel as if I were transported back in time.” Adrienne nodded.

They paused near a long black marble table, where nobles and knights seated at feasts and during meetings of military high courts and other official events.

The queen recollected, “Here nobility used to take oaths of fealty to their liege lords.”

Jeanne pointed out on purpose, “This time, all the nobles of the French realm will gather here to give their oath of fealty to their sovereign and their new queen.”

“That would be such an important occasion,” Adrienne commented.

A torrent of gratitude to her husband deluged Anne. “I must thank His Majesty for taking these steps to ensure that I become a crowned queen acknowledged by all of our subjects.”

As the queen’s confidante, Jeanne opined, “Your husband wants you, Madame, to be safe and sound. To a man, this means that he wishes to have you at his side.”

However, the queen gainsaid, “His Majesty wants our baby girl to be acknowledged as a legitimate Valois princess. He also needs to ascertain my acceptance as his wife in order to assuage the discontent among Catholic nobles and to guarantee his own security.”

“Oh, Madame,” Jeanne groaned. “You do not know our king, my brother, well.”  

Before they quitted the chamber, Anne cast a last glance at the statue of King François on one of the pillars. At this moment, she exuded a wistfulness over the presence of a strong man in her life. She masked it with a brooding expression that could be interpreted as boredom.

Nearing the ruler’s quarters, the queen commanded, “You are both dismissed, ladies.”

Jeanne and Adrienne curtsied to the queen and hastened away.  

§§§

The sentinels near the King of France’s apartments bowed to their sovereign’s spouse. They hesitated to allow her entrance, but her authoritative look demanded that they obey her.

“Do not announce anything,” Anne told them as she opened the door.

Her heart fluttering in a rush of excitement, the queen entered. As she glided across the antechamber, her thoughts were upon François to such a baffling degree that she could not imagine spending the rest of the day without him. She slipped into the royal bedchamber and blinked as her eyes adjusted to the semidarkness caused by the closed shutters despite the daytime.

Anne stopped in her tracks. “Not alone…” 

King François was playing chess with a lovely woman. Her gaze detoured to a big bed with a canopy of golden, blue, and white silk – the Valois colors – and a carved mahogany headboard like an altarpiece. At least, the bed sheets are not rumpled, Anne remarked to herself.     

The queen recognized the nymph, for she had seen her at court before. She was Claude de Rohan-Gié, Countess de Thoury, who was about ten years younger than the queen. Once Anne herself had captivated King Henry and driven him from the aging Catherine of Aragon. The hatchet of irony struck Anne: now she felt the same anguish and humiliation that Catherine had experienced while Henry had paraded Anne in front of the Tudor court, with the only difference that François was far more discreet. Is it God’s equitable retribution for my old sins?

Would Claude de Rohan-Gié bewitch François so completely that he would be willing to annul his marriage to his third wife, just as Anne herself had done to Henry? Fright encompassed Anne – the fear to which she had deliberately closed her eyes, despite her knowledge of François’ amours. The thought that the ruler could discard her tormented her, scratching at the edges of her mind. This feeling was a novelty, for she had not feared to lose François before.

Rationality overtook Anne. François will not bastardize our daughter. He is a womanizer, but he is not a bad father. Years ago, she had witnessed the monarch’s tenderness towards his small children with Queen Claude. François absolutely adored their baby girl, Princess Louise, as if he had never wished her to be a son, and this endeared his wife to him.

The royal mistress moaned, snapping Anne out of her reverie. “François!”

“Yes,” the king rasped.

Claude’s next words surprised the queen. “Why do we play chess or cards when I come to you? I want us to do something else. Am I your friend or a lover?” She was confused as to why the king had summoned her to his quarters today, but was not intimate with her.   

François averted his scrutiny. “I don’t want it.”  

“Why?” Claude gaped at him.

He stared at the chessboard. “I’ve taken nearly all of your pieces. I’m winning.”

Veering her gaze towards the door, the mistress gawked. “Your Majesty!”

The monarch glanced in the same direction. “Anne!”   

“What, husband of mine?” jeered his wife, odd anger simmering in her veins.

The peculiar tonality of her raging sensations was stemming from her jealousy of François, which welled up in Anne, leading to her verbal rebellion. She was on the brink of causing an outrageous scandal straight away. Yet, her own words, spoken to Henry after she had seen Jane Seymour on his lap echoed through her skull like the funereal bell in the churchyard.

Just when my belly is doing its business, I find you wenching with Mistress Seymour!

On that horrible day, Anne had lost her son, which had doomed her first marriage. Now Anne was not pregnant, and she was no longer Henry’s wife. François was not kissing his mistress. Yet, the vision of François with another woman smashed her world into pieces again.

“Anne!” François reflexively extended his arms to his consort. “Wait!”

The queen jeered, “I’ve interrupted Your Majesty’s rendezvous.”

“I beseech you not to hate me, my queen.” Claude didn’t possess the impertinence, temerity, and waspishness which Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly had in abundance.

Anne’s lips thinned. “You are free to please our king whenever and however he wishes.”

The queen’s countenance remained impenetrable, as if whittled out of a chunk of wood. Something flickered in her eyes as Anne sank into an enticing curtsey. She exited with a measured gait and a jeering tilt of her head, as if she were performing some dramatic episode on the scene. If she had swiveled, she would have seen the sheer despair in her husband’s eyes.

“I need only her!” Ropes of unbearable heartache manacled François’ entire world. Jerking to his feet, the king darted out of the room with a cry, “Anne!”

Forgotten, his mistress sat at the table, tears brimming in her eyes.

The earnest plea in the ruler’s voice sounded like the entreaty of a dying warrior to God for salvation. The king was calling to Anne as if the edifice of his life would crumble without her.

“You no longer need me, François.” Claude’s soliloquy was tinctured with sorrow.

§§§

Lost in an opium-like trance, Queen Anne wandered around the gloomy hallways.

A male name tumbled from her lips like an invocation for help, “François…” 

Passing by a group of astonished guards, she briefly paused. When one of them strode to her and said something to her, she simply fled into the adjacent hallway.

I’ve seen François with his mistress, just as it happened to Henry. This sounded through her head time and time again, tormenting her like the notes of shrill, discordant music. But her inner voice corrected her: François was not kissing her. But he was not alone when I came.

Blindly entering another chamber, Anne suddenly stumbled into Françoise de Foix. The queen stepped back and fumbled for support, gripping the other woman’s hand.

“Your Majesty, what has happened?” Françoise’s voice was worried.

“Nothing.” Anne darted away like a minnow before the shark.

“Madame!” Françoise called with a hint of trepidation.

A moment later, the monarch ran past the countess like a streak of lightening. He paused at the intersection of two corridors, wildly looking around for signs of his wife.

“She went there!” Françoise pointed in the direction of the Grand’ Salle.

The king nodded his thanks. “You are my true friend.”

“I’m, and will always be,” she murmured with a smile. “Find her!”

François vanished into the arched passage that led to the opposite part of the palace.

His former mistress heard him roar, “Anne!”

The Countess de Chateaubriand smiled to herself, her tears drying. François has fallen in love with his spouse! For the first time in his life, he has found his match and equal in Queen Anne. She was still devoted to the King of France, and she always would be, but she wanted him to find personal contentment. Now François was in love as impulsively as the veriest boy!

§§§

As his shrieks reverberated through the palace, Anne darted through the corridor, as if her essence were on fire. She scuttled through the Grand’ Salle and soon came to a stairs that ascended upward in what looked like an austere medieval tower. Paying no heed to the bewildered sentinels, Anne rushed up the staircase, as if the sword of Damocles were hanging over her.

“Anne!” François slowed as he arrived in the main hall. “Where are you?”

A guard apprised, “Her Majesty went to the Tour de l’Horloge.”

The Tour de l’Horloge was the Clock Tower, at the top of which was a bell, which was rung to announce important events in the life of the French royal family.

Immediately, the ruler hastened out of the chamber. His breathing labored from the chase, he sprinted down another hallway, the carpeted floor almost squelching under his boots. Without Anne, the opaque winter night would reign in his inner realm until Doomsday.

François mounted the same staircase Anne had used a few minutes ago. Emerging in the Clock Tower that had been constructed by Jean le Bon in 1350, he examined his surroundings, listening for the slightest sound. He was relieved that, at least, his spouse had not gone to the Tour de César and the Tour d’Argent, where the offices of the clerks of the court were located.

“Anne, come to me!” he implored. “I know you are here!”

In a handful of heartbeats, like the play of shadows ornamenting an otherwise somber room, the stillness augmented and distinguished light steps, proving his consort’s presence.

“Wife!” François whispered, his tone pleading in the extreme. “Please!”

Anne emerged from the corner like the vision of a fantastic substance through the fog. Two brown pools were hollow, as though the fire of hurt had incinerated them into ashes. They appeared ancient – eyes that had seen everything on the sinful earth. Her silver-clad figure looked as if haloed in moonlight, matching her deathly pallor, set off by Anne’s long, raven hair.   

“What does Your Majesty wish?” Her voice was vibrating with grief.

“I did not sleep with her.” His voice – strained, contrite, and determined at once – sounded as if his vocal chords were rubbing against sandpaper. “And have not done so for a few weeks.”

It was the truth: François had been faithful to Anne throughout the past month. Despite his frequent communication with Claude de Rohan-Gié, he had last touched her over three weeks earlier. After Anne de Pisseleu’s banishment, the monarch had plunged into a whirl of dissipation with Claude and a few others, but the demons of lust had quickly relinquished their hold over him. Now, if desire awakened in him, guilt cascaded down onto him like an avalanche at the thought of betraying his wife, so he had abstained from intimacies with Claude and anyone else.

“Really?” Distrust was etched into the curve of her cheek.

Candor poured out of him like pure water, uncontaminated by the filth of life. “I’m yearning to be with you, Anne. My life…  I do not enjoy it without you. I shall discard all of my mistresses. I was with them only because you treated me like your enemy.”

Anne improvised, “Oh, heavens! What can I contrive to help the finest knight?”

Closing the gap between them, the king grabbed her into his arms. The queen melted into his embrace, her strength ebbing and a shower of tears deluging his doublet of gray brocade.

“I cannot breathe, sire.” He loosened his hold a bit.

“No one – only you,” François mumbled into her hair, and then moved his face to hers. “There will be only you in my life from now on. Just do not push me away!”    

Moments ticked as successive waves of anguish swept over them. The need for healing overpowered them, and his mouth captured hers in a kiss of innate tenderness, as if searching for atonement from this simple contact. Her lips parted instinctively, and he delved his tongue inside.

Abruptly, Anne broke the kiss. “Not after you were with Mademoiselle de Rohan-Gié.”

“I told you that I hadn’t touched her. I’ll set aside my former paramours.” Reluctantly, he let go off her. “I have no lovers now, although I have female friends. Claude is a friend now.”  

The poisoned arrow of her old, deep-seated hurt worked its way to the surface. “Henry robbed me of my previous pleasure in passionate relations.” Her voice grew elemental.  

“However, you are inwardly alive.”

She drifted away from him, a picture of a sad and exotic dryad from a magical forest. “My capacity for loving died with the knowledge of love’s price – death.”

As the queen paused near the door, they stared at each other.  His amber eyes reflected his enchantment with her, while her dark caverns were limpid with drops of salty liquid. Now her face seemed touched by moonlight as streaks of tears threaded their way down her cheeks.

“Do not say that.” He glanced at her with terrified beseeching.

A vulnerable François evoked in Anne a sense of closeness to him. “A cursed woman such as I cannot feel anything,” she bemoaned as she beheld him with acute fascination.

“You can!” The king stepped to her, but he did not touch her.

His soul thinned at his spouse’s rejection, and it was now something akin to a skeleton wrapped in a blanket of sinew and skin. That all-encompassing passion for her was million times more powerful than all of his feelings combined for all of the women he had known and bedded. It showed him that he would feel the renewed sense of life’s spaciousness only if his spouse reciprocated his sentiments. If only Anne could give me hope, his heart wept.

“No, I cannot! Life is meant to be savored, but not in my case. At least, we will always have our daughter and some good, comfortable things to sweeten it a little.”

“Anne, our marriage can prove all we have dreamed of. Have faith!”

A smile gilded her visage. “Thank you for the gift; I shall treasure it.”

His gaze flew to the tiara on her head. “It looks perfect on you.”

What is François encouraging me to do? Their conversation snared her into confusion. A small part of her hankered to cover the barren landscape of her existence with the silver-woven scarf of their common dreams. But in the gilded frames of her possible future, Anne saw dim old pictures – Henry with his infidelities, his obsession with sons, his lies, and his cruelty.

“It will be as God wills it. Don’t forget that you also promised me vengeance.” She had no idea that her mention of his promised revenge disconcerted him a great deal.

Anne swept out of the room like a nymph, fiercely serious and yet exceedingly feminine.

François was cognizant of the seemingly unsurmountable odds against him in the battle for Anne’s affection. If she never reciprocated his feelings, his life, with its sorrows, hopes, and joys, would be like a desolate moor, so he pondered his best course of action.

§§§

The sun had completed its voyage to the underworld, and purple shadows blanketed the fortress. In the darkness, the River Seine resembled an endless funeral procession swathed in black. Torches were lit within the compound, and the hallways were thronged with men of rank and nobles, who engaged in lively discourses after the day in their offices.

King François was not among them. In his bedroom, he sat in a very old, high-back ebony armchair, which had once belonged to Philippe VI, the first Valois King. Staring at the Valois coat of arms that hung over the galleried marble door to his apartments, his expression was absent-minded. A goblet of wine was clasped between both hands as he tilted it back and forth.

Thoughts of Anne carried him away, so his sister’s footfall didn’t reach his ear.

The Queen of Navarre began, “I’ve heard interesting rumors about you and Anne.”   

The king’s gaze flicked to her. “My wife and I had a dramatic talk tonight.”

Stopping beside his chair, she touched her brother’s forearm. “François, stay committed to Anne. You adore your queen, so love her through thick and thin.”   

His face was almost comical as the spellbinding realization struck François like Cupid’s dart. His heart thumped an exhilarated rhythm, as if it craved to drown out the noises of the universe to the exclusion of the name ‘Anne’, which tumbled from his lips at this moment.

I really do love Anne Boleyn, surmised the king. Now Anne de Valois. I fell for her a while ago. His political union had transformed into something more meaningful to him. During the war when they had saved each other, he had fathomed that without his spouse, the world would be a bottomless void. However, he had not seen that he had walked towards the point when he would place his heart in Anne’s keeping, in spite of the knowledge that she did not want to be his.

François had not loved any of his previous wives. He had been peculiarly fond of Françoise and had once desired the Duchess d’Étampes, but it had been lust and affection. The thought that he had fallen in love with his third wife had not crossed his mind before. Until now.

The king looked as radiant as the sun casting light on the earth with its golden rays. Anne Boleyn was now the sun of his life! Indeed, his look of happiness was in curious contrast to his foul expression at the beginning of this conversation. He was delighted that Anne was his queen, his wife, and the mother of their daughter, but he wanted her to be his in all senses.  

François grinned sheepishly. “I love my Anne. She is the first woman who has become so dear to me. I was either too stupid or too conceited not to realize it before.”

“Do not tell her about it; not now.” Marguerite eased herself into a chair beside him. “Anne should get to know you better and see that you are Henry’s opposite. She is very afraid of amours.” With a sigh, she added, “I have no clue as to how long your wife will need to overcome her fears. She has lost her faith in love and hope for a brighter future. It is your mission to prove to her that there can be love after obsession with a new and different person who and treasures her.”

He was baffled. “You call her feelings for Henry obsession.”

She inclined her head. “An unhealthy obsession for the handsome, yet narcissistic and brutal, monarch which could never take Anne anywhere, except into the well of eternal grief.”

The ruler pondered the matter. “I’ve never thought of Anne’s romance with Henry in this vein. But maybe you are right. It would be better for us both if Anne realized that.”

“She will understand it over time.” Marguerite half-demanded, half-pleaded, “Brother, send all of your current and former mistresses away from court. Each of them!”   

He clutched her fingers. “I promised Anne to do that. I shall abide by my word.”

Marguerite cupped his hands over hers. “Act or you shall never be happy!”

After administering a compassionate pat on his shoulder, the Navarrese queen exited.

François swung the goblet around and sloshed some of the contents onto the floor, then swigged it down. A raven of despair perched at the mast of his marital ship, being tossed by a storm of his discord with Anne. The king registered a vow that come what would, by any means, he would conqueror Anne’s heart and snatch it from the excruciating past.

His mistress came to him in half an hour. Appareled in an elegant gown of auburn damask ornamented with the House of Rohan’s emblems, Claude de Rohan-Gié curtsied to him, her eyes downcast. She had deliberately chosen this garment to create an emotional distance between herself and the monarch, as if it could help her obliterate her associations with him.

“Rise.” François stood up and approached her. “We must discuss something.”

Claude straightened her spine. Her heart was breaking as she started, “I beg Your Majesty to permit me to retire from court. My father will be happy to have me back home.”  

At first, he was dumbfounded, then he comprehended why she had done it. “I’m grateful to you, Claude. I wish you happiness, and, of course, you are free to leave.”

Tears glistered in her eyes. “I needed to sever our Gordian knot.”

The king reached out and caressed her cheek. There was nothing in his touch or his look that could indicate his eagerness to continue their liaison. “Thank you.”

She was unable to bear this torture another minute. “François, I understand why you began to perceive me more as a friend than a lover. Your heart belongs to your wife.” She sighed. “I pray that your marital story will not be marked by unrelenting bleakness.”

“I pray about the same thing,” he intoned with a sigh.

His former paramour giggled. “The Knight-King can conqueror Queen Anne.”

His own grin was full of mischief. “He will try.”

“If I find myself with child, I’ll write you.” The truth was that she prayed she had conceived on one of the June nights when he had still been willing to be with her.

The monarch nodded. “If it happens, I’ll arrange a marriage for you.”

I love François, but I must let him go, Claude de Rohan-Gié lamented wordlessly. Living in the countryside, she would miss the court’s splendor, and above all things – all of the world’s chivalries, ecstasies, and passions – she would ache for the King of France. Her infatuation with him, tinged with deep sensual shades, was so strong that it seemed to be perpetual like the history of mankind. She did not regret her affair with him at all, at least because no other man would have taught her as much in the art of beautiful physical love as François had done.

“Adieu, Your Most Chivalrous Majesty,” Claude endeavored to joke.

His smile was affable. “Adieu, Madame.”

After curtseying, Claude de Rohan-Gié paused near the door. “François, you dreamed of loving a unique creature with all your artistic nature, of having her with you to look into her eyes, and of hearing her answer that she loved you, too. Now you almost have this, and I hope the queen will appreciate you and allow you to make her happy.” Then she spun on her heels and left.

François returned to his armchair and his nearly empty goblet. As he drained its contents, he summoned a groom and commanded him to dispatch all of his former lovers away from court. He could not keep a great many of these women away from court forever. However, this temporary measure was necessary to restore his spouse’s faith in him and her trust to him.

§§§

The handsomely decorated queen’s antechamber was bathed in a muted light from half a dozen heavily shaded antique lamps. Anne’s gold-velvet, massive armchair stood in the corner, in the midst of red-brocade couches occupied by Mary and her other ladies.

“What time is it now?” Anne quizzed as she picked up one of the books.

Mary was sewing something for her children. “It is half past seven, sister.”

The interior was far more modest than that of their favorite Fontainebleau residence. The walls were tapestried with scenes from the lives of the Valois kings. There were no frescoes in the room; several sculptures of ivory and bronze were tastefully scattered around the room. The red brocade, used for decorations of furniture in abundance, echoed the gold in regal symmetry.

Jeanne d’Angoulême was sulking. “At least, the walls are not bare.”

Adrienne was frustrated as well. “I begin to appreciate the grandeur of other châteaux.”

“Do not complain!” Mary chided. “The court will relocate again.”

The queen was engrossed into reading Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio. Pausing, she retorted, “Complaining not only ruins everybody else’s day, but also the complainer’s.”

A moment later, Françoise de Foix appeared in the room and curtsied to the queen.

Françoise’s smile was large. “Your Majesty, I have interesting news.”

Anne lifted her eyes from the volume. “What, Madame de Châteaubriant?”

The countess reported jovially, “King François ordered several women who have a certain previous connection to him to depart tomorrow at dawn. Swallowing their displeasure, they are now packing their possessions, some of them listening to the grumblings of their husbands.” She spoke whimsically about the monarch’s many former paramours, but all was clear.

Astonishment induced Anne to stand up; the book fell. “Can a leopard change its spots?”

Françoise spoke whimsically again. “Sublime feelings are the only force that is capable of transforming ice into warmth. Life is a song, Madame – now you can sing it.”

Mary Stafford told her sister, “A grateful heart is a beginning of greatness, Anne.”

Jeanne and Adrienne nodded their affirmative, chortling like pigeons.

Slowly, Anne seated herself back into her armchair. The cord that united François to his dissolution has finally been severed. But what does it mean for us? A sense of respect to him settled over her, and the warmth of it caressed her scarred soul. The rapid thudding of her heart drummed in her ears like a roaring wind, almost blowing away her past. Almost… The thought of her revenge resurfaced, as if sent there by a deity of havoc residing within her being.

A vindictive glint illumined Anne’s eyes. “Vengeance is better served cold.”

Surprising everybody, the usually benign Mary Stafford hissed, “To exact revenge for yourself or your relatives and friends is not only a right – it is an absolute duty.”

Jeanne figured out what they implied. “It is not a noble sentiment.”

Adrienne remarked, “But it is a human one.”

Françoise settled herself on a couch beside them. She then steered them into a pleasant territory. “The king has set the day of Your Majesty’s grand coronation.”

The queen smiled as triumphally as only the old Anne Boleyn could. Her dormant vivacious spirit resurrected, and euphoria flowed through her veins. She had once vowed that vengeance would become the organic part of her, until the tranquility of Henry Tudor’s universe would be replaced with blood and tears. Anne would see to the completion of her sacred mission.


July 27, 1537, Palais de la Cité, Paris, France

At this late hour, Dauphine Catherine de’ Medici almost ran through the corridor. Her two ladies scarcely kept pace with her. Surprised that Henri had summoned her, she moved rapidly, her Italian gown of emerald silk whipping in gusts round her legs, like the pennants atop a castle’s towers. The bulging Medici eyes glimmered with hot fire of hope to be with her husband.

She entered her husband’s rooms. “Your Highness!”

“Excellent.” The dauphin’s indifferent voice struck her like a blast of chilly air.

Henri lounged in a curule throne chair by a window, but he rose when she approached. She curtsied to him, and he did not dismiss her from the curtsey for so long that her legs ached.

“My father spoke to me about us.” He evaded eye contact with her.

“When? King François is preoccupied with Queen Anne’s upcoming coronation.”

“Last winter during the war when His Majesty returned to court for a short time. It took me quite some time to realize that he is right, so I’ll act exactly as he advised.”

Silence, full of unspoken thoughts, stretched. Catherine recollected her conversation with Anne during their first private meeting in the queen’s apartments. The dauphine had not offered her friendship again because Henri had not become less cold to her, in spite of Anne’s promise to intercede on her behalf. So, that Boleyn heretical slut spoke to François months earlier, Catherine deduced. She kept her promise, but Henri was unwilling to bridge the gap between us.   

The dauphin looked out; a bank of clouds formed in the sky, long streaks of rain striking down on the distant rim of the city. “We are husband and wife, despite my wishes to the contrary. Our relationship has been as dark as the rainy sky, but I have to change it.”

“I’ll do anything to please you,” Catherine said cheerfully.

At last, he turned to her. “A male heir.”

She cursed inwardly. But what else could he tell her? She stepped to him, but then halted before saying, “I cannot give you a child as long as you do not visit my bed, Henri.”

“That is why now you are here, Catherine.”

“I’ll bear you a brood of sons.” Torn between hurt at his aversion to her, and her delight in his offer, she supplemented, “If you do not neglect your marital duty to me.”

“Today I’ll fulfill it.”  With a disgusting smile, he plodded over to her.

Catherine noticed his reluctant gait. “But only because you must sleep with me.”   

“You speak too much.” Henri began unlacing his hose.

“It pains me,” she retorted through gritted teeth. “It pains me that you treat me so.”

To his credit, her husband did not castigate her for the candor. “I’m sorry, but I shall never love you. You have to thank the deceased Pope Clement and my father for our misery.”

Catherine craved to slap him for the truth he had just uttered, but she had better manners than that. Glumly she held out a hand, expecting that he would help her undress, but he did not. Instead, Henri steered her to a canopy bed, its headboard featuring the Capetian coat-of-arms, as the furniture was ancient. He lifted his wife up upon it, then kneeled to push her skirts up.

Her expression transformed into shock. “No, not like this.”

“I cannot give you more,” he reiterated ungraciously. “I cannot.”

Tears flowed from her eyes. “Why cannot it be affectionate?”

A quiet Henri sank into her gently and deeply, while keeping his eyes tightly shut and his lips compressed. Then both of them were caught up in the timeless rhythm, and he thrust harder and faster until he reached his peak and climaxed, releasing his seed into her. In spite of the awkwardness of their encounter and his deliberate restraint, they both experienced pleasure.  

“At least, you were gentle,” Catherine commented.

He withdrew from her with a sigh. “I’m not a monster.”

After rearranging her skirts, she sat on the bed, observing him lace his hose. Then, with the predatory gaze of an eagle carrying off a hare, he bent over her and kissed her hand. His lips warm and soft against her skin, they didn’t linger for more than a fraction of a second.  

“I’ll come to your rooms tomorrow.” He straightened and walked away.  

“We are well-matched, Henri,” Catherine lamented with an air of sentimentality about her. “You live like in exile at your father’s court, and so do I, for you ejected me from your life. In childhood, you suffered in captivity in Spain. I, too, know how horrible it is to be a prisoner. After my family was overthrown in Florence by a faction opposing to my relative Clement, I was taken hostage and placed in a series of convents. Our spirits know the same torment.”

Henri glanced at her with interest. “But we are not meant for each other.”

Leaping to her feet, Catherine rushed to him, as if she planned to launch herself into his arms. However, he did not open them, and she skidded to a halt, her eyes pleading.

Bitterly disappointed, the princess implored, “If only you allowed me to show you how happy we may be together. If only you knew what I’m capable of doing for you…” 

“No,” was his chilly answer. “Leave before I say something rude.”

Though offended by his response, she complied. “I’ll wait for you tomorrow.”

As soon as the door was shut behind her, the dauphin slumped into a chair.

Henri’s dream was to divorce Catherine and marry his beloved Diane, who, to his great grief, was as if peripheral to his existence, someone he met every day and yet could not devote his life to her. Henri was the future King of France, and, surprisingly, many at court were turning to him for guidance, although he was secretly crumbling under the pressure of duty. This Medici creature must conceive soon, Henri bemoaned in his mind. Then I’ll be only with Diane.  

§§§

On the way to her quarters, Dauphine Catherine gave way to her abounding despondency. Her legs wobbled, and she fell to her knees, tears pouring from her eyes. She was conscious of herself as a creature of misfortunes, blackened by her sins, her brain dully wondering what the sum of all the sweat and strain to make Henri the king’s heir apparent was. Was it all this misery Catherine was feeling now? Was it the unrewarded effort, or the stress that she endured?

Her Italian ladies-in-waiting – young Maddalena Bonajusti and Lucrezia Cavalcanti – gaped at Catherine. Each of them was attired in Italianate gowns of yellow and red damask, which were Medici colors, their stomachers embroidered with the Medici coat-of-arms. Although they had relocated to France four years earlier, they remained the Florentines through and through. As the dauphine did not have many friends at court, they maintained camaraderie with other Italians.

“Your Highness,” Maddalena commenced. “Let us take you to your rooms.”

Lucrezia stated, “Even if the dauphin saddened you, you cannot show your weakness.”

“You are of course right.” Ashamed, Catherine jumped to her feet. Her head swiveled back and forth to ensure that no one had seen her in the moment of weakness.

Maddalena lowered her voice to a whisper. “What did he do to you?”

The dauphine brushed the tears away. “Madame Mistress bewitched him so much that I do not know how to annihilate her spell.” She dropped her fingers to stroke the etched silver of her locket, where she kept love potions for her husband and which she always wore.

“He is not worthy of you.” Lucrezia’s comment broke the pause.

Catherine took a fortifying breath. “Not a day passes that he does not think of her.”

Suddenly, they heard footsteps descending the stairs and moving through the corridor in their direction; they all went still. It was probably one of the courtiers, who were not sleeping yet, but Catherine found herself half-hoping, half-fearing that it was Henri.

Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli appeared at the end of the hallway. Splendid in a jeweled doublet of maroon and golden velvet, his broad sleeves puffed out like a peacock’s tail, he was returning from another private party with Catherine’s Florentine entourage. His belly full of wine and victuals, his loins aching from the sorry bout of drunken lovemaking, his mood was excellent until he saw the Medici Queen, as he called Catherine in his mind, in such a grievous state.

“Your Highness!” Montecuccoli swept into a series of bows to his patroness.   

“It is too late to be awake, Sebastiano,” Catherine greeted.

As he stopped next to her, Montecuccoli noticed that the dauphine seemed subdued, even scared. “Your Highness, has someone wronged you? I do your bidding any time!”   

Maddalena put a finger to her lips. “Montecuccoli, breathe a word of this to anyone!”

These Italians had deadly secrets, of whose existence almost no one suspected. Each of them was devoted to Catherine, and their fates were intermingled like four rivers in a confluence.

“My husband’s lover is a bloody nuisance,” complained Catherine.

He prodded, “Should I just eliminate the blonde weed from the earth?”

Lucrezia shook her head. “Impossible. We need that harlot. So far she is our ally.”   

Catherine’s eyes flashed with a fierce light. “For the moment.”

Montecuccoli smirked malignantly. “But things change.”

Maddalena’s mouth stretched in a grin. “Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die. I prefer the poison to be consumed with wine or food.”

“But food or wine,” started Lucrezia, “must be swallowed. At times, perfume is better.”

The hazel pools of Montecuccoli glowed hellishly as he recalled his latest experiments with his new poison. “I’ve invented something for the most special cases. My apothecary – he has been my assistant for years – says that it brings sweet oblivion very quickly.”

Catherine brightened. “What you and my astrologers do is an art, Sebastiano.”

Montecuccoli bowed. “I’ll perpetrate anything to make you the Queen of France.”

Maddalena told the dauphine, “Every time you get angry with your husband, remember your main goal. We are all here not to return to Italy defeated, but to watch you ascend to glory.”

Laughing in unison, they sauntered towards the dauphine’s quarters. The dimly lit stillness of the falling night concealed their feelings and intentions, which palpitated in continuous silent activity. Their environments were so strongly tinctured with the darkness of their vulpine spirits that inside them there was a cauldron of boiling lethal intrigues, a core of living purgatory, for they had condemned their souls to hell when the late Dauphin François had breathed his last.

Notes:

Hello, my dear readers! Please, let me know what you think about this chapter. Thank you very much in advance. I need inspiration!

There are important changes for Anne and François. At last, she begins to understand that he is actually quite different from Henry. Mary talks sense into her sister, but Anne has a long way ahead before she is ready to have a normal marriage and before her faith in love is restored.

Finally, François realizes that he is in love with Anne. They spent a lot of time apart due to the invasion of France. Thus, it took François some time to fall for Anne and to come to a point where he does not want to sleep with other women. François I was a philanderer, but perhaps if he had met his true love in history, he would have devoted his life to her – the historical François I did not love Claude of France and Eleanor of Austria, but he could love Anne de Pisseleu.

Please tell me what you think about the scenes when Anne finds François together with Claude de Rohan-Gié, as well as the scene of Anne's dramatic conversation with François in the Tour de l'Horloge, or the Clock Tower. These scenes were rewritten 2 or 3 times.

As for Marguerite's assumption that Anne's love for Henry can be better described as unhealthy obsession… This is my opinion: there was obsessive passion between Anne and Henry, but such feelings are unhealthy. When Anne eventually falls in love with François, her love will be more mature, less selfish, deeper, and less turbulent.

I want to warn you again: Catherine de' Medici will not be Anne's ally in this AU. In the part covering events happening between 1545 and 1547/8, including Henry's death (I am writing it now), Catherine is one of the main antagonists, and she weaves a conspiracy against Anne and François so that Henri becomes King of France. Please bear in mind that Dauphin Henri is not an antagonist: he does not know what his wife and mistress are doing, and eventually he will become Anne's friend. Her ladies-in-waiting – Maddalena Bonajusti and Lucrezia Cavalcanti – were indeed the Florentine ladies of Catherine de' Medici .

All the historical information about Palais de la Cité in Paris is correct.

I've started to respond to reviews to chapter 19. I thought there would be fewer reviews to chapter where there is no Henry, Anne, and François. Please give me some time.

I'll try to update twice a month: on 20/21 and 30/31. There can be delays of course, depending on real life. Be at ease: you will be reading this fic in years to come.

Attention! I have a poll about Jane Boleyn’s fate on in the comments section to this chapter! Thanks for your vote in advance!

Yours sincerely,

Lady Perseverance

Chapter 22: Chapter 21: A Whirl of Letters

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 21: A Whirl of Letters

August 10, 1537, Palais de la Cité, Paris, France

Queen Anne stood near a window in her antechamber. In the park, a cavalcade of knights from the Scots guard awaited their sovereign to escort him to his destination. These days, King François frequented Parisian churches to thank God for his victory over the House of Habsburg and to distribute alms to the poor, whose numbers had increased due to the war.  

“He is handsome,” she admitted to herself, watching the monarch cross the garden.

Her heart constricted in her breast as François mounted, as if his departure tantalized her with a prospect of their perpetual separation. His tall, athletic figure, clad in a raiment of mulberry satin passmented with gold, looked majestic on his white stallion. As he veered his gaze towards his wife’s windows, Anne imagined that he longed to see her, but he quickly turned away.

Loneliness hit the queen as soon as the royal cortege disappeared in the distance.

The River Seine flashed like a burnished cuirass in the rays of the rising sun.

Anne’s mood was dark. She would gladly have accompanied her husband to some cathedral so as to showcase herself as the Queen of France and the savior of the Knight-King. The entirety of Christendom knew that she had saved his life during the invasion, but she needed to cultivate her heroic reputation. Anne also yearned to be in his company, yet François treated her with polite indifference and courtesy even after their candid conversation in the Clock Tower.

“There is a missive for you,” Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant, apprised.

“Thank you, Madame de Châteaubriant.” Anne took the parchment from her hands.  

“You are welcome, Your Majesty.”

Anne no longer perceived her husband’s former mistress as a nuisance. Françoise was not the king’s annoying spy: the countess wished the queen all the best, even though it irritated Anne that the older woman advised her to be kinder to the ruler. Yet, Anne had grown to trust Françoise.     

Françoise curtsied and was about to leave, but Anne’s question halted her.

“Do you still love my husband?” The words slipped from the queen’s tongue before she could stop herself. She was surprised how easily she referred to the king as her spouse.

“Madame, do you aim to darken my day?”

“Nothing of the sort.” Now Anne lounged casually on a red brocaded coach.

Françoise sent her a look of misery. “It matters not. I’m not his mistress.”

“Yet, François loved you once.” The queen was apparently hurting the other woman, but she selfishly pried into her husband’s personal life, even into his distant past.

“Not even long ago,” admitted Françoise in a tormented voice.

“However, His Majesty kept you as his maîtresse-en-titre for years.”

The countess’ thoughts strayed down a forbidden path. Even though a lot of time had elapsed, François was still the only man in Françoise’s heart. The ruler’s younger face contorted in spasms of desire swam in front of her eyes, and her lips parted as if she could feel his soft, yet demanding, mouth on hers. The numberless nights of the unbridled passion that had once dragged them to the brink of indescribable and gorgeous sensuality, flickered in her head, and her body grew hot. Then, horrifyingly, the monarch’s farewell letter emerged before her mind’s eye.

Françoise remained silent, as though seeking for an evasive reply. Anne stood up, came to a table, and poured out a measure of cognac, then walked to her lady-in-waiting and handed the chalice to her. The countess swallowed it swiftly, the burn of the liquid as it slid down her throat driving out the unwanted memories, in spite of doing little to soothe her heartache.   

Françoise summed up her relationship with the monarch. “He adored and respected me, and we have always been friends on a deep level. Nevertheless, he has never loved me.”

Anne snorted. “He seems to be attracted to every pretty woman.”

“François has always been a high-spirited, ripe-for-mischief man, very handsome and male. Most women wanted and want him, but he didn’t sleep with everyone – don’t believe rumors.”   

Anne’s curiosity was piquing. “But you caught his eye, Madame.”  

“Yes, I did. The king has always been attracted to intelligent women of refined manners and sensible disposition. I was one of the many such ladies at court, and in addition, I was a married woman who loved her husband back then. But it was impossible to resist His Majesty’s charm, and soon I surrendered, eventually falling deeply in love with him, because he is and will always be an unparalleled mixture of erudition, kindness, gentleness, and generosity.”

“You remind me of my sister.” Sadness tinctured the queen’s intonation.

“Most of his paramours loved His Majesty. But he had a special connection only with me throughout the years we were together. I doubt he has ever had such bonds with Anne de Pisseleu.”

“You do not like Madame d’Étampes, do you?”

The queen’s lady sneered, “Despite all her intelligence and her beauty, I do not think that she could ever be more than the king’s bedmate, although she ensnared him for years.”

Anne concurred. “When His Majesty saw her true self, he set her aside.”

“Yes.” Françoise maneuvered the conversation to the topic at hand. “François loved me as much as a connoisseur adores his rarest painting, treating me like a true knight. Nevertheless, he has never been tied to me in a spiritual vein, because I’ve never been his equal.”  

A furrow formed on Anne’s forehead. “No woman can be his equal in his opinion.”

“You are wrong, Your Majesty. Someone is his equal in all senses, though not in her lack of royal blood.” Françoise permitted herself to wink at the queen against etiquette.

After dropping a curtsey, the Countess de Châteaubriant quitted the room.

§§§

A puzzled Anne sighed, her thoughts churning in a million different directions. Yet, each of them was reverting to the King of France, as though he was the only shimmering star of her future. At this moment, she was burning with desire to glimpse at least his figure in a hallway.   

Seeking some distraction, the queen unfolded a parchment stamped with some seal. As she studied the missive, traces of befuddlement painted her countenance. Isabella of Portugal had used neither the Habsburg seal nor the Imperial one, having chosen her maiden seal.

Your Majesty, Queen Anne of France,

I can imagine how astounded and, most likely, angry you will be upon the receipt of this letter. We have neither seen nor communicated with each other before.

I never supported my husband’s expedition to France, but I could do nothing to prevent it. We women have to endure our men’s obsessions. Out of all women, you know this better than anyone else. My Carlos is as infected with the idea of crushing your husband, François, as Henry, your former spouse, is obsessed with sons. You might loathe me, but you cannot deny that wars beget wars, and the forceful creation of empires ignites the same desires in others.

What will happen once France and Spain recover from the devastation created by the latest conflict? Another campaign, more death and more human suffering, further impoverishment of our countries. More innocents will be killed or crippled, and this will rankle upon our consciences, for no good Christian, Protestant or Catholic, wants to cause endless unhappiness to mankind.

Will we allow our husbands, who persevere in their hatred for one another, to unleash a new war? Will my son, Philip, or François’ heir, Henri, endeavor to exact vengeance upon each other for their fathers’ failures? For many days while Carlos lay in fever, I asked myself whether we can do something to preclude another disaster from ruining the future of Europe.

Can we stop this madness, Your Majesty? My proposal might befuddle you, but I think we can work together covertly to make our spouses reach a shaky peace out of love for our children and our countrymen. My offer is to have your little daughter, Princess Louise of France, betrothed to my son – Philip, Prince of Asturias. For the sake of peace in Christendom!   

Carlos does not know that I wrote to you. Consider this letter my offer of friendship to you, and my official acknowledgement of your royal status in France.

Isabella

The personal signature at the end of the letter caught Anne’s attention. “She does not call herself the Holy Roman Empress. She is just Isabella who bared her heart to me.”

Anne’s mind grappled with the dilemma of what to do next, her anxiety mounting. If François learned about Isabella’s proposal, his fury would be like a deluge, despite his mellow temper, for he loathed the Habsburgs with every fibre of his being. Her husband would dismiss the empress’ words as a Habsburg ruse to lure the Valois family and France into a trap. Anne had no clue as to whether it was their enemy’s trick, but she did not hurry to make this conclusion.

She folded the paper and tucked it into her sleeve. “I’ll think about it later.”

The door opened, and Françoise appeared once more. “Your Majesty has a visitor.”

A moment later, a middle-aged woman, appareled in a rich gown of gray and silver velvet, entered. She was Lady Elizabeth Boleyn née Howard, Countess of Wiltshire and of Ormond.

“Mother…”  All other words stuck in Anne’s throat.

With a limpid smile, Elizabeth murmured dulcetly, “My Annie! Again a queen!”

Like a whirl of joy, Anne raced forward and hugged her. Sobbing in happiness to see her favorite child alive, Elizabeth pulled Anne into her arms deeper, their embrace molding them to each other like a second layer of skin. Françoise left them to enjoy their long-awaited reunion.

§§§

The queen’s bedroom was alive with energy and excitement during the next few hours. The Boleyn women sat by the window overlooking the tranquil river, as if their meeting had calmed the water down. They chatted about everything, including the monarch’s plan for Anne’s grand coronation in September. Isabella of Portugal’s letter was temporarily forgotten.

Elizabeth Boleyn glanced between Anne and Mary. “I’m so happy to be here!”

Anne bestowed the smile of tremendous brilliance upon the countess. “Mother, I cannot believe that you have come here from England. Please, stay with us in France.”

Recalling her husband’s angry face upon her departure, Elizabeth chortled with a mixture of spiteful satisfaction and pure joy at seeing her daughters. “When I boarded the ship in Dover, I left my past behind and went to you, my dearest girls. Now you are everything I have!”   

“George,” the lament tumbled from Anne’s lips. “I miss him so much.”

“Our dearest brother…”  Mary’s voice shattered at the remembrance of his demise.

Although her heart writhed in agony, Elizabeth kept an outwardly calm demeanor. “George was a good man. He has gone down in history as being the brother of the ill-fated Queen Anne who was spared by King Henry only due to riots against her execution. Oh Lord, I do not want my dear boy to be remembered as someone who was executed for treason and incest.”

Anne’s animosity manifested on her visage. “When I married King François, he promised me that he would aid me to take revenge on that Tudor beast.” Her fists clenched in her lap. “My hatred for Henry is perpetual, just as the torments of sinners are in the underworld.”

Mary shared her sister’s feelings. “That thug must suffer.”

In spite of her natural kindness, Elizabeth abhorred the English ruler for everything he had done to her offspring. “God bless the King of France to keep his word. Henry of England – the murderer of our George, William Stafford, and many others – must live in hell on earth.”  

Anne vowed, “I’m his nemesis who will allocate the most severe retribution to him.”

The chill of their grievous past cooled their initial excitement.

Having been a stunning beauty in her youth, Elizabeth Boleyn had aged well. Her cheeks like a blush-rose, her sage eyes of cerulean blue exuded grace and elegance. Her face, which almost did not have wrinkles, was framed by long, flaxen tresses hidden beneath her French hood, and a few streaks of gray hair were poking out from it. Her gray attire matched the pallor of her features from fatigue, which were not regular, but classically faultless in outline.

Anne compared her mother and Mary to herself. The two women were as different from the youngest Boleyn girl as a swan could be from a raven. The dark-haired Anne with brown eyes had taken after her Boleyn grandmother – Lady Margaret Butler, who had been an Irish noblewoman and the daughter of the previous Earl of Ormond. If the palm of classic beauty could not be assigned to Anne because of her exotic appearance, then her mother and sister deserved it thanks to their traditional English loveliness with light complexion and blonde curls.

As their conversation went on and on, the buds of their candor were unfurling like a flower in spring. Her relatives were relieved that Anne had been disillusioned with the King of England; but they were chagrined that the queen was hesitant to patch up her second marriage.

Elizabeth Boleyn steered the discourse to the King of France. “Anne, François de Valois is your husband in the eyes of God and the law. Your duty is to treat him as such.”

The queen bristled, “I shall never be enslaved to another narcissistic monarch! Despite being his wife, I shall not allow François to rule me! I’ll not be his toy, just as his many mistresses are. He will not burn my heart with his egotistical needs to make me a shell of myself.”

Mary shook her head. “He is not trying to do that. Do not be unfair to him.”

“Am I?” Inwardly, Anne recognized the truth in their words.

The queen rose to her feet and marched to the window. Looking out into the gardens became her pastime. The air was warm and clear, all a-glitter with sunlight, the ripples of which reflected on the smooth surface of the River Seine, and the cloudless sky was arching overhead.

Mary came to Anne, watching boats traverse the river. “King François is one of the most enlightened men of the era. He respects women and considers the most remarkable ones strong, capable, and equal in value to men. He has always been surrounded by smart ladies, taking their sage counsel: Louise of Savoy, Marguerite of Navarre, and Claude of France. The Valois mother, brother, and sister were glorified as ‘Holy Trinity’ in Madame Louise’s lifetime.”

“Indeed.” Anne could not object to that. “When the war with Spain started, His Majesty invited me to attend the meetings of his Privy Council and Military Council. He listened to my advice and was interested in my opinions, although some of his councilors distasted it.”

Mary took the queen’s hands in hers, as if her touch could persuade her to alter her behavior towards the king. “Matrimonial happiness is always the result of human forces working together. In your case, God joined together two artistic, erudite, strong, unconventional, and willful spirits which can achieve the supreme level of emotional comfort and security together.”

For a short time, the Boleyn girls froze near the window, observing the gardeners pick off the rare wilted blossoms in flowerbeds and water the plants.

Releasing her hands from her grasp, Anne laughed tragically. “This sounds too lovely to be true. A royal marriage is a golden cage that houses a king and his queen in the regal splendor, but where he and his court silence, torment, and strangle her spirit.”

“Oh, that is ludicrous!” Mary refuted. “We are not at Henry’s court. Now we are at the most glittering court in Europe, where the prominence of women is growing.”

“But marriage is a soul-destroying thing,” the queen persevered.

Huffing in irritation, Elizabeth stood up and crossed to a high-back, gilded armchair carved with double-headed eagles, the remnants of the old era and the previous Valois monarchs. “Anne, I love you wholeheartedly, but your stubbornness is sometimes too much to bear.”

Her youngest daughter returned to her chair. “I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you, mother.”

Mary settled herself back in her chair. “Both of us, Anne.”

Elizabeth reminisced, “There was a time when your father and I were quite happy together. Thomas was a different man back then: kind, generous, cultured, and respectful of women.”

“Until power corrupted him,” Mary supplemented scornfully.   

Anne wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I’m not inclined to talk about that blackguard who abandoned all of his children in the hour of need. Let him remain in Hever Castle in disgrace and rot there. I do not see him as my father and refuse to remember him again.”

A look of sadness flickered across Elizabeth’s face. “Thomas has long become only the Earl of Wiltshire for me. Not the young and handsome man I fell in love with so much that I eloped with him, despite him being a knight, his nobleness tainted by his merchant ancestral blood.”

Once the youthful Howard belle with eyes blue like the transparent blue pond had fallen ardently in love with the Boleyn knight, despite his far lower station. For many years, kisses of serenity had fallen upon her from her loving husband’s mouth, and she had given him several children, only three of whom had survived. At the time, their future had seemed like the enormous azure canvas above them, celestial and pure, prettily bordered with paradisal flowers.

Over time, cankered by ambition, Thomas Boleyn had transmuted into an avaricious, crafty, and ruthless courtier who had grappled for the Tudor ruler’s favor. His increasing propensity to sacrifice his loved ones on the altar of his advancement had cooled off Elizabeth’s feelings for him considerably. As she had aged, Thomas had commenced to actively indulge in sins of the flesh and of the spirit – in vices that his wife did not deem pardonable. Then Anne had fallen… 

Elizabeth had resigned to her own grievances without too much rancor, but she could not accept those of Mary, George, and Anne. Her son was no longer in the world of the living, but her daughters were alive and both unhappy. Elizabeth would never forgive her husband, whom she had last seen while having packed her things, for the villainies he had done to their kids.  

Mary commented, “Your Howard pride is speaking.”

Elizabeth inclined her head. “I feel more a Howard than a Boleyn, although it used to be different a while ago. I gifted your father my heart, but he trampled my love for him in his quest for power and pleasures. When he did not defend George and you, Anne, he died for me.”  

“Mother,” started a frowning Mary, “I remember you happy with Wiltshire only in childhood and my early adolescence. Then he began taking lovers, and you became so sad.”

A sigh fled Elizabeth’s lips. “Girls, I don’t think that Lord Wiltshire and I have ever been kindred spirits. It took me years to realize that. But with all my experience, I can see that King François and you, Anne, are far more compatible than I’ve ever been with your father.”

“Mother, please–”  Anne was interrupted.

Elizabeth lectured, “Giving someone who is exceedingly likely to be your soulmate a piece of your soul is better than giving a piece of your heart. Why? Souls are immortal! The French sovereign is so much like someone you may fall in love with, so utterly and so deeply that you two will communicate and commune like creatures blessed by a divine grace.”

“My beloved and obstinate sister!” Mary Stafford stepped to the other woman and took hold of her hands. “Look at me, Anne! Seize the chance and live without regrets! You are married to such a magnificent man, who is your baby girl’s father and who can give you home and children. You say that a royal marriage is a cage, but you can open its door and fly like a bird.”

Anne blinked in what was essentially wordless shock. “Will he let me be free?”

Elizabeth verbalized her opinion of the Valois ruler. “When Wiltshire served as the English ambassador to France, I had the honor of often talking with King François, so I know him a little. A man of amorous and artistic nature, your husband strives to expand his vision and outlook, and to create the world where he can enjoy the freedom of spirit, body, and intellect.”

“François is a singular man of distinction,” Mary summarized.

These praises of the monarch were fair, but Anne found the situation hilarious. “I cannot deny that you are right, but this does not make him a good husband.”

“Your conversation in the Clock Tower,” Mary emphasized. “It proves that the king wants to make your marriage work. He ejected all of his former mistresses for your sake. Not every marriage dooms a woman to a slow death, and François will not destroy you.”

Elizabeth Boleyn glanced sternly at the queen from across the room. “On a serious note, Anne, you must remember that what the Lord joined together let no man put asunder.”

The elder Boleyn girl clamored, “We will not stand any more nonsense from you, Anne.”

Anne smirked. “You are both too blunt. I need to remind you that I’m a queen.”

Mary took umbrage at this statement. “You said that I must treat you as a sister.”

The queen’s lips curved in a grin. “Don’t you see that I’m jesting, Mary?”

They all laughed merrily. A feeling of jolly serenity was settling over the chamber.

After a moment’s repose, Mary quizzed, “Will you be kinder to the king?”

“I will,” the queen promised. Her mother and sister smiled at her approvingly.

Anne flittered her gaze to the window. A mass of clouds overshadowed the sun, and she interpreted it as a possible bad omen for her and François. Yet, her resolve to spend this evening with the monarch after his return solidified. At the thought that he could reject her, a sensation of forlornness overcame her, and she wondered whether François could fill the void in her life.

§§§

After the king’s return, Queen Anne sauntered through the corridors without her ladies. As she walked past sentinels guarding the royal apartments, her smile was as scintillating as one on the face of the Goddess Hebe when she had married Heracles, the Greek famous hero.

She entered the room. “Your Majesty, may I borrow a moment of your time?”

However, no one responded, as if the room were empty. Anne examined the study that was paneled in mahogany and darkened, but there was candlelight enough to discern the gloomy figure in the distance. With a distinct air of bereavement about him, King François sat at a marble table piled with books and parchments. As he stared into the flames of a candle, his countenance was inscrutable, but at times, his lips twitched as if in a sudden spasm of anguish.

“Your Majesty!” She took a tentative step to him.

The response was a dismal stillness. As Anne tiptoed towards him, the shadows of funereal somberness assailed her from all sides, striking her with the red-hot pokers of his torment.

The ruler broached the subject that had been on her mind for months. “I’ll tell you exactly what you crave to hear. A week earlier, I sent several letters to England to start your retribution scheme. I’m certain that the Duke of Norfolk and Francis Bryan will ally with us.”

This pleased his wife. “I’m immensely grateful.”

“Vengeance is the center of your life.” This struck a chord of vibration within her bosom.

Alarm permeated her as she halted beside his chair. “What has happened?”

“Death is a vicious dame.” His voice was tremulous, like a violin string stretched taut.

Anne noticed the parchment in his hand. “A letter from whom?”

François directed two amber caverns of pain at his wife. “I’ve received news from Scotland. My daughter… my dearest Madeleine… died several weeks ago.”

The dark pools exuded heartache and sincerity. “My deepest sympathies, Your Majesty. I shall pray for her, God let her rest in peace.”

“Thank you, Anne.” His grief whitened his visage to a bleached stone. “Once a priest told me that the Lord takes to heaven such innocent souls more often than the wicked ones.”

“I’m so sorry,” she repeated.

François rubbed his temple with one hand, while continuing to clutch the parchment in the other. “I believe in God, but at times, I do not understand His judgment.”

His abysmal grief had claimed all his energy. A bereft François looked like a shell of his usual self, no longer possessing a magnificent stock of endurance, bravery, strength, and faith.

When the letter fell to the floor and rolled to her feet, Anne picked it up and read it.

Your benevolent Majesty, King François,

Madeleine, your dearest daughter and my most beloved wife, breathed her last in my arms at our castle in Edinburgh. It happened on the 7th of July, a month before her 17th birthday. Since then, I’ve been asking the Almighty why He has taken her gentle soul from earth.

On my behest, Madeleine was buried in the Royal Chapel Holyrood Abbey in Edinburgh, next to King James II of Scotland. As now our marriage and her death are commemorated by the poet Sir David Lyndsay in his ‘Deploration of Death of Queen Magdalene’, I re-read this verse every day, remembering the pageantry of our wedding in France and Scotland.

I swear on all I hold dear that I loved Madeleine more than life itself. Guilt was devouring me when my wife, weakened by her swiftly progressing illness, castigated me for my refusal to send Scottish troops to you so that they could fight for France against the Habsburgs.

King Henry VIII threatened me that if I had helped Your Majesty, his armies would swarm Scotland. Knowing that France was too preoccupied to defend my country, I strove to avoid a confrontation with England. The ignominious death of my father, James IV of Scotland, plays out in my mind every day; that Spanish harpy, Catherine of Aragon, killed him at Flodden.

Pardon me for my betrayal if you can, although I’ll never forgive myself.

James of Scotland who is unworthy of your friendship. Yet, if you can find it in yourself to maintain good relations between us, let us renew the ‘Auld Alliance’ between our realms.

Anne put the letter on the table. “Henry Tudor swayed him to betrayal.”

“Yes,” François hissed. “He will pay for all of his sins. That I promise you, wife.”

She breathed out a sigh. “Forget about that monster for now.”

A plaintive laugh erupted from the ruler. “Fate has a weird sense of humor. It was not France’s destiny to become a slave to the House of Habsburg. Yet, it was Madeleine’s fate to die so young.” His voice shuddered like an echo in stone. “My daughter always was as fragile as the most delicate flower. I suspected that the harsh Scottish climate would weaken her health, so I initially rejected her marriage. But she wept and entreated me to let her marry James.”

Anne placed a caring hand upon his shoulder. “They loved each other.”

François looked as pathetic as if the Lord had just pronounced a stinging moral judgement on him. “It is my fault that Madeleine is dead. I should have rejected the match! I should have insisted that James marry Marie de Bourbon, to whom he was betrothed.”

“No,” she objected hotly. “You are not guilty.”

His sorrow was poignant. “I’ve never felt as lonely as I do feel now.”

As the monarch’s gaze locked with his consort’s, Anne discerned the unutterable pain in those deep, affable, and tender eyes, which she had grown to adore.

Acting on impulse, she stormed out, hearing his broken voice, “Anne!”

In a minute, the queen was in the nursery, where she grabbed Princess Louise. Yesterday, the girl had been delivered from Saint-Germain-en-Laye to court, together with Mary’s children, at her mother’s behest. Crooning to the sleeping child, Anne walked back to the king’s rooms.

“You are not alone,” the queen stated as she returned to her husband’s study.

At the sight of his consort and their baby, the ruler stood up and closed the gap between them. Torrents of unalloyed love and fledging hope flooded him, like some divine river.

His wife gazed at him cordially. “You have us, sire.”

François enveloped his queen into his arms, and their daughter nested between them. He deposited a kiss onto the girl’s cheek, and then his lips brushed Anne’s like a feather. Holding the infant in one hand, Anne wrapped the other arm around his back, pulling him closer.

Something else warmed the monarch’s soul. A month earlier, Adrienne d’Estouteville had birthed his bastard son named Nicholas. Adrienne’s husband – François de Bourbon, Count de Saint-Pol and de Chaumont – had accepted the boy as his heir. King François would not share the news with his wife: he did not want Anne to distance herself from him, and to be hurt by the fact that his former mistress had birthed his son, while Anne had given him a princess.

§§§

The dauphin’s private chambers were scarcely lit by a series of candles, which seemed to pop out of the most unexpected nooks and crannies. For a long time, Dauphin Henri and Prince Charles, Duke d’Orléans, were quiet, giving tribute to their deceased sister Madeleine.

His brother’s silence, coupled with his haunted expression, made Henri feel something twist in his chest.  Shoving away from a window, he plodded over to a table. “I cannot help but think of Madeleine every hour. Do you remember her wedding with the King of Scots?”

Charles emitted a deep sigh. “Of course, I do. Our father opposed their union.”

The dauphin poured a goblet of wine and drained it in one gulp. “He was absolutely right. Her health was too weak, and she could not have survived in cold climate for long.”

“Father permitted them to marry because they fell in love during James’ visit to France.”

Henri slammed the empty goblet on the table. “Love! What does it mean in royal marriages? I was forced into a disgusting union with Catherine, but I did my duty to France. The king should not have been so sentimental when he gave in to his love-struck teenaged daughter’s solicitations to wed James of Scotland. That destitute king who turned out to be France’s traitor!”

When his stare shifted to his sibling, Charles was crying, tears rolling down his cheeks. He struggled for air as he stuttered, “I loved… Madeleine so much, but she… is gone.”

Henri’s eyes stung with tears. “Our Madeleine…  God rest her soul.”

Charles stretched out his hand to the other man. “Brother! My brother! We have lost many siblings, Henri. Now only you, Marguerite, and I are left, as well as little Louise.”

As if swept off by a superior power, Henri sprinted to the younger prince, his usual restraint gone. Spontaneously, he embraced Charles and held him in his arms. They wept, and love in their relationship had never reigned with more absolute sway than it did at the current moment. When they disentangled, their filial bond was stronger, though still tainted by their rivalry.

Charles veered an anguished gaze to him. “Madeleine was two years older than me. She and I played together and learned how to read and write together. When Marguerite was born, we both considered her our doll in her crib. Our mother frequented the nursery until she died.”

The dauphin gripped his hands together behind his back. “The three of us are only several years apart, but I rarely spent time with you. I disliked your eccentric games.”

“It was your choice, Henri. We always wanted you to participate.”

A look of sorrow settled over the dauphin’s features. “I adored you all, but everyone loved you and Madeleine more than me. They adored Marguerite more than me. Not only our father, but even our mother and our grandmother, Louise. All I wanted was your love!”  

Charles deciphered the bitterness in his brother’s voice. “You were jealous of us.”

“Should I not have been, Charles?”

“You should not. Do you know why?” Charles’ arm slithered across his sibling’s back.

“Why?” the dauphin echoed with interest.

Charles wiped the tears. “I shall open you a secret: we all envied you, Henri. You were so smart: without any effort, you excelled in reading, mathematics, literature, languages, history, and other subjects. Even when we were toddlers, you were cleverer, and your memory was better. We wished to be as smart as you were, dreaming that you would teach us how to be good at studies. Nevertheless, because of your reserved behavior, we feared to approach you.”

Staring at his brother’s astonished face, the Duke d’Orléans continued, “We thought that you did not want to be around us.” He let out a grin. “Our mother and grandmother scolded us for being flippant and noisy, although Margot was more serious than Madeleine and I. They and our father used to say that we ought to be more serious, just as you have always been.”

“Really?” Henri was baffled as to how he could have misinterpreted so many things from his childhood, having let them blindly shape so much of his life.

“Yes, brother.” Charles hugged Henri tightly.

The dauphin smiled at his sibling as they parted. “Well, if it was my seriousness you were avoiding, fate certainly paid a cruel trick on each of us, didn’t it, Charles?”

The prince regarded him with a melting sadness. “Yes, it did. Unfortunately, fate meted out a suitable punishment for us: we lost Madeleine. But we still have one another, Henri.”  

A wan smile touched Henri’s lips. “And Marguerite.”

“Let’s pay a visit to our father,” proposed Charles.

At Henri’s nod, the two princes exited and passed through the hallway. As they turned into the left corridor, they encountered Dauphine Catherine and Diane de Poitiers.

“You two together?” asked an astounded Henri.

“Without your ladies?” Charles inquired, also nonplussed.

Catherine explained, “Madame de Poitiers and I met in the corridor.”

“Accidentally,” Diane put in. “Your Highnesses, my condolences on your sister’s death.”

The dauphin’s smile that had appeared on his countenance at the sight of his paramour faded. “Thank you, Diane. The loss is so great that we will not recover from it.”

“You will, in some time,” Catherine contradicted. “Death is a perfectly normal part of life. Perhaps happiness is not meant for mere mortals, especially not for royals.”

A shudder wracked Charles. “I strongly disagree with you, Madame la Dauphine.” Turning to his brother, he urged, “Let’s go, Henri. Our father needs us.”

Henri didn’t respond. He looked so forlorn that Diane neared him.

Diane smiled at her lover. “Go to the king, Henri. We will see each other soon.”

Tipping his head, the dauphin trudged off, followed by his brother.

“Anyone might die,” Catherine grumbled. “Now they will nurse their hurt for months.”

“It will pass,” Diane uttered. “You are definitely right, Catherine. Nonetheless, I’ve noticed that at times, your behavior puts Henri into a torpor, so be careful with words.”

This infuriated the dauphine: despite her denials, it was somewhat true. “It is none of your business, Madame Mistress. Your thoughts must flow in a more pragmatic direction.”

Diane jeered, “Yours too, Madame Serpent.”

As the two women disappeared into the adjacent corridor, they didn’t see Queen Anne in a niche in a nearby hallway. Anne arched a brow, struggling to absorb what she had overheard on the way from the ruler’s quarters. Her daughter, Louise, slept in the arms of Jeanne d’Angoulême. As they headed to the nursery, a sense of alarm was relentlessly devouring Anne.

§§§

Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, was sleepy as he entered his sovereign’s rooms at almost midnight. The dim light from the candles highlighted the silhouette of King François.

“Your Majesty,” began the Duke de Guise, bowing. “I’m at your disposal.”

Pale like death itself, his profile turned to his subject, the monarch was barely recognizable. His nostrils flared slightly as he breathed. “My daughter, Queen Madeleine of Scotland, died.”  

Guise remembered the young frail girl, and crossed himself. “I’m very sorry, Your Majesty.”

The king gazed at the table where a stunning illuminated manuscript lay before him opened. His sons and his daughter Margot had just left his rooms; they had read the manuscript together, praying for Madeleine. “Her soul was too gentle to live happily in this cruel world.”

“My deepest condolences.” This was a sincere feeling on Guise’s part.

François pivoted his head, with hollow eyes, to councilor. “King James was blackmailed by King Henry of England who threatened him to plunder Scotland if he sent troops to us. I find this explanation plausible and want to renew the Auld Alliance, so James needs a wife.”

“Who does Your Majesty have on your mind?”

The king answered in an unemotional voice, “Your eldest daughter, Marie de Guise.”

A decidedly astonished Guise asked, “Your Majesty?”

“I’ll not repeat, Claude. Your Marie is young, lovely, and marvelously educated. She is not a princess of the blood, but I’ll give her a large dowry to compensate for the lack of royal blood. Regardless of my grief, it is important for France to cement our alliance with Scotland.”

The duke inwardly screamed in jubilation. “Of course, my liege – politics never sleep. I already have an answer: Marie will marry the King of Scots if he accepts her as his bride.”

“I had no doubt. Avarice has won.” Tinged with dolorific colors, the despondent stillness that followed was accentuated by the droning of a fly in a window.   

A surge of dread rushed through the Duke de Guise. His apparent eagerness had displeased his sovereign – he had failed to suppress it. “How else can I serve you and France?”

“Leave.” The ruler’s voice was glacial.

Bowing, Duke Claude de Guise vacated the king’s rooms, his spirits soaring.

François took a deep, cleansing breath. I’ll get through this, he told himself. I’ll get through everything as long as I have my other four children. And perhaps Anne… over time. Memories of how he had carried his green-eyed and blonde-haired little Madeleine in his arms swarmed his head. The purity of his youth had long since been lost in the drudgery of earthly experience. At the moment despite his self-reassurances, the monarch’s heart was filled with infinite weakness.


August 18, 1537, Kenninghall, the Duchy of Norfolk, England

Darkness had enveloped the village of Kenninghall, and candelabra were lit around the perimeter of the cozy study. Their countenances tinged with mystery, two men sat at a table laden with ledgers and papers. A mere hour earlier, Sir Francis Bryan had descended onto the manor as he had dismounted with flair and demanded that he be admitted to the Duke of Norfolk.

“What will you do now, Your Grace?” Sir Francis Bryan inquired.

“I’ll become the King of France’s ally,” averred Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk.  

Norfolk’s mind meandered to the Valois ruler’s missive written in flawless English, which had surreptitiously been brought to him by a French spy. He had retired from court to Kenninghall, one of the manors of the Dukes of Norfolk, because these days, the English monarch’s exceedingly volatile temper might trigger calamitous eruptions of rage after the queen’s miscarriage. Thomas had read the letter from France so many times that he had memorized it by heart. 

Your Grace of Norfolk,

I hope this letter finds you hale and hearty. I was informed that you would stay in your estates until autumn. The air in cities like Paris and London is not that healthy in summer.

We are not so fortunate. My court, my queen, and I are currently staying in our capital as we are preparing for Her Majesty’s coronation. On the 12th of September, which is my birthday, the most lavish pageant will take Anne from the Palais de la Cité to the Basilica of Saint Denis for the coronation ceremony. It will be not just a procession, but an official statement that Anne is my rightful wife and queen. We shall celebrate the beginning of a new era for France and Europe, as well as my union with Anne and our victory over the Holy Roman Empire.   

Your callous attitude towards Anne and George Boleyn after their arrests paints you as an out-and-out villain. You abandoned them to weasel out of the disaster because you could lose everything for the mere association with the Boleyns. Nevertheless, you saved Mary Stafford when your homicidal king ordered the execution of the pilgrims and their families. Now the Boleyn girls are under my protection, and their mother joined them at my court.  

I swear that I shall prove Anne’s innocence and clear her name in England, for the rest of Christendom knows that she is innocent. Elizabeth Tudor remains King Henry’s only heir, and maybe she will succeed him in due time. I’m certain that you crave to have a Howard queen on the English throne. Let’s ensure that Elizabeth’s reign will not be besmirched by the past.

If a small part of you cares for your two nieces or even just for the sake of power, accept my offer. The Lord forgives those who truly wish to atone for how they have lived.   

François de Valois, King of France  

Bryan’s voice took Norfolk out of his reverie. “Why?”

“For power.” The duke’s mouth lengthened in a wolfish smirk. “Jane Seymour cannot bear the king a son, just as his other wives could not. As the Lady Mary Tudor is considered a bastard and barred from the line of succession, Elizabeth can become the first queen regnant in England’s history. I wish to see my great-niece on the throne, not a weak Seymour brat.”

“Lady Mary is a Catholic,” put Bryan.

“I vote for Elizabeth, despite my beliefs.” There was a ring of finality in Norfolk’s voice.

“The king might discard Queen Jane, remarry, and have his precious prince.”

Norfolk looked the other man in the eye. “Do you believe what you say?”

Francis Bryan eased himself into an elaborately carved chair. “He can take another wife. He is no longer in love with Jane. Soon someone else will take her place.”

The duke’s gaze fell on a nearby tapestry depicting their sovereign in youth. “Once Henry Tudor was a young, athletic, and virile Renaissance prince. Over time, he transmuted into a burly, narcissistic, and crippled king who now is not capable of participating in a tournament, let alone  any sort of swordfight. Over the course of time, he has continuously failed to sire a strong son on all of his wives. Will he be able to produce healthy male progeny at an older age?”

They were alone, but Bryan lowered his voice. “Do you mean that his seed is failing?”

Howard shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps.” His mouth quirked. “I would rather believe that Anne will give François a son than that Henry will ever have a healthy male heir.”

Mischief manifested in his companion’s expression. “François is a libertine, just like me. He must be bedding my cousin every day and night, for she is a lovely creature.”

“Perhaps.” Truth be told, Norfolk wanted his niece to have a son. “I’ve chosen my side.”

“Is there any other reason for your alliance with François?” Bryan’s voice was insistent.

The duke scowled. “Francis, do not be so insolent with the highest peer of the realm.”

Thomas Howard paced to and fro. The remembrances of George’s and Anne’s trials struck his consciousness, smashing him into dust and whirling the dust away into the infinity of his guilt. He had condemned his niece and his nephew to death in order to disassociate himself from them when he could have lost his privileges and offices. Yet, part of him regretted that.   

Bryan’s mordant laugh boomed through the vaulted study. “Your Grace of Norfolk, I cannot be intimidated, and I find your behavior hilarious. You abandoned Anne and George, but saved Mary. If His Majesty had learned of your noble deed, he would have signed your death warrant.”     

As if ignoring him, Norfolk plunged deeper into reflection. He recalled the note he had received from his elder sister – Lady Elizabeth Boleyn née Howard – that she had sent him before her departure to France. When she had thanked him for Mary’s salvation, he had realized that he had missed the brother-sisterly connection that they had shared in childhood. The carpet depicting a colorful map of England took the brunt of his nervousness as he paced agitatedly.

Ceasing to move in the center, Howard told himself as if he were alone, “Power is more important than any family connections.” Yet, a large part of him craved Elizabeth’s respect.

Tipping his head back, Francis Bryan laughed. In between the gusts of laughter, he coughed out words. “We are both addicted to power. I, too, will be the French ruler’s ally.”

Unfolding the parchment, Bryan re-read the letter that the duke had already seen today.

Sir Francis,

As far as my queen and I are aware, you did not participate in Anne’s downfall. Yet, you distanced yourself from the Boleyn family and did nothing to defend them, just as no one did.

You possess the uncanny ability to always remain in the royal favor. You love power and wealth; so far, you have not rendered an essential service to your country. Now you have the chance to do something good for England and yourself. If you help me restore Anne’s good name in England, Elizabeth will be eternally grateful to you, and if she takes the throne in years to come, you will keep yourself in her highest favor. The benefits you can reap are obvious.

I’ve also written to His Grace of Norfolk. You may discuss our alliance with him.

King François I of France

Finally, the Duke of Norfolk seated himself into a dark walnut armchair, adorned with the Howard coat-of-arms. “François de Valois is as sly as a fox, as powerful as the God Zeus after he vanquished the emperor. He is skilled at coaxing people into doing his bidding, and he possesses more than enough fortitude and acumen to implement his vengeance plan.”

“Indeed,” Bryan concurred. “I must admit that George’s death saddened me a lot, for he was an honorable man, unlike most courtiers. Although I distanced myself from the Boleyns, I was relieved that Anne was spared and left for France. I’m glad that Mary is now with her.”

“Anne has accomplished the unachievable: she became the second woman in history after Eleanor of Aquitaine who married two kings.” There was a touch of pride in the duke’s voice.

Francis Bryan bobbed his head. “Yes, that is incredible.”

Thomas Howard wondered, “Imagine if Anne bears a son for the French monarch. That would be entertaining for my niece and her new husband, as well as for Elizabeth’s supporters. That would serve as the evidence of our sovereign’s inability to have sons.”

Bryan surmised, “The Tudor temper will destroy us, then.”

“Cromwell! I want that lowborn bastard dead,” the Duke of Norfolk hissed.

“Me too.” They both loathed Thomas Cromwell.

Norfolk quizzed, “So, are we together in this?”

Francis Bryan made up his mind. “Yes. Will you write to His French Majesty?”  

“I shall.” Norfolk picked up a quill and began composing a letter.

The two men were thrilled at the idea of their collaboration. Norfolk had a unique ability to form and manage political alliances; Bryan was an unscrupulous man of questionable morals. Neither of them shrank from crafty and vile means, which could draw them closer to their goal of amassing power and riches. Teamed together, they were an unstoppable force of ambition.

Notes:

Hello, my dear readers! Please, let me know what you think about this chapter. Thank you very much in advance. I need inspiration!

Anne and Françoise de Foix are becoming close friends. A spoiler: they will be inseparable in years to come. Françoise is one of my favorite female characters.

Elisabeth Boleyn, Countess of Wiltshire and of Ormonde, entered the stage, having left England for good. There was some insight into her marriage to Thomas Boleyn in this chapter, and I wonder what you think of their relationship. Mary and Elizabeth team up to influence Anne so that Anne becomes more attentive to the king. Part of Anne is interested in and physically attracted to François, who was quite a handsome man according to contemporary sources. At this stage, Anne does not love the King of France; at first, they need to become friends.

I'm answering your question about Thomas Boleyn in advance. He will appear in this fiction later when we need him, and he will be a necessary character for my Italian plots.

Madeleine de Valois died in the summer of 1537, just as it happened in history. I pity the girl, but her value as a character would be equal to zero in this AU. So, Marie de Guise will marry James of Scotland. France will be allied with Scotland in years to come (the old Auld Alliance), but François will be entirely focused on European politics, especially Italian wars.

Dauphin Henri… He is not always frigid: there is a cauldron of emotions boiling inside of him, but he hides them behind the cold façade. Despite their rivalry at court and even more for their father's love, Henri loves his brother Charles. Now when I'm writing the part covering events between 1544 and 1547, Henri has become one of my favorite characters. My Henri is very much like his historical version, but I've made him a somewhat better man.

François began weaving intrigues in England. His main goal is not even revenge – it is to prove his wife's innocence to Henry and the rest of England. I'm deliberately making the Duke of Norfolk a better version of himself in this fiction because I want to create his refreshing portrayal – Norfolk will be allied only with Anne, not with Mary Tudor, even though he will be practical and cruel, just as he was in history. Later, Anne will understand that her greatest revenge is to be happy with Henry's life-long rival and enemy – François.

Attention! I have a poll about the possible appearance of Mary Queen of Scots. Not now, many, very many chapters later – in the part about religious wars after François' death. I am still not sure I need Mary Queen of Scots; to be honest, I've never been her ardent fan. But I'd like to know your opinion because what will happen years later depends on what happens at present.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 23: Chapter 22: The Oath of Fealty

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 22: The Oath of Fealty

August 29, 1537, Palais de la Cité, Paris, France

The end of summer turned out to be splendid, and the sun was high in the firmament. Shimmering in their garments of golden brocades, the Valois couple entered the Grand’ Salle, where French nobles, knights, together with their esquires and pages, assembled. There were few women in the chamber on this occasion because men were mostly peers of the French realm.

In silence, men all bowed, women all curtsied to their sovereigns. The huge chamber was literally paved with faces, as if every French lord, whether masters of small fiefdoms or vast, rich estates dotted throughout the country, was now there at their liege lord’s call.

King François greeted, “Thank you for coming here, my beloved subjects.”

The stillness was broken by ebullient cheers, which resounded like rolls of thunder.

“We won the war against the emperor, thanks be to God!”

“Our great King François returned to us victorious!”

“The Knight-King crushed the Holy Roman Empire!”

“We expelled the invaders, God curse them for all eternity!”

“France is free!  We are free!  Thanks to King François!”

“Glory to our legendary sovereign and his generals!”

Standing next to her husband, Queen Anne blanched. An accustomed sense of unease stirred within her as her mind floated back to her erstwhile life. Even after England’s break with Rome, the English populace loved their monarch, blaming her for all of Henry’s transgressions. Loving France as her second home, Anne had hoped that the French would appreciate her role in their victory over the House of Habsburg, but they seemed to have forgotten about it.   

“It will be all right.” François touched his wife’s hand and squeezed it.

Anne schooled her features into indifference. “I do not want their love.”   

“You do,” he unveiled her lie. “Give them more time, wife.”

The dam of her calmness had broken. She whispered so quietly that only he could hear her, “I’m a heretic in their eyes. Will they accept a Protestant queen on the French throne?”

“They will,” he assured. “I don’t think of it as a priority just now.”

“And what is more important to Your Majesty?”

“Their oath of fealty to us,” François said curtly, lacing their fingers together.

The couple walked to the two massive, ebony thrones under a canopy of crimson silk.

Two ushers were stationed at a door at the farther end of the great hall. At the couple’s approach, the herald made an announcement, and this door was thrown open. Queen Marguerite of Navarre and her husband walked in. King Henri II of Navarre, together with his only surviving legitimate heiress, Jeanne d’Albert, had recently come from Navarre to the capital of France.

Dauphin Henri, Prince Charles, and Princess Marguerite followed their aunt and uncle. Queen Anne’s relatives trailed after them, conversing with Charles amicably.

The French ruler and his wife seated themselves into their thrones; the Navarrese spouses occupied two closest throne-like chairs. The members of the royal family settled themselves into a row of matching armchairs under a canopy of purple silk. After making obeisance to the royals, the others crowded the room, each trying to be as close to the ruler’s seat as possible.

“My beloved subjects!” The monarch got to his feet. “We were attacked by Imperial barbarians, and many people gave their lives to resist the enemy. God bless their souls!”

A chorus of concurrence exploded in the air. Many crossed themselves.

As a hush fell, the ruler continued, “But it was not France’s destiny to become a colony of Spain. The Almighty’s will is that our country was and will always remain an independent kingdom with our own magnificent culture and heritage. God’s grace is abundant, and it empowers His children to overcome and be triumphant, giving me the divine right to rule our land.”

After a moment’s pause, the monarch declared, “We won the bloody war and ejected the vile invaders thanks to your tremendous courage and your love for our country. So, I congratulate all of you on our legendary victory, and on the ultimate triumph of good over evil.”

As they cried with delight, Anne’s gaze roved over the polychrome statues of the Capetian and Valois kings on the pillars and columns, lingering on the statue of François I.

François waved his hand for silence. “We must all thank my dear wife, Queen Anne. She played a crucial role in the creation of the anti-Habsburg coalition, the members of which are now our allies.” Locking his gaze with his spouse’s, he affirmed, “I thank my queen for saving my life during the war, and for providing us with wise counsel as to our strategy against the emperor.”

The congregation’s reaction to their sovereign’s praise of his consort was deathly silence. The grayness of their discontent shadowed their countenances, as they wondered how much Anne would influence their liege lord and his policies. The sad truth was that most of the French lords – even those who admired Anne – feared of having a Protestant queen on the French throne.

Yet, there was a smile on Anne’s face. “Thank you, sire,” she told her husband.

François answered benevolently, “You are most welcome, Madame.”

Queen Marguerite of Navarre promulgated, “Personally, I wish to thank my sister-in-law as well. If not for her bravery, my dearest brother would have been murdered in Chamerolles.”

Being an outspoken youth, Prince Charles declared, “I adore Queen Anne!  Our country is forever in debt to her!” His warm gaze met his stepmother’s. “She is France’s savior!”

Anne sent her youngest stepson a cordial smile. The expressions of her relatives were as bright as the summer sun in the cloudless sky. The Navarrese rulers flashed genial smiles.

Among nobles, only Anne de Montmorency and Claude d’Annebault let out smiles. For a split second, the Duke Claude de Guise’s expression contorted in abhorrence, and some of his Catholic friends lowered their eyes to hide their loathing for their liege lord’s spouse.

Their antagonism towards Anne threatened to cause the arched wooden roof, together with a row of columns in the center supporting its framework, to crumble, burying her beneath it.  

The King of France’s imperial voice ceased the whisperings. “Now you all have to take the oath of fealty to me and your new queen, regardless of your preferences and religion.”

“Gladly,” Montmorency and Annebault said as they genuflected in front of the thrones.

During the next hour, the nobles were swearing their fealty to the Valois monarchs. Most of those in attendance had gone through the same solemn proceeding years ago after François’ accession in 1515. Today the ruler compelled them to give the promise of faithful service to him once more because of the necessity to ensure their allegiance to his new controversial queen.

After it was over, Anne lamented, “Most of them did that unwillingly.”

“It matters not,” François claimed. “You are my queen, and nothing will change that.”

“I’m unwanted here,” she persevered. “No one likes being forced to do anything.”

He could not deny that, sighing. “Calm down.”

“Some hate me.” The queen intercepted the glares of the Duke de Guise and his brothers.

François’ next speech restored Anne’s confidence. “My subjects, it is your duty to serve loyally not only me, but also your heroic queen. Never ignore your duty to her!”

Montmorency pronounced, “Long Live King François and Queen Anne!”

The gathering echoed the Constable of France’s cry with some uneasy murmurings.

“Will Her Majesty convert into Catholicism?” Chabot asked straightforwardly.

François glared at his advisor. “France follows the course of religious tolerance.”

Anne suppressed a grimace. “His Majesty permitted me to keep my faith.”

The monarch stated, “Queen Anne’s coronation will take place in a few weeks.”  

The king stood up and extended his hand to his spouse. The courtiers all bowed to them.

§§§

As the Valois couple marched down the corridor, there was not much to make out of the king’s blank expression. He knitted his brows as they approached the presence chamber, and Anne surmised that he was more eager to retire to his quarters than stay in her company.

The King and Queen of France walked into the room, where ambassadors had gathered.

The foreign envoys roared with ecstatic screams. At present, the entirety of Christendom – even those Catholics who would never abjure the Pope’s authority and the Catholic doctrine – absolutely adored and revered her husband, who was now known as King François I of France the Victorious, François I of France the Bravest, and the Legendary Valois Liberator.

The spouses ceased moving in the center of the chamber. The royal entourage, including Montmorency, Chabot, Annebault, and Tournon, stopped behind them.

Instantly, all of the ambassadors swept deep bows, tinged with a mixture of admiration, respect, servility, and anticipation. The exception was Sir Nicholas Wotton, who was the English ambassador to France; his bow was as low as it was necessary in accordance with etiquette.   

Dismissing them from formalities, the monarch spoke. “We are delighted to see you here, although your liege lords, who participated in the war against the Holy Roman Empire, departed for their lands a while ago. Please, send to your masters our best wishes of long life and prosperous reign. France, the House of Valois, and personally I shall never forget their aid.”

The response was the diplomats’ nods and congratulations on the king’s victory.

Taking his wife’s hand in his left hand, François waved his other hand for silence. “It is not my triumph – it is my people’s triumph!  Without the courage and resistance of my soldiers, I would not have ended the emperor’s aggression. Our victory would not have been possible without the assistance of all your sovereigns, and France is forever in debt to them.”

The envoy from Hesse declared with his thick German accent, “My master, Landgrave Philip of Hesse, will never stop thanking the illustrious Queen Anne of France for assisting all of the German Protestant and Lutheran princes in assembling forces against the Habsburgs.”

François turned with a sweeping gesture towards his wife. “My wife, Anne, is the symbol of our alliance with foreign reformers and of our resistance against the power-hungry Spaniards.”

The cheers were very loud as the ambassadors nodded in frenzied excitement.

“Thank you, my lords,” Anne affirmed with royal dignity, her French perfect and without any accent. “I wed King François because he proposed to me. Later I worked hard, together with him and his councilors, as his consort on behalf of our realm. I swear that I acted in accordance with the will of God, not for any worldly aggrandizement, not for the gratification of the flesh, and not for benefits and privileges, which I could derive from the union with my husband. I genuinely strove to save France out of my love for this great country, where I spent several years in childhood and adolescence, and where I shall be buried as her queen when the Lord calls me home.”

The next round of applause was much louder than the previous one. The ambassadors of Hesse and of Palantine rewarded Anne with screams of reverence for her speech. Diplomats from Sweden and Norward swept deep bows and lavished her with compliments.

“Thank you.” The queen was pleased to feel the approving squeeze of her spouse’s hand.

A middle-aged man, clad in a doublet of black satin paned with orange, strode over to the king. His mantle of black brocade was embroidered with gold, as was the collar of the Golden Fleece around his neck. His grizzled hair and beard were trimmed in the Spanish fashion.

The newcomer made quite a reluctant, yet not shallow, bow. “Your Majesty, I am Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle. His Imperial Majesty, Carlos V, appointed me his ambassador to France. I ask you for an audience so that I may hand to you my letters of credence from the emperor.” His French was quite good and easy to comprehend, in spite of his sonorous Flemish accent.

His spies had warned François about this meeting beforehand. “Monsieur de Granvelle, welcome to our court, the most cultured one in Europe.” His mouth twitched in a mockery of a smile. “Carlos has displayed rationality on this occasion, although in the past, during the Battle of Pavia for example, he showed the cunning of a serpent. As I do not wish to talk to any Spaniard, he sent a Burgundian to negotiate the terms and conditions of his brother Ferdinand’s release.”    

Cardinal de Tournon explained the man’s identity to Anne. A Burgundian politician, Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle served as a trusted advisor to the emperor. His sovereign had made him suzerain of the Imperial city of Besançon and given him a serious position in Flanders.

Granvelle regarded his master’s nemesis with interest. “You know why I’m here.”

The monarch’s twist of his lips looked like crawling snakes to the other man. “Carlos has no principles of virtue, religion, chivalry, or friendship. Power, the Inquisition, campaigns in the New World and Africa, and his far-famed devotion to his wife – these are all that he lays to heart. Carlos is true to nothing, not even to his mother, Queen Juana of Castile, whom his grandfather imprisoned an eternity ago. I wonder whether he is loyal to his younger brother.”

Everyone kept silent, for the king’s countenance illustrated the wisdom of not heeding.

At last, Granvelle riposted, “Your Majesty is not right about my master. He–” 

“Your master and I spent a lot of time in Madrid,” François cut him off with a scathing grin. “You are probably not aware that good manners such as courtesy are appreciated as much as bad manners such as disrespect to a foreign monarch are abhorred. Nonetheless, poor manners cost nothing materially, so the empty treasury of Spain and her empire will not lose more.”

A chorus of snickering resounded and diminished at the wave of the king’s hand.

The ruler continued, “Monsieur de Granvelle, Ferdinand is kept in luxury, living like a monarch who has everything save his freedom – nothing bad will happen to him. I shall not tell you where Ferdinand is to prevent you from stealing him. Carlos invaded our country, and we drove him out. Now let his brother languish in our prison in repayment for what the emperor did to me and my two sons years ago.” Swiveling to his councilors, he quizzed, “Is my verdict fair?”

Sniggering, the spectators tipped their heads and laughed again.   

Anne de Montmorency jested, “Solitude is a solitary boat floating in a sea. His Majesty King of Hungary, Bohemia, and Croatia Ferdinand von Habsburg, who is also King of the Romans, has wonderful companions – hundreds of books. Ah, what a notable prisoner with many titles we have!  He has a rare chance to educate himself about everything in life.”  

Anne nodded at the Spanish diplomat with an air of irresistible wit. “The loneliness of King Ferdinand is proof that his innate search for connection with human knowledge is intact, despite his military losses. François, will books inspire hope in Ferdinand?”

The monarch kissed her hand. “Certainly, wife.”

She jested, “So many books, so little time to remember about the emperor.”

All, save Wotton and Granvelle, were thrilled and burst out laughing.

The king looked a shocked Granvelle in the eye. “Tell His vanquished Imperial Majesty that I shall not release Ferdinand at least for a year. There will be no negotiations about it.”

The royals strutted to the exit, their heads held higher than usual, followed by advisors.

Before quitting the room, François noticed the English ambassador. “She is fury, she is wrath, she is vengeance. It sounds poetical, but it is all about my Anne. I shall help her.”

Wotton blanched. “Sire, my king will be very–”

“I shall never stop thanking your liege lord for my exile,” Anne uttered blandly, but with a wicked look. “In France, I have a true friend – my husband – to assist me in serving justice.”

Wotton bowed stiffly. “Your Majesties.” He would not report the case to Henry Tudor.      

The spouse smiled at one another. They laughed as Wotton escaped from them.   

As Their Majesties made their way out, their victorious joy was seen in their every step. However, in the hallway a surge of coldness swept between them, and their smiles waned.

§§§

In the corridor, they met Queen Marguerite of Navarre, surrounded by Navarrese nobles. Despite her residence at the Valois court, some of her husband King Henri of Navarre’s courtiers came to France from time to time. Marguerite also had her spies at her spouse’s court.

The lords from Navarre all bowed to the French royal couple. Then they were dismissed.

“Margot!” François beckoned her. “Nicolas de Granvelle has arrived.”

His sister approached him. “I know; I don’t like this man.”

Anne interjected, “He wants to start negotiations about King Ferdinand.”

François plunged into reflection. “Can we make Ferdinand our ally?”

Marguerite looked pensive as well. “If Ferdinand somehow becomes our ally and even a friend, we will be able to drive a wedge between the two Habsburg brothers over time.”

The king affirmed, “Perhaps, but their enmity is not my priority. Ferdinand is different from the emperor – he is more honorable, less warmongering, and far less fanatical in his beliefs.”

“They both invaded France,” Anne pointed out.

Marguerite tilted her head. “Indeed, but Ferdinand obeyed Carlos.” Her eyes flew to the monarch. “The intelligence our spies regularly collect from foreign courts suggests that Ferdinand is a better person than Carlos. But Ferdinand has always been very loyal to the emperor.”

“Yes,” said the ruler. “But why can’t he become our ally and advocate peace with France?  Carlos would not like that, but at least, we would have a Habsburg who is not our foe.”

The ruler’s sister approved, “That would be good. But how to accomplish that?”

François shrugged. “That remains to be seen.”

Anne meditated, “Whatever ransom you demand from Spain for Ferdinand will not be paid anytime soon because their treasury is empty. The state income in Ferdinand’s own domains – Hungary, Bohemia, and Croatia – will be used to finance their combat against the Turks.”

Marguerite continued in the same vein, “Territories… I highly doubt that Carlos would wish to grant France any lands for his brother’s release. Most likely, during the next year or two, Carlos will focus upon his empire’s internal problems, and only later, he will return to Ferdinand’s situation. In this case, our notable captive will feel betrayed by his sibling.”

The king smiled like a fox. “It may become the beginning for our plan.”

“Yes!” His sister tipped her head. “Then we would offer Ferdinand some bargain.”

Anne supported, “Offended by Carlos, he would be desperate to regain his freedom.”

“I want the Duchy of Milan,” François announced with supreme eagerness. “Margot, we are descendants of Valentine Visconti, Duchess d’Orléans. As now there are no male descendants of the Sforza family which once ruled Milan, it rightfully belongs to us – not to Spain.”

Marguerite touched her collar. “Milan is an Imperial domain. Ferdinand cannot give it.”

The king grinned whimsically. “Actually, Ferdinand may do many things. Carlos made him King of the Romans six years ago, making Ferdinand his designated heir to the Holy Roman Empire. Some craft applied, and Ferdinand can help us get what we want.”   

The Queen of Navarre summed up, “For now, let the emperor’s brother read books.”

Laughing jocundly, they strolled into another presence chamber.  

§§§

Three richly attired courtiers, each gloomier than night, hid themselves in the Tour de l’Horloge, where the dramatic scene between the king and queen had occurred weeks earlier.

“These are dark days for France,” one of them complained.

Another man hissed, “Today is the most scandalous day in France’s history. The nobility had to swear their loyalty to the whorish and heretical queen of France. It is a cursed day.”

“I have a plan,” piped a clear voice from behind them.  

“Will you contact our Catholic friends?” quizzed the first courtier.

The third speaker nodded. “Of course, and we need to talk both to the Italian and to the Pope. However, it will not be easy to dispose of that Boleyn witch. The king seems to have developed feelings for her, or he would not have banished all of his lovers from court.”

“Can we kill her before the coronation?” someone inquired.

“No!” the leader of the conspirators denied. “Caution is a must!  Months may pass before a suitable moment comes. We can act only with the approval of His Holiness, and to exchange letters with him via secured channels will take time.” Sighing, he added, “As for François, we must consider the outcomes – good and bad – of assassination. I’m not sure we need him dead.”

Suddenly, another man in rich red robes entered and declared, “King François will live as long as he does not succumb to the harlot’s witchery. If he becomes enamored of her too much, we will not need him. France must have a king who is capable of ruling on his own.”

One of the others concurred, “We have Henri if François must be disposed of.”

Everyone dipped their heads. They needed to think through all the possible scenarios and consequences before proceeding to the deed. They would cleanse their homeland from heresy.


September 9, 1537, Palais de la Cité, Paris, France

François kept distance from Anne. He left her alone with her doubts and fears again. To discuss her marital situation, the Countess of Wiltshire insisted that the queen dismiss her ladies, and when it was done, the Matriarch of the Boleyn family stared at her forbiddingly.

“Go to your husband, Anne,” Elizabeth prodded.

Anne settled herself into an ancient ebony chair adorned with precious stones. “Don’t be so worried about my spouse’s unhappiness. He has many mistresses to comfort him.”

“None of them is now here,” Mary chided.

For hours, they argued with Anne. Eventually, silence percolated between them, and they did not speak until outside twilight purpled the clouds and the distant outlines of Parisian buildings.

Elizabeth drew her attention back to the topic at hand. “Recently, the Catholic king made all of his knights and nobles swear the oath of fealty and vassalage to their new Protestant queen. They complied with his order whether they are Catholics or not. Do you think they will be loyal to you, Anne, knowing that their queen is distant from their heroic liege lord?”

Mary’s shake of the head expressed her concurrence. “They shall be willing to crush you like a sparrow. They love their sovereign, but most of them do not harbor affection for you.”

“I know,” conceded Anne in a strangled voice. “People hated me in England. They are not fond of me in France, despite my contribution to France’s victory over the emperor.”

Mary and Elizabeth took the seats in front of the queen’s chair.

The Countess of Wiltshire opined, “Anne, you are driving the courtiers – thanks be to God not the common folk – away. The nobles know that you are the king’s wife only in name. You are afraid of François’ power, but you two cannot always avoid each other.”   

Despite her currently warmer relationship with the Valois ruler, Anne did not have a speck of interest in further improving it. Or did she?  She was caught up in a net of confusion as to what she really felt for her spouse. She was gradually beginning to like her marriage to the King of France, who had so far permitted her to remain independent to a significant degree.

Elizabeth read her thoughts with ease. “You are attracted to His Majesty.”

“Yes.” The queen’s voice was barely audible.

“That’s a start.” The countess tucked a long tendril of hair behind her ear.

Mary’s thirst for vengeance twisted her countenance. “We must avenge our woes. You must have a son, Anne!  A bonny Valois prince!  Henry will suffer so much, then.”     

A snarl of hatred contorted Anne’s face. “I do hate Henry more than I ever loved him.”

Their mother concurred, “Nothing will hurt Henry more than the knowledge that you have birthed a male child fathered by his French counterpart, whom he has always loathed.”

Of course, her relatives were correct!  Thus, the queen would need to repudiate the deal that she had imposed on the Valois ruler. She usually conceived quickly. A few weeks in François’ bed would be enough to plant the seeds of her future triumph over Henry in her belly.

Mary coughed. “Anne, I had affairs, so I’m far more experienced than you.”  

Irritably, the queen noted, “With both of my husbands.”

“Let the past remain in the past,” Mary said strictly. “I have to touch upon a very private theme. Out of all the men whom I knew carnally, François is the most unselfish and generous lover, extravagant in his amorous habits and artistic in the way he behaves with a woman.”

Anne blushed profusely. “I’ll not listen to that.”   

Elizabeth shook her head. “This aspect is vitally important.”

Mary’s expression was apologetic. “I’m trying to help you understand your spouse.” As Anne nodded curtly, her sister divulged, “François is a God of romantic sensuality. It is one of the reasons why most of his former paramours were or are strongly infatuated with him. Be with him without any restraints, and François will open to you many salacious secrets – you will appreciate them. For a married couple, it is not a sin, if it makes you feel less embarrassed.”

Anne’s blush deepened like a sunburn. “Enough!”

Elizabeth supported her eldest daughter. “Mary says right things. Enjoy your marriage, Annie. Have a son with His Valois Majesty, or perhaps even two or more bonny boys. Prove to King Henry and the whole world that the lack of males in the Tudor line is not your fault.”

“I’ll try,” conceded Anne at last.

Mary stood up. “Tonight, you will seduce King François the Victorious.”

Elizabeth and Mary assisted Anne in getting rid of her gown. Mary brought a gorgeous robe of azure satin embroidered with gold, and a matching nightgown. Their mother brushed the queen’s hair like the finest smooth black silk, with sweet-smelling liquids massaged into Anne’s scalp so it tingled, and then had it draped over one of Anne’s shoulders in a delicate wave.

§§§

As Queen Anne stopped near the entrance to the king’s rooms, the guards bowed. She swung open the door, walked in, and blinked in surprise, as she did not see François at first.

“Your Majesty,” she called, but there was no response.

Left to herself, the queen sighed and surveyed the spacious chamber. With its white, blue, and golden brocade-curtained large bed, its sheets fragrant of lavender, the chamber seemed to be breathing with freshness and grandeur. Every candle was lit, and the orange light gilded the heavy ebony furniture and accentuated the shadows in the corners, giving the place the mysterious air of something inevitable and fabulous that would transform Anne’s whole life tonight.   

As she beheld a portrait of King François over the old stone fireplace, which belonged to the time of Philippe IV the Fair, her heart leaped. It was a copy of the monarch’s portrait made by Jean Clouet seven years earlier, about 1530, while the original painting was kept at Amboise.

Anne surveyed the ruler on the portrait again, letting her thoughts wander. Most women who had ever seen those clever amber eyes, emanating charming warmth, and those saturnine, yet patrician features, thin and sensual lips curved in a wordless challenge or in a mischievous grin, would not ever forget this man. His long Valois nose spoke of his royal breeding, but despite it being the only imperfection on his face, it made his features more remarkable and expressive.

The king’s voice intruded into her musings. “Has time altered me a lot?”

Her eyes flew to him, and her heart sped. “No, sire.”

“Why have you come here, Anne?  That is unexpected after all your antics. But as cruelty is more easily borne than coldness, I must admit I am not vexed.”

Anne admitted, “Women are made to soothe, to pity, to comfort, and to delight.”

His fatigue suddenly gone, he crossed to a couch and shrugged off his doublet of auburn damask worked with threads of silver. Placing it there, he sought her with his gaze. She froze in the center of the room, her scrutiny locked with his, and a light bloom of pink colored her cheeks.

“Let’s talk.” She was awash with relief that her husband was still wearing a shirt.

Nascent hope filled his chest. A peal of laughter boomed like the autumn thunderstorm. “Embarrassment must be a foreign feeling to a bold woman such as yourself, Anne.”

At this, single-minded determination sprang into life in her. “Boldness is not something you are born with – you either choose it or you do not, and today I do.”

Anne plodded to the bed like a scared damsel unable to evade a suitor. In silence charged with his eager anticipation and her unspoken fears and shame, she discarded her robe and settled herself onto the bed, leaning against the pillows she had propped up against the headboard, adorned with the Valois heraldry. The queen’s nightgown was buttoned all the way to her throat.

He swallowed heavily. “What do you want, Anne?”

“Isn’t that obvious?” Slight irritation colored her tone.

François strode over to the bed and sat down on the edge. Scratching his temple as if in thought, he eyed her with suspicion. “You have done everything – possible and impossible – to ensure that we will not be husband and wife in all senses. Have you changed your opinion?”

She leaned forward, resting a hand upon his shoulder. “Like you, I do not want to live in this sham of a marriage for the rest of our lives. I crave to find at least a semblance of peace.” She was driven by a different motive, but she had told him the truth as well.

“Happiness is a choice: you may choose to be happy or live in grief.”

“I want to try and be your spouse.” Her voice trembled like a drop of water on a leaf.

Turning his attention to his boots, François untied them and kicked them off, not giving any thought to where they landed. “Once I promised you a wonderful wedding night, and you had it. I’ll make this night as awesome as the best rendezvous of Zeus and Hera’s were.”

She smiled at him. “Are you a man of action or not?”

“Don’t doubt that!  I am the Knight-King!” He silenced his consort’s next remark by pressing his lips to hers and sliding his hand to the back of her head.

His kiss was tender and tentative, as if he were afraid to frighten her by this soft expression of his affection, which François would not confess to her in the near future. Anne was not ready for love: it would take her time to recover from the trauma inflicted upon her by Henry.

The monarch ceased the kiss. “You told me that you did not wish to increase my progeny. If we renew marital relations, you will get pregnant again. Do you understand it?”

His wife tipped her head. “Of course.”  

“That is not all,” he countered. His thumb stilled, but he didn’t remove his hand from her cheekbone. “There is something else, Anne. I can see it in your eyes.”

A vague contrition stirred in the queen. Indeed, Your Majesty. I’m hiding that I crave to have a son for my revenge on Henry. Nothing would ever be as painful for that Tudor beast as the fact that Anne was capable of bearing his rival’s sons. Yet, her delight was blemished by the guilt that was chilling her insides, as if they had been aggravated by the rigors of severe weather.   

She inquired for distraction, “I wonder how many women you have bedded in your life.”

“Very many.” He would bet no other king was asked such a question by anyone.

“Like every bridegroom, you took vows during the wedding ceremony to be faithful to your wife – to me. Yet, men, especially rulers, never honor them, and you did not for a year.”

His finger smoothed the furrow between her eyes. “I did not at first, but I plan to.”

Anne tugged the sleeve of his shirt towards her. “I can hardly believe you.”

Groaning, François pulled her fingers from his shirt. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he peeled off the upper part of her nightgown. “Call me by my name.”

“François,” she echoed as his lips found her pulse point, sucking on her hot skin.

His hands caressed her breasts through the nightgown. “I’m itching to see you nude.”

Following his lead, the queen whisked the garment off over her head. “Your turn.”

His eyes aflame, the king examined her figure. His spouse had long lost her baby weight, and now her shapely body was firm, with long legs and wonderfully formed small breasts. I want her as much as I never wanted anyone before, he inferred, his gaze drinking in her nakedness and darkening in desire. But I’ve never loved any other woman – Anne is my first love. This is not an act of marital duty for me – this is the expression of my love for this strong-souled lady.

The ruler grinned. “Are you so impatient to see me without garments?”

Her fingers touched his shirt’s collar. “I’m accustomed to getting what I want.” His shirt undone soon, she teased, “I’m the Goddess Minerva, and I fear nothing.”

His world was singing a tune of infinite joy. “My kingly rank has its advantages. I’m the only one who can undress my Minerva. You can assist me in ridding of my clothes, too.”

Their laughed together, and the sound was like tinkling little bells in the air.

After François had removed his hose, Anne gasped at the first sight of his aroused body. In spite of her discomfort during the consummation, she had seen enough of him. Now she had the opportunity to examine him in detail, thinking that his long, lean, and muscled body was built to be worshipped like Apollo’s statue in an ancient shrine. François is not as burly and broad in chest and back as Henry has become over time, and I must say that I like his physique a lot.

The monarch cupped the nape of her neck. “I want to have another daughter with you.” He kissed her hair lustily. “A girl with your dark eyes as enigmatic as mythological Cassandra, and with your hair as black as a moonless night. A daughter resembling her mother.”

“Another female child?” Anne’s tone was colored with disbelief. “Not a son?”

He nuzzled her ear. “Aimée de Valois – France’s ‘beloved’ girl.”

She trailed kisses to the edge of his ear. “And for a boy?”

“Augustine de Valois.” His amber eyes were now almost black. “In honor of the Roman Emperor Caesar Augustus – one of the most remarkable rulers the world has ever seen.”

“These are unusual names.” She had the time to catch her breath. Her fingers massaged his back muscles, kneading and stroking. “I might be unable to give you a brood of sons.”

The ruler’s intense gaze impaled her. “Anne, I’m yearning to make our marriage happy. However, I am not Henry: I shall never demand only male heirs from you.”

“I’ve always wanted to have a large family. But my dreams were crushed.”

His mouth trailed a fiery path of kisses along her jaw line. “You may have it with me, if God wills it. You and I are both healthy and young enough to see all of our dreams come true.” He paused, his scrutiny fixed upon her eyes. “But I have my own terms, wife.”

“Which ones?” Anne clutched his shoulders impulsively.

François stipulated, “You will never deny me the marriage bed. I endured enough of your coldness, and I do not wish any other arrangements between us. I shall be faithful to you.”

Her lips neared his. “Of course. I… did not mean to hurt you.”

His hands caressed her back and then slid lower. “Let’s forget everything bad.”

“Now!” Anne pressed her length against his, reveling in his masculine hardness.

“I’ll give you a great deal of pleasure. Something you will never forget.”

“I trust you.” And she meant it.

Amazingly, the queen had never trusted her Valois husband as much as she did at this moment. She did not love him, but her need to experience carnal rapture with him had long started tossing, humming, and buzzling in her essence. Yet, the next moment Anne shook off these sultry thoughts not to develop an emotional bond with him. I’m attracted to François because he is a handsome man, but my most important mission is to bear his son, she tried to convince herself.

As the king’s lips captured hers with mind-blowing fervor, Anne responded in kind with emphatic urgency. The heat and red-blooded strength of his arms molded her tightly to his chest, where she felt his heart beating like one of a man reborn, as though their encounter had liberated some dormant energy and strength inside of him. His powerful assault on her senses personified the source of vivifying power that was breathing hope and new life into her battered soul.

Although before François had not experimented with his wife in bed, now his propensity for an audacious lovemaking prompted him to pour all of his feelings into his caresses. Her eyes grew wide in surprise, and her cheeks flushed as he touched Anne where no other man – not even Henry – had touched her before. While kissing her ardently, yet agonizingly slowly, he massaged the spot that was the sanctum of her femininity, and then slipped one finger inside her.

Anne blushed to the roots of her hair. “You should not–” 

François interrupted her. “I’m your husband. Relax and just feel.”

His kiss prevented her further protestations, and, instinctively, she tightened around him. He moved his finger out, then back in, setting up a regular rhythm that her body echoed, demanding a more intimate contact, as the blood thickened in her veins like warm honey. Cupping his hips in her hands, she pulled him closer, until his arousal brushed against her, next to his questing fingers.

“Not yet.” His voice was throaty. “Too early, ma chérie.”

Then his mouth was everywhere, scorching trails of kisses down her neck, her shoulders, over the swell of her breasts, down her abdomen until his head settled between her thighs.

“I never... François…”  Both her hands threaded into his hair, she gave a loud gasp.

The queen longed for these marvelous sensations to last forever. She had never had such an experience with Henry, for their even most passionate encounters had been too fiery, and her former selfish husband cared more about his pleasure. François’ tongue inside her drove Anne to the brink, only to back off and leave her hanging in midair, panting and begging him to fulfill the throbbing hollowness. As ecstasy convulsed through her, the king rose above her.

With a growl, François penetrated his wife with one long stroke. As her legs encircled his waist, he established the melodious rhythm, sliding ever so slightly, teasingly, into her and then withdrawing. She raised her hips to greet him, encouraging him deeper with each thrust.

For what seemed like an eternity, they rocked together like oceanic tides against the sand, first gently, then more fervidly and forcefully, until finally the monarch pounded into his queen as if he were Homer’s Odysseus making love to his spouse, Penelope, to celebrate their reunion after long years of separation. Anne’s cries were better than Orpheus’ music to the ruler’s ears, and the king thought that a woman might say more in a sigh than a priest can say in a sermon.  

Moans, endearments, and shrieks resonated, as they danced an amorous tarantella, their sweat-slicked bodies rubbing together. Their movements were growing more frantic, their kisses tinged with an ever-increasing insanity. As he paused, Anne compelled him to flip over and ascended atop him, pinning him to the mattress. She straddled him, and François permitted her to take the lead, although Henry would have been reluctant to let Anne control their coupling.

François chuckled. “My spouse is in an authoritative mood today, isn’t she?”

“Yes.” With his entire masculine torso before her, Anne set about exploring it in detail, her tongue caressing the firm planes of his chest. “I’m the Queen of France, after all.”

“You have become the seductress you have always been,” he opined when she raised her head again. “I’ve always believed that you are as passionate as the Goddess Aphrodite.”

His comment irked his consort because he had hinted at her once sensually romantic relationship with Henry. “Hopefully, our endeavors will let me conceive tonight.”

“Is that why you wanted me to bed you and accepted my terms?”  

“No!” His voice, which was as weak as that of a dying bird, pulled at her heartstrings.

Suddenly incensed, he grabbed her hands and, clasping them behind her back, made her move so that he would be atop of her again. “You want my son to extract vengeance upon Henry.”

“Does it matter, François?” inquired the queen.

The monarch slammed into her like a sharp drumbeat. “It does, Anne.”

Tears moistened her eyes. “I told you the truth!  I cannot live in the darkness anymore.”

“Do not weep, wife.” He did not believe her, but he could not see her so distressed.

The ruler tempered his anger not to hurt her. As he continued slowly impaling her with his maleness, there was a haunting hollowness inside him darker than Hades. Although his soul was overflowing with a blend of fury and torment, his body yearned for release, so the king shut his eyes, joining them in a rhythm as old as humanity itself, melting into fragments of pure bliss.

“François!” Anne cried out in a barely coherent expression of ultimate pinnacle.

As she shuddered, the monarch thrust into her time and time again, his moans mingling with her shriek as he reached his own fulfillment. For minutes, they lay entwined, recovering from their voyage to the dizzying heights, and the queen felt his hot seed deep inside of her.  

His hands softly caressing her, his lips kissing her hair, François declaimed his poem.

I drown my entire soul in your two eyes,

As black as night that gives me paradise,

Just looking into them – it does create

The mad rapture of my frenzied soul.

I’m steeped in their allure and enigma,

Am I damned by some heavenly stigma?

I drown in two pools of black water,

They are burning my heart hotter.

When these eyes shone like rainbows,

They become two golden windows.

Their lucent fires burn me completely,

Concretely, utterly, featly, and sweetly.

Burned to the cinders, I’m reborn again

Thanks to these eyes and their golden rain –

The strong rain of their hypnotizing allure,

That falls upon the whole of me as a cure.

She lifted her head to contemplate his face. “Is it your poem?”

“Yes. In your honor.” His lips slid down her back, planting kisses along her spine.

“Ah!” The queen found his caresses too exquisite for mortals, making her whole being quiver and come to life with shimmering gold. Mary was right about François’ sensuality.

The king kissed her on the mouth. “Your eyes…  Just the memory of them enkindles my soul with pure brightness. When you are with me, the stars appear to live, everything sparkles in the stillness, and the world blossoms with the divine immensity of goodness.”

This enraptured Anne. “Then let us embrace like two sublime creatures which make the silence shimmer, the starts breathe, and the universe pulsate with elation.” They were on the same wavelength, despite the absence of love on her part – the French king was truly artistic.

François took her twice more: gently as she lay on the back, then far more passionately, with many twists and turns of their bodies. They dozed and talked between the lovemaking.

Her train of thought went back to Isabella. “Your foe’s wife wrote to me secretly.”

A frown stretched across his forehead. “Carlos’ wife?  What does she want?”

Anne recited the woman’s missive. “I suppose we cannot ally with Spain.”

Her husband grimaced. “I respect Isabella, for she seems to be more sensible and kinder than Carlos. However, she is his consort!  Philip, Prince of Asturias, is his son.” Then a knavish grin curved his lips. “When time comes, I shall make a bargain with Ferdinand for his release.”

“I understand. Any deal with Carlos is impossible.” She sighed.

“I have something more interesting on my mind.” His lingering kiss on the mouth spoke too eloquently. “Do you like when I kiss you here?” His lips found her collarbone and traced it.

“François,” moaned his spouse. “Should I respond to Isabella?”

Pulling away from her, the ruler fixed her with a pointed expression. “Do not reply to that Spanish dog’s queen – do not do anything behind my back and don’t lie to me, Anne.”

“I will not.” His warning was serious, and Anne would not disobey.

François observed Anne’s face that possessed unearthly beauty in repose. He hoped that one day, he would awaken in his wife that womanliness that was currently concealed from him, and then her sensual instincts would let them have many artful couplings. François was jealous of his Tudor counterpart, so far the only man to whom Anne had opened the innermost recesses of her soul. I long for a time when she will be more trustful with me than she was with Henry.

§§§

Candles stood upon tables on either side of a canopied bed with bronze-inlaid bedposts and sheets of red silk. They cast a portentous orange glow about the apartments occupied by Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli. Flickering, agitated flames shifted shadows on the faces of two lovers sprawled in a languorous pose after the intercourse, making them appear malevolent.

Lucrezia Cavalcanti, the count’s mistress, clambered out of their bed. Barefooted, she swept out of the bedchamber and into the dressing room, where she donned her robe.

“So, there was a letter,” Lucrezia said in Italian as she returned to the bedroom.

Montecuccoli crept out of the bed nude like Adam. “Indeed. From His Holiness.”

She embraced him from the back. “I want you again.”

He disentangled from her. “A bit later, Madonna Cavalcanti.”

Montecuccoli tiptoed to the door to check whether the lock was closed. Having done so, he put on his robe and walked to an ebony table encrusted with ivory. He rummaged through his papers until he found the document, then went back to the bed and seated himself on its edge.

Lucrezia followed suit. “Dauphine Catherine needs to know everything.”

The precious letter from the Vicar of Rome was clasped in his hand, as if scalped as a trophy from his victims. He had received it through one of the Vatican’s spies at the Valois court.

My son Sebastiano,

Soon we will destroy that Boleyn demoness. She ensorcelled two monarchs and spread her heretical claws into the spiritual fabrics of two great Christian lands – England and France. She will be punished for her villainies, but God does not task you to perform this deed.

Instead, my loyal Count de Montecuccoli, you will stay at the side of Dauphine Catherine – our beloved Madonna Caterina. The Lord has appointed you to safeguard her for the Vatican. The death of Dauphin François was necessary to ensure that the Medici queen or her descendants, who are the true children of the Catholic Church, will keep France under the fold of the Roman faith. Do whatever Madonna Caterina commands you and rely upon her wisdom.

When the moment comes, my other allies at the Valois court will put our plan into motion. Tell Her Highness to watch and not to interfere. I’m blessing you with my holy hand, my son.   

Pope Paul III

“My master, His Holiness!” Montecuccoli kissed the sheet of paper over and over again. “I am your slave until my dying day. I shall do anything for Madonna Caterina and you!”

Frenetic words slipped from her mouth. “The Supreme Pontiff is the master of all human souls. Those who disappoint his most Christian person will be burning in hell.”

Sebastiano and Lucrezia regarded each other like overzealous parishioners. There was a red chaos of evil in their rabid eyes, from which inquisitorial flames leaped aloft and waved snaky tongues, blood-red and molten gold as they fantasized of how the Pope would cleanse France and Europe from the heretics. They would assist Allessandro Farnese in everything.

Montecuccoli’s heart pounded madly as he kissed Farnese’s letter again. “His Holiness will be France’s master. One day, Dauphine Catherine will rule this country.”

Lucrezia emitted a sigh. “Her Highness needs to give Dauphin Henri a son at first.”

“The rumor is that the accursed English Gorgon went to King François’ quarters tonight. She is wrapping him into her swampy web of pagan charms – she might conceive.”

An alarmed Lucrezia frowned. “Does His Holiness just want us to wait?  Does he mean that he will dispose of both that Boleyn whore and Prince Charles?  Can we just do something?  Madonna Caterina’s astrologers and you, Sebastiano, have many poisons.”

“I shall not disobey the Supreme Pontiff, Lucrezia.”

The count handed the letter to his paramour, who quickly read it and sighed.  

“You are right.” A wave of hatred towards Anne twisted Lucrezia in a tangle of rebellious resignation. “Madame Caterina is very cautious. She says that we have no right for a mistake.”

Her lover tempered his impatience. “Her Highness has chosen the best course of action. If we must lay low for years before we destroy all the enemies of our Medici Queen together with the Pope’s foes, then so be it. I’m skilled at presence as well as production of poisons.”

She put the paper to a candle to burn it. “Patience is a virtue, as Madonna Caterina says.”

“We must wait and obey His Holiness,” he said fervently.   

The proof of their conspiracy with the Bishop of Rome was destroyed.

Tears streamed down his face as Montecuccoli whined, “How could King François marry that Boleyn vixen?  How could François condemn the souls of his people to eternal hellfire?”

Lucrezia stripped his robe off his shoulders. “Let me comfort you, Sebastiano.”

His eyes flashed. “Bind me, Lucrezia.”

“Gladly.” She took his robe off and used it to bind his hands over his head.

As the lovers tumbled onto the bed, Catherine’s lady-in-waiting landed atop of him. She was slapping and biting him as she rode Montecuccoli hard. Their shamanic ritual was based on animal instincts. In these moments, they seemed to themselves indestructible and immortal.

Notes:

I hope you liked this chapter. I hope you will let me know what you think of this chapter. Thank you very much in advance.

François takes more steps to ensure that his reign and his queen's safety will be accepted in France. He makes all of his nobles swear another oath of fealty to him, their Catholic monarch, and to her, their Protestant queen. As Elizabeth Boleyn says rightly, this proves the King of France's feelings for Anne, who needs to understand that everyone at court must know she is more than a queen in name only, or she will be despised, because they love François.

I hope you like the love scene between Anne and François. There is some foreshadowing of what may happen in the future. But Anne's main motive for her starting to perform her marital duties is to have a son in order to take her revenge on Henry. The poem about black eyes which François reads to Anne was written by me.

All the information about Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle (A Burgundian politician who served Carlos V) is historically correct. He will spend many years at the French court.

Ferdinand von Habsburg… He is an important character in this AU. Despite being dependent upon his elder brother's will, Ferdinand was King of Bohemia, Croatia, and Hungary, as well as King of the Romans, which means that Carlos designated him as his heir to the empire. So, Ferdinand is a very valuable prisoner!

François says that it would be good to make Ferdinand their friend and perhaps ally. His main goal is to have at least one Habsburg who will not be against the House of Valois. He also strives to drive a wedge between Carlos and Ferdinand. A spoiler: Ferdinand will not be an antagonist, but I cannot say anything else now. One Ferdinand-centric scene was added to chapter 6 because it used to be too short; I needed to start his character development after his capture.

The Pope is plotting against Anne. Catherine de' Medici and her Florentine friends are not the only Pope's allies at the Valois court. Something might happen any time.

I also have a poll about Jane Seymour's prospective husband. The English court appears in the next chapter.

I recommend that you check the works of another wonderful writer - VioletRoseLily.

Yours sincerely,

Lady Perseverance

Chapter 24: Chapter 23: The Queen’s Coronation

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 23: The Queen’s Coronation

September 12, 1537, Basilica of Saint-Denis, near Paris, France

“Make way for Queen Anne!” the royal guards proclaimed as they were clearing the path for the litter where King François’ new wife was seated. “Let the procession pass!”

On the monarch’s birthday, the weather was pleasant. The sun shone down merrily, and the firmament was clear blue. No rain would foil this day for the Parisians who crowded the streets to watch Queen Anne’s coronation procession that had made its grand entrée into the city through the Porte Saint-Denis, constructed as a gateway through the wall of King Charles V of France.

Queen Anne sat in a litter, draped in cloth of gold and drawn by four palfreys caparisoned in purple damask. She was accoutered in a splendid gown of purple brocade, dotted with golden fleurs-de-lis and trimmed with ermine on the sleeves and the bodice. Her husband had insisted that she wore the color purple to emphasize her royal status in France. With her raven hair flowing over her shoulders like a dark river, sparkling diamonds were woven into her hair.     

The cortege was accompanied by the French royals and many men of the court. At the head were on their white stallions King François I and his sister, Queen Marguerite of Navarre. King Henri II of Navarre rode behind them together with Dauphin Henri. Foreign ambassadors, including the Imperial diplomat Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle, followed the dauphin.

Prince Charles, Duke d’Orléans, as well as Constable Anne de Montmorency traveled on horseback, together with Cardinal de Tournon and Philippe de Chabot, Admiral de Brion.

Next succeeded several richly draped chariots, which contained Princess Marguerite de Valois, Madeleine de Savoy, who was Montmorency’s wife, and Françoise de Longwy, Chabot’s spouse, as well as Lady Elizabeth Boleyn and Lady Mary Stafford. Dauphine Catherine de’ Medici and the infamous Diane de Poitiers, the dauphin’s mistress, shared a chariot rather stiffly. Their expensive ensembles of white and blue velvet were ornamented with jewels, save Diane’s gown.

As the procession moved slowly along the ancient route of the French kings, Anne could see countless spectators, who lined the streets while cheering the royal couple.

“The great King François saved the nation and France!”

“Our brave sovereign expelled the Imperial barbarians!”

“Long live His Majesty King François!”

Someone shouted, “Queen Anne helped our monarch save France!”  

“God bless our chivalrous king and his wife!”

Prince Charles proclaimed, “Long Live King François and Queen Anne!”

The throng echoed, “Long Live King François and Queen Anne!”

The Queen of France wordlessly thanked her husband’s youngest son, whom she adored the most among François’ children with the late Queen Claude. As the people smiled and waved at Anne, her heart palpitated with delight, chanting a hymn of her victory over the pitiless fate that had degraded her into an exiled woman, labeled a whore and a witch over a year ago. Henry will learn soon about my coronation, Anne enthused. It is a pity that he cannot see me now.

About fifteen thousand people had gathered in Paris today. As part of the city’s homage to the queen, many tableau vivants and mystères were performed where the royal party passed. Most of these sketches were devoted to their sovereign and his consort’s chivalry. Staged in front of the Châtelet, one of them portrayed François dressed as a salamander under attack from an eagle, which implied the emperor, and the salamander was saved by a white-robed falcon – Anne.

In the squares, the fountains flowed with wine instead of water. Groups of women, garbed in Greek robes of golden silk, served it to the mob in golden cups as a symbol of France’s future prosperity, that the sovereigns would grant the kingdom after the restoration of stability.   

Near a bridge linking the Place Saint-Michel on the left bank of the Seine River to the Île de la Cité, the cortege commenced traveling at a slower pace. At the Pont Saint-Michel, the queen gaped at her surroundings. A cord had been stretched from the tower of the nearby chapel of Saint-Michel to the roof of the highest house on the bridge. All of a sudden, an acrobat appeared and walked along the cord, holding two candles in his hands and singing a song in Anne’s honor.

Some call her the English Lady Anne Boleyn,

But we know her as the lovely Queen Anne,

As the heroic female warrior of France,

As the fairest lady since her return to us.

Amongst the many pillars of rock and death

She stands tall, proud, clever, and invincible,

Her head swaying to and fro as she greets her men,

Her soldiers of God for the glory of our land.

She leads her courageous warriors to her king,

To the heart of our home in the Loire Valley,

Amidst the beating of the drums and fanfares,

Her resolve to fight never wavering until finale.

Amidst the firing of musketry and guns,

Amidst the deafening din of shouts and steel,

The brave Queen Anne becomes a graceful swan

Dancing with her sword a military pavane,

Like Minerva, saving her husband-king from ruin.

Cheers met the song. “Lord bless the Knight-King and his wife-savior!”

The queen felt as if a fairy tale had come to life. François often composes verses and songs. He wrote a song in my honor!  His name reverberated through her inner world like a bell of long-forgotten happiness. It was so incredible, yet real, and so endearing of him.  

§§§

On the Île de la Cité, human masses greeted Queen Anne with earth-shattering applause. There were bells ringing from the steeples, sending birds clattering into the air. The curious faces of all those who strove to glimpse the new queen moved in waves like the sea.

At the Porte Saint-Denis Gate, several men emerged in Valois livery, carrying her arms joint with those of François – a phoenix rising from the ashes, crowned with a coronet adorned with a salamander. Anne’s escutcheon as the French queen symbolized her transformation: her death in the web of calamities in England, and her rebirth in the fires of war in France.

Then came musicians playing on a long and elaborate fanfare. As they performed, a maid dressed as the Goddess Minerva welcomed the queen. The audience exploded with rapture.

King François slowed his stallion, caparisoned in purple silk down to the ground. As his spouse’s litter reached him, he glanced at her. “How are you fairing, Anne?”

“I’m fine,” his wife claimed. “This coronation is different from the one I had in England. Unlike the French nobles, commoners seem to be more accepting of me as their queen.”

He lowered his voice considerably. “Do not antagonize our courtiers by arguing with me in public. Then all will be excellent. I shall cultivate your image as my heroic queen.”

“You are right,” she admitted reluctantly.  

“I spared no expense for your coronation and the pageantry.”

Anne laughed breezily. “I see that, sire.” Her expression evolved into seriousness. “But you should not have done it, for France has been too severely affected by the war.”

“François,” he amended.

“Of course, François.” There was a hint of a smile on her face.

“You will have a coronation of the utmost magnificence,” he pledged.

She cast a questionable glance at him. “Do you like my new coat-of-arms?”

François nodded his affirmative. “It suits your perfectly well, my dearest phoenix.”

“It symbolizes my death and rebirth,” she whispered.

The monarch released a tired sigh. “I must confess that this triumph is also like death and rebirth for me. I’ve grown exhausted of the endless wars against the emperor, which were leaching France of its wealth for so long. Now the conflict is over, at least for a while.”

“I understand.” Anne dithered, then added, “Carlos will retaliate.”

“He shall. Thanks be to God that Spain has no resources to attack us in the near future.”

Then the monarch joined his sister at the helm of the procession.

The next tableau vivant occurred near a bridge over the Seine River – the Grand Pont. There was a castle on a small platform with the Holy Trinity. As the queen’s litter was crossing the bridge, a maid in the costume of an angel descended by mechanical means and came through an opening of blue and white brocade hangings, ornamented with golden fleurs-de-lis.

The procession halted. The angel stepped forth and placed a diadem upon Anne’s head.

“Our intrepid Queen Anne!” the angel declared, curtseying to the king’s wife. “May God save and protect you!  We all thank you for saving our great king from the invaders!”

Deafening cheers rang out like a thousand bells. “Long Live Queen Anne!”

Anne waved to the mob. True to his word, François is cultivating my reputation as his brave queen. I’ve treated him badly since our wedding, but he has done a lot for me. A familiar stirring of guilt twisted her gut, and she promised herself that the truce they had achieved on the night of her coming to his bed would last long, perhaps until he betrayed her in some way.

As the procession passed Notre-Dame Cathedral, the queen could see more human faces around her, which warmed her heart. Many Parisians flooded the streets and blocked the road, as they tried to catch a glimpse of their queen. Because of that, the cortege stopped for a short time, until the guards dispersed the throng to allow the procession to continue its movement.

It delighted Anne that her marriage to François seemed to be popular among the people. Not being political animals, many viewed her as King Henry’s victim. Before the Franco-Imperial war, the French had not despised Anne, nor had they lauded her; after the invasion, however, her popularity had soared because of her role in the creation of the vital Franco-Protestant alliance.

More members of the Privy Council joined the cortege. They were the Lorraine brothers – Duke Claude de Guise, Cardinal Jean de Lorraine, and Count Louis de Vaudémont.

The procession stopped near the Basilica of Saint-Denis amid acclamations of numberless spectators and the fanfares of trumpeters. There were hundreds of the civilians on the square near this large medieval abbey church, along with members of the royal household, who were dressed in Valois livery and lined up to form the guard of honor on the other side.

§§§

Jean du Bellay, Bishop of Paris and of Bayonne, welcomed Queen Anne to Saint-Denis. She proceeded down the aisle together with King François, Queen Marguerite, King Henri of Navarre, Cardinal de Tournon, as well as the Duke de Guise and the Constable de Montmorency.

Pausing, Anne asked her husband, “Where are my mother and sister?”

François answered, “You will see them soon.”

“Your Majesty, should we start?” prompted Jean du Bellay.

“Definitely.” The ruler extended his hand to his spouse, who accepted it.

The crown before Anne, who walked under a canopy of cloth of gold, was carried by the Constable de Montmorency, her scepter by the Cardinal de Lorraine. Princess Marguerite carried her stepmother’s long train with a coronet of gold on her dark-haired head; Ladies Elizabeth Boleyn and Mary Stafford, both of them smiling, supported the train in the middle.

The French royal family entered with a slow, measured gait. As always, Dauphin Henri looked somber, as if Anne were unworthy of being crowned. Dressed in black and white, Diane de Poitiers followed her lover. Prince Charles flashed jovial smiles in the direction of his father and his stepmother. Ignored by her husband, Catherine de’ Medici disguised her sadness with a smile that resembled one of gratitude for this little bit of extra color in her routine life.  

Next came the spouses of the ruler’s favored councilors in magnificent attire of white and blue silk trimmed with ermine, bejeweled French hoods shimmering on their heads. An instant later, the queen’s ladies followed, dressed in gowns of scarlet brocade edged with white fur, their bodices made of brightly colored silk, in imitation of the plumage of the mythological phoenix.

Then followed the monks of Saint-Denis, all clothed in rich copes of gold, with ten mitred abbots. After them came several bishops in splendid purple raiment, two mitred archbishops, and the clergy. They were singing praises of the Virgin Mary and Saint Anne, the queen’s namesake. Then emerged a long line of other high-ranking nobles accoutered in the finest brocades, silks, satins, damasks, and jewels. Claude d’Annebault and Philippe de Chabot walked together.

The king and queen reached the altar; the others stopped behind them.

The Bishop of Paris asked, “Do Your Majesties have something for our abbey?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Anne offered him the diadem the angel had placed upon her head.

“Thank you.” Bellay took it with a smile.

The queen ascended the altar, knelt, and prayed in silence.   

King François remained near the altar. He eyed the assemblage and addressed them. “My beloved subjects!  Today is a special day for all of us!  My wife, Anne de Valois, will be crowned as your queen. From now on, she will be immortalized as the savior of France in the eyes of the people and the Almighty. Whatever your religion, pray for me, your king, and for her!”

Anne heard only one majestic voice that broke the reverent stillness enveloping everyone. No sooner had François spoken than the strains of soft, soothing harmony encompassed his wife. His speech fastened her life to France forever even before her anointing, and it told of her future, challenging and rich for events, of deeds that Anne would have to perpetrate as his consort. In his voice, she distinguished a note of absolute confidence in her destiny.   

The gathering of clergy and nobility nodded. A myriad of contradictory emotions were colliding and recombining within them. Most feared having Anne on the throne because of her Protestant background. Many appreciated what she had done for their country and their liege lord, but their concern over her religion was an overriding sentiment among others.    

“Pray for the Valois family!” Henry of Navarre affirmed.

“We shall!” the congregation promised.

As Queen Anne settled in her chair of state, the Bishop of Paris approached her. “Will you solemnly promise and swear to be a loyal queen consort to your husband, King François?  Will you govern the people of France and her other territories according to God’s and the king’s will, the respective laws and customs?  Will your serve the kingdom loyally and dutifully?”

“I solemnly promise to do so.” This oath stressed the queen’s subordinate place due to the ancient Salic law that forbade women from succeeding the French throne.

“Will you, to the utmost of your power and ability, maintain in France and any others lands governed by the King of France the laws of God and the Roman Catholic Church governed by the Pope?  Will you keep and preserve the Catholic doctrine, worship, discipline, and government thereof, as by law established in the Christian world, as far as your conscience permits within the bounds of God’s Holy Law?  Will you preserve unto the bishops and clergy of France, and to the churches there committed to their charge, all such rights and privileges?”

Anne’s brow quirked, and she read the answer in the king’s eyes. The queen’s coronation oaths had been altered to take into account her beliefs, and to assuage the discontent of the nobility. Why didn’t you warn me about it, François?  Do you think I would not understand why I must give such an oath?  This reminded Anne of distrust between them in spite of their reconciliation.     

“All this I pledge to do,” Anne declared.   

The queen glided to the altar, almost shrinking from the Gothic grandeur, and melancholy tinged her footsteps. As the Great Bible was brought from the altar by Bellay, Anne knelt.

Laying her hand upon the Holy Gospel, Anne asserted, “I shall abide by my oaths. Help me God to be a good queen for France, for my lord husband, and for all my people.”

Anne returned to her chair, her head high. Her gaze met François’, but she averted it.

The monarch ordered, “Begin the ceremony.”

The Bishop of Paris and mitred abbots anointed Queen Anne on her chest and her head, whereas a French king is anointed on nine areas at Reims Cathedral. Anne received the ring, the scepter of justice, and the crown, but not the grand scepter decorated with the fleur-de-lis.

At the end of the ceremony, François came to his wife. “God save our queen!”

“Long Live Queen Anne!” everyone intoned; some reluctant voices were heard.

Taking his hand, Anne let François lead head along the nave. She was the second woman in history who married two kings, like Eleanor of Aquitaine. Her entire being exuded a sensation of triumph that would never fade away, which was like sheer ecstasy. And as the queen stared at the ruler, wings of romanticism fluttered between them, making her see in him her heroic Knight-King who had rescued France from the Habsburgs and Anne from life in exile until her dying day.

“Thank you, François,” the queen said in the most sincere accents. “For everything.”

 A grin stretched his mouth. “You are most welcome, my wife.”

§§§

The Valois royal couple quitted the cathedral, the others trailing after them. Queen Anne surprised everyone, including her husband, when she halted on the square overlooking the west façade of Saint-Denis. The area in front of them was dotted with happy countenances.

“What has happened?” quizzed the ruler.

His consort surveyed the concourse with a look of genuine kinship. “My countrymen, I thank you for coming here to greet me on this wonderful day.” Her voice took on a higher octave. “I grew up at your beloved king’s court, and I’ve loved France since my childhood. But after my marriage into the House of Valois, France has become my true home!”

The roar of the crowd’s approval was like a continual roll of thunder.

As a hush settled, the queen stated ebulliently, “It is a great honor for me to be your queen. I shall make King François, my lord and husband, proud of me. Remaining at his side in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health until death do us part, I’ll work assiduously and tirelessly for the benefit of our realm. I have the body of a woman, but my heart and stomach are those of a Queen of France, who at the same time will obey her husband according to tradition and law.”

Smiling at François and then turning to the mob, Anne resumed her speech. “His Majesty and I care for you more than our own. Unfortunately, the damage from the invasion appears to be significant. People need food and shelter, so let us make sure that everyone has them. There will be no coronation festivities at our court to save the funds in the treasury for our people.”

The noise of their rapture was deafening. Many threw flowers, which had been cut a few hours earlier, at the royal couple, and soon an avalanche of blossoms covered the square.  

“God bless Queen Anne, and grant her a long and happy life!”

“The Lord protect our benevolent queen and bless her!”

“Long Live Queen Anne of France!  Glory to her!”

Well done, wife, François praised her. You have won more of their respect. He observed a flush of elation suffuse his consort’s cheeks at the display of the commoners’ affection for her. She had offered François to do that a week earlier, and he had approved of her plan; her sincere and yet theatrical manner of speaking made the masses glorify both of them.

For a couple of hours, François and Anne spoke to the Parisians, although the Scots guard remained nearby on alert. The monarch administered justice in person, listened to petitions, and dispensed favour. Finally, the shadows of the cathedral grew to gigantic lengths and grotesque shapes, for the rim of the sun was touching the roofs of the distant buildings.

The ruler told his spouse, “Congratulations, Anne!  What a clever trick to make them adore you more!  I begin feeling like a fish out of water, for it is usually I who has been known as the one with a penchant for public speeches of a spirited and eccentric nature.”

At first, her countenance was all haughtiness, daring him to judge her or find fault with her behavior. Then she burst out laughing. “I daresay it must be your jealousy speaking.”

His grin was impossibly wide. “I should make such speeches together.”

“Oh, yes.” Her laugh was like choirs of angels.

As Anne was climbing to the litter, she spotted the two men. Sir Nicholas Wotton, the English ambassador to France, was piercing her with his eyes full of disdain. His companion was Sir Francis Bryan, her distant cousin. Yesterday, François had apprised her of Bryan’s arrival in Paris as the King of England’s special envoy in order to attend her coronation.

Inside the litter, Anne leaned back in her seat. “That turncoat Bryan is here.”

The monarch replied, “We will stick to our plan.”

François mounted his stallion; his sister Marguerite and her husband followed suit. Loud fanfares were blown by a bevy of trumpeters stationed near the abbey’s façade. The procession started its way back to Palais de la Cité, slowly blending into the busy streets of the city.


October 20, 1537, Eltham Palace, Greenwich, Kent, England

“So, that Boleyn slut was crowned,” spat King Henry.   

Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, dipped his head. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

In moody silence, his legs crossed, the monarch reclined in his armchair with an ornately carved back, portraying the exploits of Saint George. “Was the coronation lavish?”

“According to Sir Wotton, it was so grand that it seemed King François and his whore went wild with their preserved freedom after the invasion. They made a ceremonial entrée into Paris, and crowds cheered her. Unlike the mob, the French nobility decided to err on the side of caution around her, although they are happy to go from the dour days of war to peace.”

The king’s brow arched. “The people of France accepted the harlot as their queen?!”

“Yes.” Charles nodded with distaste. “They view her as a heroine of France, the French Minerva who saved their king and aided the nation to eject the invaders.”

Henry gave a hoot of acrid laughter. “The foolish commoners have such a short memory. They ought to remember that their queen is the scandal of Christendom. She can bring only shame on France and their king; soon they will shun her the way she was shunned in England.”

“Perhaps.” The duke shrugged. “Does Your Majesty need anything else?”

“No, thank you. You may go dine with your wife, Charles.”

After Suffolk’s departure, Henry sagged in his seat and stared at the ceiling. Memories inundated his head, rankling with his implacable enmity to his former wife.   

On the Feast of St Hermias, four years past, the procession had taken Anne from the Tower to Westminster Abbey, and she had been entertained with amazing displays along the way. Anne’s coronation had happened in the Abbey church of Saint Peter, and Henry himself had held St Edward’s crown above her head as a sign of his affection for her. The English had given her the cold shoulder on that day, and it angered Henry that the French had welcomed her.

Elegant luxury surrounded the ruler, but it only added more to his severe distress. A thick red and black carpet covered the floor. The walls were adorned with tapestries and paintings by Italian masters he recognized as those Anne liked: Sandro Botticelli, Alesso di Benozzo, and Giovanni Alberti. Although the king had not frequented Eltham Palace in the last few years, he and Anne had stayed here with Elizabeth once or twice. At that time, she had ordered from France new furnishings, paintings, and ornaments for both her and Henry’s quarters.

“Damn!” cursed the monarch. “I should have had these rooms refurbished long ago.”

The herald announced the arrival of Lady Mary Tudor. As she entered and curtsied, her father gestured towards a high-back chair upholstered with high quality black leather.

Mary assembled her courage. “Your Majesty, I know you dislike when someone meddles in your affairs, so I apologize in advance. Rumors that England will ally with Spain against France are circulating around the court. As the emperor is my cousin, I may be useful to you.”

Henry barely glanced at her. “This rapprochement is not possible at this point.”

“But this alliance would please the nobility, the gentry, and the commoners.”

He explained at length, “After the rebellion, we must revive the monarchy’s prestige in England. We cannot achieve it by allying with the Habsburgs.  We also need new friends!  If the emperor has his brother released from captivity, and replenishes his treasury with gold to hire armies, Charles and I will be able to encircle France and launch another invasion.”

“My cousin, Ferdinand, is a prisoner of war in France.”

“François is giving the emperor’s brother the best hospitality possible. This will humiliate Carlos, who threw François and later his two sons in the cold, damp dungeons in Spain.”

Mary sighed with relief as to Ferdinand’s fate. Suddenly, she protested, “My cousin could not be so cruel to a foreign monarch and two kids, much less royal children.”

Her father laughed. “You do not know Carlos at all, Mary. The emperor acted so because his hatred for François is immense. Perhaps I would have done the same.”  

She measured him with a probing glance. “No, you would not.”

The monarch compared the two Habsburg brothers. “Daughter of mine, you understand little in politics. I reckon that Carlos will abandon Ferdinand alone with his French troubles.”

Mary’s mouth was hanging open. “They love each other as brothers.”

Henry shrugged. “Certainly, they have a brotherly relationship, but it is more affectionate on Ferdinand’s part. I’ve watched François, Carlos, and Ferdinand enough.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “When Carlos first arrived in Spain from Flanders years ago, the Spaniards loved Ferdinand more because Ferdinand grew up there. As the people wanted Ferdinand to be their king, just as the late Ferdinand of Aragon dreamed of, Carlos sent his brother away at first to the Low Countries and then to Austria. In fact, Ferdinand was kind of exiled from his native land.”

“Carlos did what was necessary for peace and stability in Castilia.”

“For himself and his reign,” corrected the king. “Carlos hardly thought of his brother’s hurt feelings when ejecting him from his homeland. I also recall that during the siege of Vienna by the Ottoman forces eight years ago, the emperor tasked Ferdinand to defend the city without providing him with any able-bodied men and funds. The Austrian armies, headed by Ferdinand and his generals, were helpless against the Turks, and only luck saved them from conquest.”

Henry’s gaze impaled Mary with its acridness. “Doubtless that the emperor has affection for his sibling, but he does everything for his own advancement and self-preservation. Ferdinand’s allegiance has been staunch for years, despite the not always fair treatment of him and the offences of his royal dignity – Ferdinand is a monarch as well, and he deserves more appreciation.”

“Carlos made Ferdinand King of the Romans and Archduke of Austria!”   

“Indeed, at least something for such admirable and unwavering fealty.”

 Mary claimed, “The House of Habsburg will always be united.”

“No one can guarantee it.” Henry thought of the York sons who had all supported each other until each of them had begun to want the other’s power. “The royal enmity between cousins and even brothers might occur under many circumstances. I doubt Ferdinand will always obey the emperor silently and blindly, for where did it lead him during the invasion of France?”

“The emperor will rescue Ferdinand!” She wanted to think so.

“Carlos has no money in his treasury. But even if his coffers had been full, François would not have liberated Ferdinand. On the contrary, that Valois fox would make his best to make Ferdinand his ally and try to begin slowly turning him against the emperor.”

“You cannot know that, Father.”  

“It matters not.” He focused on the topic at hand. “I’ll contact German Protestant princes to prepare for the shift of power balance in Europe. Your marriage to one of them will help us.”

There was a choke of shock from his daughter. “Whom do you have in mind?”

It was Cromwell’s advice to have Mary marry into a Protestant noble family. “Duke William of Jülich-Cleves-Berge, and Duke Philip of Palatinate-Neuburg. A week ago, my envoy, Christopher Mont, went to Saxony and Cleves. Another man departed to Bavaria.”

Duke William of Jülich-Cleves-Berge had inherited the lands of Cleves-Julich-Berg in 1535. In 1536, William had received the neighboring Duchy of Guilders, as his relative – Charles d’Egmont – had died childless. The Habsburgs had inherited from Charles the Bold a claim to the Duchy of Cleves, but at present, the emperor was preoccupied with his internal issues, so the matter had been postponed. Thus, the Tudor monarch could ally with the Duchy of Cleves.

A titular Count Palatine of the Rhine, Philip was a ruling Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg. It was a small territory in Lower Bavaria, part of the Holy Roman Empire from 1505. In 1529, he had successfully fought the Turks during the siege of Vienna at the head of two divisions, and after the victory of the Christians, he had been made a Knight of the Order of the Golden Fleece.

Mary failed to throttle an indignant exclamation. “They are heretics!”

His reddish brows knitted in a frown. “William of Cleves is an Erasmian reformer; his duchy has its own church order from 1532. Philip of Palatinate-Neuburg is a staunch Lutheran.”

“No Catholic can marry a heretic. That would be an unholy deed.”

Henry stood up and strode across the room to a table. “François is allied with the German Protestant States. That is why I need an alliance with them.” He poured a measure of sack and quaffed it down. “There is also an opportunity to work with the Schmalkaldic League, consisting of the Protestant princes. This alliance will ensure that we can switch sides whenever necessary. The Franco-Spanish war devastated the country and its economy, but the nation is still strong after their victory and, hence, poses a threat to us.” He strolled back to his armchair.

Mary recalled what Chapuys had once said: her father could negotiate several alliances, and then switch between them as he chose. “Your subjects want you to restore England to Catholicism. The Imperial alliance will signal that we are on the path to salvation, not to eternal damnation. Any treaty with the German States will give the opposite message.”

He snickered at her flawed logic. “The invasion of France demonstrated how dangerous the Habsburgs are. The lack of the Pope’s condemnation of the emperor’s warmongering proved that he is a corrupted coward. Now many of my Catholic subjects understand that, and they would prefer the Church of England to remain independent from the Vatican.”  

Mary opened her mouth, but her tongue slid between her teeth. “Wrong...”

He gave a low note of warning in his throat. “Mary, I forgave you for your mistakes once. Now you must be an obedient and loving daughter to me.”

“I signed the Oath of Supremacy.” She shuddered at the memory of that abhorrent day. Having signed it, she had commanded Francis Bryan to leave. Afterwards she had cried on Chapuys’ shoulder, imploring him to procure for her the Pope’s absolution.

Anger roiled inside the ruler. “Mary, I’m telling you one last time. I had to put up with your mother’s resistance to my will for too long, but I shall not allow you to manipulate me.”

Nevertheless, his eldest daughter declared with shocking audacity, “I beg your pardon, but I shall not marry a heretic. I’ll never jeopardize my immortal soul.”

“Silence!  I’ll drag you to the church if I have to. Now get out!”

“Your Majesty.” She curtsied and darted towards the door.

On the way to her apartments, Mary Tudor thought that fate was unfair to her. She was lovely, well-educated, and pious, spending hours at her Catholic devotions in her chambers. Being her mother’s daughter, she could rule!  She descended from the great Catholic monarchs – Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon. If she had not been bastardized, she would have been an ideal match for any Catholic prince, instead of for some insignificant heretical noble.

That Boleyn witch, she hissed in her mind. You must be held accountable for my mother’s and my afflictions. Now she needed the emperor’s assistance more than ever, and she hoped that Chapuys’ resourcefulness would extricate her from this difficult personal situation.

§§§

At the herald’s announcement, Princess Elizabeth entered the royal private chamber.

The candles flickered in the wall sconces, and King Henry, who sat at an ornately carved high-back chair, glanced at her from across the room. His fingers played with the rings decorating them, clicking the jewels together with annoying repetition. His gaze reflected his impatience at seeing his daughter, who had arrived at Eltham only a couple of hours ago.   

“Welcome to court, Elizabeth,” began the monarch with a tentative smile.

The princess replied, “I much preferred my life at Hatfield.”

“You do not want to be here with me, do you?” A secret worry that his daughter felt only aversion for him swiftly assumed the dimensions of an actual misfortune. “Tell me!”

Once Elizabeth had loved her father because he had loved Anne and her, and she had believed that there had been a beautiful spirit within this red-haired regal man. Now, after he had taken her beloved mother away from her, the whole thing about having a happy family sounded like some invention of a feverish brain. After their unpleasant conversations about Anne, Elizabeth had comprehended that it would be useless to dispute the matter of their separation.

The princess would not be happy without Anne, but she would survive. Her emotions resurfacing, she regarded Henry with a sort of pitying awe. How could he have disposed of Anne, for there was no one better in the world than her mama?!  Then an awareness of the peril she stood in seeped through to her mind. To the girl, her father was ‘the king’ and ‘His Majesty’.

The girl refuted, “I’m delighted to see you, but I apologize for intruding.”

“You are my most welcome guest,” Henry underscored.

His daughter dropped her gaze. “Sire, you are too kind to me.”

Henry scrutinized Elizabeth: she had evidently grown since they had last met. She looked charming in a gown of auburn brocade with golden sashing. Her triangular-shaped stomacher of black silk was embroidered with diamonds. Her long, red-gold, and glossy hair was swept up into a French-styled cluster of curls – another memento of Anne’s style. Onyx earrings in her ears and an onyx necklace that cascaded onto her bosom matched Elizabeth’s dark eyes.

He recalled the helplessness in Elizabeth’s eyes as he had declared that she would never see Anne again, and that Jane would replace her mama. His daughter had rejected Jane and him, and his response had stayed away from the girl for months, keeping her at Hatfield. His anger with Anne for indirectly turning their daughter against him had boiled under the surface of his skin, along with the knowledge that if he had let it out, he would lose Elizabeth forever.

Is Elizabeth still my girl?  wondered the Tudor monarch. Have I lost her, just as I lost Anne when I banished her from England?  From her first breath, Anne loved their daughter. His former spouse had enjoyed spending time with the infant; she had even wished to nurse the baby. But although maternal separation could result in emotional trauma for Elizabeth, the monarch could not keep the Boleyn adulteress anywhere near their daughter.   

A knock on the door interrupted their conversation and the king’s musings.   

Lady Anne Bassett walked in. Her gait was so smooth that she appeared incredibly light on her feet. Her lovely French gown was constructed from different swaths of red fabrics: some were silk and brocade, some velvet and muslin, and the bodice swooped enough to give everyone a frank glance at the delicate slope of the top of her breasts. Only Anne dared wear French attire at court, and she preferred the color red to remind others of the king’s passion for her.

As she approached the throne, the royal mistress curtsied to her lover.

The waving of his hand permitted her to rise. “Meet my daughter.”

Elizabeth looked curious, so Anne was proud of the reaction she had created.

“Madame,” the girl said with restraint. “Everyone speaks highly of you.”

Elizabeth regarded the woman with interest. When no one had seen her coming to her antechamber, her ladies’ whines of embarrassment had aroused Elizabeth’s curiosity. As a result, she had overheard many tales of the king’s extramarital affairs in the company of Charles Brandon and his favorites. So, Elizabeth was aware that Anne Bassett was her father’s mistress.

Anne bobbed a gracious curtsey. “It is my greatest pleasure, Your Highness, to finally meet you.” She smiled sweetly. “You are a credit to His Majesty and England.”

Her countenance royally cold, Elizabeth gave a barely noticeable nod. “We welcome you here.” Her gaze flew to her parent, and a veneer of arctic politeness on her face cracked, giving way to scorn. “I hope that you, my lady, will soothe His Majesty’s loneliness tonight.”

The king’s mistress twittered, “I shall do anything to make our sovereign merry.”

“A subject behooves to please their liege lord,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

“She is a truly delightful child,” purred Anne.

“Thank you, my lady,” Elizabeth responded evenly. “I bid you goodbye.”

“Go play with your dolls!” the monarch shouted. “Get out of my sight!”

The princess sank into an elegant curtsey that resembled her mother’s. Disregarding her parent’s frowning countenance, she pulled herself upright with icy dignity. As she reached the door and exited, Elizabeth seemed to be gliding, like a swan moving over the still water.

Anne admired the girl’s manners. “The princess is England’s treasure.”

“Elizabeth did not even flinch!” There was a tinge of wonderment in his tone. “So regal, so confident and enchanting in her bearing, so at ease in the world, but not in my presence.”

She caught a note of sadness in his tone. “Her Highness loves you, sire.”

“Does she?” Henry hobbled towards his throne and tumbled into it.

In the past several weeks, the pain in his leg had been rather bad. Once Henry had been so ill that he had been bedridden for days, until the ulcer on his right leg was more or less healed. Then he had risen from the bed, and now he was compliant with the medications prescribed by Doctor Butts. Yet, his ulcer never healed completely, and the king grumbled constantly.

Anne watched her lover’s burly face contort in emotion. She no longer enjoyed being his mistress, for the monarch had gained some weight. He was becoming increasingly unable to participate in exercise and sports, but he kept eating the same amount of food. The royal paramour was afraid that she would feel too uncomfortable during intimacy with an older Henry.

His menacing growl snapped Anne out of her reverie. “My Elizabeth has taken too much after her Jezebel of a mother.” The mistress saw Henry slam his fist into an armrest of his throne. “Jane or any other queen must birth me a son to carry on my legendary legacy!”

There was a glint in the mistress’ eyes. What if that pale Seymour pathetic excuse for a queen fails to give the king a son?  Her ambitious mother, Honor Grenville, had once mentioned that she should bear the monarch’s male child, but Anne had dismissed it back then. What would happen if she got pregnant and if Jane miscarried again?  Despite her disgust with the king’s certain features, Anne would endure the torments of Tantalus to become the next Queen of England.

Henry grimaced as the pain in his leg intensified. “To hell with Butts and all his herbs!  They are not helping!  I should have that incompetent idiot and his assistants boiled alive!”  

Anne strolled over to the throne and knelt. Her slender fingers touched Henry’s face, and she felt the heat from his body. Her eyes locked with his, and their sharp aquamarine gaze impaled her. Smiling at him despite her fear of his inner beast that Anne could see in Henry’s glare, the ruler’s paramour stroked his red-gold hair, soothing him with gentle words.

He said hoarsely, “Your performance in my bed is always flawless.”

Moments ago, she had thought she would be disappointed with a closer contact between them, but his presence was overwhelming. In disregard of his widening girth and his non-healing ulcer, Henry was attractive. His male prowess and the magnetism of his power bewitched her.

A page entered. Bowing, he handed to the king a letter, then left.  

Henry scanned through the letter. “The Marquess of Exeter is coming back to court.”

Anne swallowed her breath in astonishment and excitement. “Hal Courtenay?”

“Yes. I’ve missed Hal so!” Visions of his adventures with Exeter and Suffolk flashed through the monarch’s brain. “Exeter and Suffolk have been my best friends for years. Although Exeter is less involved in state affairs and spends most of his time in the west of the country administering it in my and his own names, he has begun to spend little time at court. Hal’s sudden departure to his estates over a year ago makes me think that he might be unwell.”

“Lord Exeter must feel better now if he is returning.”

“On Christmas Hal will be with me. With his arrival, my life will become merrier!"

The royal mistress compelled herself not to snap at him. Perhaps the whole of England knew about the extramarital escapades of the king, Exeter, and Suffolk. Yet, in the next instant, the light blue eyes of Henry Courtenay floated before her mind’s eye, causing Anne to tremble from her toes to the fingertips. Exeter!  A direct descendant of the illustrious Edward IV!  My York prince… No, I should not think of my former secret lover, Anne prohibited herself.     

Smiling, Anne climbed onto the king’s lap before whispering, “There is authority in your bearing and a character etched into the lines of your fine-featured face. All women love it, and at your nearness, they dissolve into the veriest of ninny hammers.” She laughed into his kiss.

“I like when you say that to me.” Henry nuzzled the smooth skin beneath her ear.

She slid one leg around his. “I shall worship you like the God Apollo tonight.”

He pulled away from her. “Come to me after midnight.” He sighed either in annoyance or in anger. “I’ll have to perform my marital duties prior. Jane owes me a son.”

“Yes, she does,” his paramour assented.

“Go sup with your relatives.” He leaned so close that she felt his breath on her cheek. “My Anne!  To me, you are far more beautiful and more intelligent than Jane.”

She almost melted on the spot. “No lovelier than I am naked in your arms.”

Jumping from his knees, Anne lowered herself into a curtsey in front of him. Henry was laughing at her as she marched to the exit, but his words held her in place.

“My earnest desire is to have a male heir. I shall give the very woman who makes my dream come true my heart for all eternity, and everything she wants and dreams of, and more.”

A smile blossomed on her face. “Your Majesty’s humility and generosity are immense.”

§§§

King Henry summoned his chief minister to his private rooms. The ruler sat at a table with papers and ledgers; a chair beside his with the armrests in the form of lions was vacant.

“Come and sit with me, Master Cromwell.” Henry did not look at the opening door.

Thomas Cromwell came breathless after his quick journey. Although his liege lord still blamed him for the Pilgrimage of Grace, now the ruler again favored him above others. As usual, his expression was reserved, but a hint of a smile betrayed how much he was enjoying himself.

“Your Majesty is most gracious.” Bowing, the councilor eased himself into a chair.

Henry’s gaze sharpened at the servility in his subject’s voice. “Are you sure I’ve forgiven you for your radical religious decisions which made me unpopular among my subjects?”

A tide of color flashed across the man’s cheeks at such a none-too-subtle hint. Cromwell was still in danger, so caution on his part was necessary. His mind drifted back to the dead man, who had aided him to start his career. Thomas Wolsey was my teacher in politics. He helped me, a talented upstart, to rise from poverty. He made me who I am today, Cromwell mused.

Memories swirled through Thomas’ head like smoke. In the mid-1520s, Cromwell had helped Wolsey dissolve about thirty monasteries to raise funds so as to found The King’s School in Ipswich and Cardinal College in Oxford. In 1526, Cromwell had been appointed a member of his council. By 1529, Cromwell had become one of Wolsey’s most senior advisors. However, Thomas Boleyn and Charles Brandon had plotted to bring Wolsey down, and Cromwell had seen the king’s obsession with Anne Boleyn, so he had switched sides and betrayed his master.

Henry’s speculation jolted the chief minister out of his reverie. “You know, Cromwell, I’ve been thinking of Wolsey and you. You two share more than your humble birth.”

Fear bleached Cromwell’s features. “Your Majesty, I’m prepared to lay the world at your feet for merely a sign that you find me useful for England and your throne.”

“The nerve of that baseborn man!” Henry stood up with the look of a warrior about to charge the foe. “You would do anything for power, never acknowledging a defeat.”

As the ruler towered over him, the royal chief minister was biting his bottom lip.

“I love the magnificence of your personality and court, sire.”

Henry burst out laughing, as if he were in a festive mood. “Such deadly composure!  It is your weapon against your enemies, which aids you to destroy them.”

Cromwell longed to slap the abhorrent grin off his sovereign’s face. “I–” 

“Like Wolsey, you are highly intelligent and ambitious, extraordinarily hard-working and cunning. In your career pursuits, you have acted like a spider who would form new webs within old ones in order to amass wealth and accumulate power.” Henry raised his voice. “Wolsey was the controlling figure in virtually all matters of state. He was also powerful within the Church as Archbishop of York. But after his fall, I’ve learned one lesson: I’ll never entrust another councilor with as much power as Wolsey enjoyed, even if he is as talented and skilled as you, Cromwell.”

The chief minister paled. “Your Majesty was chosen by God to be our king and Supreme Head of Church of England. You possess complete mastery over the bodies and souls of all your subjects. I’m your most humble servant who lives to serve your pleasure.”

Leaning forward, Henry patted the arm of the other man. “Calm down. Do not cross me and serve me loyally. Then your head will remain attached to your shoulders.”

“I understand, Your Majesty.”

“Excellent. I shall not repeat the terms and conditions of your survival.”

Cromwell gritted his teeth at the monarch’s satisfied look. “I’ll work tirelessly to dissolve the rest of the corrupted monasteries and put all their wealth into the state coffers.”

Henry’s gaze slid to a wooden cross that hung over the fireplace. “Cromwell, you are so ruthless, smart, and resourceful that you are capable of turning any misstep to your advantage with spectacular success. But don’t presume that you know my heart well.”

The minister guessed where the conversation was going. “Your wish is my command.”

The king glanced back at his subject. “I supported the religious reform when it served my purpose of divorcing Catherine and marrying the Boleyn whore. Yet, at that time, I didn’t take the Reformation fully to heart. There were moments when I felt uneasy about the matter.”

“And now?” Hope lurched in Cromwell’s chest.

The hostile royal aquamarine glare was piercing Cromwell to the very soul. “I’ve always approved of the dissolution of all the monastic houses, but I hate the outcome. The people’s resentment against the new regime among my subjects led to an uprising, which we suppressed.” He pointed a figure at his minister in an accusing manner. “It is your entire fault!  You should have implemented the reform in some other way. My trust to you was badly shaken.”

Cromwell’s heart, full of disquiet, felt every word of this statement. “Your Majesty, forgive me!  I beseech you to grant me a second chance to prove my worth to you.”

“Begging…  It does not fit your personality, Cromwell.”

“It does,” his subject mumbled hastily.

“I’m grateful to you for many things. But no matter how high you have risen in my favor, you have never completely won my trust and affection in the way that Wolsey did.”

“Of course, sire.” The minister was offended and intimidated.

“The Duke of Norfolk and Bishop Gardiner presented a series of arguments against your policies, Cromwell. However, the dissolution will be finished as initially planned; the reform will continue, but in a different way. Cranmer and you will work on the Act of Six Articles, which will reaffirm traditional Catholic doctrine on six main issues. The Church of England will remain separated from the Vatican, yet the existing heresy laws will not be reinforced so far.”

“The Catholics must be appeased,” Cromwell deduced.

“Yes, Cromwell. It is your and Cranmer’s task to ensure that the document is drafted and enacted as soon as possible. We will have to return to more traditional religious practices. At the same time, we will continue spreading the Bible in English throughout the country. Our Church will be slowly transforming into a godly institution based on Protestant rituals.”

It was not as bad as the advisor had feared before. “I’ll take care of everything.”

The ruler climbed to his feet. “England urgently needs a Protestant alliance, and that is your second mission. Don’t disappoint me, or I’ll have your head.”

As Henry lumbered to the door, Cromwell was taking fortifying breaths to clear his head.

The minister thanked the Almighty that the fiery Tudor temper had not spiked to a deadly level today; it seemed that he would be able to handle the king’s orders. He knew of the jealousies of the nobles, who called him a lowborn jackal. But they had no idea about the dogged hard work he had done to attain his superb skills as a statesman. It was exhausting to walk the line between preserving his positions and beguiling the courtiers into the belief that he was invincible.

Regardless of what they thought of him, Cromwell was a star at court, for as long as the king lionized him for his accomplishments. He would strive to rise further in his liege lord’s favor, but he would be on guard every minute, fully aware of how quickly his luck could turn.

Notes:

Thank you for reading this chapter! I hope you liked it and will let me know what you think. Thank you very much in advance. I will try to review other authors more often.

Did you like Queen Anne's coronation in France? It was described as it usually happened in history. Anne's coronation vows were slightly altered to incorporate her Protestant religion so that they indicate that France is a Catholic country, and the queen cannot change that. François' song in honor of Anne's coronation was written by me.

King Henry is going to establish an alliance with the German Protestant States. It does not mean, however, that this will happen at this point, but Henry's intention to marry Mary Tudor off to a Protestant or Lutheran noble will have far-reaching consequences in the next several chapters. Mary has an unusual character arc in this AU.

Henry is watching the situation between François, Carlos, and Ferdinand. The facts about Ferdinand's relationship with Carlos are historically correct. Ferdinand appears in chapter 28. Attention! I added one Carlos/Ferdinand scene to chapter 2 to make something happening much later in story consistent with how everything was beginning. It follows the scene of the escape of King François from Arles (the second scene in the chapter).

Anne Bassett is becoming more prominent in Henry's life. Soon we will have another important character – Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, who will be around for a long time.

In real history, William of Jülich-Cleves-Berge inherited the lands of Cleves-Julich-Berg in 1539. The date was corrected for fictional purposes.

I recommend that you check the works of two wonderful writers: VioletRoseLily at AO3 and Secret-writer91 at FF. You will enjoy them!

Yours sincerely,

Lady Perseverance

Chapter 25: Chapter 24: Queen Anne’s English allies

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 24: Queen Anne’s English allies

November 22, 1537, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, France

King Henri II of Navarre opened the door to the study. “Margot, are you here?”

His wife’s reply was short, signaling that she was busy. “Yes, Henri.”

The study was illuminated by candelabra placed upon marble tables. Queen Marguerite of Navarre sat at a desk filled with ledgers, parchments, and inkwells. A multitude of books, most of them humanistic manuscripts, were stacked in shelves, which ran from the floor to the ceiling.

He strode over to the table. “Are you working on some French state papers?”

She lifted her tired eyes to him. “Yes, I am. These are reports of all kinds from Chancellor Guillaume Poyet. I’m especially interested in fiscal reports, for I need to allocate the gold we confiscated from the deserted Imperial camps to the needs of our people and the country.”

The Navarrese ruler had a mane of brown hair. His doublet of black silk and his white lace-edged collar emphasized his average height and slight build. Beneath the highly arched brows, his hazel-gray eyes, smart and lively, twinkled and smiled, while sometimes piercing others with a rapier’s thrust of his sharp wit. His haughty, pointed chin indicated his strength of will.   

My husband is handsome, Marguerite said silently while clasping some report in her hands. Henri d’Albert was her second spouse after her disastrous union with the late Duke Charles d’Alençon, who had blamed her for the lack of his progeny due to her numerous miscarriages. The marriage to Henri, who was several years younger, had brought Marguerite a lot of happiness; despite her four miscarriages and the death of their son Jean, Henri still adored his wife.   

The only surviving daughter of the Navarrese couple was Jeanne d’Albert. A pious, clever, bonny girl of five, she was being raised together with the Valois children at Saint-Germain-en-Laye. After their son Jean’s death three years ago, Jeanne became the apple of her parents’ eyes and Navarre’s only heiress, for Henri didn’t hope to have another child with Marguerite.

Henri eased himself into a chair beside the desk. “Are you the Queen of France or the Queen of Navarre?  Have you forgotten that you have a duty to our kingdom too?”

She stiffened. “I remember that. Navarre has been France’s closest ally for years. It is only thanks to the House of Albert’s alliance with the Valois family that we have not been annexed by Spain. By taking care of my brother’s realm, I am doing a great deal of good for Navarre.”

“From a political standpoint, I understand you, Margot.”

“Then what is wrong, Henri?” She preferred not to touch upon this excruciating topic. “I cannot abandon François. We have ruled France together since our mother’s death.”

He snapped, “François is my friend, but he has councilors to help him.”  

In a conciliatory tone, Marguerite articulated, “What would have happened if I could not act as supreme regent of France during the recent Habsburg invasion when my brother battled against the emperor?” She raised her voice. “France would have crumbled like a clod of earth.”

While the late Louise de Savoy had been alive, François, Marguerite, and their mother had ruled France together, having been called ‘Holy Trinity’. The three of them had constructed and overseen the existing economic, political, administrative, and legislative systems of France.

“That is true. I could not help François during the invasion because I was barely able to hold back hordes of the Spaniards invading Navarre. The disaster continued for months.”

She frowned in confusion. “Then why are you so angry?”

“The invasion is over, thanks be to God,” the ruler said emphatically. “Now you can leave for Navarre and reside at our court in Bearn, just as you ought to do as my queen.”

She shook her head. “I can only come to Pau or Bearn from time to time. France is encircled by Habsburg domains, and despite Spain’s current financial problems, they still pose a threat to us. After Spain recovers from the troubles, they will invade again to retaliate.”

A sigh escaped Henri. “Emperor Carlos will not forget his crushing defeat here.”

She took one of the parchments in her hands. “He shall not.”

“While Ferdinand is your prisoner, his warmongering brother will not attack.”

Marguerite stamped the paper with the Valois seal and put it aside. “You never know what that half-Flemish, half-Spanish thug with a protruding lip will do tomorrow.”

The relaxed air about him was gone. “No amount of persuasion is likely to aid my cause.”  

The queen was torn between her duty to two kingdoms, as well as her love for her brother and for her husband. “Our daughter Jeanne spends most of her time at Saint-Germain-en-Laye.”

The monarch warned, “The friction between us will not disappear until you do your duty to me as my wife. Your place is with me in Navarre!  Jeanne must live with us as well.”     

“Do you want me to betray François?  My mother would spin in her grave, then.”

He folded his arms over his chest. “Are you choosing France over Navarre and your brother over me?” His voice was tinged with anguish. “Have you ever loved me, Margot?”

Leaning across the desk, Marguerite took his hand and kissed it. “I’ve always loved you, my Henri. I consider us soulmates, and any misunderstanding between us tortures me.”   

He removed his hand from hers as if he could not take the close personal contact any longer. “Soulmates have deep feelings for one another. However, you are destroying our relationship.”

As if unaffected by his outburst, she meditated, “At times, I think that soulmates come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you. Their goal is to change your mindset, tear apart yourself, show you obstacles and teach you lessons, and perhaps even break your heart.”   

Henri laughed morbidly. “We are soulmates tied by bonds of our dying marriage.”   

Tears prickled Marguerite’s eyes. “No. Don’t say that!”

He continued uncompromisingly, “There is only one way to save our marriage. You must leave France and live with me in Navarre. We would visit your brother from time to time.”

Instantly, the queen collected herself. “I don’t like your tone, Henri.”

The king jumped to his feet, and paced the study agitatedly. “I’m a king – I need my queen by my side. I am a healthy man, so my wife ought to perform her marital duties.”

Her temper was slightly exacerbated. “I’m aware of your rare affairs in Navarre.”

He paused near a table in the corner, and poured for himself a bejeweled goblet of wine. “After your mother’s death, God bless her soul, your sojourns in Navarre became so rare and so short. I’ve been tolerant, enduring our separation and not complaining at all.”

Marguerite comprehended his motivation for this conversation. “I’ve reconciled myself to your periodic infidelities because I know how difficult it is for a man to be without a woman for a long time. Your silent and benevolent acceptance of the fact I reside in France pushed me to turn a blind eye to your liaisons in gratitude for your forbearance and understanding.”

Henri drained the goblet in one draught. “During the past six years, while you neglected our kingdom and marriage, I had only three affairs in Navarre. None of them lasted for longer than three months or so. For most of the time, I lived in celibacy, dreaming to see you.”

A haze of jealousy encompassed her. “Did any of them mean something to you?”

“God, of course not.” He refilled his goblet and drank half of it at once.

Forgive me for this lie, Margot, Henri thought remorsefully. I love you dearly, but your own actions and choices pushed me away to someone else. Indeed, he had never had many mistresses, and for the most part, he remained faithful to his spouse. However, the face of Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly, who had been his clandestine lover every time he came to the French court, plagued him day and night, awake or dreaming, and Henri yearned to make her his again.

Her lips quivered as she asked, “Do you still love me, husband?”

Setting the goblet on the table, the monarch cast an affectionate gaze at her. “I do, Margot. That is the reason why I am attempting so hard to salvage this marriage. I need you!”

Her heart fluttered with a longing so intense that she trembled. “Henri, I need you too.”

Henri rushed to his spouse and gathered her into his embrace. His kisses were every bit as intoxicating and drugging as the best wine from vineyards in Bearn. Their clothes suddenly felt too restricting, but as they were in the study, he unlaced his hose, while she raised her skirts. The tempest of primeval passion overpowered them like charioteers no longer able to manage the reins, and they made wild, uninhibited love as Henri placed her on the table.

God, such tremendous passion and pleasure are not a sin, Marguerite’s heart sang. With muffled cries as she bit her bottom lip, she offered herself to her husband fully, enjoying his every thrust, pushing aside all the doubts after their candid discourse. Since Henri’s arrival at the French court in September, they had shared a bedroom and had intercourse, but it was the first time that they had been so swept up by desire, just as they had been during the first years of their matrimony.

In the aftermath, they rearranged their garments. Henri gathered her into his arms.

She whispered, “You are my god, my ideal of manhood, and my husband.”

He let out a chuckle. “I thought your brother is your ideal.”

“No. François has many flaws despite all my devotion to him.”

The ruler cupped her face between his hands. “Will you act as my spouse?”

His question broke the spell. “I’m a woman of duty to France, a woman of letters, and only then a wife,” she pronounced apologetically. “My brother and the whole nation need me here. If something happens, there will be no one who can become a better regent than me.”

A disappointed Henri released her. “Your heart belongs to France.”

“To you too,” she claimed, feeling too cold out of this embrace.

“Does it?” His eyes were pools of heartache. “You are more a Valois than anything else, Margot. Your mother raised her female copy: just as Madame Louise de Savoy devoted her life to her only son and France, you are following in her footsteps by dedicating your life to the country of your birth. I do admire this!  On the other hand, do you know that you are hurting me?”

Marguerite’s features formed an agonizing mask of guilt. “You knew that I’m not like others when you wed me, Henri. Duty to both France and Navarre pushes me to stay here.”

“Because there will be no Navarre without France,” he finished.

“Yes.” She could scarcely breathe. “Henri…” 

“You are too extraordinary.” His face was blank, but his dolorific eyes spoke volumes. “I want a wife and family, Margot. I am a simple man from Bearn who craves warmth.”

His words chilled her, her guilt intensifying. “Come to France more often.”

The monarch stalked towards the exit and left. Marguerite slid to her knees and wept. At such a late hour, only François could visit the study, so no one would see her vulnerability.

What should I do now?  How can I explain everything to Henri?  Marguerite thought of the young Henri who had whiled away his time with a pen as he had composed clumsy poems to her after their wedding, and she had praised him, although they had been far worse than her brother’s. But Henri d’Albert was no longer her beloved artist who had once painted her life in gorgeous colors of exhilaration. They loved each other, but the rift between them was swiftly widening. 


December 5, 1537, Leeds Castle, Kent, England

Waiting for the royal party, Queen Jane Seymour and her sisters, Elizabeth and Dorothy, stationed themselves near the entrance to the Gloriette. The monarch’s spouse and her family had arrived at Leeds a week earlier as the king had sent them ahead from Eltham.

“Why is the court moving here?” Jane’s gaze wandered around the inner bailey.   

Elizabeth Seymour, Lady Cromwell, smirked. “Years ago, His Majesty transformed Leeds Castle from a fortified stronghold into a palace for Catherine of Aragon.”

“He must like this lovely palace,” opined Dorothy.     

The queen’s countenance brightened. “I’m honored to be here because the late Queen Catherine loved this place. Maybe His Majesty misses her and decided to come here.”

“No,” denied Elizabeth. “Here the king has fewer reminders of the Boleyn adulteress.”

“He has forgotten her,” Jane blurted out.

“Naïve,” Elizabeth barked, “or foolish. If a man cannot stay in places associated with his once beloved, he runs away from his memories of her and his feelings for her.”

Jane’s heart sank into her stomach. “He cannot still lust after that whore.”   

“Enough,” rebuked Dorothy. “Elizabeth, if your intention was to ruin our day, you have accomplished that. But don’t forget that Jane is your queen – treat her with respect.”

“Wisdom cannot be imparted,” Lady Cromwell snapped.

Their argument was interrupted by the appearance of the monarch’s jester, Will Sommers.

“Our fairest dames of England!” The jester swept a bow to them. “The king will be here soon. The weather will be splendid tomorrow because he will shine upon us like a sun.”

Jane smiled faintly. “Winters in Kent are mild and foggy, but rarely sunny.”

Sommers made an inviting gesture. “Watch His Majesty’s arrival!”

Dorothy whispered to the man, “The queen is not interested in seeing the king’s slut.”   

At this, Jane shivered with her whole body, in spite of wearing a warm ermine cloak.

Realizing the truth, Sommers was shamefaced and sent Jane an apologetic look.   

§§§

A signal gun from the Constable’s Tower heralded the approach of the royal party.

First appeared a dozen trumpeters, blowing flourishes. Then a contingent of halberdiers, whose leader warned as they pressed forward, “Make way for the king’s grace!”

Then succeeded a master-at-arms, bearing the standard of Baron Cromwell of Okeham. Next rode the English chief minister himself, mounted on a horse enveloped in golden brocade, his saddle covered with the same stuff, and gilt stirrups. Cromwell was attired in an expensive cloak made out of genet. In spite of his preference for ascetic fashions, he loved wealth and pomp.  

A group of nobles rode ahead to meet the king, each frowning at the sight of Cromwell.

“That bastard has a princely retinue,” the Duke of Norfolk assessed.

“I hope that he burns in hell,” growled the Duke of Suffolk. He did not like Norfolk in the slightest, but he shared the negative sentiments towards the chief minister with others.

“Soon!” Francis Bryan tossed the words over his shoulder.

Norfolk and Bryan snickered, and Surrey joined in their laughter. A prickle of suspicion slid down Suffolk’s spine: Bryan had definitely seen Anne Boleyn in France.  

Thomas Audley opined, “Cromwell deserves to fall from the king’s good graces.”

“That beastly devil must be burned,” hissed Nicholas Carew, who had recently returned from Italy. “All the torments in purgatory will not cleanse his soul.”

Its history dating back to the time of Norman intrusions into England, the castle had been erected on two small islands in a lake, formed by the River Len to the east of Leeds village. After winding their way slowly along the river, the royal cortege passed through the great gateway and reached the outer barbican, then entered the inner barbican through a narrow drawbridge.

The group of nobles waited for a short time, and it suddenly started snowing.

After a line of lords, knights, and esquires emerged the ruler’s sumptuous litter draped in cloth of gold. It was drawn by stallions caparisoned in purple velvet down to the ground, so the expensive fabric was already covered with snow. A contingent of arquebusiers encircled the litter. Next succeeded a chariot swathed in green and silver brocade, which contained the Bassett clan.

The snowflakes swirled almost horizontally, forcing them to slow down a little. Another drawbridge and the bridge over the moat carried them to the main island. They rode through the inner bailey and to the Gloriette, where the royal apartments were located.       

As the cavalcade finally stopped, the trumpets blasted their shrilling notes. Joyful strains proceeded from sackbut and psaltery; the lords flung their caps and toques into the cold air.

King Henry and Anne Bassett climbed down from the litter. Anne’s mother, Lady Honor Grenville, and her sisters, Philippa and Catherine, disembarked from their chariot next.

The monarch gazed at the lordly palace, above which the Tudor standard floated, and a smile curved his mouth. He had not been here for quite some time. At least, the ghost of the Boleyn adulteress will not plague me here, but maybe Catherine’s will. I stayed here with my brother’s widow on numerous occasions. Suddenly, Henry doubted his decision to return here.

Lady Bassett was tired after days of journeying on the snow-dirtied roads. Nevertheless, pride swelled in her bosom: she had accompanied the king on his progress to Leeds instead of his wife. Just as her eye chanced on Queen Jane and her sisters, the mistress shot her rival a triumphant smile. I long for the day when I’ll approach any royal residence as its mistress, she dreamed.

At first, Henry paid no attention to his wife, who waited with her relatives and Sommers.   

The Dukes of Norfolk and of Suffolk with their companions consigned their horses to their pages. They observed the king saunter to his consort, who advanced forward and curtsied to him.

Surrounded by her relatives, the royal mistress reluctantly stepped back from the monarch.

“Good day, Madame,” was all that Henry told his spouse.

“I’m happy to see Your Majesty again.” Jane glimpsed the pitch darkness in his eyes.

Turning away from the queen, Henry beckoned his mistress to him. “To me, my dear!”

Anne Bassett strolled to him with a measured gait of royalty. “Your Majesty!”

The monarch eyed her with passionate admiration. “At Leeds Castle, you, together with Jane, can make yourself a mistress of it, just as I am its lord and master.”

Supreme haughtiness tinged his paramour’s visage. “You are the kindest king, sire.”

Jane cast down her eyes to conceal her shame from her husband’s behavior. Her siblings feared that their position was turning more precarious; only Edward looked composed.

“I feel the advent of spring,” interposed Sommers, “just because you are here, sire.”

Henry laughed. “I’m so powerful that I can change the cycle of nature!”

Melting snowflakes moistened Anne’s cheeks. “Ah!  My skin!  The snow damages it!”

“My daughter might catch cold!” Honor Grenville headed to Anne.

“Let’s go inside,” the ruler enjoined, giving his paramour his hand.

Amid continued fanfares, King Henry quickly led both Anne and Jane inside the palace. The relatives and ladies of his mistress and his consort involuntarily mingled, shooting each other fierce looks before heading off in different directions, as Jane parted her ways with the ruler in the great hall. In a few minutes, thick fog and heavy snowfall reduced visibility outside to zero.

§§§

Eustace Chapuys and his English friend entered the ambassador’s apartments.

Nicholas Carew strode across the chamber. “Has the devil bewitched the king completely?  Have you seen him treat that Bassett whore as if she were a queen?  The slut is a reformer!”

“Good day, Sir Nicholas.” The Imperial ambassador eased himself into a chair.

Carew settled into a chair next to the diplomat. “Nice to see you again, Eustace; I was glad to receive your letters while in Bologna. You look normal, despite the happenings at court.”

“I’m accustomed to seeing His Majesty disrespect Queen Jane in public. By keeping the Bassett slut close, he is punishing his wife for her miscarriage. But you don’t know the worst.”

“What?” Alarm slithered through Carew.

The ambassador’s fists balled, knuckles white. “His Majesty is striving to align with the German Protestant states. To achieve this, he intends to marry Princess Mary off to some heretical high-born noble, despite the discrepancy between their religious beliefs.”    

“Sweet Christ,” Carew mumbled in frustrated horror.

“We shall not allow that to happen. Never ever!”   

They shared determined looks, their hatred for the Protestants written across their faces.

“I was in Rome,” Carew informed.

Chapuys blinked. “The Vatican?  Whatever for?”

“To visit the great Pope Paul. While still in Bologna, I received an invitation from him. On my way back to England, I journeyed to Rome and met with His Holiness.”

“What did he say, Sir Nicholas?”

Carew grinned slyly. “We remembered William Brereton.”

At this, Chapuys smiled craftily, and they broke into a fit of conspiratorial laughter.

§§§

The Duke of Norfolk rolled to his side as the dull light of late afternoon slipped through the wooden shutters. Exhausted after the swift journey to Leeds, he had resolved to spend the rest of the day in bed. He was not alone: his mistress, Elizabeth Holland, known as Bess, lay on her back beside him, strawberry-blonde hair spilling across the pillow, her mouth half open in sleep.

“Bess, you are so lovely.” Norfolk touched her shoulder, its skin smooth and soft.

“Let me rest, my lord.” Her voice slurred in sleep.

“You cannot, my dear. My son, Surrey, and Bryan will visit soon.”

Norfolk embraced Elizabeth, his lips capturing hers as if he hadn’t kissed her for months. His paramour moaned, feeling the most marvelous sensations as something hot and thick invaded her. They had been together since 1527, but Bess still found it unbelievable that sometimes, this ruthless hawk could be so tender, especially with someone whose birth was far lower than his own.

Bess had once been a laundress in the household of Norfolk’s spouse – Lady Elizabeth Stafford, Duchess of Norfolk, from whom Thomas had separated a couple of years earlier.   

When it was over, Bess sat up, pulling the sheet to her chest. “I’ll return to my room.”

“Bess, remember what we discussed the other day. We need you here.”    

With a nod, she climbed out of bed and skittered to the dressing room. She emerged from there in a matter of minutes, her slender form clad in a gown of brown satin worked with silver, with long, open, pendent sleeves, which Anne Boleyn had introduced to the English court. Her lover had already changed into a doublet of fuchsia satin embroidered with diamonds.

Norfolk burst out laughing. “You are very quick today, Bess.”

“Wear vibrant colors, my lord!” she hooted. “We will prove your niece innocence.”

After quitting his bedroom, Thomas and Elizabeth went to meet the duke’s guests.

The small reception chamber was framed with elaborate paneling on the walls and ceiling. The fireplace was adorned with a pomegranate emblem. Walnut furniture, ornamented with inlaid ebony, the vargueno cabinet, and many Spanish motifs in the interior’s decorations suggested that this suite had once been occupied by someone who had predominantly foreign tastes.

As they entered, Norfolk snarled, “The Spaniards are leeches on the body of the Christian world. My niece rightly said that they should all be at the bottom of the sea.”

Elizabeth recognized the room. “Lady Maria de Salinas lived in these apartments.”

His distaste of Catherine of Aragon and his disdain for her influence on England’s policy during her queenship were well known. “That Spanish cow told a falsehood about her mistress’ virginity, together with that blasted Doña Elvira Suárez de Figueroa, Catherine’s duenna.”

She concurred. “Certainly, Prince Arthur and the late Princess Dowager of Wales were intimate. Because of their lies, you schemed a lot to place your niece, Anne, on the throne.”

As they stopped near a line of chairs, Norfolk asserted, “We will have to work hard in order to clear Anne’s name of the false charges for Princess Elizabeth’s sake.”

“And for your own power,” she stressed.

With an overweening air about him, he proclaimed, “For the House of Howard!”

The door opened, and the Earl of Surrey barged inside. He bowed to his father.

An athletic man of average height, Surrey was handsome in that thoroughly English way. Shaped like a slightly rounded rectangle, his face exuded a ruddy glow of youth, while ambition glistened in his blue orbs. Surrey wore a doublet of red satin wrought with gold, blue silk hose, a fancy girdle made of gold and emeralds, a black velvet toque on his head.

A paternal smile warmed Norfolk’s frigid countenance. “My son!  A handsome man by all accounts, and no lovesick youth.  A warrior, a fine courtier, and a great Howard!”

“Father!” Surrey called with a grin. “I’ve come at your request.”

The duke hugged his heir. “Together we are a force to be reckoned with, Henry.”   

At the sight of his father’s mistress, Surrey grinned from ear to ear. “How lovely, Your Grace of Norfolk!  Lovers need morning, noon, and nightfall with each other.”

Elizabeth trained her eyes on the earl. “Lord Surrey!  A rich, lazy, but sly and clever, lord such as yourself should be resting for days after a long, tiresome journey on horseback.”  

The young man didn’t bother to hide his negative attitude to his father’s liaison with a former laundress. Thus, Bess never missed the opportunity to make fun out of him.

“Miss Holland.” Surrey backed away as she moved closer.

The annoyed duke was about to intervene when Sir Francis Bryan strode into the room. “Lord Surrey and Lady Holland, may I borrow His Grace for a moment?”

Norfolk settled himself into a chair carved with vines. “They will stay.”

Stopping next to him, Bryan regarded him curiously. “What for?”

“My son is a Howard!” the duke stated with pride. “He will aid us, and so will Bess.”

Surrey darted an arrogant look at Bryan. “It is the best happiness to have a large, close-knit family. This lets us work together for the benefit of our noble house.”

Bryan let out a laugh; he quite liked the lad. “Fair enough, Lord Surrey.”

“Of course!” Elizabeth took the seat beside her lover. “Have you forgotten that I served as a maid-of-honor to Queen Anne Boleyn?  I adore her and wish her daughter well.”

For an hour, they discussed Francis Bryan’s visit to France. They listened with rapt attention to his descriptions of Anne’s life in France and François’ stratagem. Bryan had already briefed the king on the subject of his stay at the Valois court, and the Tudor temper had ignited.

Bryan characterized the French queen. “A woman with brain and class, cousin Anne faced extreme hardships with courage. They taught her to be an icy queen in front of the Valois court.”

Norfolk nodded approvingly. “Anne’s short temper and her interference with Henry’s affairs led to the Boleyns’ downfall. François values female intelligence, so Anne is fortunate to have him as her husband, but he is unlikely to tolerate her outbursts and jealousy towards his lovers.”

Bryan reported, “The King of France does not have any mistresses at this time.”

Surrey stood up and approached a table in the corner. He poured wine for himself and drank a little. “Has the Boleyn siren charmed her philandering French husband so utterly?”

Getting to his feet, Bryan came to the same table, where Surrey stood. Bryan informed, “I observed Anne and François in public together. He is reserved and regal, but his look of absolute adoration directed at her from time to time cannot be missed. Unlike Henry, he is not a volatile man prone to obsessions, and our cousin shall not wrap him around her finger.”   

Elizabeth shrieked with laughter. “His French Majesty is in love with Anne!”

Bryan filled his goblet. “But she does not seem to return his feelings.”

“Excellent,” Norfolk nearly purred. “Love should not become Anne’s downfall again.”

The duke’s paramour giggled. “A woman’s heart is like a deep ocean, and it hides secrets. I heard enough about François to predict that Anne’s heart and body, which turned cold due to Henry’s betrayal, must come alive under his expert touch. If not her heart, then her body.”

Bryan took a swallow of brandewine in his goblet. “According to rumors, Anne and François spend every night together. The French court awaits news of her next pregnancy.”

Surrey returned to his chair with a full cup. “Women are for childbearing, men for power!”

Elizabeth Holland threw a contemptuous glance towards the young Howard. If in anything her opinion was of consequence to her lover, it was not where a woman’s inferior position was concerned. In men’s opinion, women had to be submissive and respect their fathers’ and later their husbands’ authority. You all are weak and too emotional, Norfolk had once told her.

Resentment flowed out of Bess. “We women are no fools!  Often we are stronger and better educated than men. Take Queen Anne: she made mistakes, but no other woman, save Eleanor of Aquitaine, has married two kings. I wish her happiness with her new husband, who is different from King Henry and most Englishmen, at least some those who gathered in this room.”

Norfolk gritted his teeth. “Shut up, Bess.” Surrey nodded at his parent.

Bryan diffused the tension. “Making love is one of the most enjoyable activities known to men. Without ladies men would not have been able to experience such pleasures.”

“Indeed, Sir Francis.” It was Surrey’s first kind response to Francis.

Norfolk stated, “Anne should bear for the French king many children.”  

Bryan’s grin was wide. “With the frequency of Anne’s beddings by François, she will be pregnant many times. Henry didn’t show such attention to her after his passion had cooled off.”

The Earl of Surrey said sincerely, “I admire my truly extraordinary cousin. If she bears a male heir to the French throne, the Howards will be related to the Valois dynasty.”

Norfolk drummed his fingers along the wooden armrests. “Dauphin Henri’s marriage is still childless. Prince Charles, Duke d’Orléans, is healthy, but King François lost his eldest son.”

Surrey cried, “A toast to heirs to the thrones of France and England with Howard blood!”

Elizabeth filled four chalices with wine and brought them to the three men. Twirling the fourth cup in her hands, she eased herself into her chair. Together they all drank a toast to Queen Anne’s prosperity and to their dream to see her children monarchs of two countries.

Francis Bryan informed, “I need to return to France again on the king’s orders.”

“Good luck, then,” Norfolk said with a smile.

Bryan moved the theme to agenda. “We shall wait for a signal from King François.”

Bryan extracted several papers from a pocket in his doublet, then unfolded them and handed to Norfolk. He talked and talked about his audiences with the Valois ruler.

Now the Duke of Norfolk had a glint of danger in those hazel eyes that promised death to his enemies. “I agree that we should not act until King François’ spies learn more about the Pope’s plot against my niece. Then we will take action against Cromwell.”

“What do you think of the Pope’s deeds?” Bryan quizzed.

Thomas Howard forced himself to remain calm on the outside. “I’m a devout Catholic. Yet, it is the only way to prove my niece’s innocence, bring down that baseborn usurper of power, and ensure that Princess Elizabeth will not be tainted by her mother’s alleged crimes.”

Both shaken by the Vatican’s attempts at Anne’s destruction, Norfolk and Surrey felt rather uncomfortable. However, if Elizabeth became the Queen of England, the House of Howard would climb to the unprecedented heights. They would sacrifice their spiritual ideals for power.

At the same time, Francis Bryan recalled the French monarch’s words about Elizabeth’s personality. He had given a good deal of thought to the matter, and now he agreed with François. Elizabeth’s character was a great, yet toxic to a degree, blend of Anne’s and Henry’s qualities, so the girl was bound by nature to excel in learning to govern the realm. Bryan didn’t think that the princess would be easily manipulated, outmaneuvered, or ruled by men as she grew up.  

“I’d assist you, my lords,” interjected Elizabeth Holland. “I’ll do anything to help Anne.”

“I figured you would act as our spy,” Surrey drawled, frowning.

“Then congratulations are in order!” Bryan jested. He added seriously, “A female spy is capable of seeing beyond social norms and barriers to reveal truths not so apparent to men.”

“So very true, Sir Francis.” Her voice flattened into a jovial hum.

Norfolk summed up, “We will make Cromwell and Suffolk lose everything.”

Each of them was aware of how careful they had to be so that no one would discover that they had associated with the King and Queen of France, or they could end up on the scaffold.

“What about my sister, Elizabeth?” Norfolk wanted to know about her life in France.

Bryan recited what he had seen in Paris. “The Countess of Wiltshire is taking care of her beloved daughters. I saw Lady Elizabeth in the corridors with her daughters’ children. Mary is always at Anne’s side, and at court they are called two Boleyn girls conquering France.”

The duke chuckled at Bryan’s last words. “Did you speak to Elizabeth privately?”

Bess sent a sympathetic glance to her lover; she knew that he worried for his sister.

“No, I didn’t,” Francis answered. “She is always with her daughters.”

“I see.” Norfolk hoped that she would write him, but she hadn’t. His heart bled that their relationship had deteriorated due to his role in her two children’s downfall, but at least, Elizabeth was now content. His conscience was at peace that Mary had found her place in France.

Surrey questioned, “Are you going to use Thomas Boleyn in our scheme?”

His father shook his head vigorously. “No!  My sister separated from him and moved to France. Neither of my nieces cares a whit about the man. Let him rot in Hever.”

Bess opined, “The Earl of Wiltshire deserves that.”

“I believe we are finished here.” Francis Bryan jumped to his feet, then turned his head to Surrey. “My lord, let’s leave your father with the charming Miss Holland.”

“That is an excellent idea,” approved a grinning Bess.

The Duke of Norfolk enjoined, “Go to your wife, son.”

Surrey’s lips quirked into a derogatory grin. “Have a good time, Father.”

As the door behind Bryan and Surrey slammed shut, the plotting was over. Bess Holland threw herself into Norfolk’s arms and submitted to whatever scandalous desires he had.


December 18, 1537, Leeds Castle, Kent, England

The presence chamber, located in the Gloriette, was lit by a low fire burning in the hearth and candles placed here and there upon tables. Their flames caused shadows from the figures of those councilors who stood in front of the massive throne, where King Henry sat.

The monarch eyed his subjects before announcing, “I shall put an end to the diversity of opinions as to the religious policy in England. I’ve appointed Secretary Cromwell and Archbishop Cranmer to produce a special statement, which we will call Six Articles.”

The Duke of Norfolk despised the mere fact that Cromwell had been charged again with a task to do something important. “Should I aid them to work on it, Your Majesty?”

The king shook his head. “Only after the initial draft is prepared.”

Norfolk maintained an impenetrable demeanor. “As you command, sire.”

The monarch’s answer offended Norfolk and the other nobles, strengthening the resolve of Norfolk and his accomplices to dispose of the man.  Cromwell’s expression was colored with a snobbishness that accompanies people to whom success went to their head.

“Your Majesty,” the Earl of Surrey spoke up. “You may need my father’s counsel.”

The ruler shot him a withering look. “You are dismissed, Lord Surrey.”  

As the earl made a stiff bow and stomped to the exit, Norfolk barely repressed his outrage at how their sovereign treated the Howard family. His pride for his son was also immense.

The monarch revealed, “The document will cover six most important Christian dogmas.  These include the Catholic doctrine of transubstantiation, the view that one need not receive both bread and wine in the communion, the unconditional obligation of priests to remain celibate, the binding character of vows of chastity, as well as private masses and auricular confession.”

Silence prevailed. It was as if they held their breaths before the king elaborated.

Henry scrutinized a set of three wall hangings portraying scenes from lives of Christ and St. John the Baptist. “The disunity of my people has been the source of a continual worry for me. It conflicts with my view of how a good Christian prince should order the lives of his subjects. I’ve resolved that the Reformation will continue, but we must quieten religious debates.”

Henry’s gaze drifted to Norfolk. “If I had made you, Norfolk, responsible for the drafting of this act, you would have eliminated as many Protestant doctrines as possible. But our nation needs a religious settlement that will be a compromise for everyone. Whence, Cranmer and Cromwell will create the initial wording, and then Chancellor Audley and you will review it.”

Norfolk flattered, “Your Majesty’s choice of evangelicals could not have been better.”

Nicholas Carew sniggered. “These men will have to curb their reformation vigor.” Turning to the chief minister, he pronounced waspishly, “Best of luck with this, Cromwell.”

“Thank you.” It irritated Cromwell that the nobles refused to address him as Lord Okeham. But he was a competitive person, and if a glove was thrown his way, he would pick it up. “Cranmer and I shall ensure that the Act of Six Articles will also cement the victories of reformers.”

“Sire, Cromwell has crossed a line!” Carew huffed in exasperation.

Henry shifted in his throne. “I’ve grown tired of the rivalry between the reformers and the Catholics. The new Act will establish the uniform doctrine of Christ’s religion in my kingdom.”

The Duke of Suffolk offered, “I’d like to assist in preparing the Act, Your Majesty.”

“No, Charles,” Henry denied. “You will run another errand for me. Summon Mary.”

Brandon quitted the chamber amid muffled jeers of the other lords. The king’s last words had painted him as an errand boy in the eyes of the others, and he hated that.

§§§

“The king will not do that,” Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, uttered in disbelief.

The duke gulped ale and sat in an oak chair with two pairs of curved legs crossing beneath the seat and rising to support the arms and back. His private quarters were illuminated by candles on iron sconces; the crackling fire in the hearth provided warmth from the nasty weather outside.

With the remembrance of the king’s mad rage at Mary’s refusal to wed a Protestant prince, Brandon thought of how fortunate the bastardized princess had been that he had defended her.   

Mary had declared while staring intrepidly into Henry’s eyes, “Your Majesty’s insistence that I jeopardize my immortal soul by marrying a heretic illustrates our religious differences. You abjured the true faith when you broke with the Vatican, so I’m not astonished by your demand.”

An incensed Henry had darted to her. “Don’t you dare, you impudent brat!  I am Supreme Head of Church of England, and anyone who says otherwise is a traitor. You signed the Oath, and I’ll forget, for the last time, your offensive words, but you will yield to my will.”    

She had angled her chin defiantly. “Even if I were a scrawny girl who has not had any meal in days, I would not have begged a heretic to give me a crust of bread. By the Gospel, the canons, civil law, and custom, heretics must be burned. I shall not be a heretic’s wife!”

“You are your blasted mother’s daughter,” her parent had screamed. “You cannot escape the fate I designate for you. You must show me that you have learned obedience and humility.”

Henry had fisted his hand to strike Mary. Charles had rushed across the room to them.

“Your Majesty, she is your daughter,” Suffolk had uttered with a shudder.

The monarch had slapped Mary across the face. He had raised his hand again, but she had scurried off to a window. Henry had run after her, but Charles had jumped in front of her.

“Please, don’t do that, sire,” Suffolk had implored, shielding Mary with his body.

With pleas and various artifices, Brandon had managed to convince the king to let Mary go. She had then stormed out of the chamber, as though all her nerves were set on fire.

How could Henry be willing to harm to his own fresh and blood?  It was one thing to force Mary into an arranged marriage, and another one to treat her so savagely. Didn’t the king see that she had grown into a fine young lady, with a mind so strong and a heart so big that those who met Mary admired her at first glance?  Hadn’t she once been the jewel of Henry’s world? 

Mary is an ideal daughter, Brandon mused. She would sedulously have cultivated the spirit of contentment in the Tudor family, if only her father had given her a few crumbs of his praise and love. Like her late mother, Mary was intelligent and capable of counseling the king in politics, so doing the best for the realm, not seeking to add to the burden her father must carry as a king.

The two men had been close friends since their boyhood. Years ago, Henry had been Duke of York, sulking that he had not been an heir but a spare destined for the career in the Church. Back then, Charles had believed that Henry would be a better and merrier king than the quiet and somber Arthur Tudor, Prince of Wales, could have been. Later, Brandon had been grateful to Henry for elevating him to the rank of a wealthy duke. Now Charles was truly shocked.

The Duke of Suffolk looked up at his wife’s voice. “How are you, Charles?”

“Quite bad.” The duke drained the contents of his goblet.

“I knew I would find you here.” Catherine closed the door and crossed the chamber. “It must be impossible for you to sleep after that scene in His Majesty’s apartments.”

“It was horrible.” He set the cup back on a nearby table.

She went to a table in the corner and poured for him a cup of wine. She herself had never developed a taste for ale, convinced that it was not a beverage for people of high ranks.   

Charles watched Catherine move like a nymph, a blend of elegance, strength, and sadness glowing in her countenance. He was in love with this young creature!  In a modestly cut gown of yellow and black damask passmented with gold, she looked beautiful and lithe, with soft skin and eyes like green almonds. Her straight, long, brown hair was braided into a coronet atop her head, but the angular Gable hood, which was popular at court, did not fit Catherine’s ensemble.    

Being his fourth spouse, Catherine Brandon was not only the Duchess of Suffolk, but also suo jure Baroness Willoughby de Eresby as the only heir of William Willoughby and Maria de Salinas. In 1528, at her father’s death, Catherine’s wardship had fallen to the monarch, who had sold it to his then-brother-in-law – Charles. For some time, Catherine had been betrothed to Henry Brandon, Earl of Lincoln and Suffolk’s son with Princess Mary Tudor, who had passed away in 1534. But Suffolk hadn’t wanted to lose Catherine’s inheritance and married his ward.

Fortunately, they had fallen in love. For the first time in his lewd life, Charles had been under the indescribable spell of womanhood when he had taken Catherine’s virginity in the same way as a gardener treated a delicate flower. Despite the significant age gap, they saw themselves as soulmates: blessed with two sons, Henry and Charles, the latter born just this year. The duke had lived with the ardor of a man whose heart had just awakened … until the rebellion in the north.

Catherine handed the cup to him. “For you.”

“Thank you,” muttered Charles after swallowing some wine.

She settled into a matching chair beside him. “What is the king intending to do?”

“To use Princess Mary as his pawn, as is his right as her liege lord and father. His Majesty wants to establish a Protestant alliance with German princes. He strives to be friends with King François’ allies because of France’s currently extremely strong position in European politics.”

She frowned. “Why does he need that?”

Twirling his cup in his hands, Charles watched the red liquid swish back and forth. “By doing so, our sovereign will have the chance to destabilize France’s relationship with Germany in case King François abolishes the religious tolerance in his realm. Although the whore is his queen, France will remain a Catholic nation. If necessary, François will lash out against that preposterous new religion spreading through the circles of French evangelicals and humanists.”

“That Boleyn witch,” hissed Catherine, her pretty features transforming into a scowl of visceral hate. “Her crimes against the late Queen Catherine and the Princess Mary are abominable. Her sins of harlotry and witchcraft disqualified her forever from God’s absolution.”

Charles tipped his head. “Thomas Cromwell, Nicholas Carew, Edward Seymour, and I – we all wanted His Majesty to marry Jane Seymour. Together we destroyed the harlot.”

She was aware of the conspiracy against Anne. “It was a fair deed, husband.”

“Nevertheless, Queen Jane has failed to produce a prince.”

“So far,” Catherine hoped. “The Lord will bless Queen Jane’s marriage to the king.”

“Perhaps.” He emptied the cup and placed it on the table. “She does not have much time left. But even if the king never has a son, Princess Mary may rule well.”

Catherine had recently become secretly interested in church reform. “My mother remained loyal to Queen Catherine until her last day. We have not acknowledged the sham of His Majesty and the whore’s marriage as a legal, valid union.” Her voice thinned as unease freshened within her. “But if Catherine’s daughter ascends the throne, will she restore Catholicism?”

His lips moved to form words unpleasant for her. “I’m not a deeply religious man, but I’ve never supported our sovereign’s perverse reforms caused by his obsession with that slut.”

To Brandon’s surprise, Catherine did not castigate Anne this time. “The restoration of the old regime will lead to suffering, for our country is now religiously divided. Because of corruption in the Catholic Church, Luther’s and Calvin’s teachings have spread widely.”

The duke did not concur that the religion of his forefathers was wrong. “Indeed, the greed and wealth of the clergy has created a split between the peasants and themselves. Nonetheless, there are more Catholics in England than Protestants and Lutherans. If the realm is returned to the Vicar of Rome, there will be little resistance and only few burnings of the most ardent heretics.”  

Accusation glittered in her expression. “When the king appointed you and the Duke of Norfolk commanders of the royal army and sent you both to crush the uprising, I urged you to take a merciful approach towards the rebels. But you did not, Charles!”

The ensuing silence bristled with tension. A pause pressured with pent-up stress.

The more Catherine learned about her husband, the more painful her understanding of him became. The remembrance of the dreadful atrocities he had committed on their sovereign’s orders tormented her every day, just as the ghosts of his infidelities did. Although she had witnessed Charles waking up in cold sweat from his nightmares time and time again, she believed that there was no forgiveness for the murders of those insurgents. You should not have done that, Charles.

He frowned, kneading his forehead. “You know that at first, I endeavored to make peace with the mutineers, who refused to disperse their troops. The king wanted to make an intimidating example by executing hundreds after he had entrapped Aske and his followers.”

The Suffolk spouses glowered at each other. Memories deluged them like an avalanche crashing over the rocks: a horrified Catherine had pleaded for Charles not to kill the rebels and their families, even if it meant facing the monarch’s disfavor. Despairingly, she had compared the innocent civilians to their own beloved sons, but his answer had broken her world into pieces.

What if they were your own children, Charles?!  I shall still have to do it.

Those words stood between Charles and Catherine like a heap of thorns. With each passing moment, the wedge between them was growing wider. She had thought that her spouse could be only a bright companion to her for the days of sunshine, but not one in the crises of her life. His unwillingness to go against the ruler’s abhorrent orders had painted him as a colorless individual in her mind. Later, she had lost their baby, which had added a huge amount of her grief.

At last, the Duke of Suffolk repeated what he had told her after his arrival from the north. “Every true subject is bound by the commandment of God to serve their sovereign, so I had to carry out that massacre. And I would have executed anyone and in any number to ensure that none of my family would find themselves at the receiving end of the king’s wrath.”

“Self-sacrifice is one of the loveliest attributes of human character. However, it has never been an attribute of yours, Charles.” Sarcasm was dripping from her lips like venom.

“Catherine, please…”  His countenance was tortured before he switched to another subject. “Queen Catherine would be spinning in her grave if Mary were to become a heretic’s consort.”

“I’m tired.” She forced herself to be cautious: as much as she did not want to be with her husband, he did not need to know anything about her religion. “I’ll retire for the night.”

“Of course, wife.” His voice betrayed his chagrin.   

Catherine stood up. “Help Her Highness.” She marched away.

A shard of ire stabbed through the Duke of Suffolk. If only the king had not sanctioned that massacre, now his wife would not barely tolerate his presence, and she would not have miscarried. The amiable temper and mutual understanding that had once existed between them was a premise for matrimonial bliss, but Catherine and Charles had lost them in the rivers of the rebels’ blood.

Staring into the flames in the fireplace, Charles sat quiet for a considerable time. A pang of longing for Catherine and his children from his previous marriages filled the duke. The monarch would not permit him to leave court, so he would not spend time with his offspring. But his wife was here, and in spite of her coldness to him, he loved Catherine. Maybe we will create a new babe tonight, and it will help us heal, Charles speculated as he headed to their bedchamber.

Notes:

I hope you are all staying safe from Covid 19. I’m staying in lockdown in Tuscany at least until mid-April.

Thank you for reading this chapter! I hope you liked it and will let me know what you think. My mission now is to review other authors more often. As always, I recommend VioletRoseLily and EvilFluffyBiteyThing at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91 at fanfiction.net.

Queen Marguerite de Navarre is my one of favorite historical figures. According to contemporary French sources, there are two versions of her marriage to Henri d’Albert, King of Navarre. The first is that they loved each other deeply despite their age difference. The second version is that due to Marguerite’s frequent sojourns at her beloved brother’s court, Henri distanced himself from her and had mistresses.

We are back at the English court, which is moving to Leeds Castle. Jane Seymour and her relatives are of course desperate now because they can lose everything if Jane does not have a son. Anne Bassett is ambitious and wants to supplant Jane on the throne. As for Anne Boleyn’s English allies, I repeat that the Duke of Norfolk will be Anne’s ally, not Mary’s despite his religious beliefs, and partly it will be connected with the shock produced by the Pope’s deals (I cannot say more, these events are distant). The storm is brewing at the Tudor court. Do you feel it? Poor Jane!

In history, the Duke of Suffolk did not kill those hapless insurgents in the north of England. The showrunners twisted it, making him the murderer of thousands of innocents.

Guys, let’s support each other and make each other smile! Stay safe!

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 26: Chapter 25: The Queens' Competition

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 25: The Queens’ Competition

December 25, 1537, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, France

On Christmas Day, hordes of courtiers swarmed a long, spacious gallery, high ceilinged and imperious. Hundreds of them were eating ravenously and chatting animatedly beneath the golden chandeliers, the candlelight dancing on the frescoed walls and ceiling. Their sumptuous clothes and jewelry shimmered like a rainbow among marble sculptures, brought from Italy by Francesco Primaticcio, and the bronze sculptures, which the artist had created at Fontainebleau.  

Two weeks earlier, the court had moved from Paris to Fontainebleau. The royal children, including Anne’s daughter, had not been sent away to their own household.

François sipped wine. “Soon we will start our plan.”

Anne leered. “Vengeance is sweet when served cold.”

He disliked her fixation on revenge. “Of course, Anne.”

The king and queen were seated at the table under a canopy of purple silk, gorgeously decorated with Valois heraldic ornaments. King Henri of Navarre and his wife, Marguerite, occupied their places next to the French couple. Sitting beside Dauphine Catherine de’ Medici, Dauphin Henri was frigid and reticent, feeling ill at ease every time he looked at his spouse. Prince Charles and Princess Marguerite discussed in earnest the latest trends in French and Italian arts.

Queen Anne’s relatives sat at the opposite side of the table. Lady Mary Stafford and Lady Elizabeth Boleyn experienced a strong sense of déjà vu as they remembered their life at the Valois court when Thomas Boleyn had served as the English ambassador to France. Mary let out a giggle as she recalled how she had laughed and danced at feasts and masques during those merry days in her youth, but her smile vanished as her gaze intercepted Anne de Montmorency’s.  

“Your compliments, François.” Anne tilted her head. “You have changed your tune.”  

“So you have noticed.” A mirthful François leaned back against his gilded throne. “You do not want coldness between us. But how hot should my song in your honor be?”     

“Will it burn me alive?” she joked.

He touched her cheek. “You are already burning in my arms every night.”

She blushed shifting her stare from him to the tapestry of the Goddess Aphrodite and her mortal lover, Adonis. “You are a king, a God in a way. So, who am I?”    

He turned her chin to him again. “My goddess.”

The couple watched the courtiers in silence. There were several tables in the gallery, each nearly groaning with the weight of victuals. A colossal variety of food was served: swan, goose, venison, pheasant, poultry, quail, mutton, pork, lamb, hare, and so forth. Each dish was spiced with ginger, pepper, cinnamon, saffron, cardamom, and spikenard.

François was now serious. “I have two gifts for you: my poem and a book.”

“Go on, brother,” Marguerite interposed.

Beside the idle, sad winter palace

And in the vacant frosty days,

Light came fluting down the ways,

Where my Anne was loitering with me.

Who has not welcomed, they retired,

Our jocund minstrels and their tunes,

Yet, they entertained us to no avail,

Until my Anne sent me her smile.

Then we listened to the music of joy,

We two were free to eagerly fancy

Our brilliant court and each other.

Since this day, in terror and amaze

We will not be alone but only at gaze

Of one another’s laughs and smiles,

With them for the rest of our days.

A ripple of applause rang out as François finished, exaltation tingling in everyone’s veins.

It dawned upon Anne, like the sun beginning to peak over the horizon, that she cared for François. Her romantic dream resurfaced: she wanted serene harmony to accompany her in the matrimonial journey, leaving discord behind. Perhaps she would be happy with the monarch.

§§§

“Bravo, brother!” King Henri of Navarre praised. “You have a great talent in poetry.” Due to her long sojourns at her brother’s court, he remained to celebrate Christmas with his wife.   

François laughed. “I do!”

Henri d’Albert took his wife’s hand tenderly. “Margot also has talents in literature.”

Marguerite smiled at him cordially. “Not as many as my dear brother has.”

Henri claimed, “Only weak minds refuse to be influenced by literature.”

François smiled. “It expresses what cannot be put into words and what cannot remain silent.”

Marguerite noted, “François is especially prolific when he writes for a unique dame.”

“I see.” Queen Anne flushed from either satisfaction or jealousy. She was aware that her husband had created poems for some of his mistresses, including her own sister.    

“Father, I love it!” Prince Charles exclaimed. Princess Marguerite nodded.

“This is a great verse, my liege!” lauded Clément Marot, who had been permitted to seat at the royal table. “You have honed your own distinct writing style to perfection.”

“Lovely.” Dauphin Henri gazed towards another table, where his mistress was seated.

Dauphin Catherine de’ Medici assessed, “Many Italian poets and critics define poetry as a creative art of endeavoring to inculcate morality and to express their passion for life. Others say that the function of poetry is to convey ideas in concrete and sensuous images, while the function of prose is to create intellectual material. I disagree and believe that poetry is artistic and creates knowledge, just as prose does. Good poetry and prose are like a bouquet of fresh flowers.”

“Catherine, please–“ Dauphin Henri began, only to be interrupted.

François opined, “Indeed, Catherine. Five types of poetry are mentioned in Aristotle’s Poetics: epic, dramatic, dithyrambic, satiric, and lyric, all described in detail. In my opinion, the writers of each class are capable of creating deep emotion and intellectual thought.”

Marguerite loved such discussions. “Aristotle insisted that the common element in all the arts is movement that is a characteristic of poetry, just as color and form characterize painting and sculpture. I do not concur with him because color and form are important to a poet.”

Anne asserted, “Aristotle’s theory of poetry has influenced modern poetry profoundly. However, in ancient times, little of Greek or Roman literary criticism was concerned with poetical theory as opposed to the keen interest of their critics in oratory.”

The dauphin opined, “Plato saw poetry as something unreal, yet it is more real than prose.”

“He was mistaken on this occasion.” Marguerite raised her goblet. “My brother’s talent in poetry is as realistic as our triumph over the Habsburg Empire. To the king’s brilliance!”  

Elizabeth Boleyn echoed, “To His Majesty’s numerous virtues!” It was the first time she had spoken aloud freely; before, she had quietly conversed with her daughter, Mary.

“To the king and queen’s happiness!” Mary Stafford included her sister deliberately.  

Everyone drank to the monarch of France, predicting that the rest of his reign would be more resplendent than the Pax Romana during the reign of Emperor Octavius Augustus.

Anne emptied her goblet and set it on the table. “François, I like that your subjects have reinforced parallels between your reign and ancient Rome. Maybe you will avoid wars.”

François drained his cup and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring into her face. “They are not only my subjects, but also yours. It is our reign, Anne.”

“Perhaps,” she breathed.

“Another gift!” At his request, his page brought something wrapped in black velvet.   

Anne’s brow arched. “What is it, François?”

The king smirked at her. “Patience is a virtue, my dearest wife.”

The queen could not help but admit to her own curiosity. “I don’t possess it now.”

He commented rhetorically, “I’ve seen many storms in my life. Most of them have caught me by surprise, so I had to learn the art of patience and the art of taming the fury of nature.”   

“You will experience the devastating fury of my temper if you don’t gift it to me now.”

François howled with laughter. “Your temper may be like a tempest outriding the wind.”

Her curiosity fully piqued, Anne hastily unfolded the object. The title of the small leather-bound volume in her hands was embossed in gold letters – The Aeneid by Virgil.

“I suppose you find my gift remarkable, wife.”

Anne arched a brow. “Why?”

The space between them electrified as the monarch inched closer. “Once you compared yourself with Aeneas. Indeed, you traveled to France and to me, just as that Trojan hero arrived in Italy and became the first true hero of Rome over time. You remember what he did later.”

It was her turn to lean closer to him. Anne found his grin infectious and smiled in return. “Latinus, King of the Latins, welcomed Aeneas and his army of exiled Trojans. Aeneas and the king’s daughter, Lavinia, became ancestors of Romulus and Remus.”

“Aeneas founded a new dynasty.” His uneasy gaze flew to both of his two sons.    

“Well, I do not need to do that. God bless all of Queen Claude’s children!”

He glanced back at her. “God save and protect them!”

Her fingers caressed the volume. “Are you truly happy with my new pregnancy?”  They had discovered it a week ago, but Anne did not want to make any official announcement yet.  

“Of course, I am.” Elation brightened François’ features.

Everyone noticed the royal couple’s exhilaration, and speculation became rife.

§§§

Diane de Poitiers sauntered over to a table to fill her platter with gooseberry tarts and heron. Although she normally liked socializing, today’s festivities were nothing but a bore to her.

She had no sooner sat down when Dauphin Henri appeared next to her.

He kissed her hand ardently. “Mon chérie, I’ve missed you so.”  

She put her platter on a nearby low table. “Me too, my prince.”

Henri drank in her features, which were untouched by time. As usual, her gown was of black and white brocade ornamented with pearls, a triangle stomacher of matching taffeta shimmering with gems. A silver headdress of goldsmith’s work, a diamond girdle around her waist, and a massive diamond necklace on her bosom enhanced the shimmering quality of her appearance. By all that is holy, my Diane has no idea how beautiful she is, he thought, his heart lurching.

He bent his head to his paramour. “My lips are seeking for your sweet ones, from which I may drink life. You are my most beloved, Diane! If we were together, I would have kissed you with all of my pent up passion, just as I did when we consummated our romance.”

A grin flourished on her visage. “It happened in my gardens.”

He lavished her hands with kisses. “I would gladly hold you in my arms forever.”

Slavish devotion to her reflected in his gaze, and Diane grinned at Henri. Her smile was that of faux meekness and benevolence, but in his opinion, it was that of a superior race of beings. The young man worshiped this woman, whom his father had several years earlier appointed to teach him courtly manners, as if Diane were a goddess in some ancient shrine.

The mistress recalled the day when she had allowed Henri to take her for the first time. They had been in Château d’Anet, which was part of the domains of Diane’s deceased husband – Louis de Brézé, Seigneur d’Anet, Count de Maulévrier and Grand Seneschal of Normandy. She had led the prince through a park and into a small walled garden with a meadow, terracotta vases, and classic busts. Then Henri had whispered words of love to Diane and embraced her with such an amorous effusion that she had surrendered to him, and they had coupled on the grass.

Her lover’s face appeared pale. “What is it, Henri?”

“My father is in love with the queen,” he voiced his conclusion.

“Henri, your relationship with the king must be amicable. You cannot antagonize those who favor your younger brother over you. Your father loves you, so open your heart to him.”

A frown plucked at his forehead. “I cannot forgive him for my captivity.”

“You must,” his paramour insisted. “Or you risk alienating His Majesty from you.”

Henri switched to another topic. “I’m worried about Queen Anne’s religious beliefs.”

Diane, too, found her thoughts wandering to Anne, wishing that the other woman had not married King François. “As a devout Catholic, I share your concerns. But His Majesty will not allow her to commit heresy in public; she regularly attends Mass with him.”

“I hope so.” He stood up and added, “I must return to the royal table.”

“Keep a veneer of politeness towards your wife.”

“Catherine de’ Medici,” the prince spat the name like a curse. “She is ugly.”

“But she is your wife! Regardless of your wishes.”   

The dauphin begged, “Meet me this evening!”    

“Yes.” His lover’s smile shone like her jewels.

A calculative creature beneath her displayed sweetness, Diane could not believe she had just consented to have a rendezvous with him again. Now Henri had a power over her that he had never wielded before, and her own passion for him could make her vulnerable, which frightened her. Before she had the chance to back out, he winked at her, then bowed deeply.

“I’ll see you soon.” Dauphin Henri took off in Catherine’s direction.

For the better part of the banquet, Diane ate in silence, watching her lover. As the music changed from a stately pavane to a spirited tarantella, Henri led Catherine in a dance, his movements tinged with reluctance to be close to her. He looked so reserved that, Diane knew, he was wrapped up in his dreams of her, and she fretted over her earlier encouragement of him to pay attention to the dauphine so that Henri’s ignorance of Catherine would not irk the monarch.   

“Madame, are you unwell?” inquired Duke Charles de Guise.

Diane shook her head. “On the contrary, I’ve just been thinking.”

He gauged her musings. “Dreaming of His Highness, aren’t you?”

Her appetite completely gone, the prince’s mistress handed her empty platter to a passing servant. “My relationship with Henri is not a secret. Your thoughts must be of the new queen.”

“I’m sure they coincide. Rumors are that she is again pregnant.”

Her eyebrow shot up. “So quickly after Princess Louise’s birth?”

Disgust warped his countenance. “It was expected, given the king’s attentions to her.”

A hush ensued as the Valois spouses stood up. Courtiers jumped to their feet and dropped into bows and curtseys. François and Anne crossed the chamber and exited. Anne’s mother and sister smiled triumphantly, and everyone clamored about their abrupt leaving.

Diane huffed, “It is peculiar how close His Majesty and that woman seem to have become over the past four months. Don’t you find it a little unnerving?”

Guise nodded. “Too unnerving and even more inconvenient.”

“Diane!” Henri nearly ran towards them. Seizing the opportunity to get rid of his spouse in his father’s absence, he had deserted Catherine. “Come with me!”

Guise bowed, smirking. “Enjoy, Your Highness.” He walked away.

The dauphin gushed, “I shall gift you a night of love, mon amour. You are the light of my life and the best woman at this depraved court! You are only mine!”

Triumph blazed in the depths of Diane’s eyes. “Let’s follow in His Majesty’s footsteps.” Tendrils of desire she had never known with her dead husband crept up, unbidden.       

Catherine de’ Medici observed her husband walk his paramour to the door. She wanted to roar in fury at the thought of Henri’s flaunting his infidelities in front of her. Yet, no muscle twitched on her face as Catherine eased herself into one of the ivory and gold striped chairs. But as soon as she arranged her skirts and made herself comfortable, even the presence of her favorite ladies, who encircled the princess to comfort her, was suffocating her like a tight collar.

§§§

King Henri of Navarre discovered Philippe de Chabot, Admiral de Brion, in a festive crowd. Chabot stood with his spouse – Françoise de Longwy, who was the eldest daughter of Jeanne d’Angoulême, Countess de Bar-sur-Seine, the King of France’s illegitimate half-sister.

“Your Majesty!” chorused Chabot and his wife as he bowed and she curtsied.

Henri began, “Monsieur de Chabot, I need to speak with you privately.”

Nodding, Chabot told his spouse, “Françoise, I’ll find you later.”

Chabot and the Navarrese monarch walked to the distant corner of the chamber.

“How can I serve Your Majesty?” Chabot was intrigued, for the husband of François’ sister had never sought his company. They were both François’ friends, but not each other’s.

Henri d’Albert asked bluntly, “I’ve not seen Madame d’Étampes at court at all. Is it really true that François sent her away? You two have always been allies. Where is she?”

Chabot’s eyes widened fractionally. “The duchess was banished even before my sovereign expelled all of his former mistresses. Why are you interested in her, if I may ask?”

Henri contrived a plausible explanation. “When I last was at court, I borrowed from her a book about,” he paused for a split second, looking around, “something that is prohibited in France.”

“Radical Calvinism?” Now Chabot believed Henri because he knew of Marguerite’s keen interest in evangelicals. “It should be discussed accurately despite our new queen’s religion.”

The monarch smiled: his trick seemed to be working. “There are things which I cannot ask even my wife to order from abroad. She would not do anything to disappoint her brother. At the same time, you and Madame d’Étampes share my interests in religious novelties.”   

Admiral de Brion answered, “She and I have a staunch belief in Calvin’s teachings.”

“Stauncher than François would approve of,” the ruler stressed.    

Chabot figured out the hint: their conversation about Anne de Pisseleu should remain secret. “I would gladly help Your Majesty. Madame d’Étampes is at her estates in Touraine.”

The king tipped his head in gratitude. “I’ll dispatch a page with the book to her, then.”

“Careful,” urged Chabot. “If the man is caught, King François might not be happy.”

“I treasure my friendship with François.” Henri smiled, but inwardly sighed.

Queen Marguerite of Navarre came to them. “Henri, mon amour! Let’s go!”

Philippe de Chabot dropped into a bow, and then left to find his wife.

King Henri kissed his wife’s hand. “Is François declaiming his poems?”

Marguerite shook her head. “I’ll read for you all some stories from my ‘Heptameron.’” She was an author in her own right, composing both poems and prose, just as her brother did.

As the Albert spouses crossed the room, Henri’s mind drifted to Anne de Pisseleu. Memories swirled through his brain: their initial meeting during Eleanor of Austria’s coronation, their first insane coupling in her bedroom on the following night, their clandestine rendezvous every time he had visited France, and the illicit thrill he had experienced at the thought of sharing the emerald-eyed beauty with his brother-in-law. I pray that François and Margot never learn the truth.   

They returned to the main table. Taking the volume that contained her own stories, his wife began reading them aloud, and everyone applauded her. Henri smiled at Margot, but his heart was leaden because of her inability to give him a home. As he envisaged the years of dull loneliness ahead in Navarre, Henri itched to escape from it, just as Daphne, daughter of the river-god Peneus, fled from Apollo. Anne de Pisseleu’s lovely face floated before Henri’s eyes again.    

§§§

“I shall find His Majesty on my own,” Queen Anne told her maids, who all giggled.

Anne headed to the study adjacent to the François I gallery, where the monarch frequently worked or read one of the numerous volumes from his library. More than an hour ago, her husband had escorted the queen to her apartments and then departed again, having promised to return soon. However, he had not come yet. Had something gone wrong between them again?

These are my fantasies, Anne assured herself. The court still celebrated Christmas, so the palace was quiet. She slipped into the study and eyed her surroundings. Pieces of gilded furniture crowded the cozy study, and a fire in the hearth cast reflections across splendid Italian gold-woven tapestries and one frescoed wall, near which François leaned casually.

“Claude, you shall wed him as soon as possible.” This intrigued Anne.   

“As Your Majesty commands.” His former mistress sounded resigned.

Anne tiptoed into the room and then squeezed herself deeply into the niche near the door. From there she could see two people: Claude de Rohan-Gié, whose outfit of russet damask, with a long, black, close-fitting stomacher, stressed the curves of her enlarged abdomen, and a relatively young man, whom Anne had met at court, but whose name had slipped from her mind.

The ruler glanced at his companion. “Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, do you understand?”

“Yes, my liege,” the man answered. “I’ve always served you loyally. With lands and the position of Governor of Blois, I have more than enough to support myself and my bride.”

“And my child.” The monarch’s words chilled the queen like a blustery wind.

“And Your Majesty’s baby!” Saint-Aignan echoed.

The man was Claude de Beauvilliers, Count de Saint-Aignan. Set off by a doublet of red satin bedecked with gaudy ribbons and spangles, his pale-skinned face was unremarkable, with a bottle-shaped nose, fleshy lips, and gray eyes, glistening with roguery. Beneath his yellow velvet toque, his hair, which dangled in long flakes over his ears and neck, was of a raven black.   

Claude perused her husband-to-be. “Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, your financial problems are solved. But I insist that you have your haircut changed before the wedding, for now your head looks like brambles in a blackberry patch. And please wear more tasteful garb.”

His nostrils flared, but Saint-Aignan stifled his annoyance. “I’ll comply with your wishes, Madame. As it is a marriage of convenience for us, we will not meet often.”  

“Excellent.” Claude breathed out with relief.  

An instant later, Anne stepped out of the niche, at last revealing herself.  “That is such a charming conversation! But I need to borrow my husband.” Her tone was stony.

A perturbed François veered his scrutiny to his consort. “Certainly.” He enjoined, “You may both leave now. Don’t forget, Saint-Aignan: you must treat your new family very well.”  

Claude bobbed an awkward curtsey, Saint-Aignan bowed. Then they hurried out.  

The king crossed to his wife. “Anne, I did not intend to distress you.”  

The queen felt rather crushed. “Yet, you did, François.”

A surge of guilt wrinkled his brow. “I set Claude aside in July, but she wrote to me last month about her condition; it was my duty to help her.”  

Her expression grew cooler. “Is that how you always cover the shame of your unmarried and pregnant mistresses?  Given your philandering ways, you must have many bastards.”  

“Indeed, I used to have many affairs, but I did not acknowledge most of my illegitimate children. By the way, I do not have an army of bastards, as you implied – I do have some, but not as many as you think. If my unborn illegitimate child turns out to be a boy, he might pose a threat to the House of Valois and prevent the peaceful transfer of power in the future.”

Anne countered, “Henry acknowledged the departed Duke of Richmond.”

She discerned a tremor of what must be his abhorrence towards his rival running through François. “Henry does not have any healthy male issue, so he claimed Lady Blount’s child as his. Richmond was his only son whom he could present to prove his virility.”

“François!” She tottered towards him. “Don’t betray me like Henry did.”

He hugged her. “Anne, I’ve been faithful to you since I gave you this promise.”

With trembling lips, she could only pronounce, “How can I believe you?”

The monarch’s arms around her were like those of a knight saving his damsel. Not until her cries subsided did the queen realize that the possibility of Clade de Rohan-Gié having François’ son before Anne’s child would come into the world would haunt her for the rest of her pregnancy.

§§§

Soon Anne calmed down, but she still held the monarch at arm’s length. Her thoughts went to one of their many meetings with Sir Francis Bryan during her cousin’s stay in France.

The king was surprised. “What is wrong, Anne?”

She regarded him with more than a hint of exasperation. “You kept the Pope’s letters sent to William Brereton in secret for months. Should you not have told me the truth, François?”

He accepted her rebuke cheerfully. “Madame, you treated me too coldly.”   

Anne sighed. “I know, and I’m sorry for that.”

The couple discussed Sir Francis Bryan once more, their last meeting in particular.   

“I’m fortunate to meet Your Majesties,” Bryan had begun in a sarcastic undertone. “Unlike the Imperial ambassador Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle who is always denied an audience.”

Everything in Francis Bryan – from his brown head of hair that was a bit longer than what was considered to be stylish, to his green eyes and his brazen countenance – radiated cynicism. His emerald doublet and his matching hose had made his overall appearance impressive.

François and Anne had settled themselves into two gilded armchairs.  

The ruler had glanced the visitor up and down in the same way a man would look a horse on the market. “Your liege lord must have been furious that we vanquished the invaders. The balance of power in Europe has shifted. A turncoat such as yourself knows that well, Sir Francis.”

The queen had interjected acidly, “A man who can desert his own mother for coins.”

“I can’t help being natural,” the envoy had deadpanned.

Anne had grimaced. “Your soul is as dark as the dead of night, cousin.”

Bryan had spluttered, “Your Majesty! My cousin! When you were apprehended, I was away from England. I distanced myself from the Boleyns and the Howards to avoid repercussions. I swear on my beloved mother’s life that I did not hatch a plot against you with Cromwell.”

Anne still dithered to make a conclusion about him. Her best instincts had told her that he had not told her falsehoods. Yet, he was an immoral man, so she had said, “It matters not.”

François had refocused their attention on the subject at hand. “Instead of discussing the past, we must decide what we will do to rectify some of Henry’s transgressions.”

Bryan had nodded his affirmation. “I’ll gladly listen to Your Majesty’s plan.”

“Is His Grace of Norfolk with us?” The king had wanted to know.

“Of course,” had confirmed the envoy.

The ruler had laced his fingers with his wife’s. “What do you think of Cromwell?”

Bryan had described, “Cromwell is so powerful that he cannot be annihilated easily.”   

François had climbed to his feet and strode to a chest of drawers. He had rummaged through them and found a pile of parchments. He had then approached Bryan and handed them to him.

The monarch had returned to his armchair. “These are the Pope’s letters to Eustace Chapuys and William Brereton. My agents intercepted them more than a year ago.”

Anne had gawked at him. “What?”

François had promised, “I’ll explain everything to you later.”

“What are these letters about?” the queen had quizzed.   

The envoy from England had spoken with painstaking slowness, his scrutiny riveted to Anne. “No one could ever expect the Pope’s involvement in your downfall, Your Majesty. Sir William Brereton was the Vatican’s agent who was blessed by Pope Paul to assassinate you.”

Anne had mumbled, “Someone tried to shoot me during the coronation in London.”

“That could have been Brereton,” had inferred Bryan.

She had been briefly thunderstruck before the pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place. “Only Brereton falsely confessed to being my lover. I used to believe that he gave his testimony against me out of fear before torture. But Brereton must have seized the chance to dispose of me. After the arrests of my brother and friends, he realized that his confession would seal my fate, so he lied to Cromwell. He must have thought that he had fulfilled the Pope’s mission.”  

Bryan had declared crudely, “I agree with Your Majesty’s reasoning.”   

Anne had hissed, “That worm murdered my brother and my friends.”

François had put in, “Sir Francis, your sovereign must learn about it. You and Norfolk should tell him that Cromwell is hiding some of the intelligence collected by his agents. You will have to persuade Henry that his chief minister not only stole a great deal of wealth from him during the barbaric Dissolution of the Monasteries, but also learned the truth about Brereton’s identity and used the man to manufacture the charges against my wife, Anne.”

The envoy had spat, “I’ll eagerly send Cromwell to hell.”

The ruler had smirked at the guest’s decisive expression. “So far, you have not done a single thing to help someone who is totally innocent without any benefit for yourself.”

Grimly holding the parchments, Francis Bryan had retaliated for their slighting treatment of him. “Innocent? Really? Her Majesty was the very reason why King Henry exiled his first wife, disinherited his eldest daughter, broke with Rome, and killed many of his subjects.”

“Shut up!” François had raised his hand with authority. “I may start a parley with you as to who is guilty, but I shall not. In my eyes, you are an ill-mannered English mongrel.”   

“How kind to me you are, Bryan!” Glancing at her husband, she had speculated, “What is the typical punishment for humiliating foreign monarchs? Is that exile from our court?”   

François had leaned back in his seat. “If we expel you from France in disgrace, Henry shall not grant you clemency. How splendid that would be, Sir Francis!”

Bryan had asserted in a pompous manner, “You need me to prove Queen Anne’s innocence. And I need Princess Elizabeth to succeed King Henry in due time.”

The king had ruminated, “Taking into account the childbearing histories of Henry’s wives, he is unlikely to have a healthy son. So, Elizabeth may remain his only heir.”

François Bryan had tipped a nod. “I think so after Queen Jane’s miscarriage.”

Anne’s scorn for her family had resurfaced. “What reward do you and my uncle want?”

Bryan had averted his gaze, unable to withstand the chilly intensity of two brown pools. The Duke of Norfolk and Bryan craved to accomplish the highest Court positions in England.   

The envoy had affirmed, “King Henry suffers from increasing weight and ulcers on his legs. He will not live for another ten years, during which we will all walk on eggshells around him.”   

François had glowered at him. “Your price?”   

Bryan had elaborated, “In his current will, King Henry formed a Regency Council of sixteen men: those whom he trusts to keep his best interests in mind during Elizabeth’s minority. His Grace of Norfolk and I deserve to play the most prominent roles in the Council.”

“Norfolk wants to be Lord Protector,” Anne had surmised.

“Quite right,” Bryan had informed. “I’m dreaming of a dukedom.”

The monarch had smirked oddly. “The illustrious Philip IV was called the Fair. But his rigid and inflexible personality earned him other nicknames such as the Iron King.”   

“What do you mean, sire?” Confusion had stained Bryan’s countenance.

The ruler’s voice had cut through the air like a prophetic message. “To rule as a king, a female monarch will have to develop and maintain a rigid personality and an iron will, using her charms in her political games. At present, Elizabeth Tudor is extraordinarily precocious and strong for her tender age. Will such a girl allow anyone to command her for long?”

“A woman cannot rule,” had barked Francis Bryan.

Anne had cried with certainty, “She will!” François had nodded.

The king had affirmed, “His Grace of Norfolk and you will both get what you want. We shall give you other papers and tell you the rest of our stratagem tomorrow.”

“You will not regret our cooperation, Your Majesties.” Bryan had bowed and exited.   

Snapping out of her memories, Anne concluded, “Bryan and Norfolk are with us.”

“For now, they are now allies,” François responded.

“Will your spies find more of the Pope’s letters for Brereton?”

“They are now gathering more information to prove your innocence.”

Anne was sick of all these plots. “I’m just tired of all these schemes.”

“You are no longer angry with me? François asked.

His wife smiled. “No, I am not.”

“Let’s forget about it.” He cut off the line of her negative thought.

François pulled his consort into his embrace, providing a feeling of security and belonging to her. They did not return to the feast and retired to her quarters. Her husband illuminated the twilight of her life, even though she was still cringing in the throes of her lingering woes.


December 25, 1537, Leeds Castle, Kent, England

“I’m pleased with you,” King Henry declared as he reclined in his throne, drumming at the jeweled armrests. “My subjects should all know that God has blessed me again.”  

“As you order, sire,” Queen Jane’s shuddering response came.

“What is wrong with you?” His voice was layered with irritation.  

His Majesty does not even address me by my name, Jane mused sorrowfully. He is my king, not Henry!  Since the discovery of her pregnancy three days ago, her husband did not become tenderer with her. When he looked at his spouse, she felt that the sense of disappointment was in the same room with them, as though he anticipated that she would fail to bear him a male heir. Jane was relieved that her new babe had been conceived after her rape at the king’s hands.  

Jane was glad that Elizabeth Tudor had not arrived in Leeds as initially planned. The harsh winter weather had made the journey too tiresome and even perilous for a child, so the ruler had decreed that the princess and her household return to Eltham and wait there for his instructions.   

“I’m fine, sire,” the queen murmured, her gaze downcast on her platter full of fish.

“Are you feeling well?” This time, an intense worry latched onto his features.  

Jane’s countenance was solemn. “No, I am fine. I pray that I’ll carry this child to term.”

The ruler’s gaze shifted to his mistress, Anne Bassett. “My dear Anne, as Jane needs to be exceedingly careful in her condition, she will go in confinement early.”  

“What a genius idea, Your Majesty!” Anne was impatient to be the first lady of court.    

Jane was hurt, but obeyed. “Your Majesty, I shall do as you wish.”

Sitting under a canopy of red silk emblazoned with the royal arms woven in gold, King Henry was surrounded by his queen at his left hand and his paramour at his right one. In the past several weeks, Anne had accompanied the monarch to all audiences with diplomats, and she had presided over banquets; the queen had been left forgotten in her rooms.  At Christmas, Henry had summoned Jane to perform her functions of a queen by acting as a hostess during this feast.  

The great hall was lit by many candles, and the tables were placed in a rectangular form. At the high table on a dais, where the ruler was seated, near him sat Mary Tudor, Thomas Cromwell, the Dukes of Suffolk and of Norfolk, as well as the Seymour brothers. Will Sommers, the royal jester, and a number of other nobles were present. Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, was also there, having arrived from his estates together with his wife, Gertrude Courtenay née Blount.  

The feast was splendid, and all the provisions were of the best quality. A great deal of food was served: boar meat, roast tongue, pork, roast beef, meat pie, venison, capon, teal, gull, peacock, stork, gannet, heron, egret, and even dolphin. There were vegetables cooked with meat and fish. Most dishes were spiced with honey, red pepper vinegar, black pepper, cardamom, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Flowers were set upon all the tables to enhance the presentation of the feast.  

All of a sudden, King Henry stood up and promulgated, “Queen Jane is carrying my son who shall be my golden Tudor prince.” Now he was not even looking at Jane; he thought of what Anne had predicted about Elizabeth’s destiny to usher England into a Golden Age.  

After a short, startled silence, a chorus of exuberant cheers sounded in the room. Despite the king’s harsh attitude to her, Queen Jane had many supporters among Catholics.

The ruler decreed, “For the child’s safety, my queen will spend most of the time in her rooms. Lady Anne Bassett will replace Jane as a hostess at feasts and masques.”

This was met with whisperings in melancholy accents, as well as glances of pity at Jane.

Anne purred, “You have made me so happy, sire.” Her lover grinned at her broadly.

Henry resumed eating a lot, so servants frequently delivered new plates to the royal table. After he was done with legs of pork, he demanded that roasting pigs and haunches of venison on spits be given to him. Sometimes, Anne, Jane, and others looked askance at the monarch, whose mouth was always full of food. Their sovereign was so ravenous as if it were his final meal, and it was no wonder that he was gaining stones in weight in the absence of physical exercise.

Brandon informed, “Eustace Chapuys wants to give Your Majesty a Christmas gift.”   

Tipping his head in agreement, Henry watched the advance of the Imperial ambassador with a stern look, and after he had made an obeisance to him, he motioned the man to rise.  

The king quizzed acridly, “Has your master recovered from his wounds, which he received in the Battle of Bourges? He fled from the battlefield, which is a shame for a general.”  

 With some effort, Chapuys throttled his rage back. “His Imperial Majesty is working hard for the prosperity of his vast realm.” He snapped his fingers, and his secretary brought a large silver cross for prayer, which was adorned with diamonds. “This is Spain’s gift for you, sire.”  

The monarch continued eating. “Good. You are dismissed.”  

As a royal groom took the gift from his page, Eustace Chapuys bowed and left.

Henry turned to his eldest daughter. “Mary, you shall marry young Duke William, Duke of Cleves and Count of Mark. He is ready to wed you without any dowry.”

Mary said nothing, but her temper boiled like water in a kettle. The queen and many others shot her sympathetic glances, but she ignored them, for she had a plan to fulfill.   

Antoine de Castelnau, the French ambassador to England, dared approach the table.  Now more than anything he yearned to rub into the English king’s face the news from France.

Henry was chewing his venison. “You have sought an interview with me.”    

“I have a gift for you from my liege lord,” began Castelnau, “and a word from him.”  

“Hand it to my groom.” The ruler finished off his cup of ale.

The ambassador put in, “You can wear it on any occasion.”

Those who sat beside King Henry gaped at the fabulous girdle that consisted of diamonds and onyxes. Yet, they wondered why it was so long and was set too thick with onyxes.  

“Why is it of such length?” Henry observed his groom pick up the girdle from the hands of the diplomat’s secretary. “And these onyxes…”  As he envisaged Anne’s dark eyes, he realized why François had sent this gift, and then blasted, “Your master is a cunning fox! How I wish he had been killed during the Spanish invasion of France, or died of the French disease.”

Many guessed why the girdle was that long. As Henry was putting on weight, it was a useful gift for him because one day, he would need to have his wardrobe changed. François’ joke was so acrimonious that it irked Suffolk, but amused Norfolk. Perhaps the monarch had not understood why the girdle was of such length, for he could not admit to his own imperfection.  

Castelnau stated equanimously, “King François is healthy. Contrary to your wishes, he has never suffered from what you call the French disease, and what on the continent is viewed as Italian or English one. In fact, I’ve received glorious news: Queen Anne is enceinte again.”  

The ambassador felt uncomfortable, for he had voiced the tidbits that had not yet been made official at the French court.  King François, who trusted Castelnau, had confided in him about his consort’s condition, but he had been meant to keep the information confidential. However, when Castelnau had heard about Queen Jane’s pregnancy, he had failed to ward off the urge to prove to the Tudor peacock, as he called Henry in his mind, that his former wife was more fertile.  

Bewildered stillness allowed Henry’s growls and curses to echo with menace.

“Get out, you imbecile!” Henry’s eyes glittered with beastly hatred.    

Sniggering, Antoine de Castelnau swooped a gallant bow and vacated the room.  

“Celebrate without me.” The monarch bounced to his feet.

In silence full of trepidation, the ruler quitted the chamber, his spirits lower than ever. As the door slammed shut behind him, the court exploded with speculation about Anne.

A sullen Queen Jane and her relatives soon left as well. Mary Tudor, to the queen’s surprise, wanted to stay, her gaze intersecting the Duke of Suffolk’s from time to time.   

§§§

The Duke of Suffolk exited into the main courtyard lit by torches. His stride as wide as if he were an all-out run, he hurried to the stables at the opposite end. He prayed that the plan of Mary’s escape, which Eustace Chapuys had masterminded, would not be diverted.  

Charles Brandon stepped round the corner of the barn. He peered across to where a mare was nuzzling the neck of Catherine of Aragon’s daughter. Accoutered in a gown of silver damask worked with birds and pomegranates, Mary looked like a woman who had left the feast on a whim; her high square neckline and her black hood with a veil attested to her Spanish tastes.

“Your Highness,” Charles commenced. As they were now alone, he addressed her by the title that, in his opinion, had always belonged to her. “You ought to be more careful. Your silk slippers are completely covered in mud and filth.  How will you travel wearing them?”  

“I don’t care!” Mary’s throat ached from the effort of keeping her feelings in check.

When she merely raised a tearful eye from above the straggly mane of the mare, he uttered, “You are leaving today. The coast is very close, and you will board a ship tomorrow.”    

“England is my home. Yet, I’m running away from my own court in the dead of night like a criminal. That will be a mighty victory for her when she receives a word about it.”

Charles was confused. “For whom?”  

“That Boleyn witch!” Mary shrilled like the nasty sound of an old pipe. At the sight of Suffolk putting a finger to his lips, she lowered her voice and spoke deprecatingly. “She led the king astray, and he broke with the Holy Father. She bewitched him into abandoning my mother and abjuring the true faith. As a result, His Majesty commands me to marry that heretic.”

He flinched at the bitterness in her tone. “My princess, you will have a new life. Leave your hatred behind. Forgiveness is the best thing you can do, and it is the key to your happiness.”

Turning to him, the bastardized woman glowered at him with a fierceness that caused the baffled duke to step back. “That is quite an insult to me, Your Grace. You might consider my talk hysterical, but you have never been deprived of everything: not only of your status, your privileges, and your beloved mother, but also of your future crown and of your own country.”

“God is testing Your Highness.” Suffolk, too, loathed Anne wholeheartedly.     

“My father…”  Her voice slurred from the weeping and the wine she had ingested tonight. “Since the king’s wedding to Queen Jane, I’ve maintained my dignity in the face of his continual denigration. But he has said no kind word to me and kept me at an arm’s length.”  

The lady’s words became muffled as she buried her face in the docile horse’s flank.

The Duke of Suffolk was not accustomed to comforting a distressed woman, in particular royalty. But in the dim-light of the barn, illumined by a torch, with her hair ruffled out of its careful coiffure and the vision of misery Mary presented, he could not help himself: he closed the distance between them and put his hands on her shoulders, then drew her round to face him.

“My noble-minded Princess Mary,” he told her as he peered gently into her gloomy, hazel eyes. “I’m sure that your father, the King of England, had no intention of causing you and your mother such enormous heartbreak. I agree that the Boleyn harlot, with the aid of her craft, her charms, or perhaps even sortilege, compelled His Majesty to do numerous horrible things.”  

Pulling herself together, Mary stepped away from him. “Yes, it is only her fault.”  

Suffolk’s voice was insistent and soft as he continued to persuade her. “Your Highness, now a new life stretches ahead of you – one of uncertainty, but also one full of all kinds of possibilities. You only have to voyage through sea and Europe, and land in Spain safely.”  

“Indeed.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “I should not have behaved in this way.”  

“I understand your pain,” soothed Suffolk. “Even great queens may cry.”

Mary’s tears dried. “I remember my mother weep because of His Majesty’s many liaisons.”  

The Duchess of Suffolk’s shout interrupted them. “We must go!”  

Catherine Brandon darted into the stables like a tempest, followed by Eustace Chapuys.

As his gaze rested on Mary, Chapuys reported, “Your Highness, I have a litter awaiting us. We will head to the coast and embark a ship in Dover. We will travel incognito.”

“I’m ready to go, Your Excellency.” A composed Mary nodded, her chin set high.  

“We will be accompanied by my most loyal men. The emperor must be waiting for us in Granada or Valladolid.” Chapuys placed her hand on his arm to escort her to the litter.  

“Thank you.” Mary let out a faint smile. Turning to Catherine, she requested, “Queen Jane needs the support of those who love her, especially in her condition.”

“I shall help Queen Jane if necessary.” Truth be told, Catherine was not sure that she would be able to comfort Jane lest another miscarriage sent the king into a frenzy of rage.

“You have a big heart, Lady Suffolk,” Mary commented, her gaze oscillating between the Brandon spouses. “May the love you share today get stronger as you grow old together.”

Tearing her gaze from them, Mary did not see Catherine wince.  The Duchess of Suffolk glanced frostily at her spouse, who sent her a smile, but she averted her scrutiny. Mary’s wishes were ill-timed, for now the wedge between Charles and Catherine was greater than ever.  

“We must hurry,” prodded Eustace Chapuys.  

The ambassador led Mary Tudor out of the stables and into the courtyard. He assisted her in climbing into the litter swathed in some inexpensive black fabric so as not to attract attention during their trip. Inside she met another of her many supporters – Sir Nicholas Carew, who bowed to her deeply. In spite of her earlier breakdown in the stables, Mary’s spirits were sufficiently high once the litter began moving, and now her mind was concentrated on her future.

“I did not attend the feast,” Carew started. “I had to organize everything. This litter is mine, but as it is not adorned with any coat-of-arms, no one will know who is travelling inside.”

Mary addressed, “Thank you for your help, Sir Nicholas.”

Chapuys interposed, “You are doing the Lord’s work for our princess.”

Carew crossed his hands over his chest. “Protecting Your Highness is an honor for me. You are England’s only hope to have it restored back to the flock of Rome. I pray, just as many others do, that time will come when you will return to your homeland as our queen.”

She recalled her mother’s words about her destiny. “I was raised to be the Queen of England. One day, justice will be restored, and I shall play an important role in England’s history.”

“You will,” Carew assured. “We Englishmen are true servants of the Vatican and Christ, ones who carry strength, courage, and greatness in our blood. Unlike the French, we do not flaunt our importance and supposedly superior intelligence and culture. We are quiet and patient, but we think smartly, wait for as long as necessary, act wisely, and work collaboratively to accomplish great things. The Spanish share some of these traits with us, although they are impulsive.”

Mary tipped her head. “That is a fair estimate.”

“The English and the Spanish are not buffoons.” Chapuys jeered, “But every time I meet a Frenchman, I feel as if you were attending a play that pokes fun at their extravagant manners.”   

The criticism of the French nation elicited smiles from them.

Alarm crested in Mary again. “Will we not be found out?”

Chapuys forewarned, “Your Highness, be brave! We have thought all things through, but the journey will be long and tiresome.  I pray that everything will go smoothly.”   

“I’m not afraid,” she assured. “In several months, I’ll meet with my Spanish family.”  

Chapuys smiled.  “Their Imperial Majesties will be delighted to see their cousin.”

“I’d love to meet the emperor,” Carew shared his dreams.

Mary sighed. “The only people I’ll miss in England are Queen Jane and my sister, Elizabeth. I regret that I was unable to tell Jane about my escape, and to say goodbye to Lizzy.”  

“That brat is–”  The diplomat broke off under Mary’s intensely disapproving glance.

“I agree with Chapuys,” joined Carew.

“Don’t insult my sister,” she ordered. “Lizzy is innocent of her mother’s sins.”

Carew changed the subject. “I shall accompany you only to the port. I have to return to the castle, or they will start searching for you earlier than necessary.”

“Then we will part ways very soon,” Mary deduced, and Carew nodded.

“God bless Your Highness!” Carew cried. “You are our future queen!”

The litter was moving through a deep ravine that bordered with the coastline. They had to use the roads where the monarch’s border troops would not spot them.

In the meantime, the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk were on their way back to the banquet. Catherine disengaged herself from his arm and walked at a distance from him in silence.  Catherine strove to get away from Charles. But no matter what she wanted he was her husband, even if she could not go back to the easy camaraderie and love which they had once shared.

Notes:

Thank you for reading this chapter! Let me know what you think. As always, I recommend VioletRoseLily and EvilFluffyBiteyThing at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91 at fanfiction.net.

The romance between Anne and François is budding, but so far, the king’s feelings are unrequired. Finally, she is pregnant! There was no birth control back then, especially not for royalty, so Anne is highly likely to have many pregnancies – or perhaps not. Royals were almost always inbred, but Anne and François are not related, so their progeny must be strong and have a very good chance to survive as their offspring are not affected by inbreeding depression.

All the intellectual conversations portray a classical Renaissance court. The information about Plato, Aristotle, and other philosophers is historically correct. The poem is mine, as always.

King Henri of Navarre had a secret affair with Anne de Piselleu d’Heilly. Anne was banished, but one day she might come back; the question is whether she still wants to be with François. As I once mentioned, she will have an interesting character arc in this AU. Marguerite of Navarre is a woman of letters, whose heart belongs to France and the Valois family; in the future, François will need his great sister like air to breathe to serve as his regent.

Don’t throw stones into Dauphin Henri. He is very young at this stage, his blood is boiling with desire for Diane de Poitiers. Let him grow up and mature – he will surprise you.

In history, Claude de Rohan-Gié was married twice. Her first husband died in 1541: he was Claude I de Beauvilliers, Count de Saint-Aignan, Seigneur de Thoury, de La Ferté-Hubert and de Salle les Cléry. Later, she remarried Julien de Clermont-Savoie.

Jane Seymour is pregnant again, but please do not frown at me and say that she should not have a son. Wait and see what will happen: the drama will be emotional, and the storm is brewing in chapters 26-28. I hope you liked François' gift to Henry – a long girdle of onyxes. Finally, Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, is at court.

I promised that Mary Tudor would have an unconventional storyline – you will not meet it in any other AU. That is true: she escaped from England, and perhaps she will never come back, and all her adventures following her escape are rather unusual. In the second part of this epic, we will welcome another interesting character – the unfortunate Juana of Castile. Carlos and Isabella will be back soon; Ferdinand will appear in chapter 28.

Guys, let’s support each other and make each other smile! Stay safe!

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 27: Chapter 26: Lovers’ Intrigues

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 26:  Lovers’ Intrigues

February 20, 1538, Cádiz, Andalusia, southwestern Spain

Eustace Chapuys breathed a sigh of relief as the large galleon anchored in the harbor. Situated on a narrow slice of land surrounded by the sea‚ Cádiz was a bustling port for international exploration and trade, boasting more than a hundred watchtowers. It was also the home of the strong Spanish navy, or what was left from it after the Turkish blockades and attacks.

The arduous voyage, which had lasted for nearly ten weeks due to severe weather, was over at last. At first, Lady Mary Tudor and the former Imperial ambassador to England, who had been disguised as a merchant and his daughter, had sailed from Dover to Calais; fortunately for them, they had been undetected by English flagships. In Calais, the Spanish trade galleon called the Savior had taken Mary and Eustace on board, Cádiz being their final destination.

Chapuys crossed himself. “Dear God! Thank you for protecting us at sea!”

The early morning was fresh and brisk, and the pale pink hue of the sunrise colored the blue water. The city had a wealth of fabulous vistas, incongruent with the views of the port that was filled with numerous vessels and cargo. On the Torre Tavira, which was used for spotting ships, Eustace noticed a man in the Duke of Alba’s livery. This meant that his last missive to his master, sent during their short stop at Saint-Goustan in Brittany, had not been intercepted.

“All is fine,” the diplomat said to himself. “The emperor has been awaiting us.”

Having climbed the stairway to the wheel deck, the captain informed the crew about their arrival. As a chorus of Spanish cheers rang out in the hot air, Eustace strode across the deck.

Mary Tudor’s cabin was located below the main deck. In the room’s gray gloom, Eustace entered and paused near the door; he could dimly make out the bed where she lay asleep.

As if aware of his presence, Mary’s eyes flew open. “Who is it?”

Chapuys apprised, “We have already moored in the port.”

She blinked. “Have you just returned from His Imperial Majesty?”

“No. But the emperor dispatched his page to the harbor; I talked to him half an hour ago.”

“Good. Is one of his trusted men in Cádiz?” Her voice slurred from sleep.

“Yes. I’m sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Although he stood at the doorway, Mary covered herself with a wool blanket up to her throat. “It doesn’t matter. You rescued me from the most miserable existence with that heretical Duke of Cleves, and I am forever in debt to you, Your Excellency.”

“There is no debt, Your Highness. All I did for you was also done for Queen Catherine, who would never have allowed this ungodly union to proceed. I’ve always cared for you as well.”

“My mother,” Mary sighed in melancholy accents. “She could use the emperor’s troops to attack England. However, she remained loyal to my father until her dying breath.”

“King Henry was intent upon ruining your life, my princess. Queen Catherine would have wanted you to be reunited with your Habsburg family for your happiness.”   

She chuckled. “I’m so excited to see my relatives that I’m surprised I was asleep at all.”

“I’ll call for your maid to assist Your Highness in getting dressed.”  

Spinning on his heels, the diplomat bowed and marched from the cabin. A minute later, Agnes – a French girl whom Chapuys had hired in Calais – came to the cabin.

As Agnes aided her mistress to put on her clothes, Mary recalled the events of the past several months. Throughout the journey from Calais to Cádiz, Mary had been comfortably settled in the largest cabin aboard the galleon. Chapuys had sought quarters elsewhere, but in the daytime, he had assumed his duties as her interim guardian. In the hold were their few possessions, as well as the goods, which the vessel’s captain intended to sell once the ship reached its destination.

While the Savior had been in the English Channel, the winter storms had been so bad that the captain had ordered stops at two French ports. The ship had been docked at Havre for repairs, so Mary and Chapuys had spent six weeks there. As soon as they had sailed from Havre, a new storm had caught the ship, sweeping unsecured cargo into the raging sea. The Savior had been forced to make another stop at Cherbourg, where they had waited for another two weeks.

During those days, Mary had imagined that she was in gave peril from the Boleyn harlot, who now resided in France. The abiding fear of being recognized had been eating her alive, and Mary had locked herself in her cabin, refusing to eat and praying every waking moment.

As the ship had navigated its way through the Bay of Biscay, the storms had subsided. As the vessel had moved closer to Spain, the weather had improved dramatically, and so had her spirits. During the last days of their journey, Mary had enjoyed promenades on deck with Chapuys. The old Spanish captain, who was unaware of the two travelers’ real identities, had entertained them with jokes, showing them the porpoises that gamboled near the vessel in the water.

Mary wondered how King Henry had reacted to her vanishing. Had he sent someone to try and find his daughter? Had he cursed her and signed her death warrant for the escape that was treason in his eyes? Did he know that Carlos V, her cousin, had aided her to leave England? She feared that at any moment, the door might open, and the Tudor monarch would appear.

Agnes arranged Mary’s hair in the style reminiscent of the female hairstyles worn at the Valois court. “Madame, you need to rest more after we disembark,” she advised in French.

“I myself know what to do,” barked Mary in the same language, which she disliked.

“I’m sorry.” Agnes continued working on her curls and ringlets.

Mary perused herself in a looking glass. Indeed, she would have to rest a lot before her face regained its youthful charm. Gaunt hollows in her cheeks and lavender circles under her eyes testified to her restlessness, her agitation, and the strain she was constantly under.

As her dressing was finished, Mary stated, “Now go. My father will pay to you.” Chapuys, who pretended to be her parent, would send the girl away after their arrival.

“Now I’ll be able to feed my family for a year.” A happy Agnes exited.

Throughout their voyage, the bastardized princess had not missed female companionship, for she had Eustace as her friend. Yet, the presence of her French servant irritated her, and she hoped that the emperor would allocate to her household some Spanish ladies. Maybe Mary would befriend Empress Isabella, whose gentility, beauty, and grace were celebrated throughout Europe.

Mary hurried from the cabin and found Chapuys on the main deck. For a long time, they stood at the railings of the galleon, staring at the brightening firmament. Finally, she realized that she no longer had to live in stark terror that at any moment she would be captured.

She looked up and pronounced a thanking prayer to the Almighty. “The sky is so bright this morning! My mother is sending so much light into my life from heaven.”

Eustace’s lips stretched into a smile. “Happiness is no longer out of your reach.”

The deck became alive with activity. Eustace and Mary turned towards the harbor where a contingent of knights, each wearing morions, appeared, followed by a sumptuous litter drawn by horses caparisoned in azure velvet. Then came a squadron of a hundred horsemen and halberdiers.

Eustace recognized the cortege. “It is His Grace of Alba, the emperor’s friend.”

Mary’s heart somersaulted in joy. “My cousin has kept his word!”

The captain saluted to his two passengers. “Goodbye, Don and Doña.”

The travelers disembarked the ship and waited on the quay. Clad in a dark brown, waist-length jacket, padded and formed of beads on the sleeves, Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alba, descended from the litter, then he strolled towards Mary and Eustace.   

“Your Highness,” Alba’s voice rang out in front of Mary. “Welcome to Spain.”  

The man did not sound precisely friendly, but remembering Eustace’s reassurances, Mary answered in Spanish, “Thank you, Your Grace. I long to meet with my relatives.”

The Duke of Alba was surprised by Mary’s poise and her knowledge of his native tongue. Her modest, elegant Spanish gown of butter-yellow damask was one Chapuys had given her for this occasion. Her elaborate hairstyle beneath her Iberian hood proclaimed the French touch.

The duke commented forthrightly, “His Imperial Majesty dislikes everything French.”

Mary guessed his train of thought. “I’ll gladly wear Spanish fashions.”

Eustace emphasized, “Now Princess Mary is home, and we shall protect her. Without my interference, England would have been aligned with German heretics.”

Mary was too fatigued to speak about politics. “Shall we go?”

“Yes,” said Alba. “We will travel to Seville tomorrow, where His Imperial Majesties are waiting for Your Highness. Your whereabouts will be kept secret for some time.”

The three of them climbed into the litter. As the procession began moving, Mary glanced across the expanse of clear, turquoise water, which separated her from England, her mood soaring like a seagull. She was no longer in danger, and her fate was finally in her own hands.


March 25, 1538, Leeds Castle, Kent, England

“Now she is in his bed!” Queen Jane Seymour paced her bedroom. “Our sister-in-law!”

Today, King Henry had cancelled his meetings to be with his new paramour – Lady Anne Seymour née Stanhope, Countess of Hertford. Smart and beautiful, Edward Seymour’s wife was a marvelous flirt, and the ruler had fallen prey to her charms two months earlier. This time, the monarch had not chased after a woman: Anne Seymour had hunted him while twisting the situation into one that was seen in a different light – her resisting Henry before surrendering to him.

Since Christmas, the Tudor monarch had remained at Leeds Castle. Despite the Seymour family’s fears, Henry had not summoned Princess Elizabeth from Eltham Palace. Now five months along in her pregnancy, Jane had been confined to her rooms for months in order to avoid miscarriage. Lady Dorothy Smith was the queen’s constant companion; Lady Elizabeth Cromwell had retired to her husband’s estates because she expected the birth of her child in May.

Jane complained, “His Majesty cannot see straight – he is infatuated.”

Dorothy sat in a chair by a window. “Are you not indifferent to their affair, sister?”

For a short time, the queen halted. “I would be if his harlot were not my sister-in-law.” Her pacing resumed, and she clutched her chest as tears began spilling over her cheeks.

“Think about the baby. Do not distress yourself.”

“I’m fine.” Jane dismissed her concerns. She pulled her rings off her fingers, tossing them on the floor. “I don’t wish to wear anything the king has gifted me! I cannot even bear his touch after he forced himself on me. But his relationship with that Stanhope harpy is a different matter: she is my relative who serves only Edward’s interests. Edward commanded his wife to entice my husband because he strives to stay afloat lest the king discards me.”    

“How do you know that?” Her sister was surprised by Jane’s astuteness.

At last, the queen settled herself into a chair beside Dorothy. “I am not as well educated as our brothers are, but I’m not foolish. It is clear why our sister-in-law pursued the king.”  

Dorothy dipped her head. “You are right, Janie. But you must think of yourself.”

“My dearest baby!” Her tension gone, Jane caressed her baby bump.

Humming to her unborn child, the queen smiled festively for the first time today. In her modest gown of raspberry satin, trimmed with black lace and white pearls, with her head bowed and her hand on her enlarged stomach, a relaxed Jane looked like a happy matron who was taking care of her new baby. However, beneath the surface, her emotions were a boiling cauldron.

As she envisaged the monarch parading his new mistress in front of the whole court, her mood swiveled. The king will not violate Anne Stanhope, or will he? Sensibly, Jane had long accepted his infidelities for the unimportant affairs they were to him, and she was relieved that Henry no longer bedded her due to her condition. Nevertheless, she could not bear the thought that the members of her own family were betraying her in such a vile way.

Dorothy contrived a speech that could lessen the queen’s misery. “At least, now His Majesty does not hold that Bassett whore in highest regard, and she is often seen as gloomy as you. She accompanies him on official audiences, but he spends nights with Edward’s wife.”

“I don’t care about Anne Bassett. I’m hurting that Edward is betraying me so.”  

“He looks out for himself. Don’t expect him to try to ease his conscience, Jane. He and his wife care only about things that touch them materially or can give them more privileges.”

After a pause, Jane speculated, “Maybe the king’s infatuation with Anne Stanhope is not that bad. At least, he no longer frets that Mary betrayed him by fleeing somewhere.”

“Indeed. This romance has diverted his attention from Lady Mary’s situation.”

The two women recalled the feast of St Stephen. On that morning, King Henry had been apprised of his eldest daughter’s absence. In a nasty temper, the ruler had gone on a rampage and destroyed most of the interior in his quarters. Chapuys’ disappearance confirmed that he had aided Mary, so the monarch had dispatched an envoy to the emperor. Charles Brandon and his family had been sent away from court, for they were suspected as Mary’s accomplices. Mary Tudor had been declared a traitor, and Henry had confiscated all her estates and possessions.

Jane opined, “I believe that Mary is in Spain.”

“Of course, she could not marry a heretic.”

A knock at the door cut off their discourse. “Enter,” the queen called.

The door flung open, and two women walked in. They were Lady Jane Boleyn, Viscountess Rochford, and Lady Elizabeth Holland. They lowered themselves into curtsies.

“Rise,” the queen permitted. “Let me have a better look at you both.”

Appareled in a gown of asparagus satin, Elizabeth looked downhearted, as if she were close to a breakdown. The simplicity of her outfit and the lack of jewelry astounded the Seymour sisters. The court overflowed with rumors that the Duke of Norfolk had dismissed his mistress. Despite everything, Bess was radiantly attractive, in the very noontide of her resplendent youth.

Lady Jane Boleyn was appareled in a gown of gray damask without any ornamentation, and its high collar was pinned with a silver brooch. Her garments were old-fashioned and countrified, for she lacked funds even for necessities after her husband George’s execution.

Queen Jane commenced, “I was told that you want to be my maid, Lady Holland.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Bess Holland responded. “The Duke of Norfolk… left me…” 

“What has happened?” Jane was abashed by the news.

Elizabeth’s expression was a picture of torment. “Your Majesty, to answer your question, I’ll have to forget the niceties. His Grace of Norfolk no longer fancies me, and so he cut off my allowance. He also beat me harshly, just as he did to his wife, Lady Elizabeth Stafford.”

“Oh my goodness!” chorused the Seymour sisters. Everyone was well aware of Norfolk’s estrangement from his spouse and the incident between them prior to their separation.

“My bruises have not healed yet.” These two ladies were too proper to ask Bess to show the traces of her rough handling at the hands of Norfolk.

“But the duke is the first peer of the English realm,” Jane grumbled contemptuously.

Dorothy shook her head. “Plenty of men abuse their wives and paramours.”

The queen nodded sadly. “You are of course right, sister.” Her gaze flew to Bess. “Lady Holland, you are safe in my household. I appoint you my lady-in-waiting.”

“I’m most grateful, Madame,” Bess pronounced in a honeyed voice that was not too sweet to appear servile. “I shall serve you loyally and with great pleasure.”

Jane added, “If you need a doctor, call Butts.”

“Thank you!” Bess exuded faux gratitude. “Bless you, our benevolent lady!”

Jane Boleyn spoke up. “I thought that she can serve Your Majesty.”

“That is right, Lady Rochford.” Jane then addressed Bess, “You can, Mistress Holland. You will be lodged in one of the rooms occupied by my ladies. Later we will talk.”

Bess curtsied so deeply that she could lose her balance. “May God bless you and your baby! Your Majesty is an embodiment of purity and kindness.” Then she left.

“Poor Lady Holland,” Jane Boleyn said. Deep down, she felt that it was all a spectacle.

Jane growled, “Norfolk is a horrible man.” The king was not a better creature.

“She will be safe here,” Dorothy added.

At the same time, Elizabeth Holland walked to her new rooms. Norfolk and she had gone to a great deal of trouble to invent this little charade. Her lover had paid to his spies handsomely to spread gossip about their ‘violent quarrel’. In fact, the duke’s assignment had brought them closer than before, providing Bess with enough licentious daydreaming until their next rendezvous that now had to be clandestine. Let’s hope our efforts bear fruit, Bess mused.

§§§

Lady Anne Bassett placed her full platter back on the table. She ended the pretense that she enjoyed the dinner and scolded the servants, but of course, the tastefully cooked meal was not the real reason for her foul mood. The king’s affair with Lady Hertford abhorred her.

Lady Honor Grenville, Viscountess Lisle, said, “I like Leeds Castle.”   

In her late forties, Honor was radiant with health and fresh. Her fashionable gown was of blue silk worked with gold thread, and a gold necklace set with blueish moonstones glittered on her bosom. Wrinkles largely evaded Honor so far, except for a few creases around her eyes. Her hair had lost its copper hue and had turned golden, but not grizzled. Her eyes, an unfathomable blue-green, had a coolly calculating glint; her bearing was cold, restrained, and dignified.

The Basset family dined in a splendidly decorated room with walls hung with tapestries of picturesque panoramas of Leeds and the English coast. The Bassett and the Lisle coat of arms hung over the white marble hearth. The rosewood chairs boasted a detailed carving of entwined acanthus leaves; the tables with candelabra were all of black marble. Thanks to Anne’s status of a royal mistress, their apartments were more luxurious than those occupied by others.  

Chewing at a morsel of venison, Honor was absorbed in thoughts. Like her daughter Anne, she was displeased with the current situation while also displaying more sangfroid. Her other daughters, Katherine and Philippa, didn’t interact either, despite their itching desire to chatter.

Honor inquired, “Anne, don’t you find the meal to your liking?”

“What is the matter, sister?” Katherine joined the conversation.

Anne scrutinized the table where they all sat. “How is His Majesty not excessively corpulent yet? He eats great quantities of food and drinks copious amounts of ale and wine.”

Her sisters burst out giggling at her sarcasm. Anne herself smirked.

“Enough!” Honor roared. “Jesting will not help us. And we can be overheard.”

“But mama,” Philippa interposed. “It is funny!”

Katherine opined, “His Majesty might grow ill if he continues eating so much.”

“Silence!” Honor bellowed. She enjoined the servants, “More wine, and don’t dawdle.”  

The footman rushed into the room to do his mistress’ bidding, and another course was brought. It consisted of oysters, crabs, and periwinkles, as well as hazelnuts, raisins, plums, and cherries. For the rest of the dinner, they ate leisurely, going from one topic to another, but never touching upon royalty. Then Honor dismissed Katherine, Philippa, and the servants.

Anne stared into space. “I wonder what my father would have thought of me.”  

Honor’s memories briefly toured to her youth. Her first husband had been Sir John Basset of Umberleigh in the parish of Atherington. In spite of him having been about thirty years older, they had had a good marriage and many children. After his death in 1528, Honor had mourned for him until she had become the wife of Sir Arthur Plantagenet, Viscount Lisle, in 1529.

At present, Honor’s three daughters and her two sons were present at court. Her eldest son, John Bassett, had entered Lincolns Inn to train in the law and still studied there. Her two other sons, George and James, both served in the household of his stepfather – the Viscount Lisle.

Honor asserted, “He would have wanted you to become Queen of England.”

Anne’s brow arched. “Are you certain?”

“Yes, and I must tell you something else.” Slyly, Honor leaned across the table to her daughter. “If a man is too lustful, you cannot change his nature. If you catch him red-handed, you should not confront him then and there, like Anne Boleyn did in front of the court. Instead, you must make your presence strong in his life and spend as much time with him as possible.”

Anne blurted out, “The king is with that Hertford trollop.”

Her mother purred, “I wish you to be especially pleasant to the King of England by giving him something that no wife has succeeded so far in doing for him.”  

A fissure of alarm slid down Anne’s spine. “What, lady mother?”  

As her daughter did not understand, Honor began her explanatory maneuver anew. “If a man does not visit your bed, it is cold only until you find a replacement. Better his relative.”

The royal mistress blinked. “How do you know about…”  Her voice failed her.  

“Lord Exeter was a brilliant lover, wasn’t he? I’m not angry with you for that liaison.”

“I…. I…”  Incredulity whitened Anne’s visage.

“It means,” her mother’s voice took on a silky quality that unnerved her daughter more, “you need to be with him again so as to grant His Majesty something absolutely precious and by doing so, make the king worship you. Your stepfather and I have long debated over the subject of your future queenship, and we agree that you must take Lord Exeter as your lover again.”

“Lord Lisle is aware of your schemes, my lady mother?”

“Naturally.” Honor poured wine for herself and sipped from the goblet. “Arthur and I want you to succeed where each of His Majesty’s wives failed. The Tudor seed is weak or cursed; alternatively, the king might be infected with some disease. The childbearing histories of his three spouses prove that. Our family longs to have you and your child on the throne of England.”  

“Your plot might be derailed as Queen Jane is pregnant now.”

“It means nothing,” Honor parried. “Queen Catherine and Queen Anne were with child. Where are their Tudor princes? The king could not sire them! The simplest of solutions occurred to Arthur, I must confess, and we expect you to do your part, Anne. Exeter is at court now.”

Despite being shaken by her stepfather and her mother’s order, Lady Bassett could not deny that she wanted the crown. There was a kernel of truth to what Honor had said about the ruler’s procreative ability. Yet, Anne was in a haze of ambivalence until twilight descended.

§§§

The candles, placed upon bedtables, threw shadows on the tapestried walls, which were writhing upward like flames. As Edward Seymour shrugged out of his doublet and tossed it onto a nearby couch, Anne Bassett stepped into his embrace. They were sprawled on the bed, whose canopy was worked in misty blues, like those one could see on the canvas of a morning sky.

“Make me yours, Edward,” Anne demanded.

“Mine,” her lover’s guttural voice resonated. His hands unlacing his hose, he covered her body with his, while her hands worked on the fastenings of his shirt.

The lovers wrapped each other in the heat of their limbs. Edward kissed her with a fierce passion he could barely control. Their clothes were stripped off her and tossed on the floor. Their actions were governed by physical instincts, their moans echoing in their ears. Edward and Anne were too aroused, so their lovemaking could not last long, and they quickly reached the pinnacle.

Edward pulled away from her. “You ought to dress, Anne.”

She looked at him as though he had been a lunatic. “We have just started!”

He grimaced. “It is already over.”

“Why?” Anne stretched her body against the mattress that still kept his warmth.

“I must go.” He climbed out of bed and put on his shirt.

“Why?” She rose from the bed and reached for him, but froze.

Edward eyed her nakedness without a trace of lust. “This is our last rendezvous.”

Anne raised her eyebrows a bit, but that was as close to censure as she came. “You must be joking, my Lord Hertford. Did you get off on the wrong foot this morning?”

“Get dressed.” He shrugged into his doublet, fastening the tiny pearl closures.

She donned her nightgown of red silk. “I don’t understand.”

He stepped into his hose and pulled them to his waist. “We will no longer be lovers.” He spoke so casually, as though they were discussing weather or other trivial things.

Lady Bassett turned her head away and stared at herself in a looking glass on a nearby mahogany table. The young woman who looked back at her appeared no different than she had been an hour earlier. Yet, there was something that she could not quite describe; she stepped closer to the glass and strained her eyesight to fathom the conundrum of her transformation.  

“What are you doing?” He climbed into his boots and put on his toque.

“I can discern the change in myself.” She stilled for a fraction of a second, then uttered in a melancholic voice that could pierce anyone’s soul but her lover’s. “Now I know what to do.”  

“Explain, Madame,” a baffled Edward demanded.

This time, the royal paramour swung around to face him. “I’m glad that our liaison has ended. You worship only power and wealth. You are so cold and unfeeling!”

Edward darted to her and grasped her wrist. “Don’t judge me!”

She tugged her hand away. “I don’t want to see you again.”

He warned harshly, “You will never speak to anyone about our amours.”

Her eyes brimming with abject loathing, Anne Bassett hissed, “I swear that I shall never forgive you, Edward. And when your sister is discarded by the king for her inability to bear his son, I shall celebrate the downfall of your family from the Tudor good graces.”

He shook her like a rag doll. “I might destroy you with ease, you whore!”  

Edward shook his former mistress once more. Shocked, Anne moved in his hands like something lifeless – like a tablecloth having the crumbs jounced from it. As their gazes intersected, she discerned in him a ruthlessness that inspired fear and respect to him from others.

Nevertheless, intrepidity was etched into Anne’s features. “You will never subjugate me, you buffoon! You will never harm me or any member of my family! Don’t you ever try!”

His snickering hurt her. “You are nothing, Anne!” He released her and laughed again. “You are aware that my wife is now the king’s mistress as well. You are a cheap royal harlot, one of the many women who warm His Majesty’s bed only to be set aside later. You–” 

She cut him off with, “What a cowardly and unmanly man you are, Edward, if you forced your own spouse to lure Henry into her bed so that you can control the king’s will.”

Anger flashed through him. “Don’t pry into my affairs.”

An acrid grin curled her mouth. “Leave me alone, Edward. Don’t take a move against me or my family. Or I’ll shout now that you have forced yourself upon me.” She gestured towards the bed with rumpled sheets. “Everything in this room shows that the lovers coupled here a mere minutes ago, but nothing says that it happened with my consent – there are no witnesses.”

“Oh, my dear.” He let out a smile. “I like a rebellious side to you. You are an amazing and brave creature, but today you have made an enemy out of me. Be careful henceforth.”

Without a backward glance, Edward Seymour quitted the chamber.

Anne slid to the floor and wept. Once she had thought that love in freedom – without bonds of marriage to some nobleman who would not rule her life like a husband always did – was a condition for her contentment. Edward’s cruelty had made her pay for her naivete with anguish.

Honor’s recommendations resounded in her daughter’s head like an echo taunting her with promises about her glory. “His Majesty will marry me, just as my mother said.”   

Once her mind had repudiated marriage as a shallow mockery of happiness. Nonetheless, she had known that, one day her mother would find a suitor for her, and Anne would have to wed him. Despite her scornful attitude towards the idea of a woman’s inferior status, she would have done that for her family’s advancement at court. Nevertheless, now Anne resolved that she would enter into matrimony not with some noble, but with the King of England himself.

For the first time, Lady Bassett wished ill on Jane’s unborn child.  “If only that pale and undereducated bitch miscarried,” she grumbled while changing into a gown the color of first spring flowers on earth. “Then His Majesty would have needed another wife to give him a son.”

Her mind journeyed to her affair with the Marquess of Exeter. She had allowed him to take her maidenhood out of mere curiosity, and because Exeter had awakened desire in her. They had usually met during the gathering dusk in secret at court, and Exeter had taught her the art of physical love, making her knowledgeable of her own carnal instincts and of how to provide a man with the most gratifying pleasure. At present, Anne needed her first lover again.

§§§

Supper was an extended affair because King Henry ate a great deal of food, as always. Lady Anne Bassett sat in the middle of the women who surrounded him, including Queen Jane and Lady Anne Seymour, the monarch’s new mistress. Henry spoke with his paramours from time to time, grinning lewdly at them, but he rarely glanced at his consort, as if Jane had not existed.  

Anne Bassett observed the ruler lean close to Anne Seymour. “Lady Hertford, you are very attractive tonight,” Henry murmured in adoration. “You are such a rare flower.”

Lady Hertford laughed gaily. “I treasure Your Majesty’s compliments.”

The ruler drew her hand to his mouth. “Your husband does not object, does he?”

“Edward is a dutiful subject,” the new royal paramour avouched.

Henry expelled a loud belch. “You will serve my pleasure tonight.”

As the king kissed her fingers, Anne Bassett averted her scrutiny to conceal her repugnance. She listened to the inane prattle of courtiers flowing around her. Did they have nothing better to do than gossip about their sovereign’s amours? For the first time, Lady Bassett wondered about the idle lives of these pampered aristocrats, and her train of thought went to Anne Boleyn’s plans to use the proceeds from the Dissolution of monasteries for charity and education.

The Bassett family were religiously conservative reformists. Once Anne had managed to read accounts by William Latymer, a former chaplain of Anne Boleyn’s, which portrayed her as a national heroine of the English reform. I agree with Queen Anne that the Catholic Church is too corrupt. If only I could influence the reform…  Lady Bassett wished to become the next Queen of England with more fervency, but it all depended upon the birth of the queen’s baby.

Her gaze rested on Henry Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter. “Hal…”    

Exeter was handsome with a straight nose, lush lips, pale blue eyes, and a countenance full of intellect and calculation. Her former lover lounged at a nearby table and, if his expression were an indication, he felt as bored as she did. His habiliments were of yellow and blue – with his arms displayed on a jeweled chain. His azure velvet doublet was embroidered with a blue dragon and glittered with diamonds. His plumed cap of yellow brocade was ornamented with sapphires.

The Marquess of Exeter was the only son of Catherine of York, the sixth daughter of King Edward IV and Elizabeth Woodville. Almost a prince of the blood, he moved, ate, and talked with all his regal bearing. His girdle was narrower than the monarch’s. Courtenay is an ideal candidate for my purpose. His body is far more pleasant to touch than the king’s, Anne remarked to herself. Exeter’s pale blondness and his slender build projected a gentleness irresistible to women.

Hal Courtenay approached the main table. Bowing gallantly, he greeted cordially, “Your Majesty! It is an enormous pleasure for me to see you so happy tonight.”

The ruler stopped eating. “Hal, I’m delighted to finally have you by my side!”

Exeter’s smile did not reach his eyes. “I’ve missed your splendid court.”

Henry howled with laughter. “Hal, what can a man like you do for long in the countryside? You are merry, sociable, and devoted to the old way of life we both don’t want to lose.”

Lady Bassett and Lady Hertford nearly rolled their eyes. Jane looked embarrassed.

Exeter uttered, “Two of my stewards managed my affairs badly, so I had much work to do.”

The monarch lauded, “You have always been a superb administrator. You have governed the west of England in my name for years, and I’ve never had any complaints.”

“It is my most important duty to serve England and Your Majesty.”

Henry regarded him in the same affectionate way he looked only at Suffolk. “Hal, you are my best friend, just as Charles is. Don’t leave me for long, for you are irreplaceable.”

Exeter smiled at his liege lord’s praises. “I am exhilarated that I’m needed here. Being apart from Your Majesty is never easy for me, for I’d like to spend my whole life at your side.”

The monarch pressed a hand to his chest. “You and Charles both have a special place in my heart.” Then his countenance twisted into a livid frown. “Unfortunately, Charles betrayed me by helping my treacherous daughter escape. Don’t do anything like that, Hal.”

Exeter distinguished a threat in his sovereign’s appeal. “Your Majesty, I shall gladly give my life for you – I’ll remain loyal to you until my dying day.” As he was worried about his friend, the Duke of Suffolk, he added cautiously, “If Charles was temporarily misguided or blinded by emotion, I am certain that he will see the errors of his ways and prove his fealty to you.”

Henry continued, “I can forgive only two subjects for many missteps and mistakes – you, Hal, and Charles.” His eyes narrowed. “But there are limits for everything.”

“I know them,” assured Exeter nonchalantly.

Anne Bassett was surprised with Exeter’s self-control. He always kept his cool and never showed fear or doubt. “Do you, Lord Exeter? How can His Majesty be sure?”

The marquess veered his blank gaze to her. “These are not things for such young ladies.”

Henry burst out laughing. “Oh, Hal! How perfect it is to have you back!”

Before Exeter could leave, Anne sent him an irritated look, but he did not react.

As the music signaled the dancing, Anne Bassett sprang from her chair in relief. The king remained at the table, chatting with the Countess of Hertford intimately; a sullen Queen Jane sat watching her husband’s frivolities with her brother’s wife. Anne did not pity Jane, sniggering at her rival silently. Her thoughts again went to Exeter, who came promptly to claim her on the dance floor, and as their eyes met again, her pulse leapt at the longing in his orbs.

As the pavane ended, Lady Bassett murmured, “I haven’t seen you for ages, my dear lord. Let’s meet in a more private locale.” She told him where she would await him.

“I’ve missed you, Anne,” Exeter whispered. He then led her to Lady Honor Grenville.

For the rest of the banquet, the Marquess of Exeter waited on the sidelines and sometimes observed the monarch’s mistress dance. He feared to rouse suspicion or do something that could hint at his previous clandestine amours with Lady Bassett. He also danced with his wife, Lady Gertrude Courtenay née Blount, who was a plain-looking creature despite being clad in a pretty gown of white and black brocade, her stomacher of green silk adorned with precious stones.

After the festivities, Courtenay escorted his spouse to their quarters and left. The woman was aware that he had extramarital liaisons and bastards, so she swallowed her jealousy.  

§§§

The Marquess of Exeter darted through the inner bailey and soon reached the place that his paramour had mentioned. In his eagerness to be with her again, his face transformed into a thing of beauty, his dreams of luminous happiness, even if it was to be short-lived, resurfacing.

The night was exquisite in its loveliness – the best time for two lovebirds to be together. This year spring had come early to England, and the mild climate of Kent had made the foliage blossom early as well. The walled garden was filled with the fragrance of honeysuckles and the song of a wakeful robin in one of the trees alongside the vibrant flowerbeds and the young grasses. The tops of the trees, silvered by a moon, waved in the breeze that was fresh but not chilly.

Anne Bassett emerged from behind a tall oak like the phantom of a goddess of night, a thundercloud darkening her brow. “You have made me wait for too long, Hal.”

“I had to be careful so that no one saw me,” Exeter explained. “During the whole evening, I was cautious not to betray my feelings, so I did not dare watch you in open fascination.”

“Did you make love to that cow of a wife before going to me?”

His smile faded. “You know that I do not love Gertrude.”

“Of course, my lord. Otherwise, you would not have come here.”

“Touché!” An affable grin flourished upon his lips. “No man can forget you. All your other lovers – I’ll wager you had many after me – should bow in deference to your beauty, audacity, allure, and astuteness, for it is a rare combination for a woman, I must admit.”

In the spill of moonlight, her eyes flashed with ire. “We women cannot decide our own fates. Marriage is considered a woman’s main vocation. We are expected to take care of the manor and the children, whom all men wish to have in abundance. Our life is a marginal existence, and even at royal courts, ladies are only ornaments, but their opinions matter nothing. Very rarely, a lady can be seen or heard expressing herself, and Anne Boleyn is one of such heroines.”

Rushing over to Anne, Exeter knelt in front of her and clasped her hand in his. “My most beloved Anne, you are the mistress of my heart. If I only could divorce Gertrude…”

Anne eyed him condescendingly. “But you cannot because you are a damned Catholic who does not see that the Catholic prelates live in riches while the folk die of famine.”

He kissed her hand. “Our religions are different, which cannot be changed.” He sighed. “Did you ever love me, Anne? You abandoned me so quickly after you had caught the king’s eye. Then I escaped to my estates so that I could not see you with His Majesty.”

“You became a member of the royal inner circle years ago. Everyone knows that Henry and his close friends adore hunting parties in the countryside, where they taste sin of the flesh in the most wicked ways one can imagine.” The disapproval sharpened her voice.

Exeter climbed to his feet. “But you are his paramour!”

Anne flung back, “You have no right to rebuke me for my affair, for you have never lived in celibacy. Your wife must have birthed you only one son because you whore yourself around so much that you have no strength left to bed her and sire another child on her.”

Her words slapped him in the face. “That was callous, Anne.”

“You are jealous of me, Hal. Is that why you are cold to your royal cousin?”

Exeter toyed with his rings. “Exactly. Stop tormenting me,” he said with asperity.

Anne removed her gem-studded headdress that confined her tresses. She twirled in the breeze, her glossy blonde hair flying around her like a cape of white silk. “Now I feel free and light! It does not happen when I am with His Majesty! He is such a selfish and mercurial man!”

The wind echoed her words, which gradually softened to stillness.

“Quiet, my darling. The wind might carry your speech far and wide.”

Her eyes began to sting. “I don’t care.”

Exeter pulled Anne into his arms. “I’ve dreamed of you days and nights.”

“I remembered you, too.” She shuddered like a leaf in a storm, clinging to him.

Her attraction for Exeter was burning in her breast like a funereal torch that could not guide her to light. Anne’s transformation had indeed happened today: it was not so much a visual thing as emanation from within – she had become far fiercer and more desperate. To tie King Henry to herself, she needed a son – a York prince fathered by Exeter. A thought blazed through Anne’s head: Hal Courtenay must impregnate me. King Henry will think that it is his child.

“I wrote you a sonnet.” Exeter yearned to caress her breasts.

Anne licked her lips. “Your poetry was beautiful. I regret that I had to burn it.”  

“I can write more verses for you,” he whispered into her hair.

She laughed. “Hal, kiss me and–” 

His lips devastated hers before she could finish the sentence. Exeter’s arms enveloped her like a shield of armor, protecting her from everything pernicious. The intensity of his sensual onslaught prompted her to forget her heartbreak and even her plans for queenship, for it was the kiss that left her boneless, breathless, and weightless at once. It was both tender and passionate, communicating the ardent sentiments Courtenay had for her in the most primal way.

Anne’s blood roared. “Claim me. Now and here.”

Raising her skirts, Exeter placed one hand between her thighs, while Anne undid his hose. After falling onto the carpet of daffodils, roses, narcissi, and anemones, they rolled over and over as he pumped into her with reckless abandon. For an hour, they made love in the garden, their bodies pierced by rose thorns. For Exeter, it was an act of love with the woman whom he dreamed of marrying, while Anne Bassett also felt something for him – deep and yet uncertain.

The desperation had driven them to forgo the inconvenience of their natural bed as they had pounced upon each other in the grip of abounding passion. Later, Exeter had rolled over the ground with Anne so that they lay on the smooth grass under a lime tree. With his one hand wrapped around her middle, he pulled her tightly against him, and rested his chin on her shoulder.

The full moon shone above, casting its pale glow across the garden. A vast shimmering entity that presided over all manner of life down below. An alley of woven trees lay to the right from them, with patterns in their weaving that the lovers committed to memory as a memento of their reunion. In the stillness of the garden, they talked in gentle intermittent murmurs.

Anne touched Exeter’s face. “The full moon is always an interesting time. My mother says that it is typically associated with heightened emotions and friction.”

His fingers combed through her hair. “That must be true. I’ve experienced the most intense emotions because I am with you, Anne. After nights of despair, now I feel complete.”

Abashed, she took Exeter’s face in her hands, her eyes searching hers. “How is that possible, Hal? You have always had many mistresses! Don’t they satisfy you?”

The marquess gazed into her eyes affectionately. “They are not you.”

She was silent for a long moment. In the moonlight, his handsome countenance was cast in silver and black, making him appear more a figment of her imagination than man. Yet, she felt his hands upon her skin, her hands cupping his face – they were breathing, their bodies warm.

Anne kissed him ardently. “How could a womanizer like you fall for me?”

The Marquess of Exeter said in the most emphatic accents, “Even a lustful man finds his true love sooner or later. I am hopelessly wrapped in the chains of my own heart, my dear. You broke our relationship, causing me great sufferings, but I’ll not let you do so again. Now I can only turn away from you if you were to say that you could not bear the sight of me.”

“No!” She drew a swift breath and patted him on the cheek. “I wish to be with you.”

He leaned over, kissing the back of her neck. “I want to love you again.”

“I’d like the consequences.” At this moment, Anne did want to feel life growing within her, and she wanted the baby to be fathered not by the king, but by this man.

He arched a brow. “You used to take some herbs to prevent conception.”

“Indeed.” Anne had consumed them every day in order not to get pregnant with the king or Edward Seymour, but now she had other aims. “I did not drink anything before coming here.”

Exeter was silent for a long time, nibbling at his upper lip. There was a strange and wondrous expression upon his face. It was usually impenetrable in front of the Tudor court, merry and good-humored with his friends, including King Henry, coldly indifferent when he faced his enemies or was up to a challenge, or almost disgusted whenever his gaze fell upon his spouse. Then his eyes sparkled with an inner fire – a pale blue flame of gladness rarely seen in them.

“Why?” Suspicion tinged his voice. “To have a bastard?”

“I want your baby, Hal.” It was what a man in love craved to hear, and it was also true.  

“I can read your mind, Anne.” Exeter’s voice turned chilly and clipped, his piercing gaze deadly. “Did your presumptuous mother command that you conceive my child and then tell the king that it is his? If Jane Seymour does not give him a son, he will set her aside and marry you.”

Candor slipped out of her mouth. “And why not? The Tudor dynasty will end otherwise, and England will plunge into civil wars. Moreover, didn’t the Tudors depose the House of York?” She pointed a finger at his chest. “Don’t you want to have a York on the throne again?”

“Yes,” was all the marquess said, then he was on her.

He kissed her face, mouth, and neck, pulled back that glorious blonde hair, placed his lips at her ear and told her that he worshipped her. Exeter was infinitely gentle until he entered her with an urgency they both required, and then they were savage in their needs, in taking and giving. They tried to stifle their moans as Exeter was thrusting into her faster. Anne grabbed his shoulders, her fingernails digging into his clothed back as he drove into her with feral intensity.

Anne had forgotten how good being with a man could be. Neither the Earl of Hertford nor the King of England made her feel so wonderful. In the moonlight, Exeter’s face contorted in lust looked like that of a mythological faun. To her, their coupling was so right, and it filled her with completeness, as if she were giving him not only her body, but also her heart. It was all strange because Anne had never felt so before during her previous affair with the marquess.

“I love you,” Courtenay whispered into her lips. “More than I imagined I could.”

As he increased the rhythm, Anne peered up at the moon. “It is as bright as a beacon.”

“That led you to me again.” His lips meandered down her throat.

The roar of their blood in their ears and the thundering pounding of their hearts echoed within them like a symphony of something forbidden. He released his seed into her, and a spasm closed around him and shook his entire being, his hands firmly holding his paramour in place. I must get pregnant, Anne Bassett cried in her mind as she groaned in pleasure, arching her back.

Afterwards, they lay clothed on the ground, her skirts bunched up around her waist. At the sight of an elated Henry Courtney, Lady Bassett did not want to ever part with him, and a pang of loneliness speared her. Honor’s suggestion to make him the father of her child was a genius one! The marquess was the monarch’s maternal cousin, so Anne’s baby could resemble Edward IV or his relatives, which would make it easy to pass the infant off as King Henry’s prince.

Exeter laced his hose. “When will we meet again?”

Anne rearranged her skirts. “Very soon, Hal.”

He drew her close and kissed her until her lips were clinging under his. “Our intercourses must happen as often as possible so that you can conceive. Tomorrow in the dead of night.”

“Yes!” Her lips were tingling from the kiss.

“I know a place in the castle where no one will find us.” He then outlined his plan.

Anne Bassett broached a serious issue. “Hal, do you understand that if I get pregnant and my plans come to fruition, we will need to end our liaison permanently?”

Naught could eliminate the feel of a lance through his bosom that had penetrated it because of her words, which, he knew, were correct. “I don’t want to think about it now.”

They hastened back to the castle lest someone found them in the garden. They parted their ways before each of them entered the grand park separately and then crossed it to the inner bailey. They returned to the palace undetected, and the night hid their sin with its opaque raiment.

Notes:

I hope you are all safe from Covid-19. I’m still staying in lockdown in Tuscany. Be well!

Thank you for reading this chapter! Let me know what you think. As always, I recommend VioletRoseLily and EvilFluffyBiteyThing at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91 at fanfiction.net. Check the stories “Court of Thorns and Roses” and “Hourglass” by WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction. Give a try to FieryMaze's stories!

Now Mary Tudor is in Spain and will soon meet with Emperor Carlos and Empress Isabella. She will find herself in the center of the Habsburg intrigues and wars, although so far, she has no clue as to her own future. I cannot say anything else about Mary’s fate now.

What do you think about Anne Bassett now? I adore her for the same reasons the Marquess of Exeter is in love with her. The Bassett family were the old English nobles; Lady Honor Grenville is power-hungry, cunning, and unscrupulous. Now the ambitious Anne is determined to become Queen of England, but as Honor tells her, it is unlikely that she can have a healthy son with King Henry. So, Anne renews her affair with Exeter, her first lover, who approves of her audacious plan.

Not a lot is known about Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter. He was a York cousin of King Henry VIII, and for decades, he was the king’s close friend and favorite. I do not believe that he was guilty of the Exeter Conspiracy of 1539, but even if he was, in this AU he has a different role and fate – he will be around for many years. In history, Exeter was born in 1490/1, but I need him to be younger for fictional purposes: here Exeter’s year of birth is 1498, so he is François' coeval.

My Exeter is a contradictory character. He is a brilliant administrator, just as he was in history. He is a cunning, cruel, intelligent politician who weaves deadly intrigues, like a patient spider. He is a womanizer, just as he was in history. At the same time, Exeter has conscience and limits, and he is capable of deep feelings. Exeter really does love Anne Bassett, and it is clear from their scenes that she does feel something for him too. Exeter has an unconventional storyline!

Honor Grenville had three daughters: Philippa Bassett (born 1516), Katherine Bassett (born 1517), and Anne Bassett (born 1520/1). In this story, I’ve changed their ages: I need Anne to be Honor’s eldest daughter. Now the list of the Bassett girls looks: Anne (1516), Katherine (1517), and Philippa (1520/1).

The drama is starting, and the serious storm is brewing – wait for chapter 28. Jane’s situation became more complicated because Edward Seymour and his wife, Anne Stanhope, want to stay afloat lest Jane is discarded, so Edward and his wife put into motion their own plan.

Let’s make each other smile! Let’s review and favorite each other! I am continuing to review other authors, although it will take more time as I don’t read quickly.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 28: Chapter 27: Infected with Antagonism

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 27: Infected with Antagonism   

April 3, 1538, Château de Rambures, near Amiens, Picardy, France

“Queen Anne ruling France in the king’s absence?” Anne de Montmorency inquired with a gasp. “Madame Stafford, you must be mad. Only His Majesty’s sister may be his regent.” 

“I have all my wits about me,” Mary contradicted. “I’m quite insulted by your rudeness, Monsieur de Montmorency. You lack proper manners and are too full of yourself.”  

He smirked. “Really? Your family tried to dig their claws into the Tudor throne, but they failed. Now you think that the Valois throne is in your hands.” 

For a moment, silence stretched between the Valois queen’s sister and the Constable of France. They stood on the meadow that was surrounded by a forest from one side and bordered with a cobble-covered road, snaking its way from Paris to Amiens. They had stopped here to water the horses from a stream and then left them to graze in lush grass, while all the travelers rested. The guards remained at a respectful distance from their master and Mary Stafford.

Spring was in full bloom, and the warm evening was serene. The meadow was dotted with flowering shrubs, evergreen plants, and pools of water where sparrows stopped to drink. The scent of the nearby forest was invigorating, temping them to stay there for longer. At sunset, only the smallest trace of chill was felt in the air, daffodils and other flowers ruffling in the breeze.

As part of the French troops was stationed in Savoy since 1536, the monarch intended to launch a new campaign in Italy. François would appoint regent to rule France in his wake.

At last, Mary snapped, “I do not want to talk to you. I wish I had traveled with anyone else, just not with you. Why did King François ask you to accompany me?”  

“His Majesty wants to keep his wife’s sister safe. Once you and your children were captured by Imperial agents. His Grace of Ferrara saved you. Nothing like that should happen again.”   

Unbeknownst to her, Montmorency took delight in observing Mary. Her cherry-colored satin gown, decorated with diamonds, matched her flat crimson velvet cap surmounted by a gold tassel, as well as the flushing color of her cheeks. As she reached down and brushed a stray blade of grass from the folds of her skirts, a melody of adoration sounded in his chest. Nonetheless, he dismissed it with a tug at his heart, and his mind floated back to their conversation.

“The war is over, and I’m safe in France,” she persevered.

“Madame,” he said in such a stringent voice that she glowered back at him. “Our liege lord – now the King of France is your sovereign as well – decides what we do, and we must comply with his commands. Indeed, I’m a soldier who is and shall be loyal to my country with my dying breath. As a politician, I know for a certainty that a Protestant queen can never be our regent.” 

Offended, Mary countered, “King François permits Queen Marguerite to represent his will when he is in France and away. They govern together! He has always relied upon the wise counsel of his late mother and his sister. Queen Anne has a brilliant mind!”

Montmorency explained at length, “Madame, I’m not diminishing Her Majesty’s talents. But everyone knows that she worships what we Catholics consider heresy. Even though His Majesty permitted her to do so in private, no Lutheran or Calvinist queen can ever be allowed to lead the country, for this would have angered the nobility, destabilizing the whole realm.” 

Mary could not object to these arguments, but she would not acknowledge the truth of his words. Thus, she closed the topic. “The afternoon sun is waning. We must go.” 

“Rambures is not far from Amiens, to which we are close. Let me help you into the litter.” 

She shook her head in protest, feeling her unbound curls tickle her cheek. Mary sauntered over to the litter, where several palfreys, which drew it, were lazily munching the grass. She called for her page to assist her in getting into the litter, frowning as Montmorency laughed at her.

The constable jumped onto his black stallion, draped in red and yellow silk on which blue birds were sewn, just as it was done on his coat-of-arms. “I am not saddened by your rejection of my courteous proposal. My words are as true as you believe them to be false.” 

“I do not think you are lying,” Mary conceded while making herself comfortable in her seat. “But you are exaggerating. The commoners have accepted Anne as their queen.” 

“The most important thing is what the nobility think of this. Catholic conservatives are your sister’s enemies. Those who are interested in heresy and evangelicals support her.”    

“Well, you are partly right, I suppose.” 

His laugh goaded his horse into neighing. “You have such a pliant nature!”

“Enough, Monsieur!” Mary closed the litter’s window. “You are too ill-bred!”

“Oh, Madame!” The constable’s laughter boomed as the party commenced moving.

In an hour, they reached the city of Amiens, whose verdant and gently rolling surrounding landscape was different from Paris, the streets of which were crowded with its inhabitants and visitors for most part. The encroaching dusk cloaked everything in a veil of gray, and the thick mist descended, significantly reducing the visibility within a radius of ten miles.

Slowly, the cavalcade meandered through the foggy roads. After having almost lost their way, they spotted the River Somme and headed east of Amiens. By the time the brick and stone Château de Rambure, flanked by four machicolated round towers, came into view, the darkness had mantled the area like a raven’s wing. Mary could not examine the castle, but as they neared, she admired four spiral staircases placed in the internal angles of the corner towers.

§§§

“Monsieur, night is falling quickly,” Montmorency’s groom fretted.

“As a soldier, I’m accustomed to riding in the dark.”  The Constable of France was impatient to be off. Tonight he found himself unable to sleep with Mary under the same roof.

Montmorency mounted Triumph, his favorite horse, and slammed his heels into its sides. Rather than take the road, he guided the stallion towards the northern corner of the palace, and then dived into the forest. From a nearby terrace, a stunning view to the river was opening. Maybe a ride along the riverbank would assuage his anxiety caused by Mary’s nearness.

As he raced through the apple orchard that lay ahead, his thoughts were drawn back to the queen’s sister. He could not call Mary by her second husband’s surname. Damn Mary Boleyn! Montmorency cursed silently. She is lovely despite her age! Why have I been thinking of her since our departure from Fontainebleau? He was a married man with a brood of children, one who had no right to have such persistent fantasies about a woman who was not his wife.

Montmorency prodded Triumph on, as he reached the water’s edge, seething all the while at himself. Mary had been a mistress of two monarchs; years ago, he had left her after their short, clandestine affair so as to free her for his sovereign. His wife, Madeleine de Savoy, labeled Mary a foolish whore, despite the fact that Mary was nothing short of genteel, superbly educated, and clever, though not being as ambitious and arrogant as Queen Anne had once been.

His union with Madeline de Savoy had been fruitful: they had seven living offspring, four of them boys. He had wed Madeleine only because King François had arranged the match for him, wishing to marry him off to the daughter of his uncle, René de Savoy. Yet, this matrimony was not happy: Montmorency disliked Madeleine for being stunning in an icy way, with her exquisite features, body, and emotions as if carved of marble – not the sort to keep a man warm.

There was no single lady whom the Constable of France could unequivocally trust. For him, women were either cold, reticent, and haughty, or overbearing, lustful, and too proud of their beauty. I dreamed of having a loving family and a cozy home, but not with Madeleine.

He envied François, whose awesome sister, Marguerite, was a rare exception and had been granted a perfect character above reproach. The many females of questionable reputation, who frequented Montmorency’s bed, were most definitely not worthy of his attention, but they, at the very least, were honest in displaying their demands in exchange for their services –  a night here, a purse of coins and trinkets there. Montmorency respected their businesslike approach.

Tapping the horse’s flanks with his boots, Montmorency rode closer to the river. But as the fog was especially thick in this area, he steered the beast way from the shore and galloped across a wide-open park, where the grass spread over the lawn like verdant velvet. As he discerned the outlines of the château in the distance, Montmorency’s stallion suddenly faltered.

“Damn,” barked the constable. “What is going on?”  

He slowed Triumph to a trot in the vicinity of the rose garden that was a delightful spot full of scents and colors. Even sitting in his saddle, Montmorency felt the pronounced limp, and worry inundated him. Tightening the reins, he hopped down onto the ground and scrutinized each hoof, finding nothing amiss. A baffled Montmorency led the animal through the park.

“Be patient, my friend,” he spoke to his horse. “Soon my groom will examine you.” 

A familiar female voice beseeched, “Please, don’t torment this horse, Monsieur! Stop!”

Turning his head, Montmorency gaped at the intruder, whose figure seemed to have been drowning in a white fog. Mary rushed towards him, her red cloak making her more distinguishable in the mist. Astonishment and ire vied for supremacy inside him; the latter won.

He growled, “Why are you issuing commands?”

Mary approached. “Your horse is limping. It was probably injured during your ride.” 

Had she seen him minutes earlier? His fury intensified, staining his normally good attitude to her. “Madame Stafford, you have no right to order me anything. You know nothing of horses, despite your pretense. I told you to stay at the castle. Why did you disobey me?”

Throwing off her cloak, she darted to Triumph’s side. “I’m tempering my anger with you because your horse needs aid. But you are the rudest creature on earth.”  

His jaw dropped. “What are you going to do?”

She stopped beside the hose and crouched. In a handful of moments, she stated, “There is a tendon on the right foreleg, somewhere between the knee and the fetlock.” 

Montmorency knelt by the beast and strained his eyesight as he peered at where she had pointed. “A small part of Triumph’s foreleg does look swollen. How didn’t I notice it?”

Mary descended to her knees and reached out to touch the animal’s leg. “The skin is quite warm. He must have stretched his tendons during your charming stroll in the fog.” 

“Your sarcasm is not suitable for this occasion, Madame.” 

“And why not? Because the illustrious Constable of France thinks so?”

“The Boleyn wit,” Montmorency grumbled. “It might be too acerbic.” 

“Indeed.”  Her hand flew to the beast’s mouth, and Mary laughed gaily. Triumph nickered softly and lowered his head to rest upon her shoulder. “We will save you, dearest.” 

Montmorency was startled. “My horse is usually wary of strangers, and only I’m capable of taming him with ease. I’ve never seen Triumph behave this way. How did you do that?”  

This time, Mary’s response was enchanting. “I’ve just bewitched him.” 

Her repartee was pleasant, but he said, “Madame, I congratulate you. But you are a mere woman, and females do not generally possess the ability to diagnose such injuries.” 

Her temper spiked. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. King François has a far better attitude to ladies: he is a forward-looking man who comprehends that we are as clever as men and accumulate a special wisdom. You should follow in his gallant and smart footsteps.”

Insulted, he sputtered, “Do you realize that we are in an odd situation?”

“Let’s go. Some peppermint or other oil will help your friend’s injury heal.” 

“You do not have the skills to treat such injuries.”

“Oh, I do.”  Mary was stroking the stallion’s mane.

His brow shot up. “Really?”

Mary’s memories of her previous life tumbled in no particular order. “My dearly departed husband, Sir William Stafford, served the King of England as a soldier in Calais, where we met for the first time. He was not a rich man, which was why my father expelled me from the family after our wedding. Will and I lived a simple life at Chebsey in Staffordshire.”

“How?” Montmorency wanted to know more about her.   

“We owned a farm with a few tenants, and sometimes, we survived through difficult times if our lands barely provided enough to feed the cattle and ourselves. But despite his humble origins and his scarce means of existence, William was an honorable man who made me happy.” 

A glint of something bordering on surprised admiration flashed in his eyes, although Mary could not see it. “Did you learn to cure animals while working at your farm?”

“Triumph,” she called. “If I am not mistaken, you called your horse so.” 

Apparently, she was no longer inclined to speak about her life in poverty, and Montmorency swerved the topic in the direction where she wanted them to go. “Let’s lead Triumph to the stables, where you will see to his care, provided that you don’t change your mind.” 

“I will not.”  Mary cooed, “A few minutes, and you will no longer feel pain, Triumph.” 

Montmorency nodded his assent, while Mary grabbed the reins. She led the horse away, swaying her hips enticingly, her gait elegant, and the beast followed her docilely. Within the next several minutes, the air grew heavy with a dampness that remained even as the fog receded.

As they halted near the stables, Montmorency commended, “You are both courageous and knowledgeable of things about which traditional women have no clue.” 

“Such a cumbersome compliment,” Mary riposted with a grin.

“From a general, Madame, and please forgive me for it.” 

They burst out laughing in unison as they entered the stables. The next moment, the rain began as huge, distinct drops on the roof, but in a minute, it increased in intensity until torrents of water were pouring from the sky. And as Mary and his groom worked on his horse’s injury in the scarce light from a torch, Montmorency could see that Triumph was in capable hands.  

A faint smile lit up Montmorency’s countenance. “Thank you, Madame. I recommend that now you retire for the night. Lord Wiltshire is expected to arrive tomorrow morning.”

Words of candor poured out of Mary again. “I could not sleep, so I went for a walk.” 

“At least try to rest.”  His lips twitched, as if he were suppressing a question.   

Montmorency bowed to Mary, who bobbed a curtsey to him. Given the recent events and their current surroundings, it was the least appropriate way to say goodnight. His laugh of a tried-and-true soldier and her feminine one flowed like an unconventional oxymoron as they exited.

§§§

The bigger part of the night was sleepless for Mary Stafford. She lay staring at her bed’s canopy of beige damask festooned with ribbons. Two or three times she dozed, but nightmares gripped her. At dawn, the fingers of fatigue strangled her distress, and she plunged into trance-like nothingness, although the dream of George’s execution was torturing her.   

An insistent pounding upon the door interrupted her slumber. Mary slowly set up in her bed, disoriented. The first light of day cast hazy shadows across the white carpet.

“Yes?” Mary called out sleepily. “Come in.” 

Her maid slipped inside, looking as if she, too, had just awakened. She was Anne de La Marck, spouse of the castle owner – Jean III, Seigneur de Rambures and Count de Dammartin.

“Are you all right, Countess de Dammartin?” Mary asked her maid.

Anne’s smile was colorless. “Of course, Madame Stafford.” 

Though concerned about her maid’s excessive pallor, Mary didn’t comment on the issue. Unusually tall and gaunt, Madame de Rambures wore a stylish yellow brocade gown that stressed her somberness; her black silk stomacher was studded with pearls. Her features were rather plain, but not without their own subtle beauty, and she was not one to stand out in a crowd.

Anne started, “Monsieur de Montmorency has sent for you. Your father has arrived.” 

“Help me dress.”  Mary sprang from the bed and began shrugging off her nightclothes.

“As you wish.”  Anne curtsied and disappeared into the dressing room.

As she slipped into her undergarments on her own, Mary yawned again and again. While she had not slept well that night, she had also become a notoriously late riser in France. Her sense of safety had lulled Mary to such calmness that she had permitted herself to get some much needed sleep to compensate for the lack of it during the nights spent in England after William Stafford’s arrest. Yet, Mary feared that the scandalmongers could start a rumor of her laziness.    

Soon the countess returned with clothes. “Maybe something grander?”

Mary put on her earrings. “This is not a social call.”   

“As you command, Madame.” 

“Quickly!” Mary liked that Anne served her without trying to meddle into her affairs.

Anne laced Mary’s stays with quick precision. Then she aided her mistress to pull into a gown of icy-blue brocade, its sleeves lavishly trimmed with golden lace. The countess finished the dressing ensemble with a stomacher that was worked with bright beads on scarlet cloth.

Mary pushed back her unruly tresses. “Oh, dear. My hair.” 

“I can swiftly plait it,” the countess offered, and Mary nodded.

When it was done, Mary studied her reflection in a looking glass. “I look fine.” 

After thanking the countess, Mary prodded over to the door, her footsteps heavy as if her unwillingness to see Thomas Boleyn had anchored her to the floor. Having forgotten to take her purse with coins, which her sister had given her, Mary ran back to retrieve it and hurried out.

Mary strolled down the spiral staircases. She paused, leaning her head against the smooth frescoed wall, hoping to catch a moment’s more rest before meeting with the Boleyn wolf, as she labelled her treacherous parent. At last, she proceeded through the ebony doors to a hallway.

Built during the Hundred Years’ war, the castle contained furniture from the 15th and 16th centuries. In some chambers, Gothic pieces exhibited the carving of a geometrical character imported from architecture, as well as the ornamentation motifs such as the pointed arch, the trefoil, the wheel, the rose, and the linen-fold. In other places, most pieces displayed a lighter ornamentation and a less conservative carving. Yet, the atmosphere was largely medieval.

Anne de Montmorency met Mary in the great hall, bowing to her. “Nice to see you again, Madame Stafford. The Earl of Wiltshire is awaiting you in the library.” 

Mary took his extended hand. “Escort me there, Monsieur Constable.” 

They passed through a corridor and started climbing the first of many steps in the narrow, winding staircase that would take them to one of the towers. Once Mary’s step nearly faltered on the stairs, and Montmorency supported her before she could fall.

“Careful,” he advised. “Your anxiety is not worth it.” 

“But it is not something that we can turn on and off.” 

While on the last flight of the stairs, Montmorency opined, “There is no actual stress and pain. Your thoughts create these sensations because you are engaged in stressful thinking.” 

Mary verbalized Anne’s beliefs. “My sister is certain that if we take death into our life and face it squarely, we will free ourselves from all worries and the pettiness of life.” 

“The Boleyn girls became depressed and philosophical due to your afflictions.” 

“They made us stronger as well.”  Mary took two steps at a time.

His hand halted her. “Don’t hurry up, or you risk breaking your neck.”  As she blinked, he added, “In everything that touches us on earth, God is pleased when we are happy. He must be dissatisfied with what Queen Anne and her sister think about the life He generously gifted them.”   

A faint grin lit up Mary’s expression. “Perhaps you are right.” 

“Good humor is a tonic for mind and body. Once we return to court, you will have it in abundance.”  He then climbed three steps ahead of her and gave her his hand.  

Mary clasped it in her own hand. “Thank you, Monsieur.” 

Inside the tower, there was a hallway. The walls were hung with rich Flemish tapestries, and the ceiling was decorated with garlands of roses. At the end of the hallway, the fireplace was supported by four bronze pillars, and the Rambures coat-of-arms adorned the nearby door.

Montmorency gestured towards this door. “There!”

They entered the small library swathed in brocade the color of buttercups. The room was full of books, which filled shelves from floor to ceiling. The Gothic cabinet, whose exterior panels showed paintings of saints on purple background, stood in the corner. Ebony chairs with spiral legs were placed between a table, a bureau, and chest of drawers in bleached oak.

Mary’s scrutiny slid to Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire. Leaning against the cabinet, her father stood with his legs crossed. His shabby doublet of brown velvet and his matching hose proclaimed his financial troubles. He had aged in the past two years: gray hair and beard, and wrinkles scattered across his face. His hazel eyes shone with an insatiable fire of avarice.

Jean de Rambures, Count de Dammartin, bowed low to the queen’s sister. It was a sheer pleasure for Mary to shift her gaze to this man at his prime, tall and well built. His attractive face, with blue, twinkling eyes and boyish features, was kind and relaxed, like someone at peace with himself. He was clad in a doublet and hose of auburn brocade wrought with jewels.

Rambures preferred a gallant chat like that at court. “Madame Stafford, looking at you is the key to keeping the sparks of joy flying. Among all the stars in the sky, you are the brightest.” 

Mary remembered his unhealthy-looking wife. “Monsieur de Rambures is as courteous as every brilliant Frenchman must be.”  Her answer discouraged him to try and seduce her.

“My castle is at your disposal,” Rambures uttered in less enthusiastic tones.  

“Thank you.”  Mary then requested, “Please leave us alone.” 

“If you say so, Madame.”  The constable did not mask his worry for her.

After sweeping bows to her, Montmorency and Rambures vacated the library.

“Is Montmorency your lover?” Thomas Boleyn questioned forthrightly.

Abashed, Mary swiveled to face him. “What? That is nonsense!”

Boleyn voiced his observation. “Constable Montmorency is attracted to you. Manifestly, he did not even hide his concern before leaving. You may use it to the family’s advantage.”  

“Ha!” she snorted, with an incredulous look tinged with her disdain for him. “No one will ever find a remedy for your illness. You are chronically infected with thirst for power.” 

The Earl of Wiltshire voiced his story. “I wrote to the King of France that I had arrived in Calais, and in the same letter I requested a meeting with my daughter. I knew that he would not send Anne to greet me because of her advancing pregnancy. It was my suggestion that we meet halfway from Calais and Paris, for I need to talk with you far from court.”

Mary settled in a chair. “His Majesty told me everything.” 

“In the past, you were afraid to fling in my face what you dislike and to be disrespectful towards me, but now you have the stomach and spine. I love that about you, Mary.” 

“Respect is earned or lost. Why have you suddenly become so kind, your lordship?”

Her father took off his cap and scratched his head. “I’m no longer young. Your mother left me, but I do not want to be alone. I need to have my wife and daughters by my side.” 

She eyed him scornfully. “Why are your filial feelings resurfacing now? It is because you lost power and wealth in England, except for your title. However, as now Anne is Queen of France, you are dreaming of carving out a new path to prominence for yourself in her Court. You do not care that you might destroy the happiness of your living children through your plots.”  

Wiltshire settled himself in a chair across from his daughter. “Over the course of time, I realized that love is not real because it fades away eventually. It has no substance, save the sweet taste of the benefits that your own endeavors to climb the hierarchical social ladder earn for you. Everything that creates hurdles on the path to wealth and influence must be eliminated.” 

Her boiling temper prompted Mary to stand up. “You dare say such horrible things after you did not aid George and Anne when they needed you the most. Your own testimony against them, which you gave to Cromwell, could have sealed their fates. Yes, I know everything!”

Bafflement painted his countenance. “How?”

Mary’s eyes glowed with the intensity of her hatred for the man. “You are a traitor to your own offspring! Because of your accursed ambitions, George was executed, and Anne is separated from Elizabeth forever. I shall never forgive you for my brother’s death, and neither shall Anne and our mother!” Extracting the purse from the pocket of her gown, she stepped to him.

Her speech didn’t surprise him. “What is it?”

She threw the purse to his feet. “Take it, you immoral filicide! There is enough money here for you to live a comfortable life far from all of us. Just vanish from the face of the earth!”  

Refusing to pick it up, Wiltshire taunted, “You will not be able to eject me, Mary. As my wife in the eyes of God and law, Lady Elizabeth Boleyn is my property! I must remind you that upon marriage, a woman’s rights and obligations are subsumed by those of her husband in accordance with her legal status. Even King François cannot prohibit me from taking Elizabeth away from France, and I’ll do that if you don’t make my stay at the Valois court enjoyable.” 

Implacable aversion emanated from Mary, as though it were tangible. “You are a monster!”

“I’ve eloquently driven my point home, and I’ve managed to sound clear whilst doing so. That is a rare feat!” His voice was dispassionate, but a hollowness pierced his vitals.

“Anne’s husband will protect us from you.”  Her voice was layered with aversion.

“But I’ll stay at his court.”  Boleyn rose, straightening to his full height.

Her entire being gleamed in a feral halo. “I wish you had died at Hever.” 

The next minutes were a blur of activity as Mary enjoined to have the Earl of Wiltshire lodged in the rooms most distant from her apartments. They would depart to where King François ordered soon, but at least she would be far from Wiltshire for a short while. In silence, the Boleyns returned to the great hall, where the Constable of France and the castle owner awaited them.


April 12, 1538, Alcázar of Seville, Seville, the Province of Seville, Spain

The spacious Salón de Carlos V inside the Palacio Gótico, where the Imperial couple and Lady Mary Tudor were spending the afternoon, was illuminated by a profusion of candles. They had just been lit up to ward off the dark as the shadows of evening were closing in.

Never in her life had Mary seen such exotic, fabulous decorations. As her gaze embraced the chamber, she found herself breathless at the sight of the walls covered with azulejos – Spanish painted, tin-glazed ceramic tilework. Scattered here and there on the walls, the geometric patterns displayed the Moorish architectural legacy. The intricate, gilded wooden ceiling in mudéjar style, which was called artesonado, was absolutely stunning. Nevertheless, Mary felt out of place, for she was not used to a blend of Christian and Moorish architecture.

Mary looked at the empress as Isabella’s laughter floated along the length of the walnut table. Seated beside her spouse, Isabella’s cheeks were flushed as she bent her head towards his, basking in his presence. They lounged in high-back chairs draped in brown Cordova leather.

“Your Imperial Majesties are such a charming couple!” Mary complimented. Obviously, they were devoted to each other, and her girlish heart dreamt of finding her own true love.

“Thank you, and call me Isabella.”  The empress’ countenance was as radiating as smooth, glassy water without a ripple, which was abundantly illuminated by midday sun.

“I will,” Mary gladly assented.  

“More watered wine!” enjoined Emperor Carlos. “Have it cooled!”

A group of servants hurried to comply with the order and then vacated the chamber.   

Mary gulped the contents of her silver goblet. “At least, now it is not as hot as it was in the daytime when we could scarcely breathe. I really want the night to come.” 

The empress affirmed, “Our climate is different from that of England, but you will grow accustomed to it. Spain is your home now, and here you are safe, Mary.” 

“Thank you, Isabella,” Mary answered with a smile. “I’m so happy to be in my mother’s homeland! My Imperial family are the only relatives I have left.”    

Isabella slowly drained her goblet. “You are my sister and friend.” 

Catherine of Aragon’s daughter experienced a lightness, vibrant and invigorating, which had been absent in her world for years. “And you are mine, Isabella.” 

After her arrival in Seville over two months ago, Mary had been lodged in apartments fit for royalty. On the same evening, the Duke of Alba had introduced her to Carlos V, Holy Roman Emperor, and his wife, Isabella of Portugal. To Mary’s joy, the empress’ hospitality had been instantaneous and all-embracing, while Carlos still remained reserved. During their first meeting, Mary had been accompanied by Eustace Chapuys, who was staying at the palace.   

The short silence was broken by Carlos. “Your Highness,” he addressed their English cousin. “You are our dear guest, and I’m glad that you have befriended my wife.” 

“Thank you, Your Imperial Majesty,” Mary uttered, as if she were wary of him. Despite her closeness with Isabella, she and Carlos still addressed one another in an official manner.

After pouring more wine for herself, Isabella sipped some. “Be true to yourself and help others. This would make each day your masterpiece, and your friendships will be a fine art.” 

Her husband leisurely drank red liquid. “Very well said.” 

“We are all cousins, Carlos – don’t ever forget that.”  Isabella glowered at her spouse. She comprehended that her husband had aided Mary to escape because now it was useful for Spain. “In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of delights.”

Mary did not know the couple well enough to feel the tension between them. “My sainted mother once told me that she defined friendship as a bond that transcends all barriers.”  

Isabella tipped her head. “Great friends are hard to find.” 

His voice was sympathetic as he spoke after placing his goblet onto the table. “It must have been horrible for you to lose your mother, Your Highness.” 

Mary lamented, “I was not even allowed to see my mama in her last days!”

“My commiserations over your loss,” uttered Isabella emphatically.

The emperor’s tone morphed into a flat and unimpassioned sound that was not pleasant to the ears of the two women. “It is God’s will when His children die, so we ought to accept it and pray for them.”  No emotion colored his intonation as he told Mary after a pause, “Your Highness, I endeavored to prevent the annulment of your mother’s marriage as much as I could. For many years, I kept Pope Clement and then Pope Paul under my control so that they would not declare the marriage null and void. After England’s break with Rome, I never acknowledged the Boleyn witch as the Queen of England, but I could do nothing else to stop King Henry’s madness.”   

A question hovered in the air between Mary and Carlos, but she did not dare ask it. Why had Your Imperial Majesty not taken my mama and me from the witch’s clutches before her death? His countenance austere, the emperor did not look amicable, Mary observed ruefully, noticing the taut line of his mouth and the coolness in his gaze – she saw them almost every day.

Instead, Mary pronounced, “I know that, Your Imperial Majesty.” 

The assessing hazel eyes, though still cold, roamed over her with mild interest. “It is good that your Spanish is so excellent. Aunt Catalina taught you her native tongue very well.” 

Elation lit up Mary’s face. “My mother frequently spoke of her homeland.” 

“Your Spanish is truly magnificent,” Isabella concurred.

Indeed, Mary’s command of the language was impeccable. “I was taught to speak Greek, Latin, Flemish, French, and German. My mother requested that my governess and my tutors pay more attention to Spanish than any other language; we also practiced Spanish with her.”  

Isabella’s expression was regretful. “I always wanted to meet with Aunt Catalina.” 

Carlos crossed himself. “God let her rest in peace.” 

Isabella echoed her husband. Both she and Mary made the signs of the cross.

Mary envisaged Catherine’s affectionate smile on the day when they had last seen each other before their separation. “My mother was King Henry’s true wife as long as she lived.” 

“No one in Spain doubts that, Mary,” the empress assured. “I think Aunt Catalina was more like our grandmother, Queen Isabella, than any of her other children.”  

“Your guess is right, wife,” the emperor confirmed. “I met Aunt Catalina during my visit to England years ago. She had our grandmother’s hair and eyes, clever and sagacious. I also found in Catalina a combination of strength and fierceness disguised by her regal sangfroid.” 

Mary was immensely proud of her illustrious bloodline. “We are all descendants of the greatest monarchs the world has ever seen. We must never forget about that.” 

“We never will,” claimed Carlos. “We are more royal than anyone else in Christendom.”

At last, the English girl relaxed. “I’m so happy to be here!”  

“It is beneficial for you and us.”  His manner of speaking was like that of a ruler, not a cousin.

Mary burst out laughing. Unlike her, Isabella had noticed “the us” part of her husband’s statement, and the flash of cunning in his eyes had not escaped her notice either.    

At present, the House of Habsburg was going through a severe crisis. Due to the failure in France and the continuing Turkish attacks upon the shores of Spain and her much reduced fleet, the state treasury was totally exhausted. Encouraged by the emperor’s setbacks, some German dukes, both Catholic and Protestant, had ceased their economic relations with Spain. Heavily battered by the defeat in France, the Spanish Crown had delayed annual payments to its armies.

If England had allied with the German Protestant States, which were friends of France, the new anti-Habsburg formation would have become too perilous for a weakened Spain. But King Henry’s handy marriage pawn had been snatched right from under his nose. As Henry was not a free man, he would not enter into a matrimony with a Protestant princess; as the English monarch did not have any living siblings, he would not be able to use them for political purposes.

“Do you have news from England?” Isabella switched the topic.

Mary quizzed, “Has my father written to Your Imperial Majesty?”

“He did,” Carlos replied with a smile. “Four times; he tried to intimidate me.” 

Henry’s daughter cleared her throat. “He threatened to the Holy Roman Emperor?!”

He idly scratched his protruding chin. “Yes. His anger has blinded him so that he doesn’t understand that England cannot harm Spain, despite our unfortunate situation.” 

“Oh, that is exactly my father’s style,” Mary muttered.

“What did you reply to him, husband?” Isabella questioned.

“Nothing.”  Carlos stood up and walked to a window. “Silence is better.” 

“But he will write again,” his consort assumed.

“Perhaps.”  The emperor looked out into the gardens in contemplation. “But even if he sends me more letters, I’ll respond only when a suitable moment comes.” 

It traumatized the emperor’s self-regard that his awful misfortunes were so widely known and discussed. Sniggering at him, his adversaries rejoiced that there was seemingly no remedy to them. Yet, during all of his audiences with diplomats, Carlos remained audacious and regal. His stoic indifference, with which he had faced an envoy from Haireddin Barbarossa a month ago, was a subject of commendation by everyone in the country as the gossip had circulated.

Carlos emphasized on purpose that in contrast to the “Most Unchristian” King François, he would never make peace with the infidels, despite the ongoing blockade of Alicante, Algeciras, Ceuta, and Almería. Thanks be to God that at least Cádiz, Malaga, Valencia, and Barcelona were freed, Carlos ruminated. Everyone who makes alliances with the Turks and goes against the Holy See is a heretic, whether they are enemies, friends, or even my family members.

Mary’s curiosity was at a peak. “When will it happen?”

Carlos strode back to his chair. His answer was enigmatic. “As soon as I deem it possible.” 

“Excuse me, Your Imperial Majesty?” Mary half-demanded, half-implored.  

“What?” He settled himself in his chair. “Patience is a virtue.” 

“But–”  Mary was interrupted.

The emperor lectured, “Don’t rush things, Your Highness. Think strategically.”  

Isabella tore her gaze away from her husband to Mary, who sat as rigid as a soldier during a march. “Mary, everything will be all right. Do you wish to rest?”

Mary bounced to her feet, anxious to get out. “Yes, I am tired.”  She curtsied and left.

§§§

Isabella confronted her spouse. “Have you invented a scheme to use Mary?”

“To our benefit,” Carlos finished frostily. “Yes, I have an idea.” 

“Carlos,” his wife whispered, her perturbed intonation catching his attention. “You will not have Mary imprisoned like Aunt Juana when she outlives her usefulness?”

“Of course not! How can you think so?” He jumped to his feet.

“Oh, Carlos…”  She was warmed by his words.

She drank in his athletic figure clad in quilted doublet of dark gray silk and black hose. In spite of her distrust of him, she could not deny that after his recovery, Carlos looked even more handsome than she had remembered him. In her excitement, she threw her arms around his neck as he stepped to his wife and drew her to himself as he feasted kisses upon her face.        

Carlos murmured, “Mi amor, I knew you would not be alienated from me for long.” 

“There will be other time for sweet talk,” she redirected the conversation.

Removing his arms from her, he backed away. For a handful of heartbeats, he stood still, never once breaking eye contact with his spouse. “What do you want to discuss, wife?”

“Ferdinand!” cried Isabella emphatically as she stepped away from him.

The emperor sighed helplessly. “I do not know what I can do for my brother. Even if we had agreed with François on the conditions of Ferdinand’s liberation, we would have had nothing to pay. His wife would not be able to collect ransom for him because all the proceeds from my brother’s domains are being spent on wars against the Ottomans attacking Hungary.” 

“You would not offer any territories to France, would you?”

Another sigh fled him. “How can I? I am the Holy Roman Emperor and the Head of the Habsburg family. I cannot allow anyone to dissolve our unified territories.”    

She stressed in the most meaningful accents, “The Lord gave you such a wonderful brother. Ferdinand has always been affectionate towards you and exceedingly loyal to you, swallowing the offences you sometimes heaped upon him. We must rescue Ferdinand at any cost!”

Carlos paced the room. “I love Ferdinand. But so far, we have no money, and we cannot give away our lands gathered into our family’s empire by the previous Habsburg generations. We must focus on our inner problems before returning to the subject of Ferdinand’s release.” 

Isabella heard the regret in his voice, but she disapproved of her husband’s approach to the matter. “No! We cannot desert Ferdinand. Not even for a year!”   

“We have no choice, Bella.”    

“Ferdinand would consider your abandonment of him a betrayal. He would also blame you for Spain’s inability to send any soldiers in order to defend his lands from the Muslims.” 

Pausing in the middle, the monarch turned to her with a scowl expressing his half-torment and half-anger. “Ferdinand is a monarch himself. He will have to understand us.” 

She shook her head sadly. “You are a cold-blooded politician even when it comes to the fate of your brother. Have you thought what Ferdinand might do if you leave him alone?”   

The alarming words ‘Ferdinand’s alliance with the House of Valois’ hovered over their lips, but neither of them pronounced them. It was something akin to premonition, an intuitive hunch.

“Don’t allow the loyalty Ferdinand has always had to you to crack. If you and Ferdinand ever become enemies, everything will descend into Tartarus.”  Sudden terror paralyzed her. “If you two grapple for the Imperial throne, rivers of blood will engulf Europe.” 

“God forbid it happens.”  He crossed himself.

Once more, a sense of something unknown chilled her. “Deep down, you have always been afraid of Ferdinand’s many talents. Ferdinand has always been extremely popular wherever he has ruled. German dukes favor him over you because of his conciliatory religious policies. After your awful fiasco in France and Ferdinand’s capture, the discontent within the Holy Roman Empire against you is rising, while they empathize with Ferdinand’s French afflictions.”  

“You know me too well.”  Indeed, part of Carlos both feared and envied his brother.

“Ferdinand is a good man,” her voice underscored every word. “If you do not do anything that he would interpret as a betrayal and antagonize him, he will always side with you.” 

“Yes, my brother is like François in some ways – they both have a code of chivalry.” 

Nodding, Isabella announced, “I’ll voyage to France to negotiate your brother’s release.” 

He hissed, “I shall not allow you to travel to that Valois miscreant’s kingdom!”

The empress placed her hands onto her hips. “I shall go to France anyway! If you refuse to plead with the Valois monarch so as to save your own sibling, I’ll beseech François to let Ferdinand go under those terms which His French Majesty will determine.”  Her voice rose to a crescendo of indignation. “You should worry more about your family than your wounded pride!”

As the accusation rang in the silent room, Carlos held himself taut. Yet, his head dropped in despairing anguish, as his queen darted away from him and swung the door shut.

§§§

The Tudor princess wandered around the Palacio Gótico that consisted of two rectangular rooms, lying parallel to each other, and two smaller rooms situated across them at each end.

The Palacio Gótico had been constructed in the 13th century alongside the vestiges of the old Islamic Almohad palace by King Alfonso X of Castile, known as the Wise, following the conquest of Seville. In Mary’s childhood, Catherine of Aragon had described all of the palaces forming the Royal Alcázar of Seville, and now Mary understood why Palacio Gótico represented the triumph of Christian principles and tastes against the Muslim past. Alfonso had chosen Gothic forms because they were associated with Christianity and the Crusades.

The empress approached the younger woman. “The Alcázar of Seville was originally built by Moorish Muslim rulers. Over the centuries, various parts of the Alcázar were again and again adapted to suit the taste of the times and those of kings. In Alfonso X’s palace, the elements of Gothic art are so profoundly seen and felt that it looks more European.”

Mary swung around to her. “The most prominent features of Gothic architecture include the use of the rib vault, the pointed arch, and the flying buttress.”  She lifted her hand, pointing towards the roof. “Here, the halls are covered by rib vaults supported by pillars attached to the walls.” 

“But there are no stained glass windows here,” Isabella remarked.   

Mary recalled the lessons of her mother and her tutors. “Islamic architecture has distinctive motifs: Arabic calligraphy, rounded arches, vegetative design, and decorative tiles.”  She gestured towards the walls. “These tiles create a fine mixture of Gothic art with Moorish elements.” 

“When one enters the Alcázar of Seville, they cannot imagine what lies behind its walls. The same happened to me when Carlos and I arrived here in 1526 for our wedding ceremony. I was so amazed with all the collection of palaces, fortresses, and gardens!”

The royal ladies stood nearby, and their slender frames seemed petite in the room’s vastness. The walls were decorated with large tiles, which were somewhat like tapestries and featured pairs of animals, snakes, birds, and cherubs. The upper part of several tiles displayed the coats-of-arms of Spanish royalty and the emperor’s motto ‘Plus Ultra’, or ‘further beyond’ in Latin.   

Mary swerved the conversation off into a personal direction. “Isabella, why is the emperor so cautious around me, as if he has not yet determined whether I am his friend or foe?”   

In the faint light, Mary saw Isabella’s eyes darken with sadness. “After his misadventures in France, my spouse has become more suspicious and guarded. He is overwhelmed with hatred for all those who have ever defeated or humiliated him in some way. Now he is a different man, and I’m afraid I’ll not have my beloved husband back… That might become my damnation.” 

As a sympathetic understanding flashed across her features, Isabella was glad that Mary had accepted this explanation. Smart and precocious, Mary was still too young to grasp the intricacies of deadly political intrigues woven at royal courts. At least Mary is no longer serving her bastard sister, and she will not be forced to marry a heretic, Isabella’s comforting thoughts were. Yet, her heart weighed heavily in her breast because Isabella could not fathom her husband’s game.

“Anne Boleyn,” Mary Tudor hissed in a sibilant voice that sounded like the Holy Father’s damnation of the worst heretic on earth. “I blame that whore for my and my mother’s troubles.” 

A shiver trembled down Isabella’s spine. “Hate is the most debilitating emotion, and it can keep you from being content. Darkness cannot drive out hate – only love can.” 

Mary shook her head. “I loathe that demoness with my whole heart!”

“The poison of loathing in one’s blood doubles the burden for those who suffer.” 

However, Mary persevered, “The witch must be punished for her crimes.” 

Unconsciously, Mary’s fingers clasped the gleaming gold band that loosely encircled her neck. This thing of beauty, expertly crafted to resemble a thick, golden rope, had once belonged to Catherine of Aragon, and Chapuys had given it to the bastardized princess. To Mary, this band reminded her of her dearly departed mother, as well as the countless perfidies of the Boleyn strumpet whom she considered guilty of Catherine’s poisoning, as Chapuys had assured her.

Despite the passage of time after Catherine’s death, pain twisted Mary’s insides into knots. That and her thirst for vengeance against Anne Boleyn. Mary’s relief was her confidence that the House of Habsburg was still powerful enough to recover from all afflictions and then to launch a new invasion into France. The grim satisfaction that the harlot had failed to provide the Valois monarch with a son also warmed Mary’s soul, chilled by her antagonism and loneliness.

Mary crossed herself, and words of prayer in Latin tumbled from her lips. “God bless and grant to my mother’s soul eternal rest in peace. Your providence guides our lives; I beg you to help me fulfill my destiny and save England from heresy, which is why I’ve arrived in Spain.”   

The Tudor girl was startled by Isabella’s expression of shock. “What are your goals, Mary?”

“I intend to ask His Imperial Majesty to help me restore my rightful heritage.” 

The empress measured her with a sad look. “Spain has been weakened and stymied.” 

“Do you imply that you cannot help me?”

“Mary,” said Isabella in a gentler tone. “Let me be blunt: your head is full of delusions and fantasies. The sooner you get rid of them, the better it will be for you, my dear.” 

Catherine of Aragon’s daughter blanched. “Delusions?”

“Carlos will not send any forces to England to wage war against King Henry. Not now and not even when our problems will be over, God help us. Carlos’ priorities lie elsewhere: to save his impoverished realm, to crush the House of Valois, and to defend the Habsburg territories from both the Ottomans and the spreading heresy within the empire.”  Her voice rose an octave. “Mary, do you really wish your countrymen to plunge into a mire of civil wars?”

Mary thought of the internecine cousins’ wars in her home country. “No, I don’t. I would want peace and prosperity in England that must be restored to the flock of Rome.” 

“Under your rule? England may prosper not only if you become her queen.” 

It was something that had never occurred to Mary before. “I don’t know...”

“Do you wish King Henry to be deposed?”

An abashed Mary shook her head. “Regardless of how much pain my father caused me and my late mother, I would never have done such a horrible thing to him.” 

Isabella aimed to dim her hopes for queenship. “So, you do not want Englishmen to be killed just because you or someone else wrestle for power. Your feelings are a tangle of conflicts.” 

“I would prefer to hear different things,” the younger woman complained.

“Isn’t the truth better?” As Mary nodded reluctantly, Isabella confided, “I pray that you will not be embroiled in any intrigues. Remember one thing: Ferdinand, our cousin, will always take care of you. Our future is unpredictable, and if Carlos or I cannot aid you, contact Ferdinand.” 

Mary deduced, “Is our captive cousin honorable?”

“Very much so. I met him several times in Flanders when Carlos summoned me there during his long absences. I love Carlos wholeheartedly as a husband, and adore Ferdinand as a cousin.” 

“I’ll not forget that. Now I feel so relieved that I am not under my father’s control.” 

“Let the past go,” the empress advised. “Or there will be no peace for you.” 

“We might be overheard here.”  Mary’s head pivoted back and forth.

Isabella nodded. The chamber was empty, but servants or Carlos could appear at any time.

The two women returned to the Salon de los Tapices adjacent to the room where they had spent the better part of the afternoon. As they passed through the huge vaulted hall, they admired the awesome wall tapestries portraying the emperor’s conquest of Tunisia of 1535.

Soon they exited into the Patio del Crucero, or Courtyard of the Crossing, whose layout was a cross-shaped garden. The smell of orange trees hit them straight away.

Isabella told her cousin, “Your troubles are over, Mary. Over time, you will change.” 

“Not as long as the Boleyn she-devil always wins,” contradicted Mary.

A moment later, Emperor Carlos came to the courtyard. Mary’s countenance, marred by her aversion towards Anne, made Isabella think of her own husband who was so infected with mortal loathing for the Valois ruler that it was corroding his conscience and his spirit.

Notes:

I hope you are all safe from Covid-19. I'm still staying in lockdown in Tuscany. Be well!

Thank you for reading this chapter! Let me know what you think.

As always, I recommend VioletRoseLily and EvilFluffyBiteyThing at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91 at . Check the stories "Court of Thorns and Roses" and "Hourglass" by WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction. Give a try to FieryMaze's stories!

I hope you like the insight into Anne de Montmorency's marriage and his scenes with Mary Stafford. In this AU, they had had an affair in the past before Mary caught the eye of King François, and Montmorency ended their relationship allowing his sovereign, to whom his loyalty is immeasurable, to be with Mary. Can you predict something?

In this AU, Thomas Boleyn has many flaws and is obsessed with power, but he is maligned for drama. First of all, he was a talented and competent ambassador who was successful long before Mary and Anne became associated with King Henry. In history, Thomas was not fond of Anne's marriage to the king, but later he seems to have gone along with the plan. We don't know for a certainty what Thomas Boleyn was really like as a person or father, but it is clear that he is villainized in fiction and on TV.

I hope you like Mary Tudor's friendship with Isabella. The empress attempts to make Mary disillusioned, but it is not easy to shatter Mary's delusions – it will eventually happen, but not now. Isabella also hints that Mary might find herself at the center of the Habsburg intrigues, which Mary cannot grasp it yet. Mary will remember Isabella's advice about Ferdinand. Isabella prudently warns Carlos that he should never allow Ferdinand's loyalty to him to crack.

This is the last calm chapter before several turbulent chapters. Be prepared!

All the descriptions of Château de Rambures in France and of Alcázar of Seville in Spain, as well as all the information given about them is historically correct.

Let's make each other smile! Let's review and favorite each other!

Yours sincerely,

Lady Perseverance

Chapter 29: Chapter 28: Prisoners of Fate

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 28: Prisoners of Fate

April 20, 1538, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, France

Charles de Valois, Duke d’Orléans, sauntered through the corridors. His swagger was more wine induced than an attempt to strut. That afternoon, Charles had attended the festivities for the Ambassador of Dania, organized by Marguerite of Navarre, and gotten himself heavily drunk.

Opening his bedroom’s door, Charles called for a servant, but no one replied. He slipped inside and then groped for a candle before finally getting it alight. As its dim light illumined the room, he surveyed his surroundings with admiration. Like his father, he loved Fontainebleau more than other royal palaces and was always happy to spend as much time at court as possible.  

The spacious room had brocaded walls the color of pale honey, two of them frescoed with a cycle illustrating allegories of the months and seasons. Oak, amber Italian furniture was scattered about the area. There was a window overlooking the gardens, and a door through which he could proceed out to the balcony and contemplate the ornate watchtower. Inside the bedroom, there was also a writing table, piled with books, and couches with lemon-colored covers.

“I love this castle,” Charles muttered as he eased himself into a nearby chair. 

“More than women?” a feminine voice came from the depths of the chamber.

As his gaze drifted to a canopied bed draped with midnight sky covers, his breath caught in his throat. The curtains were open, and he groaned in mingled disbelief and excitement as he saw the naked Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly there. A shaft of light flooded obliquely on to her slender figure, as she reclined onto the pillows, making her long, blonde hair gleam with pale gold upon her shoulders. The prince’s attraction to this siren, which he had not been able to deny even during Anne de Pisseleu’s tenure as his father’s mistress, was now stirring in his loins.  

“My prince!” The Duchess d’Étampes greeted him with an alluring toss of her head.

“Madame?” The nonplussed prince paused for a moment.

The former royal mistress wordlessly laughed at him. “Your Highness, this awkwardness of yours is so very tempting. You are almost fifteen, so it is high time to become a man.”

A shocked Charles felt swooning. “My father...”

Anne beckoned him to her. “He sent me away, so I’m free. And I want you now.”

“Really, Madame?” Flames of lust ignited in his whole being.

“Yes!” She touched her own breast. “Come here!”

“God!” She was all lush curves and softness, and he wanted her so much that he burned.  

The eccentric Charles was still a virgin, although he had been tempted many times before. Sympathetic to the Protestant doctrines, just as Anne de Pisseleu was, Charles had been a member of her intellectual circles. He had admired her gorgeous appearance and her intelligence. Charles would never have dared to bed his father’s paramour, but François had set her aside months ago. Now the duchess had confirmed her dismissal as his father’s maîtresse-en-titre herself.

Wobbling, the Duke d’Orléans stumbled to the bed and fell onto it. Her arms snaked around his back, and Anne de Pisseleu pressed him closer to herself, until all his weight lay on her. Her tremendous beauty, heightened by her provocative smile and her languorous pose, awakened a ravenous hunger in the prince. Her nude body clinging to Charles was perfect for him, and the young man was at a point of no return as Anne let her tongue travel up his neck to his lips.

“You shall be exceedingly satisfied.” The sweetness of her words undid him.

“It is unthinkable.” He fused his mouth to hers.

She chortled. “I shall teach you kissing very well, my dearest Highness.” She undressed Charles hurriedly, pulling off his doublet and then unlacing his hose.

When he was naked, she positioned Charles on his side so that she could caress his body, including his private parts, in the way that left him beg for more. She was trailing kisses along his jawline, neck, chest, and stomach, drawing labored breaths from his mouth. He trembled as she directed his erection to where she needed it the most, but once he penetrated her, Charles could not help but feel new power blossoming in his maleness with every heartbeat as she rode him.

Cupping his face, Madame d’Étampes whispered, “You have become a man, Charles!”

“Have I?” the prince inquired, as if unsure of what had transpired between them.

“My man,” she exclaimed fiercely, arching her hips into his thrusts.

Soon Charles fell asleep in her arms, and Anne de Pisseleu watched him. She had become the lover of the monarch’s son because now it was her only way to delve into some of François’ secrets and win a portion of her lost power back. However, as they had made love, it had occurred to her that Charles’ physique was so much like François’ that she had enjoyed their intimacy.

Fate has a bizarre sense of humor, Anne lamented silently. François discarded me, but now I am his youngest son’s paramour. Banished from court, she had used her connections to get into the palace – she had convinced a guard, her former lover, to let her inside surreptitiously.  

François de Valois was Anne’s obsession, and she craved to be his muse, but he had not summoned her back to court. The news of Queen Anne’s second pregnancy had both irked and hurt the duchess. This affair was the result of her spontaneous actions, but she did not regret anything. Nevertheless, as waves of pleasure had been rocketing through her body during her intercourse with Charles, Anne had forced herself not to cry out his father’s name.  

After minutes of hesitation, Anne de Pisseleu resolved to play a game with Charles. “Dream of me, you lusty lad.” She then disentwined herself from him.

Having dressed herself, the duchess left her black silk stocking with the initial ‘A’ next to Charles’ sleeping form, tiptoed to the door, and exited. The obvious thing, of course, was to leave Fontainebleau and return to her Parisian mansion before someone could discover her.

As dawn brushed the sky, Charles opened his eyes. His head heavy from hangover, he could barely remember the night. His mind was in turmoil once he spotted a female stocking on the sheets. His sated body was relaxed, yet he felt exhausted, as if he had run from Marathon to Athens as Pheidippides had done. Had he slept with someone, or was it a figment of his imagination? 

“Who is she?” A bewildered Charles took in the initials.  

The ‘A’ on the stocking could refer to a woman named Anne, but she could not be Queen Anne of France. He was intrigued as to the possibility that the other Anne, who had once been his father’s Venus, had entered his bed hours ago. Therewith, his brain reproduced the visions of his coupling with Anne de Pisseleu, inflaming his cheeks with a flush of male pride. Now Charles believed that he had lost his virginity to the Duchess d’Étampes, and he did not regret it.


May 6, 1538, Château d’Azay-le-Rideau, Loire Valley, France

“Will I die in France?” Ferdinand von Habsburg lamented. He still could not resign himself to the fact that he – King of the Romans and the second man in the Holy Roman Empire, as well as King of Bohemia, Hungary, and Croatia, a Habsburg Archduke – was a prisoner.

Angered by his helplessness, the captive paced his quarters furiously. He was not interested in the paintings on the walls, or in the rich furnishings. Instead, the intricately handcrafted, gilded pieces and the priceless works of art irritated Ferdinand. Since his capture, Ferdinand had been kept in several palaces, owned by the Crown or one of the French king’s most loyal subjects.

After the Battle of Bourges, Cardinal François de Tournon had visited Ferdinand in Château d’Harcourt in Normandy. The prelate had informed him that Carlos, though severely wounded on the battlefield, had fled to Spain. At first, Ferdinand had rejoiced, thinking that Carlos would recover from his injuries and then bring reinforcements to rescue him. Yet, his hopes had dwindled upon learning that the Spanish ports had been either attacked or besieged by the Ottoman fleet.

After the war, Ferdinand had been transported to his current residence. For months, he had had no idea whether his brother was alive until Tournon had apprised him of Carlos’ survival. No one had visited Ferdinand or written him, as though he had disappeared from the face of the earth. He had demanded that François come to him, but his words had fallen on deaf ears. Ferdinand had masterminded two plans of escape, but each of them had been thwarted. The château that was now his home was set on an island in the middle of the river, so it was impossible to run away.

Striding to and fro, he examined the room that had two stories. Spacious and furnished with high-back chairs, upholstered in asparagus velvet and leather. On a gallery up a staircase were book-stacks lined with red silk, where Ferdinand often read. A carved bed, which dominated an alcove in the corner, was swathed in a collection of silk: burnished golds, dark blues, vivid greens, deep reds, tender beiges, and light pinks. At least Françoise allows me to live in luxury.

At last, Ferdinand halted, his scrutiny fixed on the painting of a fierce battle, with corpses littering the blood-soaked grass. He recognized the hand of Filippo Lippi, who was one of his favorite painters. Stroking his slightly protruding chin, his mind drifted back to the emperor.

“Damn you, brother!” Ferdinand balled his fists. “Why haven’t you ransomed me yet?”

A voice spoke in Spanish. “Carlos is too preoccupied with his internal problems.”   

Recognizing the charming French accent, Ferdinand swung around. Clad in azure, black, and golden brocade, King François stood at the doorway, a gold crown upon his head. With the same jaunty smirk that Ferdinand had seen on his enemy’s face on the night of his capture.  

“Finally, Your Majesty,” Ferdinand began in accented French, which he knew well.

As François entered, the door behind him was immediately shut and locked.

To demonstrate his disrespect, Ferdinand stomped over to a chair and eased himself into it. “Oh, such a legendary guest!  Nowadays Your Majesty must be compared with Charlemagne as you defeated the emperor. Are you wearing a crown for pomp?  You may hold a golden scepter and a gold chalice as well, but even then, no Habsburg, man or woman, would be impressed.”  

Ferdinand looks well, François observed. His captivity is so different from mine in Madrid. Indeed, in his sumptuous clothes, the emperor’s brother looked like a courtier, if not for a shade of melancholy about him. Ferdinand’s doublet of brown velvet was stamped with geometrical motifs, which reminded of the European and Moorish ornamentation in Spanish palaces.

The French ruler crossed to a black leather-covered chair. “I don’t see why you are trying to rub into my face how much better the Habsburgs are than the Valois.”  

Now Ferdinand was in an increasingly livid mood. “It is gospel truth, you immoral French blackguard!” His anger propelled him to bounce to his feet. “Do you think that I’ll admire you and your country?  You have no right to keep me as your prisoner for one year and a half. I am the King of Hungary, Croatia, and Bohemia!  Most importantly, I am the King of the Romans!”

This was the last straw for François. “In Madrid, at first I strove to behave heroically, but the prison life drained me quickly. In that old fortress, where I lived, water dropped onto my head through the cracks in the ceiling, and if outside the rain was heavy, it flooded my small cell.  The wretched stench made me cringe every time I breathed. In autumn and winter, it was rather cold in the cell, the wind screaming night and day, and the wooden floor sloped.”

“That is not true,” objected Ferdinand.

“Ask your brother,” François deadpanned. Although pain, shame, and hatred tormented him from the inside, only sarcasm tinged his voice. “Carlos was too gentle with me in Spain, for he is such a noble-hearted man. Thanks to his kindness to me, my health deteriorated, and I contracted a severe fever. I was profoundly undernourished because my jailers did not feed me well.”  

The emperor’s brother did not want to believe the man whom he had always considered his family’s worst adversary. “I heard that your life in prison galled you, and that you were sick. But my brother would never have treated a foreign monarch so horribly.”

“Ferdinand,” François addressed him in a personal manner. “Did he lie that I lived in luxury, like you do now?  Did he say that I feigned my illness to make him meet with me?”

“Yes,” Ferdinand recalled, confused.  

“Carlos lied to you. Your sister, Eleanor, God bless her soul, and your sister-in-law, Isabella, were there. As far as I know, they counselled Carlos against treating another king so harshly, but your brother hated me too much to care. The emperor dreamed of breaking me, and he almost succeeded. During my illness, I even decided to abdicate my throne in favor of my son, the late Dauphin François, but my sister, Marguerite, convinced me against doing that.”

“Eleanor and Isabella both told me that Queen Marguerite helped you recover.”

As memories of those awful days became move vivid in his brain, François blanched like a fatally wounded soldier. “Marguerite has always been my guardian angel. She rushed to Spain to negotiate my release, only to find me close to death. She demanded that the emperor have me moved to another place, and once it was done, my sister nursed me back to health. I remember her worried face as Margot wiped the feverish sweat from my forehead, and I pulled through.”

His voice thin and strangled, François continued, “I was forced not only to sign the Treaty of Madrid, but also to send my two eldest sons – François and Henri – to Spain.” Ire flared in his orbs. “My boys were kept hostage for several years in Madrid, while France collected a ransom for me. My poor sons!  At first, the living conditions in their prison were tolerable, but soon they were deprived of even basic comforts, despite Eleanor’s and Isabella’s attempts to take care of them. My eldest son, François, never regained his health after those horrors.”

Ferdinand directed at him a hard stare. “You are the only one to blame for the sufferings of your offspring. You tried to take the Duchy of Milan from the Spanish control.”

“I am not responsible for the inhuman imprisonment of my sons. I was not in Spain.”

“You hold my brother accountable.” Ferdinand’s face was both sullen and annoyed.

“Gods be damned!” François uttered in a bored tone. “You spent too much time in Austria, Bohemia, and Germany. Carlos manipulated you into thinking that he was my victim.”

“François,” the King of Hungary said tiredly. “I do not know what to believe.”

François smiled sympathetically. “The days of one’s captivity are uncertain and frightening in their monotony. Even when nothing bad happens and you have to simply wait, you are afraid that you are just walking through the valley shadowed by death. I know this.”   

“You experienced that in Spain.” This time, no malice colored Ferdinand’s tone.

Sighing, the Valois ruler recollected, “Only in rare moments of forgetfulness, I was happy. Sometimes, my imagination would carry me to the green gardens of Amboise, where I grew up, or to the forests of Cognac, where I ran with Montmorency and Chabot in our childhood. At times, I would fancy myself flying in the sky like a bird, perhaps because Leonardo da Vinci, my dearly departed friend, once told me that one day, human beings would be able to fly. But death lurked in my rooms, unobstructed by the bars on my windows, from where it could charge at me, trample, and crush me – a king in prison, yet a mortal man – into a mass of bones and flesh.”

Though unwilling to admit that his elder brother was capable of treating a fellow monarch so dreadfully, the captive saw that François spoke convincingly and candidly about his woes in Ferdinand’s homeland. Did Carlos tell me falsehoods about François and his time in Spain? 

François’ baritone intruded into his musings. “Regardless of what you think of me, I would never have done things to another royal that your brother did to me and my family. Truth be told, it is wrong to take any monarch prisoner. Yet, I cannot deny that your presence in France pleases me, Ferdinand. You cannot complain on our hospitality, for you enjoy a good life here.”

Rage was rising in Ferdinand again. “Of course, you are happy to take revenge on my family for your own afflictions. And now my brother does not fight for me because the Spanish realm is devastated by the invasion of France, the wars against the Turks, and God knows what else…” 

The King of France regarded the man with a sour grin. “Your brother sent only one envoy to me – Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle. He did not offer me anything interesting.”

“I know Granvelle well. He is not a pleasant man.”

“On that we agree fully, Ferdinand. I confess that I decided to keep you captive for some time for personal reasons, but no one can blame me for my aversion towards your family.”

“You also mistreated my sister Eleanor.”

François narrowed his eyes. “Forced to wed her, I despised Eleanor as much as I loathe your other relatives. She was a good woman, but I could not make myself treat her as a wife. I should have been a better husband to her.” His voice was as loud as the sound of horns on the battlefield as he emphasized, “But I did not murder her. Did Carlos lie to you about that, Ferdinand?”

His opponent sighed. “My brother told me that you had killed Eleanor because you hated her and wanted to marry your mistress – Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly, Duchess d’Étampes.”  

“Eleanor died of consumption.” It was exactly as the King of France thought: Carlos had lied even to his own brother. “She coughed up blood for a long time, slowly fading.”   

“Of natural causes, then.” Ferdinand’s voice was dismal.

“Yes, it is so. You should take everything Carlos says with a grain of salt.”

Ferdinand resumed pacing the room. “In any case, I’ll try to escape again.”

François rose to his feet. “In the 12th century, one French nobleman, who was a knight in the service of King Philippe the Second Augustus, built this fortress on an island in the center of the Indre River. It was necessary to protect the Tours to Chinon road, where it crossed the river. Since then, the castle was rebuilt, and now it is one of the most secure fortresses in the Loire Valley.”

“Damn you, François!” Ferdinand gasped as if fighting for his breath. “Let me go!”

The Valois monarch shook his head. “Not until I hear something interesting from Imperial ambassadors that will make up for the loss of my honor when I signed the Treaty of Madrid.”

“Will you negotiate my liberation with Carlos?” Ferdinand asked unsteadily.

“It is in vain because your brother’s treasury is empty. I highly doubt that Carlos would be ready to give any lands away in order to have you released, Ferdinand.”

“You cannot know that.” The prisoner returned to his chair.

“Carlos is a cold-blooded politician before being your brother. Hasn’t life already proved that?  The whole world knows that he has not always been fair to you despite your loyalty.”

Ferdinand’s silence and the sagging of his shoulders were the best answer. François felt bad: clearly, Ferdinand loved and admired his elder sibling, in some ways still idealizing him.

“Do you need anything, Ferdinand?”

“François, I’m grateful for Spanish, Flemish, and German musicians. I’ll keep inviting them to entertain me because they remind me of all my homes – Spain, Flanders, and Austria.”

“My friend,” the ruler of France jested, “if you want something, you need only to ask.”

The King of Hungary shot back, “The commandant of this castle is so generous that he sends even women who look like ladies. I’ve told him many times that I do not need them.”

François tipped his head back and laughed. “They are not prostitutes, so you will not get infected by any disease. They are all pretty, so you may choose someone according to your tastes.”   

“Are they your lovers and spies?” Ferdinand jeered. “I do not need such shameful services.”

“Really?  I was told that you were unfaithful to your wife on a few occasions.”

“It is none of your business.” How did the French know that? 

François extracted a sheet of paper from the pocket of his doublet and put it on a nearby table. “Isabella is going to visit France, just as my Margot once arrived in Spain.”  

The other man perked up noticeably. “When?”

“Within several months, and I shall accept her. This is a letter from the empress.”

Ferdinand’s visage brightened. “God has heard my prayers!” He then asked, “François, tell me what you know about my children and my wife – my Anna. How are they doing?”

Anna of Bohemia birthed King Ferdinand many children during their long marriage. They had two sons – Archdukes Maximilian and Ferdinand. Their eight daughters were: Archduchesses Elisabeth, Anna, Maria, Magdalena, Catherine, Eleanor, Margaret, and Barbara. Their last child – Barbara – had been born in the winter of 1537, a few months after Ferdinand’s capture.

François saw that Ferdinand was very devoted to his family. “All of your children are in Vienna, and be at ease – they are all healthy. Your friend and general from Bavaria – Philip, Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg – arrived in Austria to take care of them. The regency in Austria and in all your other domains fell to one of your most loyal Austrian nobles – Trojan von Auersperg.”  

“Philip!” Ferdinand was glad to hear about his close friend. “I trust him fully.” Suddenly, his expression dropped like a stone thrown into water. “Why is my wife not my regent?”  

“I’m very sorry for your loss.” François sent him a compassionate look.

“What?” Ferdinand questioned, but François walked out without any other word.

The prisoner rushed to the table and grabbed the letter, which his enemy had left there. His eyes skimmed through his sister-in-law’s handwriting, and his heart collapsed.

With a despondent cry, Ferdinand tore the paper into pieces. “No!  Anna!”

A veil of grief shrouded Ferdinand’s entire world, and tears moistened his eyes. His beloved spouse, Anna of Bohemia and Hungary, was dead. She had passed away two months ago of fever while she had toured their lands in order to recruit more able-bodied soldiers into her army to fight against the Ottomans, who had advanced into the heart of Hungary.

“God!  My Anna!” Tears flowed from Ferdinand’s eyes. Even Isabella’s promise to get him out of his prison did not console Ferdinand, who yearned to join his wife in heaven.

The bereft prisoner tumbled to his knees. He cursed the day when Carlos had persuaded him to subjugate France. Turning to a window, he saw that the warm May sunshine descended from the heavens to kiss the grass, which he could not see from his prison, although he was allowed to stroll in the gardens from time to time. The sunshine sparkles on leaves and flowers like a thousand points of light, Ferdinand thought. Just as Anna’s eyes did every time we saw each other.      

§§§

The King of France and Anne de Montmorency, who had arrived from Paris to the Loire Valley two weeks earlier, passed through a hallway. The loud quarrel of Mary Stafford and her father, the Earl of Wiltshire, caught their attention, and they paused, listening attentively.  

Mary yelled, “I shall not allow you to make our life a living hell!”

Montmorency threw open the door and stood aside for his liege lord to enter the small room that was simple in its furnishings. Yet, it had a pleasant look: a mahogany table in the center, and a multitude of oak chairs arranged in the form of a quadrilateral around it.

“No one will harm my wife.” The monarch glowered at Wiltshire.

Thomas Boleyn performed an obsequious bow. “Your Majesty, I’m delighted to see you!  You are a more celebrated ruler than the Roman Emperor Gaius Octavius Augustus.” His French was flawless, for he knew it perfectly well as a former English ambassador to France.  

Annoyed, François strode over to a chair. “Enough of your blather, Monsieur Boleyn.”    

Montmorency’s alert scrutiny oscillated between the Boleyns. At his sovereign’s nod, he walked out, but in a moment, he was back again, bringing a paper and handing it to his king.

Mary curtsied to her brother-in-law, who motioned for her to take a seat next to him. Wiltshire remained standing at the other side of the room, frowning at his daughter. Glaring at the old man, Montmorency passed him and took his place behind the king’s chair.

In silence, the monarch looked through the parchment. Then he shifted his scrutiny to the Earl of Wiltshire. “My queen’s beloved sister wrote to me after your meeting at Château de Rambures. At that time, some of my government officials and I were touring through towns in the Loire Valley. She informed me that you wished to see me, Monsieur Wiltshire. That is why I summoned you both to Château d’Azay-le-Rideau, and Monty escorted you here.”

Mary shot a glare towards her father. “Your Majesty, this despicable man threatened to take our mother away from France if I don’t secure for him your permission to live here.”  

A humiliated Wiltshire lost his temper. “You are a wanton!  A disobedient daughter–” 

François cut him off. “I fully agree with her characterization of you.”

“Don’t you dare insult her!” Montmorency hollered.

“I’m the king’s father-in-law,” hissed Wiltshire.

“It matters not to me,” Montmorency flung back. “You are a mongrel!”

Boleyn’s chin lifted in a defiant manner. “Why are you defending her?”

Mary prevented the earl from voicing his thoughts of Montmorency’s attraction to her. “You call me a whore when you yourself advised me to seduce King François and then made me set myself in King Henry’s path. I would not become a mistress of two kings without your influence.”

After throwing an anguished glance at Mary, the ruler addressed his father-in-law. “I chose this place for our audience on purpose, Monsieur Wilshire. Your stay here will be comfortable.”

“What does Your Majesty imply?” Fazed, Boleyn rubbed his chin.  

François howled with caustic laughter. “It is a breathtaking moment when you feel heat of ambition within yourself, and you realize that you have accomplished your aims.”

Mary’s parent bit his lip. “Your Majesty, I’m confused.”

The king jested, “You will live in this picturesque place.”

“Oh?  Why?” Boleyn pricked up his ears.

François stared at the man with disdain. “Be grateful that I allow you to stay in France.”

“Thank you, sire,” Mary told the monarch, who grinned at her.

The ruler handed to his advisor the parchment. His countenance marred with implacable scorn, Montmorency stomped to where Wiltshire stood and passed on the document to him.   

Thomas Boleyn read the royal decree to appoint him one of the guards at the castle. “Who is this prisoner?   Is it the emperor’s brother – King Ferdinand?”

François did not answer his question. “Your commander is Monsieur Antoine de Raffin, the castle owner and my knight-at-arms. You will serve him as though you were his vassal.”

 His pride deeply hurt, the disappointed earl implored, “Your Majesty, do not humiliate me so!  I beg you to let me be reunited with Elizabeth and my daughters!”

The king did not care a whit about this man. “Only when you deserve it.”

Boleyn sought to reassert his value. “I shall do anything!”

“Too late.” François rose to his feet.

A moment later, Antoine de Raffin walked in the room and bowed to Wiltshire. He had already been instructed to make the queen’s father his soldier, but to keep him in comfort.

“Bow to Antoine,” enjoined François. “For now, he is your master.”

Shuddering in barely concealed rage, Boleyn made a stiff bow.

Raffin pledged, “I’ll comply with Your Majesty’s orders.” He wondered why his sovereign treated his father-in-law in such a peculiar fashion, but it was not his concern.

After Raffin’s leaving, Boleyn enquired deferentially, “Anything else I can do for you?”  

“Not a thing,” was the abrupt royal answer.

“I’ll be always at Your Majesty’s service as your dutiful subject and–”  Wiltshire did not complete the sentence because the king, Mary, and Montmorency swept out of the room.

Thomas Boleyn dropped into a chair. François had overheard him and Mary by chance!  He should not have displayed his exasperation, having angered the Valois ruler. I want to be involved into politics again, Wiltshire craved. I shall rise to a position of prominence against all odds!     


May 19, 1538, Leeds Castle, Kent, England

“Anne,” King Henry said against his lover’s mouth. “Let’s enjoy the pleasures of flesh.”  

His lips kissed her neckline and seized hers as if they were the rarest of gems. Lady Anne Seymour, Countess of Hertford, moaned when his hands came to rest against her back. Lifting the fabric of his doublet, which was half-unbuttoned, she sighed at the feel of her fingers touching his hairy chest that was broad as a door, unlike her husband Edward’s narrow one.

As the ruler carried her to a nearby table, a bile rose in her throat. Anne did not wish to be the monarch’s mistress, but there was no other way to stay afloat at court if Queen Jane failed to birth a Tudor prince again. God, how she wanted to pretend this had all been a figment of her imagination!  But her liaison with Henry had helped her realize that Edward Seymour, her husband, so cruel and so calculative in his pursuit of power, was a man she could learn to love.

“Kiss me more deeply,” demanded Henry as he placed her on the table.

This sobered Anne. “Should we really do this in Your Majesty’s study?”

His aquamarine eyes were smoldering with physical hunger, but there was a hard edge to the expression in them. “Don’t make a mistake with me. Always yield to me – always!”

She swallowed her scorn towards him. “As you command, sire.”    

Henry tucked Anne’s skirts beneath her and pushed between her legs. Anne gasped as he thrust into her with a grunt. The egocentric Henry cared mostly about his own carnal needs, always fierce and sometimes even ferocious to the point of feral recklessness when he could pound into a woman so very deeply and rather roughly, while ignoring her discomfort. Fortunately, Edward’s spouse was not fond of gentleness in bed and reacted normally to his ministrations.    

She shook her head. “I’m worried that we are in the study.”

“Why?” He froze inside of her.

“I don’t know, Your Majesty.” A little worm of premonition was crawling slimily among the hairs on her neck. Was this her irrational instinct that something could go wrong?

He leaned closer, those fiery eyes of his holding her captive. “Do you understand what I feel for you now?  I must possess all of you, Anne – body, mind, and soul.”

The main ingredient that made a man’s life enjoyable was a willingness on the part of the female – either his wife or his mistress – to satisfy all his whims, and Henry was a controlling type.  I shall bend her to my will, Henry vowed wordlessly. His paramour did not need to know that now he addressed not only her, but also the other Anne. In each of the Annes Henry would seek the fire of life, joy, and passion similar to that of the treacherous Boleyn goddess.

This irked her to such a significant degree that with a gargantuan effort, she fended off the impulse to slap him. “As my king, you are the lord of my life as long as I live.”

“I’m your master!” His lips were now marauding hers. “You are mine!”

She gave a curt nod. “Like all English women and–”

Her sentence was not finished as the ruler drove so violently into the center of her feminity.  He was beyond caring if he hurt her: all that mattered was satisfying his insane lust. The muscles in her legs stiffened, making his penetration into her a bit more painful, and she unclasped her hands from about his neck, burrowing her nails into the papers, which lay on the table.

Her breath caught as he grunted, “I shall always dominate you, Anne.”

“Please be gentle,” she requested for the first time since their affair had started.

The king kissed her brow. “I’ll grant your wish. You are so feminine!”

As Henry lavished her with kisses and whispered endearments into her hair and her ear, Anne Seymour gradually relaxed. She was relieved that such a volatile, narcissistic man could be tender in bed, and now every nerve in her body tingled. Never had she thought that she would respond physically the way she did to the ruler’s caresses, and a pang of guilt surged through her because she enjoyed her adulterous lovemaking. Forgive me, my husband… Edward! 

His thumb pushed against her jaw, drawing it down to his lips, and his tongue slid past them to stroke hers. This gentleness was unbelievable for the tyrannical Tudor king!  Nonetheless, in a few minutes, it faded away, and wickedness took its place, his thrusts getting more chaotic, but his mistress welcomed the change. Their hearts raced as if they were at the edge of a cliff about to fall, losing themselves in a primitive mating, until waves of pleasure flooded them.

Without warning, the door opened, and light footsteps sounded nearby.

Then a desperate cry erupted from someone, “No!”

Through the salacious haze that had clouded her mind, Anne caught the sight of the queen in her peripheral vision. From the corner of his eye, Henry saw his wife as well, and as he turned his head to her, Jane’s expression, warped with disgust and horror, came into view.

“God’s blood!” The king pulled away from his paramour forthwith.

Her hand on her heavily pregnant belly, Jane stood near the door. “No!”

Frustration welled in him as he laced his hose. “Lady Hertford, you should leave.”  

Sitting on the table, Anne rearranged the folds of her skirt so as to cover her private parts. Throwing an alarmed glance at Jane, she distinguished rage making its way into her sister-in-law’s eyes as they reddened. Anticipating the scandal happening between the spouses, she jumped from the desk, and a moment later, she was hallway across the room when the queen spoke.  

“You are a filthy whore, Anne Stanhope,” Jane roared like an infantryman going into battle with fixed bayonet. Then she charged at the woman and pummeled her with her hands.  

A shaken Henry ran to them. “Jane, stop right now!”

“Whore!” Jane was full of anger mingled with anguish. “A traitor to your queen!”

As the queen kept hitting her, Anne just froze and remained quiet. Her consternation was so colossal that she did not feel any pain as Jane’s nails dug into her face. As Henry grabbed his consort and twisted her arms behind her back, Edward’s wife shuddered like a leaf in a wind.

“Lady Anne, leave!” the ruler enjoined irritably. “Get out!”

The Countess of Hertford ran away, as though demons of mortality were at her very heels.

Jane glared at Henry. “How could you sleep with her?  How could you?”   

He hissed, “Madame, I hate melodramatics caused by women.”

“Oh, my Lord!  Oh, my Lord!” the queen repeated over and over again, tears leaking from her eyes. “Oh, my Lord!  No!  No!  No!  Why are you so cruel to me?”  

The king shook with fury. “Darling, enough,” he half-begged, half-commanded.

“Why with my brother’s wife?” Jane sobbed out the ire and hurt. His arm encircled her waist, but she wriggled in his hold. “I’ve accepted your many mistresses, but not her.”

“Sweetheart!” he called her in a softer, adding in a persuasive tone, “Calm down!”

Wrath flared in her tearful eyes, but there was vulnerability behind it. “You betrayed me with countless harlots!  Once you forced yourself upon me!  But just when I’m carrying your child, I find you sleeping with my sister-in-law and not even in bed!  This is betrayal of the worst kind!”

“Peace,” beseeched Henry, now too concerned about his son in her womb. “Peace!”

Yet, his spouse wept harder. “Why do you need all those sluts?  Why?”

“It is all right.” He forced his voice to sound soft, stifling his outburst of ire with a huge effort. He caressed her large baby bump, the other hand supporting her. “Peace, Jane!”

His gaze slid off his wife to a window. The sun had begun descending towards its night home, tinging the sky with shades of mauve, orange, and red. Remembrances inundated him: a shocked Anne Boleyn who had walked in only to see Henry kissing Jane sitting in his lap, then a distressed Anne who had flown into a fit of rage after Jane had fled. Such an odd coincidence…  Anne found Jane and me in the study at Hampton Court, the king recalled fearfully.

Oh, my God!  Oh, my God!  Oh, my God, what is this?  What is this?  Just when my belly is doing its business, I find you wenching with Mistress Seymour.

Anne’s hysteria boomed through Henry’s skull like a death knell. Now Jane was saying nearly the same things as Anne had spoken on that tragic day hours before she had lost his son. Horror encased his consciousness in a block of ice, and the monarch’s hand tightened around her waist, as if he were trying to convince his and Jane’s child not to leave her womb.

The ruler wiped the tears from her face. “Sweetheart, let me walk you to your rooms.”

Jane revealed to him her heartrending expression. “Why, Your Majesty?”

Despite his attempts to soothe her, the queen sobbed so grievously that an urgent train of thought set in his brain. Henry scooped Jane into his arms and rushed out. On the way to her apartments, he had no idea if she was conscious, as Jane made no sound, her body limp. Leaving his consort to her sister Dorothy’s care, the king summoned Doctor Butts to examine her.  

§§§

“God, please no!” Jane cried, her visage yellowy white. “I beg you not to take my baby!”

Resting on her bed, Queen Jane was moaning, writhing in agony and pressing her hands to her stomach. For a moment, she sat up in the bed, hoping that the cramps would subside, but a new torrent of blood trickled down between her legs. Depleted, she had no strength to fight.

The queen had started bleeding soon after the king had carried Jane to her rooms. A pall of gloom encompassed the apartments as agitated women moved back and forth. Jane’s sisters, Elizabeth and Dorothy, sat by the queen’s bed, holding her both hands. The white silk sheets were drenched with large crimson stains. Ladies brought bowls of fresh water and clean sheets.   

Dorothy asked, “Can these pains just vanish into thin air?”

“Doctor Butts, the queen is about seven months gone with child. Can you stop the pains?” A mother herself, Elizabeth knew the answer, but she still asked.

Doctor Butts shook his head apologetically. “I’m very sorry, but I can do nothing for the queen. I’ll call for a midwife who will attend to her during the delivery. It must be done urgently, before Her Majesty’s condition worsens. I shall remain outside during the labor.”

“Is it a miscarriage?” asked Dorothy, still confused. “Or premature labor?”

The medic nodded. “The latter. Soon Her Majesty will bring a child into the world.”

Jane implored, “Save my child, Doctor Butts!  For Heaven’s sake!”

“God will protect Your Majesty,” Doctor Butts muttered.

With a heavy heart, the physician walked out of the bedroom. Butts recalled the winter day when Queen Anne had lost her savior, as the courtiers had labeled her lost son, after having encountered the monarch kissing Mistress Seymour. Now Queen Jane was going through the same ordeal, but Jane was further along in her pregnancy than Anne had been back then. Could Jane’s baby be born strong and healthy?  A despondent Butts did not believe that it was possible.    

By the time a royal midwife arrived, Jane could not bear the agony any longer, and her whimpering converted into squeaking screams. Her entire world narrowed to pain, and the brief cessation of it when the contractions receded. Tunneling darkness overpowered her as she passed out twice, and the red lines flashed before her eyes as Jane saw her maids taking away the bloody sheets. The hours had elapsed, and then came the gush of sticky liquid between her thighs.  

“Who is it?” Panic whitened Jane’s countenance to a ghostly shade.

Crossing herself, the midwife swaddled someone into a blue cotton sheet embroidered with Tudor roses. Jane recognized the blanket for her baby, which she had sewn herself.

“Sister, please…”  Dorothy dissolved into tears.

Elizabeth Cromwell looked stoic. “Tell Her Majesty everything.” She had returned to court only ten days ago after the birth of her son with Gregory Cromwell – little Henry.

“It was a boy,” the old woman affirmed. “The Almighty has taken him home.”

“No,” Jane dragged out the syllables. “That cannot be true.” Her voice was weak.

“Take his remains away!” Elizabeth ordered. The midwife obeyed and left the room.

“Jane,” Dorothy sobbed. “Your baby boy… He was born too early.”

“Rubbish!” Elizabeth allowed her anger to escalate into a verbal outburst. “If only Jane had not reacted like a wench to what she saw in the study, she would not have been so distressed, and she would not have gone into labor so early.” She lowered her voice to rebuke Jane further. “The king has the right to take as many mistresses as he desires, and you know that, Jane.”

Dorothy pleaded, “Elizabeth, don’t be so cruel!”

Tears deluged the queen’s bosom. “Lizzy, sister, why do you loathe me so?”

Elizabeth’s expression softened a little bit. “Jane, don’t say nonsense.” She released a sigh. “But you must understand that now your brothers and I have to think of ourselves.”

Jane regarded both of her sisters with eyes that now seemed grayer than her matrimonial hell with the Tudor ruler had been. “I’m a prisoner of my wretched fate.”

As Elizabeth walked away, Jane burst out weeping. After the death of her second child with the king, she could not keep her crown, but that did not hurt Jane as much as the abandonment of her by her relatives did. Dorothy, her noble sister, hugged Jane in a lingering, warm embrace, and they held onto each other until the unfortunate queen drifted into restless slumber.

“Take care of Her Majesty,” Dorothy asked Lady Jane Boleyn. Then she walked out.

As she settled herself on the bed’s edge, Lady Boleyn eyed the sleeping queen whom she pitied. Her mind was writhing in a storm of predictions who would be the monarch’s next wife.

At the same time, Dorothy found Edward, Thomas, and Elizabeth Seymour in the queen’s antechamber; they had dismissed the other ladies-in-waiting moments earlier. Sullen and stolid, they could think only of the loss of privileges as a consequence of the queen’s new disaster.

Dorothy approached Edward, and her hand collided with his cheek. “You and your wife are scums!  It is your entire fault that Jane went into premature labor today.”

There was a metallic glint in Edward’s eyes. “I’m sad that Jane lost a prince again. Anne and I will remain at court, while Jane and perhaps other Seymours will have to leave.”

Thomas interposed, “Ned, will your wife vouch for Elizabeth and me to the king?”

“She will,” promised Edward, “if it is possible.”

His voice held an air of condescension that fired Dorothy’s temper even hotter. “I hate you all!  You are not human beings – you are hyenas!  You are no longer my siblings!”

Thomas grouched, “Later you might regret your words, sister.”

“You will all be damned,” Dorothy barked before returning to the queen’s bedroom.

§§§

Lady Bess Holland arrived at the Duke of Norfolk’s quarters shortly after the end of the queen’s labor. Having kissed her hand, Thomas Howard gestured towards an open doorway so that they could go to his private chamber, where they would not be eavesdropped upon.

“Has anyone seen you, Bess?” Norfolk questioned as he led her inside.

“No. Now everyone is in mourning, so nobody paid any attention to me.”

The duke sniggered. “On the contrary, I’m in a spectacularly good mood.”

His mistress felt guilty as she said quietly, “I am not happy with the queen’s misfortunes. But I know that her disaster is useful for Queen Anne and Princess Elizabeth.”

Inside the cozy private chamber, they saw the duke’s eldest son – Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. The room was largely dark to make their meeting as clandestine as possible. A few tallow candles smoked and sputtered from wall sconces; a candelabrum burned on a marble table.  

A grinning Surrey eased himself into a chair. “The Seymour wench has been defeated!”

“But not by us,” Norfolk joined the conversation.

His son tipped his head. “Nature just ran its course. The seed of King Henry is too weak.”

The duke and his mistress nodded. Then they seated themselves in front of the earl.  

Norfolk asked, “Bess, have you learned something about the conspiracy against Anne?”

Nodding, Bess Holland climbed to her feet and glided to the exit. Having made sure that the door was securely closed, she returned to her chair. After extracting a paper from her pouch, she handed it to the duke, who scrutinized it impassively, but then he laughed gleefully.

“Father?” Surrey was itching to know more about the document.

Norfolk announced, “Nicholas Carew plotted Anne’s death with Cromwell. I’m sure that Edward Seymour is also complicit in the plot, but it will be difficult to prove it.”

Surrey rubbed his chin pensively. “I don’t know him closely, but I believe he is the cleverest of the Seymour lot. The worst is that his harpy of a wife is the king’s favored mistress, and His Majesty will not banish Edward from court after the annulment of his union with Jane.”

Bess stared at the earl. “So, he is our enemy, but an almost untouchable one?"

“Only for now,” Surrey stressed. “We will destroy them all.”

“We shall,” Norfolk promised. “Now we are still waiting for a signal from France.”

“Why is King François silent?” his son wondered.

The duke shrugged. “His Majesty’s spies must be endeavoring to figure out the identity of the Pope’s new agent at the English court. Without knowing his identity, we cannot act because right now this person is our second worst enemy after that bastard Cromwell.”

Surrey concluded, “We wait and ferret out as much secret information as we can.”   

Bess pledged, “I’ll try to copy the correspondence of the Seymour brothers.”

Her lover smiled at her. “I expect so.”

The Earl of Surrey directed the discourse towards another pressing topic. “Can we ensure that one of the Howard girls marries the son-obsessed king?”

“I don’t think so,” Elizabeth asserted. “Lady Anne Bassett is with child.”  

“I’ve heard the same whispered at court,” the Duke of Norfolk validated. “No doubt Lady Bassett will not give our sovereign a son, or if she does, I shall be very astonished. So far, we ought to align with Lady Honor Grenville, for we are cut from similar cloth of ambition.”

Surrey was not so sure of that. “Well… questionable.”

“Trust me, son,” Norfolk assured. “I know this woman well enough.”

“For one thing,” Bess broke in. “Honor and her husband, Arthur Plantagenet, don’t have a solid support among the nobility. They will need new allies, including the House of Howard.”

“Indeed, my lady.” In spite of his dislike of his father’s mistress, Surrey could not help but admire her intelligence and her ability to get off with a whole skin as their spy.

Then they discussed the Howards’ relationship with the Lisle family. Elizabeth chose a spiced red wine, poured three goblets, and passed two of them to the two men.

Surrey raised his toast. “To the prosperity of our great family!” The others echoed him.

The Duke of Norfolk pushed aside his goblet. “Bess, now go back, but be very careful.”

His paramour stood up. “My lord, I’ll never throw my caution to the wind.”

Thomas Howard closed their meeting. “You will not be that Seymour wench’s maid for long. Someone else, most likely Anne Bassett, will become your new queen.”

“I’ll always work on your behalf,” Bess assured, and her lover grinned at her.

§§§

After midnight, Thomas Cromwell was summoned to the monarch’s study. According to the gossip that had spread at court, it was the same room where Queen Jane had discovered her husband making love to her brother’s wife. The councilor expected what his sovereign would ask him to do, given that the second rumor about Anne Bassett’s condition seemed to be true.

“Cromwell!” King Henry beckoned the man to him. “You will solve my problem.”

“I’m always at your disposal, sire.” His chief minister stood in the center, his head bowed.

The monarch’s footsteps were slow, heavy, and quite unsteady as he prodded over to his advisor. He peered at Cromwell with his bloodshot eyes, sticking of wine and sweat. His hair was in a disarray, his doublet was undone, and his shirt was hanging out of his hose.

“Dispose of that blonde, plain simpleton,” the monarch decreed, his countenance contorted in abomination for his consort. “Jane’s insides are as rotten as the worst sack of grain. Her barren womb is infected with leprosy or other illness. Or why all of her children die?”

Cromwell wondered how his liege lord wanted to proceed this time. “Should I contact Archbishop Cranmer to have your matrimony to Her Majesty annulled?”

“That leper woman murdered my boy!” The hot burn of furious tears ripped through the ruler’s eyes. “Have our marriage declared null and void. Have her send to a nunnery if she agrees to terminate our damned bonds. Have her imprisoned if she does not consent.”

It would not be prudent to have the woman arrested. “I think she will cooperate.”

“She will if she is not dim-witted.”  

“Your Majesty and Lady Jane are distant cousins. I believe that Archbishop Cranmer will be able to have your marriage annulled on the grounds of consanguinity.”

“I don’t care, Cromwell!  I just want to get rid of her so that I can marry Anne Bassett!”

Cromwell made a bow. “It shall be done, Your Majesty.” He then vacated the room.

The monarch drank himself into oblivion until dawn. An enormous weight of despair settled itself upon his shoulders. His earlier success as a king, who had once been viewed as a celebrated Renaissance ruler, had been grandiose, but the failures of his wives had demolished the edifice of his grand reign just because none of them had produced his male heir. Now all my hopes rest on the pregnant Anne Bassett who will become my fourth queen, Henry bemoaned.

Notes:

I hope you are all safe from Covid-19. I'm still staying in lockdown in Tuscany and cannot go home. My close friend, as well as my two young cousins died of complications caused by this dreadful virus. It is extremely important for all of us to be safe and careful!

This chapter is dedicated to the victims of COVID-19. It is my way to remember them. Thank you for reading this dramatic chapter! Please let me know what you think.

Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly, Duchess d'Étampes, has a one-night affair with Prince Charles, Duke d'Orléans. I expect that now you despise Anne for her seduction of him, but in later chapters you will understand why I need this unusual plotline. Anne de Pisseleu is now 30 years ago, Charles is 16.

Finally, Ferdinand von Habsburg, the emperor's brother, makes his appearance. Ferdinand, who really lives in luxury, and François face each other and talk, and François voices some truths to the jailed monarch. This situation is extraordinarily difficult for Ferdinand, who is quite different from Carlos, and Ferdinand will have to face many dilemmas and make controversial decisions in this AU. In real history, Ferdinand was extremely loyal to Carlos, but even Ferdinand's loyalty might crack, or it may not, depending on Carlos' future actions.

I have to say a big sorry to Anna Jagellonica, who was Queen of the Romans, Bohemia and Hungary; she is usually known as Anna of Bohemia and Hungary. In this AU, I killed her off during her husband's imprisonment in France because I need Ferdinand to be a free man. She was a wonderful Renaissance queen who presided over the Austrian court together with her husband until her death in 1547. According to historical sources, Ferdinand and Anna had a loving marriage, and there is no proof of his infidelities – so François' hints on a few cases of Ferdinand's marital infidelity are fictional. What do you think of my Ferdinand?

Anna and Ferdinand had many children, but in this AU I changed their list for fictional purposes. In my timeline, they had: Elisabeth (1526), Maximilian (1527), Anna (1528), Ferdinand (1529), Maria (1531), Magdalena (1532), Catherine (1533), Eleanor (1534), Margaret (1536), Barbara (1537). As Ferdinand was captured in France in the autumn of 1536, I moved Barbara's birth from 1539 to 1537, so Anna of Bohemia was pregnant when Ferdinand and Carlos invaded France in 1536. Barbara was born during her father's captivity. As Anna is already dead as of 1538 in this AU, Ferdinand's other children whom he had in history will be born, but by another woman. Actually, Ferdinand will have even more offspring in this AU than he had in history.

Finally, Jane Seymour's drama took place. Some may say that Jane deserved her afflictions, but I hope that most of my readers feel sympathy for Jane. She lost her second child, which was predictable after she had found Henry and his mistress (Edward Seymour's wife) in the study. Why did I make this happen in such a way? Jane's drama happened in the same way Anne's drama unfolded in January 1536, when Anne suffered her second miscarriage. The scene of Jane finding Henry with her sister-in-law somewhat mirrors the scene of Anne discovering Jane with Henry. Jane's lost child was a boy, which makes Henry absolutely furious.

I added a scene between Edward and Anne Seymour to the next chapter as they discuss the tragedy. Now Edward seems heartless, but he is not a complete blackguard, despite being extremely calculative and ambitious, just as his wife is. But who wasn't calculative and cruel back then if they grappled for power? Anne Seymour herself is truly shocked.

Anne Bassett is pregnant! Do you think that it is Henry's child or the baby fathered by her lover Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter? In any case, Henry is desperate for a male heir and, hence, he is going to have his marriage to Jane annulled as soon as possible also that he can remarry Anne Bassett. Jane and Henry were distant cousins, so they did have a consanguineous union; actually, most of Henry's wives were somehow related to him.

The descriptions of Château d'Azay-le-Rideau located in the Loire Valley, as well as the information about it are historically correct. This château is very beautiful – google it!

As always, I recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, FieryMaze, and EvilFluffyBiteyThing at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91 and WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction.

Let's make each other smile! Let's review and favorite each other!

PS. I’ll make an announcement about something that happened roughly a week ago. My old approach to communication is backfiring against me, and I must protect myself from hurt and harassment. But I will issue a note separately from this chapter in a few days.

Yours sincerely,

Lady Perseverance

Chapter 30: Chapter 29: Turmoil in France

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 29: Turmoil in France

May 30, 1538, Leeds Castle, Kent, England

Long past midnight, the hallways were empty, for the courtiers were abed. Everyone was strained because today in the morning on the Feast of St Walstan of Bawburgh the wedding of King Henry and Lady Anne Bassett had taken place. The ceremony was modest and small; Lady Honor Grenville and the Duke of Suffolk had been witnesses. Archbishop Cranmer had quickly annulled the monarch’s marriage to Lady Jane Seymour on the grounds of consanguinity.

Lady Jane Boleyn passed through the hallway, decorated with brightly colored wallpaper.

“Francis!” Jane cried as she met the eyes of her secret lover.

Francis Bryan stopped. “Be quiet if you want to keep our affair secret.”

A smile curving her lips, the Viscountess Rochford examined Bryan. Although he wore an eyepatch to conceal his absent left eye, lost in a tournament at Greenwich years ago, Francis looked devastatingly male. Athletic, of rakish bearing and yet dignified in his treatment of ladies at court, his brown-haired head proudly raised, he had a steel strength of body and will. His velvet doublet and hose of the color murrey matched his fiery amorous temperament perfectly.

That licentious look in his eyes held Jane spellbound. “I’ve missed you.”

His expression was that of a mating wolf. “Me or what I do to you in bed?”

“Does it matter if we can spend another few hours together?”

Bryan stepped forward and drew Jane against him, their bodies tensing with desire.

Jane felt his hand on her hair. “Why are you not sleeping so late?”

“As Queen Anne Bassett is pregnant, she cannot perform her conjugal duties. Our liege lord cannot live without a woman for a long time, so I had to invite one of his mistresses to his rooms. After he had dismissed her, he and I spent hours playing cards and drinking.”

Jane rolled her eyes. “How many queens will the king have?”

“As many as necessary until he has at least one son to secure the succession.”

“I do pity Jane Seymour,” the Boleyn widow admitted. “She was very kind to me when I returned to court after George’s execution. The child she had lost was her last chance.”

Bryan’s frown communicated his annoyance. “Don’t you feel for my cousin Anne?”

Her gaze expressed bewilderment. “Her woes are over. Anne is the Queen of France!”

He pressed her to his chest. “You speak too much. Let’s go to my rooms.”

As they entered his apartments, Francis Bryan closed the door; his pages were already asleep. His spacious quarters were furnished with costly pieces of dark mahogany furniture and expensive Flemish arrases. He led Jane through the antechamber to his bedroom. 

“Jane!  As the former queen invited you back to court, now you might be exiled again.”   

Lady Rochford swatted him upon his clothed torso. “Will you help me return?”

With a lewd grin, Francis kissed Jane on the nose. “Anne Bassett dislikes you, so during her tenure as Henry’s queen it will not be easy, but I shall do my best to have you back.”

Her scrutiny traveled over his face to his neck. “You are my savior.”

Bryan’s lips were close to hers. “I’ll miss your passion.”

“Francis,” she breathed. “I want you so!”

“George Boleyn was a gentleman with you, unlike me, right?” After hiking her skirts up, he shoved his leg between hers, forcing her thighs apart. “He had mistresses and must have known how to make a woman tremble in his embrace. Did he not see the potential in you?”

Jane stiffened. “George did not love me.”

Bryan cocked an eyebrow. “You told me that you had not loved him either.”

“I did not,” she confirmed. “And I do not love you.”

“Likewise. Yet, we are having such a wonderful time together.”

From the edge of the cliff, Jane plunged into an abyss of remembrances. “George never loved a woman, yet his soul was full of romantic ideals. He wrote beautiful poems for his sisters, especially Anne, and for some of his paramours, sometimes for me. Throughout his short life, George sought the ideal lady of his dreams, persisting in this fruitless endeavor.”

“So, he never found the perfect woman,” Bryan finished.

Jane’s heart ached at the thought of George’s gruesome end, for a large part of her missed him. “My late husband was a dreamer, a thinker, and a speculative philosopher. He was unearthly and wondrous, despite his penchant for enjoying worldly things such as pleasures and luxury.”

“I knew Lord Rochford from a different side, sweetheart.”

His mistress inhaled sharply. “You and George often indulged in sins of the flesh. I’m aware that you two and your friends had parties in your quarters and brothels.”

He smirked. “Yes, we did. George never said a bad word about you.”

“I’m grateful to him for that. Let his soul rest in peace.” She crossed herself.

“We shall prove George’s innocence.”

An errant tear trickled down her cheek. “Do that in his memory, Francis.”

He wiped the moisture. “Jane, everything will be all right. François de Valois and Anne Boleyn want the same. Norfolk and I will do our best to ensure that justice is served.”

A new interest enlivened her: their plans. “Tell me more!”

“Enough about them. On the bed, against the wall, or on the floor?”   

“You mean?” Jane backed away to a bed with Tudor heraldic hangings.

Bryan was unlacing his hose. “Variety in poses gives a great deal of pleasure.”

“The floor, then.” She inhaled sharply as he pinched the skin above her neckline.

Bryan pulled his mistress down to the soft carpet, pushing her onto her back and kneeling between her legs. In the candlelight, her flushed face glowed rosy, her eyes dazed with lust. Their encounter was a concupiscent whirlwind: biting kisses, open-mouth and teeth-clashing, shrieks and possessive caresses, insanely frenzied thrusts, and at last the powerful pinnacle like a tornado. Then the clothes were stripped off, and the Saturnalia of dissipation continued on the bed.

I do not love Bryan, but he gives me such pleasure, Jane Boleyn groaned. Known for his countless wanton escapades, Bryan was an unprecedented genius of debauchery. He made love to Jane with the same radiant enthusiasm that he gave to his other many paramours, but she was not jealous. Some of the things Francis had done to her body were totally beyond the imagination even of a happily married French woman, but Jane welcomed them most eagerly.

Her matrimony with George had been tolerable, and some part of Jane had grown to love her dead husband over time. George had felt affection for her, but more out of necessity to be together than his natural inclination. Having been experienced in the art of amours, George had nevertheless been reserved with Jane during their rare intimacies, having been respectful to his wife’s proper habits. Thanks to Bryan, Jane learned that passion could be so overpowering.

“Can I write to Anne secretly?” Jane asked between her moans.

“I shall arrange it.” Bryan drove deeper into her melting core.

I like teaching women to enjoy their bodies, Bryan smirked as he drove into her. Fondled by beauties from the age of twelve, he had been a virtuoso in intimate adventures before the time when most boys reach puberty. Despite his cynicism, he was capable of altruism, and could turn aside from the aristocracy to lavish his idolatry upon a peasant if he liked her a lot. Jane Boleyn was one of the numerous women whom he bedded, for his life was an endless dissipation.

§§§

The Hertford apartments were alive with quiet conversation. Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, paced the bedroom to and fro, his nervousness written all over his countenance. His wife, Anne, sat on a bed canopied with a decorative cornice and masses of asparagus velvet.

“Our plan backfired,” fretted Edward as he walked the length of the room. “When our liege lord was entirely focused on Anne Bassett, I seduced her, though not with ease, in order to distract her from the king. Henry began visiting Jane’s bed more often, and she conceived.”  

Anne expelled a sigh out. “I did what you wanted: I ensnared the king. It became easier to control his mind, and it was better to have me as his mistress during Jane’s pregnancy.”

Stopping in the middle, her husband said, “You did everything I asked. Thank you.”

She sucked in a deep breath. “Our plan backfired due to the king’s impatience in the study. If your sister had not seen us there, she would not have gone into premature labor.”

“Don’t feel guilty. Jane should have stayed in her rooms, but she didn’t.”

“Ned, His Majesty still desires me. He assured me that we would remain at court.”   

The monarch often invited Anne to his apartments. Tonight, on what was supposed to be the wedding night of King Henry and the former Lady Anne Bassett, the Countess of Hertford had spent several hours with the monarch, having pleasured him in all wicked ways. I do not want to be Henry’s mistress, but I must. For Edward and our future. Ned must build his political career.

“We still have the chance for power,” Edward speculated in a snide tone. “It will be more difficult for me to gain further prominence, but at least I’ve kept all my offices.”

“I’m glad my affair helped you,” she uttered dryly.

He halted near the bed. “Didn’t you consent to being a royal mistress willingly?  I offered this plan, but you had the opportunity to refuse, Anne. I did not force you to do so.”

At this moment, Anne Seymour looked like the most calculative creature he had ever seen. “I’ve always believed that Jane will not succeed where her predecessors failed. The Tudor seed is weak or defective, or perhaps our liege lord is cursed. I’ll be very surprised if Anne Bassett gives birth to a healthy son. Therefore, I did my best to prevent our banishment from court.”

Edward admired his wife. “What would I do without you?”

Her lips were twitching. “I feel guilty for accidentally causing your sister’s miscarriage. I warned His Majesty that we should not have been in the study, but he did not listen.”

“It is not your fault, Anne. As you said rightly, the king’s seed is defective, so Jane would have miscarried sooner or later, or she would have birthed a sickly child.”

She nearly collapsed in relief. “I am most delighted that you don’t blame me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Anne, are you using the herbs to prevent pregnancy?”

The shake of her head was the confirmation. “You will not have a bastard.”

A pang of jealousy washed over Hertford. “I do not want to share you with anyone.”

“Do you?” Anne’s heart was beating with the hope that his cunning, cold man could feel for her something more than admiration and gratitude. “I’ll do everything for you, Ned: England and our family need you to become powerful enough and contribute to the religious reform. You and I are together in this, Ned, but I must admit that I’ve missed you so terribly that–”

Anne didn’t finish as Edward rushed to his wife, swept her into his arms, and plopped her onto the cushions on the bed. “You and I are cut from the same cloth, my crafty Nan.”

She smiled at his peculiar endearment. “My Ned!” She cupped his face, pulling him up for a kiss. “After His Majesty dismisses me from his bed, for his infatuation with me will not last long given his fickleness, you and I will have a large family together.”  

“That would be so lovely.” His eyes twinkled. “My goddess of charm and deceit!”

“My god of calculation!” She broke the kiss and asked with alarm, “Can Anne Bassett’s baby be yours, husband?  I heard that she is not more than one month alone in her pregnancy.”

“It is impossible. I broke up with her in March. Moreover, I always pulled out, and she used necessary herbs. That Bassett harlot is expecting our sovereign’s child.”

Anne Seymour signed with relief. She did not want Edward to have any mistresses, and his liaison with Anne Bassett had hurt her more than she had anticipated. During the past months, the surges of longing for her husband were so strong that she felt dizzy. Edward and Anne had not married for love, but amorous sentiments were gradually growing in their hearts.


June 25, 1538, 1538, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, France

Queen Anne huffed in annoyance as another card contest with Queen Marguerite of Navarre ended in her sister-in-law’s victory. Since her husband’s departure over three months ago, Anne’s mood had been morose, tendrils of loneliness clutching around her being.

Now about seven months pregnant, Anne spent most of the time in bed. During her sister Mary’s absence, Elizabeth Boleyn took care of her daughter while doting on her grandchildren, who all tarried at court. Maintaining correspondence with her brother, Marguerite of Navarre handled state affairs, conducting audiences and receptions for foreign dignitaries.   

Outside, the summer day was hot, but with enough clouds in the blue sky to offer a break from the beaming sun. Anne rested on a canopied bed draped in blue velvet, with figured marble bedside tables on each side. Marguerite sat by the bed in an ornately carved chair. Decorated with Italian ornamentation, the oak furniture stressed the chamber’s grandeur. The colorful frescoes of ancient heroes and paintings by Rosso Fiorentino adorned the walls and the ceiling.

“I’ve won again,” Marguerite spoke. “You cannot concentrate, Anne.”

Anne reclined onto the pillows. “My pregnancy deprived me of my talents in gambling.”

After Anne’s reconciliation with the king, friendship had blossomed between the queens.

“Or you have missed François so much that your thoughts always revert to him.”

Anne responded in kind to her witty comments, in which there was a great deal of truth. “Or perhaps it is your beloved brother’s fault that I’m in this situation!  Here I am, a young woman in a silk nightgown and elegant diamond earrings, which he sent me last week as a gift. Here I am – bedridden and abandoned. And where is our Knight-King gallivanting now?”

A sudden cast of seriousness overcame Marguerite. “Anne, you are sulking because of your fear that François will not return before the labor. But he had to travel across the country and inspect how his viceroys govern provinces and whether they comply with his orders.”  

“I understand that.” Anne inquired, “What is the result of his inspection?”

“Some governors abused their power. For example, the ex-governor of Languedoc not only took bribes from merchants, but also encouraged local nobles to exploit their peasants and tenants. In such provinces, the system of justice was perverted through many illegal acts.”

“I hope he was arrested,” Anne assumed. “Will he be tried and executed?”

“Yes, of course. It is mandatory to show the rest of the aristocracy that if the royal court has halved its expenses, they must do the same. All government officials must know that they have to obey their liege lord and have no right to rob the populace regardless of their class.”

“They must know that the only source of power in France is her monarch.”

Marguerite thought of their efforts aimed at reforms. “For years, François and I have worked hard to centralize the kingdom. Now his authority is uncontested, for he restricted the power of all local nobles. But there are still obstacles on the way to absolute monarchy.”

Anne did not vocalize that Henry Tudor had achieved more in the state’s centralization. After England’s break with the Bishop of Rome, the country was independent from external forces, though isolated politically, and the English nobles all had to bow to their sovereign.

The Queen of France asked, “What about our state treasury?”

The Franco-Spanish war had damaged France’s economy a lot. Food prices had increased because of the poor harvest last year, and because the Imperial soldiers had plundered many villages and towns. As numerous men had been killed at the beginning of the confrontation, many peasants had been recruited into the Valois royal army later and trained, but many had died heroes’ deaths. Consequently, not enough men remained to cultivate land and grow food.  

The state treasury was not empty thanks to the confiscation of gold from the Imperial camps. Next year the treasury would receive less than its usual annual income, because the folk would not have enough to pay taxes. At the same time, the Valois siblings planned to finance construction works in those towns that had been razed to the ground by the invaders, including the building of houses for the poor and for those who had lost their homes during the war.

The French court had cut its expenses significantly, despite the ruler’s aim to maintain his court’s magnificence. Queen Anne had announced the new policy to spend less on the royal family and the courtiers: in the presence of witnesses of her coronation, she had proclaimed the decision not to have costly pageants. Fearing her brother’s erstwhile prodigality, Marguerite had taken the financial matters into her capable hands, but France would still need to borrow money.   

“Although going to bankers might dilute a king’s high standing, we may need to borrow.”  

The Queen of France opined, “France’s monetary system is being hampered by out-of-date legislation. Reform it so that the market can grow internally over time. If this is attained, His Majesty will be able to borrow from within the nation as opposed to going abroad for loans.”

“What would you make a starting point of internal financial modernization, Anne?”

“Reforming the usury laws,” Anne claimed. “Bankers and usurers charge excessively high rates on loans, which made some Italian bankers such as the Medici family richer than duchies and even some countries. If we target those who follow this practice in France by setting caps on the maximum amount of interest that can be levied, usurious houses will not be able to earn fortunes.  Moreover, usury is more than frowned upon from a religious perspective: it is considered a sin, and if we cultivate this belief in our subjects, it will be easier to accomplish our objectives.”

“We are in agreement,” pronounced Marguerite. “In the future we will be able to raise as many loans as necessary at home. It would be a useful practice: those who gave money to the state could be more easily controlled, and news of such loans would be restricted. Failure to offer a loan for France’s national interests would be deemed unpatriotic and even treasonous. But where should we take the enormous amounts to pour them into the economy next year?”

Anne proposed, “Why not make Parliament enact the Extraordinary Act, according to which in months to come, the richest noble houses of France will have to contribute to the state treasury the special tax ironically called “a patriotic donation” in the aftermath of the invasion?  The Parliament would be delighted to empty some of the aristocrats’ coffers, while the folk would rejoice that the bulk of the tax burden for the economy would fall onto the nobles.”

The king’s sister sighed. “This would make my brother more popular among the people. However, we must take into account that this would be a highly risky maneuver – antagonizing the nobility comes with the danger of them uniting against us and deposing our house.”

Anne crossed herself, and so did Marguerite. They chorused, “God forbid.”

However, Anne noted, “But this “patriotic tax” is not huge and is a one-time payment.”

Marguerite pondered this. “I must discuss that with François. If this is done correctly, we may further limit the authority of the nobility, which is one of our main aims.”

Anne joked, “I’m convinced that the House of Lorraine would be especially happy.”

“Oh, they would be in paradise!  That would curb the irritating pride of the Guises.”

They laughed again and exchanged knowing glances.

The ruler’s sister affirmed, “Soon you will help François and me govern the country.”

“Gladly.” However, Anne did not dare entertain fantasies that François would allow his consort to rule alongside him and his sister, despite the enlightened nature of his reign.

The Queen of France broached the subject that had long plagued her. “Margot, you know everything about your brother. Claude de Rohan-Gié was married off to Claude de Beauvilliers, Count de Saint-Aignan.  Has she already given birth to my husband’s bastard child?”  

Marguerite’s expression fell. “It was my brother’s daughter.”

“A daughter?” Anne was relieved that it was not have a son. “Wait!  Why ‘was’?”   

“The labor was complicated, and Claude birthed a stillborn girl.”

“I am so sorry!  However, François has not told me anything.”

“Anne, you are pregnant. How can my brother apprise you of such things?”

The French queen nodded her comprehension. “Poor François and his baby girl!”

“My brother has been distraught in private, but he is stoic in public and with you.”

Anne crossed herself. “May God rest the girl’s soul in heaven.”

Marguerite intoned, “May her innocence soul find peace.”

Anne questioned, “When will you go to Navarre, Marguerite?”

King Henri of Navarre, Marguerite’s husband, had departed to Bearn a month earlier. He had taken their daughter, Jeanne d’Albert, with him, although the girl usually lived at Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye with the Valois children. His abrupt leaving had initiated gossip that he might have quarreled with his spouse or displeased King François. While Marguerite always refuted or laughed off such rumors, the nobles felt that something was wrong.

Memories swooped through Marguerite’s mind like a dark tide. Their argument when Henri d’Albert had demanded again that his consort relocate to Navarre. Marguerite’s attempts to explain that François needed her at his side, given that the emperor would definitely invade again eventually. Their last night together when the vehemence of their lovemaking had thrilled and excited them both, and the heartbreak Marguerite had felt after Henri’s escape in the morning.

Marguerite had implored her husband to visit the French court far more often, but Henri was intransigent. She had suggested the possibility of monthly meetings in Toulouse or somewhere close to Navarre, grasping at her marital straws like a woman drowning in loneliness. Yet, it was the most fragile sort of straw – Henri only wanted his wife back in his kingdom.  She still heard her spouse’s retreating footsteps echoing down the corridor as Henri had stormed out.

“My husband and I did not part on good terms, but I shall not discuss anything.” Although she kept her tone light, the twinkle in Marguerite’s eyes dimmed.

“Ah.” Anne’s sense of tact stopped her from prying into her sister-in-law’s personal life.

They chatted in a light vein until the Queen of France was depleted of strength. Later Anne had a dream, in which her husband returned to her. When she awoke at sunset, she could nearly feel François’ scent fill her senses, feeding her urge to slip into his arms. Yet, the monarch would not arrive this week, so her spirits were descending deeper into a pit of nothingness.  


July 30, 1538, 1538, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, France

The sun was on its westward arc, and the sunset was sitting in the firmament as if to watch drowsing, verdant nature. A beam of fading light fell upon the Valois monarch, who sat on the edge of his consort’s bed. Anne was fascinated with her handsome husband, who, though richly attired, looked tired with dark circles under his eyes after his tour through the provinces.

“Why are you so melancholic, wife?” inquired François with concern.

Anne frowned. “I’m bored with being in bed. At least, you have finally returned.”

A faint hope glimmered in his eyes. “Have you missed me?”

François had arrived at Fontainebleau yesterday. Anne was delighted to have him by her side again, but in spite of the outburst of affection and appreciation from her during their reunion, her later behavior had been a disappointment to him. His Anne, who had greeted him heartily, had become uncomfortable the moment she had glimpsed his grin at her sister, who had come back to court with him, as though his spouse was jealous of his past affair with Mary.

Anne lapsed into a state of nervous flutter, wondering whether he had strayed during his absence. Her marriage to Henry did not let her forget about men’s inconstancy. Now her piercing stare aimed to look into François’ inmost soul, where lay, so carefully hidden, his love for her.

“What is wrong?” His entire attention was fixed upon his consort.   

She quizzed forthrightly, “Did you have any lovers while you were away?”

The monarch gathered his consort’s hands in his. “I’ve not touched another woman since I pledged to be faithful to you.” He kissed them ardently. “Thank you, Anne.”

His wife was relieved with his reassurance. “For what, François?”

Cupping her face, he peered deep into her eyes. “Everything beautiful, intriguing, artistic, and inspiring in my world is there because of you. I was with my mistresses at the beginning of our marriage, but the truth is that since you came to France, I’ve been attracted to you. Now all I see is you!  You have dazzled me by the thousand lovely colors of a new life.”

She curled her arms around his neck. “Forgive me for not being a wife to you at the start.”

The ruler’s impish grin mirrored hers. “You are granted a royal pardon because you have been a wonderful queen to me since last summer.” He bent his head down and kissed her enlarged stomach. “Is this babe not a sufficient proof of your eagerness to be with me?”

“You are too full of yourself. But your flamboyant arrogance gives you a naughty charm.”

“And your wit makes you absolutely irresistible!”

The monarch crushed his mouth into hers, and she probed her tongue inside. The kiss lasted for minutes, but it seemed like days and nights, their yearning for one another overpowering. Although they had made love until the fifth month of Anne’s pregnancy when François had been as gentle as never before, now they could not proceed further so as not to harm the child.

Pulling away, the king regarded her. “Do you want a boy or a girl?”

The queen’s eyes reflected her most cherished wish. “A boy.”

A furrow formed between his brows. “You need my son to hurt Henry.”

She put a finger to his lips. “I do, but not only for that.”

He removed it from his mouth while holding her hands. “Then prove it to me.”

His spouse sighed. “How?”

Pressing featherlight kisses onto her fingertips, he suggested, “Let’s be monarchs, allies, friends, and lovers. Let us be inseparable by the spirit of our marriage.”

Anne gifted him a brilliant smile. “That is my desire too, sire.”

“I’ll take you at your word, Madame.”

It dawned on the queen, like the sun beginning to peak over the horizon, that her affection for François created the gardens of felicitous life in her barren universe. Their vibrant blossoms, sweet scents, crisping birds, and the green lawns of joy made her world tinged with bright colors. It will be better for François and me to pass through our lives together until the night of age draws on, the sleep of death overtaking us. Can we really grow old together in happiness? 

She joked, “Woman’s function in this world is to spur men on to high and noble actions. May the Knight-King become nobler or not?  What would you say to that?”

“More chivalrous than Lancelot?” he mimicked her tone. “That I can achieve.”

“Husband, please remember Sophocles’ tragedy ‘Women of Trachis.’ Deianeira, the wife of Heracles, was distraught that her husband was often involved in some adventure. Worried by bad prophesies about his fate, she sent their son, Hyllus, to find him. Soon Heracles came home to Trachis with victory. Yet, later Deianeira learned that Heracles had besieged the city of Oechalia only to obtain Iole, whom he took as a lover. I’m afraid that you might do anything like that.”

François silently cursed his English rival and even himself for his amatory escapades. “Do not poison your own mind, Anne. I shall not follow in Henry’s footsteps.”

Anne doubted it while dreaming of contentment with him. The ruler could have any woman he craved!  Why should François be faithful to her during her pregnancies and his absences? 

§§§

In half an hour, Mary Stafford brought Princess Louise to the royal parents.

As the girl slept in her mother’s arms while Anne sang a lullaby to her, François promised himself that he would erect the castle of their marital contentment in lieu of his wife’s brokenness. Can Anne fall for me?  I pray that her faith in love will be restored in the atmosphere of happiness.

“I love our daughter.” François deposited a soft kiss on the infant’s forehead.

Anne stroked the baby’s short, silky, chestnut hair. “I love her too. With all my heart.”  

“You will not like tidings from England.”

A tingle of apprehension went through her. “What?”

“You are already aware that His fickle Tudor Majesty married the Lady Anne Bassett. An overjoyed Henry claims that she will birth his son, who will usher the country into a Golden Age. He commissioned Hans Holbein to create numerous miniatures and to paint his fourth wife as the Virgin Mary holding the baby Jesus. After the annulment of their marriage, Lady Jane Seymour returned to Wulfhall, but she was recalled back to court by Queen Anne on Henry’s orders.”

Anne thought of recent dramatic events in England. She had quite literally lost the power of speech while reading the letter from Antoine de Castelnau, the French ambassador to England. The diplomat had enlightened François that the former Queen Jane Seymour had seen King Henry not kissing, but tupping his new mistress in his study in the daytime. The woman had turned out to be not even Anne Bassett, but Edward Seymour’s spouse – the Countess of Hertford.

The same happened to me, but Jane’s discovery was far worse, Anne ruminated. This scene must have been similar to the one when she had found Henry kissing her former rival. Afterwards, a distressed Jane had been delivered of a stillborn boy. The monarch had compelled his wife to sign the annulment papers in several days after the tragedy, and then Henry had hastily married the former Lady Bassett in the same palace where Jane had been weeping day and night.

“Ah, Henry has surpassed me on this occasion!” the King of France had been heard to say in front of his courtiers. “Riding his queen’s sister-in-law in broad daylight in a public place!  I had an adventurous life in the past, but I never dared show off my carnal entertainments in such a scandalous fashion. To think that the King of England refers to me as a libertine…  Henry is the most eccentric womanizer in royal history, as well as a brutal tyrant to his wives.”

François’ frivolous tirade had irked Anne. In privacy, she had reprimanded her husband, “I do not wish to hear anything about your amours!” He had only laughed in response.

Pity towards Jane rushed through Anne. Neither she nor Jane had escaped the lethal bondage of their matrimonies with Henry before irreversible damage had been done to their minds and lives. Nonetheless, Anne reveled in the banishment of Jane’s family from court, save Edward Seymour and his family. Henry has been cruel to Jane, but not as horrendously cruel as he treated me. Jane was not arrested on false charges, and her relatives were not executed.

“Queen Anne Bassett,” Anne uttered after a long pause. “It sounds foreign to me.”

“I’m certain that Henry married his paramour only because she got pregnant.”  

“And what about my estranged daughter?”

“As for Elizabeth–“  François abruptly lapsed into silence.

“Tell me!” She grabbed his hand in impatience.   

He spoke reluctantly. “Henry banished your Lizzy from court. Now she is at Hatfield with her governesses. You should write to your friend, the Lady Margery Wentworth.”   

A rush of panic seized her. “Did he disinherit my daughter?”

“No. Henry must be keeping the girl his heir in accordance with the English laws because he cannot leave the succession uncertain.” His expression apologetic, François added, “Whether you like it or not – even if Henry declared otherwise, no court in Europe, including ours, would believe that Lizzy is legitimate. The problem of legitimacy might dog her in the future.”

Anne knew that her husband had said that not to hurt her – it was the truth. “Yes.”

The king uttered cautiously, “But you know what might happen if Anne Bassett gives Henry a son. You must be prepared, Anne. Pray that Henry will not declare Lizzy a bastard.”

“I hate Henry wholeheartedly!” her voice, sodden with disgust towards her ex-husband, boomed. “François, you told me that you would help me prove my innocence and punish Henry.” She swallowed convulsively and demanded, “Why are you still waiting?”

Her spouse looked pensive. “So far my spies have failed to ascertain who the Pope’s main agent in England is now. I’ll speak to Cardinal de Tournon again.” The cardinal, who acted as France’s foreign minister, controlled the country’s spy networks at various courts.

“You can do something now, can’t you?”

“Use your imagination, Anne. Our allies at the Tudor court may start acting very soon. In fact, in a week or so because it takes us from seven to ten days to deliver our codified messages to them. But what if they were hindered by the Pope’s secret agent and assassin, who replaced William Brereton?  What if one of them is killed by that invisible enemy?”

His wife knew that the monarch was correct. Acting precipitately would be the stupidest strategy they could have deployed. When François had informed his wife that Pope Paul III had sent Brereton to England so as to get rid of her, Anne had been angry with her husband for keeping the truth from her for over a year. It horrified Anne that Brereton had testified against her during Cromwell’s investigation just because that religious fanatic had craved to spill her blood.    

At present, they had to be exceedingly careful, or their plans would be derailed. The Pope would not refrain from his attempts to have England restored to the flock of Rome, so his agents at the Tudor court were dangerous. Now they had to take a vicious swipe at a stronger foe than Brereton. I want an aggressive action on our part, but we must wait, the queen convinced herself.

“Stay calm, Anne,” admonished the monarch. “For the sake of our child.”

“I shall try.” Within her, the baby turned, and her hand went to her belly.

“You ought to rest. You will be able to see Louise later tonight.”

Her husband took the girl from her arms. As François stood up from the bed, she felt so lonely, hankering that the hours of his absence would elapse as rapidly as possible. Amazed with her sensations, Anne craved his touch of warmth and mirth, of gentleness and passion.

§§§

When Anne awoke, it was nearly dark in the bedchamber. For a short while, she lay in complete silence, bewildered why none of her ladies-in-waiting was there; they did not leave her alone because of her approaching labor. Her maids ought to lit candles to fend off the darkness.

Her daughter’s cry shattered the stillness. “Why is my Louise not in the nursery?”

“Argh!” The infant needed attention.

An agitated Anne shifted on the bed. “Lady Mother and Mary, are you here?” she called for her relatives who had visited her between the king’s departure and her falling asleep.

There was no answer, but then the infant resumed crying. Anger speared through Anne: how could her mother, her sister, and her ladies abandon not only their queen in her condition, but also the little princess who would obviously need to be fed and perhaps re-swaddled soon? 

Her daughter lapsed into silence, but no one reacted to Anne’s demands to come.

With effort, the irritated queen climbed out of bed. Anne threaded across the room to the crib, her heavy belly restricting her mobility, her movements slow and awkward.   

As Anne lifted her baby girl, the infant stared at the queen with her tender blue eyes. Louise was now babbling something in her childish language with an occasional scream, and as the child’s gaze locked with her mother’s, a toothless grin graced her tiny, perfect features.

“My dear girl,” the queen almost sang as she cradled the child gently. “I’m sorry, my own heart, that you have to wait for your milk. Where is everyone?”

Rocked in her mother’s arms, Louise was now sniffling quietly.

An incensed Anne affirmed, “Madame de Châteaubriant!  Madame d’Angoulême!  Madame de Chabot!  Mademoiselles de Bourbon!  Others!  Where on earth have you all vanished?  I’ll see you all flayed alive for your gross negligence towards your queen and His Majesty’s daughter!”

Nevertheless, the chamber met her with no reaction to her threats. Stillness, full of ghastly premonition, reigned until the girl’s wails renewed, now interspersed by short pauses.

The baby’s wails were growing frantic. With a frustrated cry of her own, Anne resolved to go find help in the antechamber, where her ladies traditionally assembled. Rocking the child, Anne plodded over to the door, every step heavy, every breath labored. When the queen exited into the antechamber, added to her torturing anxieties, was the fear that she could stumble and fall.

“I’ll take care of you, my darling,” she cooed to the starving infant.

Few candles illumined the area. In the semidarkness, Anne distinguished a woman, short in stature, who was attired in a black and gray damask gown trimmed with red lace on the sleeves; her matching cap was ornamented with diamonds. Her profile was turned to Anne, with its delicate line of brow and nose, and its gracious curves of the mouth and chin. She was absolutely stunning in an icy way. But as their eyes met, the inexplicable hardness in her gaze unnerved Anne.

“Baroness de Montmorency!” It was astounding to see the Constable of France’s wife in the royal apartments, for the woman did not serve in her household.

Daughter of René de Savoy, the King of France’s maternal uncle, Madeleine de Savoy had married Anne, Baron de Montmorency, in 1526. Queen Anne had seen her at court before, but they had rarely spoken. The woman was an austere Catholic with a profound dislike of Protestants, and the queen had deliberately tried not to encounter her due to their religious differences.

Madeleine ground out, “It is providence that you have arrived here on your own.”

“Louise, hush!” Anne crooned to the infant. “Madame, pick her up!  Then find my ladies so that they can take my daughter to her wet-nurse. I need to lie down.”

Unexpectedly, Madeleine hissed, “You and your hellspawn will go nowhere.”

At this, Anne shifted her scrutiny to her. “How dare you talk to me so?”

Madeleine’s expression contorted in abhorrence. “You are a villainous whore!  Even the awful fires of hell will not purge your soul because you are Satan incarnate.”

Fright froze the queen to the spot. “That is absurd!”

Madeleine stepped forward. “You, your unborn child, and your accursed daughter are all doomed!  No heretic is fit for the French throne!  It is the Lord’s will that you will die today!”  

Anne’s heart palpitated in anguish. When François would discover his consort and their children dead, arrows of indescribable bereavement would strike him. All at once, a sense of her duty to survive for the sake of their happy marital future inundated her like a celestial blessing.

“We may be interrupted.” Anne pressed her now oddly silent daughter to herself.

Madeleine extracted a dagger from a pocket of her gown. “You can scream as much as you want, you Boleyn Jezebel. No one will hear you, and nobody will come.”

The queen turned her head towards the door that led to the dressing room. Her blood ran cold as she spotted the queen’s guards, whose bodies lay like annihilated monsters, arteries sticking out like bloodied ropes after a prisoner’s torture. And that putrid smell…  It could come only from recently slaughtered animals – no, from the murdered sentinels, whose corpses must still be warm because the blood in the pools beneath their forms were thickening but not yet dried.

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” the shocked Queen of France whispered.

Madeleine’s hands caressed the blade as she strode across the antechamber. “No, not me. Your wanton Majesty has many adversaries dreaming of your death.”  

Anne emphasized, “A good Christian cannot kill a pregnant woman and a baby.”

Madeleine sniggered like a demoness. “What a fabulous weapon it is, although you do not deserve being sent to the underworld with a bejeweled dagger – you should be burned as a heretic. His Holiness will consecrate this weapon later; he will rejoice in your passing.”

The queen looked from the infant in her arms to the weapon, then gazed off into the semi-dark recesses of the chamber for a brief moment. The bodies of her several ladies littered the floor at the room’s other side, the sickening smell of blood blanketing the air in a choking aroma.

Madeleine stopped in front of the queen, who backed away into the corner. “We had to kill those who did not drink the wine with sleeping draught and did not fall asleep.”

“My sister and mother…” A horrified Anne trailed off.  

“They are alive. We do not need them dead.”

“That does put quite the spin on things, then,” jested the queen in a controlled voice that, however, quivered like a leaf in a storm.  “You have hatched an awesome plot against me.”

Madeleine wished to eradicate all evangelicals and Protestants, Anne in particular. “We have always had spies in your entourage. I am honored to play the tiniest role in breeding the temporary chaos in France, which will follow today’s events. The chaos that will destroy your spell over our great country, as well as our sovereign, whom your diabolical wiles seduced into marrying you. Today, on the Feast of St Abdon and Sennen, we will have a glorious purging of France, the House of Valois, and my countrymen through the sacred, cleansing bloodshed.”

Now, when her adversary had gotten into the substance of the matter, Anne’s disdain towards popery, which she had contained since her arrival in France, erupted from her in a rampant torrent. “You are a mad and radical Catholic!  Martin Luther and John Calvin are right that the Catholic prelates are emissaries of the devil. The Pope, who has sanctioned the assassination of an anointed and pregnant queen, is the main ‘whore of Babylon’. You are all beasts!”

“Go to the devil, your master,” the sibilant voice of Montmorency’s wife resonated.  

Anne’s temper had goaded her into voicing her real opinion of Catholics. Madeleine’s words must have been the penultimate ones before her religious insanity torched the edifice of the queen’s life to the ground. I might never see François again!  I’ve failed to protect our children!  Anne agonized silently from the horror of knowing that her marriage would end in this tragedy.

From the corner of her eye, Anne noticed Madeleine lurch forward in her direction. A flash of silver near her alerted her to the impending peril. At this moment, Louise finally emerged out of her tacit trance and began wailing at the top of her lungs. However, before their foe could act, a sinewy figure materialized from the shadows and sprang directly at Madeleine’s back.

“I shall stop you,” Prince Charles growled. “My father will deal with you, then!”

Madeleine de Savoy shrieked in fury when Charles knocked the dagger out of her hands.  She whimpered as he smacked her head into the fireplace adorned with salamanders.   

Charles addressed his stepmother. “You are safe, Your Majesty!”

Suddenly, something flashed in Anne’s peripheral vision. Before she could warn her stepson of the danger, Madeleine bounced to her feet, snarling like a harpy, and then plunged the knife deeply into the young man’s chest until he gurgled with blood and tumbled to the floor.

“You… you…” a shaken Anne stammered. “You have killed Prince Charles!”

At first, Madeleine was nonplussed. “By accident.”

Little Louise commenced crying in the most dolorific accents, as if an invisible musician were performing the tunes of the Lamentation of Christ. Perhaps my girl is weeping for her heroic brother, who died saving us, Anne mused with doleful admiration. God, Charles was so young!     

The queen’s eyes glistened with tears. “Nothing can ever wash away the stains of the evil deed you have just perpetrated. You are a soulless sinner, unworthy of anything good.”

§§§

“Pardon the interruption,” a male voice interjected sardonically. “Such lectures from the fake queen!  So heavily pregnant, Madame!  Carrying another product of your lusts?”

Anne’s condemning gaze flew to them. “You three cannot be France’s enemies!”

“Of course not.” Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, emerged at the doorway. “We are all defenders of Catholicism!  Our mission is to save France from heresy, if our own sovereign does not care that his soul will be burning in hell in the afterlife for marrying a Lutheran.”

The duke’s two brothers trailed after him, their countenances warped by enmity.

 Jean, Cardinal de Lorraine, stated, “France must be free from heretics.”  

“We cannot have a Protestant queen on the throne,” continued Louis, Count de Vaudémont and the youngest among the Lorraine brothers. “It goes against God!”

Anne’s scorn for Catholics resurfaced. “Is it not blasphemous to murder your lawful queen and the royal children?” She was cradling the princess, who was now beginning to fuss.

“I’ve organized everything.” Cardinal François de Tournon strolled into the chamber. “Why is Your Majesty so pale?  You are amazed that I’m yearning to rid France of heresy?”

Horror whitened Anne’s visage. “You… you cannot be a traitor!”

Tournon stalked over to her. The queen stepped back, and the baby wailed more loudly.

“Save your breath.” The hostile flame in the cardinal’s eyes was like that of inquisitorial fire. “We are all fighting for the true faith!  No act purifying my country is unholy.”  

Anne muttered, “You administered my wedding ceremony with François.”

“I did, but with a heavy heart,” Tournon barked. “At the time, there was no other choice to save my homeland from the Habsburg invaders. I did not suspect back then that His Majesty would be under your thumb. You have seduced him with your witchery!”

Their victim stoically defied them with her head held high and her chin jutting forward in defiance. She testified condescendingly, “You are all lunatic Catholics who are ruled by the insane Pope!  Mark my words: even if you destroy us all now, François will discover your treachery and punish you for your crimes, and there will be no mercy for all of you, then.”

“I do not give a damn about your fates,” underscored Tournon. Yet, sadness tinctured his gaze that shifted to the deceased prince. “I liked His Highness. But if his death is necessary for the absolution of his father’s sins for marrying a heretic, then so be it.”   

Madeleine shouted, “The devil will be here as long as they breathe!”

“Shhh, my love.” Anne feasted small kisses onto the distressed baby’s cheeks.

“Silence that child!” Guise commanded, “Go finish that Boleyn she-devil!”

As Lorraine and Vaudémont stomped towards Anne, she stood in a defensive pose. The baby’s wails were now reaching a crescendo of pique. Then, just as Vaudémont advanced on her with a sword, there was a loud crash of splintering wood as he was thrown into a nearby table.

As Anne clutched her baby tighter, she spotted François and his advisors in the room.  

Ire-induced adrenaline rushing through him, the King of France unsheathed his poniard. “Safeguard my wife!” He pressed the blade to Vaudémont’s throat.

Grabbing Tournon, Anne de Montmorency pummeled him with a series of blows into the stomach. Philippe de Chabot dragged Lorraine away from the queen. Claude d’Annebault rushed to Anne and a crying Louise to protect them. Anne gazed back and forth between various people, fright glowing in her pupils, but she remained composed, which impressed the king’s men a lot.

“Finish it,” screeched Guise. “Fulfill a holy mission!  Murder the king too!”

The monarch shot him a fulminating glare. “I shall destroy you myself!”  

Snarling, Guise lunged at his sovereign with his sword, aiming at the monarch’s throat. Nevertheless, François was faster and knocked Claude’s hand away before he could make contact. The ruler swung forward, this time slicing his opponent’s right arm, but still could not dislodge his weapon. Warm liquid spread down Guise’s arm, yet he kept fighting for what now he believed was right – the death of his liege lord who had stopped the punishment of the heretical queen.

Guise had shouted not only to his brothers, but also to their conspirator – Madeleine, who stood at a distance. She tiptoed towards the ruler, whereupon Montmorency went to his liege lord’s rescue, leaving a newly arrived Jean de Rambures, Count de Dammartin, to watch Tournon. Her husband’s fist crashed into her face the very moment Madeleine lifted the dagger to deliver the fatal blow from the back, sending her sailing through the air and landing onto the floor.

“I’m ashamed of being married to you, Madeleine,” Montmorency spat.   

“Stab me!” Her gaze wild, his wife appeared beyond reasonable thought.

“You shall be arrested!” He was perplexed that she was capable of such atrocities.

Madeleine lost the last vestiges of her sanity. “No, better to dispose of the king!”

All of a sudden, the woman bounced to her feet and pounced at the ruler from the back. Without thinking, Montmorency rained down a fierce blow, directed at her right wrist. Her dagger clattered to the floor, while Madeleine fell to her knees, clutching her wounded limb.

“It is over!” Annebault announced. “The queen is unscathed!”

A multitude of royal guards hastened into the room and surrounded the king. In the next moment, Marguerite of Navarre and Mary Stafford darted inside with cries of horror.   

“Sister!” Mary shrilled as she ran to Anne, who was supported by Annebault.

Marguerite took the baby Louise into her arms. “My dear niece, no one shall harm you!”

In light of the escalating commotion, the Duke de Guise and the Cardinal de Lorraine fled into the corridor. They deserted their third brother, Louis, and their ally – Tournon.

The ruler turned to a terrified Vaudémont, who struggled to break free of Chabot’s grip. “Capture Guise and Lorraine, who have both betrayed their country. Take the other two traitors away and put them to the rack so as to learn everything about the conspiracy.”

“As Your Majesty commands,” the king’s men chorused.

François shifted his gaze to the cardinal. “Tournon!  You shall regret that you were born!” He no longer addressed the man ‘Your Eminence’; his voice was like a snake’s hissing.

“I’ll give them a sweet reception in the dungeons,” pledged Dammartin.

The soldiers escorted Tournon, Madeleine, and Vaudémont out of the room.

The gruesome picture of the lifeless Prince Charles caused arctic tentacles of dread to creep along the king’s spine. Shaking his head in consternation, François looked at his councilors in turn and discerned the same feeling of immense sorrow in their eyes. A glimmer of utter terror and guilt that they had failed to save the youth – an innocent victim of the Catholic faction.

“God bless the prince’s gentle soul,” Chabot said, and the nobles echoed.

Paler than a ghost, François crossed himself, but said nothing. The others followed suit.

A jolt of pain surged through Anne’s abdomen. Groaning and clutching at her stomach, she whimpered, “Argh!” If Mary did not support the queen, she would have fallen.

“My goodness!” Mary exclaimed. “The queen is in labor!  Fetch the midwife!”

Galvanized into action, the ruler sprinted to his wife. “Summon Doctor Fernel!”

Marguerite folded her arms around the sniveling child. “I’ll take care of the princess.”

As François carried his consort into the bedroom, Anne felt that her waters had broken, and she pressed her legs together in a useless attempt to stop the labor that would occur a month prematurely. As Anne was placed onto the bed, she felt nothing but the unbearable sensations in her abdomen until the worried amber eyes of her spouse, who settled himself on the bed and leaned over her, came into her view as they awaited the midwife and the doctor.

“Everything will be fine.” Tides of perturbation coursed through François.  

The instant her husband had said that the mayhem dissipated in Anne’s world. She felt as if she were in a nearly blindingly white room, where she felt protected. She smiled at the king, and this feeling solidified into confidence. I am safe with François, Anne murmured wordlessly as Doctor Fernel entered and hurried to her bed, before darkness swallowed her and all went black.

Notes:

Hello, my dear readers! This chapter is dedicated to the victims of COVID-19, just as the previous one was. Thank you for reading and please let me know what you think.

After the annulment of his marriage to Jane Seymour, King Henry married Lady Anne Bassett on the 30th of May 1538. I made Jane lose her second child on the 19th of May on purpose, for the sake of poetical and ironic justice, but I feel ashamed for that. Henry married the former Lady Bassett on the same day when he wed Jane in history.

Finally, we have the POV of Edward and Anne Seymour. Their plan backfired against them. They are not entirely cold-hearted, and Anne feels guilty for Jane's tragedy. Although Edward and Anne did not marry for love, their feelings for each other are growing. Anne does not want to be the king's mistress, but only her affair with Henry precludes them from being banished.

Jane Seymour returned to Wulfhall, but then she was recalled back to court by the new queen on Henry's orders. Later you will learn why Henry wants Jane to stay at court – he has plans for her.

Queen Marguerite and Queen Anne are now close friends. Their discussion shows that France's economy was battered by the invasion. Anne makes suggestions, which are appreciated by Margot. Finally, François returns from his tour through the provinces of France together with Mary Stafford and Montmorency. Anne missed her husband, and they are getting closer, so those who wanted to see sweet moments between the King and Queen of France should be pleased.

We learn about Anne's and François' reaction to the recent happenings in England. Anne is worried about Elizabeth's legitimacy. No, Bess will not be disinherited by her father. Don't worry: she will become Queen of England in 1558. I hope François' frivolous tirade about Henry's behavior spoken in public made you smile: my magnificent friend EvilFluffyBiteyThing, who helps editing this work, modified it slightly, using the word "riding”, and she also added “tupping" in the description of Henry’s actions with Anne Seymour. The historical François would definitely have said something like that in public.

Anne has gone into labor. Will her child survive? Whom will she have? Anne has an unconventional childbearing arc in this AU, which does not mean that she will never have a son. Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, and Cardinal Jean de Lorraine are now on the run.

As always, I recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, FieryMaze, and EvilFluffyBiteyThing at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91 and WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction. I also recommend a gorgeous one-shot 'An Enchanting Dance in Calais' by Countess of Sherwood about Anne, Henry, and François.

Let's make each other smile! Let's review and favorite each other!

PS. I've been so pre-occupied that I'm still in the process of issuing an important note for everyone. The cases of severe harassment and plagiarism must be precluded and stopped. As soon as I have more time within the next two weeks, I shall write this courteous note.

Lady Perseverance

Chapter 31: Chapter 30: France’s Beloved Girl

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 30: France’s Beloved Girl

July 31, 1538, 1538, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, France

“I’m so sorry,” Queen Anne muttered as her husband eased himself into a chair by her bed.

King François watched his wife cradle their newborn daughter. Since he had come to her bedchamber several minutes ago, she had avoided looking at him. Apprehension was etched into her features, which bore traces of fatigue after her labor that had lasted the whole night and half of the next day. It was now mid-afternoon, and it was sweltering, so the windows were left ajar.

Caused by the experienced terror, Anne’s delivery had been a little premature and long, but without complications. François and Anne’s second daughter had come into the world less than an hour ago. The child had been cleaned and swaddled; Lady Mary Stafford and the queen’s ladies had assisted Anne in changing into a clean nightgown. Then the monarch, looking as if he had not slept in a long time, had appeared in his spouse’s rooms and dismissed everyone.

“Anne,” the monarch addressed her. “Look at me.”

Veering her gaze to him, she repeated, “I’m so sorry.”

“For what, wife?” His voice sounded like a caress. “For giving me a beautiful daughter?”

“Yes! I cannot give you a son, François! I have not delivered of a son in my both marriages! I’m cursed to birth only girls!” Her answer expressed all of her deep-seated frustration.

“I told you that I do not care about our child’s gender. Don’t you remember that?”

His gaze flicked to the baby girl who had dozed off in her mother’s arms. François smiled faintly, but his smile vanished as yesterday’s events blazed through his head. Infinite anguish, borne out of his son’s death and of Anne’s own despair, was tearing at the Valois ruler like a living being that dug its claws into his body and soul. Will Anne never believe me? Will she always think that I am like Henry? Why does she not understand that I am happy to have another child?

Sniffling, the queen shook her head. “I’ve produced three princesses, but they are only girls. No king needs a wife who fails in her duty to bear him a male heir. I’ve failed three times!”

“It matters not, Anne,” he made another attempt at persuasion. “It is the Lord’s will that we have a bonny, healthy baby girl. Any child is blessing from God, irrespective of its gender. I love our girl as much as I love our first princess, Louise, and my daughter with Claude – Margot.”

“We need a son.” She swallowed, trying to get a hold of herself again, but failing.

François was beginning to lose patience. “Stop it, Anne. I am not Henry! Claude had given me two daughters before she birthed our first son, and I never berated her for that.”  

“Marguerite told me that.” Her eyes were watery, but the tears did not spill over. “I swear that I wanted to give you a son not only because I crave to extract revenge upon Henry.”

He growled, “It is still the main reason for your determined yearning for a son, Anne.”

“What?” His angry words drove the moisture from the queen’s eyes and made them narrow in a glare. “François, I’m longing to have your son! Not Henry’s son – your son!”

At this, his anger abated. “Really?” he inquired suspiciously.

“I’m not lying to you!” she answered curtly.

He rolled his eyes. “Well, maybe you will deign to explain.”

“It is my duty.” An expression of the utmost grief crossed her countenance. “Your noblest son, Charles, sacrificed himself to save me, Louise, and his unborn sibling. You have lost two sons during the past several years, and I know how important it is for you to have at least one more male child. The Salic law… The Valois male line must continue.” She blinked her tears away. “Some say that you should not have married me, François. I’m an enemy of your many courtiers – a Protestant queen in a Catholic country. Now they will be delighted that your wife has not birthed you a son, laughing at me behind my back. But the worst is that they will be right.”

The monarch’s countenance turned funereal. “Charles died a hero’s death; his sacrifice will never be forgotten. As for our subjects, you are wrong: most of them accepted you as their queen, and I swear that I shall deal with all Catholics who might dare harm you and our daughters.”

Guilt painted itself onto her face. “You are too kind and too generous to me.”

“Calm down, Anne. I beg of you not to torture yourself anymore.”

At his request, Anne passed on the girl to François. The infant began to fuss, and the king broke into a quiet song that seemed half lullaby, half chant as he bounced the baby lightly. By the end of the song in French, the child was calmer, looking at her father with a smile.

“Our girl looks like you, wife,” he observed. “She has your hair and your eyes. Louise is like my mother: a Savoy through and through. But this girl is a natural Boleyn.”

Not liking his words, she stressed, “They are also both Valois as well.”

“Yes.” François cradled her in the crook of his arm.

Indeed, the baby girl had a tuft of black curls on her small head, slightly olive skin, shining dark eyes, and deep dimples in both cheeks. She was absolutely stunning! As the monarch peered into the infant’s eyes, François thought that staring into them was like looking into a fathomless lake where he saw the beginning of all happiness and love one could find in the entire universe. Now the ruler felt as hypnotized as he always felt when his gaze locked with his queen’s.

The king verbalized his thoughts. “Eyes the color of earth in the midst of a swarthy face!  It is as if you were looking back through the tunnel of time to the earth’s origins.”

The queen chuckled. “Are they so mysterious?”

This elicited a smile from him. “Her eyes are as enigmatic and hooking as her mother’s.”

As François made funny faces, the baby cooed and cooed. Anne smiled at this marvelous picture: it was good that her newborn daughter was in such high spirits. The infant had no true understanding of what potential difficulties lay ahead for her mother, and the first of them – dealing with whisperings and snickerings about Anne’s inability to bear sons – was looming fast.

“Our next child will be a son,” the queen vowed. “I shall not disappoint you again.”

Her spouse continued playing with the girl. “You sound foolish in spite of your tremendous intelligence. The Almighty determines the baby’s gender, and no amount of praying for a son can help you if you are not destined to have one. We will have a son if God wills it.”

She released a sigh. “You are probably right.”

“Aimée,” François drawled, tasting the sound on his tongue. “Princess Aimée de Valois.”

His choice of a name delighted Anne. On the night of their reconciliation, François had said that he wanted to have another female child with her whom he would name Aimée. They had also spoken about a name for a boy – Augustin. “It is not a traditional name for French royalty.”

“Its meaning is ‘beloved’. In the eyes of many Christians, it refers to ‘love for God’. She is France’s beloved girl! Our daughter’s name will be a link to my feelings for you, Anne.”

“What?” Her heart hammered like a living creature that had been sewn into her chest cavity.

“Beloved,” François emphasized meaningfully.

The monarch’s gaze flew to her face. The queen was staring at him with a blend of the rarest wonder and disbelief, her eyes tempestuous with deep emotion, reflecting her inner tumult. He repeated the same, and her mouth dropped open in astonishment, which caused him to grin.

“I love you, Anne,” the ruler uttered in most sincere accents. “I had never loved a woman before I married you. After our wedding, it took me quite some time to realize that I worship you beyond the words to tell. You have become my life after you gave birth to our Louise.”

“It is… impossible,” a bewildered Anne stuttered.

“You don’t believe me, do you?” An arrow of hurt struck him in the chest.

“Oh no, God in heaven, no!” She hurried to negate any notion of affront that her statement could have planted. “I would never imply anything bad as you might think I mean. It is just so unexpected…  How could I think that you could have feelings for me when I did not even want to be your wife? Our marriage started as a political arrangement necessary to salvage France.”

François planted a kiss on their daughter’s forehead. “Indeed, our union was political at first. You not only rejected me as a friend and a lover – you loathed me because of your disdain for men and Henry. Then you warmed up to me, and I was happy with the changes in you.”

“Husband, it is too difficult for me to believe in the love of another king.” Her expression began to take on a feverish intensity. “After my experience with Henry, I’ve lost faith in love.”

“Anne, I know you suffered too much. I do not demand that you reciprocate my feelings right now, but I hope that you will heal enough to let us be happy together.”  

For a brief moment, Anne thought that time was standing still. Or maybe her heart was. A vivid flame of romance and hope for paradisal contentment flared up within her, refusing to be extinguished. Had she really heard all these glorious things from her husband? Some magical admission that turned her universe upon its head! François, now, of all times, your words have given me serene joy. Does he really love me? Or is his confession a figment of my imagination?  

The ruler stood up and handed the infant to his wife, holding her gaze. “Wife, promise me that you will try not to think of Henry and all your misfortunes.”

A tremor of her erstwhile fears ripped through Anne. The dormant emotions of indescribable tenderness, gratitude, and affection – her newly discovered feelings for François – inundated her, leaving her perplexed. All of these powerful sensations were swirling, intensifying, crashing, and twisting inside her. Turbulent and conflicted, they were in chaos, but they were escalating and converging to a previously impossible conclusion – Anne yearned to be content with him.

The queen blinked, startled all over again. Her voice weak, Anne uttered, “Happiness is like a butterfly: the more you chase it, the more it will elude you. Nevertheless, we can try.”

He did not hide his disappointment. “Well, then. It will be as you wish.”

“Thank you, François.” Her heart slammed within the walls of her chest.

“I must go.” Ice settled in the back of his throat. “To my Charles…”  

Anne swallowed convulsively. “God bless you, François. I shall be here for you!”

Nodding his thanks, the monarch felt smaller than the lowest person in the whole world, more helpless than a sinner condemned to remain in purgatory forever. For the most part, kings feel as mighty and invincible as the warrior-gods of the ancient times, but they are powerless in the face of death. His steps weak and faltering, he walked towards the door, slowly and reluctantly.

§§§

The queen’s ladies-in-waiting thronged near the entrance to her rooms. Their whisperings were full of curiosity as to the monarch’s reaction to his new daughter’s birth.

“Will the king be happy?” Adrienne de Cosse wondered.

Louise, Anne de Montmorency’s sister, liked the queen in spite of her Catholic religion. But she was relieved that Anne had not borne a son. “Her Majesty has failed His Majesty again.”

Jeanne d’Angoulême interposed, “How dare you gossip about the queen? You are talking about the courageous woman who assisted our king in saving the country from the Spaniards!”

“You have no shame!” Françoise de Longwy, Philippe de Chabot’s wife, supported her.  

Françoise de Foix berated, “You have no right to treat Her Majesty this way. His Majesty will not stand for it! You must all thank the Lord for a new Valois child!”   

“I beg your pardon.” Louise de Montmorency’s gaze was downcast.

“Don’t you dare malign Queen Anne!” Elizabeth Boleyn hissed as she and Mary Stafford appeared at the end of the hallway. “You must respect Her Majesty and never slander her!”   

Everyone was stunned into silence. Ire pulsated through the air like a rapid heartbeat.

“I love the queen and everything about her,” Adrienne defended herself.

Louise rejoined the talk. “I am in awe of our queen, to whom we are all devoted.”

Elizabeth neared Montmorency’s sister and grabbed her arm. “Some words are dangerous, Madame. You and your family, together with the House of Lorraine, represent the Catholic faction at court. Neither King François nor I will allow you to humiliate and harm my daughter.”  

“Be careful,” Mary Stafford entered the conversation. Standing beside her mother, she eyed all the women in the corridor. “The court is a place of deadly intrigues.”

Louise de Montmorency avouched, “My brother, Constable of France, is His Majesty’s best friend and most loyal subject. My allegiance to the House of Valois is also unwavering.”

“Watch your tongue.” Elizabeth’s rage sharpened her features. “Keep your mouth shut, and you will stay out of trouble. The king will appreciate your respect to his spouse.”

“I am loyal to the King and Queen of France,” reiterated Madame de Montmorency.

Anne’s mother released Louise as the Valois ruler exited from his wife’s apartments.

Everybody curtsied. The monarch acknowledged Anne’s family with a brief, wan smile. As the king walked to his wife’s relatives, others stepped aside to give them privacy.

Observing Elizabeth and Mary, the ruler asked outright, “What is it that has all of you so tense?” No one answered, so he added, “Madame Wiltshire?”   

Elizabeth was inwardly terrified. “My Annie had another daughter.” Her voice was so quiet that her words were nearly inaudible. “I pray that she will give you a son next time.”

François leaned closer to his wife’s mother, whispering, “You would best be thinking more of how our little princess is faring. Anne and I both like her name – Aimée.”    

“Is that true?” Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief.

“A daughter is as much a blessing as a son,” the king asserted, patting his mother-in-law’s arm comfortingly. “Even if Anne produces only female progeny, I’ll not repudiate her.”

Mary grinned with relief. “My sister is so fortunate, then! She will avoid the burden of her husband’s frustrated looks should she have only a brood of girls.”

The monarch’s impish laughter, yet rather sullen, booked through the hallway. “I shall be especially delighted if these many girls bear resemblance to their extraordinary mother.”

“Thanks be to God,” Elizabeth and Mary whispered.

His eyes raking the crowd, the King of France affirmed, “My friends! Pray for my most beloved newborn daughter! Long life to Queen Anne and Princess Aimée de Valois!”

The Boleyn women looked squarely at Adrienne and Louise without arrogance. The queen’s family had the high royal favor, and it protected them to a significant degree, but no matter how powerful their connections, resentment was a great motive for plotting – Mary and Elizabeth knew that. Most of the ladies smiled with relief, but some had astonished countenances.

François beamed with pleasure as he headed to the ground floor. All garbed in modest mourning clothes, his entourage trailed behind him like a cloud. He would gladly have stayed with Anne and their newborn daughter for longer, but Isabella of Portugal, the emperor’s wife, had unexpectedly arrived an hour previously, and now she awaited him in the presence chamber.

The ruler did not order celebrations in honor of his new daughter’s birth. Despite his outward calmness, his heart was missing beat after beat. Princess Aimée was born, but Prince Charles was dead, and everyone’s spirits were as gloomy as the blue-black waters of the sea before a storm.

§§§

Without a herald’s announcement, the door to the royal presence chamber opened.  Like a shadow, Empress Isabella slipped inside, her steps careful and precise in a fearful way, strange steps for a woman who always moved confidently, slowly, and stately as royalty.   

“Welcome to France,” she heard a majestic voice that addressed her in accented Spanish. The voice added, though with scorn, “Your Majesty must be tired after a long journey.”

Isabella lowered herself into a stunning curtsey. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I’m honored to see the victor in the Franco-Spanish war.” She spoke to him in French with a Spanish accent.   

François switched into his native tongue. “Thanks be to God that I emerged triumphant from the invasion launched by two Habsburg brothers, one of them your husband.”

As she sauntered until stopping in the room’s center, the empress was a knot of fright and anxiety seeking release, a knot of terror that sat like lead in her abdomen.

Having just arrived, Isabella had immediately asked for an audience with the King of France. When her request had been granted quickly, she had had no time to change into alternative attire. Isabella’s outfit was of brown and green damask with satin-lined oversleeves caught together at the front; a matching flat cap was trimmed with gold, showing off her blonde hair to advantage.  

Raising her eyes, Isabella studied King François who sat in his imposing gilded throne. To her surprise, he wore a doublet of black silk embroidered with satin and black silk hose. Something stony in his face, perhaps a twist of barely suppressed grief, sent shivers along her spine. François is fond of sumptuous, colorful clothes. Why is he dressed in black? Is he in mourning?

“I…” She opened her mouth, but the words struck in her throat.

“You have come,” began the ruler, “to negotiate the release of Archduke Ferdinand, King of Bohemia, Croatia, and Hungary, also King of the Romans. You wish to know my demands.”

The eyes of her spouse’s adversary shifted and intensified. The chamber was warm with the heat of the candles and torches necessary for light. The walls, lavishly decorated with frescoes of mythological scenes from the life of the Greek God Zeus, pressed upon him from all sides.

Nothing could quieten Isabella’s fears, pulsating through her whole being like the hottest torrents of lava from a volcano’s mouth. “Yes. How is Ferdinand fairing?”     

“The emperor’s brother has already read far more books than he did in any other time.”  

Her throat dried. “How can I be sure that he is alive?”

“I’ll permit you to meet with Ferdinand,” acquiesced François.

It is my first small success! Isabella was aware that François was a chivalrous man, one who was kinder than Henry of England and her own husband. Even so, Isabella still wanted their agreement solidified in writing, including both their seals. Nevertheless, it seemed impossible, and the empress was glad that her spouse’s enemy was inclined to negotiations.

Relief and hope reflected themselves on her visage. “Will you release him?”

“I’ll think about it,” he replied coolly.

The empress’ heart sank into her stomach. “Your Majesty has kept my brother-in-law in captivity for more than year and a half. Our ambassador, Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle, spoke to you, but you refused to discuss Ferdinand’s release. But when you consented to meet with me, I thought that we would be able to reach an agreement.”

The ruler directed a disdainful glance at her. “I spent more time in Spanish captivity at first in Italy and then in Madrid. I lived in far, far worse conditions than Ferdinand enjoys during all this time. Don’t worry about him: the king is hale and hearty, though rather depressed.”

She cast her gaze down in shame. “You may not believe me, but I endeavored to persuade Carlos to improve your living conditions while you were in Spain. My late sister-in-law, Eleanor, spoke to him on your behalf as well. All was in vain because of his hatred for you.”

“I know that.” Despite her candor, his tone was cold.

Isabella glanced back at him. “How?”

“Eleanor and I were never close, but once she told me about that. My sons, François and Henri, informed me about Eleanor’s and your visits to their abhorrent prison: you both brought them delicious meals and toys, and every time you visited them, you treated them well.”   

“I do remember those days.” Shame for the emperor’s inhuman attitude to the two captive princes, who had been toddlers back then, was obvious in her gaze. “Your boys were so upset that they were separated from their parents. They dreamed of going home, begging Eleanor and me to help them escape. They should not have been involved in your struggle with the Habsburgs.”

François grunted with disgust, “My sons were innocent victims of your husband. I know why he kept me in that old and dilapidated castle where I almost died. His implacable aversion towards me and France deprived him of his humanity towards the House of Valois, and he did not care that he tormented my children – two unfortunate boys, not even of age.”

Her conscience pricked her like a needle through a thimble. “Carlos did some horrible things to Your Majesty and your family. I do apologize for my spouse’s misdeeds.”

“It is too late for regret.” His countenance evolved into that of the ultimate despondency, but then it went blank. “My eldest son, François, never recovered his health after his return from Madrid. My son’s blood is on the hands of your most noble husband!”

“I’m very sorry,” she repeated. His accusations towards Carlos were fair.

For a few minutes, François did not speak, his arctic eyes piercing his guest. Through an intolerable length of silence, Isabella watched him, anticipating a stream of his guilty words.

The monarch broke the pause. “Only out of my respect to you, Your Majesty, I’ll arrange your meeting with Ferdinand. The only reason why I consented to grant you an audience is my knowledge of your endeavors to help me and my sons during our captivities.”

Torrents of joy rushed through the empress, yet she was obsessed over François’ each word. Still apprehensive of Ferdinand’s fate, she had always had an affectionate relationship with her husband’s younger sibling. She had noticed that François had not addressed her as ‘Your Imperial Majesty’. François has not acknowledged me properly due to his disdain towards the Habsburgs. But I did not expect to have a warm reception from him, Isabella mused.   

The monarch commenced an irate assault, as though reading her thoughts. “The House of Habsburg does not deserve a modicum of respect from my family or my subjects. Not after the captivity of France’s sovereign and her princes. Not after the recent invasion that wrecked the lives of my countrymen. Moreover, we utterly defeated the emperor, so he is no longer as mighty as he once was.” For a split second, a triumphant smile was arrayed on his countenance.

In spite of her knowledge of the emperor’s many misdeeds against the French ruler, she did not like that he castigated her beloved husband. “In his thirst for vengeance, Carlos acted poorly. However, you are not without sin: you took Ferdinand prisoner, too!”   

“Yes, I did; but His Bohemian Majesty has been treated as a king. Moreover, I did not imprison any of Carlos’ or Ferdinand’s children. Even if I had done that, the thought of projecting my anger with Carlos onto his offspring of so tender an age would not have crossed my mind.”

She absorbed his honest gaze. “I think you would not. “ 

“Ferdinand is not an angel.” The monarch clenched his bejeweled fingers. “Carlos and he started the invasion. At present, the King of Bohemia is reaping what he sowed.”

Isabella felt a pang of sorrow for Ferdinand, seemingly cheated of opportunities to have him released. “What do we have to do so that Ferdinand is liberated?”

“Your Majesty, we shall discuss everything later. In the meantime, you will be lodged in a luxurious suite at court, but my men will guard you heavily. You will not be permitted to be attended by any of your Spanish and Portuguese servants or the ladies-in-waiting in your entourage while staying here. French noblewomen who speak Spanish will see to your needs.”  

“Is Your Majesty taking me captive against your code of chivalry?” 

François rose from his throne, and elucidated in an insinuating tone, “Yesterday, several treacherous Catholics attempted to assassinate my wife, Queen Anne. She was not harmed, but they murdered my son – Prince Charles.” He drew a breath. “As Carlos tried to kill Anne during the war but failed, I have suspicions that the emperor might be implicated in this crime.”

“What? No! How?” a shaken Isabella stammered.

“And if Carlos sanctioned it…” A gravelly voice growled close to her ear.

She could not hide her horror as the implication set in. “Will you kill him?”

He spat, “Carlos is an accursed murderer, but I am not like him.”

For a short time, François and Isabella stood beside each other. His glare exuded berserk rage sharper than a lance. She saw his desire to hurt the emperor as much as he could, and in all ways possible. His abhorrence towards the emperor was a force more powerful than any army.

“May your son rest in peace,” Isabella pronounced sincerely.

The monarch pressed his lips together. “I’ll not cast all your hopes to nothingness. Yet, you must understand that if my investigation into my son Charles’ death unearths something as grave as your spouse’s crucial role in this plot, there will be severe consequences. However, not all the Habsburgs must pay for the deaths of my two sons, but some must, though not by dying.”

Her eyes flickered with reflected fire from the candlelight. “What does that mean?”

With a wolfish grin, he jested, “More enigma, more games, and more entertainment.”

Fright rattled the bones in Isabella’s flesh. “Death is not entertainment!”

François canted his head. “You will not succeed in running away if you dare try. Be at ease: neither you nor any of the Habsburg brothers will be harmed. But I may do something else.”

His cruel gaze hazy with enigma, the Valois ruler swiveled and hurriedly exited.

Unable to overcome her vulnerability, a stressed-out Isabella fell to her knees and buried her face into her hands. What is François planning? At least he did not slit my throat outright and gave certain promises. Will there be a new bloodthirsty conflict between Spain and France? This uncertainty was like a lethal foam that embraced her, taking the shape of her form. Her best option was cooperation with the French ruler, so she braced herself for that difficult task.

§§§

Château de Fontainebleau was a magnificent palace of pleasure, but there was also a small prison there. Followed by guards, King François strode around the circular wall of a tower and ascended the stairs before entering the prison. The foul stench hit their nostrils.

“Your Majesty!” Anne de Montmorency rushed across the corridor, carrying a lit torch. “I’ve interrogated Cardinal de Tournon and Count Louis de Vaudémont.”

François stopped next to the Constable of France. “And your wife, Monty?”

Montmorency exhaled sharply. “Madeline has refused to talk to me.”

The king nodded his sympathy. “Admiral de Brion will interrogate her.” After a pause, he affirmed gently, “Do you understand that she will be executed for treason?”

“Of course.” Montmorency still scarcely believed in his spouse’s villainies.

François and Montmorency walked past many cells and descended into an underground cell. A guard brought a torch, and they examined the room. Instruments of torture flashed in the dim light, and several sets of manacles were affixed both high on the wall and close to the floor, so a man with a blood-smeared face, dressed in red raiment, was fettered standing.   

“Tournon,” the ruler spat like the worst curse. “I’ve never seen you more miserable.”

His eyes straying to the king, the cardinal supplied, “I do not regret what I did – I am God’s ambassador. Montmorency tortured me like an animal, and now all I want is to die.”  

“Is the emperor the culprit?” questioned the monarch.

Montmorency stood behind his sovereign. “That mongrel did not confess to that.”  

“Let’s send him to hell.” François unsheathed his poniard.

As the ruler stomped over to him, Cardinal de Tournon cried, “Death comes as it pleases, regardless of nationality, status, and birth. It is no respecter of human feelings, leaving memories and fading sounds of familiar voices. Your heretical queen shall pay for her sins!”

François yelled in fury as he towered over the prisoner. His hate-drenched countenance was the last thing the cardinal saw before the monarch plunged the dagger into his neck and ripped it through gristle and bone. His expression did not flutter even for a second as he observed Tournon writhe in the throes of mortality, his throat gurgling with blood, his limbs convulsing.

Montmorency’s voice cut through the sinister silence. “Tournon will be burning in hell for all eternity. It was the right decision not to execute a treacherous cardinal publicly. Despite the crimes of those Catholics, France cannot destroy her good relations with His Holiness.”  

The king’s hand flattened against his chest, where his fragmented heart thumped. “Now I do not care about politics. No amount of spilled blood can return my Charles to life.”

Sorrow squeezed Montmorency like a fist. “My deepest condolences, Your Majesty.”

“Throw Tournon’s body to the dogs,” François commanded; his subject inclined his head. The monarch inquired, “Have you caught the Duke de Guise and the Cardinal of Lorraine?”

Montmorency vowed, “I shall find them, but they disappeared.”  

The ruler quitted the prison, followed by the others. The woes, which had befallen François, left him thoroughly drained. His temporary numbness melted into a painful turmoil that twisted each thought into circles and each sensation into pieces of his broken life. The ruler blamed himself for his son’s assassination – he would never forgive himself for his failure to prevent it.


August 28, 1538, Elsyng Palace, Enfield, north London, England

Clad in red brocade and cloth of gold, King Henry lounged in his throne. The second Queen Anne was seated in her throne next to him. Her mother, Lady Honor Grenville, and her stepfather – Sir Arthur Plantagenet, Lord Lisle – as well as her teenaged siblings – John, George, James, Philippa, and Katharine – stood nearby. At this early hour, the great hall was filled with courtiers.

The ruler admired his new consort. The former Anne Bassett was accoutered in a gown of red velvet, cut low and ornamented with a profusion of sapphires and rubies. Her stomacher of black brocade, set with gems, emphasized her swollen belly and gleamed like the flame of triumph in her eyes. Her countenance haughty, her entire appearance was screaming that she had achieved the highest female status in the realm, proclaiming her absolute superiority over all women.

Two months ago, Pope Paul III had excommunicated King Henry. The royal chief minister, Thomas Cromwell, continued the gradual disbandment of the monastic houses – those that had not yet been destroyed. The late Pope Clement VII had threatened excommunication to Henry in 1533. The papal Bull, declaring the Tudor ruler a godless heretic officially, had ended a vicious conflict between the English crown and the Roman curia, but Henry did not care about that.

“My queen,” Henry flirted with his consort. “You are lovely!”

His spouse flashed a brilliant smile. “My most handsome and mighty monarch!”

At the herald’s declaration, the king turned his head to the door. He glanced at the French ambassador, Antoine de Castelnau, as if he were a hungry vulture, as the man entered.

Everyone’s gazes were glued to Castelnau who threaded towards the thrones. Although his countenance was impassive, his slow, reluctant gait lacked confidence, betraying his anxiety.

“Monsieur de Castelnau,” began the Tudor ruler in his native tongue. “Come here.”

“I’m at Your Majesty’s disposal,” the diplomat answered in accented English.

There was a snort of derision from the king. “No doubt you are afraid of me and my power. But rest assured you will feel better after learning about the reason for our meeting.”

Masking his dread with a vague smile, Castelnau stopped several respectful paces from the monarch. He swept a gallant bow to the Tudor blackguard, as he referred to Henry in his mind. Although the relationship between England and France had always been strained, the two countries had become sworn foes, just as they had been during the Hundred Years’ War, the moment Henry had received the tidbits of his former wife’s wedding to his Valois archenemy.

“How can I serve you?” Castelnau’s eyes were downcast.

“Afraid to look at me?” Henry sniggered with disdain.

The other man stared at him. “How can I help Your Majesty?”

“To your knees!” The king’s roar was like thunder.

“I’m sorry?” The ambassador was utterly perplexed.

“Do as I say,” Henry bellowed. “Or I’ll have you beheaded like a pig for slaughter!”

Half-incensed, half-shaken, Castelnau fell to his knees, shutting his eyes to avoid seeing the monarch’s and his courtiers’ cynical grins. “As you wish, sire.”

Henry pointed a scornful finger at him. “You have little time left at this post.”

Everyone listened to this exchange with anticipation and bafflement.  

“Will… you… arrest me?” Castelnau stammered.  

“So frightened of losing your worthless life, you coward? I’ll not execute you because you will fly home soon, you French insect. I’ve decided to expel you from my court.”

Waves of astonishment shot through the spines of all the spectators.

Still on his knees, Castelnau asked, “Are you declaring war on France?”

Henry smirked. “Not yet. You are just too bold for my liking.”

“I’ll gladly depart.” To Castelnau, Henry was a wolf coveting to devour him at once.

Anger boiling in his blood, the ruler forced it down and calmed his mind, abruptly changing the subject. “Has your whorish queen given birth to her second bastard?”

Queen Anne,” stressed the diplomat, “is my sovereign’s wife in the eyes of God and law, so any child born in their marriage is legitimate. Princess Aimée was born last month; France is also in mourning because our liege lord’s son, Prince Charles, passed away on the same day.”

King Henry laughed with triumphant satisfaction that riled the ambassador and Anne’s allies. Whisperings of Anne’s supporters arose, while her adversaries all grinned viciously. The prince’s death surprised them, but the news of her failure were more important to them.

Following an insinuating pause, Henry snickered. “I am not in mourning for Prince Charles. I view his death as the Lord’s just punishment for a king who married a criminal.”

This distasteful expression of his cruelty and his disdain towards the Valois dynasty did not surprise the ambassador in the slightest. “Your Majesty is gracious beyond my expectations.”

Henry gestured towards his consort before gushing ebulliently, “My wife is with child! She is fertile, unlike that Boleyn slut. She will produce a brood of Tudor princes!”

Anne Bassett blanched like a gambler abandoned by luck. Her husband’s statement stabbed her like an axe that might sever her head from the body if she disappointed him. “Our boy will rule both England and France after his father conquers the Valois usurper’s lands.”

Venom leaked out of the monarch’s mouth. “Pass on my congratulations to your sovereign, Castelnau! When that dim-witted François married the Boleyn slut, he not only besmirched his family’s and his country’s honor, but also deprived himself of a chance to have more legitimate male heirs. It is clear that the trollop is incapable of producing male progeny! I’ve likened him to a stupid royal pariah who is cursed to lose his kingdom because of his own stupidity.”

Castelnau stood up. “Queen Anne will have several sons with King François.”

In a fit of insane rage, Henry rushed forward and grabbed the ambassador. The king punched Castelnau until the man’s legs buckled, kicking the diplomat each time he fell down and then picked him up to beat him down again. Castelnau did not fight back, knowing that he might be executed if he resisted. The ruler continued the beating until the man’s face was all bloody.

Transfixed, the nobles watched the scene in silence, terrified.   

“Take this worm to his quarters!” Henry spat down onto the man, sprawled on the floor. “If he does not leave tomorrow at first light, I shall chop off his head with my bare hands.”

After he had passed out, servants carried Castelnau out of the chamber.

The king returned to his throne, glowering at his wife. “Anne, your most sacred duty is to give me my prince. I must prove that it was her fault she did not give me a son.”  

“What if it is a girl?” This slipped from her lips before she could think of the consequences.

“You have only one chance, my darling.” The meaning of his threat was clear.

The queen’s mother paled. Shoving a hand over their mouths, Anne’s brothers and sisters halted gasps. Many observed their reactions, but they failed to notice the growing pallor of Henry Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, who stood a small distance away, struggling to look composed.

“God will bless us.” Anne let out a brittle smile.

“Let’s go,” Henry murmured, suddenly surprising her with the gentleness of his tone as he straightened to his full height. “You may spend some time with my little Elizabeth.”

The royals swept out of the room, but they parted their ways soon. While Henry went to his rooms to service his mistress, Anne Seymour, his wife headed to Elizabeth’s rooms.

§§§

The sky was lit up by many twinkling stars, a crescent moon hanging golden in the blackness. Princess Elizabeth stretched languidly, reveling in the sumptuous feather, canopied bed. Lulled by a bedtime story, she was caught up in the sweet music of Queen Anne’s voice.

It took the queen half an hour to finish the tale. “The prince saved his beloved princess at the last moment before the forces of evil could kill her. The couple then invited all their subjects to the celebration of their wedding. They lived together in happiness for eternity.”

Elizabeth smiled widely. “It is such a nice story! Did they have children?”

“Of course!” The queen smiled at her stepdaughter. “They had many sons and daughters. Each of them was as gorgeous and intelligent as you, my dearest Highness.”

“God blessed them!” The girl laughed when her stepmother ceased to speak.

Anne nodded. “Yes, He did. And no one could destroy their family.”

To her surprise, the new queen had rapidly grown to love little Elizabeth after her marriage to Henry. The princess was a true charmer who could make even her mother’s foes like her a great deal. Henry’s new wife admired her namesake who had married two powerful monarchs and given children to them both. Elizabeth must have taken a lot after her mother, she thought.

“Not all queens are content,” Elizabeth muttered before realizing that she had verbalized her thoughts. Her eyes flashing in fear, she apologized, “I’m sorry, Your Majesty.”

Her stepmother smiled sympathetically. “I understand that you miss your beloved mama. But you should not speak of her to His Majesty, or he might get very angry with you.”

“I know.” A fat tear trickled down the toddler’s cheek. Lady Margaret Bryan and Lady Margery Horsman had explained that to her a while ago, and she followed their advice.    

“Everything will be all right.” Anne stroked the girl’s red-gold hair. “There are many people who love you, Lizzy. You are not alone, despite your mother’s exile.”

The princess smiled at her. “I like you more than Queen Jane.”

Genuinely pleased, the queen purred, “Ah, your bright eyes see too much, our little Tudor rose. You have discerned my best distinction from your former stepmother.”

“I shall be a good sister to your child.” The princess clapped her hand upon her heart.  

Anne briefly touched her abdomen. “I’m most delighted, my dear! Your brother will be the most fortunate boy to have a wonderful older sister such as yourself.”

“Yes!” Elizabeth would have preferred to have a baby brother with her estranged mother. Yet, she did not mind if her father’s new kind spouse birthed her a brother.

“Now you need to go to bed, Your Highness.”

The girl yawned. “I’m so tired, but I’ll have to get up for matins.”

“If you are not well rested, then you will fall asleep during the prayer. Oh, the indignity! It might strike kings, queens, princes, and princesses like an arrow! You ought to go to bed right now, Your Highness, for I do not want you to become an object for jesting or ridicule.”

The queen and her stepdaughter laughed in unison. While putting Elizabeth to bed, Anne chirped to her like a bird. Anne did not leave even after Elizabeth had fallen asleep.

Queen Anne’s mind drifted to the recent events in her life. At the end of May, after the annulment of the king’s marriage to Jane, Henry had married his pregnant mistress at Leeds Castle. Anne had fantasized that her wedding would be merry and attended by many guests. However, her private and hasty ceremony had broken those reveries, and the monarch’s reminder that he had wed her only because of the child, became the conduit for her terror-filled days.

Soon the court had moved to Elsyng Palace, called Little Park, which was used by the king as a hunting lodge. Henry’s new queen disliked this large brick palace, which, in her opinion, was sufficient only to receive the court on progress; she preferred Hampton Court and Greenwich Palace. The monarch nonetheless enjoyed the time he spent hunting in nearby woods, where he reveled in his infamous parties with Suffolk, Exeter, and other members of his inner circle.

I’m the king’s fourth queen, she mused. Am I the last one? Anne labored to be what Henry longed to see in his wife: a wife absolutely obedient to her lord and husband. After his previous marriages, intelligent and headstrong women were anathema for Henry. His second Anne was a little better than nothing to him – she was valuable for him only because of the chance that she would secure the succession. Along with her fears as to the baby’s gender, Anne’s worst terror that her deadly secret would be unveiled, and she avoided looking at the Marquess of Exeter.  

After the annulment of her union with the king, Lady Jane Seymour had been dispatched back to her family’s estates. Yet, King Henry had ordered his new wife to recall Jane back, which Anne had done unwillingly. Why does Henry want Jane to stay at court? Does he have some special plans for her? a baffled Anne wondered. The other Seymours, save the Earl and Countess of Hertford, had all been banished from court and returned to the countryside to Wulfhall.

After she had slipped under the royal sheets, the former Lady Anne Bassett had been fond of flaunting her affair with the English ruler without regard to the jealous pangs her former rival must have experienced. However, now when her gaze intersected with Jane’s, Anne often detected the loneliness and despair in Jane’s eyes, causing her to feel guilty for the woman’s woes.

Recently, Princess Elizabeth had arrived at Elsyng, and the king was attentive to her. Anne  had a sense of togetherness with the girl, and if she had an exceptional daughter such as Elizabeth, she would be the proudest mother. On the back of courtiers’ coldness towards her, Anne believed that the girl was one of her few friends, in addition to her siblings, Katherine and Philippa. The queen did not have a close relationship with her cold mother, Lady Honor Grenville.

Elizabeth smiled in her sleep. Her stepmother stroked her hair, and climbed to her feet.

Anne paused in the antechamber as the sound of subdued, yet excited, voices came to her ears. Having recognized them, she stood still and listened for a handful of minutes.  

Margaret Bryan gushed, “I’m so honored to be the bearer of excellent tidings. The letters they found at one of Cromwell’s estates will prove his vile plots.”

Margery Horseman speculated, “I admit I’ve been dreadfully worried about the outcome of our endeavors. I’m craving to see the traitors executed and to have Queen Anne’s name cleared. But even if King Henry learns of her innocence, his hatred for her will not abate.”

“True,” Margaret answered impatiently, a nervous anxiety smoldering inside of her. “His Majesty’s obsession with Queen Anne will not fade away. Knowing that she never betrayed him, he might want to have her back as his wife, yet the King of France will never let that happen.”

“Yes, but now we have to discuss our role in the upcoming drama.”

When they left, Queen Anne hastened out of the room into the corridor. At this very moment, Anne was more cognizant of her circumstances than before: her spouse’s obsession with the ghost of the first Anne was a threat to the royal position of the second one, especially lest Anne’s child would be stillborn or a girl. The baby that was not fathered by King Henry…

On the way to her apartments, Anne’s mind involuntarily drifted to the Marquess of Exeter. They evaded one another like those infected with leprosy, but she longed for him like never before. The thought of remaining in this limbo – with Exeter at court and yet without the opportunity to see him – made her heart writhe in agony, painting her consciousness in painful hues. Never before was any man as important to me as Hal Courtenay has become, the queen lamented.

§§§

It was a mild, still night. Through veils of light mist, the crescent moon shone with a tranquil bride-like grace upon the silent land. An ideal night for lovers, one would say, for sweet meetings and sweeter partings. A night that mocked with its despondent calm at the tenacious desperation growing inside of the Marquess of Exeter, a need for someone he could not have.

Memories of the many nights Exeter had spent with Anne Bassett at Leeds Castle paraded before his mind’s eye. Passionate hours when they had been sequestered from the rest of the world that conspired to separate them forever. Dizzy from happiness, Hal had dreamed that his amorous fairytale would continue, but then Anne had ended their relationship. As he had seen her throwing up a few days before their last conversation, Exeter suspected why she had left him again.

“Anne,” Hal Courtenay whispered the name of the woman he loved and whom he saw every day at court as the king’s wife. “How should I live now?”

His hand rushed to a decanter of wine on the table. He poured out a goblet to the brim, and quaffed it in a single draught. As the hours passed, Exeter, gripped in a delirium of impotent desire for Anne Tudor née Bassett, emptied many cups. His vision was spinning in a blur, and the red-brocaded walls of his study, located within the large Exeter apartments, seemed redder than blood.

Wobbling on his feet, Exeter stood up and plodded over to a table in the corner. He took a bowl of water from there and washed his face from forehead to chin and ear to ear. He did not want to fall asleep, intending to drink until dawn. He then returned to his high-back oak chair.

“Another one…” Exeter seated himself back into the chair. “And one more…”   

Exeter took a swig of wine from his cup, and then drained it in one swallow. Therewith, he refilled the goblet and started drinking the next one when footsteps sounded in the room.

“Hal, you have imbibed rather more wine than you should have done.”

Turning to the door, he grimaced at the sight of his wife. “What do you want?”

The eyes of Gertrude Courtenay narrowed in ire or confusion. “You don’t care about me, but that does not mean that you need to drink yourself to death and leave me a widow.”

Exeter burst out laughing. “You wanted to separate from me last year, yet you didn’t despite my consent. Am I supposed to believe that you have developed feelings for me?”

Gertrude dragged a few controlled breaths. “Hal, I once loved you deeply.”

“God!” he uttered through gritted teeth. “Don’t start that old drivel. The bad boy Exeter broke the life and heart of the noblest and wronged Lady Gertrude. I’m fed up with it.”

The Exeter spouses glared at each other like maddened dogs.

“Yes.” She approached him. “Your affairs destroyed our marriage and broke my heart.”

In silence, Exeter viewed his wife from top to toe with the gaze of a stranger.

Of medium height and well formed, Gertrude had an oval face, a slightly elongated nose, blue eyes, and pale complexion. In early youth, she had been pretty, but the aging process had taken its toll upon her, and her chronic illnesses had weakened her. Her dark satin robe accentuated her abnormal leanness; from beneath her cap fell curls of brown hair in a smooth roll.

“Your nastiness drove me away from you, Gertrude. Into the arms of other women.”  

“Really?” The faintest sort of smile lurked about the corners of her mouth.

Exeter’s eyes were a cloudy blue, reflecting his heartache and disgust with her. “You! But we have been through this many times. You will never recognize your mistakes.”

“I’ve not separated from you only because of our son.” Her eyes seemed to look out at the world with a curious impassivity. “Our Eddie loves you very much.”

Their only son was named Edward Courtenay. He had been born in 1527 and spent most of his life in his father’s estates in the west of England. Exeter was a prominent figure at the royal court since the beginning of King Henry’s reign. Gertrude had enjoyed the friendship of Catherine of Aragon, even after her divorce from the monarch. They had never supported Anne Boleyn, although Gertrude had been forced by the monarch to be Princess Elizabeth’s godmother.

“I love him, too. He is my son!” Exeter poured another cup.

Gertrude came to the table, then reached for his forearm. “Eddie is our son!”

Her husband growled, “Take away your hand. Let me drink!”

“Why are you so distressed, Hal? For whom is your adulterous soul weeping? For all of your lovers or for yourself?” There was a sardonic inflection in the last sentence.

After setting the goblet onto the table, the marquess brushed her hand away. “It is none of your business. It is very late, so you need to rest. I’ll come soon.”

“You will lie beside me, saying nothing. Dreaming of someone else, as always.”

Exeter wet his lips. “Gertrude, don’t make things worse. Just go.”

She breathed deeply, feeling suddenly self-conscious and uncomfortable. “Such care about me is atypical for Lord Exeter whose arrogance – the York arrogance – is too overbearing.”

An opaque shadow of loathing passed over his countenance. “Yes, I’m a direct descendant of the House of York. I’m the king’s close friend, one who was brought up with him.”

A tormenting breath made Gertrude’s chest ache. “Your hubris is unpleasant!”  

His glare impaled her. “Stay away from me. I don’t wish to see you.”

“I will.” She clapped her hands to her lips to choke down a scream of fury.

After her departure, Exeter drank for another hour. His hands clasped the cheeks of his still young face lined into gray pallor of his bleakness and inebriety. Image of Anne Bassett’s face shimmered in his brain, curtseying with the moving waves of his hazy brain. A murmur of Exeter’s inner voice rose from the depths of his being like a dull thud of oars: I love you so much, Anne.

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope you are all safe. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same about myself: I could leave Tuscany in a week or so, but the day before yesterday I fell down a steep staircase. I am lucky not to have broken my neck, but I have a lot of terrible bruises on my back, which hurt a lot.

I feared to update this fiction because of the pressure upon me to give Anne a son. This time you are not getting what you want – Anne has a second daughter with François, just as the late Queen Claude had given her husband two girls before the late Dauphin François was born. From the start, I planned that Anne would have three girls (one with Henry, Elizabeth, and two with François, Louise and Aimée) before she has a son. In this way, Anne is like Elizabeth Woodsville. I warned you about Anne's unconventional childbearing character arc in this AU. It is not the reason to be angry and not to follow this story from now on. My advice as an author of this epic is to read and enjoy the drama because CWL is flooding with drama of all sorts.

King François lost 4 children within the space of 3 years: the late Dauphin François, Prince Charles, and Madeline de Valois, Queen of Scotland, as well as one unborn child with his mistress. His Majesty will be heartbroken for a long time. Anne's new child of any gender will be welcomed by François. Anne can be pregnant many times because she has at least 10 childbearing years ahead: in this AU, she is born in 1508 (I think she was born in 1507), and at this point, Anne is only 30. Eleanor of Aquitaine and Elizabeth Woodville had their last kids at the age of 42; Anna of Bohemia and Hungary had her last baby at 43. As there was no birth control back then, Anne might be pregnant many times. I am against Anne having twins: most of them did not survive back then, and such births were too traumatic. Anne and François are unrelated, so they progeny will be healthy and not inbred, and they will have a son a bit later.

The Valois dynasty vulnerable is currently rather vulnerable in matters of succession, given that Dauphin Henri has no children (so far!), especially because of the Salic law. They have two options: Anne must produce a son, or Henri's marriage to Catherine should be annulled, which will not happen. Margot and François will be very worried in private. François will not put his wife under pressure and emotionally abuse her, and Anne will watch his love for the second daughter. This will allow Anne to see the great difference between Henry and François, helping her finally fall for her second husband. Anne and François said to each other that they want to have a large family; they agreed in chapter 23 that if they had a girl, they would name her Aimée, and if they had a boy, his name would be Augustin. We will need the name Charlotte soon!

Catherine and Diane knew about the attempt of the Lorraine brothers and Tournon on the lives of Queen Anne and her children. They watched and kept silent. If you go back to chapter 23 to the last scene, you will see Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli reading a letter from the Pope.

Empress Isabella came to France for negotiations with King François, but she finds herself almost a prisoner at Fontainebleau. Prince Charles was killed only yesterday, and the Lorraine brothers escaped, so François is suspicious and directly tells her that he suspects Carlos of being involved in his son's murder. I can tell you the truth: Carlos is not guilty of this conspiracy against Anne, for she has enough enemies in France. François deals with Cardinal de Tournon.

The Henry VIII/Castelnau scene shows Henry's joy that Anne didn't have a son, but it is a temporary joy. The new Queen Anne, the former Lady Bassett, is afraid that she will have a girl. From the scene of Lord Exeter's drunken despair, you can deduce who the father of Anne's child is. No, neither Exeter (he is very clever!) nor Anne will be executed on the charges of adultery, but no woman can be happy if she is tied to Henry. Anne Bassett loves Princess Elizabeth.

I recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, FieryMaze, and at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91 and WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction. I also recommend 'Katherine's Vision' by QueenMaryofEngland. I've helped many authors widen their audience, but I've not heard a good word from some, not all of them. I prefer to do good things, but I shall issue the note outlining the changes in my policies. My current health issues prevent me from doing something that will hurt me emotionally.

Let's make each other smile! Let's review and favorite each other!

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 32: Chapter 31: Mind-Blowing Turns

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 31: Mind-Blowing Turns

October 5, 1538, Elsyng Palace, the town of Enfield, north London, England

At the opening of the door, Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, turned to Queen Anne. His excited breath caught in his lungs as she mannerly crossed to the center of the room and swiveled to him. She was clad in a gown of dark green and brown brocade slashed with white, which was uncharacteristically somber for her – dignity suited her, not lessening her feminity.

The queen seated herself in a red-brocaded armchair, her legs crossed at the ankle. Although she had already begun to wear looser gowns, her pregnancy was now visible in a sitting position. His gaze glued to her, Hal settled himself into a matching armchair beside her.

“I’m here,” commenced Anne, her lovely face evolving into that of an irate sorceress. “Why did you send me that dratted letter, Hal? Didn’t a thought that my relatives, or worse my ladies-in-waiting, could open it cross your mind? Do you not sense danger at all?”   

He gushed, “I’m blessed to be alone with Your Majesty.”

“I assure you that the pleasure is not reciprocated. We do not have much time left. I must return soon, before my maids come to put me to bed. What do you want?”

For a short time, Exeter examined Anne in silence. He admired her beauty that glowed from within, apparently from her love for the baby; but it was a complex, prickly sort of loveliness, just as her feisty character was, more like an exotic wild flower than a rose. The walls, draped in pink silk and tapestries depicting Madonna and the baby Jesus, added to the glow about Anne.

“Is it my child, Anne?” Exeter demanded. He could not address her ‘Your Majesty’.

She sighed. “Don’t ask me about that.”

“It must be mine.” He knitted his brows in concentration. “I know that.”

Anne rose to her feet. “That is your problem, Lord Exeter.”

He stood up as well. “Before you addressed me by my name.”

“I do not remember such trivial events.” However, images of their nights were teeming in her brain with colossal richness, imprinted forever, heating her blood like an intense fever.

Sentimentality tinged his visage. “You called me Hal.”  

“Have you become a woman?” Anne jeered with a brusque laugh. “Melodramatics is for women. Ah, I must not forget that highborn men such as yourself cannot resist overstating every aspect of themselves: how long and why we are on earth for, how rare and unfair their failures are because we are so very noble and so mighty. Melodrama always constitutes their day.”

“Enough, Anne.” Exeter looked towards a window, where the gardens were dark, indicating that dusk was falling. “If necessary, I shall tear the truth out of you.”

“Damn you, Hal! I’ll not talk to you in such a mean-spirited manner.”

Propelled by her rising temper, Queen Anne strode over to the door. She would have quitted the room if Courtenay did not stalk her from behind. He gripped her forearms, spinning her around so her back was to the door, and his formidable strength imprisoned her there.  

Exeter’s breathing tickled her forehead. “After my return to court, you sought meetings with me and bewitched me into romance. Did you feign love for me to seduce me again?”  

“Release me,” Anne commanded, holding his gaze. “Or I’ll scream.”

“No, you will not,” he continued, pulling back not to hurt her growing bump. “Nobody will believe that there is only innocent friendship between us if someone finds us together.”

The queen relaxed, no longer under his weight. “God in heaven, you underestimate me! I’ll say that you tried to force yourself upon me, and you might be executed.”

At last, Exeter ran out of patience. “Scream, then! But if we are discovered together, I’ll ensure that we will both pay for our entertainments, despite your marriage to the king.”

She was also close to losing her control. “I hate you!”

Her words struck him like the crack of a whip. “Really?”

Anne could scarcely react before Exeter kissed her, deeply and passionately. She did not respond, but allowed him to probe her mouth with his tongue that bumped into her clenched teeth. Yet, the more the marquess kissed her, the denser with desire her blood was becoming. Her arms looped around his neck, while his left arm hugged her. His right hand was caressing her abdomen, and an unfamiliar sense of security and safety encompassed her, like a blanket of warmth.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Exeter resumed speaking as his lips feasted on her neck. “There is no other woman like you; Gertrude is nothing compared to you.”

This goaded her into fighting his embrace. “You should have left your cow, then.”

“I am a Catholic.” He labored to prevent the queen from escaping the circle of his arms. “The Catholic Church forbids all divorces, and there are no grounds for annulment.”

Anne launched a condemnatory tirade. “Oh, I did dream of being your wife! You could desert your ugly Gertrude and convert into Protestantism. Then we would have been married. But you chose her! You have no one to blame but yourself for my abandonment of you.”

Exeter explained, “Religion is not something that you can change like clothes.”

The queen pushed him aside violently. “Your folly is the reason for my unhappiness.”

“You wed His Majesty only to ensure your family’s enrichment and advancement at court. I do not loathe you for this marriage because I see clearly how upset you are.”

She leaned against the door. “Oh, you are so pathetic.”

Exeter smiled, as though these were words from a sweet song. “You are disappointed in me. But disappointment is the seed-ground out of which grow the fairest flowers.”

“Such a cheery answer, but I have to go. Stay away from me.” 

“I will, for the sake of our baby.” His hand flew to her belly, but she removed it.

Anne shook her head. “No, my lord. It’s King Henry’s heir.”

“The perspiration standing in big drops on your brow proves that you are lying, Anne.”

His observational skills irked her. “You are a cad!”

“I shall pray for the boy.” His laugh was quiet, but victorious. “Actually, our son will be a Plantagenet. He will carry on the York glorious legacy instead of the Tudor one. Be at ease: I’ve dealt with all those who might have suspected something about our amours.”

“You have always been resourceful, Hal,” she lauded.

“I’ve covered all the tracks well. I pray that Gertrude knows nothing.”   

“Can she?” Alarm made the queen tremble.

He rubbed his chin. “Gertrude is cleverer than she seems to be. I’ll watch her.”

“King Henry will not understand anything: I seduced him to bed me a few times after I had begun suspecting my condition. They will all think that the child will come a bit early.”

“Your mother – not even you – have thought everything through.”

“Leave me be, my lord!” Fresh tears stinging her eyes, Anne opened the door and stormed out, slamming the door behind her. She then disappeared down the staircase.

The Marquess of Exeter stared into space. Now he was certain that Anne Bassett carried his child, in spite of her silence. He loved this woman, and today, he had felt the gorgeous presence of another being that resided within her, and when he had touched it briefly, butterflies of joy flied wildly through his soul. However, he would never be able to wed Anne and raise their baby as his.  At least, our son will be the next King of England. The Tudor male line will die out.     

§§§

Queen Anne nearly sprinted through the long corridor. She endeavored to conceal the tears that blurred her vision, but they rushed down her cheeks unhindered. She would never again consent to have any meeting with the Marquess of Exeter because it was too dangerous for them, and because she had to protect herself from any drama for the sake of her child.

Nearing the great hall, Anne sped up. The queen had to swiftly make her way to her quarters so that neither her handmaidens nor the courtiers saw her distressed and unchaperoned. Despite her quite heavy belly, she ran until her lungs could burst, so she kneeled down, panting.  

“Fortunately, I’ve found you first. It is such a shame to see you in this state.”

Her mother’s frosty voice injured the queen like a dart. “What are you doing here?”

Lady Honor Grenville approached her daughter. “I went to find you before the king or your ladies could have discovered your absence. I’ve discovered you sprawled on the floor like a tavern wench and crying lakes of stupid tears. We are lucky that only I see you at the moment.”   

Honor realized that her daughter’s voice was scratched from heavy crying, like a broken instrument, but the last thing she now wished was to comfort Anne. Unlike her, the queen failed to suppress her soul sickness, caused by her mother’s cruel indifference to her heartache.   

Accusations leaked out of Anne’s mouth. “You have always cared more for what I can give you than for my happiness. That is why you pushed me into Exeter’s arms again, making me not only a wench, but also a criminal who is going to pass her lover’s child off as–” 

Honor grabbed her daughter and rudely hoisted the queen to her feet. “Shut up, Anne!” Her gaze frantic, she glanced around and breathed out a sigh of relief at the confirmation that no one was eavesdropping upon. “You shall do you duty to our family regardless of your wishes.”   

“That is treason!” Anne sobbed. “And what if our secret is unveiled?”   

Honor shook her slightly. “Calm down! Or we will spend the next night in the Tower!”

Nevertheless, Anne cried, “Perhaps it would be better than playing our charades.”  

“Do you want us to die?” Her mother slapped Anne to sober her. “What about your baby?”

The aggression worked: the queen ceased weeping. She darted a contemptuous glare at the older woman. “I shall pretend until the rest of my life, but I shall burn in hell for this.”

“His Majesty cannot sire healthy sons, so you are giving him the most precious gift that will save England from civil wars. You will create our own paradise on earth for our great family!”

“What?” Anne’s tone was that of incredulity. “You do not believe in God, do you?”

Honor pointed a finger at her stomach. “I believe more in the power of the Roman Pope than in Protestantism, for I’ve started reconsidering my once Protestant beliefs.”

Her daughter’s eyes widened. “What? But we are reformers!”

“It matters not, Anne. Now only the baby living inside you, my daughter, is important. We have climbed so high! Your baby will deliver us to the heights of power.”  

Tears brimmed in the queen’s eyes. “If only Hal had been a free man, I would gladly have married him, lived with him in the countryside, and given him a brood of children.”

Honor grabbed her daughter again. “Don’t be so foolish! Exeter is only a Marquess despite his York blood, but you are married to the King of England! Your future is golden!”

Anne shook her mother’s hands away. “You are so twisted by the lust for power.”

“Don’t you dare meet with Exeter again. Don’t put the life of your child in jeopardy!”

“I shall not. Not because of your order – I do not want my baby to die. Do you know why I feel so?” Anne put her right hand to her chest, pressing her left one to the abdomen. “It is the child fathered by the man who has become the whole world to me. Hal is everything to me!”

Honor glared at her. “Have you become a love-struck idiot, Anne?”

The queen continued, “I despise King Henry, and I pity all of his wives! I admire Exeter, and he is always on my mind. I cannot explain my feelings for Hal – perhaps it is even love.” She patted her stomach. “Hal’s baby must live! I shall not see its father again out of fear.”

Her mother’s face twisted in repugnance. “This funny melodramatics is for jackasses!”

Lady Grenville began walking down the hallway, dragging the queen behind herself.  

§§§

Several minutes elapsed after the women had departed. The Duke and Duchess of Suffolk appeared as they returned from their dinner with the monarch and encountered the Marquess of Exeter. The Suffolk spouses had been permitted to come back to court several weeks ago.

“Hal, my friend,” Charles Brandon addressed the man. “We have been hunting all over the palace for you to join His Majesty’s small private party, where our wives could shine.”

“I’m sorry,” Exeter said wearily. “I would not have been able to attend the festivities.”

“What has happened?” Catherine entered the conversation.

Exeter made up a realistic story. “I went to the market in the afternoon. Bandits attacked me and stole all of my money and jewelry. I’m fortunate to be alive and still be dressed. If those thieves had taken my clothes, I would have been unable to return to the palace.”

Horror painted itself upon the countenances of the Suffolk couple.

“Such a terrible adventure,” Catherine assessed.

“We must inform the king!” Suffolk proposed.

“No,” Exeter protected. “I’m unscratched, so there is no need to worry His Majesty.” He grinned. “Charles, I’d like to play Primero with you, provided that your wife does not object.”

The duchess approved. “Go whenever you need, gentlemen.”

Exeter jested, “Thank you, Madame. Charles, there is no amorous touch in playing cards, but you are cloaked in a halo of romance whenever you are near your glorious wife.”

Charles Brandon tilted his head back and laughed like a boy. Catherine smiled stiffly, for it was uncomfortable for her to listen to the Marquess of Exeter, who accompanied the ruler and her husband on their parties, where, according to gossip, they all indulged shamelessly in sin.

§§§

The Duchess of Suffolk headed to the Suffolk apartments with a thoughtful look upon her face, her spirit twisted with fear and revulsion at the thought of King Henry.

Today’s dinner in the royal private chambers marked a turning point in her life. It became perfectly clear that King Henry lusted after Catherine so earnestly that he was ready to throw his friendship with Charles to the winds and make her his mistress. Even yesterday, she had hoped that the monarch’s heated glances, which she had glimpsed from time to time, were a testimony to her beauty. However, the ruler’s occasional touches during their dance proved his intentions.

As she rounded the corner to the Brandon suite, a fever of mortal terror throbbed behind her mask of blankness. Her union with the Duke of Suffolk had turned out to be far from what she had envisaged in her girlish reveries. However, Catherine had never planned to betray Charles and still loved him. But no woman could refuse a king, and now her future hang in the balance.

“I’m going to bed,” Catherine told her maids as she entered her quarters. “I don’t need your help. I’ll undress on my own.” She then went to the bedroom and shut the doors.

On the verge of hysteria, she grabbed a marble table with both hands, attempting to still her spinning head. It did not help, and fear percolated every layer of her consciousness. The veneer of composure cracked, and with a howl, she smashed her fists into the table.

“No!” Catherine buried her face into her hands. “I cannot become a whore!”   

Her legs wobbling, she staggered to a nearby chair and plopped into it.

Losing the track of time, Catherine wept and wept. Could she become a royal harlot, or should she speak to Charles and beseech him to escape from the Tudor court to one of their estates? The lewd monarch, who could easily confiscate everything, had granted the dukedom of Suffolk and Brandon’s wealth to him. Perhaps their tyrannical sovereign would view Charles as an enemy lest Catherine repudiated the royal advances. Would Charles die on the block, then?

Her musings were interrupted by male footsteps. They paused at the doorway.

“We played only one party, and then I left.”

“You are not dead,” Catherine murmured with immeasurable relief.

Charles blinked in bafflement. “What are you saying, Cathy? Are you all right?”

His wife bounced to her feet and rushed to him, as if he were her lifesaver. Instigated by the impulse to check that he was safe and real, Catherine tiptoed and wrapped her arms around his neck, forgetting the numerous months of coldness between them. As she parted her lips to let his tongue to slip through to explore the warm recesses of her mouth, Charles inclined his head to kiss her deeply and snaked his arms around her waist, while Catherine melted against him.

“You are stunning,” the Duke of Suffolk whispered as he finally pulled away, holding her in his embrace. “Now you look as serene and confident as you did when we married, Cathy. My love, please keep that look. You were so hostile towards me for so long…  I could hardly bear it.”

Catherine started replying, but her spouse cut her off before she could say anything else.

“Don’t speak,” he begged. “Don’t utter a sound. I fear that we can lose each other again.”

She complied, but for another reason. The duchess did not know what to say to her husband. When he behaved like this, she so wanted him to never change, to always be that sweet, charming, and handsome man at his prime, who had confessed to loving her as they had once made love in a moonlit clearing near their country manor. If only time could cease its forward motion…

“I love you so.” His warm breath brushed her earlobe as he vowed, “I’ll never disappoint you again, Catherine. I shall never do anything like I did to those poor pilgrims.”

“You think it is possible?” she inquired innocently.

“Yes.” Some of her apprehension reflected in Catherine’s eyes, so he reassured, “Of course. I shall do anything for you. You have to believe me that all will be well between us.”

She reminded, “Once you promised to love me forever. To love me even more than you did Mary Tudor, your previous wife. Do you still feel the same way? Think before replying.”

He swallowed reflexively. Mary’s words replayed in his head, winds of the past articulating his dead wife’s diagnosis of his inconstancy that she had hurtled at him a few weeks before her death of consumption. “You do not know the meaning of the word, Charles. You can love, perhaps for a year, a month, a day, even for an hour.” This still scraped at his mind like long nails.    

The duke glanced away, then back at his spouse. “I still genuinely love you, Cathy.”

Catherine put her hand onto his chest over his heart. “Sometimes, your actions show that there is another soul inside of you, one that could change the person you are, and that if your liege lord commanded you something, you would gladly comply, killing at his behest.”

For a moment, he contemplated the matter. “I’m the king’s loyal subject, so I must fulfill his orders. But it is not related to our marriage, my darling. Now I want to speak only about us.”

Catherine stepped back, as if to put a distance between them. “What if His Majesty enjoins you to leave me so that he could make me his lover? What would you do, then?”   

Her question seemed so silly that he laughed. “Trust me it is impossible.”

With a sardonic laugh, the duchess rolled her eyes at him out of indignation. In whatever direction she turned her musings, Catherine was faced with disconcerting possibilities. Charles will probably not believe me if I tell him that his dear Henry wants me, Catherine bemoaned.      

“Cathy, what is tormenting you? Why are these verbal games?”   

His wife turned to him, her smile tantalizingly lovely. “Show your love for me.”

Charles breached the gap between them before leaning close to her. “For the life of me I do not understand why you doubt Henry. However, it matters not: only you and I matter, and now we are together, our unquenchable love for each other is burning in our hearts.”

All at once, Charles kissed his duchess with all the pent-up passion and longing he had been holding back for so long. Breathing heavily, and eagerly exploring one another’s bodies through the brocades and silks, they gasped in delight when their clothes finally tumbled to the floor. In an oak bed canopied with crimson satin, the valance ornamented with Tudor roses, they fervently made love until their skin heaved with exertion, until their bones almost turned to jelly.

Catherine pulled away from him and stared into semi-darkness. Most of the candles had extinguished, and moonlight, filtering into the room through open shutters, illumined the area.

“What is wrong?” Charles propped himself on the elbow.

“Nothing.” She pressed her forehead against his, and drew a shaky breath.

Their lovemaking continued and turned so frantic that Catherine grew almost frightened. So intense that no amount of poetical phrasing would ever be enough to describe her marvelous sensations. His kisses invaded her thoughts, putting an end to her murky considerations.  

“God,” Charles muttered, tangling his hands into her hair. “You are mine again, and anyone else who stands in our way will be removed and punished for interference.”

In the next moment, Catherine noticed two red spots upon his neck and guessed why they were there. Therewith, she climbed out of bed, then groped for her night robe and donned it.

Heartbroken, she blustered, “You were with another woman mere hours ago! This is how you love me! You are incapable of immortal love you promised me again and again! You love too many women and live your life to the fullest. I’m only one of your many bedmates!”

Suffolk panicked. “Cathy, please let me talk to you!”

His wife fixed her icy pools of arctic water upon him. “There is no explanation for infidelity. A mere sight of you is fanning the flames of my anger. I no longer have a husband.”

“No,” he protested, watching her stomp away from the bed. “We love each other.”

Stopping near the door, Catherine half-turned to him. “No love can remain profound if one of the spouses constantly shakes it. Charles, for you love is like an extra garment that you put on together with your sumptuous attire. It is a mere addition to your status and riches, but not part of you woven into your being. You are not capable of giving me the love I need.”

She vacated the chamber, but Charles did not follow her. “It is my entire fault.”   

The Duke of Suffolk plunged into perpetual blackness of anguish and loneliness without his wife, for Catherine would not forgive him again. He had betrayed her with countless women, but she had granted him her clemency, crying but soon believing his oaths of love and his apologies. Finally, I’ve lost Catherine. Now all is different: she metamorphosed from a demure, naïve young wife into a hardheaded woman whose faith in love I’ve destroyed, Suffolk summed up wordlessly.

At the same time, Catherine Brandon was surrounded by her maids in the antechamber.

“Prepare another room for me,” the duchess instructed.

The women nodded and went to execute her order. Only one of them stayed.

Catherine snapped irritably, “What?”

The girl endured her mistress’ piercing glower. “Your Grace, there is a letter and a gift for you. One of the king’s grooms brought them. I hid everything from His Grace of Suffolk.”

The duchess nodded. “You did the right thing. Give them to me and leave.”

Left alone, Catherine opened the purple-brocaded purse and extracted a heart-shaped brooch with a large scarlet ruby in the center and a multitude of tiny diamonds set around it. It was an awesome thing that would fit well with her many gowns. Now the perspective of wearing this gift appeared a wonderful idea and a suitable punishment for her promiscuous husband.

She retrieved a letter from the purse. After examining the Tudor seal that was authentic, she unrolled it. The courtship that was being imposed upon her was quick and yet surreptitious, the pleading eloquent and tender. Yet, Catherine was not happy to receive it, but now she found the idea of having a romance with the king tolerable, for her relationship with Charles was over.

My pretty Lady Catherine, 

Today’s evening was full of my longing for you. I could not tell you how much I adore you. Your eyes so enigmatic, your lips so red, and I cannot banish them from my head. Your dainty feet were moving in line with the music and with my feet. Everything about you was divine.   

Your beauty and your caring nature compare to nothing else in the whole world. I want to be with you, my lady, and I miss you every day. To be with you regardless of all bonds, regardless of our obligations to someone else. My passion might break even the most meaningful bonds.   

I beg of you, accept my gift, my beauty. I hope we will never be apart. Hear my heartbeat and feel its rhythm if you want me – all will be done in secret. Will you be mine?

Henry Rex

Catherine emitted a sigh. “The king’s strong passion taints his friendship with Charles.” Her umbrage at the duke’s misconduct channeled her energy into making a radical decision. “Can I take this step? Why not? If Charles can sleep with many whores, why I cannot?!”

Putting the paper to the candle, she watched until the ashes remained. Squeezing the purse that contained the brooch, she hastened out, hoping to sleep at least a little tonight.  


         October 29, 1538, Elsyng Palace, the town of Enfield, north London, England

Enfield, small and quiet, was sleeping; the lights in the houses were off. The first streaks of sunrise in the sky heralded that soon many would rise from their beds to attend the matins in local churches. Only two men were wide awake, meeting on the central town square.

“Take it,” Sir Nicholas Carew spoke in accented Italian. “Give this message strictly to His Holiness. He will accept you as soon as you say that you arrived from me.”

The lad, who stood next to Carew, bowed. “This will be done, Signor.”

Carew eyed the swarthy young man with distrust. The previous messenger was Giorgio, whom the Pope had dispatched to work for Sir William Brereton. In absolute secrecy, Giorgio had aided Brereton and then Carew to exchange messages with the Vatican. However, two months earlier, Giorgio had not returned to England, and Carew feared that he had been intercepted. Thus, Carew had found an Italian who lived in England to carry his new missive to Italy.

Carew warned, “If you fail me, I shall murder you wherever you are.”

His companion stated, “I’m a true Catholic, and I’ll not fail His Holiness.”

Satisfied, Carew let out a faint smile. “May God bless you in this journey!”

Unbeknownst to them, Lady Elizabeth Holland watched them from around the corner of the building in a nearby lane. A month ago, the Duke of Norfolk had received a codified letter from King François, informing them that the Pope’s main agent in England was Carew. Since then, Elizabeth spied upon Carew every day, and Norfolk intended to catch the traitor red-handed.

It will be my triumph, Bess grinned to herself. She had dreamed of being a heroine of some espionage story or emerging triumphant from a perilous situation. The messenger jumped into the saddle and rode off towards the road to London, where Norfolk’s men would surely arrest him.

Her daydreams distracted Elizabeth from the object of her surveillance. Carew spotted her head popping from behind the corner and rushed to her like a male hyena, so she tried to flee.

“You will not run away!” Carew shouted as he followed her down the lane.

“I will!” Bess promised, with eyes moist from tears.

“Damn you, Norfolk’s slut!” His voice sounded closer, so she sped up.

Three or four times, Elizabeth bumped into several pedestrians who were on their way to churches for the morning prayer, but she had no time to listen to their grumblings. In another lane, she paused, breathless. As she heard Carew’s shouts, Bess resumed running until she felt as though she could not go a step further, but the fate of the whole country was at stake.

How Elizabeth climbed the zigzag path out of the central square to the suburbs she never knew. Remembering tales about heroes, she felt thrilled about the story of her own exploits. As she heard the nickering of horses and Norfolk’s baritone, Bess ran in that direction.

“Your Grace of Norfolk!” Bess cried at the top of her lungs. “Carew is following me!”

A moment later, the drum of hooves was much closer, although a snatched glance across the street told her nothing, but Carew was stomping towards them. At last, he had found Bess, but he halted, torn between the impulse to finish her off and the necessity to escape. The instinct of self-preservation won, and, glaring at her with aversion, Carew vanished into a maze of streets.

Leading a squad of soldiers, the Duke of Norfolk appeared on his destrier, draped in green silk. Standing in the middle of the street, Bess thought that, garbed from head to toe in armor, the duke looked heavy and inert, but also mighty and imposing, so dear to her heart.

Norfolk rode to Elizabeth. “Where did he go?”

His mistress pointed to the left. “That way! That street!”

“Stay here, Bess,” decreed the duke. “You have done all you could.”

Leaving two soldiers to safeguard her, Norfolk hastily departed at the helm of the search party. He sent his men in all directions, keeping the bulk of his force with him as he traveled to the street that Elizabeth had showed. Soon commotion escalated, and people started rushing from the church situated on an adjacent lane. Sounds of gunfire, and Carew’s screams resonated through the air like those of a dying animal, mingling with the cacophony of folk’s shrieks.   

Followed by a brief moment of silence, Norfolk roared, “You will see the king today!”

In a matter of minutes, the duke returned to where Elizabeth awaited him. At his sign, she was a given a mare, and two guards assisted her in climbing into the saddle. On the way to the palace, Bess Holland rode behind Norfolk at the beginning of the procession; Carew, manacled to the horse with chains, was guarded as heavily as only the worst criminal could be.

In an hour, Elizabeth and Norfolk sat on a wooden bench in the palace garden. In silence, they admired the scenery: the red, orange, yellow, and brown leaves of trees shivered and dropped off with a beautiful dance against the wind. Turning to her lover, Bess detected in his eyes the great respect she had never seen there before, and a sense of serenity overwhelmed her. All her adventures seemed distant, as if they were simple shapes depicted on canvas by a painter.

“You are not harmed, Bess?” Norfolk scrutinized her.

His paramour flashed a smile. “Your Grace worries needlessly.”

“Your life was in jeopardy.” His voice was layered with self-blame. “I should not have let you go there. We were always close, but I lost you because Carew created several false trails. If you did not scream, we might not have found you, and then he would have killed you.”

Her fingers caressed his gloved hand. “Now you have Carew under lock, and I’m all right. Will we take Carew’s and Cromwell’s letters to the king? They must pay for their crimes.”   

“Yes, Bess. Both Carew and Cromwell will be in the Tower before sundown.”

“You have won the war against Cromwell, Your Grace.”

Norfolk sniggered demonically. “That low-born son of a bitch shall pay for his arrogance and his other misdeeds against us – the old English nobility of the realm.”

There was something else on Bess’ mind. “Did you capture the messenger?”

He frowned. “Now my men are looking for him everywhere. All the roads from Enfield are blocked; I shall find him and throw him to His Majesty’s feet.”

Her hand squeezed his. “With luck, it will happen soon.”

“We must know what Carew sent to the Pope.” Norfolk was a Catholic, but he was more loyal to his sovereign because his own fortunes depended on the monarch’s favor.   

Taking her hand, the duke pulled Elizabeth up to her feet, and they walked into the palace.

§§§

“What does Norfolk want?” King Henry seated himself into an armchair.

“His Grace said that it is an urgent matter,” answered William Sandys, Baron Sandys of the Vyne. He served as Lord Chamberlain of the royal household and was Henry’s favorite.

The ruler crossed his legs lazily and locked his hands behind his head. “It will not take me much time to speak to him. I’m intending to go hunting with Suffolk and Exeter.”

This morning, the monarch had awoken with a feeling of immense buoyancy such as he had not experienced in years. Since the days when Anne Boleyn had been pregnant with Elizabeth. At last, he was on the road to fame of the Tudor dynasty! Soon his queen would birth him his precious prince! With his son in the royal cradle, he would devote his energies to the completion of his reforms and to his amorous escapades, while also having a happy family life.

His gaze fixed at a window, Henry enjoyed the view of the firmament that was brilliantly blue, not a leaden one, unlike it had been last week. The rays of the sun were streaming brightly through the windows, gilding the ornately carved furniture of the king’s private chamber with thin lines of gold. His future would be golden and glorious, just as William the Conqueror’s life had been, and the advent of the new summer in his life would be associated with his son’s birth.

“Soon I shall have a son,” Henry drawled. “My son! My Edward!”

The other man nodded. “God bless Her Majesty and the baby in her womb!”

The herald declared, “The Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Surrey.”

The Howards entered with such unprecedented confidence and pomp, as if others were their subjects who had to prostrate themselves before them. They approached their liege lord’s armchair and sketched bows, their countenances like those of victorious Roman generals.  

“Quickly,” Henry barked. “I have no time. I’m late for hunting.”

William Sandys bowed to his sovereign and tactfully left.

Norfolk stepped forward. “Two traitors among your councilors are working for the Pope. My son, Henry, and I have intercepted one of them in the town a couple of hours ago.”

Under the monarch’s piercing stare, the Duke of Norfolk spoke for a long time. The duke modified the story: Bess Holland had overheard Carew’s conversation with Thomas Audley, Lord Chancellor of England. Audley and Carew had discussed the Pope’s instruction to have as few monastic houses dissolved as possible, and Audley had intended to save still intact abbeys. The calculative Norfolk strove to get rid of Audley, for with Cromwell gone, he would possibly get the position of Lord Chancellor. King François as his source of information was not mentioned.

Norfolk moved to the closure. “Lady Holland apprised me of her findings, and I ordered her to spy upon Sir Nicolas until she could learn who sent his letters to Rome. Bess warned me about Carew’s meeting with his messenger today in the town, and we captured them both.”

The duke was exceedingly lucky today. His men had taken prisoner the fugitive when he had endeavored to flee from Enfield. They had dragged the poor man to Norfolk an hour before the audience with the monarch, and now the messenger was kept with Carew in the same cell.

“Gods be damned!” Henry roared in a diabolic tone. “That Pope Paul is not a holy man, but a murderer! He dares call me a heretical king! I’m aware that he is encouraging foreign monarchs to organize a crusade against me so as to depose me from the throne and make Reginald Pole King of England. He must have bribed Carew and Audley to betray and get rid of me!”

Norfolk and Surrey barely repressed their smiles, maintaining stony demeanor.

The ruler bounced to his feet. “I want them hanged, drawn, and quartered!” He thumped a fist into his own chest as he paced back and forth. “Have them tortured for information!”

The Earl of Surrey interjected, “Your Majesty, there are several interesting letters in Carew’s correspondence. Some of them were written by Sir William Brereton.”

Stopping near the window, Henry gasped in disbelief. “How?”

“They are here.” Surrey strode to his liege lord and handed to him a pile of letters.

His face red from anger, the monarch seated himself at the desk. As he grabbed the first paper, Norfolk and Surrey grinned, for they had put a special missive on top of the others. Some of them were the letters that the King of France’s spies had intercepted more than a year ago.

The more Henry read, the more his nervous pallor intensified.

William, the truest son of God,

It is your sacred duty to annihilate the Boleyn witch. If you fail to kill her, then eliminate her by some other means. Even though the sainted Queen Catherine is dead, the strumpet must not be on the throne of England for long. The harlot’s place is in hell, and you will send her there.

I bless you for this important mission. The Lord is with you!

Pope Paul III

A ghastly silence ensued. The monarch gazed back at Surrey and Norfolk, a wealth of conflicted emotions playing across his countenance as he contemplated whether there was truth in the letter. In his eyes, Anne was a treacherous adulteress, one who merited sufferings and death, but it did not mean that someone else, especially the Bishop of Rome, could sanction her regicide.  

Henry’s fury was now immeasurable. “Anne is a condemned traitor, but only I could sign her death warrant! No one else has the right to assassinate royalty. Regicide is the gravest crime! Yet, Brereton received commands from that unchristian creature from Rome!”

Surrey spoke up boldly. “Brereton testified against my cousin. But what if he lied about his affair with her in order to comply with the Pope’s order to dispose of her?”

Norfolk admired his son’s bravery. “Your Majesty, we need investigation.”

“That Valois courtesan is guilty!” bellowed the ruler, throwing the papers to the floor.

Henry skimmed his eyes through another letter. His paleness deepened, his lips trembled.

Nicholas, my son,

That Boleyn hellspawn, whom King Henry calls Princess Elizabeth, must not remain his heir. Our most gracious, great, and trueborn Princess Mary must be reinstated to the line of succession. We have waited for too long, and it is clear that the king will not rectify his mistakes.

I allow you to do away with the little witch Elizabeth in any way, but quietly.

You have my blessings, just as the deceased martyr, William, always had.

Pope Paul III

“Paul is the devil incarnate!” the king exploded, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “I’d love to break his neck or to have him boiled alive, watching all his agony.”

Norfolk touched upon the topic that worried Henry the most. “The security measures in the palace and especially in Princess Elizabeth’s apartments were toughened.”

Henry snarled, “If even a hair falls from her head, I shall have your heads.”

Surrey offered, “I may become the princess’ constant chaperon for her safety.”

At first surprised, Norfolk approved of his son’s proposal. “My Henry is good with children. Her Highness is his cousin, so we are honored to play this role in her life.”

“Surrey, watch my daughter every waking hour.” The ruler’s voice now sounded calmer.    

Norfolk’s son inclined his head. “I shall protect the princess with my life.”

After a visual exchange with his son, Norfolk continued, “Sire, we also have something that was intercepted by my men. It is Cromwell’s letter to Nicholas Carew.”

“What?” a shaken Henry gasped. “Cromwell is a reformer; they are foes with Carew.”

While crossing to the desk, the duke ruminated, “People should not take things at face value. To survive and succeed, we have to read between the lines and behind the masks.”

Norfolk brought Henry a parchment written out and signed by Thomas Cromwell. As the king recognized his chief minister’s stamp, he unrolled the paper with impatient hands.

Sir Nicholas,

Indeed, we have a common enemy and must ally against her. I shall arrange everything to bring the woman down, while you and the Duke of Suffolk will do your part of the job.

Each of us should act according to our plan. Burn it for heaven’s sake.

Thomas C.

“Carew is an idiot,” Surrey interposed. “He forgot to destroy it or deliberately returned it to Cromwell. I have to confess that our informant from Cromwell’s household found it.”

“The Howard network of spies,” the ruler grouched.  

“For Your Majesty’s safety,” Norfolk defended himself and his son.

The perplexed king pondered over the implications of these revelations. An eerie silence encircled him like dark forms of demonic wolves, and a freezing horror percolated his veins. Anne could not be innocent, but his long-forgotten conscience appealed to the deeply concealed part of him that was still unsullied by blood. It called upon him to investigate the matter, evoking in his mind images of Anne beseeching him to believe in her fidelity to him and in her love for him.   

King Henry, though cocooned in incredulity, approbated, “Take Carew and the messenger to the Tower. Go to London and have Cromwell and Audley apprehended.” His voice cracked as he added, “Arrest Suffolk and take him to the Tower as well. His wife will remain at court.”  

“As you command,” Norfolk replied. “Something else?”

The ruler glared askance at the Howards. “The whore must be guilty, but I want to know the truth about these letters. We will launch investigations into Brereton’s, Carew’s, Cromwell’s, and Anne’s cases. But if you lied to me, you shall have the most ignominious ends.”

After a brief pause, the ruler enjoined, “Dispatch a squad of armed men to the estates of Lord Worcester. His wife, Lady Elizabeth Worcester, must be arrested for questioning. She was the main informant against that Boleyn slut, so she will have to give her testimony again.”

The monarch’s mind drifted to the days when Elizabeth Somerset née Browne, Countess of Worcester, had been his mistress during the summer of 1535. As her husband was not faithful to her, she had not objected when Henry had showed his carnal interest in her. His dalliance with Lady Worcester had lasted only for three months, but the king had eminently enjoyed her body. When Anne had learned about their affair, the force of her fury had unleashed like a whip.

Norfolk nodded. “Should Lady Worcester be jailed in the Tower?”

Henry tipped his head. “Yes, even if she has to spend there for the rest of her life.”

“As Your Majesty wishes,” the duke professed.

“Our conscience is clear, sire,” assured Surrey. “These letters are not forgeries.”

The Duke of Norfolk affirmed, “Our family has always served the Crown with honor.”

Henry waved them away with a nervous gesture. “Leave my sight.”

Bowing, Norfolk and Surrey quitted the chamber, satisfied with the outcome.

Berserk rage reared inside Henry like a marauder, his inner realm ablaze with it. It did not crystallize into aggression towards his subjects and the furniture only because he was depleted of energy. He simply sat in his chair, motionless and severe, like a marble column. An endless chain of days and nights, full of sorrows, terrors, and doubts, awaits me ahead, Henry lamented.

§§§

“I want to depart from court,” Jane Seymour said to herself as she lay down on a bed.

After the annulment of her marriage, Jane had returned to Wulfhall. For some reason, she had been recalled back to court on the king’s orders. She had implored her former husband to let her join a nunnery, but her pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Every day was interminably long, but nights were the worst time when Jane’s demons, real and imaginary, preyed upon her mind.

Never before had she been as lonely as Jane was at present. All of her relatives had been banished from court permanently, so she had lost her dear sister Dorothy, who was her true friend. Only her brother, Edward Seymour, and his wife, Anne, remained at court, but Jane had renounced her filial bonds with them the moment when she had seen the king making love to that woman. In addition, the monarch had prohibited Jane from contacting with Mary and Elizabeth Tudor.

Not being part of the new Queen Anne’s household, Jane did not live with her ladies-in-waiting. Distant from the royal apartments, her small room was cozy; oak furniture was simple and elegant. The wall hangings, portraying the Virgin and saints, were soothing to her nerves.

At the urgent knock on the door, she jumped, even though she had not expected it.

“Come in.” She saw the door swing in with some force behind it.

In the doorway stood an attractive man, tall and long-limbed. His doublet of black damask was embroidered with silver thread; his hose of black silk emphasized his leanness. Tinged with melancholy, his chiseled features were more commonly seen on stony expressions of statues than in life. His face looked a bit hollow, and dark circles lay under his dark-fringed blue eyes, set off against his short brown hair, hidden beneath a black cap with one white ostrich plume.

“Lord Northumberland?” Jane exclaimed, in a tone of unwelcome surprise.

Henry Percy closed the door, but remained near it. “Good day, Madame.”

She remembered the etiquette well. “You cannot be here; I’m an unmarried woman.”  

“No one cares about your reputation, Lady Seymour.” Immediately, arrows of guilt for his sharp tone and for the reminder of her plight hit him in the region of his heart.

She chastened, “I do not deserve this insult. And my life is none of your business!”

“I do apologize,” he replied dulcetly.

Jane tumbled into a chair. “You must leave before someone sees you here. I do not need anyone to think that we are lovers. If this gossip circulates, it will be more than I can bear.”    

Percy put his dilemma into words. “My lady, I arrived at the palace yesterday at the king’s command. On the same day, His Majesty summoned me to his presence and announced his decision. I do not wish to hurt you, but I was ordered to marry you.”

She exhaled bewilderment. “What? The king would never have done that to me!”

Leaning against the door, Percy granted her a compassionate glance. “Does our liege lord care about the feelings of those whose duty is to fulfill his whims and to stroke his ego tenderly, like a master strokes their cat? You are fortunate that he did not do something worse to you.”

“No,” moaned Jane, and her voice fractured into whimpers. “I cannot…  I cannot wed any other man! I cannot become the wife of Anne Boleyn’s former sweetheart!”

God, that is impossible! Jane screamed in her mind. That cannot be real! Yet, she could see Henry Percy, his expression woebegone, in front of herself, and he spoke to her in a firm, yet rueful, tone. Jane no longer considered Anne her enemy and a whore, feeling rather ashamed of her role in Anne’s downfall, although she had believed in Anne’s guilt back then. However, to marry the very man who was rumored to still worship Anne was beyond Jane’s endurance.

“Madame, believe me that it is the last thing I want to do. However, as my wife, Lady Mary Talbot, passed away, the king commands that I wed you. He must have decided to join us in holy matrimony to punish me for my past with Anne and you for your failure to birth his son.”

She wiped her sweaty palms on her dress, attempting to calm her frazzled nerves. “I cannot obey! No, I’ll escape from court and enter a convent, where no one will find me.”

“That would be a stupid course of action: the king might send you to the block lest you rebel against him. It took me the whole night to calm down before I resigned myself to my fate and came to your room so as to talk in private, away from the court’s prying eyes.”

Rising to her feet, Jane made her way to the table and poured a goblet of water.

Having drained its contents, the former queen commented, “I recall today is the Feast of Saint Narcissus of Jerusalem. It is a mere coincidence that His Majesty must have announced his unfair decision to us on this day, but it is also God’s evidence of his extreme selfishness.”

“The king is worse than mythological Narcissus,” growled Percy, and spots of ire dotted his cheeks. “The proud Narcissus scorned those who adored him, causing some to commit suicide to prove their devotion to his beauty. Our sovereign compels everyone to dance to his egocentric tune, terrorizing those who show even the slightest displeasure or disagreement.”

She twirled the goblet in her fingers. “It would have been better if Henry had killed me.”

The Earl of Northumberland did not move, watching bride with pity and kindness. “Don’t be downhearted, Madame. Wise people say that greatest successes are won through failures.”

Shaking her head, Jane plodded over to a chair, her head spinning in sickening circles of the reality she struggled to accept. Her face whitened to the shade of the feather, and she fainted on the floor. Instantly, Percy rushed to her, carried Jane to the bed, and placed her there.   

Percy stood in front of her bed. “We are all cursed. Anne, you, and all other women who ever catch that Tudor leviathan’s eye. I am cursed because I cannot live without my Anne and have to marry you. Fate has such a bizarre sense of humor: you and I have to be together.” His thoughts wandered to the former Lady Boleyn, the love of his life – now Anne de Valois.

Jane had already awakened, but she kept her eyes shut, pretending that she was unconscious. She agreed with him that the Creator must hate her for something monstrous, which she or her ancestors could have perpetrated, forcing her to live through numerous circles of hell, like in Dante Alighieri’s famous work. Even though it sounds unbelievable, Jane Seymour and Henry Percy ought to become husband and wife to survive in the Tudor court, she mused ruefully.

“Leave me, Lord Northumberland.” Her voice was weak, like that under water.

Bowing to her, the earl advised, “Take care of yourself.” He then exited.

As the door closed, a pall of depression – thick, almost impervious – settled over Jane. Tears pooled into her eyes, and her body shuddered with the force of her sobs. Strong waves of mental agony were tearing her whole being apart, painting her consciousness in opaque hues. Why was the Lord punishing her so harshly? No, it is not God – it is that Tudor tyrant’s fault, Jane deduced.

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope you are all safe. After my fall down the staircase, I cannot return home for another couple of weeks, although I was permitted to leave Tuscany. I am lucky that I have a comfortable armchair and many pillows so that I can sit in front of my laptop.

I think many expected that Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, would have at least one private conversation with Queen Anne, the former Lady Bassett. Exeter loves her, and Anne fell in love with him too, although she cannot call her feelings for him ‘love’, as Anne mentions in her conversation with her mother because it is her first love. Do you detest Honor Grenville?

I know that there is one reader who loves the Duchess of Suffolk for personal reasons. I hope that now you are not angry with me. King Henry is interested in Catherine Brandon, who is tired of her husband’s infidelities and begins to consider a liaison with the king a possibility to take revenge on Charles. Brandon’s womanizing nature is portrayed in accordance with the show’s depiction. What will Catherine Brandon do? Will she consent to become a royal mistress?

Elizabeth Holland helped the Duke of Norfolk catch Nicholas Carew and the messenger who was about to depart to Italy. The downfall of Thomas Cromwell was inevitable in this AU, but I pity him and respect Cromwell as a great and talented statesman and councilor. The Howards began to act after the Pope’s main agent in England – Carew – had been identified. As Surrey says, the letters they give King Henry are not forgeries, and among them, there are a few letters indicating that Anne Boleyn is innocent. Do not be astonished that Henry does not want to believe in Anne’s innocence, but many investigations are launched, and the monarch orders to have Suffolk apprehended for questioning. Lady Elizabeth Somerset, Countess of Worcester, does not appear in this story, but as she was a chief informant against Anne, we must deal with her. The plot to kill Princess Elizabeth collapsed before Carew could begin to act.

Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, is now a widower. It is the monarch’s plan to join Anne’s former sweetheart, who may still love Anne, and Jane Seymour in holy matrimony. Why does the king want this? For his own amusement and in punishment because Jane failed to give him a son. However, maybe Jane and Percy will eventually find peace, for Percy is not like the king.

Leviathan is a creature with the form of a sea serpent from Jewish belief, referenced in the Hebrew Bible in the Book of Job, the Book of Isaiah, and so on. Isn’t King Henry a serpent?

I recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91, BellalunaMcKenzie, QueenMaryofEngland, and WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction. Let's make each other smile! Let's review and favorite each other!

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 33: Chapter 32: A Pall of Depression

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 32: A Pall of Depression

November 19, 1538, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, France

Anne de Montmorency found Lady Mary Stafford in the gardens. Dressed in a black cloak embroidered with pearls, she stood near a fountain, where water was splashing like flying silver drops in the sunlight. The autumn was mild, and days were not chilly yet; birds sang and twittered around, and some parts of the park were orange, brown, and red – still lovely.

“Madame Stafford.” Montmorency swept a bow to her.

“Good day, Monsieur de Montmorency. You are up so early!”

“Always. I’m a martial man, so my day begins at sunrise.”

“Is my sister safe now?” She glanced at her companion strictly.

“Yes,” replied Anne de Montmorency. “The queen is lodged in her new suite. The security measures were toughened significantly in the palace, especially in the queen’s rooms. The king appointed Jean, Count de Dammartin, captain of his wife’s personal guard. I myself selected men for this mission from His Majesty’s most trusted guards, each exceptionally trained.”  

“Is Anne as safe as she was when your wife almost killed her?”

“Madeleine de Savoy is dead.” A spasm of something that might have been pain or disgust crossed his countenance. “You remember that I oversaw her execution myself.”

“I did not mean to hurt you.” Mary should not have been so harsh with him. “I’m sorry.”

An oppressing silence ensued, and remembrances resurfaced in their brains.

The day of Prince Charles’ murder, and of Princess Aimée’s birth. The death of Cardinal François de Tournon in the dungeons, although the official reason of his demise was high fever. The bloody executions of Madeleine de Montmorency, Count Louis de Vaudémont, and Adrienne de Cosse – one of Anne’s handmaidens, who had let Madeleine and the other villains enter the queen’s chambers on that dreadful day. The endless search of Duke Claude de Guise and Cardinal Jean de Lorraine conducted by Philippe de Chabot, Admiral of France, and his men.  

Among their memories, the prince’s funeral stood out most clearly. Charles’ body had been delivered from Fontainebleau to Château de Louvre. Defying the convention, King François and his sister had resolved to attend the funeral and arrived in Paris. During the preparations for the burial, a life-size effigy of Charles, dressed in flamboyant colorful clothes, had been placed on a platform in the great hall at Louvre, and mourners had shed tears for the dead man near it. François and Marguerite had appeared near the effigy of the king’s son every morning after matins.

National mourning had been announced up to the day of the funeral. Watched by crowds of tearful Parisians, the prince’s coffin had been carried to Basilica of Saint-Denis on a horse drawn by four stallions, all draped in black velvet to the ground. The coffin was covered in a sumptuous purple cloth, ornamented with gold thread and the Valois coat-of-arms, topped with the effigy of Prince Charles, and above it, six knights had supported a canopy.

In Paris, church bells had tolled a funereal dirge for many days. Acting as the chief mourner, the monarch had led the party of solemn people, all dressed in black. Just as his father had done the unthinkable for his favorite son, Dauphin Henri had participated, his hand always linked to his that of his sister, Princess Marguerite. Young Margot was crying all the time, while Henri looked more somber than ever before. Everyone had seen tears on the faces of François and his relatives.  

As the procession had stopped near the cathedral, Princess Marguerite’s nerves had cracked like glass: she had run to the coffin and not allowed to take it anywhere. Henri had persuaded his disconsolate sister to step aside, and the coffin had been brought inside to the royal necropolis, where Charles had been erred next to his mother, Queen Claude of France. Queen Anne had not been present, keeping to her rooms at Fontainebleau until her churching according to tradition.

The whole of the Guise family were banished from the Valois court permanently. Even the six sons of Claude de Lorraine, the former Duke de Guise. The King of France had not attained his former friend’s children, but they had to stay in their estates under constant surveillance.

Mary snapped out of her reveries. “Many say that Prince Charles’ funeral were better than those of former French monarchs. King François adored his son absolutely.”

Montmorency looked away into the garden. “I’ve shut their dirty mouths.”

“They are Dauphin Henri’s supporters…  Catholics.”

“His Highness does not share their opinion. Among the king’s sons, the late Charles and Henri were not as close as Henri and the late François. But Henri loved his youngest brother.”

She eyed a nearby flowerbed that had been full of roses in summer. “All is obvious: François and Henri have been in mourning for months, sequestered in their apartments.”

In a voice dripping with guilt, he muttered, “I should not have admitted the tragedy.”    

Mary stepped to him and patted his rigid shoulder. “Montmorency, don’t blame yourself for your spouse’s crimes. You did not know that she conspired with the others to murder Anne.”

Montmorency glanced at her with interminable sadness. “Something has changed inside me since I saw my wife trying to harm Queen Anne. Since I saw the dead Prince Charles…  I’m not the same man who served His Majesty with dignity, and whose honor was never tainted before.”

“No!  Madeleine besmirched her honor, not yours. The king loves and trusts you.”

He was surprisingly stoic as he said, “Yes, but it is all too difficult.”

“Mama!  Mama!” Mary’s offspring chorused as they neared the fountain.

They swiveled to Lady Elizabeth Boleyn, who was leading Annie and Edward Stafford for a stroll. Laughing breezily, the children encircled their mother, who hugged them briefly.

Montmorency bowed to Elizabeth and Mary. “I bid you a good day, Madame Wiltshire and Madame Stafford.” He hurried away, as if his feet were on fire.

Contemplating his retreating form, Mary held back tears. In the past months, Montmorency had been gloomy like a rainstorm cloud, and she wondered how he was coping with his wife’s loss and his shame of her treason. Every thought of him instilled in her more and more compassion, and something that she could not have imagined before that would be there for him – warmth.

Elizabeth commented, “You and Montmorency would be a suitable match.”

“Mother, please!” Mary shrugged her words off. “We are in mourning!”

Her mother directed her gaze in the direction where Montmorency had gone. “Not now, but maybe one day. He is a widower, and although he has heirs, he might remarry.”  

Frowning at her mother, Mary embraced Annie and Edward again.

Annie asked, “Mama, why is Queen Anne so sad?”

Edward sighed. “She gives us sweet cakes, she is so kind. I want her to smile.”

Mary eyed her children in turns. “Soon she will be happy again.”

Annie verbalized what troubled her when she watched Queen Anne with her two daughters. “Princesses Louise and Aimée have a father. Will Edward and I have a new papa?”

Edward lifted his eyes to the sky. “Our father is in heaven.”

Mary was caught off guard by this turn of events. “Your papa will always be in our hearts.”

Elizabeth interposed, “Think of what your children told you.”

Mary deciphered her mother’s hint. “Don’t mention it again!”

They began playing a hide-and-seek game. As Mary ran with her rambunctious offspring, her heart ached for William Stafford. Yet, her late husband roused in her a surge of memories so distant that their once amorous connections now seemed almost misty. At present, the French court was her home, and she sighed wistfully at the thought that the past was gone forever.

§§§

The plaintive tune hit the Queen of Navarre’s ears as she entered the king’s study inside his living quarters. She surveyed the surroundings: books left here and there on marble tables, the walls swathed in golden velvet, gilded furniture, and the monarch’s favorite armchair in the corner, where lay an ancient-looking tome. Her brother must have read it at night.

In the past three months, only Marguerite and Montmorency were granted access to the royal apartments. Through frustrated, Queen Anne respected her husband’s wishes.

Bleak morning light was filtering through the open shutters. The ruler sat at his desk, his hands folded under his chin. Margot’s heart constricted at the sight of her deathly pale sibling, who was as lean as during his captivity in Madrid; his black attire stressed his unhealthiness.

A tall and thin man of forty-eight, Claudin de Sermisy had a long face with big brown eyes and thin lips, his features sharp and his skin naturally pallid. Garbed in a fine brown doublet with a red lace-trimmed band collar, Sermisy was now playing one of his Lamentations at his liege lord’s behest. A famed and favored French composer, Sermisy wrote both sacred and secular music, including his Masses, for example, a Requiem mass, and many motets.

François rasped, “This Lamentation mirrors what is happening in my heart.”

Sermisy asked, “Should I change the tune, Your Majesty?”

Marguerite neared them. “Claudin, don’t play Lamentations when my brother summons you next time. You have written hundreds of chansons, so choose something among them.”

The composer bowed in both deference and solidarity with her opinion. “Madame.”

The king huffed, “Have you come to lecture me, sister?”

The Queen of Navarre dismissed, “Claudin, please leave us.”

After sketching a bow, Sermisy grabbed the lute and vacated the room.

“Is it what I think?” Marguerite settled in a chair next to her brother.

King François clasped a sheet of paper. “The Duke of Norfolk’s secret missive.” 

His eyes skimmed through it, rapidly absorbing the details. Then he read it aloud.  

Your most Christian Majesty King François,

The recent arrests in London have wreaked havoc in the Tudor court. King Henry is still staying at Elsyng Palace, together with the pregnant Queen Anne.

Sir Francis Bryan apprehended Thomas Cromwell, Baron Cromwell of Okeham, at his home in Austin Friars. We, the old nobility of England, are reveling in Cromwell’s downfall. However, the arrest of Thomas Audley, Lord Chancellor, came like a lightning-bolt from a summer sky. The Earl of Surrey, my son, dragged the Lord Chancellor from the meeting of Privy Council, which he headed during the king’s sojourn at Elsyng, and then Surrey delivered him to the Tower. My men also captured Sir Nicholas Carew mere hours before the arrests of the others.

The court is ripe for gossip and scandal. People say that Audley, Carew, and Cromwell are all suspected of having conspired against King Henry or Queen Anne, Your Majesty’s wife. Many refer to Anne in slanderous expressions , but I cannot change that. Indeed, several investigations were launched, including one into Anne’s case. All eyes are now directed at Princess Elizabeth, whose fortunes will change for the better if my niece is acquitted of the false charges.

The Duke of Suffolk was arrested for questioning. My guards took that Brandon upstart to the Tower. No one anticipated that the king’s boyhood friend, who has lived through thick and thin with his sovereign, might be subject to such degrading treatment.

Since Lady Mary Tudor’s escape, there is no Spanish ambassador at court. The former apartments of Eustace Chapuys were ransacked, as well as the rooms of his servants.

I shall keep Your Majesty informed. God bless you and Queen Anne! 

Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk and your ally

Marguerite laughed. “Our English allies have delivered on their promise. I hope that soon Anne’s innocence will be proved, and Henry will announce it officially.”

François tapped his fingers on the desk. “No one knows what is transpiring in Henry’s head. ‘The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing’, as Socrates wisely said.”

“I have concerns.” Marguerite leaned back in her chair. “About His Grace of Norfolk. It is dangerous to give too much power to a self-centered and power-hungry man such as him. Today, he is serving Anne, but tomorrow he might switch sides. He remains a Catholic, after all.”

The ruler filled a goblet of wine from the decanter that stood on the desk. “Norfolk must have masterminded Audley’s downfall, who was not implicated in the plot against Anne. He strives to become Lord Chancellor, and Henry is likely to appoint him on this position.”

“The sense of power might go to his head. Wouldn’t Norfolk become dangerous, then?”

He drained the contents and then refilled the goblet again. “I do not think so. Elizabeth is the duke’s relative, and he will safeguard her: her safety means his future control over the English realm. Despite his religion, it is beneficial for him to make her queen regnant.”

“What if he conspires with Anne’s foes to have the Plantagenets reinstated?”

“Make haste cautiously,” he answered. “We shall not act against him unless he gives us a compelling reason. He will support Elizabeth’s bid for the throne, at least for now.”

Marguerite watched her brother drink more wine with disapproval, but she continued their discourse. “What about Sir Nicholas Carew, the Pope’s main partisan in England?”

François emptied the goblet. “My agents intercepted the Pope’s missives to Carew, in which he instructed the man to murder Elizabeth – an innocent child. From the other letters my spies found, we learned that the Pope had ordered William Brereton to get rid of Anne, so the man testified against her before and during the trial.” A blaze of indignation lit up his eyes as he spat, “Pope Paul should be renamed into ‘His Viciousness,’ for ‘His Holiness’ does not suit him.”

“True.” Marguerite smirked at his sarcastic tirade. “That hypocritical unholy brute did not even begrudge the emperor for invading France under false pretenses.”

“The Pope is vile, but not holy.”

“You will not persecute the French reformers, will you?”

“No. France is allied with the Protestant nations. I shall abide by our treaty.”

His sister pushed a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. “Thank you, brother!  I’ll continue my intellectual work with humanists, abbots, and the members of my theological circle.”

The king’s brows knitted together forbiddingly. “Be careful with the evangelicals in your entourage, Margot. In adopting the doctrines of Calvin and other Protestant theologians, they divorced the reformers’ positive doctrinal teachings due to their unfeasible demand to completely repudiate the Catholic Church. They offer not to transform the existing cult, but to destroy it.”

Marguerite deciphered his warning. “You shall not allow that to happen.”

“Never.” He poured another goblet. “Neither you nor they ought to cross a line. In spite of my loathing for the current Pope, there will be no opportunistic reforms in France.”

“My husband, Henri of Navarre, writes to me often. He has been worried about you, brother. There are condolences on your son’s death in his every letter, and he wishes you all the best.”

“Henri has always been my good friend. Go to Navarre to him, sister.”

She shook her head. “I cannot leave you. Especially not now. How is your marital life?”

Lost in his spiraling dolor, François could not think of Anne. To his embarrassment, he had not met his consort even once since he had secluded himself in his chambers after his son’s funeral. Staring into space, meeting with his sister, reading, shedding tears, drinking heavily, sometimes sleeping, and very rarely eating – all these things alternated like a tidal movement.

Forgive me for the lack of my attention, Anne, the king begged his wife. The monarch was sliding, slipping, falling away, as if his life were an inclined hill on which there was no resting, so his downward journey progressed. Down, down, down into the universe of unbearable travails and everlasting guilt, both feelings as ancient as prehistoric remains of human life.  

He gulped more wine. “What about it?”

“We are all in mourning for Charles.” She crossed herself. “Your son died for Anne so that his father could be happy with his stepmother. He would have wanted you to be with her now.”

A spasm of hurt crossed his previously tranquil features. “Margot, I cannot think about my marriage or any pleasures. Now I want to be alone.”

Tears pricked her eyes. “It is so horrible when children predecease their parents. When my son with Henri passed away eight years ago, I was so broken that I ran to a chapel and knelt at the altar, crying and repeating over and again ‘Oh Lord, why did you take my son?  Why?’  I did the same every time I had my six miscarriages during my first marriage to Duke Charles d’Alençon and three more miscarriages during my matrimony with Henri d’Albert. At present, the fear that my only surviving child, my dearest Jeanne, might die is with me day and night.”

“Did God answer to you, sister?”

She sniffed. “No, but priests say that it is the Lord’s will.”

As their gazes locked, his stare was an incandescent brand, searing into her and burning away everything. Marguerite grasped its sense: his gaze signified that the undercurrent of helpless rage with the Creator was bubbling in his veins, like lava tinctured with desperation.

“I would have said the same before Charles’ death. But now–” He trailed off.

“Brother, you have a family,” she comforted.

François threw the goblet away in a fierce gesture; the wine spilled onto the floor.

The monarch’s eyes fluttered shut. “I’m eager to close my eyes forever so that I do not see anything and anyone. Sometimes, I wish not to be part of this inequitable, cruel world.” His eyes opened, and tears glistened in them. “I’ve lost three children in less than three years: my dear François, Madeleine, and Charles. In addition, my daughter with my former mistress, Claude de Rohan-Gié, was stillborn. My daughters with Claude – Charlotte and Louise – died in childhood. In total, I’ve lost six children!  Ah, I’ve forgotten about my three other deceased bastards with my former lovers, who died of various infections or simple fever long ago. I’ve kept asking God why He called them to heaven when they seemed to have a life, full of joy, ahead.”

A pall of heartache encompassed the Queen of Navarre. “François, brother…” 

He slammed his fist into his own chest repeatedly, beating it as though the Almighty deemed him deserving of this punishment. “And I blame myself!  Myself!”

Myself, François reiterated in his mind. Dear God, grant me atonement if it is possible!  His memory reproduced the corpse of his beloved son Charles on the floor, with a dagger sticking out of the chest. The lingering echoes of tragedy swirled and settled around him, like desert sand over bare land. His entire being was in a state of miserable deformity, and he could feel the substance of scalding anguish, perpetual like the world’s history, solid in the cavity of his breast.

“No!” she cried. “Their deaths are not your fault!”

“Margot, I’ve not rescued them!  I’ve been a bad father to them!”

François felt horribly empty, like the shell of a man, a listlessness akin to soul sickness. He stretched out a hand towards his sister, as though imploring her to lend him her moral support and strength. Feeling both hot and cold, Marguerite jumped and rushed to him like a storm.

As she dropped to her knees beside the king, she grabbed his hand and kissed it fervently. “Brother, if I could only assuage your pain, I would!  I cannot see you so broken!”

“See now, sister,” he continued huskily, squeezing her hand. “I did not love Claude, but I was fond of her, and I’ve always loved all of our offspring. And what now?  Most of them are not alive, save Marguerite and Henri. Claude must be glaring down at me from heaven with hate.”

“Brother,” whispered the Navarrese queen, stroking his hair. “You are wrong: your grief is speaking for you. Claude would never have despised and blamed you.”

“See here, Margot!” Tears moistened his vacant eyes. “Here is the monarch who has failed to protect his children. I fear that I might not be a good father to those offspring whom the Holy Father has not taken away. In ancient times, some pagans referred to sorrows and trials as the vengeance of their gods upon them for their sins. Is that applicable to me?”

“François! No!” she sobbed, kissing his hand. “That is not true!”

A haze of ire enveloped the ruler. “I sent to the block many traitors implicated in Charles’ murder, save the Lorraine brothers. I’ll find them and tear their vile hearts from their chests. But all those executions did not ease my pain and… only strengthened my guilt.”

Marguerite reached out and gently touched his face. His skin was heated and salty from the tears, and his hollow eyes looked through the reality and beyond. Tracing the line of tears on his cheeks, she was crying while stroking her brother’s hair. As he trembled from a wave of sobs that assaulted him, she enveloped him into her arms, and he rested his head upon her chest.

“Time will heal your wounds,” predicted Marguerite.

“No,” rasped François into her hair. “It never will. But perhaps Anne can. Somewhat.”

The queen smiled. “Anne and you will have a large family.”

“My wife,” the king said, disentangling himself from her sister. The moment of his weakness had passed, but the sorrow still resided within him. “Give her Norfolk’s letter.”

Marguerite held his frantic gaze as her brother went to a window. She climbed to her feet with a watery smile. “May I tell Anne to come to you?”

His eyes were red-rimmed. “Not yet. When I’m ready, I’ll pay a visit to her.”

She gazed at him beseechingly. “You have kept saying the same for months. When will it be over?  Anne is your cure from all our woes – your wife and your daughters.”    

He flashed a smile, tiny like a sliver of moon. “My queen… I often dream of her…” 

The ruler’s sister neared her brother from the back. “François, we are all now worried about the future of the Valois dynasty. We have only one surviving prince left – Henri.”

“Henri whose marriage has been childless, at least so far.”

The queen embraced her brother from the back, pressing her head to him. “We cannot allow the great Valois dynasty, which emerged triumphant from the long, devastating Hundred Years' War and has many other accomplishments, to die out on the male side.”

He swallowed nervously. “If our male line goes extinct, the House of Bourbon will rule.”

“The throne of France must belong to the Valois family. The worst will not happen.”

François swiveled to face her. “We must take into account all possibilities. We shall never be able to cancel the Salic law from the ancient Frankish civil law code, compiled centuries ago by Clovis, the first Frankish king. The Estates General will never consent to that.”

Despair reared its head as their gazes locked, with a depth that was alarming.

Marguerite placed her hands upon her brother’s shoulders. “Now we have two options. You must return to your spouse’s bed: Anne has long healed from Aimée’s birth and can perform her marital duties. It does not take your wife long to conceive, so we will have good news about her new pregnancy quite soon.” She sighed. “Or we can try to have Henri’s marriage to Catherine annulled so that my nephew can remarry someone else who is more fertile than the Medici girl.”

“Henri’s annulment might be difficult to obtain.”

She almost begged, “Renew intimate relations with Anne. Urgently.”

François dipped a nod. “I shall, and I pray that our next child will be a son.”

“We need a little male Valois, better two or more.” Her voice was layered with desperation. “I spoke to Doctor Fernel about Anne’s health. She is a very strong woman who, despite no longer being a girl, can bear you many children within the next ten-twelve years. After all, Elizabeth Woodville and Eleanor of Aquitaine had their last babes in their early forties. Anne is very eager to have your progeny not only because it is her queenly duty to give you a male heir.”

“Why do you think so, Margot? I shall never pressure her and behave like Henry.”

Marguerite was optimistic on the subject of her brother’s happiness with Anne. “I know you shall not. One day, your wife will love you madly, brother!  She is not indifferent to you.”

He let out a smile. “Soon we will go to the castle where Ferdinand is held together.”

“I’ll tell her that.” Her tears began drying up.

A crestfallen and furious François roared, “I want the Lorraine brothers dead!”

“The question is how to capture the villains. At least, King James of Scotland and Marie de Guise refused to give them refuge. James and Marie both immediately wrote to us.”

“They must have fled to Spain, then. To Carlos.”

“Try not to think about that, brother. And rest for some time.”

Marguerite collected the missive from the Duke of Norfolk and quitted the room.

For a while, François watched the gray clouds flutter across the sky, unusually clear for this time of year. Very soon he would have to leave his quarters, appear before the court, and take the government in his capable hands. In public, he would have to bear his sufferings with invincible courage. As the King of France, François had duties to his family, nobility, and nation.  

§§§

Dauphin Henri and Diane de Poitiers sat on a couch in silence for a long time. She was in foul spirits, for her lover’s thoughtful look and his hollow gaze, which Diane had witnessed every day since his brother’s death, started irritating her like a burr chafing under her feet.

The chamber, which was adjacent to his bedroom, was quiet like a tomb. The somber interior was elegant and rich: dark mahogany tables, piled with books, and gray-brocaded couches, which lined the walls tapestried with scenes from biblical stories. The prince’s tastes were more austere than the typical French ones. The vaulted stained glass windows were the most fanciful thing.

Diane interrupted the depressing silence. “After the invasion, King François claimed that we must be frugal to refill the state coffers. Yet, Prince Charles’ funeral was too lavish.”

“I shall not speak about that.” Her speech unsettled Henri a lot.

“His Majesty must save more money. What if there is another war against the emperor?”

His eyes blazed with rage. “How I wish I had fought against that Habsburg devil during the invasion!  If there is a new conflict, I shall join the king’s army!”

She moved closer to him on the couch and clasped his hand in hers. “Do not be angry and listen to me, Henri.” She stilled for a moment, and as he nodded, she went on. “Your brother’s death has changed everything. Now you are the monarch’s only living son – the nation’s last hope. You must prepare for kingship when God deems it right to make you King of France.”

He removed his hand from hers, clenching his teeth and glaring at her. “If the Lord wills it, one day I’ll ascend the throne. My father is young enough, and I wish him a long reign.”

“I admire King François. But I care about your future more than anything else. I’m older and wiser than you, Henri, and I know how swift-flowing and unpredictable life is.”

Ma chérie, I’m ready for everything, except for one thing.”

“What is it?” She lowered her eyes demurely, studying her fingernails, as if the secrets of the universe were scribed there. “Is it the necessity to deal with Queen Anne?”

“What?” Abashed, he leaned back in the couch.

Her face had a taut look he did not remember seeing before. “You will not like my words, but I must speak. Queen Anne does pose a threat to France because of her heresy. The worst is that any potential son she might have with the king will be your rival.”

Irritation tinted his mood. “Diane, I’m aware of your dislike for Her Majesty because of her religion. Yet, I shall not allow you to disrespect her in my presence. Even if I succeed my father, I shall not deal with her, as you phrased it. She is the mother of my two sisters!”

Diane’s smirk was venomous. “I pray that the woman continues to have only girls.”

The dauphin tempered his sudden desire to slap his mistress. “You hate to be overshadowed, Diane. Once you were the center of our court’s life, of course together with that Pisseleu strumpet. With the appearance of Anne Boleyn, she replaced the two of you as the court’s shining star.” Leaning to her, he chuckled and inquired, “Are you envious of Queen Anne, Diane?”  

Her temper flared. “Don’t humiliate me by comparing us!”  

“Why not?  You are both prime examples of beautiful and educated women.”

“Let’s not discuss her, Henri.” Now she just wanted to close the topic.

The dauphin stood up and commenced pacing back and forth. His train of thought drifted to the late Charles de Valois. His skin felt clammy at the remembrance of all the times when he had rejected his sibling’s company in favor of his paramour’s. An eddy of guilt swirled through him, his heart fragmented into countless pieces that even his breathing was agonizing. I would have done many things differently if Charles had survived, Henri bemoaned. If only I could…    

His steps were beating out a plangent rhythm of his loss. “I wish I had been a better brother to Charles. We loved each other, but we had a strained relationship. My brother strove to eliminate the distance between us, but I pushed him away. I envied that the king adored him more than me, but I was wrong: our father loved us both. I even considered Charles my rival!”  

She tried to reason with him. “Henri, you are only torturing yourself.”

Henri ignored her. “I’d like to talk about my poor brother. Now when I cannot tell him how much I adore him, I feel as if half of my life had gone. I’m praying for him every day.”

“Charles was impulsive and temperamental, so you often quarreled.”

“My brother would have listened to me.” Pausing near a cabinet, Henri wrung his hands in anguish. “If I had not been so stubborn, we would have been closer. Now my jealousy appears petty and foolish!  My behavior towards Charles was that of a stubborn and petulant child. God, the dreadful unreasonableness of this!  The appalling and unbearable waste of time when we could have been loving and caring brothers. Charles was a wonderful person!”

His voice wavered, and Henri went dreadfully still. His face, turned to a window, was utterly melancholic, but it possessed a rueful beauty. A sense of stinging shame overmastered him.

Diane observed him with her hands folded in her lap. With the weight of her almost forty years heavy on her slim shoulders, she reflected that the tragedy with Charles was the right thing, and a crafty prince ought to exult in it, but not Henri, who did not view his now uncontested right for the throne in a positive light. Her blank features were immobile, but a vibrating tension in the pit of her stomach indicated her fear of what would happen if Henri ever learned the truth.  

Her arctic voice cut through the stillness. “Those who drown in shame in the moments of weakness create cheap drama. The dauphin’s duty to his nation is something more and other than moral perfection. The road to the most desired land of power runs past the land of honor.”

Henri was suddenly cognizant of a bubbling fury in his veins. “Have you always been such an unfeeling bitch?  Or are you just a bit under the weather today?”    

“Henri!” A shocked Diane bounced to her feet.

He glowered at her. “I should not have unburdened my soul to you.”

She took a step to him. “Mon amour, please–” 

He barked, “Leave, Diane. When I need you again, I’ll invite you.”

“As you wish.” She was frightened that she might anger him more.

Masking her annoyance, Diane bobbed a curtsey and stomped over to the door.

“Henri!” Catherine de’ Medici called as she walked in.  

The dauphin resented the intrusion of strangers when he needed solitude. The intrusion of his unwanted wife was worse for him. He bit back the profanities swarming through his head.

“Be gone, Catherine!” he roared.  

Catherine recoiled from him. “Forgive me,” she mumbled lamely.

Battered by his disdainful glare, Catherine and Diane both exited. He had not noticed their non-verbal exchange that resembled the look of two generals coordinating a temporary retreat.


December 15, 1538, Château de Lagardère, village of Lagardère, Gascony, France

The Duchess d’Étampes strode through the hallway. The portraits of Valois kings on the walls reminded Anne of her former position as the French king’s chief mistress, as if mocking her.

“Damn the Lorraines!” Anne de Pisseleu reached their apartments and halted.

Irritation and terror vied for control of her senses. She had not seen her loathsome guests for days, wondering why they had spent the entire time in their quarters. Part of her hoped that the two scoundrels, who were blackmailing Anne, had escaped without warning her.

Inside, Anne saw the two men lounging in matching walnut armchairs with a shaped crest rail, draped with red brocade. They played a game of chess, their expressions merry.

“Are you eager for a stroll?” the duchess questioned, closing the door.

Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, moved his king. Absently, without looking at her, he answered, “It would be a huge relief to get out again, but it would be too risky.”

“No news from Spain?” Anne crossed to a chair and seated herself there.

“Just silence,” Claude ground out through his clenched teeth.

Cardinal Jean de Lorraine emitted an audible sigh. “I’m afraid the emperor will not grant us asylum. His hands are tied with his wife being kept almost prisoner in France.”

She countered, “I was told that the empress is a guest of honor at Fontainebleau.”

“Guest or prisoner!” Jean moved his queen across the chessboard to a group of his brother’s rooks. “I see no difference. Empress Isabella is kept isolated from her Spanish and Portuguese ladies-in-waiting who accompanied her to France. King François will not release her.”

Claude’s knight went two squares ahead. “François is up to something.”

Anne snarled, “I’ve been tremendously patient with you both. I could have kicked you out days ago, but I did not. As I often say, what cannot be cured must be endured.”

Jean barked a laugh. “That is a good philosophy, Madame.”

Claude studied the chessboard. “Brother, your skills are powerful when it comes to working together against my pieces. Yet, my king will take yours.”

“Then do that, Claude!” Jean threw his hands up in surrender. “Just leave me my bishop. Or I shall never forgive myself for losing my religious piece, for I am a churchman.”

“Done.” Claude smirked as Jean’s defense was destroyed by the defeat of his roots.

“Don’t switch to another subject,” Anne chastised.

At last, the Duke de Guise tore his gaze from the chessboard. His glare impaled her.

“Suddenly feeling too strong?” Sarcasm leaked out of Claude’s mouth. “Don’t threaten us, Madame. If you stop helping us, our liege lord will learn that you once were a sunbeam in my and my brother’s beds. He will also be informed that his brother-in-law, King Henri of Navarre, enjoyed your amazing body every time Henri visited the French court.”

Jean flushed at the memory of his intimate encounters with the king’s former mistress. “Oh, God, it is a sin to wish so much to taste the venom of Eve who corrupted Adam. But you, Madame, were such a delightful bedmate that I cannot help but want you carnally again.”

An incensed Anne bounced to her feet before bellowing, “You shall not insult me!  You are two jackals who tried to assassinate the royal family. You must be prostrate in gratitude that I’ve sheltered you here, but you must leave tomorrow at dawn at the latest.”  

The Cardinal de Lorraine panicked. “Where will we go?”

Guise counted his pawns on the chessboard. “What about your child, ma chérie?  What will His Majesty and your husband say about your bastard?  Who fathered the girl?  She is certainly a little Valois. Is it King François’ baby?  Should we inform him?”

The duchess screamed, “It is none of your business!”

At this moment, Anne seemed almost translucent, the white colors of her skin signifying her mortal fright. In silence, she paced the room until she stopped near a window, raised her fist, and placed it against the cool glass. She yearned to scream and pound at the glass to release all her ire and heartbreak, a long time lying together inside of her and deforming her vitals.

She had thought that it had been a clever tactic to sleep with Prince Charles, having hoped that it would make her closer to power again. Yet, perhaps Charles had not remembered how she had made him a man in his insobriety. Later, Anne had realized that it would lead her nowhere, especially after she had been informed that the king had sent away all of his discarded paramours.

Torn between outrage and pain, the Duchess d’Étampes had felt betrayed by King François, who devoted himself entirely to his queen, having forgotten about his former maîtresse-en-titre. Together with Péronne de Pisseleu, she had rushed to her small estate in the village of Lagardère in Gascony. In the midst of suffering, Anne had discovered her pregnancy. Until three midwifes had confirmed that she was indeed with child, the duchess had not believed that it was true.

A nymph of insatiable passions, Anne de Pisseleu had indulged her appetites to an extreme degree, with King François and many other lovers without a lick of shame or regret. Among them, there were the Lorraine brothers, King Henri of Navarre, and a few other nobles. Anne had spent years trying to give François a baby that would have tied them together, but she had failed. Nevertheless, it had taken the ruler’s youngest son only one night to impregnate Anne! 

Anne’s initial intention had been to return to court after the child’s birth. Her baby was the monarch’s grandchild – a blood connection with the Valois family that she had craved for long. Not François’ baby, but Charles’. She had hoped that Charles would acknowledge his daughter, or that François would let her return to court for his granddaughter’s sake, and then she would lure the king back into her bed. However, her plans had been derailed by the prince’s murder.

The duchess had birthed a baby girl less than two weeks ago. Although the baby had come one month early, the infant was strong and healthy. Anne had no time for convalescence because of the sudden arrival of the Lorraine brothers at Château de Lagardère. Duke Claude de Guise and Cardinal de Lorraine had been on the run for months, having hidden themselves in various towns. Now they needed a place to spend some time before deciding how to save their lives.

Although only Anne’s sisters, Péronne and Louise, as well as her trusted maids knew of her daughter’s existence, the child had also been seen by the Lorraine brothers. As the girl had Valois traits, Claude and Jean were certain that François was the baby’s father, threatening Anne to inform the monarch about her birth and Anne’s affairs with them both if she had not helped them.

Anne had named her daughter Charlotte not in honor of the girl’s father, whom she had never loved, but to highlight the fact of the girl’s paternity. Nonetheless, the prince’s death had dashed the last vestiges of her hope for the triumph into pieces. Unsure of what to do next, Anne lived at Lagardère, while her daughter was her only consolation. The Lorraines were not in a hurry to depart, which instilled fear into Anne, a fear that never left her even in the dead of night.

She knew what crime the two men had committed. Everyone still spoke about the executions of Madeleine de Montmorency and other traitors in the summer, and Cardinal de Tournon’s death was also mentioned. Should I inform His Majesty about Charlotte?  The Lorraine devils can no longer stay here. They murdered the father of my daughter, and I must get rid of them.

The duchess turned to her guests. “The Duke d’Étampes is coming. He will apprehend or kill you if you don’t flee now.” She lied, but it was the only way to push them to escape.

Claude threw the chessboard to the floor. “Why did you write to him?”

She smirked. “He is my spouse!  I should not ask you whether to contact him or not.”

Jean rose to his feet. “You are a whorish little bitch!”

Anne returned to her chair. “I may write to François myself. I might confess to betraying him with other men during my tenure as his maîtresse-en-titre. I might also report to him that the two men who are guilty of his son’s assassination and who attempted to kill his wife are here.”

“You will not throw yourself into the fire of the king’s wrath!” Terror squeezed Claude.

She laughed – a harsh sound, mixed with determination. “I will; for my daughter. For her future. I want her to have a mother whom she will be proud of.”

For my dear Charlotte, the duchess repeated silently. There is no love stronger than the love of a mother. But there is no pain stronger than the loss of a child. Her greatest terror was that if François learned about her concealing of the Lorraine brothers from his many soldiers who were searching them, her daughter would be taken away from her. At least, if Claude and Jean had fled to Spain, as they hoped, the French monarch might never discover her involvement.

“You are our accomplice,” Claude pressured her. “If we are captured, you will be accused of being complicit in the plot against the Boleyn harlot. His Majesty will not condone it.”

She fired back, “I would never have harmed any of the Valois family members. If I had learned about your plan in advance, I would have revealed everything to our sovereign.”

Jean objected, “You hate Queen Anne. The king would not believe you.”

Anne stood up and stomped to Claude. She leaned close, her lips snapping into disdain. “No one will believe that I joined a group of Catholic fanatics to dispose of the queen. My sympathies to the Protestants are widely known, and François is aware that I’m a secret Protestant.” Moving back away, her wily expression indicated her superiority. “What would you say to that?”

Silence fell for several moments. The men’s hateful looks would kill her if they could.

“We will leave tonight.” The Duke de Guise jumped to his feet. “Prepare a pair of sturdy horses and provisions for us. Fortunately, we are not far from the border with Spain.”

Jean’s brows shot up. “But we have not heard from the emperor yet!”

“Run away,” Anne advised, with heightened urgency. “As quickly as you can!”   

Claude’s laugh was bitter. “We have no choice.”

“Everything will be ready soon. Pack your things.” She went to the door.

Guise hissed, “I’ll take revenge, Madame d’Étampes. And for my own losses, I shall regain everything that was mine.” His vow echoed in the air as she paused near the door.

“May God punish you, you devil’s servant.” Anne slammed the door with a bang.

§§§

A receding rattle of hooves proclaimed the departure of the Lorraine brothers.

Anne breathed in the frosty air in the park silvered by the falling snow. At least, they had left, and now her future was not in inevitable jeopardy, provided that the monarch would not learn what she had done for his enemies. Yet, she was alarmed, feeling that trouble was brewing.

As her gaze eyed her surroundings, she huffed in annoyance. She disliked this old fortress, which, she believed, needed to be rebuilt in a more modern style. Built by Guillaume de Nérac in the second half of the 13th century, it had been owned by the abbots and then bishops of Condom until the king had bestowed it upon his former mistress. At least, this castle is not crumbling under my feet. It is small, but clean and is well furnished, so I can hide here, Anne ranted silently.

“God, punish them for Charles’ murder,” Anne de Pisseleu whispered.

She wrapped her warm cloak tighter around herself. The smell of winter was hanging above the bare crowns of trees. Winter mixed with a sound she knew all too well – her daughter’s soft crying. Anne rushed hotfoot to the castle, for she needed to take care of her baby.

In the nursery, Anne saw her sister trying to calm the crying infant.

“Give her to me,” Anne instructed, and Péronne passed on the bundle to her. “Have the wet nurse feed her in the afternoon?  Or could she catch cold because you opened a window?”

Péronne smiled at her. “Don’t worry. Infants often cry; the girl is healthy.”

“I shall not forgive you if something happens to her, sister.”  

Péronne did not take offense at the comment. “I’ve never thought that you can love someone so deeply. You have always been so selfish, pardon me for my straightforwardness.”

“Charlotte is my miracle!” As Anne rocked the baby while cooing to her, the child stopped crying. “I love my daughter unconditionally and so fiercely that I can do anything for her. I still cannot believe that she exists!  I was certain of my barrenness, but now she is with me.”

“It is a God’s gift for you, Anne. After many attempts to give His Majesty a child, you gave it to his son.” Péronne crossed herself before adding, “Let Prince Charles’ soul rest in peace.”

The duchess smiled at her daughter, receiving a tiny smile in response. “I do not care who her father is.” She kissed the baby’s forehead. “She is mine!  Only mine!”

Little Charlotte had the long Valois nose and the saturnine complexion, as well as a tuft of brown hair upon her head. Only the girl’s emerald eyes attested to the Pisseleu heritage. In fact, one could say that Charlotte looked like the King of France’s daughter, for François and Charles shared many facial traits. Anne took delight in her daughter’s similarity to the ruler.

Péronne observed, “Charlotte looks more like a Valois than a Pisseleu. If the king did not set you aside, you could tell him that he fathered her, but you cannot lie to him because he has not shared a bed with you for too long. At least, you have your own child!”

Anne flinched, for her heart wounds were still fresh. “She is part of our sovereign. Charlotte is his granddaughter, and one day, he will see her. If only François had adored me again…”

“Dreams,” her sister spelled out. “He is in love with his queen.”

The duchess directed a glower at Péronne. “Don’t remind me of that.” She leered. “With only Dauphin Henri alive, the House of Valois needs more legitimate male children to secure the succession. But the Boleyn slattern seems to be unable to do her wifely duty.”

“Her Majesty birthed the king’s two healthy daughters. Next time, she may have a son.”

“It is far worse for a woman to be cursed to bear only girls than to be barren. Especially for a queen!  Catherine de’ Medici is likely to be infertile, and Dauphin Henri might never have legitimate offspring, unless François has his union with that Italian merchant annulled.”  

“Don’t be so venomous!  The Lord might punish you for such thoughts.”

“I don’t think He will,” Anne flung back in a voice layered with irony. “The Almighty has not held me accountable for my lascivious adventures. On the contrary, He rewarded me by answering to my prayers and letting me have my daughter.” She kissed the infant’s cheek.

A shocked Péronne criticized, “Don’t say that for the love of heaven!”

At this moment, little Charlotte wailed. Anne rocked the baby with a stronger motion, but the sounds coming out of her did not cease. Anne then sang a song about birds and angels.

The duchess berated, “Sister, don’t speak so loudly!”

“It is not my fault. Children feel their mother’s bad mood and react.”

“What is wrong, my dear?” Anne crooned.

The baby was enveloped in a cotton sheet and a woolen blanket to keep her warm. Sliding a hand between the folds of the material, Anne felt that the infant needed cleaning.

“Louise!” Anne called her second sister.

In a few moments, a teenaged woman ran inside the nursery. A girl of only fifteen, she was still unmarried and lived with her notorious older sister. Her plain gown of blue and ochre satin stressed her plumpness, but her face was pretty enough to attract a man. Anne intended to use her old noble connections so as to find a suitable husband for Louise in a couple of years.

“Yes, Anne!” Louise stopped near them, breathless. “Let me take my niece.”

“Have her swaddled in a fresh blanket.” Anne handed the fussing infant to Louise.

“Yes, sister.” Louise exited together with the child.

Péronne broached a subject that, she knew, would upset her sister. “My husband demands that I move back to his estates and give him an heir. I’ll not be able to be with you anymore.”

Anne released a sigh. “I’ve always known that this day will come. I shall not keep you here with me, or he might file a complaint to a local magistrate or even to the king.”  

Péronne de Pisseleu was spouse of Michel de Barbancon, Seigneur de Cany, but she styled herself as Madame de Pisseleu. He was an important man in Picardy. While Péronne served her sister, her spouse was at court or resided in Château de Varennes near the town of Noyon.

The duchess clasped the other woman’s hand in hers. “Maybe you will find happiness with Monsieur Michel. He appears to be a decent man, and he quite likes you.”

“What about your husband, Jean de Brosse?  He is not a bad man either, although he wed you only to become a duke when His Majesty arranged this marriage for you. He despised you for your scandalous relationship with our sovereign, but you are no longer a royal mistress. Perhaps he can find it in his heart to accept you as his wife and your daughter as his.”

Anne glanced at her as if she were a lunatic. “Jean de Brosse?  Don’t be silly!  Oh, he is not an honorable man who can adopt his wife’s bastard. He loathes me wholeheartedly!”

“What are you going to do, Anne?”

“Henri of Navarre,” drawled the Duchess d’Étampes with a wistful grin. “I cannot be the King of France’s mistress, but Henri desires me fervently. We had a long-term clandestine affair, and he is one of the most noble-minded men I’ve ever been with. When we were in Tourane in my estates, he sent a page to me with a letter, in which Henri offered to meet.”

Péronne recalled, “You did not respond because you were with child.”

Anne walked to a window. “I’ll dispatch a messenger to Henri soon.”

“Where will it lead you, sister?” Péronne sighed helplessly.

“Henri d’Albert is a handsome, healthy, and passionate man. He told me that he had asked Queen Marguerite many times to return with him to Navarre, but she prefers to stay in France because François needs her to rule together. While I admire her sense of duty, I deeply sympathize with the Navarrese ruler abandoned by his wife. Their marriage has long been falling apart.”

“You want to use this circumstance,” her sister concluded.

The duchess looked outside. The rain-soaked clouds growled menacingly down upon the earth. “The truth is that I feel something for Henri. Lately, he has constantly been on my mind.”

As the first raindrops began falling, Anne de Pisseleu recalled her first time with the King of Navarre. The next night after Eleanor of Austria’s coronation. The deluge of rain had crushed down the city of Paris when Henri d’Albert and Anne had coupled in her bed. Their lovemaking had been extremely gratifying for them both, eccentric and tinged with colors of primeval passion. Anne’s heart thumped a melody of longing for King Henri, whom she yearned to see again.

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope you are all safe. I still have the pain in my back, but I feel much better, and I was permitted to return home to Switzerland. Of course, I shall wear a facemask and gloves as we drive home. I shall be put on quarantine again once I return home.

This chapter is about the consequences of Prince Charles' murder in France. The Valois family and the whole of France are in mourning. It is not custom for kings to attend funerals, but François, Marguerite, and Henri defied the convention out of their love for the heroic late Charles.

Having lost many children, François heartbroken, so he leaves state affairs to Marguerite and his councilors, shutting himself in his apartments for months. His son, Henri, does the same. François and Marguerite are very worried about the succession crisis in France, for at present the Valois family has only one living prince and three princesses. Knowing that, Anne will be desperate to give François a son. François himself realizes that he needs a male child, but he will not behave like Henry.

In the next chapter, we will have the matter with Empress Isabella and King Ferdinand finally resolved, and you will be surprised.

We learn what happened to the Lorraine brothers, who ran away from Fontainebleau. They had hidden themselves in various places until their arrival at Château de Lagardère, owned by Anne de Pisseleu, Duchess d'Étampes. Now you understand why I needed Prince Charles to have a short-term affair with Anne: the duchess birthed the late prince's daughter after years of what she considered barrenness. That's why I said that we would need the name Charlotte! Anne forces Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, and Cardinal Jean de Lorraine to leave her castle, and they escape to Spain. She was blackmailed into giving them refuge. Will François learn about his granddaughter? And will Anne become a mistress of King Henry II of Navarre?

Located in southern Aquitaine, Château de Lagardère is now in ruins. The historical information given about this former castle is correct.

The Estates General, also called States General (French: États-Généraux) was sort of Parliament in monarchial France. It was the assembly of the three classes of the realm: the clergy, the high-ranked nobility, as well as some privileged commoners and representatives of some privileged towns. Over time, the French monarchs decreased the power of the Estates General and rarely convened them, but there were matters such as regency and ancient laws that could not be decided without them.

The English drama continues in chapters 34 and 35. Soon the Italian Habsburg-Valois wars will continue.

VioletRoseLily and I began co-writing the story called "Entwined by a Golden Alliance", but we are posting it only at AO3 as it is more convenient for us. The pairings are François I of France/Elizabeth Tudor and Anne Boleyn/Edmund Tudor. We assume that two of the children of King Henry VII of England and Elizabeth of York survived. Henry VIII will also be there, but he has a unique character arc. We will update not as often as I update CWL, but the story is going to be interesting and will have a novel length.

I recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91, BellalunaMcKenzie, QueenMaryofEngland, and WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction. Let's make each other smile! Let's review and favorite each other!

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 34: Chapter 33: A Golden Cage

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 33: A Golden Cage

December 21, 1538, Château d’Azay-le-Rideau, Loire Valley, France

The weather was rather frosty, the wind biting, and Empress Isabella was freezing as a boat sailed to her destination in the Indre River. Snowflakes drifted lazily around her and settled on her ermine cloak before melting into the water. Though exhausted, she was relieved that her arduous voyage from Fontainebleau to the heart of Touraine in the Loire Valley was over.

An old grizzled man, his dark eyes like those of a hawk, watched her with interest. He had met her near the quay with armed men. “We will disembark in a few minutes.”

The boat moored at the end of the small pier, and the fortress loomed before her. The turreted façade of the château was reflected in the river’s waters, making time itself appear to stand still. Isabella had heard about this castle that had been rebuilt on an island in the middle of the river during the reign of King François. She admired the elegant fusion of French architecture and innovative Italian décor. It would be too difficult to escape from this place. That is why Ferdinand has been kept here. Carlos’ spies would not have found my cousin, Isabella mused.

The man offered, “Let me aid Your Imperial Majesty.”

Taking his hand, Isabella climbed from the boat and onto the snow-covered ground. Five soldiers from the squad, which had escorted her from Paris, stood nearby. It irked her that she had traveled under such heavy guard like a criminal, but she could not alter anything.   

“Be careful,” the same man advised. “The ground is slippery.”

His command of the French language was fantastic, so she deemed him French and spoke in what seemed to be his native tongue. “Thank you, Monsieur. Do you know who I am?”   

“You are wife of the once mighty and bellicose emperor, who was defeated by his Valois rival and those whom you call heretics.” His manners were gauche.

She eyed him quizzically. “Who are you?”

His lips lengthened into a smirk. “Just a boring old gentleman.” He gestured towards the entrance. “That way, Madame. Their Majesties have been waiting for you.”

Bafflement painted her features. “King François and Queen Anne?”

“Yes. They came at the castle last week. We expected your arrival today.”

Isabella’s brain processed the information. At Fontainebleau, she had been kept isolated; her Spanish servants and maids had been replaced with French ones. For many weeks, no one had interrupted her solitude, and then Isabella had been told that François would not visit her due to his self-seclusion in his rooms after Prince Charles’ funeral as he had mourned for his son. At last, Marguerite de Navarre had brought the news that Isabella would travel to Ferdinand soon.

The empress verbalized her conclusion. “The King of France’s mourning ended, and he journeyed here together with his consort. I wonder why I traveled separately from them.”

“I do not presume to know Their Majesties’ innermost thoughts.”

“I wish to see my cousin, Ferdinand.”

The man measured her with a glare of disapproval. “Your Imperial Majesty’s impatience is understandable. However, would it not be more proper to greet your French host at first?”

With an air of imperial indignation about her, Isabella half-enjoined, half-snapped, “In France, I am a prisoner in a golden cage, and I can see no Spanish soul. The disrespect I’ll show to your monarch now is insignificant compared to the one he has given me so far.”

He growled hatefully, “It would have been better if all the Spaniards had drowned at the bottom of the sea. Then there would have been no military conflicts in Europe.”

Her cheeks flushed with wrath. “It is none of your business, Monsieur.”

Isabella’s eyes widened as it dawned upon her who this man was. During Anne Boleyn’s tenure as English queen, the woman had been heard saying the same about the Spanish after the Imperial conquest of Tunisia, and Eustace Chapuys had reported this to the emperor.

“Sir Thomas Boleyn,” the empress identified him.

He bowed mockingly to her. “At your disposal, Your Imperial Majesty.”

Boleyn’s rudeness blew away the courtesy Isabella always displayed even to foes. “The water must be cold,” she quipped as she looked back at the boat. “Maybe not the Spaniards, but you, Lord Wiltshire, will drown or freeze to death in the river. Once you were King Henry’s lapdog, but then you transformed into King François’ mongrel after you had been severely beaten in England. Will you jump into the water if your new master orders that?”

Her head high, Empress Isabella strode off. Her guards followed her into the castle.

“Damn her Portuguese soul,” an insulted Boleyn spat. Seething with fury, yet outwardly calm, he barked commands to soldiers from the local garrison and entered the château.

§§§

“Where are King Ferdinand’s rooms?” Isabella asked the castle’s commandant.

“That way, Your Imperial Majesty,” the old man answered.

She hastened down the hallway. At its end, she halted near the massive oak door, guarded by five sentinels, who dropped into bows in front of her and opened it to let her inside.

Upon entering, the empress could see the large bedroom, as well as the gallery with book-stacks. The living quarters were richly furnished and spacious, although the multicolored interior and the gilded ornaments did not suit Ferdinand’s austere tastes. Her cousin lounged in a gilded armchair, basking in the heat from a fire in the hearth. Ferdinand was reading something, and his face, half-turned to the door, wore an introspective expression. He looked healthy, and he had even gained some weight due to the lack of exercise and rich food served for him.   

“Ferdinand!” Isabella called, closing the door.   

The notable prisoner glanced at her. “Cousin!” He enjoyed speaking Spanish at last.

As Ferdinand stood up, Isabella ran to him, and they embraced each other affectionately. As they parted after a round of hugs, they laughed blithesomely, exultant and relieved.   

She commenced, “I must admit I’m a trifle embarrassed by the unconventional aspects of our audience. But I’m just so delighted to see you that I could not contain my joy.”

He responded in kind, “No!  I ought to be ashamed of meeting the Holy Roman Empress not in a Spanish or Flemish palace, but in a French castle owned by our adversary.”

Something shadowed her visage. “I’m not sure who is an enemy or a friend.”

“Tell me everything!  The last thing I expected was to see you here, cousin. Why did King François let you visit me?  Did my brother, Carlos, send you to France?”

As they seated themselves beside each other, Isabella narrated the entire story. Ferdinand leaned back in his seat, his countenance changing from anxiety to outright anger.

“What?” bellowed Ferdinand. “You are François’ prisoner?!”

“Not exactly,” corrected Isabella. “At Fontainebleau, the king informed me about Prince Charles’ death and the attempt on his consort’s life. François was so heartbroken that he left all the state affairs to his sister and ministers, and cloistered himself in his quarters for months.”

He deduced, “That’s why he kept you isolated.” His face evolved into shock. “Wait!  Do you mean Prince Charles, Duke d’Orléans?  But he is… was a teenager!  What happened?”

The empress told him about the Queen of France’s rescue by the prince. She ended with, “There is a Spanish trace in the plot against Anne Boleyn. Moreover, Duke Claude de Guise and Cardinal Jean de Lorraine are rumored to have fled to my husband. The rest of the traitors seem to have been executed, but François’ councilors are alert to any sign of treachery.”

Horror blanched his face to the color of snow. “Is Carlos implicated?”

“I refuse to believe that my husband is capable of such a villainy. Carlos hates Anne, but her marriage to the French king made her a real queen. It is blasphemous to kill royalty!”

“And she was pregnant!  Was the child lost or injured?”

“No; she birthed a healthy daughter.” In a few heartbeats, Isabella confided, “After three months of the confinement to my gilded cage at Fontainebleau, Marguerite of Navarre appeared and was very harsh with me, blaming our Carlos for their Charles’ murder.”

“Prince Charles did not deserve such a fate.” His sentiments were sincere.

Isabella crossed herself. “Poor François!  Imagine: his second son died in roughly three years after his eldest son’s death. I know the horror and pain of burying a child. I understand his despair as a father and king, who lost two male heirs in a country where women cannot rule.”

“Too many deaths.” Ferdinand stared at his cousin, as if he had imparted a secret to her, which she had already known. “I should not have consented to attack France with Carlos. I ought to have stayed in Vienna with my wife, my Anna. If I had at least stayed out of this, many would have remained alive – thousands of French and Imperial warriors and perhaps even Prince Charles and Anna. Maybe my spouse’s death was my punishment for the invasion.”

Ferdinand and Isabella gave tribute to his consort – Anna of Bohemia and Hungary.

The empress fiddled with her gown’s high lace collar. “The Spanish economy is in tatters. Since Carlos’ return, we have endeavored to stabilize the situation, but the shortage of funds in the state treasury and the attacks of the Ottomans on our ports have prevented us from succeeding.”

An upset Ferdinand quizzed, “What about Hungary?”

“Your Anna assumed your kingly role after your capture. Buda was attacked and nearly taken by the Turks. Not frightened, Anna gathered your generals on Privy Council and encouraged them to fight against the Muslims until the last drop of blood was shed. Buda was besieged for months, but they eventually repelled the Turks when the adversary started having troubles with food supplies. Anna signed the Treaty of Nagyvárad with John Zápolya, your rival claimant to the Hungarian throne, and now you are the ruler of western Hungary; according to this peace treaty, you were also recognized as heir to the throne, since Zápolya remains childless.”

His rueful grin was colored with pride. “My Anna was a great and intrepid woman.”

Isabella smiled as well. “Yes. She accomplished the unbelievable!”   

“Carlos did not spare soldiers to assist my wife in countering the Turkish aggression.” It was not a question, but an inference he had made from his analysis of the situation.  

“He could not do that. Please, try to understand him, cousin.”

“My brother!” Ferdinand wavered between hot wrath and logical reasoning. The former won, and he exploded, “Damn Carlos!  To subjugate the House of Valois, he convinced me to join him and take most of my armies to France, leaving Hungary and Bohemia without defense. But when my spouse did our Christian duty to fight against the heathens, he did not extend his helping hand to her, and I do not care that he had no money to pay to his troops.”

“I cannot disagree.” Her sigh twisted into a quiet, breathy one of pain.

“Carlos has betrayed me!” He crept further into the depths of the armchair, now looking like a wren in a nest. “Multiple times!  He left me to rot in this golden cage for two years.”

“That is why I came to France,” she finished.

With one motion of a hand, an incensed Ferdinand cleared the table, which stood between their armchairs, from books and goblets. Jerking to his feet, he started pacing angrily.

“Well, my brother is a nasty piece of work. What will happen to me?”

She approached him. “François and Anne have been at the castle for a week.”

His surprised glance, directed at her, was full of hope. “Will he let me go?”    

Isabella shrugged. “Some political deal is necessary to secure your release.”

“A scheme against Carlos.” He broke into a laughing fit. “Or a marriage deal. It would suit me. In captivity, I’ve gotten the distinct features of a monk, don’t you think so?”

“Maybe.” She thought of her son Felipe’s possible union with Princess Louise.

“My release is a double-edged sword. With or without a matrimonial arrangement, the King of France will demand that I cede territories and pay contributions.”

Their thoughts coincided. “Just as Carlos compelled François to renounce his claims to Italy and surrender Burgundy according to the Treaty of Madrid of 1526.”

In an hour, Empress Isabella left. Stillness met her outside, fractured by the sound of the door lock turning. Her stormy, tired mind was beyond her capacity to absorb the latest events.   

§§§

“Leave us.” Queen Anne’s voice boomed through the vaulted chamber.  

After curtsying, Françoise de Foix and Jeanne d’Angoulême walked out. They had both accompanied her to the Loire Valley; Anne’s mother and sister remained at Fontainebleau.

As the French queen swung around, her scrutiny focused upon the man whom she refused to call her father. Two identical dark pools scrutinized each other with arctic curiosity.

Her gaze raked over his form. Garbed in a plain black velvet doublet and matching hose, Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, no longer looked as a dashing and influential courtier. He had aged, and deeper wrinkles on his face appeared. That would earn him Anne’s respect, for age was synonymous with wisdom. Yet, she reveled in his misery, even if it was a sin to feel so.

Anne eased herself into a wooden armchair with decorative armrests, its seat upholstered in red leather. She did not offer him to seat so as to highlight the difference between their ranks.

“Now you are a mere soldier,” she addressed him in sardonic accents. “Downfall, failure, and death cannot be far from a man who is so power-hungry and too unscrupulous that he eagerly repudiates the code of honor and easily sacrifices his family for his personal gains.”

A smirk curled the edges of Boleyn’s mouth. “Anne, you of all people know well that with the right mindset, you can turn a painful downfall into a setup for a great success story. You became the Queen of France after your head had been almost lopped off in England.”

Her eyes narrowed. “For you, I’m Your Majesty Queen Anne!”

“That will not change the fact that I am your father.”

I hate you so, Wiltshire!  Anne hissed silently. You are not my father!  Remembrances of her imprisonment in the Tower of London tumbled through her head. White-hot fury overwhelmed her senses, making the images more distinct and agonizing. In her eyes, Thomas Boleyn was a corpse of her parent, and the worst villain who had betrayed her, Mary, and George.  

“You stopped being my father when you deserted me and George to save your worthless neck. Mary, our mother, and I will never forgive a horrible sinner such as yourself.”

He raised a brow, undeterred and a bit amused. “There is no sanctity, Your Majesty.” He stressed her title, but in a half-jocund, half-mocking way. “For years, you were implicated in our intrigues as we schemed to place you on the Tudor throne, but you still believed that true love defeats everything. Where did your feelings for King Henry lead you?  Almost to the scaffold and then into exile!” He raised his voice. “I aided you to lose the innocence of spirit. At present, you know that you should not repeat the mistakes you committed in England in your second marriage.”   

His cynicism intensified Anne’s loathing for him. “You lost everything: your wife, your two daughters, your son, your power and privileges, save your title.” She leered at him. “Fate has led you through all of Dante’s circles of hell. Now you are at my feet and my mercy!”

“You are an ordinary queen consort. Your fate is in your husband’s hands.”   

“I am François’ wife, and nothing will change that.”

“A queen who has failed in her main duty – to give her husband a male heir.”

He had used the most destructive weapon against her – her lack of son. Her snigger was an acrimonious sound riven with spite. “My word would be enough to have you beheaded right now, but that would be too simple. You will drink many cups of humiliation from my hands.”

He was undaunted. “Your reputation will be more tainted if you order your own father’s death. People will compare you to the tyrannical King Henry, saying that you two are peas from the same pod; they will deem that you are unfit to be wife of the chivalrous King François.”

The queen was barely holding onto her temper. “And you believe that?  Then you know nothing about the French people’s opinion of me. I saved them from the Habsburg invaders!”  

“Your husband ejected the Spaniards, not you,” amended the Earl of Wiltshire. “You were his tool in establishing the Protestant alliance, but this coalition might not last forever. You are only a Protestant queen on the Valois Catholic throne. I’ve heard about the recent attempt on your life: you are beleaguered by foes, and you do not know how long you will survive.”

“François dealt with the traitors, and he shall defend me.”

“You will always have more enemies than friends in France. Only three things may protect you: your official conversion, the king’s love, and his son, better two and more boys.”

This time, Anne could not deny that he was right. “François loves me, and I’ll give him a brood of sons. But you will not benefit from that, and none of my children will love you.”

“Two daughters!  They are useless when your husband has only one surviving male heir, whose wife seems to be infertile. François might annul his union with a Protestant queen.”

Anne glared at him. “Don’t you dare insult my girls!”

Yet, he barked, “A queen is valueless without sons, just as Catherine of Aragon was.”  

“Be careful, your lordship. I’m your queen – not your daughter!”

He stepped forward and slightly leaned over her, as if to grab her, but he did not. “Once I lost everything because of your errors: your throwing yourself at Henry and your inability to birth his son. If you fall from the king’s good graces in France, I shall not tumble down with you.”   

As the earl stepped away, Queen Anne climbed to her feet, her countenance disdainful. “So, you have plans to grab power in France. I’ll ensure that you will preen yourself in the most distant corners of this country, or I’ll have you exiled back to England.”

His expression turned beastly. “You are the greatest embarrassment to the Boleyns!”

Her hatred was so extreme that she pledged, “I was the reason for your ascendancy at the Tudor court. If necessary, I shall be the reason for your fall at the Valois court.”

“Enough!” they heard the monarch’s voice. “Wiltshire, stay away from my wife!”

Therewith, Boleyn created a distance between him and the queen. Turning to the door, they saw King François at the doorway, his face blank, but his eyes rampant.   

Bowing, the earl switched to French. “I apologize if I displeased Your Majesty.”

Anne sank into a curtsey, but François immediately raised her. He took her hand and entwined their fingers, which was an explicit demonstration of his affection for his spouse.

“Monsieur Wiltshire,” the ruler addressed the man with animosity. “I stood there for a while and heard enough. Anne is your queen!  She will rise further in France – so far above you that you will not be able to see even her feet, where you must growl, begging for clemency.”

A scared Wiltshire bowed again. “Your Majesty, forgive me.”

“Plead with your daughter,” François insisted. “On your knees.”

Shocked, Boleyn knelt and muttered, “My queen, I beg your pardon.”

“Granted.” Anne was surprised and pleased that her spouse had treated Wiltshire so.

Their fingers now entangled in a tighter knot, the monarch pronounced, “I’ve already decided your fate, Wiltshire. You will serve as my ambassador to the Republic of Venice. I need an alliance with Venice. I hope my clemency will instill compassion into your icy heart.”

François and Anne then exited, leaving Boleyn to wallow in his humiliation.

The Earl of Wiltshire blamed his daughter for his new misfortunes. If she had listened to my advice on how to keep her position in France instead of quarrelling, François would not have been so angry with me. Nonetheless, his conscience was troubled: although he had told Anne that she had trigged their plight in their home country, Boleyn comprehended that his fault far exceeded Anne’s. Yet, he remained unshakably firm in his denial, for it was easier for him to live this way.

§§§

Upon entering their bedchamber, Anne steered François towards a large bed, its canopy of white silk ornamented with gold thread, its hangings of richly embroidered green brocade.  

“I want you.” Two pools of dark enigma exuded primeval desire for him.   

“Say it again.” His fierce yearning for her pulsated through his whole being.   

“I want you so much, François.” Pressing herself to him, Anne felt the heat and hardness of his erection against the softness of her stomach. “Take me as your wife.”

Caught in a whirlwind of primordial hunger, the spouses literally pounced on each other. Biting and kissing possessively, feeling rejuvenated, as though they had just been cured from lethal infirmities and were now celebrating their survival. Never breaking the sweet connection of lips, they crawled into the bed. As Anne straddled her spouse and pushed him back against the pillows, their intimate tussle unfolded, as if tapestries of hunters on the walls had ensorcelled them.

God, let me conceive a son, Anne prayed as François was kissing her throat and shoulder, his hands curved around her dressed form, her blood thrumming with excitement. The House of Valois needs a prince. I beseech you, our Lord, give us a prince who will save France. They had renewed their intimacies three weeks ago before their journey from Fontainebleau to the Loire Valley. Every night, Anne accepted her husband into her arms with a feverish passion.

“Too many clothes.” Anne practically tore the laces from the upper part of his doublet.

The king held her face in his hands. “You are aggressive today, aren’t you?”

His queen frowned at him. “It shall not be like your tumbles with your paramours.”  

He stroked the contours of her still clothed body with his long fingers, itching to be bolder, and then began undressing her. “Of course not. I’ve never loved anyone but you, wife.”

A peculiar laugh pealed from her. “Can you prove that?”

As he adroitly unlaced her corset, his spouse remained only in her chemise, and he torn it apart impatiently. “My fidelity to you will be the evidence of my feelings.”

She grabbed his collar and pulled him to her. “So savage, Your gallant Majesty!”

He shrugged off his doublet and tossed it aside. In a minute, their garments were heaped upon the floor, and they were both naked, as if they had just been born from mythological amorous foam, their skin glowing white in morning sunlight, leaking in through the windows.

“So nude, Your lovely Majesty,” whispered the monarch against her lips.

Her arms snaked around his shoulders. “It is improper for the king and his queen to make love in the daytime.” Initiating the kiss again, she dived into lustful excitement.

He lavished her throat and bosom with heady kisses. “Royals don’t have to practice self-control when they long to beautify each other’s bodies and souls with love.”     

“No acting responsibly today?” She dug her nails into his back, and he groaned. It left a pattern of half-moon marks that filled in with crimson. “I’m marking you as mine.”

“I am already yours, Anne.” He licked her already moist lips.

With a growl, François flipped his queen onto her back and snuggled himself tight into the valley between her thighs. His searing kisses drove her into a frenzied arousal, and she forced him to turn onto his side and then onto his back. As she impaled herself on him, he thrust his hips up frantically, maintaining her insane rhythm, their mouths and tongues probing and fighting for supremacy. Cries mingled as they soared and basked in the heat of their amatory sun.

“Give me your son,” she implored breathlessly. “A small copy of his great father.”

They were not joined now after a series of twists and turns during the intercourse.

He kissed her earlobe and blew into her ear. “I love you, Anne.”

Her head dropped to his hips. “I’ll know all of you, François. Every inch of you.”

His fingers entangled into her long, raven locks. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I want this.” Anne had never done this very intimate thing to Henry, but with her French husband, she wanted to try everything. Her amorous experiences with François had long become far bolder and more eccentric than ones she had enjoyed with Henry, but she craved for more.

“I love you so,” moaned the monarch. “Have I roused such a frantic passion in you?”

She moaned, “You have, my Knight-King.”

“It is more than courtly love, my Minerva.” His fingers shoved through her hair.

His guttural groan brought a saucy grin to her face. “It is something far more interesting.”

Entwined in a pagan amorous rite, the monarch and his wife experimented, battled, and won. The hazy dark eyes held the salacious amber gaze as they danced with fanatical zest, torrents of passion washing over them. Fingers interlaced, leg to leg, arm to arm, chest to chest, they were climbing to the acme of indescribable gratification. Blessed by the Olympians, they submerged themselves into a stormy ocean of divine light, and then, gradually, their movements slowed.

Minutes later, François lay on the bed next to his consort – they were side-by-side and eye to eye.  He stroked her hair and then traced patterns across her torso. Anne watched him with a look of unbelievable tenderness, and his heart ached to awaken in her genuine love for him.  

However, the queen tensed as her father’s words replayed in her mind. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyelids lowered, yet fear seized her insides. “We need our precious baby boy.”

The king nibbled at her neck, then fondled her breasts. “We do, mon amour.” Their gazes locked, and he discerned desperation in hers. “We need a prince, or better two boys, to make our dynasty strong. Now we are vulnerable: only Henri and I separate the House of Bourbon, their junior Bourbon-Vendôme line, from the throne. But if it is their destiny to be sovereigns of France, we will not be able to prevent it, Anne. Eventually, God will decide everything.”

Anne cupped his face with a firm hand. “No!  Fear not – and I know you are full of terror. The Valois will rule!  I feel that will every fibre of my being. We will have a son!”

His eyes conveyed all his pent-up worry. “Yes, I am afraid. I do not want to become the Valois Knight-King whose sons all died and who failed to sire male progeny. Just as Philippe the Fourth of France, known as the Fair, was a great monarch, but none of his three surviving sons ruled for long, and they left no surviving male issue, which led to the extinction of the direct Capetian line. Then the devastating and long-lasting Hundred Years’ War followed…”  His expression was pained as he stroked her hair. “The crisis of succession often leads to bloodshed. Our country and people should not suffer from another horrible war. And we cannot predict the future.”

A frenzied glint entered her gaze. “We will have sons. I promise you.”

“Don’t give promises you might not be able to keep. It is God’s will, Anne.”

The queen put her leg on his hip. “We must do our best not to blame ourselves later.”

The monarch’s eyes were now as desperate with both the desire to take Anne and the need to have a son as hers were. “How much I want you… the rest of the world be damned.”

Locking her in his arms, François slid into Anne from the back. Kissing the side of her neck, he was thrusting into her. His every stroke was part of a sorcerous rite: long, slow, and hard, then more languid than before and more dulcet than the sound of a Greek flute, again long, and then almost violent. He unleashed in Anne a deluge of dormant feminine energy that she had never known about, remnants of her modesty peeling away to reveal raw, untapped emotions.

Surrendering to his caresses, Anne was in a state of sensual euphoria. Her feelings were fluttering like the wings of multicolored butterflies, flapping patches of color – purple, blue, and pink – in her mental realm. Anne was rewarded when these butterflies landed onto each and every part of her body, opening and closing wings as they transmitted colossal pleasure to her.

“A marvelous morning.” His body convulsed in a cataclysm of overpowering sensation.   

“So many colors,” Anne whispered in the throes of ecstasy, feeling his seed inside her.

As they rested in their cozy nest under the sheets, visions of their glorious future, which had first been like an airy shadow, grew more distinct until at last, it stood before their eyes like the sun. The queen looked down into her heart so deeply that there was no thought invisible to her – there was no Henry Tudor in her universe. I do not love Henry anymore, Anne concluded.

The ruler suddenly asked, “Are you happy that your enemies are imprisoned?”

His consort recalled the Duke of Norfolk’s letter. “Yes, I’m reveling in Cromwell’s and Suffolk’s plights. Maybe soon Henry will realize that I never had any extramarital liaisons.”

“Do you still think of Henry?” His voice was laced with hurt.

“No. He is dead to me.” François smiled at her, and Anne kissed her husband deeply.   

“François, are you sure of your daughter’s matrimony with Ferdinand?”

Her husband stretched across the sheets. “Yes, I am. My sister and I concur that it would be a good match. Ferdinand is not only Archduke of Austria, but also King of Bohemia, Hungary, Croatia, and other lands. He is one of the best available bachelors in Christendom. This union would tie Ferdinand to our family and help us drive a wedge between the Habsburg brothers.”

Anne placed her head upon the king’s chest. “Ferdinand is twenty years older.”

The monarch stroked her hair. “He is still young, handsome, and cultured. In many ways Ferdinand is different from Carlos.” He sighed. “There is a sixteen-year gap between Henry and you. I am older than you, too. It is politics – marriages are part of power games.”

Her hand slid down his leg. “Your forced union with Eleanor of Austria was unhappy.”

The ruler’s hand was making circles across her back. “Eleanor was a kind woman, but she was too simple – I was not interested in her. My daughter, Margot, is not a flawless beauty, but her stellar education, intelligence, and French sophistication will charm Ferdinand.”

“If Ferdinand falls in love with our princess, he will be less loyal to Carlos.”

François massaged his wife’s neck. “And naturally inclined to become our willing ally.”

Anne chuckled. “You are playing such strategic contests.”

“Yes, I am. And I have a good feeling about the outcome of our stratagem.”   

The royals chatted about the delights of their reunion after the tragedy. Finally, they fell into the arms of Morpheus and dreamed of spring’s advent into their lives. When they awoke at sundown, their faces glowed like ethereal spirits with a liquid contentment in their eyes.  

§§§

Threads of twilight mantled the castle. The presence chamber was lit by chandeliers. By the fireplace, four people sat in matching well-carved armchairs upholstered in red suede.

Ferdinand von Habsburg tossed his brown-haired head in disbelief. “Of all the strange and extraordinary proposals I’ve ever heard, this one is the most unbelievable.”

“Why do you think so?” inquired Isabella of Portugal. “It is conciliatory.”

François de Valois chucked. “My conditions are not as severe as you both anticipated.”

“I’m not opposed to this marriage,” Ferdinand avouched. “My late wife, Anna, bore me many children, but I don’t refuse to start a new family with a young princess.” His laugh expressed his incredulity. “However, even if I order my armies stationed in the north of Italy to withdraw to Austria, they might not obey me. My brother, Carlos, is their ultimate commander.”

François countered, “We can do everything if we spread certain rumors.”

“Your Majesty,” Anne addressed Ferdinand. “If you do not accept our offer, you will rot in this island-based château until the waters of the river erode the stones of the building, but it will not occur in your lifetime. Isn’t being our ally better than that?”

Ferdinand jested bitterly, “How poetically Your Majesty has depicted my possible fate.”

Her scrutiny glued to the prisoner, Isabella put in, “Cousin, I want you to be free, even if you have to go against your conscience. Besides, this plan will cease conflicts in Italy for some time.”

Anne rejoined, “Neither France nor Spain is interested in further confrontations – for now. Spain is too weak for any war; France needs more time to recover from the invasion.”

Empress Isabella perused Queen Anne of France. She could not call this woman beautiful in a traditional way, but Anne’s exotic allure and her charismatic charm fully compensated for the lack of classical features. Anne had the peculiar eye for politics; everything associated with her would never grow stale. Anne’s story will always be colored with singularity, Isabella mused.   

The intersection of the two women’s gazes heralded the conflux of their life rivers for the time being. Their mutual interest shone in their countenances, affecting their manner of speaking.

François remained intransigent in his position. “So, a golden cage or an alliance with me?”

Ferdinand shook his head. “I cannot betray Carlos. I’ve always been loyal to him.”

“Very well.” François stood up, signaling his queen to do the same. “Then, Your Bohemian, Hungarian, and Croatian Majesty will rot here for decades. That I promise you.”

The French royals were about to leave when Isabella’s voice halted them.

“Ferdinand gives his consent!” exclaimed Isabella. “He will grant you the Duchy of Milan.”

Ferdinand frowned at his cousin. “Bella, what are you doing?”

The empress said quickly, “Saving you, cousin. You are still young and must live your life to the fullest. François is not asking you to sign the document as awful as the Treaty of Madrid. There will be no ransom!  Just Milan, the marriage, and the alliance between you two!”

“Carlos will not forgive me,” Ferdinand persevered.

“My husband,” continued Isabella, “will not be ready to give away any of his lands for your freedom. Despite all my love for Carlos, I know how power-hungry he is. He can easily sacrifice his relatives’ wellbeing to keep power.” Her veiled hint was at Queen Juana’s misfortunes.

Ferdinand’s brows knitted. “Is there something else I don’t know?” He had no idea that his mother, who had been calumniated by Ferdinand of Aragon and then Carlos, was not mad.

The empress would not tell her cousin the truth about Juana to avoid setting up the Habsburg brothers against each other. “Nothing. Carlos is unlikely to negotiate your release successfully.”   

François and Anne looked at them with interest, but they did not interfere.    

“So, a gilded cage or your liberation?” François repeated.

The Valois king stared at the King of Hungary for a long time. He waited for his answer, his hand laced with his spouse’s as they stood nearby. Finally, Ferdinand nodded slowly.     

Ferdinand’s desire to regain his freedom and to spite Carlos for dragging him into this mess, and then abandoning him crystallized into several words: a bargain with King François. Ferdinand would assist François in restoring the Duchy of Milan to France, although it was treason of the emperor’s interests. Yet, sentiments like generations grow out of date. At least, François does not demand that I cede more territories to him. I shall be free, then, Ferdinand told himself.

The King of Hungary sighed meditatively. “Your Majesty’s confidence of success is well grounded. The strong filial bonds that tied me and Carlos for years were shaken by his betrayals.”

“You should not have attacked France,” Anne fired, but the archduke only nodded.

Isabella swore, “Carlos will not learn about this conversation.”

“Thank you, my dearest cousin.” Ferdinand sent the empress a grateful smile.

“My councilors shall prepare the treaty.” François’ flat voice masked his delight.

Ferdinand’s concerns resurfaced. “What if we fail to achieve in Italy what you want?”

Confidence emanated from the Valois ruler. “I grant it as an exceedingly remote possibility. My scheme is too complex for your brother’s spies to figure it out. But if somethings goes badly, you might lose the right to govern the Austrian lands of the Habsburgs in the name of the emperor, although Carlos has no one else more competent to appoint on this position.”

Anne put in, “You shall still have Bohemia, Hungary, Croatia, and your other lands.”

Ferdinand’s listless laugh hit their ears like a weak rivulet of water. “If your scheme fails, I shall take my own life, and your daughter will become a widow.”

Isabella swallowed her fear. “Ferdinand, I shall try to pacify Carlos’ wrath.”

“Your Bohemian Majesty,” François drawled. “There are rather many roads into the land of oblivion, but you are young to be there. Exits from calamitous situations can be arranged.”

Isabella touched her cousin’s shoulder. “The difference between suicide and martyrdom is the amount of tears shed afterwards. You are neither a weakling nor a martyr, Ferdinand.”

“Well, I’ve planned to live a long life,” Ferdinand uttered, with a slight curl of the lip.

François chuckled. “You will have it.”   

The empress pointed out, “You need to talk to Princess Marguerite, then.”

Anne’s gaze oscillated between François and Isabella. “Husband, your sister or I will do it.”

“Good.” The King of France hoped his daughter would not rebel against his decision.

The other man assured. “I’m not a man whom nature robbed of gallant manners and respect to female intelligence just because I’m a Spaniard by birth.”

“That I know,” the ruler of France answered. “I’m aware of your late wife’s political acumen and her courage, which she displayed during the battles for Buda against the Ottomans. I heard how well you treated Anna of Bohemia, and I’ve rejoiced in my findings. Unlike her late mother, my daughter Margot is not a gentle flower: she is a lady of abounding compassion, indomitable will, and eagerness for adventure, despite her youth and impeccable social standing.”

His bride’s description satisfied Ferdinand. “We will find common ground, then.”

François’ expression became thoughtful. “Ferdinand, you and are very distant cousins. We are descending from King Jean the Second of France, the second Valois monarch. You remember that his youngest son, Philippe the Bold, married Marguerite the Third, Countess of Flanders, who are direct ancestors of Marie the Rich, the only daughter of Charles the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, and your grandmother. You and I are seventh cousins, which makes you and my daughter, Margot, seventh cousins once removed – so, we do not need any papal dispensation for your marriage.”

“Cousins’ wars happen so often,” Anne said rhetorically.

“They are very distantly related,” underscored Isabella.

Ferdinand glanced at François. “Yes, your daughter and I can freely marry.”

At this moment, the King of France was thinking of Flanders that had been ruled by the cadet branches of Houses of Capet and Valois since the early 10 century. Marie the Rich had no right to wed Maximilian von Habsburg and transfer Flanders into the Habsburg possession. According to the Salic law, the Low Countries should have reverted back to the French crown in the absence of a male heir. Yet, François would not try to take Flanders back because his troops were already occupying Piedmont, Savoy, and now he was focused on his strategic goal – the Duchy of Milan.

Ferdinand’s mind drifted to politics. “France’s alliance with Sultan Suleiman is unholy!”

Removing his hand from Anne’s, the ruler of France stood up. “I need the Franco-Turkish alliance to prevent Carlos from new attempts to subjugate France.”

Ferdinand frowned. “Ah, of course.”

Isabella jerked to her feet. “Your Majesties, I sent to Queen Anne a letter a while ago; Carlos does not know about it. I’m sure that you both read it. What about my proposal?”

“What letter?” Ferdinand rose as well.

The king shook his head. “It is out of consideration, at least for now.”

This verdict upset Isabella. “I wish to return to Spain as soon as possible.”

François tried to persuade her otherwise. “Your Imperial Majesty, the journey through the Pyrenees in winter would be too perilous. Better spend time at my court with your cousin.”   

“I can delay my departure only until February,” conceded Isabella.

The French couple left in an exhilarated mood. The thing François had dreamed about for years was at last to be accomplished: the Duchy of Milan would become his possession again.

The Habsburg cousins remained alone. Having pondered their conversation, Ferdinand’s anger with Carlos transmuted into determination to act exactly as François had suggested.

Ferdinand breathed wearily, “I have no choice.”

“I’ll appease my husband’s rage,” avouched Isabella. “Somehow.”

The cards of fate had fallen in an unusual pattern. Soon, unannounced and not desired at the Valois court, Ferdinand would arrive there to make acquaintance with Princess Marguerite.


January 10, 1539, Alcázar of Seville, Seville, the Province of Seville, Spain

Despite a late hour, a group of people assembled by the fireplace in the grand private rooms to greet French fugitives. Duke Claude de Guise and Cardinal Jean de Lorraine conversed with Alonso de Lara y Solís, Archbishop of Seville and Inquisitor of the Spanish Church.

We will take revenge, Claude de Lorraine swore in his mind. During the invasion of France of 1536, the Duke de Guise had fought against the Spaniards. Yet, François’ marriage to Anne had enraged Guise so much that he had helped the Duke of Alba, the emperor’s right-hand man, evacuate a wounded Carlos from the battlefield and deliver him home. Guise had expected that they might need Carlos’ help to save France from heresy, and hence, he had acted so.

Emperor Carlos lounged in a leather-draped chair behind an oak oval-shaped desk. He addressed his guests. “Your Grace and Your Eminence, I’ll grant you asylum in my country. You are true Catholics, so I cannot be indifferent to your misfortunes in your homeland.”

The Archbishop of Seville pontificated, “The Lord has blessed Your Imperial Majesty to be His ambassador on earth. You are saving these men who could have been slaughtered in France. Wherever your feet step, a benediction is around, and the sun of the true faith is rising.”

The Cardinal de Lorraine joined, “Your Imperial Majesty is a true son of Christ.”

“The most Christian monarch,” lauded the Duke de Guise.

“I’m helping you only because it is my Christian duty.” Too late the emperor realized that he had fallen into Seville’s snare when the man had hinted that he would rid the world of the worst heretic – Anne Boleyn. “I’m not pleased that you attempted to kill a pregnant woman, even though she is a godless whore. I regret that the innocent Prince Charles became your victim.”

Seville’s grizzled eyebrows furrowed. “That Boleyn trollop is our faith’s enemy: she led astray and forced King Henry to break with the Catholic Church, and now she has her claws into King François, poisoning his mind against Catholics and preaching about religious tolerance. We had to dispose of her before she could harm the supporters of the Vatican in France.”

Carlos smothered the idea of kicking the opinionated man out of the room. “Your Eminence dared commit something for what you needed my permission. You have forgotten that you are only the Chief Inquisitor in my kingdom, one who also holds other ecclesial positions. I did not ask you to kill Anne Boleyn, and, even worse, I had no idea about your plot.”

A flash of ire shadowed Seville’s countenance. “We had His Holiness’ blessing.”

“What?” gasped the emperor.

Guise tipped his head. “The Pope instructed us to squash heresy in France.”

Carlos was shocked. “Anne’s child is innocent of its mother’s sins.”

“It is not as simple as that,” Guise continued, stretching his legs closer to the fire. “The false queen was pregnant, and if she had birthed a son, she could have done away with Dauphin Henri later on quietly so as not to be discovered. Then we would have had a heretic on the French throne. Thanks be to God that she is continuously failing to produce male progeny.”

Waves of venomous laugher passed through Seville. “God cursed her to have only girls.”

The French guests joined in the Inquisitor’s laughter, glad that Anne had only daughters.

Lorraine clamored, “France will be in danger as long as the witch is the king’s courtesan. If she succeeds in giving François a prince, the French will face eternal damnation.”

Guise concurred. “It is good that Prince Charles was killed. He was a Catholic, but his aunt, Marguerite of Navarre, infected his young mind with interest in heresy. Now Dauphin Henri no longer has rivals for the throne, provided that François will not have another son.”

“She must die,” Seville ground out. “That is the Pope’s and God’s will.”

Guise’s leer was full of anticipated victory. “François’ concubine will die.”

Seville gazed between Guise and Lorraine. “You are both in Spain. Who will finish the Lord’s deal, then?  Do you have other allies at the French court?”

Guise’s diabolic laugh boomed through the chamber. “There are two people who want her dead even more than we do. They will finish her off sometime in the future.”

Lorraine smirked. “François does not suspect how close his wanton is to peril.”

“I must know everything,” commanded the monarch. “In a few days.”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty!” Lorraine and Guise both bowed.  But they would not disclose that Catherine de’ Medici and Diane de Poitiers were the Pope’s agents and allies.

Even in the dim candlelight, the emperor’s face was flushed from the rage that he could barely contain. “You both are bloody fortunate to be alive. You will move to one of the mansions owned by Francisco de les Cobos, for I do not wish to be slandered as a villain who has welcomed criminals at my court. You will lie low without contacting anyone in France or anywhere else.”

The vehemence in the emperor’s voice surprised the Lorraine brothers.

“Your wishes are the law for us,” Guise responded for them both.

Carlos’ gaze raked over each of his companions, his teeth compressed firmly. “Seville, don’t you dare plot behind my back again even with His Holiness. Guise and Lorraine, don’t disobey me while you are in my realm: don’t risk your necks because I can easily break them.”

Displeased, the Archbishop of Seville crouched in front of the fireplace, staring into the flames, and tipped more logs into the fire. “Of course, Your Imperial Majesty.” He lied.

A moment later, Francisco de les Cobos entered. He walked across the room and bowed to the monarch. “A letter from your wife has arrived for Your Imperial Majesty.”

Emperor Carlos headed to the other side of the chamber for privacy. Having eased himself into an ebony chair, its seat displaying inlays of ivory and lapis-lazuli, he broke the seal and scanned through it. His eyes stopped moving halfway down the page, widening in surprise.

“Is everything all right, Your Imperial Majesty?” Seville questioned.

Carlos muttered, “Isabella will spend more time in France.”

Seville assumed, “It must be due to the frosty weather.”

The emperor released a sigh. “I would not want her to cross the Pyrenees in winter.”

Cobos asked, “Did Her Imperial Majesty negotiate the release of King Ferdinand?”

“Well, yes, she did.” The emperor’s nervous laugh alarmed the others.  

Casting his gaze back to the paper, the emperor re-read Isabella’s letter again.  

Carlos, mi amour,

I’ve secured the release of our dear Ferdinand. Don’t worry about him.

I had to spend a few months at Fontainebleau while King François was grieving for his son – the late Prince Charles, Duke d’Orléans. A sense of bereavement cloaked the entire royal family and the Valois court. It is by no means uncommon for bereaved persons to seek solitude for prayer and consolation, just as the monarch did, so I’m not offended that I had to wait.

My beloved Carlos, you are the keeper of my heart!  Even when I am far away from you, you are the first thing I think of when I wake up. I’ve been advised to postpone my departure until the advent of spring for the sake of my safety, and I beg your pardon for that. I’m looking forward to our happy life in Spain where I’ll wake up next to you, not needing to imagine you.

Loving you from afar, your wife Isabella

The last line was poignant and especially lovely in Isabella’s elegant handwriting.

I love you. Oh, I love you. My Carlos!  Yours forever and ever!

A smiling Carlos folded the paper, so entranced by her confessions that his heart vibrated with yearning for Isabella. Nevertheless, at the thought of his younger sibling, arrows of terror struck him in the chest: although Isabella had not named the terms of Ferdinand’s liberation, he could read between the lines, realizing that the price would be his betrayal of their family interests. Will Ferdinand go against me and how?  Carlos would never voice his fears to anyone.   

The emperor hid the letter in the pocket of his doublet. Veering his gaze to his chief councilor, he quizzed, “Francisco, do you have something urgent?”

Cobos glanced askance at the guests. “Out!” Carlos enjoined them.

As the duke and the cardinal left, the emperor returned to his armchair.

Cobos shuffled his feet agitatedly before reporting, “I’ve also received a letter from the Genoese bankers. They know about our problems, so they reminded us that next year, we must redeem a large debt. If we don’t refill our coffers, we will miss the payment.”

Seville interposed, “Princess Mary’s marriage to a wealthy Spanish noble might resolve our difficulties. She abandoned England, and now she a member of the Habsburg family, as well as your subject. If Your Imperial Majesty commands her to marry, she must obey.”

The ruler ran his hand through his hair. “It is not the best decision.”

In the meantime, Mary Tudor poked her head into the room. She had come to her cousin, but, shaken by what she had overheard, she noiselessly closed the door and tiptoed away.

§§§

The night firmament, with stars scattered across it, was as clear as it could be in spring. The moonlight was so bright that Emperor Carlos strolled freely through the gardens.

The gardens exhibited features and remains of several eras. His gaze drifted to the 14-th century vaulted baths, where María de Padilla, the favorite mistress of King Peter of Castile, had bathed, which nowadays were the rainwater tanks supplying the palace with water. His eyes slid to a maze of myrtle bushes covered with show, and then to the pavilion of Carlos V, which had been erected by Juan Hernandez. These days, the ruler could find repose only in this park.

Carlos halted at the sight of a woman near the rainwater tanks. As she swung around, he recognized Mary, involuntary admiring her beauty that had an unearthly quality in the moonlight.

He reached her in three strides. “What are you doing here, Your Highness?”   

Mary quipped, “I’m enjoying my stay at one of the most stunning palaces in Spain, which combines elements of the Mudéjar, Gothic, and modern styles.”

“You are not all right,” the emperor deduced.

There was a strangely hopeful look on her face, but it vanished when their eyes met. “Are you really going to marry me off?  I dislike that, but I shall do my duty to Spain.”

“Did you eavesdrop upon me and my councilors?”

At this, her cheeks were stained red. “No, I didn’t!  My mother raised me better than this. I came to you and heard only the Archbishop of Seville’s recommendation.”

“I’m relieved that I can trust you. Shall we stroll a bit?” He extended a hand to her.

She slipped her arm through his. “Gladly.”

They sauntered away from María de Padilla’s former baths. In companionable silence, Mary and Carlos sauntered across the veranda and to the pond, where they stopped. They sat down on a bench in the shade of a big oak, which drooped its branches under the weight of snow.

She giggled. “I’ve been the topic of discussion since my arrival.”   

He arched his brows. “Is that so?  I’ll shut my courtiers’ mouths.”   

“That is not necessary, Your Imperial Majesty.”

He briefly gazed towards an alley of snow-capped maples in the distance. “Mary, I want you to be content. Be at ease: I shall not force you to act so.”

The moonlight silvered their silhouettes, hiding eyes in deep shadow, so Carlos leaned forward ever so slightly, as if to touch her, or to see her face better. Perturbed and confused, Mary trembled under his penetrating stare. Usually, in her presence, because of the fierce vigilance the ruler had developed around most people, his demeanor was reserved and cautious. Nonetheless, at this moment, his eyes glimmered with amusement, scrutinizing and testing her.

Strengthening, the emperor elucidated, “I looked into your eyes in order to see whether you trust my words. I failed to protect Aunt Catherine, but I’ll take care of you.”

“Thank you very much, Your Imperial Majesty.”

He attempted to jest. “How could I force my lovely English cousin into marriage?  I’m a man of many controversies, but not a villain who might disappoint a treasure such as yourself.”

In such an informal environment, Mary was suddenly inclined to candor. “I’ve never seen you so full of mirth and exuberance, save when you are with the empress.”

“My Isabella!” exclaimed Carlos with immense adoration. “She will return in spring!”

“You are a wonderful couple!” Odd envy threaded her words.

“What do you think of your father’s personal situation?”

Mary emitted a sigh. “I’m sad that Lady Jane Seymour was set aside. The Bassett queen is similar to the Boleyn strumpet: they are both whores and Protestants.”

“England has been ruled by harlots since your mother was expelled.”

A shaft of moonlight placed Carlos in Mary’s observation. In his perfectly fitted ermine cloak slashed white satin, he looked splendid despite his ascetic style. His majestic stature and his expressive countenance, beaming with crafty intelligence, displayed his strength of character. For Mary who was not used to interacting with men, it was intoxicating just to contemplate him.

“We ought to return to the palace.” His tone was strict again.

Her shoulders fell with a disheartened sigh. “Of course. Why would we stay outside?”

“Let’s go.” Carlos hoisted his cousin to her feet, his gaze distant like a stranger’s.

The former princess followed the monarch back to the veranda and the park. The snow glistened like diamond dust, and she longed to ensconce herself in its heaps from her stinging shame stemming from the nascent attraction for her cousin, who was the first man with whom she had a close contact. Yet, seeing Carlos was as delicious as tasting excellent apple tarts spiced with cinnamon. Carlos is Isabella’s husband. I must pray for absolution, Mary berated herself.

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope you are all safe. I am finally back to Switzerland after my long absence.

It was clear that King Ferdinand cannot be imprisoned forever. King François is quite generous to his enemy whom he wants to make his ally, and Ferdinand is not forced to sign any humiliating document such as the Treaty of Madrid of 1529, which temporarily confirmed Spanish (Habsburg) hegemony in Italy and made François repudiate all his claims to Italian duchies and Burgundy.

King François wants to restore the Duchy of Milan because he is Valentine Visconti's descendant on paternal side, and Ferdinand will help him achieve this. François has a crafty plan, and some details were mentioned in this chapter – this will be implemented in later chapters. I deliberately made Ferdinand hesitate and finally Isabella consent to François' demands, for Ferdinand's loyalty to Carlos was tremendous in history, and it is very difficult to make it crack. It is a turning point for the relationship of Carlos and Ferdinand, and you may imagine where this all might lead.

I hope you like the interaction between Isabella and Anne, but there will be more in later chapters.

Now a widower, Ferdinand will have to marry Princess Marguerite. François has a crafty plan: he thinks that this matrimonial union will not be without affection on both parts, which would make Ferdinand less loyal to Emperor Carlos. Are François and Marguerite correct that this marriage might have a happy ending? What do you think?

I hope that you noticed that in Anne's love scene with François they are both sort of frantic, partly because they were apart for months due to the king's self-imposed seclusion in his quarters, and more because of their knowledge that they need a son, perhaps even more than one boy. François bares his heart and shares his fears about the possible end of the Valois dynasty with Anne. And of course, they are both passionate by nature and enjoy their marriage bed experiences. Apparently, Anne is beginning to slowly fall for François, but it will take time for her.

Anne is also desperate in the love scene because Thomas Boleyn reminded her of her two "failures" – she has two girls with the King of France. Although you must loathe Thomas for his conversation with Anne, he is right. Only three things would make Anne safe in France – a son/sons, the king's love, and possible conversion into Catholicism. Boleyn is sent away to Italy because François wants to use his diplomatic talents and needs to keep him away from Anne, Mary, and Elizabeth Boleyn. Thomas Boleyn possessed excellent diplomatic skills, and we need him for Italian wars.

The Lorraine brothers arrived in Spain, and Carlos gives them refuge, but he sends them away from his court in order to hide their location and not to blacken his reputation. He had no idea about the Pope's plot together with the Lorraine brothers and with Alonso de Lara y Solís, Archbishop of Seville and Inquisitor of the Spanish Church, against Anne, which resulted in Prince Charles' death. As for Mary and Carlos, she feels unexpected attraction to him because she has no experience of communicating with men – Carlos will always love Isabella, just as he did in history.

VioletRoseLily and I began co-writing the story called "Entwined by a Golden Alliance", but we are posting it only at AO3. Give it a try, and thank you in advance!

I recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91, BellalunaMcKenzie, QueenMaryofEngland, and WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction. Let's make each other smile! Let's review and favorite each other!

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 35: Chapter 34: End of an Era

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 34: End of an Era

January 20, 1539, Winchester Castle, Winchester, Hampshire, England

“More quickly, Your Majesty!” cried Catherine de Willoughby, Duchess of Suffolk.

King Henry howled with laughter. “I’ll catch up with you, my frolicsome lady!”

The morning was crisp and cold, so they wore cloaks of ermine and miniver. In a minute, the ruler’s stallion reached hers, but Catherine urged her mount faster. Their horses, caparisoned in blue silk, galloped across the snowy field, their hooves clip-clopping in cadence. As they neared a hunting lodge in the outskirts of Winchester, they slowed the beasts to a trot.

Winchester Castle was visible in the distance, its black stones exuding the aura of ancient times. Constructed in 1067, the palace had been the seat of government of the Norman kings for over one hundred years. The circular tower, built on the motte in the 13th century, loomed like something out of myth, glittering in the silver of the falling snow. Two months earlier, the Tudor court had moved there for winter, although courtiers would prefer to spend it in London.  

“Why did you come to Winchester?” questioned Catherine.

Henry’s scrutiny was focused upon the castle’s outlines. “I have no memories associated with this place. Let go off the past and move on – these were my intentions.”

“Yesterday is gone anyway. There is nothing you can do to bring it back.”

The monarch recollected, "This fortress is steeped in history. King Henry the Third of England and Margaret of York, daughter of Edward the Forth, were born at Winchester." With a laugh, he added, "I'll celebrate my son's birth at the Arthurian Round Table in the great hall."

Catherine concealed her dislike of his words with a grin. She did not want Anne Bassett to produce the monarch’s male progeny, for she despised the woman. “I was told that the Romans constructed a massive earth rampart in this area fourteen centuries ago.”

“That is true, my knowledgeable nymph. I’ve had too much intelligent talk for today.”

He assisted her in dismounting, and she slipped into the circle of his arms.

“My dear Duchess Catherine,” Henry whispered in a singsong manner. “You are lovelier than any mythological goddess.” He then declaimed his poem written purposefully for her.

Catherine of Suffolk, the light of my eyes!

Had we but more chances and time,

Your coyness would be no crime.

We would meet in secret and talk,

We would sit down to think which way

To pass our long days full of cold,

Unless you hear my echoing song

And see my chariot hurrying to you,

It may carry us both to heaven

At your single word, nod, or gesture,

Your warm smile and glance…

I by my royal right complain now

That your silence desolates me.

The black silk of Catherine’s inevitable fate to be his mistress slithered down her spine. Since the court’s arrival at Winchester, the monarch had frequently invited her to clandestine rides. Hot need poured through his veins every time they kissed, but she had not given in to his passions yet, and he had displayed patience so far. Dear God, is there any way out of this mess?

He pulled her to him, snapping Catherine out of her musings, but she jerked back.

Henry’s ardor was growing. “Catherine, I need the consummation of our romance. You are the first woman… after that Boleyn whore for whom I find myself very eager to write poems. You mean a lot to me, which is why I’ve consented to keep our relationship secret.”

He bent to kiss her again, but she angled her head back before their lips could touch.

The duchess broached an important subject. “What about my husband?”

His eyes were now of molten blue color, for desire had melted his hard aquamarine glare that often frightened his subjects. “Charles will not learn anything.”

Her breath caught. “Will you release him from the Tower of London?”

His mouth toyed with her ear. “Soon, my angel. Be at ease: he is all right.”

She buried her flaming face into his chest. “Must it happen today?”

“Yes.” With a chuckle, the monarch nibbled her earlobe. “You behave as if you were a virgin.” He tittered. “A virgin who has two children with my best friend.”

Relieved that her spouse was fine, Catherine nevertheless pushed her guilt aside as soon as she recalled Suffolk’s countless infidelities. “I am Your Majesty’s, here and now.”

“You are a stunning seductress.” His tongue skimmed along the delicate shell of her ear.

Leaving the horses outside, the monarch led the duchess into the hunting lodge.

Attacked by conflicted emotions, Catherine could not deny that his kisses, succulent like a fine wine before becoming rough, aroused her. When they tumbled into a bed naked, she was oblivious to all, even to her love for Charles, but the king who caressed her, his hands traveling stimulatingly over her body. Her thirst to avenge the hurt Brandon had caused her, coupled with her lover’s powerful background, deepened the thrill of enjoying Henry’s intimacies today.

§§§

“My beloved son!” Queen Anne Bassett cooed to the baby in her arms. “My Edward!”

Her sister, Philippa, stood near her bed. “Why this name?”

Anne’s gaze flitted to her. “The king and I selected it months ago.”

Joyful spirits inhabited the queen’s apartments. The Feast of Saints Fabian and Sebastian marked an excellent day for King Henry and perhaps England. The fears of the Bassett family had turned out to be unwarranted because a couple of hours earlier, soon after matins, the queen had birthed a healthy son after many hours of labor, which had been long, but had proceeded normally. Honor Grenville, Viscountess Lisle, had watched over her daughter all the time.   

Since then, Anne could not let go off her son, rocking him in her arms and singing to him. Although childbearing was a normal and traditional function for a woman, she disliked the last days of her pregnancy when she had not slept well because of the baby’s intense kicks. Yet, once her son had been placed into her arms, tides of heavenly exaltation had overwhelmed her like the blast of pleasant heat, and it was growing every minute she spent with this small creature.

The bright light filtered through a window, just across from where the queen rested. The bedroom’s interior was a magnificent throwback to the grand royal dwellings of the 15th century: a wooden floor, old mahogany armoires, a line of ebony chairs, and a canopied bed with wooden curtains along one side and an emerald brocade curtain along the open sides. Wishing to reside at a more modern palace, Anne disliked that the king had moved the court to this castle.

Philippa glanced at the infant in bewildered fascination. “Anne, now you are again petite!  I cannot imagine how such a large baby could grow inside of you.”

The queen broke into a laughing fit. “Perhaps our mother did a poor job of teaching you about marital life and your wifely duties to your husband. But you know how children are born?”  

“Yes.” Philippa flushed with embarrassment at the pictures her mind conjured.

Anne smiled at her. “When you marry, you will understand everything.”

“Will our mother find a high-born and wealthy husband for me?”   

“Of course, when times comes. You are the Queen of England’s sister.” Yet, driven by her sadness, Anne got out bleakly, “Philippa, it is better to avoid marrying for status. The main condition for a happy marriage is mutual love, but I’m not certain that the bliss lasts for long.”

“It is not the case in your marriage to His Majesty.” Afraid that her statement might be misinterpreted, or that it could me overheard, Philippa begged, “I beg your pardon.”

Her eyes full of amused comprehension, Anne shook her head. “Do not apologize for the truth, sister.” She lowered her voice. “I never wanted to wed the king.”

There was one lady-in-waiting in the room – Lady Elizabeth Holland. Lady Jane Boleyn, Viscountess Rochford, had been sent to her father Baron Morley’s estates at the queen’s behest. Although Bess labored to eavesdrop upon the sisters spying for Norfolk, they spoke too quietly.

“Sit with us.” Anne gestured towards the bed.

Philippa settled on the edge. “Are you really so unhappy?”

A sense of responsibility to her sister overcame the queen. “Philippa!  Don’t obey Lady Honor if she tries to force you into marriage to someone you dislike. Her indefatigable ambitions are detrimental to her daughters’ contentment, but she does not care about us.”

The younger girl was beset by a combination of disbelief, hurt, and betrayal. “She will have me, Katherine, and our brothers married into the most prominent families in England.”

Anne planted a kiss upon her son’s head. “Yes. She will follow in Elizabeth Woodville’s footsteps to build her own empire in the English realm.” Her sigh was tinctured with resignation. “I married the king under the pressure from our mother that I could not sustain. I learned the hard way that some people love only once. I would have given anything to change the past.”

Philippa endeavored to comprehend all these things. There was a lot that she had not seen before because of her youth, and she was too enveloped in her exhilaration of being related to the Tudors. “I’ve never dreamed that we would be so miserable, sister.”

“Now I have someone who makes me so happy that I cannot describe it. My son!”

The queen lavished the boy with kisses. She could not belong to the Marquess of Exeter, who, Anne Bassett had long realized, was the love of her life. The more important truth was that her happiness was more closely linked with her love for their baby than her feelings for Exeter. My Ned is not a Tudor: he is a York. I deceived King Henry, but I do not regret that.   

The baby wrapped his tiny finger around Anne’s wrist. “Look!  He is so strong!”

Anne exclaimed, “Just as the future ruler of England must be!”

The two sisters’ jocund laugh, ringing with delight, was a prayer of their thanks to God for the infant. Bess Holland glowered at them, regretting that the queen’s child was a boy.

“Silence!” Honor Grenville entered the room. “It is prohibited to be noisy!”

Philippa jerked to her feet and bobbed a curtsey. “We beg your pardon, lady mother.”

“No,” Anne countered. “Queens do not ask their subjects for forgiveness.”

Stopping near the bed, Honor sighed, for her eldest daughter’s rebellion against her was grating on her nerves. “Don’t speak so loudly. You will frighten our precious Prince of Wales.”

Anne gazed at Bess. “Leave us, Lady Holland.”

“Call me if you need something, Your Majesty.” Bess curtsied and hurried out.

Honor eased herself into an X-shaped throne-like chair. She liked such model of seat, for it was an ancient form of chair, which had been used by the Roman aristocracy many centuries ago. “Did you dismiss your ladies to be secretive about something I need to know?”

The queen glared at her mother, making no attempt to hide her scorn. “It is none of your business, lady mother. I shall do whatever I want and at any time it pleases me.”  

Honor blustered, “For the love of Christ, Anne!  Redirect your thoughts to your marriage!  Your husband left somewhere at sunrise, and he has not returned yet. He might be with some new mistress who might pose a threat to us. He does not know yet that he has a son!”   

“I’m indifferent to that man’s escapades.” Anne’s voice was acrimonious.

Honor spat, “At least, you have done your queenly duty to the king.”

A breathless giggle erupted from Anne as the baby boy’s hand again wrapped around his mother’s thumb. “Now my Ned is my whole life!  I treasure him the most!”

“He is so bonny!” Philippa observed.

They eyed the baby in the queen’s arms. The child, swaddled in the blanket of red silk embroidered with Tudor roses, had a tuft of blonde hair. His bewitching pale blue eyes seemed deeper than a bottomless ocean, thoughtful as he contemplated his mother, as if in melancholy reflection. Unlike Princess Elizabeth, the infant did not have Tudor red-gold hair.

Honor commented, “Little Edward exhibits many York features. He has eyes of Elizabeth Woodville and Elizabeth of York, and this will touch a sentimental string in the king’s heart.”

“He cannot look entirely like a Tudor,” the queen blurted out.   

Philippa was bewildered. “Why?”

“How foolish of you to say that, Your odd Majesty,” Honor castigated. Her gaze flying to her younger daughter, she explained, “The child has taken after his York ancestors.”

Philippa assumed, “His Majesty will be happy that his son has his mother’s eyes.”

Cradling the infant, the queen affirmed, “My son is a sheer miracle. Often the possession of such beauty in this unfair world requires the payment of the price you might not yet know.”

“Shut up, Anne,” Honor hissed. “The labor has addled your mind.”

Ignoring the queen’s protestations, Honor grabbed the child from her arms. She placed the prince into the cradle in the corner, and then enjoined Philippa to leave so that Anne could rest. Anne’s throat felt clogged with tears as the queen stared at the closed door, cursing her mother.

§§§

For a long time, Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, could not tear himself away from his newborn son. Philippa had surreptitiously visited his chambers and invited him to the queen’s rooms, while everyone thought that Queen Anne was resting; no one could detect them.  

Exeter sat by the queen’s side, staring in wonder at the small bundle in her arms. “Our Edward is the most beautiful boy in the world. Thank you for letting me see him, Anne!”     

His handsome countenance was imbued with so much affection that its sight brought tears into the queen’s eyes. “I still cannot believe that I have a son. That we have a son, Hal.”

They beheld the healthy infant who had dozed off a few minutes ago. Cloaked in a cocoon of incredible exaltation, they imagined that they were a small happy family. Their minds conjured pictures of their son several years old, full of innocence and radiant with health, as he would play with them in the sunlit park that would become a center of contagious delight for them all.

Anne observed, “He is like you in some ways.”

Now, when Exeter was close to his son, Anne noticed that their foreheads and cheekbones were somewhat similar, although it was not clear that he was the infant’s father.

A sigh fled him. “We are lucky that Ned is not my striking copy.”

“Or we would have lost our heads.” Her voice was as quiet as a breath.

He shook his head resolutely. “Anne, I shall never allow anyone to harm our son.”

She laughed tragically. “Our fates are in the king’s hands, Hal.”

“I do not wish to speak of my cousin,” Exeter spat, his mood suddenly foul.

“Indeed, it is better to spend these precious moments together.”

The marquess watched the baby boy sleep. Exeter’s expression was so elated that, despite the turmoil in her breast, Anne had to choke back an unexpected gurgle of laughter.

Pushing herself up on one elbow, she questioned, “Will our son surpass King Edward the Forth who was so loved and praised by his people, in spite of his infamous merrymaking?”

Exeter retorted proudly, “Edward the Forth, my grandfather, was a great monarch, but our son should outshine him. Our boy will be Edward the Sixth of England the Magnificent!”

She asked huskily, “Will you love him from afar?”

“Do not ever doubt it.” Exeter kissed his son’s head. “I’ll adore him more than my first son with Gertrude because our prince was born by the woman I love wholeheartedly.”

A wave of sobs assaulted her. “Haven’t your feelings for me faded away?”

He touched her cheek. “Don’t cry, Anne. Please, don’t cry!  I would never stoop so low as to manufacture an elaborate masquerade in order to mislead you viciously.”

“Is that true?” Her emotions were spiraling like a whirlwind.  

Sensing her disbelief, he added, “I swear that I’ve never loved another woman. You are the queen of my heart, although we cannot be together. My wife means nothing to me.”

Her pulse quickened as she considered the implications of this confession. At the sight of their baby, bouquets of affection for his parent blossomed in her breast. “I love you, too.”

“Do you, Anne?” His soul began blossoming like a flower.

“More than I could imagine I could love a man, Hal. It took me some time to realize it.”

The silence that stretched between them pulsated with amorous fluids. Exeter admired the way Anne’s glossy blonde tresses curled near her cheeks, the meaningful depth in her golden-green eyes, and the sweet, yet doleful, curve of her luscious mouth. With their son in her arms, Anne looked like the Madonna and the child Christ from a canvas of some Italian maestro.  

“You are tired.” He also noted circles under her eyes.

She tipped her head. “I must admit that the labor depleted me of strength.”

He assessed, “To me, you never looked lovelier than now, Anne. You have become more feminine, and there is a peculiar gentleness in you. You are no longer the frivolous creature I once fell in love with. At present, you are wiser and unfailingly generous; your heart is so human.”

The queen wiped the tears. “My greatest sorrow is that I’m married to the Tudor beast.”

With infinite tenderness, his hand cupped her cheek. “Forgive me for my inability to snatch you away from the clutches of our liege lord, whom I once considered my friend.”

She put a finger against his mouth. “Hush!  It is not your fault, Hal!”

Rage surged through Exeter. “After the atrocities he perpetrated towards the Catholics in the north, I started hating the king. Now when he has the legal claim to you, Anne, and our son, I would gladly have torn him apart, limb from limb, to free you from him.”

She rested her cheek against his. “I do not want you executed.”

A soft cry alerted them to their son’s awakening. Exeter took the infant from his mother, his hands trembling as he cradled the child in the crook of his arm, murmuring sweet words.

“I shall protect our son,” Exeter swore fiercely. “Even from the king if necessary.”

As his mouth sought hers, they briefly sank out of the torturous reality and into ambrosial oblivion. As he held the child, they kissed for minutes, as though this connection symbolized the last kiss of Orpheus and Eurydice before she had been taken by Hades into the underworld.

The creak of the door destroyed the spell, and the lovers disentwined from each other. Their expressions turned into unpleasant surprise at the sight of an incensed Honor at the doorway.

“What is this man doing here?” Honor closed the door.

“I have the right to see my son,” Exeter pronounced as he crossed to the crib.

Honor froze near the bed. “His Majesty might kill you for such outright lies!”

He placed the infant into the crib. “We all know that I am the boy’s father.”

As he swiveled to her, Honor narrowed his eyes at him to slits. “If you buffoon ever dare utter a word about this boy’s paternity, I’ll slit your throat or strangle you myself.”   

Exeter sniggered at her statement. “Don’t be an idiot, Lady Honor. I have no aim other than the one I’ve proclaimed to you all along – to make this child the next King of England.”

The queen’s mother fixed her with a look of hatred. “If you are lying–”

He interrupted, “Save your breath: don’t threaten me, Madame.”

“You shall never come close to Edward again,” stated Honor.

Notwithstanding her fatigue, Queen Anne climbed out of bed. Toxic sentiments towards this woman swamped her: resentment, fury, and even hatred, potent like an odor of decay.

“Mother!” The queen breached the gap between them. “You are a snake that bites the leg of a horse, making its rider fall. But neither Hal nor my son shall tumble because of you.”

Although her daughter looked fatigued, Honor stifled her motherly concern. “In the past few months, you have accumulated an inordinate supply of insults towards me. You have forgotten that I made you the Queen of England!  I ordered you to renew your affair with Exeter so that you could conceive a healthy son!  You have risen so high because of my counsel!”

“Stop quarreling,” the marquess intervened as he neared them.

Unbearable anguish seared Anne’s inner realm. “Wait for my gratitude until doomsday. You trampled down my life when you forced me into the marriage to the king.”

Honor said frostily, “I’m flattered that you at least acknowledge my contributions.”

White-hot fury spiraled inside the queen. Lethal rage was etched into every inch of her countenance. “Damn your ambitions, mother!  You are the worst kind of a harpy!”

Suddenly, Honor slapped Anne with all her strength across the face. The left side of the queen’s skull stung horribly, dizziness assailed Anne, her knees buckled, and she was tottering like a crumbling edifice. As Anne fell to the floor, her head hit the corner of a bedside table.

“Get up, Anne,” instructed Honor.  

Nonetheless, there was no response. The queen lay sprawled on the floor, her face a florid stain of fury, and a streak of blood trickled down her left temple. Exeter rushed to his beloved.

For a split second, Anne’s eyes opened. “I love you, Hal.” Then they closed forever.

Exeter’s hands fumbled for her pulse, but found none. “She is dead. Dead…”  He burst out into the first tears he had shed since adolescence. “My Anne… Oh God…” 

Honor blanched. “No. You must be mistaken.”

Immeasurable suffering reflected itself in his tearful eyes. “She must have hit her temple on the bedside table and died on the impact. It is impossible to survive such a trauma.”

The door banged open, and Philippa stopped in the threshold. “The king has returned!”

“Exeter, leave,” Honor demanded. “Or you will be dead if someone sees you here.”

“Your own daughter is dead!” Exeter accused, as if he had not heard her.

“What?” Philippa’s frantic gaze rested on the lifeless form of her sister. “No!”

A nicker of pain crossed Honor’s expression. “Think of little Ned, Hal Courtenay.”

This galvanized the marquess into action. Sparing the last sorrowful glance at his dead beloved, he hastened out of the room and then down the stairs to where his apartments were located. After his disappearance, the hallway got alive with the traffic of the queen’s ladies.

In the meantime, Philippa and Katherine, Anne’s second sister, were weeping near the queen’s corpse. The infant’s cries echoed their sobbing, each sound expressing their bereavement. A horrified Honor stood nearby, her eyes vacant, but inside the monstrous guilt was devouring her piece by piece, its waters contaminating her blood, penetrating Honor to the marrow of her bones.   

§§§

The tidbits of the prince’s safe delivery spread through the court, causing subservient nobles to cheer boisterously. Nonetheless, after the monarch’s return, everyone learned about Queen Anne Bassett’s mysterious woes, and a sense of anticipation blanketed the castle.

Whisperings, colored with opaque hues of terror, filled the hallways.  

“Oh my Lord!  Queen Anne Bassett is dead!”

“By Heaven!  How is that possible?”   

“But Her Majesty felt well after the labor!”

“Could it be just someone’s vile rumor?”

“Has King Henry found his wife injured?”

“Was Queen Anne discovered in her apartments?”

“Did she have any labor complications?”

“Has Doctor Butts failed to cure the queen?”  

They issued versatile comments on the matter. The nobles waited for the confirmation of the queen’s demise, the air buzzing with guesses, speculations, and conjectures.  Next to Catherine Willoughby stood Jane Seymour, her countenance as pale as it had been on the day of her son’s death. From the crowd, Henry Percy observed his unwilling bride, but he did not approach.

King Henry appeared in the hallway without his guards, and a stricken hush ensued. His strides were quick and long, while his expression was perplexed and troubled.  

From the summit of the stairs, the Countess and Earl of Hertford watched the ruler. The tittle-tattling tongues renewed their work when the monarch entered his wife’s suite.

“Something is terribly wrong,” Edward Seymour concluded.

Bafflement shone in his wife’s eyes. “But what?”  

“I don’t know,” a confused Edward muttered.

Sir Francis Bryan approached them. “Have you rejoiced in the queen’s afflictions?”

Anne Seymour attacked him. “Don’t you dare accuse us of that, Sir Francis!”

Edward’s reaction was unemotional, as usual. “You are wrong, my lord.”

Bryan glared at them. “Queen Anne Bassett succeeded where her predecessors had all failed. You must both take delight in her death. What else can you do?   Your family was banished from court, except for you two only because you, Lady Hertford, once were our sovereign’s slut.” Leering at her, he ended with, “But His Majesty set you aside. You are spoiled goods now.”     

A dumbfounded Anne Seymour murmured, “Is Anne Bassett really dead?”

Edward’s gaze, glittering with danger, impaled Bryan. “If not for the tragedy with the queen, I would have challenged you, Bryan, to a duel and slaughtered you.”

Bryan’s smirk was like a weapon deadly for a mortal man. “Hertford, your mind is wilder than that of a nasty blackguard like me. That would have been such a hilarious game!” He winked at Edward’s spouse. “But your affair with the king is over. You cannot grab more power.”

As Bryan sauntered away with a bored expression, Edward cursed him in a fit of wrath.

Edward’s hands clenched into fists. “I’ll make that man shut up!”  

“But Bryan is right,” his wife admitted reluctantly. “At least, we have remained at court.” The spouses were both relived that King Henry no longer invited Anne Seymour to his bed.

The Earl of Hertford swore, “We shall avenge our humiliations.”

The monarch’s shout, coming from the queen’s rooms, put an end to their conversation.

§§§

“Why did my wife die?” the king’s shrieks boomed through the air like cannon fire.

Their tearful eyes downcast, Lady Honor Grenville and her two daughters stood near the royal bed. Bess Holland and three other ladies huddled in the corner, their faces perturbed.

On the bed lay the dead Queen Anne Bassett, her body covered with a white silk sheet up to the neck. In death, she was radiant with the divine beauty that the mortal eye could not see in other times. Her lips seemed curved in a ghost of a jaunty smile, as if her departure from the world of the living had brought the universe’s grandest kingdoms and empires to her feet.

The infant’s wails rang through the air, reminding of the Bassett-Tudor prince. Although Anne Bassett had been the Queen of England for a short time, and most courtiers despised her, her son would always be the reminder of her only accomplishment, marvelous in the king’s eyes and famous in his lifetime. The wet nurse took the baby boy in her arms to calm him down.   

“How did she die?” Henry inquired after the first storm of his anger had passed.

“Your Majesty…”  Honor’s brain searched for the right words to begin the tale she had invented and compelled her two daughters to confirm. “For a long time, Anne waited for your return to share with you her joy over your son’s birth. However, Her Majesty was exhausted, so Philippa and I left her to rest; when we returned, we discovered her on the floor.”  

“How?” the monarch asked breathlessly.

Honor broke into tears. “It seems that the queen climbed out of bed, perhaps because the child was crying. Maybe the exhaustion caused her dizziness, so she fell and hit her head.”

Bess Holland interjected, “Her Majesty dismissed me before sending away her relatives.”  

Henry gaped at them in dumbstruck horror. “Why did you leave her alone?  She just gave birth to our babe, so she must have been weak. Answer me, Lady Lisle!”   

“I’m sorry,” Honor said in a voice layered with guilt and pain. “But you know that Anne is… was at times so stubborn that no power could dissuade her from the chosen course of action.” Her face crumbled as sobs overcame her. “She demanded that we all leave her. When I pointed out that it was unreasonable, she snapped that I must obey the order due to her status.”

“Aye.” The king nodded. “That sounds exactly like her.”   

“That is true,” Philippa and Katherine lied, struggling not to glare at their mother.    

“God, my daughter Anne!” Honor’s nerves cracked: she collapsed onto the floor, sobbing and wringing her arms in anguish. “She was so young!  She could live a long life as queen!”

Although Philippa and Katherine aided Honor to her feet, they quickly stepped aside. It was difficult for their youthful souls to be their mother’s accomplices in this charade. They felt the impulse to abscond to their chambers and immerse themselves in memories of Anne, crying.

“It is our common grief, Lady Honor,” King Henry said gently. Turning to the two young Bassett women, he instructed, “Take care of your mother. She needs to rest.”      

Philippa and Katherine had to lead their hysterical mother out of the room.

Then Doctor Butts slipped inside, his expression sorrowful.   

The king stood in the center. “Could my wife die from the head injury, Doctor Butts?”   

The physician bowed to his liege lord. “Lady Lisle summoned me to the queen’s suite. The examination of your wife revealed that Her Majesty, God rest her soul, fell and hit her temple. She died on the impact – instantly, there was almost no pain. It looks like an accident.”   

Shock bleached Henry’s features. “Is it fate?”

“My most sincere condolences, sire,” replied the doctor neutrally.

“Leave me with my queen and our son.” The ruler’s voice was raw.

As his subjects vacated the chamber, the monarch came to the crib and took his son. After the nurse had calmed the child, the prince was now quiet, but he was not sleeping.

The king cradled the baby. “You are my son!  Edward Tudor, Prince of Wales!”

The infant smiled and stretched out his small arms forward, as if to hug the monarch. A blend of indescribable pride and immense rapture, phenomenal in their strength, superseded his fleeting sorrow over his spouse’s passing. His love for this sweet baby boy was stronger than that for his daughters, piercing him like a dart of affection to the innermost recesses of his soul.

“My boy,” Henry almost sang, grinning at the child. “You are my greatest treasure!”

The child’s pale blue orbs held the ruler’s gaze. “You have the Woodville deep blue eyes, Ned. My late mother, Queen Elizabeth, told me in childhood that she had inherited my eyes from my grandmother, Queen Elizabeth Woodville. That is why they are so bewitching.”

Tears moistened Henry’s eyes at the remembrance of Elizabeth of York’s gentle gaze, always full of affection for her favorite son – for him. Now Henry adored his newborn male heir, certain that little Edward would be the grandest prince ever born. His long-awaited Edward! 

After kissing the baby’s head, Henry deposited the infant back into the crib.   

The king approached the bed. Upon seeing Queen Anne’s prone form, his grief awaked again, crying faintly in the depths of his consciousness. Nonetheless, in the same way, a human being feels the pain of a wounded animal and that of a tree when one of its branches is being cut off. Henry experienced anguish over Anne’s demise with a small part of his heart, and even more with his imagination. I’ve never loved Anne Bassett, but she gave me a son, Henry mused.

His expression whimsical, Henry addressed his consort, as if she could hear him. “Anne, thank you for this marvelous gift. I regret your death, but you are not irreplaceable.”

Turning around resolutely, Henry walked away without a backward glance.

In the corridor, the ruler ordered, “Lady Holland, take the best care of Prince Edward.”

“Of course, sire.” Bess lowered herself into a curtsey.

After the monarch’s departure, the courtiers whispered and gossiped, intrigued.

§§§

“I’ve figured out your secret,” Gertrude Courtenay told her husband.

The Marquess and Marchioness of Exeter froze in front of each other like two rivals in some Greek drama. Blasts of alienation were passing between them as their glares battled.   

Her cheeks hollow, her eyes sunken, Gertrude was garbed in a blue silk robe. She had bound her light peach hair with a red ribbon into a long tail that she wore over a shoulder. She looked unhealthy, and her excessive thinness proved that she suffered from some chronic illness.

Her husband crossed to an oak cabinet. “It is none of your business, Gertrude.”

Her gaze was shooting daggers at him. “I’ll not tolerate your betrayals anymore.”  

“What are you talking about?” Exeter seated himself into a chair beside the cabinet.

Gertrude rushed to where he had gone. Stopping a few inches from him, she banged her fist on the wooden panel of the cabinet. “His Majesty married that Bassett prostitute only because of her pregnancy. I’m aware that she had become your lover months before she caught the king’s eye. Then you broke up, perhaps because she preferred to be with His Majesty. But three months prior to the trollop’s marriage to the king, you two renewed your clandestine affair.”

His expression soured. “Illogical assumptions might result in errors of judgment.”   

She slammed her fist into the wall over and over again. Her knuckles became ripped and bloody, but Gertrude did not care. “Hal, you started sleeping around mere six months after our wedding. You are an immoral libertine, whom wealth has allowed to do as you please.”

Exeter chuckled. “Thank you for such accolades.”

He was making fun of her!  Ire rose up in Gertrude like fire. “I loved you so deeply, Hal!  There was so much love and tenderness in my youthful heart. At first, I was a model wife to you, yet you did not reciprocate my feelings. I waited and prayed that you would grow to adore me.”

“Forgive me, Gertrude. Indeed, I wed you to get your large dowry, yet I’ve never lied to you about my feelings. I should have treated you with more respect, but we men might be cruel if we do not love.” His apology was sincere, and there was an underlying regret in his words.

She clapped. “Bravo!  You have the strength to acknowledge your sins. But it is too late!  For many years, I lived in hopeful patience that you would fall for me. Until now.”

“What has changed?” He suspected her answer.

“You broke me!” As Gertrude leaned over him, her furious breath seared the skin on his face. “I endured all your infidelities. However, your liaison with that Bassett whore destroyed the last vestiges of my respect to you. Why did you choose her?  She was such a wanton!”

“Gertrude,” he growled, “that is enough out of you. Shut up!”

“I shall not!” Her eyes narrowed like those of a predator ready to attack. “Your dead slattern’s prurience was addictive. She ensnared you like a foolish boy.” The marchioness paused, as if to measure the effect of her jab. “You not only slept with her, but also impregnated her.”   

Exeter had to weasel out of this situation. “I refuse to be goaded into a quarrel.”

“Your bastard,” Gertrude ground out, “is in the royal cradle. That is treason!”

Courtenay throttled his rage with effort. “Rubbish.”

Gertrude has always been a harpy, Exeter thought. Despite the financial reasons for their union, he had first been charmed with the lovely, young Gertrude Blount. However, his attraction for her had faded away little by little because of her cantankerous character, having degraded into polite indifference. Over time, his spouse’s peevishness and jealousy had transformed his attitude to her into animosity simmering beneath the surface whenever they had even simple interactions.

She snickered at him. “I’ll not let you talk me into this.”

“Your mind is weak.” He stalked back and forth across the room.

Gertrude was losing the sight of everything, save her abhorrence towards Exeter. “Even King Henry does not loathe the Boleyn harlot as much as I hate you and your strumpet.”

Exeter turned to the hissing sound of her voice with a grin. “So much drama from such a mediocre actress. You are Elizabeth Tudor’s godmother. His Majesty wants little Elizabeth to hate Anne Boleyn, and you can ask him to appoint you as her governess. Then you will be able to use your theatrical talents to slander your goddaughter’s mother in the girl’s presence.”

Gertrude threatened, “I might reveal your secret to our liege lord.”

He permitted a tight smile, but his voice indicated his inner tumult.  “I never repeat my mistakes, whether of judgment or otherwise. If you dare voice your fantasies, I’ll ensure that you are acknowledged as insane and spend the rest of your days locked in some distant convent.”

“You will not act so, Hal!  Our son, our Eddie, needs his mother!”   

“I will,” he promised. “You leave me no choice. Our son has me.”

At this moment, Gertrude’s antagonism towards both Exeter and Anne Bassett became a lethal venom in her blood, which was slowly killing her, and her soul craved for vengeance. She and her spouse transmuted into two sworn foes, whose animosity towards one another could know no more humiliating embrace than that between the victor and the vanquished on the battlefield of their marriage. You will be defeated, Hal Courtenay, Gertrude resolved silently. By me!    

“It is time to pay.” The marchioness grabbed a poniard from a nearby table.

Exeter reacted with an exclamation of shock. “Stop this madness!”

“Hate is most fruitful if it is borne out of war.” Her voice was a metallic sound.

Her countenance like that of a Gorgon, Gertrude darted towards him with the weapon. Snakes of peril curled around Exeter, through the chamber, until tension thrummed from the walls, coincidentally swathed in tapestries of battles, as if by the Lucifer’s command. Nevertheless, the peril bounced off Exeter as his wife fell near his feet, a dagger sticking out of her back.

Honor Grenville stood near the door. “In time.”   

“Madame, your aim is better than Robin Hood’s.” Courtenay was opening himself up to some good-natured jesting with the queen’s murderess, for the woman had saved his life.

Honor asked, “Did she know everything and blackmail you?”

She heard his convulsive swallow. “Yes, she did. Our marriage was unbearable.”

“Then she deserved her end.” Honor relaxed considerably.

Grabbing his spouse’s corpse from the floor, Exeter carried her to bed. “Help me undress her. Gertrude has kept to our quarters in the past month, suffering from severe abdominal cramps. I’ll have our doctor declare that she died of this illness. My wife has no loyal ladies due to her ill temper and constant criticism of them, so they stay away from her for the most part.”

“Two of them saw me in the antechamber,” admitted Honor.

He heaved a sigh. “Give me their names, and I’ll deal with them. I eliminated everyone who could know about my affair with Anne and Edward’s true paternity.”   

Honor smirked. “You might be ruthless, Hal.”

“I hate war, Honor,” Exeter answered in the same personal manner. “I’ve always been against bloodshed, but if it needs to be done for my son’s safety, then it will be done.”

She looked into his eyes. “You want everyone to see you as a royal favorite dancing to Henry’s whims and dallying with women. In reality, you are very different: you are a spider who observes, weaves your web, and wraps your victims into it when they least expect it. Very few can navigate through your intrigues, not even Cromwell and especially not Suffolk, your friend. Your network of spies in England is as wide as Cromwell’s was and that of the Howards is.”

Surprised by Honor’s astuteness, Exeter kept his countenance impassive. “Why did you come, Lady Lisle?  You could not predict what Gertrude would do.” He became formal again.

Within a matter of minutes, Exeter and Honor put Gertrude to bed and covered her with blankets. The floor was only slightly smeared with her blood, so they cleaned it swiftly.  

Her eyes welled with tears. “I did not want Anne dead. It was an accident.”

“Of course. No mother would do such a thing deliberately.” The cracking in his voice belied the outward composure he labored to maintain. “I thank you for saving my life.”   

“At least our secret is safe now.” Honor wiped her unbidden tears.

Exeter gave a half nod in the direction of the bed where his late spouse lay. “Gertrude was a liability to me. I planned to declare her mad and have her isolated in a convent.”

“It is no longer necessary, Lord Exeter. Now we must be united for one purpose.”

His eyes were aglow with their sacramental dream. “We will make our little Edward the next King of England. The Tudor dynasty will not rule this country for long.”

Now Honor’s expression was like that of someone weary of life and longing for paradise. “I saved you for my Anne. Maybe she will forgive me for what I did to her.”

“Only the Almighty can decide that, Lady Lisle. God rest Anne’s soul.”

“The Lord let her rest in peace,” she echoed.

In these moments, the same laments were tumbling from the lips of Lord Exeter and Lady Lisle as they prayed for the late Queen Anne in silence. The pain would always be in their hearts.


January 30, 1539, Winchester Castle, Winchester, Hampshire, England

“I hate mourning,” King Henry whispered as he looked through his papers.

He lounged in a mahogany throne-like chair at the desk piled with parchments and scrolls.

His thoughts were a cluttered tangle. The ruler’s grief over his late wife’s passing was fleeting like summer rains, for the jubilation of Prince Edward’s birth was stronger than even emotions awakened by some holy vision. As Henry eyed his doublet of black velvet embroidered with gold, his mental agonies heightened, for he yearned to wear bright colors. Only his gratitude to the late Queen Anne for giving him a son made him comply with the rules of mourning.

After Henry had married Anne Bassett, the English people remained cold to her, for she had been his mistress before. Nonetheless, they rejoiced in the birth of a male heir, relieved that the country was no longer balanced upon a tightrope stretched over the abyss of a potential civil war. Te Deums were sung in churches, bonfires lit, and there had been numerous cannon shots from Winchester Castle; daily Masses to honor Queen Anne’s memory were conducted.  

Three days after his birth, Prince Edward had been christened in Winchester Cathedral. Archbishop Cranmer and Hal Courtenay, Marques of Exeter, despite the recent loss of his spouse, stood as godfathers; Lady Honor Grenville was the child’s godmother. The Howards had not participated, for now they were in London. The monarch had declared his son Prince of Wales, while the Garter King of Arms had proclaimed him as Duke of Cornwall and Earl of Chester.

The king intended to relocate to Whitehall soon, for this place reminded him of his third wife’s death. Soon Queen Anne Bassett would be buried in St George's Chapel in Windsor Castle.

The herald announced the arrival of Lady Jane Seymour.

“Speak and get out,” Henry barked as his former consort walked in and curtsied.

Jane held her breath before saying, “Your Majesty, can my wedding be postponed?”

Henry put away the parchments. “My late wife, Queen Anne, died ten days ago. The court will be in mourning until the next autumn upon my orders, so you cannot marry the Earl of Northumberland now. But your nuptials with Percy will proceed when I see it fitting.”      

Her gaze strayed to torches burning in iron sconces on a nearby wall. Jane had the impulse to grab one of them and set the royal presence chamber on fire. However, the wall hangings, depicting the Anglo-Saxon Bishop of Winchester Saint Swithun, beseeched her not to perpetrate regicide, and Jane managed to ward off the burning urge to destroy her former husband.

She had the courage to ask, “Is that a punishment for my failure to birth your son?”

He snarled, “My late wife succeeded; you miscarried my two boys. Be grateful for giving you another chance at marriage, although Percy is likely to remain childless.”

“I lost my second child because of your–”  Jane stopped herself short to reconsider how to phrase the rest of her thoughts. “If you had been more discreet, our baby would have survived.”

“It is your entire fault!” His countenance contorted with rage. “Your womb was cursed on the day of your birth. You can produce only death!  And don’t you dare confront me!”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I–”  A rush of fear choked off her breath for a moment.

The herald informed them about the arrival of Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford.

Upon entering, Edward bowed. “Your Majesty’s humble servant is at your disposal.”

Henry glanced at his chief minister. “Coincidentally, your sister is here, Lord Hertford.”

Edward crossed to the desk where the king was seated. His gaze flying to the woman, he said stiffly, “Jane, have you done something stupid to disappoint His Majesty again?”

At this moment, the Seymour siblings froze several feet from their sovereign.      

Jane’s cheeks burned with humiliation. “Lord Hertford, don’t insult me and–”

The monarch interrupted her. “Jane, you are not married; your father is no longer alive. You are now Hertford’s property because he is the eldest man in your family.”  

“No!  No!” The former queen blinked back the stinging in her eyes.

“That is my kingly will!” The ruler’s voice expressed his intransigence. “Edward, you will organize the wedding and will give your sister’s hand in marriage to Northumberland.”

“Please, sire!” Jane implored, tears brimming in her eyes. “Don’t do this to me!”

Henry met her beseeching gaze with his unyielding one. “Obey your sovereign, without murmuring or grudging. Fulfill your obligations as your door to paradise lies under my feet.” His next shout was terrifying. “Your place is at my feet after the losses you caused me.”  

Jane’s gaze drifted to the Tudor arms that hung over the fireplace. For the first time, she hated not only Henry, but also the Tudor dynasty. Her former husband had metamorphosed into a monster!  Her ignorance of this had led to her soul being befouled by the sin of her marriage to the king who had killed several innocent men to make her, Jane, his queen. My marriage to Lord Henry Percy is the abomination of abominations. Nevertheless, if Edward controls my life until Percy obtains this right, it will be too much for me to bear, Jane wailed wordlessly.      

“Remember that, sister,” croaked Hertford.

“Why do you hate me so, Edward?” Beads of nervous sweat dripped down Jane’s brow.

Some deep emotion, perhaps sympathy, shadowed Edward’s features, before he mastered himself in an impressive show of strength. “I’ll ensure that you obey His Majesty.”

Power has corrupted Edward, Jane inferred. Her eldest brother was full of arrogance, for he had not been banished, unlike her other relatives. Jane loathed Anne Seymour, Edward’s wife, who had killed her second unborn child, although the thought of her baby’s death being the Lord’s punishment for Anne Boleyn’s miscarriage under similar circumstances often occurred to Jane.   

The king’s voice intruded into her musings. “Hertford, you are a loyal and knowledgeable subject. As Cromwell is no longer my chief minister, I appoint you on his position.”

Jane gasped in shock. Edward’s triumphant smile flourished into a laugh of incredulity.

Hertford dropped into a deep bow. “Your Majesty, I cannot find words to describe my immense gratitude to you and my unshakeable loyalty to your most benevolent person.”

Henry straightened in his chair, placing his hands upon its armrests as he leaned forward. “Remember Cromwell’s arrest, Hertford. The investigation into Cromwell’s case has not ended, and I still need to look into the matter.” He emphasized, “But if you disappoint me, you will find yourself in the same cell where Cromwell is now languishing with rats and rodents.”   

Hertford’s face was impenetrable. “Your Majesty, in my service to you, I shall strive to execute your orders without fault. I’m ready to give my life for England and for you.”

Pleased with his subject’s submission, the ruler changed the topic. “Jane, when you go to the chapel, don’t forget to genuflect. There are too many sins on your soul.”   

Her cheeks burned with humiliation. “Sire, please grant me your permission to leave.”

Waving dismissively at Jane, Henry told Edward, “There is something else.”

After Jane had left, the king beckoned Hertford closer to him.

Edward stopped right in front of the desk. “How can I serve Your Majesty?”

The monarch leaned back in his seat. “I appointed you my chief minister because you are a staunch Protestant. You shall help me finish the dissolution of the monasteries.”

Hertfort’s breath stilled with the intensity of elation that swept through him. “I shall work tirelessly to rid our great country of the Roman Catholic idols and rituals.”

“Over time, we shall abolish Mass and eliminate idolatry.”

“I shall study the documents related to the dissolution and other religious matters.”

Nodding approvingly, the monarch voiced his thoughts. “I wish to establish an alliance with the German Protestant States. Before my daughter, Mary, escaped to Spain, Goddamn her treacherous soul, I planned to marry her off to a Protestant prince. Now I’m a widower, and I have no adult daughter to offer them for this alliance, but I can wed a Protestant princess myself.” His laugh was like the sound of a rushing spring creek. “I’m not old yet and need more sons!”

Edward was up to this challenge. “Should I start negotiations, but secretly?”

Henry inclined his head. “Yes. I’m in mourning now, but I want to marry next winter.”   

“I’ll stealthily dispatch our envoys to German Protestant States, then.”

“Send Hans Holbein to all continental courts to paint my potential bride’s portraits. My bride must be beautiful and young so that we can have many children together.”

“Your Majesty, I’ll speak to Master Holbein and those people whom I deem trustworthy.”

The king lowered his gaze to his papers. “Leave; I must work now.”

After bowing to his master, the Earl of Hertford vacated the chamber.

Exhilaration soared through the Tudor monarch. It was the end of an era for Anne Bassett and the end of his unfortunate marriages – a new beginning for Henry. He would remarry!  With a new young wife, the king’s life would no longer resemble a prolonged tedium of existence. The beatific vision of his future pretty queen, surrounded by a brood of his sons, flashed in his brain. Edward is only my firstborn son, and the Lord will definitely send me more male heirs.

§§§

Outside the royal presence chamber, Edward Seymour saw Jane awaiting him.

“What do you want, sister?” Edward barked. “Go to your rooms.”

Jane subdued her anger and predicted, “One day, you will lose power.”

He led her away from two sentinels who listened to them with interest.

Discomforted, the new royal chief minister forced a sardonic smile, embellishing it with a contemptuous glower directed at his sister. “You have always chased rainbows. I’ll be smarter than my predecessor. I’ll ensure that Cromwell will meet his gruesome end on the block.”

“The king might destroy you just as readily as he would anyone who displeases him.”  As she walked away, the bubble of her emotions peaked and ebbed, dipping into sadness.

Hertford jabbed his fingers through his hair. “That will not happen!”

Ire radiating from him, Edward Seymour stomped towards the staircase and encountered Northumberland on the stairs. Without acknowledging the other man’s presence, Seymour sped through the hallway to his quarters, and he did not see Percy’s surprised expression.

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope you are all safe. I am slowly settling back into my ordinary Swiss life, so I’ve been quite overloaded. I hope that there are still enough readers to read this story during summer holidays. To be honest, I am still not certain as to how often I should update.

The chapter’s title speaks volumes: it is the end of an era in England. I suspect that this chapter is rather shocking for many of you because of its unexpected twists and turns.

Catherine Brandon had no choice when King Henry began pursuing her. Henry courted her in secret until she surrendered to him on condition that her husband would be released. She still loves Charles, but she was too hurt by Brandon’s infidelities, and she is also afraid that Henry might order Suffolk’s execution. Perhaps one day, Charles will learn the truth if he survives.

Anne Bassett birthed a son – Prince Edward Tudor. The child is healthy because he is not Henry’s son, but the monarch does not suspect anything because of the baby boy’s Woodville eyes and York features. Anne and the Marquess of Exeter deserved another confidential meeting when she could confess to loving her lover. Especially because it was their last meeting. Philippa Bassett will play other roles in this story: I changed the age of Honor Grenville’s daughters – Anne (1516), Katherine (1517), and Philippa (1520/1). From the very beginning, I planned that Anne Bassett would leave this story as a result of the tragic accent caused by Honor, who of course didn’t want to murder her own daughter. Anne’s story with Exeter is beautiful in its tragedy.

Don’t think that if now King Henry does have “a son”, Princess Elizabeth Tudor will not become Queen of England. I don’t hide from my readers that Elizabeth will become queen on the historical date in 1558. Yet, it does not mean that Edward will be sickly later in life. But Elizabeth will ascend the throne, so relax and enjoy the drama in this epic, for there will be a lot of it.

I am sure you are astounded with Gertrude Courtenay’s demise. Now Honor and Exeter are connected with deadly secrets. As Honor says about him, Exeter is a clever spider – you will see this soon. However, Exeter will mourn for Anne Bassett for long because he indeed loved her.

The King of England didn’t love Queen Anne, but he is grateful to her for giving him “a prince”. Yet, Henry makes it clear that he wants to remarry and have more sons. As you all understand, he will have a new queen soon. Who will be the next ill-fated Tudor queen?

Surprised that Edward Seymour is now Henry’s new chief minister? Why? The Earl of Hertford is a staunch Protestant, and Henry needs someone like him to continue the religious reforms. As for Jane Seymour’s wedding to Percy, it has to be delayed due to the court’s mourning for the late queen. Those who dislike Jane might like the changes in her mindset.

The drama in England will continue in chapter 35. We will be back to France in chapter 36.

VioletRoseLily and I began co-writing the story called "Entwined by a Golden Alliance", but we are posting it only at AO3. Give it a try, and thank you in advance!

I highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91, BellalunaMcKenzie, QueenMaryofEngland, and WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction. Let's make each other smile! Let's review and favorite each other!

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 36: Chapter 35: Steeped in Betrayals

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 35: Steeped in Betrayals

February 10, 1539, Tower of London, London, England

“Son,” called the former royal chief minister. “Why have you come?”

Gregory Cromwell shuddered as he eyed his old father. Since his arrest four months earlier, Thomas Cromwell had aged and now was a ghost of his former self. Clothed in his black damask robes, he was abnormally lean, having lost much weight during his imprisonment; his pallid cheeks were hollow, new wrinkles crossed his brow and forehead, and the fire of his eyes seemed gone.

“I’m not a minister anymore.” Cromwell’s crooked grin was a pale semblance of his once haughty countenance. “Do I look like a man slipping away, slowly but steadily?”

His shocked son sighed. “Yes. Are you eating anything, Father?”

Cromwell’s expression was impassive, yet his son noted the pulse beating madly against his throat. Immeasurable hatred for the tyrannical King of England overwhelmed Gregory like venom. Implacable and potent, it was suffocating his lungs, and he was helpless in its tight grip. My beloved father has not merited a traitor’s death, the young man thought. He did so many great things for the king and England, but a gruesome end is his reward for all his loyalty.

The cell was not large, dirty, and stuffy. There was a narrow bed, a chair, and a desk with several leather-bound volumes; the bleak light poured in from the small window above the bed.

With a sigh, Gregory stepped to the chair, which his father occupied.

“Gregory,” Cromwell addressed his son. “It was a huge mistake on your part to return to London. You might be apprehended upon the king’s orders. I fear that Norfolk or Surrey might concoct charges against you, even if His Majesty could have forgotten about you.”   

“But Father–” Gregory attempted to contradict, but he was interrupted.

The former chief minister insisted, “Run to one of our estates.”   

The young man knelt in front of his parent’s chair. Taking Cromwell’s hand in his, he bared his heart. “How can I leave you here?  It is a son’s duty to take care of their parents and to defend them from injustice. What a horrible person I would be if I abandoned you?”

Cromwell squeezed his son’s hand, while his other hand patted his hair. “Gregory, I’m so proud of you, of the man you have become. I wish you happiness together with your wife.”

A smile flicked across Gregory’s countenance. “Elizabeth!  If two years ago you had told me that we would find contentment together, I would have laughed. It is a mystery to me how I awakened a strong affection for me in my feisty, haughty wife. With the birth of our son, Henry, we discovered that we cannot breathe without one another. When she got pregnant again, we confessed to loving each other. But when you were arrested, our world was shattered.”   

There was a smile of unutterable relief on Cromwell’s features. “The knowledge that you have found your soulmate is my best consolation, son. Your wife and your mother are namesakes, and I pray that you will have the same true family happiness as one I experienced. Love your wife and children with all your heart, and spend the rest of your days with them.”

“I shall take her and our son to the countryside. Neither she nor I want to return to court.”

“That is the right decision, son. Politics is for those who are interested in power, status, and wealth. You are my opposite: I’ve always been an ambitious man driven by a desire to climb as high as I could, while you have a noble-minded and poetic soul unblemished by infamy.”

After a thoughtful pause, the former minister continued, “I was born in such a poor family that in childhood we sometimes had no bread to eat. When I grew up, I swore that my family would never be hungry again. I was an opportunist in my early adulthood: I traveled through France, Italy, and the Low Countries, where I served as a mercenary, offering my services to those who paid more. In 1515, I returned to England and married your mother. Then I entered Cardinal Wolsey’s service and obtained a seat in the House of Commons as a burgess.”

Gregory’s gaze conveyed admiration. “Your accomplishments are so impressive!”

Cromwell grinned sadly. “I’ve paid a high price for my ascendance to power. At first, I wanted to earn some money and obtain the reputation of a competent advisor to ensure that my family would be well provided for. But the richer I was getting, the more I craved to be influential and prove to all the English nobles that a man of humble origins may become a great statesmen.”

His son looked surprised at his father’s confession. “Did power blind you, Father?”

“Yes. It corrupted me,” Cromwell acknowledged. “A royal court is like a lethal snake-pit, where a false move, caused by moments of frustration or by some mistake, or any crafty enemy might destroy you. Any court is a dramatic place replete with intrigue and treachery.” His hand stroked the younger man’s cheek. “That is why this place is not for you, son.”

“Especially King Henry’s court.” Gregory’s expression contorted in revulsion.

Cromwell looked at the closed door fearfully before his gaze rested upon his son’s face. “Do not say such dangerous things. There are many eyes and ears inside the Tower.”

Gregory lowered his voice. “Do you think the king can spare you?”

His parent’s laugh was a response. “Few people are released from the Tower.” He spoke with tremendous bitterness. “Unlike Anne Boleyn, I’ll not leave my prison alive.”

His son stared at him, furious and powerless. “Why is His Majesty so ungrateful?  You have done so much good for England!  I’ll avenge your fall!  Norfolk, Surrey, and Bryan will pay!”

An agitated Cromwell jerked to his feet, as if he had been struck. Gregory stood up as well.

Gazing into his son’s eyes, the prisoner enjoined, “Gregory, you will do as I’ve commanded. You shall always stay away from politics and court. You shall never work against any English lord, especially the Howards. You will never say any bad thing about His Majesty.”

Gregory countered, “Father, it is my duty to restore justice for you.”

His parent implored, “Let me die in peace, knowing that you won’t follow in my footsteps!”

“I do not want power!” Gregory clamored. “I want justice!”

“Swear on my grandchild’s life that you will not do any foolishness.”

“Father, wanting justice is not the same as yearning for vengeance. It is–” 

The prisoner cut him off strictly and sharply. “Do this. Now.”

Reluctantly, Gregory uttered, “I swear that I’ll not interfere in politics, and I shall not break my vow.” He balled his fists. “But those who brought you to ruin, Father, imperiled their immortal souls, and on the Judgment Day, God will show more mercy to Sodom than to any of them.”

“The soul of every man is in the Almighty’s hands. Leave judgment to Him.”   

“What now?” A weird feeling of premonition crawled down Gregory’s spine.

Cromwell inhaled and exhaled nervously. “You ought to leave.”

Tears welled in Gregory’s eyes. “I love you, Father!”

“I love you too, son.” An affectionate smile warmed his tired features.

Looking at his only surviving child, Cromwell felt as though the world had been broken into countless tiny pieces. They embraced so tightly that they resembled an odd many-limbed creature. As each of them knew that it was their last meeting, the awful realm of opaque grief, where they had both submerged, seemed abysmal, so they could never reach the end and touch its bottom.

After pulling apart from him, the prisoner said, “It is time, son.”

“Father…”  Gregory trailed off as tears streamed down his cheeks.

Cromwell made the sign of the cross on his son’s forehead. “God will protect you. Go!”

This time, the young man obeyed and trudged towards the door. Nonetheless, he paused and murmured with anguish, “I adore you and your achievements, Father. May the Lord bless you!”

As Gregory knocked on the door, the sentinels opened it and let him out, then closed it.

§§§

Lady Elizabeth Cromwell née Seymour awaited her husband outside. The gray silhouette of the Tower loomed ominously above her. The city’s inhabitants gathered in the courtyard, their faces tinged with anticipation of bloodshed. The air was chilly and crisp, but the people continued arriving despite the cold. It was snowing slightly, and cold wind lashed at her from the leaden sky.

A male voice snapped Elizabeth out of her reverie. “Nicholas Carew will be executed soon.”

As Elizabeth swung around, her gaze fell upon her brother’s smug face. “You!”

“Me!” Edward cried arrogantly. “I’m the king’s new chief minister.”

“I see,” she said in a voice laced with astonishment. “How?”

Edward eyed her from top to toe. “Again pregnant?”

“It is none of your business.” She tucked her sable cloak tight around her body to ward off the freezing cold. “Are you going to help your family, Ned?”

He smirked. “Should I drag my relatives out of the dirt?”   

She was fighting to keep a hold onto her temper. “Once you told me that only you and I are smart enough to succeed at court and not to become victims of deadly intrigues.”

His expression was one of condescending superiority. “No woman can be cleverer than man. However, you and I are both people of intellectual pursuits, who have a penchant for intrigues. Nevertheless, right now there is more water in your head than in Jane’s.”

Elizabeth countered, “What an enlightening thing to learn about myself. My words will not surprise you: I strongly disagree with your assessment of my personality and intellect.”

“You used to despise Gregory Cromwell. I’m astounded with your change of heart and your desire to accompany him into permanent exile from court. His charms instilled stupidity into your head. That boy ensnared you in such a way that your previously brightest witticisms now seem to be only banalities. Or is he so good in bed that you quickly fell for him?”

She stepped back from him before hissing, “Do not disparage my spouse!”

Edward arched a brow. “So enamored of that foolish boy?”  

“Gregory is a far better man than you can ever be. He has a heart of pure gold.” Her features scintillated with a blithesome smile as she asserted breathlessly, “Gregory’s noble character was like a tiny ribbon of the most brilliant blue water that ever flowed through the dirty waters of the Tudor court. Once I realized how different from others he is, I fell in love with him.”  

Edward sniggered with dark amusement. “All mankind is divided into those who are able to succeed and those who can be only miserable. Priests nowhere showed greater wisdom than in telling their female parishioners that, being inferior to men, women must obey their fathers and husbands. Once I thought that you are an exception, but love made you worse than the feeble-minded Jane. Only my wife, Anne Stanhope, stands out of numerous obtuse women.”  

His contempt irked Elizabeth far more than his insults could. In childhood, she had adored Edward, having been closer to him than to her other siblings. Now his chilly glare was that of a man corrupted by an insane hunger to dominate the world. When did Edward become so heartless? 

Elizabeth’s face turned into implacable disdain. “There is no subtle feeling in your heart. But love and faith give strength to withstand the most horrendous situations and circumstances. Your life is in such disarray!  In case of your downfall, your spouse might desert you.”

“I’m the king’s most trusted servant!” Edward exclaimed. “I can regret nothing in life!”  

“Once Master Cromwell was the most powerful minister in England. Where is he now?”

“I don’t care about your opinion, sister,” he spat. “Watch your tongue.”

Shivering from the cold, she moved the thread of the conversation to the theme that worried her a lot. “I’ve heard about Jane’s betrothal to the Earl of Northumberland. This man is Anne Boleyn’s former sweetheart, and he must still love her. The king strives to torment Jane.”

“Our sovereign’s wishes are the law.” Edward’s voice brooked no room for argument.

“Protect Jane from King Henry, brother. Be careful, or your success might go to your head.”

Gathering her skirts, Elizabeth raced towards a quay where boats were moored. As she neared the River Thames, she found Gregory on the quay and launched herself into his arms.

She dissolved into tears. “I love you so, Gregory. Never abandon me!”

Her husband pressed her to his chest. “You are the mistress of my heart.”

At last, she parted from him. “How was your visit to Master Cromwell?”

Gregory’s gaze drifted towards the courtyard where the scaffold was surrounded by a large throng. “So many are intending to watch the execution of Sir Nicholas Carew, the Pope’s agent as Norfolk says. However, more spectators will assemble to enjoy my father’s end.”

Elizabeth patted his shoulder. “Don’t think about that, husband.”

“God’s blood, is death so amusing?  Is that why people are eager to see bloody spectacles?”

She wrapped her cloak more closely about her. “Death is a long voyage to the Creator. Your father will display his courage until his last minute, but you do not need to watch that.”

He veered his despondent gaze to her. “I shall not be able to.”

As tears flowed from Gregory’s eyes, Elizabeth brushed them away tenderly. Her husband looked like an angel in mourning. Thirst for wealth and power was the root of evil, which could break anyone’s spiritual world, just as it had ruined Thomas Cromwell’s. My Gregory is different from his father. Not manipulative and corrupt, he cannot hurt others for his own personal gain.

They gasped as someone shouted, “Kill the Pope’s rat!”

Gregory inhaled desperately for air. “Let’s leave this dreadful place.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, my darling.”

The spouses hurried along the quay and boarded a boat. The Thames was not frozen, and when it drifted off downstream, Elizabeth slipped her hand into the pocket of her cloak, curling her fingers around a coin. Then she tossed it into the water, sighing deeply.

“Why?” asked Gregory. “Does it mean something?”

“My mother believes that throwing coins into the water brings gladness.”

He glanced in the direction of the Tower of London, which was receding into the distance. “The pain of losing a parent cannot be drowned even in the joy of having a child. It is everlasting!”

“Without pain, how could we know gladness, Gregory?”

As he touched his wife’s stomach through her cloak, the warmth of their gazes was stronger than any hug. I’ve surrendered to Gregory because he is my true love, Elizabeth mused, her eyes glittering with devotion. Women who entered arranged unions did not open up to their spouses, but she was fortunate to experience a mutual love finer than romances glorified in poems.

§§§

Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, strode across the cell to a window. Escorted by many arquebusiers, Sir Nicholas Carew prodded along the snow-covered path towards Tower Green. The area was literally paved with faces of those who hankered to watch his execution.   

The door banged open, and Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, halted on the threshold. “Did the executions of the pilgrims make Your Grace so willing to watch bloody performances?”

Suffolk swiveled to face him. “Your lordship’s sense of humor is superb.”

“Yours is more acrid.” Surrey crossed to the window and stopped behind the duke.

“Doesn’t Princess Elizabeth need you as her protector, Lord Surrey?”

The earl informed, “I spent several months guarding Her Highness at Hatfield. It was a sheer pleasure for me to be in her company. But the plot against her collapsed, and I have other duties.”

The Brandon upstart looks exhausted, Howard noted to himself. Although Charles occupied quarters for high-ranked prisoners, he had lost weight. His doublet of green brocade, ornamented with pearls, and his matching hose set off his pallor. The spacious room, furnished with a canopied bed and mahogany furniture, attested to the prisoner’s close relationship with the king.   

Turning his head away from his guest, Brandon stared out. The crowd roared curses and insults as Carew mounted the scaffold draped in black cloth. His countenance tranquil and his head held high, his red clothing ensemble necessary to make everyone associate his demise with one of a Catholic martyr. Carew looked down on the human sea without any trace of fear.

To the right from the scaffold was the wooden platform for the peers of the English realm. Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, stood near Archbishop Thomas Cranmer, both of them pleased that the Pope’s agent would be destroyed. Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, Sir Francis Bryan, and Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, kept at a distance from them, their expressions blank.

“Open the window,” Surrey barked. “We shall listen.”

In the next moment, a guard darted towards them, bowed, and complied with the order. The frosty air stung Surrey’s and Suffolk’s faces, but they seemed unconcerned by it.

“It is a bit windy,” Howard noted. “Isn’t Your Grace afraid to catch cold?”

Brandon grouched, “Not after spending here several months.”

The earl jested, “Once the court life made you somewhat effeminate. But the fear of death has a way of creeping into the tiniest crack in your loyalty to His Majesty, don’t you think so?”

“Don’t provoke me,” Charles ground out. “I’ve always been loyal to our liege lord.”

A laugh erupted from the other man. “Life is changeable like weather.”

Carew’s voice caused them to glance at the scaffold. “Norfolk and Hertford,” Carew told the two councilors. “God have mercy on your souls. I forgive you for arranging my downfall.”

“Nicholas Carew,” Herford addressed the throng, “is the vilest traitor to the Crown. Our most benevolent King Henry trusted and loved him. However, this worm betrayed his allegiance to our sovereign by secretly working for Pope Paul the Third. For a long time, he spied for the Vatican and passed on information to our Catholic adversaries, including those whose aim is to depose His Majesty.” He paused for effect and ended with, “But these are not his worst crimes.”

Exclamations of shocked surprise filled the air. Hertford waved his hand for silence.

Seymour voiced the main accusation. “The Pope instructed that traitor to murder Princess Elizabeth Tudor so that the treacherous Lady Mary Tudor, who escaped to Spain, would become the king’s only living child. It was God’s will that we discovered this blasphemous plot.”

This produced a wild roar of hatred from the reformers. Even Catholics, who had signed the Oath only for form’s sake, looked horrified, shaking their heads in disbelief.

“That traitor was sent by the Pope who is worse than the devil!”  

“Carew must pay for his crimes against His Majesty and England!”

“It is a dreadful sin to harm an innocent child!  Carew must die!”

“Princess Elizabeth is just a girl!  She must be protected!”

“The Catholics are corrupted by evil, especially the Pope!”

“The popery must be eradicated from English soil!”

“That Carew dog shall be burning in hell for his treachery!”

“Could Lady Mary order her sister’s death from Spain?”

“Silence!” Hertford bellowed and waited until they quietened down. “Princess Elizabeth is safe!  Today, we have gathered here to oversee the punishment of Nicholas Carew. All those who dare work with the Pope will meet their maker on the block. There will be no exceptions!”

Norfolk interjected, “Let it be known across the realm that every traitor to England and King Henry will follow in this blackguard’s footsteps. Nicholas Carew was stripped of all his titles, and the bill of attainder was passed by Parliament for him. Now proceed with the execution!”

Meanwhile, Suffolk and Surrey observed the competition between Norfolk and Hertford.

“Hertford is too self-assured,” Surrey spewed between clenched teeth.

“Indeed.” Despite his imprisonment, Suffolk knew about Edward’s career progress. “He is overconfident now. Your father, Norfolk, must hate that he is not the royal chief minister.”

Howard cast a sly glance at him. “Aren’t you envious of Hertford?”  

Brandon throttled his ire. “I’m a prisoner. My dreams are about freedom.”

Nicholas Carew said a few prayers, but he did not ask for forgiveness. Then he knelt.

The rich tenor of Carew’s voice carried out over the concourse. “I beseech you all to believe that I die in the Catholic faith that is the only true religion in the world. Everything else is heresy that must be annihilated from the face of the earth through fire and blood. I’ve merited a thousand deaths for signing the Oath because I endangered my immortal soul, but I pray that my compliance with His Holiness’ orders will sway our gracious Lord to forgive me for this sin.”

This was met by condemning cries from the reformers and silence from the Catholics.

Carew repeated in Latin the Miserere psalm, the psalm de Profundis, and the Paternoster. He made the sign of the cross upon the block before kneeling. The executioner severed his head with one clean strike, and as it fell onto a pile of straw, the blood reddening it, it started snowing harder. The Catholics were now in tears, while the others exploded with shrieks of jubilation.

“Many pity him,” the Earl of Surrey commented. “Despite everything.”

“The edifice of the Reformation is fragile,” Suffolk assessed. “The Howards are Catholics, so you must be happy that most of the population have not abjured the true faith.”

Surrey jeered, “Do you really believe in God, Your Grace?”

“And do you, your lordship?  Or are you motivated primarily by lust for privileges?”

The earl closed the window. Flicking his gaze to the duke, he spoke quietly. “Regardless of what we believe in, our lives are in our sovereign’s hands. Our wrong word, move, or glance, and you will be a head shorter. Doesn’t your own case prove the royal fickleness?”

“How dare you insult His Majesty!” As usual, Suffolk defended his royal friend.

Surrey sniggered at the prisoner. “Be smarter in choosing your allies.”

Brandon’s expression changed into confusion. “What are you implying?”

“Fool.” Surrey rolled his eyes. “Hertford has too much power.”

Charles gaped at him. “What are you offering?”

“Think about it.” Surrey extracted a sheet of paper from a pocket of his doublet. “You are aware of Queen Anne Bassett’s passing and Prince Edward’s birth. The king, who still resides at Winchester Castle, wishes to see you. He needs his best friend in the days of grief.”

Disbelief was etched into Suffolk’s features. “Is His Majesty releasing me?”

“Indeed, but he also wants to discuss my cousin Anne’s situation with you.”

Fright flickered in Brandon’s eyes. “What does he know?”

The Earl of Surrey predicted in a sardonic undertone, “From now onwards, your relationship with our monarch will always be like a cat-and-a-mouse game. I do not think he will kill you, but he can have you jailed from time to time to remind you that he is the master of your fate.”

“The Countess of Worcester,” began the Duke of Suffolk. “Is she still jailed?”

Surrey scoffed. “Worried about your former allies?  Lady Elizabeth Somerset, Countess of Worcester, still resides in the Tower. After her arrest, she miscarried, which is her punishment for the false testimony against Anne. Her husband, Lord Worcester, dissociated himself from her.”

“I see.” That was all Suffolk could say on the matter.

“Tomorrow Audley, the former Lord Chancellor, and Lady Worcester will be executed.”

Charles nodded. “I expected that to happen.”

Surrey continued, “Audley and Carew were attained, so their families lost everything. Only Lord Worcester managed to keep his properties, although the Crown confiscated his wife’s own lands. Be extremely careful: you know what might happen to you.”

After handing the parchment to the duke, the earl quitted the cell. Wondering whether he had been proposed to ally against Hertford, Brandon unfolded and read the ruler’s decree.

Now I’m free, the Duke of Suffolk mused with a blend of bafflement and relief. Since his arrest, he had been guessing what the king would do to him. Although Norfolk and Surrey had visited him on rare occasions, he had never been interrogated. Apparently, he had angered his liege lord, which had resulted in his arrest, but his future remained uncertain. Now Charles could leave the Tower, but the last thing he wished was to return to court and see the monarch.

As the image of his lovely wife blazed through his brain, Suffolk’s lips parted, as if he were breathing out his fierce passion for Catherine, which was thrumming through his veins like molten lava. During his imprisonment, Brandon’s memories of his duchess had kept him alive and sane. Charles vowed that if he was pardoned, his love for his spouse would be expressed in his exclusive and chivalrous devotion to her, and that his fidelity to Catherine would be absolute.

Putting the document onto a table, Charles eased himself into a chair. “I’ll return to you, my dearest Cathy. I love you and intend to have you. Nothing on earth can separate us.”   

As his train of thought floated to Surrey’s hints, snakes of terror coiled inside of Suffolk. Had King Henry learned something about Charles’ role in Cromwell’s conspiracy against Anne Boleyn?  As the former chief minister was imprisoned, could Norfolk find evidence against Suffolk as well?  I am so afraid to face my fate that will be determined by the king, Suffolk resolved.

§§§

“His Majesty intends,” began the Duke of Norfolk with a malevolent grin, “to look into my niece Queen Anne’s case. I’ve gathered a great deal of the most credible evidence against you. The king will rapidly realize that you falsified the charges against Anne.”

Norfolk entered the former minister’s cell after the execution had ended. His expression malignant, he towered over the hapless prisoner, who seemed to sag deeper into his chair.

“I’ve expected that.” If Cromwell was shocked, he did not show it.

“At the beginning of March, I’ll preside over your public trial and oversee that you will be exposed as the most diabolical heretic and traitor. My intention is to have you executed on the Solemnity of Annunciation. The snow will thaw by this time, and many will travel to London.”

“Do you want to kill me on a holy day so that my demise is viewed as God’s will?”  

Despite his intense loathing for the man, Norfolk could not deny Cromwell’s logical abilities. “You will die on this religious feast, although you are unworthy of such a great honor.”

Cromwell dived into an ocean of philosophical thoughts. “Earthly wisdom comes naturally to all those who face an awful lot of trials and tribulations with courage. In the meantime, people acquire godly wisdom only if the Holy Spirit considers them the Lord’s true servants. God expects us to live pious lives, but even if we do not, He will be merciful to His children.”

The duke hissed, “Not to a damned heretic such as yourself, Cromwell.”

“At least, I am not a vile papist.” There was no malice in the prisoner’s tone.

“Stand up and pay obeisance to those who are superior to you in station.”   

Cromwell stood up and bowed. “Ah, so angry!  I can still rub you the wrong way!”   

Norfolk warded off the impulse to strangle his adversary. “Cromwell, you were stripped of your titles and offices. The overwhelming majority of your estates were confiscated, save a few of them where your son, Gregory, must retire with his wife. The reason why your son was not attained is that you didn’t organize a plot against Princess Elizabeth, unlike Nicholas Carew.”

“I am grateful to the king for letting my son keep some manors.”

“Cromwell, now you are nothing: worse than a piece of dirt under my feet. I’ll send an invitation to your disgraced son Gregory to attend your trial. Let your son see the fruits of his father’s labors and realize that a blacksmith’s son cannot hold England’s power for long.”   

“Gregory should not return!  He–”  The prisoner broke off, gasping.

“He will,” his tormentor pledged. “He will not miss his father’s trial.”   

Cromwell was now desperate. “You will not harm my son!”

Norfolk’s leer was like a dagger to his heart. “Beg me!  Kneel, you scum!”

To his amazement, the former councilor dropped to his knees. “You do hate me, Your Grace, but my son has never been your enemy. He is far from politics. Let him live in obscurity!”

The duke stepped forward and grabbed his adversary by the hair. “If your son is a clever boy, he will live in the countryside for the rest of his life and never return to court.”

“That Gregory will do,” Cromwell stammered. “He promised me that.”

Norfolk released him. He brushed his hand against the sleeve of his doublet, as if to get rid of the filth that smeared it after he had touched his foe’s hair. “Then your whelp will be well.”

The prisoner stood up. “Enjoy your victory, but the king might murder you later.”  

The duke started for the door. “Even if it occurs, you will not see it.” He then left.

Cromwell strode over to a table and grabbed the dagger that the Earl of Surrey had forgotten in his cell after the recent interrogation. He could not wait until he was exposed as a traitor to the public. His trial would not have favorable consequences for him and Gregory. The most sensible course of action was to rid himself of the shame in whatever way Cromwell could.

“I shall cleanse my conscience,” Thomas told himself, his fingers caressing the blade.

Putting the dagger away, the prisoner picked up the quill and wrote his confession.

Your Majesty,

I, still your most loyal servant, congratulate you on the birth of Edward Tudor, Prince of Wales. My condolences on your loss of Queen Anne Bassett, may God rest her soul.

Duty to Your Majesty and regard for the preservation of my immortal soul command me to entreat your attention. I’ve sinned horribly against Queen Anne Boleyn and the Almighty.

When you got tired of your wife, I did not find any grounds for annulment of your union with Queen Anne. Her betrothal to the Earl of Northumberland was dissolved properly, which is fixed in relevant papers, so we could not use her rumored pre-contract. Moreover, I could see that your subjects did not love Queen Anne, who also became my enemy because she was an obstacle on Your Majesty’s and my path to the total destruction of the Catholic Church in England.

I’m now writing the full confession of my misdeeds. Having allied myself with the Duke of Suffolk, the Imperial Ambassador Eustace Chapuys, Sir Nicholas Carew, and Sir John Seymour, I used the chance to eliminate your former wife from the landscape of English politics and royalty. After browbeating her ladies-in-waiting into supplying me with false testimonies, I manufactured the phony charges against the queen. Lady Elizabeth Somerset, Countess of Worcester, and Lady Anne Braye, Baroness Cobham, were the two main informers against Queen Anne.

Guilt over Queen Anne’s unfair condemnation is twisting my insides. If the Creator decides to make me suffer agonies of hell once I’m dead, I shall gladly accept my punishment for all my sins. Thanks be to God, I do not have the queen’s blood on my hands, which are nevertheless tainted with her brother George’s blood and that of the other innocent men unjustly condemned.

I beseech you to take pity on my son, Gregory. He has never been involved in any plots and intrigues, so I plead with my king that your indignation does not fall upon my boy.  

From the bottom of my repentant heart, I wish Your Majesty and your dynasty to rule our country, free from the Catholic bondage, for long. I most earnestly implore Your Majesty to grant me your clemency, just as I’m praying to the Almighty to atone for my villainies.

Your former chief minister, Thomas Cromwell

Having signed the letter, Cromwell put it on the table, his heart lighter than moments ago.

The monarch’s former main councilor took the blade and plunged it between his ribs, while chanting psalms in English. Jolts of pain shot through him, as though a thousand shards of glass were biting at his body. Then a feeling of triumph that he had aided the king to obtain supreme power by breaking from the Vicar of Rome overwhelmed him. It was Cromwell who had helped eradicate the Catholic Church in England, and future generations would be grateful to him.

“Wolsey,” whispered Cromwell as he tumbled to the floor, a puddle of blood forming under his body. “Queen Anne… Your Majesty… forgive me…”  His vision was getting blurry.

Waves of agony were moving through the prisoner’s body. A quiet scream erupted from his mouth, but Cromwell gnashed his teeth to prevent himself from crying out. Blood leaking out of his wound like molten lava, he found the strength to cross himself before his breathing became shallow. As life was leaving him like a leaking sieve, Cromwell envisaged the green-eyed blonde beauty – his deceased wife, Elizabeth, who extended a hand to him – and he gripped it in awe.  

“Elizabeth,” Thomas Cromwell murmured with contentment. Then he breathed his last.


February 20, 1539, Winchester Castle, Winchester, Hampshire, England

In his study, King Henry lounged in an oak armchair adorned with leaf motifs. His glance darted around the walls swathed in tapestries of King Edward I the Confessor who was the last Anglo-Saxon ruler of England, shifting to the door several times, as if he were expecting someone.

The monarch remained at Winchester after the burial of Queen Anne Bassett. The plans for the funeral had been delegated to the Earl of Hertford and Sir William Paulet. The cortege had delivered the body from Winchester to Windsor. Lady Honor Granville, the late queen’s mother, had acted as the chief mourner. Prince Edward had been taken to Hatfield to Princess Elizabeth.

“Cromwell is dead,” the monarch uttered with a half-vicious, half-amused lilt to his voice.

“Yes,” confirmed the Duke of Norfolk. “He committed suicide in order to avoid his public trial. He also left a letter for Your Majesty that is in fact his last confession.”

“What to do with Cromwell’s body?” enquired Edward Seymour, the new chief minister, directed his chilly stare at the duke, then flicked it back to their liege lord. “Master Gregory Cromwell requests that Your Majesty permit him to bury his father on his own.”

The king voiced his decision. “Have Cromwell’s head severed from the corpse, and then have it displayed on a spike on London Bridge. His remains should be buried in the Chapel Royal of St Peter ad Vincula within the Tower of London, just as it happens to all traitors.”

Hertford smirked. “Gregory Cromwell will be most unhappy to receive such news.”

Henry snarled, “I care not what that boy thinks. He and his wife are banished permanently.”

The earl bowed in obedience. Edward had anticipated that, and it would be the best course of action for his sister, whom he still loved, to stay away from court. “It will be done, sire.”

The Duke of Norfolk interposed, “Cromwell’s letter and the materials I’ve collected prove his treachery.”

Henry was intrigued. “Let me see them.”

Norfolk strolled over to the king’s table and handed the document to him.

After unfurling the parchment, the ruler’s eyes skimmed through the text.

When he finished reading, the monarch remained utterly and wholly mute for a while. His mental sensations alternated between disbelief, confusion, and horror. A tangle of these feelings tore and struck, clawed and bit in a frenzy of wild collisions and emerging contradictions, painting the landscape of the king’s inclination to believe the worst about Anne Boleyn.

The sheet of paper fell to the desk, and the ruler stretched his hand towards a decanter. He poured a goblet of ale and drained it in one draught, wishing for something more potent than ale.

At last, Henry shifted his gaze to Norfolk. “That Boleyn trollop cannot be innocent.” The king’s eyes gleamed with a feverish insanity caused by the revelation of the truth about Anne.

“Sire, please look at the papers.” The duke raised his brows to accentuate his words.

Hertford inquired, “What are they about?”

Norfolk tightened his jaw. “I’ve led the new investigation into Queen Anne’s case.”

“Why don’t I know about it?” questioned the chief minister.  

Henry’s glower fixed upon Edward. “Herford, don’t cross a line.”

Hertford said cautiously, “I am sorry, but I just want to stay informed.”

The monarch ignored his minister. “Norfolk, give the collected evidence to me.”

At Norfolk’s sign, a servant brought a pile of parchments and placed it on the desk.

The ruler bellowed out, “Out!” Bowing, they vacated the room.

During the next hour, the monarch analyzed Norfolk’s documents. Testimonies of Anne’s former ladies-in-waiting claimed that the queen had slept with her brother George Boleyn, Henry Norris, Francis Weston, and William Brereton. However, the dates of her alleged adulteries looked very odd. King Henry recalled that Anne and he had been far from the places where she had supposedly dallied with her paramours. Furthermore, Anne could not have been intimate with any of them in a week or two after their daughter Elizabeth’s birth and after her two miscarriages.

The inconsistency of these dates was not the only reason for the king’s fledgling doubts of Anne’s guilt. In her testimony, Lady Margery Horsman had not only confronted Cromwell about the absurdity of the charges, but had also defended her mistress, having said that Anne had loved Henry so blindly that she had not seen her husband’s faults. The ruler also discovered a letter from Ambassador Chapuys to Emperor Carlos, where he had described their plot with Cromwell, and the mention of Suffolk in this document struck him like an icy wave breaking upon the shore.

Henry re-read Cromwell’s farewell letter again, struggling to believe in it. He placed it on the desk and blew a breath of incandescent fire onto it. A vortex of fury swirled inside him, and the king was not sure that he could continue breathing from the consternation and disbelief that were spreading through him. His lungs, muscles, and thoughts all froze on one unbelievable and horrifying point: Cromwell confessed that he had falsified the charges against Anne.

All these things seem to be true, but I’m not guilty of Cromwell’s crimes, Henry consoled himself. But then his brain refuted the possibility of Anne’s innocence, for the quintessence of her life was lust for power, which was proved by her marriage to King François. The harlot always thought out her every step and word before her sharp tongue began to tease and mock, attracting admirers and stinging foes. Her diabolical allure transformed her admirers into love-struck fools.

“Anne is a traitor!” A fist of hatred for his former queen slammed Henry in the gut. “Even if she was innocent, she committed another worse betrayal – she wed François.”

Since learning about her wedding to François, Henry kept persuading himself that Anne would make the already frivolous Valois court more like a scarlet-hued Eastern harem of the worst lewdness. Yet, ever since his obsession with Anne had taken its roots within his soul, the monarch would have disavowed from the admiration of the whole universe just to steal a kiss from her lips.

The king noticed the Earl of Hertford standing in the doorway; Norfolk was gone.

Henry enquired, “Was Suffolk released from the Tower?”

“Yes, but His Grace retired to his estates,” reported the chief minister.  

“What?” The monarch jumped to his feet with a look of berserk rage. “How does Charles dare disobey me?  I enjoined him to come to Winchester as soon as possible.”

“Should I send guards for him to Westhorpe Hall, Your Majesty?”

“No,” the ruler answered. “He will be banished until I need him.”

“As you command.” Bowing to him, the earl walked out of the chamber.

“Charles has defied me.” Henry barely whispered the words aloud, but it felt like they had been ripped from his throat. “Did he perpetrated the treachery against Anne with Cromwell?”

The ruler eased himself back into the armchair to concentrate on Norfolk’s documents. He had to investigate everything himself, even though he had much to lose lest Anne turned out to be really innocent, although it would be beneficial for the future of Princess Elizabeth.

§§§

Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, strolled with Lady Jane Seymour in the gardens. Each of them felt ill at ease as they meandered through alleys of barren trees silvered with snow. The late afternoon was cold and windy, and the sky was a leaden mass of churning gray clouds.

Percy offered, “If you don’t want to stroll anymore, we may return to the castle.”

Jane wrapped her cloak tightly around her. “It is fine, my lord.”

They stopped beneath a series of old oaks at a small distance from each other. Propping one foot against a fallen branch of some tree, the earl leveled a penetrating look at her, as if wishing to pry into Jane’s innermost thoughts. She averted her scrutiny and heard Percy sigh.

Northumberland requested, “How was it to be married to King Henry?”

Jane observed a squirrel frantically searching the ground for acorns or something else to eat. “Even a simple acquaintance with His Majesty might lead to your untimely death.”

“However, you are alive and in England.” It was unfair that Jane’s union with the monarch had been annulled, while Anne had been accused of abominable things and ejected.

She sniffed. “I would prefer to be exiled on the continent rather than marry you.”

Percy apologized, “I did not mean to hurt you, my lady.”

“Aren’t you the noble one,” she taunted sarcastically, veering her gaze to him. “You married the late Lady Mary Talbot, allowing Queen Anne to become the Scandal of Christendom as your former sweetheart seduced King Henry. She did not love you anymore and fell for His Majesty, while you stepped aside because of the nobility of your heart. Or was it different?”

A scowl marred his features. “Don’t slander Anne!  Never in my presence!”

Nodding, Jane avouched, “I no longer despise Anne Boleyn.”

Northumberland saw only sincerity in his bride’s eyes. “My gravest mistake is that I did not fight for Anne. I should have eloped with her when Thomas Boleyn was forcing her to put herself in the king’s path. But I obeyed my late father and the king and married the late Lady Talbot.”

“History would have been very different, then.” Jane leaned against the oak’s trunk.

“Aren’t you dwelling on what might have been?  On how your life could have gone if King Henry and Queen Anne did not go to Wulfhall, where you caught his eye?”

It surprised Jane that Percy could read her mind. “I cannot prohibit myself from having such musings.” After a sigh, she revealed, “I am a woman who was a tool in the hands of her ambitious relatives, just as Anne was. Try being a woman for five minutes, and you will rapidly discover that a man of the lowest station has more privileges than any female aristocrat does.”

Percy speculated, “Nevertheless, women are the real architects of society. All wars happen because of man’s lust for power, wealth, and women. Clever ladies can rule any man’s mind.”

“That is not my fate. Since childhood, I was told that I could not govern my own life. For years, I remained unmarried because my parents did not arrange a match for me for some reason. However, they were all most delighted when the king courted me and took me as his wife.”

“You wanted the crown.” He was certain of that.

The former Queen of England acknowledged, “I did, but not at such a high price.” A sigh followed. “My mother, Margery, still lives at Wulfhall together with my brother, Thomas, who was expelled from court, but she refuses to ever see me again after my annulment.”

Henry Percy pitied Jane while also blaming her for some of Anne Boleyn’s afflictions. “I’m sorry for your woes, Madame, in particular for the deaths of your sons. However, you brought them upon yourself because of your initial participation in your family’s games. Now you have firsthand experience of being the king’s wife and understand what Anne must have felt when you flaunted yourself in front of our sovereign, ignoring the fact that Anne was pregnant.”

Her eyes glittered. “I was naïve to believe that Anne was guilty. Now I don’t think so.”

If only I had known about Anne’s innocence beforehand, Jane lamented as she exhaled the chilly air. Yet, I believed that she was guilty of multiple adulteries!  They all told me so!  I would never have married His Majesty stepping over rivers of the innocent blood of those executed men. Jane had first suspected the truth after her brother Edward’s words that regardless of what Anne had done or not, she would have been disposed of, if she had not birthed the monarch’s son.

When she had married King Henry, Jane had been confident of her mission to bear a Tudor prince and by doing so, to rescue England from a series of internecine civil wars for the throne in the future. Nonetheless, the Almighty had not blessed her union with the ruler not only with a son, but also with a baby girl. Moreover, Jane had lost her second child in the fashion similar to Anne’s incident after the former Queen of England had walked in on Henry kissing Jane.

Since then, Jane felt guilty for things she had done in the past, and perhaps if Anne had still lived in England, she would have apologized. However, Anne was now the Queen of France, and Jane had no contact with her former rival. Moreover, these days a sense of uncertainty regarding her own marriage to Percy clawed at her insides, making Jane feel too raw and vulnerable.

 Shame colored Percy’s cheeks. “I’ve always known about Anne’s innocence. Yet, I voted her guilty during the trial out of fear that I could have been executed alongside with her alleged lovers. Then I fainted because the stress and guilt of what I did to survive took the best of me.”   

She smiled at the admission. “I am not the only one who sinned against Anne, then.”

Percy’s eyes were doleful. “I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

A chill skittered along her spine. “Will it be a marriage of enemies or friends?”

“I know not, but I want us to get to know each other better.”

“What for?  You must still be obsessed by your former sweetheart.”

The earl swallowed convulsively. “I shall not speak of Anne with you again.”

“How will we cope?” Jane craved to hear reassurances of their bright future from him.

Leaving the words hanging in the air, Henry Percy stomped off down the path they had taken to come to the alley. Jane Seymour followed him, pondering over her unfortunate fate.

§§§

In the afternoon, Lady Maria de Salinas requested an audience with the king. He was not inclined to see her, but he relented because she was the mother of his mistress – Catherine Brandon, Duchess of Suffolk, who had departed to her estates. The Tudor ruler accepted Maria in his private chambers, where walls were draped in old Flemish tapestries depicting the history of Hercules, much to Henry’s pleasure as he viewed himself as this celebrated mythological hero.

“Lady de Salinas.” The monarch rose from his armchair.

She stopped in the middle and bobbed a curtsey. “I must speak to Your Majesty urgently.”

He sauntered over to her. “Such an unexpected visit!”

The blazing fire in Maria’s hazel eyes belied the outward calmness of her once attractive face lined with age. A woman of average height and slim build, she wore an ornately decorated, brown and black brocade gown, tightly pulled at her waist by a golden silk sash. Her long and somewhat grizzled tresses were arranged in a simple bun beneath her plain Spanish hood.

The teenaged Prince Harry had first met Maria in 1501 when she had arrived in England with Catherine of Aragon’s retinue. Having been Catherine’s close friend, Maria had served her with devotion before and after her wedding to Sir William Willoughby, Baron Willoughby de Eresby, in 1516. In 1536, Catherine had passed away at Kimbolton Castle in her friend’s arms.

“My daughter!” Maria asked in indignation, “Why did you make her your slut?”

“Watch your tongue, Madame,” he cautioned. “You are talking to your sovereign.”

She bit back a growl. “My daughter is your best friend’s wife. You broke Queen Catherine’s life, but I shall not let you deprive my Cathy of her happiness. She loves His Grace of Suffolk!”

“You dare speak of that Spanish woman!” Henry started pacing, angered by the mention of his first consort. “Catherine of Aragon was a wanton and a liar!  I know that she was not a virgin when I married her. She said falsehood to everyone.” Halting near the desk, he shook his fist at her. “You, Madame, swore on the sacrament that she was a maid, but you lied.”

Maria lowered her eyes as fingers of fear brushed her skin like a vulture’s wing. A patch of silence swirled around her as the threat of unmasking flowed towards Maria.

“You tainted yourself with these lies. In purgatory, your soul will be burned to cinders.”

She had dreaded this decisive moment for years, but she would not betray Catherine. “These things are products of your imagination, sire. The harlot’s spell over you is still strong.”

Repugnance warped his countenance. “You are lying!  I was inexperienced in amours back then. Over time, I realized that she played me for a fool on our wedding night.”   

She winced. “What of my daughter?”

With exasperation, the monarch ground out, “Our relationship is mutually consensual. It has been kept secret from my courtiers and her husband. Everything else is none of your business.”

Maria’s shoulders sagged under the weight of her disgust towards the ruler. “Modesty and unselfishness!  These virtues are praised by men who nevertheless neglect them.”

He retorted, “The imperfections of man and woman, along with their frailties and faults, are just as important as their virtues. They cannot be separated – they are wedded.”

“Infanta Catherine of Aragon married you after the papal dispensation had been granted.”   

Henry changed the topic. “Your daughter left without my permission. I dispatched two pages to her, but she did not send me any letter. Contact her so that she comes back to court.”

She shook her head. “My Cathy will be with her husband. Let them be together!”

“Get out!” roared the monarch. “Out, you old Spanish harpy!”

Maria dropped a shallow curtsey and scurried out of the chamber.

In an outburst of rage, Henry slammed his fist into the wall. The rage left him because blood splattered against it as he had injured his hand. “Damn all women!”

His life, which had once been a voyage to glory, now seemed to be caricatured on the canvas of England’s history. At this moment, Henry hated all women, in particular his spouses, thanks to whom his marriages had been steeped in many betrayals. For chroniclers, it would be fascinating to write about his reign, but the king was certain that all future generations would sympathize with his matrimonial woes, which had beset him because of Eve’s poison in his wives’ blood.

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope you are all safe and as cheerful as you can be in these difficult days. I'm sorry for the delay in updating the story, but I've been overloaded and depressed as well.

It is not news that Thomas Cromwell's fate was sealed. As I said before, I admire Cromwell's talents and consider him a highly capable statesman and politician. I wanted Cromwell to meet with Gregory one last time because I like Gregory and out of my respect to Thomas. I remember the old poll where most readers answered that it would be better for Gregory to live in obscurity after Cromwell's downfall, so I listened to you – Gregory will live in the countryside. Elizabeth Cromwell, née Seymour, and Gregory are in love and will be happy together.

As for Thomas Cromwell's death, I didn't want his death to be as bloody as it was in history. I also strove to make it unusual, and then I remembered how Cardinal Wolsey died in the show. I am not sure that this twist with Cromwell's suicide is plausible because the group of people with whom I discussed this plotline was divided 50/50% between those who didn't like it and those who approved of it. Eventually, I decided to have Cromwell commit suicide, and I am sure that not all of you approve of my choice, but I still hope that you liked Cromwell-centric scenes.

Thomas Cromwell's letter will be important to have Anne Boleyn's name cleared. It is Cromwell's last confession, and now Henry read it. Of course, Henry will struggle with the idea of Anne's innocence, but eventually, he will realize that Anne never betrayed him. Nicholas Carew is dead, and soon Anne’s other enemies will be executed. The Duke of Suffolk was released, much thanks to his wife’s request to the king, but Charles Brandon did not come to Winchester to meet with Henry and retired to his estates with his wife.

Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, and Jane Seymour will be married after the court's mourning is over. I hope you like this short interaction in this chapter. Jane's mindset changed and is still changing, and now she feels guilty for certain things she did to Anne. Anne and Jane will not meet anytime soon, but in the end they will meet in years to come. Jane's marriage to Percy will be a difficult one, mostly because he is still in love with Anne Boleyn.

We will be back to France in chapter 36. The Italian campaigns will happen soon.

VioletRoseLily and I began co-writing the story called "Entwined by a Golden Alliance", but we are posting it only at AO3. Give it a try, please, and thank you in advance!

I recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91, BellalunaMcKenzie, QueenMaryofEngland, and WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction. Let's make each other smile! Let's review and favorite each other!

Yours sincerely,

Lady Perseverance

Chapter 37: Chapter 36: Allegories in Art

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 36: Allegories in Art

February 28, 1539, Château de Blois, Blois, Loire Valley, France

Princess Marguerite de Valois entered the Saint-Calais Chapel. Her train trailing sweepingly a feet behind her, she sauntered along the nave. The church’s vastness multiplied the sound of her quick footsteps to a significant degree, despite them being as graceful as those of a doe.

She seated herself at the first row of the wooden pews. The chapel’s somber interior, though lavishly covered with colorful frescos depicting biblical scenes and venerated saints, echoed the gloom that reigned in her inner realm. Consecrated in 1508 during the construction of the Louis XII wing at the château, it had become the departed monarch’s favorite oratory in his late years.

“Lord, absolve me of all my sins,” Marguerite prayed as she crossed herself. “I’ve resigned myself to my upcoming marriage to Ferdinand, King of Hungary. Matrimony is a holy relationship that reflects our connection with You, and our acceptance of Your will. Show me how to set aside my selfishness and pride, how to humbly serve you and my country as Ferdinand’s wife. Increase my faith and trust in You, although they rarely waiver, and may Your prudence guide me in life.”

When Queen Anne had apprised her stepdaughter of her father’s plans for her, Princess Marguerite had flown into rage. For weeks, she had been afflicted with grief that she would have to wed a despicable Spaniard – their sworn enemy who had invaded their homeland. The idea of marrying a stranger who was twenty years older did not appall her, but Ferdinand’s family did.

As a princess of the blood, Marguerite had always known that one day, she would have to marry someone for political reasons. However, the man she had imagined in her girlish reveries had been a hero of her romance – a bonny young, charismatic knight, the superior being to whom she would dedicate her whole life. Of the perils which beset teenagers the worst might be their unrealistic fantasies, so they do not guard their hearts against the most inevitable and fatal peril of all – to be disappointed when their parents finally voice the name of their future husband.

Nevertheless, Marguerite had softened towards this matrimonial arrangement after having seen Ferdinand at the Valois court. Despite their age difference, the Habsburg prince turned out to be a handsome man of grand station, dashing in appearance and manner. Much to her father’s and Aunt Marguerite’s relief, she had consented to become Ferdinand’s spouse. Yet, the princess was upset that providence had granted her the fate of being tied to France’s adversary.  

Her mind drifted away from her prayers. Royal marriages are rarely based on love. My dearly departed mother loved my father, who nonetheless never reciprocated her sentiments. Even if spouses fall in love by a miracle, a woman’s heart might be shattered once the marital vows are broken. Men’s infidelity was ordinary and so widespread that it occurred irrespective of a couple’s level of commitment to each other, of their age, status, connections, or occupation.

Fixing her scrutiny upon the statue of Virgin Mary, Marguerite resumed praying. “Blessed Virgin and our Creator, help Ferdinand and me be of one spirit and of one mind, and learn to value one another above our personal wishes, looking out for each other’s interests.”

Absorbed in prayer, the princess did not hear King Ferdinand approach her.

The emperor’s brother eased himself on a pew, but at a distance from her. “As the peace of Christ rests in our hearts, we pray that it will extend to our marriage. Let your blessing rest upon us, and bless us to have contentment within us when we will start living together in unity.”

Marguerite observed Ferdinand saying words of prayer. She caught a fleeting glimpse of a man who believed in the Almighty as fervently as she did. At least, we are both devoted to God, she consoled herself. I shall never indulge in delusions again because there is no way out of my betrothal to Ferdinand. The worst was that she could not forget he was a Habsburg.

Ferdinand crossed himself. As though reading her mind, he pronounced, “Your Highness, I swear that I shall not inflict upon your innocent and noble soul misery, hurt, and shame.”

“Why are you saying that?” a bewildered Marguerite inquired.

They talked in French. It surprised Margot how well Ferdinand spoke it despite his accent.

“I am not a monster, even though I am the emperor’s sibling.” His heart was beating steadily, for he did not love her – at least now. However, he would never insult or torment Marguerite.

For the first time since the princess had learned of her nuptials, her lips curled up into a grin. “Marital infidelity and other betrayals…  Most rulers are always at one extreme or another. This probably matters little unless the monarch finds a soulmate in his wife and falls for her.”

Her wisdom surprised Ferdinand. “Doubtless the right woman for any given man exists in the world. Humans are acquainted with hundreds of people, but out of them all, there are but a dozen whom they know closely, and even fewer who are their good friends. The chances are all against meeting the right person. Nevertheless, I believe that we can find a soulmate.”

His candor perplexed her, but her response was official. “Marriage at best is a compromise. If both spouses are of an uncompromising nature, they might land in trouble.”

Ferdinand lifted from his neck the thick gold chain that secured the disk of his archducal seal – the Habsburg emblem that marked him as an extremely powerful peer in the Christian universe. Removing it over his head, he put it on the pew between Marguerite and him.

“Why?” Marguerite blinked in confusion.

“Power is not as important to me as you believe. In marital life, there is no middle distance: you hate, love, or are indifferent to your spouse. In my marriage to the late Anna of Bohemia and Hungary, we had mutual love. I’ll do my best to ensure that we have an amicable relationship.”

“Really?” Her eyes widened in disbelief.

“Yes,” the king assured with a smile. “Soon we will be linked by a bond that only death will sever. I suggest that we get to know each other better and become friends.”   

Joy burgeoned inside her. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Call me Ferdinand, and I’ll address you by your name.”

Marguerite nodded. “Noble as it may be, it is excessive, considering the circumstances.”

His brows shot up. “What are you implying?  Our arranged marriage?  I am a gentleman, even though you think that all Habsburg men are not courteous towards women.”

“I did not mean to offend you, Ferdinand.”

“Marguerite, I’ll walk from this chapel the richest of men, for you will be beside me.”

An incredible sweep of emotion rushed through her, blocking all else. “When a woman’s mind dwells on one subject for too long, no one can tell how far it will go, so I need to control it.”

After putting on his chain onto his bosom, Ferdinand extended his hand to her. “The mind of all people is a sophisticated instrument, but the heart is a far more delicate one.”

The princess flirted, “Female hearts must be protected by walls.”

“Only by low and crumbling ones,” the monarch retorted.

Their mirthful laughter boomed through the chapel, reverberating from the heights of the ceiling. As they retraced the path along the nave, Marguerite found herself charmed by his dignity and gallantry. Ferdinand promised himself that he would not let his habit of domineering get the better of him, for this princess was feistier than his obedient and even-tempered late wife.

§§§

Dusk descended and shrouded the snow-blanketed valley in a veil of gray mist.

A sumptuous dinner was assembled in the courtroom in the Louis XII wing of the château, where Isabella, Holy Roman Empress, and Ferdinand, Archduke of Austria and King of Hungary, resided. Tonight, Queen Marguerite of Navarre and Queen Anne of France invited them to another intellectual debate, which was Ferdinand and Isabella’s favorite pastime at Blois.

The court had moved to Blois in the Loire Valley soon after King François had departed to Italy a month earlier. The court had returned to Blois for the first time since Queen Claude’s death. Between 1498 and 1503, King Louis XII had transformed the medieval fortress into a majestic royal palace, exhibiting both Gothic and modern Italian features. For Isabella and Ferdinand, who had never been here before, Blois was a chance to explore the depths of French culture.

Queen Anne directed her scrutiny at a window. In the gathering dusk, she discerned a statue of the mounted Louis XII above the entrance. “It is getting dark swiftly.”

“Spring is coming,” Queen Marguerite spoke. “Days will become longer soon.”

Isabella joined the conversation. “And I shall depart to Spain next week.”

“I’ll go to Milan, then.” It was a painful topic for Ferdinand.

Anne mused, “Spring gives a new life and beauty to all that is dead in winter.”

Marguerite chuckled. “It is nature’s way of saying, ‘Let’s have fun!’  Don’t you agree?”

The archduke’s lips curved in a smile. “I begin to feel like whistling.”

A burst of laughter released the tension, reverberating off the walls of the spacious chamber. They were hung with expensive Flemish tapestries on the lives of Jesus Christ and the Apostles. Venetian candelabra, deposited about the room upon marble tables, shone brightly, illuminating the oak furniture, spectacularly ornate and massive, which was polished almost to a gloss.

Marguerite’s spirits soared. “A beautiful body perishes, but a work of art never dies.”

“That is true.” Anne exclaimed, her mood also sublime. “The purpose of art is washing the dust of woes and life off our souls, but most people don’t understand that.”

The empress joined, “Hippocrates said that ’life is short, the art long.’ People age and die, so the very essence of art is to create immortal depictions of human and religious life.”

Though not a worshipper of art, Ferdinand enjoyed such talks. “Without art, the crudeness of reality would make our existence unbearable. At the same time, smart rulers like François and my brother, Carlos, use art for politics: becoming enthusiastic patrons of the arts, they cultivate their reputations of enlightened monarchs and dynasties, often exaggerating their power.”

Anne objected hotly, “At our court, artists flourish and have creative freedom. My husband has invested heavily in education even for commoners, and he is a proponent of tolerance.”

“Can it be said of Carlos?” Marguerite supported her sister-in-law.

The empress squeezed her cousin’s hand under the table so that they could avoid arguments.

“I mostly concur,” said Ferdinand. “Born in Spain, I’ve ruled continental Habsburg holdings for years. I’ve visited many places.” His gaze shifted to the French king’s sister. “Since François’ ascension, France has evolved into a paradise for poets, painters, sculptors, and architects thanks to François and you, Madame Marguerite. In spite of my family’s interest in the arts, Spain, the Netherlands, and our other countries are behind France in a cultural aspect, save Italy.”

A proud Marguerite beamed. “My brother has been striving to make France the cradle of a new intellectual revival that will reshape the world, just as it happened in Italy a century ago.”

In the next moment, Princess Marguerite and a red-haired man entered and closed the door.

Princess Marguerite crossed to the table. “The most peculiar characteristic of an enlightened monarch is whether they use moral philosophy as the guiding principle of statecraft.”

The princess’ companion stated in slightly accented French, “King François has his special moral, religious, and social code of knightly conduct, which Emperor Carlos doesn’t possess.”

Il Rosso, your directedness is a flaw,” Marguerite chastised.

“Only a small one!” The guest laughed, bowing to his superiors.

The Navarrese queen introduced, “This is Messer Giovanni Battista di Jacopo.”

“Known as Rosso Fiorentino,” the man clarified.

Isabella and Ferdinand scrutinized the far-famed Italian artist with interest.

Clad in green brocade, Rosso Fiorentino was a tall man of swarthy complexion, with a clean-shaven face and head full of quite long and flaming hair, his countenance something between mild and severe. In adolescence, he had gained the nickname ‘Il Rosso’ because of his hair color, which was today set off by a black cap plumed with white ostrich feathers. Nearly Marguerite’s coeval, the only lines on his face were those of iron character, and his keen blue eyes were undimmed.

“Join us!” invited Marguerite. “Ah, I can feel artistic spirits in the air!”

“They are soaring higher and higher!” Fiorentino took a seat beside his patroness.

They smiled at his joke. Princess Marguerite eased herself into a chair beside her betrothed.

The empress, as well as the Queens of France and Navarre watched the couple smile at each other, rejoicing that Ferdinand and the princess seemed to be finding common ground.

The servants hurried to light more candelas and serve freshly cooked dishes. Anne and her sister-in-law had opted for a mixture of French, Italian, and Spanish cuisine for their guests.

Taking a small sip from a jeweled goblet, Marguerite of Navarre explained for the sake of Ferdinand and Isabella. “Il Rosso is one of the talented geniuses who have worked at Château de Fontainebleau. Under his leadership, the Art School of Fontainebleau is flourishing.”   

Fiorentino smiled. “I had my best creative juices spill out at Fontainebleau. King François asked me to apply the most fanciful Italian architectural elements. Now there is a great deal of stucco in moldings, picture frames, and decorations of walls and ceilings. However, I consider a sophisticated system of allegories and mythological iconography my best achievement.”   

Anne was eating salmon. “The rich decor symbolizes the nation’s magnificence.”

Fiorentino gulped wine greedily. “My intention was not only to highlight the magnificent and strength of the Valois monarchy, but also to remind everyone of great times of the past. Artists use stucco in the decoration schemes of ancient cultures, and the whole of France’s modern artistic movement establishes the rediscovery of classical Greek and Roman culture and humanism.”

Isabella put a chunk of meat into her mouth. “Messer Fiorentino, the splendid interior in the François the First gallery at Fontainebleau took my breath away. I especially loved the fresco ‘Royal Elephant,’ which, I guess, is an allegorical tribute to France’s sovereign.”

Fiorentino gathered a lot of porpoises, lampreys, and salmon onto his plate. “The gigantic and elongated Elephant celebrates the virtues of King François, representing his wisdom and his might. It is an artistic prototype that also signifies the elephants of Roman triumphs.”

Ferdinand collected different types of meat onto his platter. “Messer Fiorentino, apart from being an artist, you design costumes and scenery for masques. You also created triumphal arches and decorations for François’ triumph in Paris after the Imperial invasion.”

“I did, Your Highness,” a surprised Fiorentino croaked.

Ferdinand recalled, “While being François’ hostage, the commandant of my castle kept me informed of major events in Europe. I am as the most enlightened captive of all times!”

This earned another burst of laughter from those in attendance.

Princess Marguerite regarded her fiancé with amusement. “Ferdinand, I’m glad that you did not lose your humor during your forced and long sojourn in our country.”  

“Humor is one of mankind’s blessings,” riposted Ferdinand.  

Queen Marguerite bent her head to Queen Anne. “They seem to be getting on well.”

“That is great,” Anne murmured. “I was afraid it would be otherwise.”

Fiorentino raised his goblet. “To the happiness of King Ferdinand and Princess Marguerite!”

Empress Isabella intoned, “To the wedding of a Habsburg and a Valois!” Her scrutiny flitted over Anne and Marguerite of Navarre. “To the peace between Spain and France!”

“To their wellbeing.” Marguerite did not share the empress’ optimism that this union with a member of the royal family hostile to the Valois would guarantee peace. François and she had other objective – they strove to drive a wedge between the Habsburg brothers.

Anne’s reaction was reserved as well. “To François’ impending victory in Italy!”

“To François and France!” Fiorentino and the two Marguerites echoed.

Isabella and Ferdinand muttered, “To peace.” They both felt uncomfortable at the thought of what would soon transpire in Italy, even though they had agreed with François’ terms.

Ferdinand’s question dissolved some of the tension. “Messer Fiorentino, which extravagant grotesqueries did you use at Fontainebleau?  I’ve never been there, so I want to know.”

The artist swallowed a piece of salmon. “They include scrolls, trophies, garlands, goddesses, nymphs, gods, armory, and putti. I ensured that the Gods of Olympus on each of my frescoes in the François the First gallery have features similar to those of our great Knight-King.”

“They all glorify François.” Isabella popped a piece of haddock into her mouth.

“Most definitely!” Rosso Fiorentino had a deep respect to and profound admiration for the French ruler. “After the Sack of Rome over ten years ago, I was deprived of all my possessions.” He stilled, glowering at Isabella and Ferdinand, but then his countenance regained its blankness. “I could not return to my beloved Florence because the Medici family were briefly deposed following the events in Rome. So, I went to France almost a beggar, and I was fortunate to secure a position at the Valois court three years after the horrible bloodbath in Rome.”

“I cannot condone the Sack of Rome,” Ferdinand supplied in most sincere tones. “I did not participate in the disaster. I wrote a letter to Carlos, urging him to stop the madness in Rome, but in vain. I suspect that Carlos did not order the Constable de Bourbon to prevent the Imperial troops from invading the city because he wanted to control the late Pope Clement the Seventh.”

Anne’s good mood immediately evaporated. “In order to bully the Pope into declaring King Henry of England’s marriage to the late Catherine of Aragon legal and valid.”

Ferdinand emptied his goblet. “I know less of my brother’s deals than you think.”

“Same here.” Isabella’s face twisted with unease. “But I begged Carlos to stop it.”

Marguerite of Navarre and Anne shared glances of understanding. Now they comprehended that even the emperor’s beloved wife had less influence over Carlos than they had anticipated.

The King of France’s daughter led them away from trouble. “Il Rosso, will you consent to work at Ferdinand’s court in Vienna after our wedding if we offer lucrative commissions?”    

Regret shadowed Fiorentino’s expression. “I’ve been in ill health as of late.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ferdinand interposed.

Princess Marguerite echoed, “I wish you a speedy recovery.”

The Navarrese queen said, “My friend, my doctor will examine you.”

Queen Anne flashed a resplendent smile. “I have an announcement.” Her smile widened like a bud opening to a bright sun. “I’m pregnant again, due sometime in August.”

Princess Marguerite broke into laughter. “I’ll have another sibling soon!”

“Congratulations!” chorused Isabella and Ferdinand.

Anne’s hand instinctively flew to her stomach. “We will have our Augustine!”

“Augustine?” Isabella was astonished. “It is not a typical French royal name.”

Anne clarified, “My husband and I selected this name a long time ago.”

“In honor of the Roman Emperor Augustus,” presumed Ferdinand.

“Indeed.” Anne nodded. “Augustus brought the great Pax Romana to the Roman Empire.”

Marguerite of Navarre confessed, “We have known about it for a month, but we wanted to keep Anne’s condition secret for some time, although we sent a letter to my brother.”

The empress was happy for Anne. “François must be joyful.”

“Yes, he is.” Anne added quietly, “I pray that France will have a new prince.”

Her sister-in-law appeased, “The gender matters not to my brother, Anne.”

“It does matter now,” the French queen contradicted in a voice layered with anxiety. “It is immensely important that the country has another male heir after the loss of two princes.”

A funereal silence ensued. It contained the grief of the Valois family, as well as Ferdinand’s and Isabella’s guilt lest Carlos was complicit in the latest plot against Anne.

Fiorentino broke the silence. “Art commemorates our departed loved ones. I shall create a joint portrait of the late Dauphin François, Dauphin Henri, and the late Prince Charles.”  

Princess Marguerite was chewing her spiced herring. “In my brothers’ memory.”

Marguerite of Navarre nodded. “François would approve of this idea.”

“When will you start, Messer Fiorentino?” Anne started eating cinnamon-spiced heron.

“As soon as possible.” The artist feared that he would die before finishing the work.

The rest of the meal was spent in gastronomical exploration as servants served more victuals. Born in Florence, Rosso Fiorentino thrived in discussions of the Florentine Renaissance, just as the Queen of Navarre and the Queen of France did. Everyone refrained from asking any personal questions, preferring to dive further into the captivating communication about culture.


March 7, 1539, Château de Blois, Blois, Loire Valley, France

The spring sun had flooded the valley, and the snow on the palace’s roofs was thawing in steady driblets. Vivacity was returning to inhabitants of the François I wing, where the French royal family and most courtiers resided. However, the Louis XII wing remained gloomy, perhaps because Isabella and Ferdinand, who lived there, were not in an animated frame of mind.

His mind churning with thoughts, King Ferdinand walked through the corridor. As he saw the Imperial ambassador, Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle, at the other side of the hallway, he steeled himself against the inevitable unpleasant encounter he would prefer to avoid. Ferdinand detested this man and some of Carlos’ Flemish councilors, although most of them admired him.  

Granvelle stopped in front of Ferdinand and eyed him, as if looking for injuries.

“Your Majesty!” the ambassador exclaimed in Spanish. “You are unscratched!”

Ferdinand laughed inwardly as he answered, but in Flemish, “Granvelle, let’s speak in your native tongue. No one caused me any harm during my days in France. Don’t worry about me.”

Granvelle quizzed, “Empress Isabella managed to get you out, didn’t she?”

“She did.” The monarch tipped a nod. “You can report to Carlos that I am faring well.”

“There is a rumor that you are betrothed to young Princess Marguerite.”

“That is true,” confirmed Ferdinand. His heart hammered as he envisaged his young bride. “I am a widower, and Princess Marguerite will be a lovely spouse for me.”

Granvelle’s eyes widened. “Your Majesty cannot marry into the House of Valois.”

“Why?” Ferdinand knew the answer in advance. “I am a monarch!  I can choose my queen.”

“His Imperial Majesty would not approve of that.”

“Because of the enmity my brother feels for France and the Valois family.”

They looked around. The curious courtiers were beginning to gather around.

Granvelle pointed out, “All marriages must be made for the benefit of the Habsburgs.”

Ferdinand lost his patience, but he kept the airs of cool politeness. “Granvelle, tell my brother that I love him and will remain loyal to him in everything I can. Nevertheless, there are certain things I have to do for my own freedom and for myself since Carlos abandoned me.”

The emperor’s brother swiveled and stomped away towards his apartments.

§§§

“Oh, Henri!” Diane de Poitiers groaned as her lover captured her lips with his.

“Diane, mon amour!” The Dauphin of France slid his arm around her waist.

Henri pushed his mistress to a canopied bed hung with blue brocade curtains, lined in black silk. Decorated with wall and ceiling frescoes of Penelope and Odyssey’s story from Homer’s Iliad, the dauphin’s bedroom was colored with shades of a longing akin to one that Penelope and Odysseus always felt for one another. Diane leaned against the wall adjacent to the bed, and Henri stepped to his lover, then pinned her arms above her head and impatiently entered her.

“Be with me, Diane!  Please!” Henri slanted his mouth over hers for a kiss of such passion that it stole what little breath remained to his paramour. “You cannot belong to any other man!”

“I shall not,” panted Diane against his mouth. “Never, my Henri.”

In a frenzy of his ardent desire, Henri drove into her with a ferocity and perfection that held Diane in a thrall of primeval passion. Have I fallen in love with him?  she questioned silently. I should control my feelings. Yet, I am hopelessly wrapped in the chains of my own heart because I’ve grown too attached to Henri. At last, with a feral-sounding growl, he froze for a moment, and the erotic heat burgeoned inside of the lovers, pleasure washing over them in abundance.

“Henri?” she called in a hoarse whisper. “Let’s go to bed. I am tired of standing.”

Lifting his head from her shoulder, he consented, “Everything for you, ma chérie.”

Their clothes were on the floor near the bed. Then he assaulted her with caresses again, and she responded in kind. When Henri’s flesh penetrated hers and when blindness of pleasure flapped down from overhead to envelop them both, Diane kept herself detached despite being in the throes of passion. With effort, she resisted his charms, despite her burning desire to love and to be loved in return, and, although she writhed in ecstasy under his muscular form, her heart still guarded.

Henri covered their sweaty bodies with a blanket. “I love being with you so much, Diane. When I touch you, the world seems to be whirling madly around me.”

“You have all of me, Henri.” She pressed herself to his body.

He confessed with disgust, “I kissed Catherine during our dreadful encounters. But my pulse is never beating fast, and my heart never flutters in joy when she is in my bed.”

Diane whispered into the dim shadow of his neck. “Catherine is your wife, and you have a duty to her. You must impregnate her, and to do so, you must regularly bed her.”

Frustration creased his brow. “That Medici creature might be barren.”

“Doctor Fernel does not think so. Will Catherine come to your bed tonight?”

“Yes, my page will summon her to my rooms in a few hours.”

Diane reclined on the pillows. “I want to watch you together.”

At this, the dauphin gaped at her. “What?  You must be joking.”

“No, I am not. I shall show you several poses that might help conception. You need a male heir as much as one needs air to breathe, Henri. It is my duty to interfere.”

The dauphin’s throat felt like vomiting. “Diane, don’t make me do that.”

“Queen Anne is pregnant again and may have a son. You need a son as soon as possible!”

Henri surrendered, albeit reluctantly. “Fine. I trust your advice.”

The intensity of their subsequent encounter washed away his displeasure. Henri was certain that Diane’s caresses were proof that her spiritual world was allied with his whole being forever. The lovers spent the whole day in bed, making love and chatting merrily until dusk.  

§§§

“Good evening,” Dauphine Catherine started as she walked in the antechamber.

The taciturn Dauphin of France watched the sunset from a window.

“Henri!” His wife crossed to him and curtsied.

The dauphin’s doublet of brown brocade accentuated his broad shoulders, his legs muscular from days in the saddle shown off with silken hose of the same color. His face was turned askance, mostly hidden from her view, representing for his wife a mixture of realism and illusion as he was close to her and yet someone abstract due to Henri’s tremendous emotional distance.

Catherine kept staring at him with morbid fascination before she lurched to the window and halted beside him. “The depth and significance of every human action can be understood if one realizes that the human soul mirrors the actions and relations of the universe itself. Henri, let some warmth enter our relationship, and our whole world will become brighter.”  

He avoided looking at her. “Is it the same cosmic unity that was spoken about by humanists such as those associated with Marcilio Ficino’s neoplatonist Florentine Academy?  Evidently, you were taught philosophy, just as all descendants of Lorenzo the Magnificent.”  

The reference to her Medici ancestors warmed her soul. “My great grandfather, Lorenzo Il Magnifico, was a celebrated patron of the arts. Are you interested in his cultural heritage?”

“My tutors taught me philosophy and culture, including Italian one – I admit I like it.”

Catherine enthused, “So, you understand that we can reach a unity of our hearts and souls.”

“Too much philosophy ruins human life, Madame.”

“We can be happy together.” Nevertheless, her hope was waning like snow in spring.

“Impossible.” This word twisted her stomach into painful knots.

Footsteps were approaching, and a feminine voice called, “Henri!”

Catherine’s heart clattered to a stop as he breathed excitedly, “Diane?!”

In a handful of heartbeats, Diane de Poitiers emerged from the dauphine’s bedchamber like a majestic deity from the Mount Olympus. Her exquisite gown of black and white brocade had unusual sleeves made of the sheerest, flimsiest white fabric Catherine had ever seen.

An angry Catherine upbraided, “Henri, you invited me to your rooms, but she is here.”

Madame de Poitiers contrived to look both guilty and haughty. “Forgive me for intruding, Henri. I did not know that you are not alone, and that your wife would appear so early.”

“You should have come an hour later, Catherine,” Henri grumbled.  

“Diane ought to leave.” Although Diane’s expression was angelic, Catherine was sure that the harlot was showcasing her accomplishment – the dauphin bedded her regularly.

Diane stepped to the dauphine, but remained at a small distance from him. She did not bother with addressing the Italian daughter of merchants, as Diane labeled Catherine in her mind, by her title. “I’ll help you perform your duty to His Highness. Doctors say that you are healthy, but you have failed to conceive so far. I want to share my invaluable experience with you.”

A scandalized Catherine glowered at Henri in shock. “You will not allow it, husband!”

“I shall, and you will obey me,” barked the dauphin. “Being a mother herself, Diane knows things which neither of us is aware of. Her advice will help you conceive if you are not barren.”

Ire swirled in Catherine, a tempest of her disappointments in her marriage. “Of course!  Your strumpet is older than you and me. Therefore, she is so knowledgeable of sensual intricacies.”

Henri spat, “Don’t insult Diane, you merchant!  Unlike you, I’m not a commoner.”

Catherine hissed disdainfully, “Henri, you are a mighty prince of France. You ought not to allow anyone to wrap you around their finger, yet you are completely under her thumb.”

Her husband glared at the Medici girl as if she were the most appalling insect in the universe. “Do as I order. Or I may throw you out.” He stomped away into his bedroom.

Diane strutted over to the younger woman. As if to torment her humiliated rival, she circled Catherine and inspected her. The dauphine’s gown of red damask was not modest: it was eccentric, the tops of her small breasts almost visible and her swarthy shoulders bare. The gauzy satin pleated under the bosom with a girdle of massive diamonds. Catherine’s necklace of rubies matched her dress and her earrings; her hair, arranged on the nape of her head in a bun, was perfectly in place.

“Such sultry French elegance,” assessed Diane critically. “Not Italian one. Is it an attempt to charm your husband?  But he was not impressed because his heart will never belong to you.”

“You are a slut!” Catherine ground out between clenched teeth.

The mistress whispered, “And a murderess of two princes, just as you are.”

“Speak quietly!” The dauphine’s voice was layered with terror. “What are you doing?”

Diane circled her again. “I’m simply reminding you of that. We are distant cousins, right?”

“Yes.” Catherine demanded, “Stop staring at me!”    

“We are a family,” the dauphin’s paramour concluded brusquely. “We both have a few sharp edges, and neither of us has made it easy for the other to live. By my soul, I’m not ashamed to say that I’ve enjoyed your husband’s affections. You and I have both always tried to protect Henri.” Diane ended with, “Catherine, I quite like you, and I would not wish any other princess to take your place lest His Majesty decides to find a new wife, young and beautiful, for Henri.”

“No!” Fright shadowed the dauphine’s mind, pushing away all her misgivings.

“If you do not want the king to seek for the annulment of your union with Henri, you should follow my recommendations. It is in our mutual interest that you birth Henri’s child.”

Catherine sighed. “You know something that I don’t?”

Diane’s wide grin was both jaunty and vexatious. “It is a boon for you that an older woman such as myself with experience in amours is concerned about your future.”

“You care only about your power.” Catherine’s guess was largely correct.

“For our power,” stressed the mistress emphatically.

Without waiting for an answer, Madame de Poitiers strode into the bedchamber. Her legs trembling, the Dauphine of France trailed behind her, cursing the prince’s paramour silently.

As Catherine eased herself on the bed, Henri began to lift her skirts.

“No,” Diane’s voice cut through the awful silence. “Catherine ought to stand on her fours when you, Henri, enter her from the back. Then your seed will penetrate her womb more deeply.”   

Catherine gasped. “That is vulgar.”

At this moment, Diane pitied the Medici woman who had absolutely no idea how pleasurable intimacies could be. “There is nothing shameful in physical love, Madame.”   

“Nothing… for sluts,” the dauphine spat.

“Shut up, you both!” Henri bellowed. “Or I will not be able to–”  He broke off.

Diane walked to Catherine. “I’ll help you get rid of the gown.”

“Quickly.” The dauphine stiffened as the mistress touched the laces of her dress.

Henri settled himself into an armchair next to the bed. His nerves on the edge of breaking, he observed his paramour swiftly undress his wife. “When have you started liking French fashions, Catherine?  I wonder whether the rest of the Medici family prefer such revealing clothes.”

Catherine shut her eyes not to see the prince’s vitriolic expression and his paramour’s caustic grin. To all those who wanted to find love, her situation could be intensely interesting and pathetic – Catherine believed that Henri was her soulmate and adored him with all her dark heart, but he detested her with every fibre of his being. How do devoted wives deal with their husbands’ indifference?  Will I have to pass through struggles of hell in my marriage for the rest of my life? 

Catherine’s gown tumbled to the floor. Torrents of hot air from a nearby fireplace caressed her skin under a white silk chemise, and Catherine’s body tingled with apprehension of what would happen next. She would have to sleep with Henri in the presence of her foe, Diane, also her secret ally. But life debases the weak and wrestles with the strong, and Catherine was the latter.

“Now! Do as I said.” Diane’s unemotional voice sounded like a judge’s death verdict.

Her whole being overflowing with shame, Catherine stood on her fours and pressed her face to the bedcovers. Henri climbed onto the bed, unlaced his hose, then pulled her chemise up and invaded her body with one hard stroke, seating himself fully inside her. As he pumped into her, he submerged Catherine into a lake of ineffable emotional trauma; the very man who ought to love her as a husband was experimenting with her in bed for the sole purpose of procreation.

“The seed should go as deeply as possible,” underscored the prince’s paramour.  

As Henri spilled himself into his wife, Diane recommended that they try another pose. At the sound of the voice of her husband’s lover – chilly, commanding, and flat, like a piece of stone, the scarlet haze of agony and rage swelled inside Catherine, bubbling and building to a roar that she scarcely stifled when Henri compelled her to change the pose and slid into her again.

As he reached his second release, Diane commented, “You need to copulate in these two poses until you, Catherine, get pregnant. I’ll also give you, Henri, more recommendations.”

Feeling uncomfortable, Henri laced his hose. “Come to me later, Diane.”

“I’m always at your disposal, Your Highness.” Diane then glided out of the chamber.   

Catherine snapped indignantly, “Henri!  How can you love that worthless trollop?”     

He sprang to his feet. “Get out before I return!  I do not wish to see you again today!”

“You cannot love her!” the dauphine persevered.

Unutterable longing for his mistress dwelt in the dauphin’s gaze focused on the door where Diane had just walked out. “Diane is a woman in every sense, unlike you.”

“You know neither her nor me.” This left his lips before Catherine could restrain herself.

Paying no attention to her, Henri vacated the room. Catherine buried her face into her hands and wept, for their squabble symbolized the poignancy of his affection for Diane. The dauphin had no idea that his two women were demonesses transformed by evil arts into dreadful dragons.

§§§

Queen Anne and Empress Isabella were touring through the château. The emperor’s wife admired rich tapestries depicting mythological subjects and legendary personages from Virgil’s, Homer’s, Sophocles’, Euripides’, Ovid’s, and other works of Greek and Roman authors.

“In French palaces,” Isabella commenced, “I’ve found myself in the heart of a colorful show of ancient times, which evokes famous moments of history in our everyday lives.”

“True,” Anne agreed. “My husband, François, brought the Renaissance to a previously dark France. Without a shadow of a doubt, he is the most enlightened monarch of the era.”

They halted near the windows opening to the inner courtyard. From here, they could see a majestically ornate spiral staircase located in the middle of the François I’s Wing, which had been built between 1515 and 1524. In silence, Anne remembered how she had seen King François, appareled in magnificent blue raiment, for the first time there with Queen Claude at his side.

Anne’s ladies-in-waiting stood away from the two women to let them have privacy.

The empress asserted, “In both Spain and Portugal, the Renaissance began in the last decades of the previous century thanks to my grandparents – Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon. After the unification of Castile and Aragon with the former emirate of Granada, the Iberian style was mixed with the Flemish one, but the new style was still influenced by Moorish culture. As a result, our own Renaissance was born in Spain, which the late Queen Isabella called Plateresque.”

“That means ‘in the manner of a silversmith,’ if I am not mistaken.”

Isabella was not surprised than the other woman knew such things about her country. “The modern Spanish architecture represents an eclectic blend of exotic Mudéjar, flamboyant Gothic and Lombard decorations, as well as Italianate elements of Tuscan origins.”

“The Florentine influence!” exclaimed Anne, who adored the Florentine school of art. “The great cultural revival that signified the world’s departure from the Middle Ages began in Florence because of Lorenzo Il Magnifico’s patronage of numerous talented artists. Then the revival spread across Italy, embracing Rome, Venice, Milan, and other parts of the peninsula. My husband made it widespread in France, where it affected many aspects of science, the arts, and everyday life.”

Isabella profoundly enjoyed their intellectual debate. “Just as Lorenzo Il Magnifico did,   King François rightfully deserves to be called François Le Magnifique. Even though the French cultural revival traditionally extends from the French invasion of Italy in 1494, it was François who ensured that the rebirth of the entire nation in an artistic aspect took place.”

Anne was as pleased with the fair praise of her husband as an ambitious politician would be of getting privileges such as career advancement. “Emperor Carlos,” the queen began neutrally, “is quite fond of the arts. His patronage of Almazan de Covarrubias, Pedro Berruguete, Paolo da San Leocadio, Juan de Juanes, and other artists encouraged them to create notable works.”

The empress tipped her head. “Carlos commissioned some works from Titian, too. Despite his promise to create my portrait, the painter unfortunately refused to relocate to Spain.”

Anne thought that she should ask François to commission her own portrait from one of their court painters. “That is a testament to emperor’s feelings for you, Madame. You must miss him.”

“Isabella,” corrected the empress. “We can drop annoying formalities.”

The other woman nodded, though hesitantly. “Yes, we can.”

Isabella grinned. “I miss my spouse as much as you seem to miss yours.”

Anne’s response was a reserved smile. “I suppose so.”

Discussing cultural achievements of France and Spain, Anne and Isabella walked down the corridor. Followed by their ladies, they passed through a gallery with more frescoes and classical sculptures. The hallways were intricate, twisting and turning, with several smaller corridors jutting off at odd angles. As salamanders, the emblem of King François, appeared on the walls, Isabella realized that they entered the François I wing, where the French royal family resided.  

In the main gallery, the two queens encountered Dauphin Henri, who bowed to them.

Henri uttered courteously, “Good evening, Your Imperial Majesty and Your Majesty.”   

“It is my pleasure to see Your Highness,” Isabella greeted with a sincere smile. “You have grown up so!  Unfortunately, I’ve rarely seen you during my sojourn at your court.”

“Time does not stop.” The dauphin eyed Isabella frostily. “Madame, you were kind to my late brother and me during our imprisonment in Madrid. I’m grateful to you, but I do not wish to have a close contact with any reminder of those days.” He then nearly darted away.

Pinpricks of guilt assaulted Isabella. “If only I could have prevented their captivity!”

“You could not,” underscored Anne. “It is pointless to regret the past.”   

“Indeed, we must focus on the present. I’d like to talk to you, Anne.”

“I hope this conversation with have a liberal dose of shock, Isabella.”

Anne’s attempt at joking made the empress laugh. “It will be just a friendly chat.”

Through the maze of halls, each decorated with splendid frescoes, statues, and paintings, Isabella and Anne arrived at the long corridor that led to the French queen’s quarters.

§§§

Finally, the two royal women reached their destination. Pushing open the oak door adorned with the Valois arms, Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant, let them in.  

“Welcome to my apartments,” Anne told her fellow queen. Swiveling to her maids, she instructed, “Stay here, all of you. Do not disturb Her Imperial Majesty and me.”

Leaving the ladies in the antechamber, Anne led Isabella into her bedchamber.  

Anne shut the door. “Only here we can be sure that we will not be overheard.”

The empress looked around. “Not a humble room at all, Anne!”

Isabella saw an imposing canopied bed draped in cloth of gold, and on its headboard carved cherubs with wings. Curtained by tapestries of purple damask, it stood in an alcove between two marble columns. The pieces of expensive and gilded furniture were designed for both effect and comfort, reflecting the blaze of candles and a fire in the hearth decorated with salamanders.

On the vaulted ceiling, there were a series of frescoes depicting ancient heroes, supported by a sculpture of phoenix rising from the ashes. The interior’s decoration was Italian in style: marble wainscoting in window embrasures, tables of gilded wood and mosaic, panels of marble, and doors of repoussé bronze. Two walls, paneled with black marble, were hung with artworks by Botticelli, Michelangelo, Perugino, Ghirlandaio, and Parmigianino. The gilded initials ‘AR’, which meant ‘Anna Regina’, were scattered around the two other purple-brocaded walls.

Impressed, Isabella observed, “You live in an artistic realm.”

Anne loved her quarters a great deal. “I adore this glorious splendor. No one occupied these rooms before; not even Queen Claude, for whom François refurbished Château de Blois years ago to move here from Amboise. These apartments were modeled especially for me.”

They eased themselves into two gilded armchairs, thinking about pressing problems.

Despite such a beauty around her, Isabella failed to slow her racing mind. Ferdinand is free, but France and Spain remain enemies, she ruminated morosely. Anne has influence over François, so she may persuade him to live in peace if his plans in Italy come to fruition. The thought that she was aware of the scheme invented by Carlos’ foes sent a pang of guilt through her.

After a pause, Isabella spoke. “It is not worth confronting the old ghosts, even if years have not erased them. Hatred has a detrimental impact on a person’s wisdom and conscience.”

Anne inclined her head. “The enmity poisons one’s spirit and leads to lethal struggles. The emperor’s antagonism towards François resulted in the invasion of France and deaths of numerous French men. This cannot be forgotten, just as my husband’s Spanish captivity cannot be.”   

The empress emitted a sigh of frustration. “You are right, of course. And yet, just as hate begets hate, and violence begets violence, peace begets peace while love begets love.”

An ashen shade of anguish tinted Anne’s cheeks. “I was at Chamerolles when the emperor attacked. Blood gushed, men fell on both sides; the air was filled with the natter of quarrelling steel and screams of agony. It was far more frightening than scenes of battles on tapestries and paintings: it was a sheer pandemonium, the sights of which could make the bones pop like twigs.”

In a halo of melancholy about her, Anne continued, “The Greek tragedian Aeschylus in his ‘Agamemnon’ said that ‘to die with glory is a blessing for all mortal men’, but I disagree. Although dying on the battlefield after slaying hundreds of adversaries is considered honorable for a knight, I see no glory in this because of countless deaths. At Chamerolles, the cleaning of the field in the aftermath of the battle was not enough to delete those moments from my memory.”   

“I’ve never seen war, or experienced horrors similar to those you have described.”

Anne peered at the fine copy of the ‘The Last Supper’ by Ghirlandaio. “Our court painters copied this painting from the Florentine San Marco’s refectory. ‘The Last Supper of Jesus and the Twelve Apostles’ is such a popular subject in art. Perhaps it is so because after the meal, Christ was betrayed, arrested, tried, and then crucified. Almost everyone is capable of treachery.”

The empress beheld the same painting. “Jesus is sharing the bread and wine, which shows His plea to His disciples to consider themselves part of a sacrifice. We must sacrifice for peace.”

“The Last Supper predicts the betrayal of Jesus, while also foretelling the denial of God by Apostle Peter. Even if we make peace, when will your bellicose husband betray François again?”

“Nothing is more awkward for your enemy than a demonstration of humanity towards them. Your spouse knows that very well, or he would have killed my wounded Carlos in Poitiers. I know that François wants to humiliate Carlos, so he ought to be the first one to offer peace.”

“Isabella, I do not dictate to François what to do.”

“But he listens to you,” insisted the empress.

Anne’s frown indicated her rising irritation. “More to Marguerite than me.”

Isabella felt chilled by this admission. “They both hate Spain and Carlos.”

“Each member of the Valois family has the right to feel this way, don’t they?”   

“Yes.” Isabella’s attention focused upon Botticelli’s ‘Fortitude’. “I heard that François paid an enormous amount of money for this masterpiece to have it delivered from Florence to France. We can see a young and elaborately dressed woman sitting upon a throne, holding a scepter as she gazes pensively into space. Her countenance stoic, she personifies Fortitude, one of the four worldly virtues recognized by Plato, along with Temperance, Prudence, and Justice.”   

The empress gazed into Anne’s eyes. “You would have been an ideal model for this artwork, for you are different from what ardent Catholics say about you to malign you, Anne. Your fortitude and strength helped you overcome many trials and tribulations. Nonetheless, you must understand that if you do not assist François in tempering his anger, his animosity towards Carlos will goad him into having new confrontations, which might destroy our countries and families.”

Anne turned to Botticelli’s painting. “Indeed, Fortitude is the virtue of justice and strength. However, I’m not certain that justice has been served in your husband’s case.”

Isabella frowned. “He was defeated in France!  Spain’s economy is in tatters!”

“Look at Fortitude again, Isabella: she wears a red robe, the color of blood. The late Dauphin François died because he never recovered his health after the four years in Spanish jail in horrible conditions. The murder of Prince Charles is on the Pope’s conscience, and the emperor might be implicated. How can the sacred royal blood of these two princes be washed away?”

“The peace may heal these wounds, Anne!  Moreover, we do not know for a certainty whether Carlos sanctioned the latest attempt on your life; I’ll ask him after my return to Spain. However, even if he is guilty of these crimes, the continuation of war will bring no good to us all. If our husbands do not destroy themselves, their children will be adamant to accomplish that. Is it not better to prevent these tragedies?” It all spilled out from Isabella in a dramatic torrent.

At the mention of their offspring, Anne’s hand flew to her abdomen. “I would not want any of my children to participate in these wars, but I am not sure we can do anything about it.”

“That depends upon you,” the empress assured. “The betrothal of my son, Prince Philip, to one of your daughters may procure a temporary peace. Later, it will unite our nations.”

The Countess de Châteaubriant peeked her head into the chamber. “I apologize for intruding. There is an urgent letter for Your Majesty; it requires your immediate attention.”  

“Give it to me, Françoise.” Anne’s skin prickled with unease.

“Here, Madame.” Françoise crossed to where the two queens were seated, and curtsied.

Anne grabbed a parchment. Long moments of trepidatious silence crawled along her spine as her eyes skimmed through a missive from one of the French spies in the Vatican.  

The Valois queen yelled, “Fetch Marguerite, my husband’s sister!  Urgently!”

“It will be done.” Françoise’ pallor concealed her own agitation as she hastened out.

The news jolted Isabella to her feet. “What has happened?”  

Anne’s gaze veered to the fine marble copy of Michelangelo’s sculptural composition ‘The Kneeling Angel’. “The Knight-King shall never kneel to any villain.”

The more queen spoke, the paler the Holy Roman Empress was becoming. “No!”

 “Alliance between us?  Marriage between our offspring?” Anne flung her arms up. “It is impossible to stop this war if Carlos is so hell-bent on attempting regicide again.”

“It might be not his doing,” protested Isabella. “Perhaps it is the Pope’s plot.”   

“I don’t know. Now we must stop a new attempt on François’ life.”

Queen Anne walked into the antechamber and instructed Jeanne d’Angoulême, “Summon Constable de Montmorency to me right now!  He will escort me to the Duchy of Milan!”     

Elizabeth Boleyn stood at the doorway. “Is everything all right, Anne?”

“François must be saved,” Anne explained, tears shining in her eyes. “There is another plot against François, this time in Milan!  I must travel there to save my husband!”

The empress exited into the antechamber. “Anne, you cannot!  Think of your child.”

Despair was etched into Anne’s features. “I cannot lose François. I cannot.”

Elizabeth came to her daughter and took Anne’s hand in hers. “You cannot journey in your condition. What if something, God forbid, happens to you and the child?  You have been saying for months how much France needs this babe to be a prince, so you cannot risk your health.”

Anne brushed away a tear. “You are right. I must take care of myself. But François…” 

Elizabeth proposed, “Your sister, Mary, might travel to Italy!  Out of all the king’s generals, only Montmorency has remained in France so far, so he should escort Mary to Italy.”

Isabella offered, “Ferdinand should accompany them as well.”

Anne nodded. “That is a good idea about Mary, Montmorency, and Ferdinand.”

“I shall go speak with my cousin.” Isabella then exited the queen’s suite.

Outside, Empress Isabella raced down the hallway towards Ferdinand’s quarters, a litany of questions barraging her brain. Was her beloved husband Carlos guilty of Prince Charles’ murder and the almost death of Anne and her two daughters?  Had the emperor sanctioned a new attempt on François’ life in Italy?  Didn’t he comprehend that his revenge on his Valois counterpart could harm his own relatives?  Evil should not be stopped by evil, the empress refused to believe in that.

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope you are all safe and as cheerful as you can be in these difficult days.

We are back to the French court. Princess Marguerite de Valois is trying to find common ground with Ferdinand von Habsburg, King of the Romans and King of Hungary, Croatia, and Bohemia. While Marguerite likes him personally and considers him handsome (Ferdinand is still quite a young man in his mid-thirties), she is struggling with the idea of marrying France's enemy and a Habsburg prince. Do you like this pairing? Do you think that they have a good future?

The Valois court moved to Château de Blois in the Loire Valley. All the historical information about the castle is correct. Nowadays, there are four architectural styles represented at the Château de Blois: the 13th-century medieval fortress, the Louis XII Gothic wing built obviously by Louis XII, the François I Renaissance wing constructed by François I, and the Gaston d'Orléans classical wing (we don't have it in this epic as it was erected by Gaston, one of Henri IV's sons with his second wife, Maria de' Medici, in the 16th century). Obviously, the scenes in this story can take place in the Louis XII wing and the François I wing.

I love the arts wholeheartedly, especially Italian and French Renaissance, so the readers meet a lot of Renaissance things, and some episodes are related to the arts. We have the great Rosso Fiorentino in one scene, and all the information given about him and his work is historically correct. François was an art-loving king, and so was his sister, Marguerite, and it was nothing out of ordinary for them to invite their favorite artists to eat and feast with them.

Diane de' Poitiers and Dauphin Henri are continuing their affair. It is too early for Henri to suspect something, for Diane and his secret ally, Catherine de' Medici, have not started plotting yet. Catherine needs a son at first. They knew about the Pope's plot with the Lorraine brothers, but they simply watched from afar. Yet, the blood of Prince Charles is on their hands as well because they knew everything, so they are indirectly guilty of his death. In this chapter, Diane feels for the first time that she might feel something more than passion for Henri, trying to keep herself detached, and then she interferes into the private affairs of the spouses because it is in her and Catherine's mutual interest that Catherine finally conceives.

Anne Boleyn is again pregnant, and maybe this time she will have a son. Hopefully, you like the scenes between Anne and Isabella of Portugal. They became closer, but they cannot become friends because they have allegiances to the opposite sides. Isabella helped Ferdinand regain his freedom and already feels guilty for her knowledge about the King of France's scheme in Milan. Then Anne learns that there will be a new attempt on François' life in Milan.

The next chapter is dedicated to François' plot to retake Milan. We will be back to England in chapter 39. The Italian wars will continue soon.

Something else! On the 25th of July 1564, Ferdinand I Holy Roman Emperor, who was the second son of Juana of Castile known as the Mad and Philippe Habsburg the Handsome, died in Vienna, Austria. He was buried in St. Vitus Cathedral in Prague. This chapter is honoring Ferdinand who was the first monarch to issue the legal document governing the co-existence of the Lutheran and Catholic faiths in the German lands of the empire and giving the German rulers the right to choose the religion of their lands in accordance with the Augsburg Peace of 1555.

VioletRoseLily and I began co-writing the story called "Entwined by a Golden Alliance", but we are posting it only at AO3. Give it a try, please, and thank you in advance!

I highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91, BellalunaMcKenzie, QueenMaryofEngland, and WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction. Let's support, review, and favorite each other!

Yours sincerely,

Lady Perseverance

Chapter 38: Chapter 37: Inescapable Destinies

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 37: Inescapable Destinies

April 20, 1539, Palazzo Reale, Milan, Duchy of Milan, northern Italy

The rising sun held a promise that the day would be warm. Stillness reigned in the streets, as if all of the city’s inhabitants had been slain. In reality, they had gone to the central square to meet with the French ruler, who would address them for the first time since his entrée into Milan.

“Act in accordance with our plan,” commanded François de Bourbon, Duke d’Estouteville, as well as Count de Saint-Pol and Chaumont. He then motioned for his many men to come hither. “Ensure that knave – that so-called Knight-King – does not see the next sunset.”

François clenched his fists as a tide of ire surged through him. Once King François had been his friend, and the duke had admired him. They had suffered together after the monarch’s capture at Pavia, although the Duke d’Estouteville had been released earlier than his cousin and sovereign. Estouteville had governed the Dauphiné for years. Loyal to the Valois cause, the duke had helped Claude d’Annebault and Philippe de Chabot capture Piedmont and Savoy in 1516.

The Duke d’Estouteville could not forgive his liege lord for sleeping with his wife, Adrienne d’Estouteville, and for impregnating her. Estouteville was well aware that only his daughter, Marie de Bourbon – she was born after Nicholas, the king’s bastard son – was fathered by him. Despite knowing that Adrienne was not a seductress, he also comprehended that it was her own decision to have an affair with his royal cousin, for the amorous monarch had never forced anyone to enter into relationships they had not wished. Estouteville despised both Adrienne and his sovereign.

Moreover, François de Bourbon was a staunch Catholic. He had never accepted the Boleyn whore as the Queen of France either. I am a Bourbon and a prince du sang!  A prince of the blood!  Nobody will be allowed to treat me like a piece of dirt!  Not even the King of France! 

The soldiers, who wore helmets and tunics with the House of Bourbon and Estouteville coat-of-arms emblazoned upon them, bowed to their commander. They rode through lanes and finally rounded the corner of Palazzo Reale – the ancient royal palace that had once served as a political hub for the Torriani, Visconti, and Sforza, as well as the city’s republican government.

The immensely high, ornate towers of the Duomo Cathedral loomed above in the distance.  They slowed their steeds to a trot as they spotted the square overcrowded by the populace.

§§§

On a dais under a canopy of state, the King of France was making an impressive speech in flawless Italian. He made an imposing sight in a magnificent purple habiliments wrought with gold, their richness contrasting with the palazzo’s quiet modest, yet elegant façade. A look of rapt attention on the people’s faces spoke volumes about their reception of their new master.   

“My friends,” promulgated the monarch. “I am most delighted to announce today, on the Feast of St Agnes of Montpulciano, that from now on you will no longer suffer under the Imperial bondage. The duchy has regained its independence from the Holy Roman Empire!”

The civilians, who had been rather upset with the Spanish rule, greeted his proclamation with acclamations. Nevertheless, fears for their future were etched into their countenances.

With an affable smile, François continued in a majestic voice, “I’m proud to be both a Valois and a Visconti on my paternal side. My ancestress, Valentine Visconti, had several sons, one of them Count Jean d’Angoulême who was my paternal grandfather. Therefore, in the absence of the surviving legitimate male issue of the Houses of Visconti and Sforza, which ruled this territory for centuries, I have the legal right to exercise my claim to the Duchy of Milan.”

A hush settled over the throng. They did not like that François was talking to them as their sovereign who held their fates in his hands. Republican moods were also quite strong.  

The ruler endeavored to dispel their misgivings. “Fear me not!  You will keep the status of an independent state, not a province of France. I’ve assumed the title of Duke of Milan, and so far the duchy will be governed by my viceroy. Nevertheless, rest assured that in the future, one of my male descendants will marry one of the female descendants of the Sforza or Visconti family.”

A collective gasp of relief was exhaled by everyone.

The monarch emphasized, “The union of Visconti and Sforza will guarantee the stability and prosperity of the realm. There will be no dynastic wars for the ducal throne in Milan.”

A bold merchant questioned, “Who is Your Majesty’s viceroy?”

This matter had been debated by François and his councilors for days. They had chosen Pier Maria III de’ Rossi, Count di San Secondo, who was a descendant of Caterina Sforza, Countess of Forlì and Lady of Imola. After the receipt of the news of his spouse’s pregnancy, François had resolved that in the future, one of Pier’s daughters would marry his future son with Anne – with God’s help, they will have several boys – and together the couple would rule the Duchy of Milan.

During the invasion, France had desperately needed the Ottoman Empire’s aid to weaken the Habsburgs. Genoa had surrendered to the Turks after a long siege from the Mediterranean Sea. At present, the infidels controlled everything in Genoa, and their ships were anchored in the harbor, which was too perilous should Sultan Suleiman wish to capture the whole Apennine peninsula. The Spanish treasures and goods from the New World could no longer be exchanged into gold.   

Despite the Franco-Ottoman alliance, the Valois ruler knew that after the end of the invasion, he would have to make a move against his Turkish counterpart. The heathens must be expelled from Italy, but François strove to accomplish that without breaking his treaty with Suleiman.

This could be achieved if someone else, not French, launched an offensive on Genoa. King François had invented a conniving scheme: having received King Ferdinand’s command to leave for Genoa, the Spanish governor of Milan – Alfonso d’Avalos d’Aquino, Marquis del Vasto – had been certain that his Habsburg masters had aimed at destroying the infidels. Thus, the Spanish garrison from Milan had marched on Genoa in order to liberate the city from the Muslims.

A month ago, the confrontation between Suleiman’s and Habsburg’s armies had broken out in Genoa. In the meantime, the Valois troops had crossed the Alps, and in Piedmont, occupied by the French since 1536, they had joined with mercenaries commanded by the condottiere Pier Maria de’ Rossi. The French had conquered an unprotected Milan without any opposition and bloodshed.   

François declared, “Let me introduce Messer Pier Maria de’ Rossi, Count di San Secondo.” He gestured towards Pier, who stood next to Anne de Montmorency. “He will rule as my viceroy until one of his daughters marries my son, or until I remove him from his office.”    

Pier de’ Rossi stepped to the ruler and swept a bow to him. He eyed the gathering and bowed to them, his gesture symbolizing his allegiance to King François and the people of Milan. “There will be no more governors obeying Emperor Carlos. Under my leadership, no Milanese crops and goods will leave our territory, and our taxes will not be used to fill the Imperial coffers.”   

The folk broke into cries of approval, their features brightening.

The same merchant probed, “Messer de’ Rossi, you have now pledged your fealty to the King of France. However, you led an Imperial division during the siege of Florence in 1529 and 1530, as well as during the conquest of Tunis in 1535. How can we trust you, then?”   

“I do trust Messer de’ Rossi,” François interfered. “The Imperial invasion of France altered everything. Many rulers, who once sided with Emperor Carlos, realized that he might attack them anytime. Our mission is to establish peace in Christendom, and Rossi understands it.” He raised his voice. “I’ve named him my general and knight of the Order of St Michael.”

Pier bowed to the king and then to the audience again.

The merchant ruminated, “If one of Rossi’s girls becomes the spouse of a Valois prince, the Count di San Secondo will be tied to France and will not betray his new master.”

This man was grating on the nerves of the French, but he had to be handled carefully.

The French ruler affirmed, “We will resolve everything fairly. Both the House of Visconti, represented by the Valois family, and the Sforza have claims to the Duchy of Milan. Absence of civil wars will lead to economic stability, security, and prosperity for all of you.”

“For peace!” Pier exclaimed. “For the unification of the Visconti and the Sforza!”    

The congregation chorused, “For peace!  For the Houses of Visconti and Sforza!”

“For the House of Valois!” cried Montmorency, who stood behind his liege lord.

Exuberant cries rang through the assemblage, but there were still skeptical faces.

Ferdinand stepped to François, and everyone lapsed into stunned silence.

With an imposing air about him, Ferdinand said in Italian, “I’m King Ferdinand of Hungary, Croatia, and Bohemia, as well as King of the Romans. War brings destruction and destitution to everybody, regardless of their rank. I am the King of France’s new ally. I’m for peace in Europe!”  

This rendered the spectators into a state of bewilderment. As the sense of his words sank in, they gaped at Ferdinand as if listening to an interesting, but vastly improbable fairytale.

Ferdinand turned to his father-in-law-to-be. “As a Habsburg archduke, I acknowledge King François as the sovereign of Milan until he deems to invest one of his heirs with this title.”

The initial shrieks of astonishment turned into frenzied applause.

The French monarch told his former prisoner, “Ferdinand, you did not have to do that.”

“You needed my help, François,” the Hungarian king answered. “And if my brother indeed arranged the upcoming assassination attempt and the previous one, I cannot support him.”   

A sense of profound respect blossomed in François’ chest. “Thank you.”

A thunder of hooves alerted them to the impending peril. François swiveled in the direction of the noise just as an arrow narrowly missed him. With trained swiftness, soldiers from the Scots guard encircled him and Ferdinand. Screams and panic gripped the throng, and in a fraction of a second, people scurried away from the square, running as fast as their legs could carry them.

Montmorency enjoined, “Protect the Kings of France and Bohemia!”   

“My men!” Pier de’ Rossi screamed for reinforcements. “Capture the culprits!”

The French knights raced to their liege lord’s side, their weapons highly polished and ready for battle. They applied them against the mercenaries, which had infiltrated into the city.      

Ferdinand commented, “Just as your spies from Rome reported.”

“At least, we have anticipated that.” Even though a shadow of mortality created a nervous pressure within François, he looked composed. “Pope Paul the Third has crossed a line.”

“It is too hard to believe that Carlos is allied with Paul.” The sorrow caused by his brother’s possible transgressions lingered in Ferdinand’s gaze. “Maybe it is only the Pope’s doing.”

“We shall learn the truth soon.” François unsheathed his sword.

Ferdinand’s brow wrinkled up in a frown of confusion. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve never been a coward.” The Valois ruler watched his men dispatch foe after foe in the midst of the panicking folk. “Protect the people!” He then dived into the mass of combatants.

§§§

“God!” Shrieks of the terrified mob pierced the air like the long whistles of a curlew.

People labored to squeeze through the horde. Those who succeeded were fleeing as fast as possible, yet some were sent sprawling to the ground by the force of collisions with others. The palazzo’s front steps provided a sanctuary from the chaos, so the people began flocking there.   

“There will be peace in victory!” François rained sword blows onto the mercenaries.

“To formation, men!” Rossi bellowed. “Don’t harm the innocents!”

Montmorency roared, “The traitors bear the arms of the Duke d’Estouteville!”

The noise of heavy boots on the cobblestoned pavements resonated. It mingled with the sounds of armor clanking as the men rushed to take their places in the lines around the place.

François hollered, “Capture or kill every traitor!”

“To victory!” Montmorency’s loud voice soared above the din.   

Commands, battle shouts, and groans of pain in French mingled with those in Italian. Swords clashed and skirled together. Daggers and rapiers flashed and collided. The air thickened with a cacophony of steel pushing against steel, carrying the coppery tinge of blood. Although most of the populace had fled or were evacuated by the French warriors, some had been knocked down by meaningless rushes of others, or by mercenaries who did not care whom to harm.   

“The Duke d’Estouteville!” François lunged at a nearby enemy. “He is mine!”

Having dispatched his rival, the King of France caught a glimpse of a second Bourbon man, after the Constable de Bourbon, who had betrayed him. A ferocious light of animosity ignited in his eyes, and rage instigated him to move into the center of the skirmish. His sword becoming an extension of his arm, François attacked and parried, thrust and slashed through his foes.   

Soon the ruler found himself in a circle of Estouteville’s conspirators. Left with six of them face to face, François looked astonishingly composed, as if floating above all mundane concerns. Before making a killing blow, one of them froze and caught a flash of surprise across his victim’s countenance. The others halted as well, as if enthralled by the monarch’s air of authority.

“Your Majesty!” Mary Stafford gesticulated wildly in the direction of the opposite end of the square. “Protect the king!” She had hurried out of the palace to the front steps after the attack.

When he looked where Mary had pointed, François was just in time to duck from an arrow. In the next instant, Philippe de Chabot skewed the archer’s back like a ripe fruit.

A vigilant Mary spotted another danger. “Sire!  Behind you!”

Although they had hesitated moments earlier, the assailants were now ready to fulfill their master’s command. At Mary’s warning, the ruler barely parried a sudden thrust. Then Ferdinand and Claude d’Annebault emerged right behind the traitors and finished off three of them. François swung his sword in a circular motion and chopped off one of the attacker’s heads.

“Thank you, friends,” François told Claude and Ferdinand.

Ferdinand joked, “I cannot lose a new ally before my wedding.”

“Why are you here?” François smashed his weapon into another man’s skull.

“I am not a coward either.” Ferdinand twirled his weapon in a deadly arc, cutting one man off at the knee and stabbing the other in the gut. “A seasoned warrior like yourself.”

“I can see that.” The French king was beginning to like the emperor’s brother.

Annebault impaled the last attacker. “We have defeated them.”

Their attention attracted a roar. “I shall not let you butcher me like a dog!”

The three men’s scrutiny veered to the square’s other side. His face pink from the strain and anger, François de Bourbon stood encircled by many royal guards. His hair tousled, his shirt had come loose from his trousers, Bourbon still looked as dangerous as a violent storm.

“Drop your weapon!” Pier de’ Rossi instructed. “Your mercenaries are all dead!”

Ignoring the condottiere, the Duke d’Estouteville raked his hostile glare over his sovereign. “François de Valois! You are the enemy of Christ because you married that Boleyn slut. But even though I failed to rid the world of you, someone else will do this important deed.”

The French monarch observed his men clearing the square from corpses. He yelled, “Prove your courage not in a dishonorable attack on your liege lord, but in an honest contest.”

A nonplussed Ferdinand inquired, “Are you serious, François?”

Annebault appealed, “Your Majesty!  Let us execute him!”   

“You shall not stop me.” François crossed the square to the surrounded man.  

Ferdinand stared after him. “Chivalry might lead him to an early grave. One day.”

Annebault emitted a sigh. “Perhaps, but he has always been like that.”

As the monarch approached, the soldiers parted to let him approach the Duke d’Estouteville.

Montmorency rushed to his king. “Your Majesty should not endanger your life.”

François chuckled. “Have you ever been able to talk sense into me, Monty?”

At the monarch’s sign, the men surrounded the two adversaries. After learning that the attack on their new Duke of Milan had been thwarted, the people commenced returning to the square.   

The ruler squeezed his sword hilt. “Such a shame, François de Bourbon!  You are a prince du sang!  Yet, you attempted to kill your own sovereign who once favored you a lot. You are my cousin, damn you!” His eyes darkened with rage. “You will be questioned most thoroughly.”

The Duke d’Estouteville threatened, “Sadly, we are cousins. But I’ll destroy you!”

“I doubt that.” A tormenting question slipped from François’ mouth, “Why?”  

Cobalt flames of hate burned in Bourbon’s eyes. “No husband can forgive even his once beloved liege lord if this man impregnates his wife and makes him accept the royal bastard as his.”

This startled François. Then sharp edges of fury started scratching at his consciousness. “Even if it is true, no subject has the right to assassinate a God’s representative on earth.”  

Estouteville pointed his weapon at the other man. “I am a Bourbon!  You are nothing to me!”

The king curved his lips in a tight grin. “You are a traitor to France and to me!”

Only Montmorency stood beside them, so no one could eavesdrop upon them.

Worried, the Constable of France glanced at his royal friend. “Your Majesty, do you intend to fight without any armor or even chainmail?  You ought not to do so!”   

 “My sword will suffice.” To let everyone perceive his message correctly, François said loudly, “Let us begin. The Duke d’Estouteville’s treachery will be punished only by me.”

“Have a care, Your Majesty,” mumbled Montmorency. “None of us would take pleasure in stitching you, when an injury could be avoided with a bit less drama.”

“But that would not be me.” The king’s mocking lilt was fully back.

“God bless Your impulsive Majesty.” Montmorency stepped aside at last.  

For some minutes, the duelists were locked in a strategic battle. Then the monarch launched a blistering attack onto his opponent, which was nevertheless deflected by his adversary.     

The spectators were mesmerized by the Valois ruler’s masterful fighting skills. The Knight-King’s reputation preceded him. It seemed romantic, noble, and incredible that a ruler could lead his men into battle and participate in a duel himself, for the days of chivalry had long gone.

The two combatants fought fiercely, their weapons molded to the fingers. Even though the king administered a series of savage blows, the adroitness and talent of the Duke d’Estouteville let him evade and counter many successive strikes. François answered with powerful blows in a blurring roar of steel that whistled and crashed against his foe’s hard-held defense.

The swords clanged as they met again. Both men were panting, faces inches apart and teeth grinding with exertion. Having feigned a movement up, François swiped his blade down, a clear steel-gray wave flying straight and hitting Bourbon’s sword arm, then moving to his throat.

“You have lost,” the monarch uttered unemotionally. “Just as another Bourbon.”

His rival toppled to the ground. “Does it make you happy?”

A spasm flickered across the ruler’s face. “Not when my former friends betray me.”   

Estouteville contemplated the fatal proximity of the ruler’s sword. “What will happen to me?” The cracking in his voice belied the outward composure he endeavored to maintain.

François shifted his gaze to Montmorency. “Escort him to the palace.”

As the traitor was led away, a round of the mob’s applause and cheers arose. François paid no heed to them as he strolled into the palazzo, his councilors and Ferdinand following him.

§§§

The Duke d’Estouteville was dragged into the palazzo’s great hall. In the wake of the recent bloody events, the bellicose spirits of the French bubbled up like molten lava. Tapestries of Roman and modern Italian battle scenes on the walls added to the bellicose environment.

King François eased himself into an ornately carved ducal throne under a canopy of cloth of gold. King Ferdinand and Constable de Montmorency stood from both sides of the throne. Many French warriors, as well as Pier de’ Rossi and his men crowded the vast chamber.  

Chabot and Annebault forced the traitor to his knees before the monarch.  

“Who hired you?” the sovereign of France interrogated.

Estouteville straightened his spine proudly, craning his neck to look up at François. “Does it matter?  You will execute me anyway. Others will finish my noble deed.”

The king needed clarification. “Pope Paul and Emperor Carlos?”   

“Perhaps,” said the prisoner smugly, a grin tugging at his lips. “When Your Majesty married the Boleyn whore, you earned numerous enemies, even in your own kingdom.”

“That is wonderful news,” retorted François, a slush of anger stirring hotly in his belly. “But I already know this very well. How close are we to the truth about your conspirators?”

The Duke d’Estouteville redirected the talk. “Did you know about the attempt? How?”

“We did,” confirmed the king. “My spies from Rome informed us about your plot. That is why I’m aware that you received a command to kill me in Milan from the Vatican.”

Estouteville’s gaze oscillated between Ferdinand and Montmorency. “You two must have come all the way from France to rescue that Valois rat. Even you, Ferdinand of Austria!”   

Thrusting aside a prickle of conscience, Ferdinand flung back, “No honest man can stand by and watch kings beings killed. No one, in particular His Holiness, can sanction regicide.”

The Duke d’Estouteville accused, “You exchanged the allegiance to your family, which ought to have been unshakeable, for your freedom, a French princess, and a heretic’s friendship.”   

“But not my honor,” riposted Ferdinand. In spite of the lack of his elder sibling’s action to liberate him from captivity, and Carlos’ crimes, he felt guilty because of his recent actions.

François emphasized, “I’ve always been and will always be a Catholic.”

“You made that Boleyn trollop your queen,” the prisoner screeched. “That was treason to our great country!  We cannot have a Protestant queen on the throne, and many believe so.”   

Rage was building inside François. “I myself know what to do.”

Ferdinand interposed, “Did my brother, Carlos, order you to murder François?”

The man glazed into Ferdinand’s eyes acridly. “Is your conscience ill at ease?”

François swiveled his head to his ally. “Ferdinand, he is provoking you.”

The emperor’s brother nodded. “I shall not give in.”

Ferdinand detected a sliver of admiration cross the other man’s face as François whispered, “Ferdinand, your actions in Milan will help eject the Turks from Genoa and Italy. Moreover, soon Spain will be able to exchange treasures from America into gold.”

“These are my consolations,” answered Ferdinand flatly.

The two monarchs spoke so quietly that only Montmorency could hear them.

Ferdinand turned to the prisoner. “Bourbon, were you doing only the Pope’s bidding?”   

Estouteville’s expression was pensive, as if in prayer. “I’m here at the suggestion of God. He instructed me to dispose of the ungodly king who contaminated French soil with heresy.”   

“You are a religious fanatic,” François summed up. Ferdinand and the others nodded.

Estouteville’s smile was like that of a mythological satyr. “Just a man loyal to the Lord!”

François gestured to Chabot, who drew his sword and pressed it to Bourbon’s neck.

The Valois monarch asserted, “We need more information. Your choice is simple: to die quickly from beheading, or to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. What will you say?”   

This time, Bourbon became terrified to the core. “The Pope’s agent in France contacted me. His Holiness views you as a danger to Christendom after your wedding to that harlot.”

François finished vehemently, “You consented to murder your sovereign out of personal revenge more than out of your ardent beliefs in the Pope’s fake holiness besmirched by his dreadful vices. You journeyed with me to Milan as one of my captains, pretending that you serve me loyally while planning to kill me all along. Maybe you were even involved in the plot against my queen when she was pregnant with our daughter, Aimée, and my son, Charles, was murdered.”

Many wondered what the personal vengeance meant, but nobody would dare ask anything.

The traitor claimed, “I did not participate in this.”   

Chabot demanded, “Who is the Pope’s agent?  If you do not confess, I myself will have you hanged, drawn, and quartered. Don’t leave an executioner without any pay.”

A terrified Estouteville confessed, “Jeanne d’Angoulême, Countess de Bar-sur-Seine.”

This elicited exclamations of consternation from François and his advisors.   

Numb from the shock, the Valois ruler strode to the traitor. “That is a serious accusation.”

“Who is she?” Ferdinand asked Montmorency.

Montmorency heaved a perplexed sigh. “She is His Majesty’s illegitimate half-sister. The conspiracy against the king is far worse than anticipated.”

François regained his composure. “Who else is scheming against me?”

“Many, without any embellishment.” The Duke d’Estouteville was aware that Dauphine Catherine de’ Medici and Diane de Poitiers were weaving criminal intrigues against Queen Anne, but he would never betray them. They would avenge his wife’s disgrace after François had him executed. “My death will not put an end to attempts on your life and that of your damned consort.”   

“Who are they?” François’ loathing for him was extreme.     

“Followers of the truth faith.” The man was doing his best to prick at his nerves.

The monarch grabbed the prisoner by his hair. “Who?”

“Your strumpet,” spat Estouteville with abhorrence. The man’s goal was to infuse fear for the fates of the king’s loved ones into François’ soul. “I’ve heard that she is carrying another hellspawn in her womb. Perhaps someone else is now planning to slain her, God bless them.”   

François hissed with atypical vehemence, “No one will harm my family.”

Chabot guessed that his liege lord’s rage was on the verge of spilling out in a lethal torrent. “Your Majesty, your wife is guarded day and night. Let me continue the interrogation.”

The Duke d’Estouteville antagonized the ruler further. “The harlot’s children will be dead!”  

The monarch’s barely contained ire crystallized into berserk fury, so potent it was a physical presence. These threats flooded his ears like a rampant river of hateful fire, and a breath of beastly bloodlust filled his lungs until he was entirely consumed by it, to the brims of his being.   

“Get away, Philippe!” François snarled, and his subject stepped away.

Fright bleached the color from Estouteville’s face. “What are you doing?”

François took the blade away from the man’s neck. “Go to hell to another Bourbon!”

His action temporarily confused the audience. As if Lyssa, the Greek goddess of mad rage, galvanized him into action, François yelled out and decapitated the Duke d’Estouteville, his blood gushing like the devil’s. The severed head rolled over several times before coming to a halt.

When François scanned his surroundings, his subjects were peering at him in horrified awe.

“Listen!” This drew everybody’s attention to the King of France. “Anyone who attempt to harm Anne or any member of my family will have such a gruesome end. I shall spare no one!”

“Your Majesty,” called Chabot. “We will not let that happen.”

Montmorency enquired, “What to do with Madame Jeanne d’Angoulême?”

“I’ll instruct my sister on the matter.” After sheathing his sword, François hastened out.

“I’ve never seen him like that.” Montmorency watched his liege lord exit.

Ferdinand comprehended the ruler’s motives. “In a fit of fury, I could have killed him, too.”

Annebault approached him. “Our sovereign’s mellow temper might be exacerbated.”  

Pier de’ Rossi strode to them as well. “There were too many attempts on his relatives’ lives, and the king’s son died. It is impossible to let go off all the anger with the culprits.”   

“Estouteville merited his end,” Chabot opined as he neared them. The others nodded.

The official announcement for the populace was that the Duke d’Estouteville had been given a private execution. François’ duel with the traitor was seen as his act of chivalry.


May 10, 1539, Palazzo Reale, Milan, Duchy of Milan, northern Italy

King François summoned Anne de Montmorency to his study at sunset. As he entered, he saw his sovereign, King Ferdinand, and Pier de’ Rossi, who were all seated at a marble table.

“Monty!” François greeted. “Come to us!”

Bowing to his liege lord, the Constable of France eased himself in a chair beside him.

François studied the map of Italy, which hung on the opposite wall. “I’ll spend another three-four months in Milan. I have to meet with local nobles and receive their oaths of vassalage. I’ve already signed the edict appointing you, Messer de’ Rossi, the governor of Milan.”

Rossi bowed in gratitude. “Your Majesty will not be disappointed in me.”

“I hope so.” The Valois ruler eyed him warily.   

Rossi broached a vital topic for him. “What about the betrothal of one of my daughters to one of your relatives?  We announced to the people of Milan that it would happen.”

François’ steely voice reflected a calculating process of decision-making. “We spoke about marriages between our descendants. If God wills it, a Valois and a Rossi will wed one day.”

Ferdinand sighed. France had lost two princes!  When they had once chatted while drinking wine, François had verbalized his fears for his dynasty, and that he hoped that his wife would give him a son eventually. François cannot highlight the current weakness of the French succession, Ferdinand mused. The weakness caused by the Pope and perhaps my brother.

“These are things for the future,” Ferdinand spoke. “As a representative from the Habsburgs, I signed the document where I acknowledge the King of France as the legitimate ruler of Milan.”

“Of course.” Rossi realized that the topic was closed.

Montmorency was amused with the camaraderie between his sovereign and the archduke. He addressed Ferdinand, “When are you going to Genoa, Your Highness?”   

“In a week,” Ferdinand informed. “Currently, I’m overseeing the preparations of my Swiss mercenaries. We will join the former Milanese garrison and crush the Turks.”

François pledged, “I’ll break my alliance with the Ottoman Empire if the hordes of Muslims attack Italy. So far, it is not necessary, for I’m sure you will expel them, Ferdinand.”

“I shall,” vowed the emperor’s brother.

They comprehended that the Valois ruler would do his best to keep his alliance with Sultan Suleiman.  It counterbalanced the power of the Habsburgs in Europe. Even though Ferdinand and François were now sort of allies, no one knew what fate had in store for them.

François offered, “Ferdinand, if you need more gold, I’ll supply you with it.”  

Rossi noted, “You can use money from the treasury of Milan.”

Ferdinand smiled. “No, thank you. I’ve received enough funds from my own dominions.”  

The ruler of France scrutinized the fresco ‘Lamentation of Christ’ by Bartolomeo Suardi, or Bramantino. “I adore the schematic quality of Bramantino’s works. This effect is done by painting figures stiff in perspective space before diagrammed walls. He was an innovative artist.”

Rossi put in, “He was an official painter and architect to the late Duke Francesco Sforza.”

“Yes.” François still contemplated the fresco. “Soon my adversaries will weep, just as angels do on this masterpiece. Even the Pope will beg for mercy.” His fists balled. “As soon as Lord Wiltshire signs the treaty with the Doge of Venice, we will march on Rome.”  

This statement drew gasps of astonishment from the audience.   

François turned to them. “I’ll not leave my wife and our children in constant peril. I shall not kill the Pope who should call himself the Unholy Murderer, but he will answer to me.”

Ferdinand gave a nod. “I may join you after we are done with the Turks.”

His counterpart’s smile expressed joy. “That would be an honor for me.”

“My troops can help,” proposed Rossi.

François shook his head. “No, Messer de’ Rossi. You will keep Milan in order.”  

Montmorency summed up the situation. “The Pope has transformed into a shadow in front of France, blocking the sun. He must be dealt with, but with minimal bloodshed.”

The sovereign of France dipped a nod. “We shall oust the shadows.”   

In an hour, Montmorency left. Despite being a Catholic, he supported the plan to put an end to the Bishop of Rome’s crimes against the House of Valois. However, now Montmorency craved to see the woman, who had voyaged to Milan together with him and Ferdinand.   

§§§

Lady Mary Stafford tumbled on a couch and buried her face into her hands. Notwithstanding the king’s salvation, demons of melancholy tormented her during the past week. From a window, she could see the steeple of the Milanese Duomo extending far into the dark firmament. For some time, she prayed for the soul of her second spouse, William Stafford, begging the Lord to let him rest in peace. Her heart had long festered into a thick sore that constantly pained her.

With a sigh, she took off her plumed red velvet cap and threw it on the floor, as if the material singed the skin of her head. “Damn this world!  If only Will had been alive!”

After a knock on the door, Anne de Montmorency filled the doorway with his formidable presence. His black silk attire, adorned with elaborate silver embroidery, accentuated his natural austerity. As soon as his gaze rested upon the woman, a bit of light flared within his orbs.     

He attributed Mary’s puffy eyes to her distress. “Why are you upset, Madame?”

She dropped her gaze to her slippers, tears threatening to spill over once more. “All widows might grieve for their beloved husbands. Over time, they get accustomed to sadness.”

He closed the door and slid into the room. “I’m a widower, too.”

“That is a different thing, Monsieur de Montmorency.”

Confusion married his forehead. “Why?”

Mary despised Madeleine de Savoy, his late spouse. “That harpy almost killed my pregnant sister, Anne, and little Louise. The poor Prince Charles was murdered by her.”

His sigh was like a storm wind. “I’ve accepted her execution. I married Madeleine because His Majesty arranged this match for me. We lived in peace, and she gave me many children.”

Curiosity goaded her into inquiring. “You never loved her, did you?” The next instant it hit her that this question was inappropriate. “I beg your pardon. I should not have said that.”

Montmorency stepped to her couch. “Don’t apologize.” He then bared his heart. “Putting aside her viciousness, Madeleine was an attractive and smart woman of refined tastes, though not of gentle disposition. She received a stellar education at the court of her father – René de Savoy, the illegitimate son of Duke Philippe de Savoy. Yet, Madeleine was as cold as a block of ice.”

Her astonished eyes snapped to his. “No man can love such a woman.”

“You answered your own question.” His mind drifted to his offspring. “Even though she was a traitor, our children will know their mother from the best side.”

“That is noble of you. Not every father would have acted so.”   

His own candor emboldened him to ask. “Did you love Sir William that much?”

His question tore open memories tightly locked away in Mary’s brain for months. “William and I first met in Calais, where we both accompanied Anne and King Henry in 1532. The first moment I looked at him walking towards me the rest of the universe vanished. His eyes held some kind of active fluid promising a lifetime of happiness, a force that dragged one in. Very soon we became almost inseparable and then eloped. But the Tudor monster wrecked our lives.”     

“You are alive.” Montmorency’s soft voice was as comforting as a blanket for a baby.

Fresh tears pricked the back of her eyes. “A large part of my heart died with William. Only our children and Anne tie me to the earthly life. But sometimes, I feel so lonely.”   

“Me too.” His tone betrayed his emotional tumult.

Mary and Montmorency stared at each other. An acute loneliness, indistinguishable from a lethal illness, lanced through them, far worse than one they had felt before – a poignant loneliness of spirit. It descended upon them, together with an immense need to search for companionship.   

Remembrances of their liaison blazed through their heads. Their first meeting at Château de Cognac when Montmorency had observed Mary playing snowballs with a teenaged Queen Anne. Montmorency’s encounter with Mary in the gardens at Château d’Amboise after her quarrel with her father when the man had demanded that she seduce King François. At first, Mary had refused to do so, not knowing that in the future the monarch himself would be charmed by her.

Montmorency’s first letter to Mary sent to her while the court had been at Amboise.  Their dances during splendid festivities and their shared secret glances. In the summer of 1518, during a masque at Blois, Mary’s costume of the Goddess Artemis attracting everyone’s attention, and later Montmorency’s hands stripping her of it in the intimate darkness of the park. Her innocent eyes, wide open to discoveries, at her first joining with a man – Montmorency of all the French courtiers. Their sweaty bodies smelling of earth and dampness after their first lovemaking.

Montmorency smiled at her. “You are the bravest woman!”

“I cannot endure this hollowness.” Mary’s soul beseeched for some warmth.

His face split into a grin. “Your world shall not fall apart.”

Driven by a strong natal instinct, they pounced upon each other with the hunger of vultures. Insanity settled into them as they clawed at their clothes with frantic abandon, fumbling to remove the garments, while their lips sucked and devoured the flesh. Seams tore, buttons popped, the noise of the ripping fabric was heard, and, with a groan, he tore at her corset, lifting a breast to his mouth. Nude, they stumbled towards a wooden canopied bed, draped in auburn satin curtains.

His lips captured hers in a frenzy that not even prehistoric goddesses of amorous rites had known. Montmorency’s head dipped to her breasts, and Mary’s fingers entangled into his hair when they became one. Though erstwhile lovers, they remained strangers, yet their tempestuous lovemaking brought them closer together than most lovers could ever hope to be. Their lips were moving in cadence with the sensual music of their bodies, his every thrust utterly feverish.

Montmorency began pounding into her more fiercely. “Sweet angels in heaven!”

Mon Dieu!” Her hands were all over his back and shoulders.

“You have not changed, Mary.” His lips were on her throat, tasting the floral scent of her skin. “You are more gorgeous and passionate than a water nymph in a pond.”

She felt too delicate under his touch. “That pond where we often swam in Amboise.”

“I was happy with you, unlike other women in my life.” His lips slid down to her nipples.

Mary caught her head, forcing him to lift his scrutiny to her face. “How many women?”

“Far fewer than our king’s collection of conquests, but still many.”

She tugged at his hair. “You are a philanderer, Monty. I like how François calls you.”  

Wincing, Montmorency glanced into her eyes with beseeching intensity. “I’ve always been betrothed to war, and women have been secondary to my fealty to France.”

Her offence caused Mary to push him back. “Why are you here now?”

“You are special,” confessed Montmorency. “I’ve never forgotten you.”

“Never?” He resumed kissing her more fiercely than moments ago.

“I’ve always regretted that I ended our relationship.” He sighed against her skin.

Anger boiled in her. “You did so because François began pursuing me.”

“Yes.” A shamefaced Montmorency stared into her eyes. “I should not have acted so, but my loyalty to His Majesty won. I’ve never forgiven myself for leaving you, Mary.”

She cupped his face. “I was furious when you abandoned me so suddenly.”

His lips planted desperate kisses upon her face, his hands roving possessively over her body. “I am a martial man, but there are many ways to punish me for my old mistake.”

Montmorency thrust into Mary deeper, as if drowning inside her. She experienced a burst of youthful exhilaration akin to one she had known only in adolescence. Monty’s lips journeyed slowly across her collarbone and down to her bosom before he raised his gaze to Mary’s again, his eyes glowing with the same passion she had seen in them on their first night in the Blois gardens. At these remembrances, Mary’s heart sped, bursting from the force of its thudding in her chest.

“For your passion, Mademoiselle Boleyn, I would sacrifice my whole army.”   

His husky voice wrapped her into a tingling cloak of sweetness, its power consuming her and curing her heartbreak for a moment, just for a moment. “Monty, claim me entirely!”

“Mary Boleyn!” His thrusts grew more vigorous and urgent.

Nothing could quench the fire inside them, save the pinnacle of their erotic dance. As waves of pleasure enveloped them, their universes ceased being the crumbling ruins of their former lives. Under those ruins, there was something new, beautiful and unexplored, and it breathed, borne out of their mutual gratification. Their shrieks signified that this man and this woman were no longer piteous, suffering things – right now, the luminous carpet of contentment preserved them.

Montmorency enveloped her into a tight embrace. “Oh, Mary!  What have you done to me?”

His oddly dulcet voice overwhelmed her senses, and a sense of calm spread through her. “Can there be a perfect beauty after the awful desolation in which I lived for so long?”   

“Yes,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Do you remember this poem?”  

When marvelous spring comes,

Leaf and flower are newly made,

Bird, butterfly, bee, and insect

Gather all at their posts again,

When all is ready for paradise,

 For a new and wondrous romance,

For rebirth after storms and rains:

The deep-lashed dryad of the shade

Comes forward with her song,

She sings about hurt and joy.

Love!  The fairest gift of summer, 

Gone like the roses fading in winter,

Save in the sculptured jewel box

Of our amours in the moonlight,

Starkly bright against the snow,

Like letters of my love for you.

Mary laughed. “François wrote this poem. You read it to me after our first night.”

“I did. Unlike our king, I do not have a talent in poetry.”

The revival of their souls was driving out the doldrums that had dwelt there. Montmorency kissed Mary so sweetly that she knew she was still breathing despite all of her tragedies.   

The door opened, and Mary’s maid appeared. “Sorry, Madame!  I simply heard screams!”   

Mary pulled away from her lover. “Leave, you idiot!”  

The girl, who had arrived in Milan from France, hastened out of the room.  

Montmorency bolted into a sitting positon. “She will gossip.”

Mary was now afraid. “I’ll order her to keep silent to avoid rumors.”

However, the lovers had no time to dress and put their plan into action. The door flung open once more, and the French ruler halted at the doorway, blocking the sight for others.

“Your Majesty!” A shaken Montmorency sucked in his breath.

“Sire…”  Mary’s voice shattered like an eggshell.

Instantly, Montmorency dragged a white silk sheet over them both. Spots of crimson stained his countenance, just as Mary blushed to the very roots of her hair. Never, not even in their worst nightmares, had they imagined that the King of France would see them naked in Mary’s bed.    

“How interesting!” François’ gaze lingered upon a heap of clothes on the floor. “My best military man appears to be quite temperamental. Not only war interests you, Monty.”

“I’ll explain everything.” But Mary’s tongue lolled in shocked embarrassment.

“There is no need,” continued the monarch. “Your maid was generous enough to tell me and all those whom she encountered in the corridor about your escapades. At present, Ferdinand, Chabot, Annebault, Rossi, and many others know about your affair. I wonder when it started.”

Horror twisted the faces of Mary and Montmorency. Everyone knew their secret! 

François decreed, “You will be married the next morning. No scandal will taint my family.”

His verdict buzzing in their ears, the king pivoted and closed the door behind himself.

Mary stuttered, “I’m embarrassed beyond measure, Monsieur de Montmorency.”

Her lover touched her shoulder. “Don’t be official. We will be husband and wife soon.”

“I don’t want this!” She blanched to the color of ash.

“There is no other way out. Not after the king saw us. The rumor mill is already working.”

While he was rapidly dressing, Mary snuggled under the blankets and cried.   

“Get up at sunrise, Madame.” Now he was again the Constable of France, detached and severe, not a man of words, but a man of war serving his liege lord. “See you in the morning.”

Mary threw a pillow after him. “I’ll not be yours!”

“You will.” The closure of the door signaled his departure.

“Heaven, why?” Gulping sobs wracked her form, convulsing it with their ferocity.

§§§

After the matins, the chapel glowed with the light from dozens of white pillared candles. The Valois monarch did not renege on his word after he had caught them red-handed in bed.

Their expressions tinctured with sheer incredulity, Lady Mary Stafford and Baron Anne de Montmorency knelt at the altar. Their gazes did not lock as they placed their hands under a blue silk bridal canopy. King Ferdinand and Pier de’ Rossi acted as their witnesses, both foreigners, chosen by François on purpose to make the wedding more credible in the eyes of the world.

The thoughts of Mary and Montmorency whirled like a cyclone. Despite their adventures, they did not wish to marry, but neither of them could evade this necessity. Even though Mary had protested at first, Montmorency would never have disobeyed his liege lord. Literally speaking, they had climbed out of bed, dressed themselves, and then gone to the chapel, because the king’s orders were to have this ceremony completed swiftly, eschewing niceties that could slow it down.

The priest’s voice in Latin droned on and on as he conducted the awkward ceremony.

With great joy, we have assembled here in the presence of God to join this man, Anne, and this woman, Maria, in holy matrimony. It is established by our Lord Jesus Christ, regulated by His commandments, blessed by Him, and sanctified by Him for the welfare of mankind.

Her scrutiny glued to the wooden cross of Jesus, Mary’s mind floated to her second husband. Waves of bottomless grief tugged at her heart like a leaden weight, rising in her throat agonizingly. After William Stafford’s execution, she was certain that any new matrimony would be a betrayal of their great mutual devotion. Forgive me, my dear Will, Mary entreated silently. I hope you can hear my pleas. You were the love of my life, but now I have to marry another man.

Her fiancé’s hand covered hers, but she brushed it away. As Mary caught Monty’s admiring glances, the substance of her fury was shattered by the fresh onslaught of her bereavement.     

Despite their hasty nuptials, Mary had donned her sister’s gift, which she had brought with her from France. Montmorency yearned to touch her curvaceous figure, concealed beneath her voluminous gown ornamented with gold, with the bodies of azure brocade, multi-layered skirts of multicolored taffeta, and a silver silk stomacher. To see the striking and sage passion in Mary’s eyes that he had seen there hours earlier. It resembled the passion in the orbs of the Goddess Venus on the copy of Botticelli’s painting ‘Venus and Mars’ in Montmorency’s collection.     

The priest’s words tumbled through the air like the crystal waters sliding over the rocks.

Our Creator has instructed that husband and wife must cherish a mutual esteem and love. Their duty is to bear their infirmities, and to comfort each other in sickness, trouble, and sorrow. Husband and wife have to pray for and encourage one another in things pertaining to God.

The churchman questioned in Italian, “Who gives Maria to be married to Anne?”

“Messer de’ Rossi and I do,” Ferdinand stated in the same language.   

At last, Mary glanced at the bridegroom. Montmorency’s face was impenetrable, except that there was something almost imperceptible in the fluttering of his lips. Her curiosity peaked: was he praying for the interruption of this ceremony or for their possible normal existence together?  She might have laughed at the stupidity of the situation, had she been capable of feeling anything at present, for the final realization of the inescapability of this union made her numb.

Montmorency eyed Mary in fascination. “I, Anne, take you, Maria, to be my wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony. To love, comfort, and honor you in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, to keep only you for as long as we both shall live.” Warmth flickered in his eyes, as though he was pleased with the wedding.   

Mary did not pronounce her wedding vows straight away. A deathlike silence ensued.

“Go on, Madame,” François enjoined with sternness.

Snapping out of her trance, Mary repeated the same vows in a slow, distant voice. A barrage of emotions – turbulent, frantic, and baffling – ripped through her, alternating with musings of could have beens if Stafford had not passed away, and of may have beens if she had remained a widow until her dying day. A small, coherent part of her brain realized that Mary did not want to be alone forever, but her anger with herself, Montmorency, and François intensified as her mind registered that that her new spouse slid a ruby ring with the Montmorency arms onto her finger.

Demons painted Mary’s inner realm in black. The urge to quit this charade and to defy the edict imposed upon her by her brother-in-law and fate itself overwhelmed her, but the firm squeeze of her hand by Montmorency prevented her from doing so. The previous numbness was a blessing, Mary supposed. I’d prefer to feel nothing – not this fear and a tart taste of betrayal in my mouth.

Montmorency allayed in French, “Everything is all right.”

“Really?” Mary shrank away from his manifestation of affability.

The newlyweds stood passively until François emerged next to them.

“We have avoided a scandal,” their sovereign asserted. “Now your relationship is sanctified by the Church. I wish you to find solace in each other, just as you did it yesterday.”

“Is Your Majesty satisfied?” Mary’s sarcasm was the last expression of her objection.   

François fired with sharp directedness, “Being married to one of my best friends, who is also a powerful and rich man in my realm, is far better than fading away alone until old age.”

His lips compressed in annoyance, the Valois ruler walked away down the aisle.

“I agree with your liege lord,” Rossi interposed in accented French. “Congratulations.”

Ferdinand murmured, “It is not the worst that could have happened to you both.”

Mary jeered, “Says someone who is being compelled into marrying Princess Marguerite.”

Montmorency chastised, “Madame, please respect the King of the Romans.”

“Let her speak,” encouraged Ferdinand. “If I were in François’ shoes, I would have forced you to do the same. You belong to the House of Valois as Queen Anne’s sister, so you must behave in accordance with your station.” He eyed the couple. “No one can escape their destiny.”

Both feeling uncomfortable, Rossi and Ferdinand left the chapel together.

Mary told her husband, “I need to be alone. At least today.”

Montmorency grinned impishly, such an uncharacteristic thing for his usual strict self. “I’ve already seen enough of our future in the dead of night. The intertwined fingers and limbs, the warmth of flesh on flesh, the ultimate act of something akin to amorous dances of shamans.”

“How dare you speak so indecently?” bristled Mary.

“I’m your spouse. You cannot mourn for Stafford forever. You must find peace.”

She took offense at the comment. “The past suits me better.”

Montmorency emphasized, “You are now Marie de Montmorency; let’s go.”

As they strolled down the nave, Mary eyed stunning frescoes. Her gaze lingered on the fresco of Ambrose, Archbishop of Milan in the 4th century and the city’s patron saint. Had the bishop cursed this city to be a tomb for women’s contentment?  She then berated herself for such blasphemy. Now Mary longed to throw herself into her sister’s arms and weep until there was nothing left of her. As they existed the chapel, Mary scrubbed fresh tears away from her eyes.

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope you are all safe and a little cheerful in these difficult days. I've settled back into my routine life, but now I'm suffering after a small operation and use lots of painkillers.

This chapter is fully dedicated to the events in the Duchy of Milan. The House of Sforza was a ruling family of Milan in the Renaissance era after the extinction of the Visconti family on the male line in the mid-15th century. The Sforza rule ending in Milan ended with the death of the last member of the family's main branch in 1535 – Duke Francesco II Sforza. The Houses of Visconti and Sforza had many descendants through female lines, King François being one of them.

François was warned by Ferdinand, Montmorency, and Mary Stafford who had arrived in the city days before the treacherous François de Bourbon, Count de Saint-Pol, attempted to kill his liege lord on the Pope's orders. Anyway, the count failed, and in a fit of rage, François, who has a mellow temper, killed him. Carlos is not implicated in all plots against the Valois family.

François de Bourbon, Count de Saint-Pol, was the second son of François, Count de Vendôme and Marie de Luxembourg, Countess of Saint-Pol. This makes him a prince du sang (French: a prince of the blood). This man is one of the Bourbons, so after the grievous story with the treacherous Constable Charles de Bourbon who conspired with Emperor Carlos to attack and partition France in the 1520s, King François calls his adversary a second Bourbon. In 1535, the Count de Saint-Pol married the heiress Adrienne, Dame d'Estouteville, who in this story became King François short-term mistress during the invasion of France of 1536 and later birthed the king's bastard, Nicholas. The Count de Saint-Pol betrayed his once beloved liege lord to punish the king for making him accept the royal bastard as his. The Count de Saint-Pol is also a fervent Catholic who did not accept Anne on the French throne. The king's entourage and Ferdinand will keep silent about the true cause of the Count de Saint-Pol death.

King François has another problem: Jeanne d'Angoulême turned out to be the Pope's spy in France. Jeanne d'Angoulême, Countess de Bar-sur-Seine, was an illegitimate half-sister of King François and Queen Marguerite of Navarre. The king's father, Charles d'Angoulême, had many mistresses, among them Antoinette de Polignac, who birthed his two daughters – Jeanne and Madeleine d'Angoulême, Abbess of Fontevrault. Jeanne had three daughters: Françoise de Longwy, Dame de Pagny and de Mirebeau, who married Philippe de Chabot, Admiral de Brion; Claude Louise de Longwy, Abbess of Jouarre; and Jacqueline de Longwy, who married in 1538 Louis III de Bourbon, Duke de Montpensier. How will King François deal with his illegitimate half-sister?

The King of France knew from the beginning that time would come when he would have to expel the Turks, who helped him destabilize Spain during the invasion of 1516, from Italy. As François does want to keep his alliance with the Ottoman Empire, the Muslims need to be ejected by someone else. Given that François wanted to have Milan unprotected, he told Ferdinand to command the Imperial Milanese garrison to march on Genoa and fight against the Turks. So, the city was free for the French to take, while Ferdinand is soon departing to Genoa to fight against Suleiman's men.

Half of the chapel is about Mary Boleyn. She loves her second husband, William Stafford, but her loneliness became so astute that when Montmorency, who suffered from the same loneliness of a widower, came to her, they remembered their past affair. Two lonely souls found consolation in one another! Later, they were seen by Mary's maid, who told many people about their escapades. Imagine: King François saw his best martial man in the same bed with his sister-in-law. François had no choice but force Montmorency and Mary into marriage to avoid a scandal. I've never been attached to William Stafford and wanted to ship Mary with some Frenchman, so I resolved to use this quick method for marrying her to Monty, and I assure you that they will find common ground.

The poem which Montmorency reads to Mary was composed by me. The next chapter will make you all happy. We are moving to the Italian wars.

VioletRoseLily and I began co-writing the story called "Entwined by a Golden Alliance", but we are posting it only at AO3. Give it a try, please, and thank you in advance!

I highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91, BellalunaMcKenzie, QueenMaryofEngland, and WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction. Let's support, review, and favorite each other!

Yours sincerely,

Lady Perseverance

Chapter 39: Chapter 38: A Cycle of Birth and Death

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 38: A Cycle of Birth and Death 

August 27, 1539, Château de Blois, Blois, Loire Valley, France

Two women sauntered through the gallery separating the Louis XI and the François I wings. Upon entering the latter, they dived into the universe of modern magnificence, swimming away from medieval grandeur. Fabulous Flemish tapestries bedecked the walls of corridors, chambers, and halls, through which they passed, admiring scenes of chivalry, legend, and courtly love.

Lady Elizabeth Boleyn, Countess of Wiltshire, was in elevated spirits. “I still cannot believe that now my daughter is the Constable of France’s wife. Madame Mary de Montmorency!”

Françoise de Foix questioned, “Do you approve of their nuptials, Madame Wiltshire?”

“I do!” A grin formed on Elizabeth’s mouth. “I did not support Mary’s marriage to William Stafford. However, he loved my daughter, even though he endangered his family by joining the Pilgrimage of Grace. But Mary is not old yet, so she should not mourn forever.”

“Did Montmorency court your daughter secretly?” wondered Françoise.

Elizabeth was aware of Mary’s affair with Montmorency years ago. Taking into account the glances of interest exchanged between the two of them, she had expected that they could renew their relationship at some point. Furthermore, Mary’s matrimony with the rich lord who was the most powerful man in France after the Valois ruler himself was beneficial for the Boleyns.  

“Sort of,” the mother of Anne and Mary quibbled. “I’m pleased.”

Françoise’s curiosity was still unsatisfied. “Ah, excellent. Then I wish you a good evening.”

They parted their ways in the courtroom. Elizabeth went to the nursery to her grandchildren, while Françoise was running an errand for Queen Marguerite of Navarre.  

§§§

Everything in the royal study, from bookshelves to decorative items, made of Venetian glass, exuded hostility. Jeanne d’Angoulême, Countess de Bar-sur-Seine, froze near the desk. Standing in the center, Queen Marguerite of Navarre and Françoise de Foix were glaring at her.

“You are a traitor,” Marguerite spat. “Why, Jeanne?”

Jeanne blanched to the color of chalk. “I had no choice!”

“There is always a choice.” Contempt lurked across Marguerite’s features.

Françoise regarded the woman scornfully. “You have made your family your sworn foes.”

Pangs of guilt spiraled through Jeanne. King Françoise and Queen Marguerite were not only her sovereigns, but also her half-siblings who had loved and respected her, despite her illegitimacy. The late Louise de Savoy had raised Jeanne together with her own children at Cognac and Amboise after the passing of Count Charles d’Angoulême. After François’ accession in 1516, Jeanne had been granted many estates and privileges, and she had always been in royal favor.

Marguerite’s voice was tinctured with disbelief. “The Pope’s agent!  I refused to believe in that after François had notified me about the events in Milan. Our spies watched you carefully for months, while I distanced you from Anne and myself. Yet, I still hoped that it is not true.”

The missive, which Jeanne had stolen, fell from her hands.

“This letter.” The queen’s gaze darted to the paper on the floor. “It is for one of our allies in Italy. We must give them time to prepare for our impending war against Rome. If Françoise did not discover you, you would have copied it and contacted someone in the Vatican. Our plans could have been thwarted, and my brother’s safety would have been jeopardized again.”

Fear and contrition were devouring Jeanne. “I’m sorry.”

“Too late, my Jezebel of a sister.” The queen inwardly wept from the hurt that the revelation had inflicted upon her. “For so long, you were so careful that nobody suspected you. When our spies observed you diligently, you seemed a loyal subject and a caring sister. Until today!”

This betrayal shocked Françoise as well. “Fortunately, I’ve caught her red-handed.”

“I hear the executioner is a merry fellow.” The queen’s humor was deadly.

“No!” Primeval horror warped Jeanne’s countenance. “Please, no!”

The king’s sister reiterated. “Guards!”

Jeanne backed away and sped across the chamber, but she slipped, hitting the floor. Fright instigated her to bolt to her feet, but near the exit, she collided with someone.

Realizing that it was a guard, Jeanne stumbled backwards. “Do not touch me!”

The soldiers charged forward towards her and twisted her hands behind her back.

“Let go off me!” Jeanne was trying to free herself.

Marguerite strode over to the captive. “So frightened, Madame?”

The second guard shouted, “Your Majesty!  Stay back, please!  God forbid any harm to come to you.” He rushed to the other man and helped him subdue Jeanne.

Françoise intoned, “Your Majesty, please stay safe!”

However, the queen stopped near the prisoner. “Isn’t it better to die with dignity?”

“I beg of you to listen to me,” Jeanne implored.  

“Fine.” Marguerite went to a red-brocaded armchair adorned with flower motifs.

The guards shackled Jeanne and held her steady as she started stumbling backwards.

The queen scowled. “This cheap spectacle will not help your case, my crafty sister.” Her gaze went to Françoise. “Madame de Châteaubriant, take a seat next to me.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Françoise settled herself in a chair beside the queen.

However, Jeanne was not pretending. As the shock depleted her of all the strength, her legs were wobbling like jelly. She collapsed on the floor, her nerves on the verge of breaking.

Marguerite enjoined, “Leave her there, and get out.”

The men complied and, bowing to the sovereign of Navarre, walked out.

“Why did you do that?” the monarch’s sister interrogated.  

“My daughter is–” A wave of sobs assailed Jeanne. “My dear girl, Françoise, is being held hostage in Rome. Once you inquired why she is not at court, and I answered that she is in her estates with her children. In truth, Françoise was kidnapped by Pope Paul’s men, and then they wrote to me, demanding that I spy on His Majesty if I want my daughter to survive.”

The tidings rendered them into a state of profound shock for a long time.

Marguerite glanced at her sister anxiously. “Does Chabot know where his wife is?”

“Philippe thinks she is in the countryside.” Jeanne’s husky voice quivered with the force of her distress. “Since his departure to Milan with the king, he didn’t send any letter to my daughter. That made it easier for me to keep her disappearance secret. Their marriage is a loveless one.”

The Navarrese queen gaped at her. “You are a fool!  Did you really think that they would spare your daughter and let her return home?  You should have come to François and me!”  

For the first time, Jeanne understood the absurdity of her hopes that the Bishop of Rome would liberate her daughter. “Whatever befalls me, I beseech you to rescue my girl.”

“We shall,” pledged Marguerite. “Your Françoise is not only Chabot’s spouse, but also our dear niece. We love her and will do our best to ensure that no harm comes to her.”

“Thank you.” Still on the floor, the hapless woman trembled, her soul writhing in the agony of shame and anguish. “God bless King François and you, Madame Marguerite.”

Notwithstanding their cordial relations, Jeanne always addressed her relatives formally.

At the queen’s permission, Françoise de Foix assisted Jeanne d’Angoulême to her feet. She led the captive to a chair at the other end of the study and returned to her own seat.

“When did the Pope contact you?” Marguerite could not refer to the man as ‘His Holiness’.

Jeanne wiped away her tears. “Shortly after the murder of Prince Charles. Displeased that the plot against Queen Anne failed, Pope Paul needed someone to gather intelligence for him, I suppose, for his further plotting. François de Bourbon, Count de Saint-Pol, brought this letter to me and said that I could not refuse because of my daughter’s imprisonment in Rome. I didn’t consent at first, but having learned of Françoise’s disappearance, I was cornered.”  

Marguerite questioned, “So, you did not plot Anne’s death?”

“Never!” claimed Jeanne, vehemently and sincerely.

“Yet, you worked against us,” the queen accused. “What information did you transfer?”

Jeanne said truthfully, “Not a lot. I sent the details of the king’s plans in Milan, as well as news about the appointment of Sir Thomas Boleyn the French ambassador to Venice.”

Marguerite’s eyes narrowed at her sister. “So, you knew that the Count de Saint-Pol would attempt to kill our brother in Milan. François could have died because of you!”

Immeasurable shame pinked Jeanne’s cheeks. “I prayed that the king would escape death.”

The queen’s pitiless voice mirrored her ferocious expression. “That does not justify you at all. Regicide is a monstrous crime, irredeemable in the eyes of the Almighty.”

Madame de Foix put in, “Especially if the targeted ruler is your own brother.”

“Regicide and fratricide!” Marguerite spat with repugnance. “These are the worst crimes!”

“I’m guilty,” Jeanne acknowledged. “But I did not wish our brother dead.”

The queen steeled herself against pity. “What are the Vatican’s intentions?”

“The Pope’s plans are horrible.” Jeanne spoke for half an hour.

“He is the devil’s incarnate!” The Queen of Navarre hurtled a candlestick at the wall.

In its deep-toned voice, silence made the enunciation of another difficult period in the history of France. The Aubusson carpet took the brunt of Marguerite’s relentless march back and forth.  

Jeanne’s question interrupted the pause. “What will happen to me?”

Marguerite picked up the letter from the floor. “François will decide your fate. Yesterday, his page arrived and said that he is one day away from Blois. He may come even today.”

“I’m ready to die.” Jeanne’s calmness bespoke her resignation.

“Guards!” the queen called. “Lock Madame de Bar-sur-Seine in her rooms.”

In a minute, the monarch’s illegitimate sister was escorted away from the study.

“Let’s go to Anne,” Marguerite told Françoise who stood up. They exited together.

§§§

Queen Marguerite of Navarre sat by the bedside of a heavily pregnant Queen Anne. They had played cards for most of the day, and Marguerite had lost the vast majority of their games. To safeguard her sister-in-law from worries, she had not apprised Anne of Jeanne’s situation.

Marguerite notified, “The nobility of France paid the so-called patriotic tax. Now the state treasury is full, and we can finance our construction projects and stabilize the economy.”

Anne beamed. “I’m glad that it worked. Are the nobles upset?”

“Of course, they are. But they all obeyed their sovereign’s orders. They all know how much the country lost during the invasion, and the fact that it was a one-time payment calmed them.”

“Good. Did the House of Guise pay the tax?” The sound of this name chilled Anne.

Margot felt the same. “Claude de Lorraine’s eldest son sent the necessary sum of money.”

Anne put the deck on a bedside table. “François has been away for months.”

“He will be back by the time of your child’s birth, just as he promised. He is close to Blois.”

“I’ve missed him a great deal.” Anne’s smile was wistful.

Marguerite leaned back in her seat. “Judging by his letters, he has missed you, too.”

Anne recollected morosely, “His first spouse spent her frequent pregnancies confined to her apartments at Blois or Amboise, surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting. I was very young back then, but I remember how Claude wept when receiving news of her husband’s affairs.”

The ruler’s sister saw that the other woman was jealous. “François often wrote to Claude. It was her decision to spend most of the time away from court. Piety, intelligence, and humility were all combined in her character, even though Claude was rather fragile. She disliked attention, so she made quite few public appearances during her short reign. Usually, my brother stayed at the place of Claude’s residence during her labor, just as he is now returning to be with you.”  

The French queen’s answer was biting. “Maybe Claude preferred a cloistral life over being humiliated by her spouse, who paraded his paramours in front of the nobility.”

Marguerite’s indignation flared up. “For the most part, François endeavored to be discreet with his amours. He had only one official mistress during his matrimony with Claude.”

Anne contemplated one of the wall frescoes portraying Venus with her mortal lover, Adonis. “In addition to his maîtresse-en-titre, countless other women slipped under his sheets, including my sister. Claude must have felt awful, knowing that François bedded her only to impregnate her. Thin, plain, and slightly hunchbacked, Claude could not compete with her rivals.”

Marguerite tempered her ire. “Why are you blaming my brother for events long gone?  You have no idea of his relationship with Claude, which did not start well for them.”

Anne fidgeted with the deck of cards. “Let me guess: François dreamed of marring Mary Tudor, Dowager Queen of France. The gossip was that he awaited Claude’s death in childbirth so that he could make the beautiful young widow of Louis the Twelfth his consort.”

“Nasty rumors!  In reality, François encouraged Henry’s sister to marry Charles Brandon to spite his rival. It amused my brother that a princess fell for an upstart elevated to Duke of Suffolk.”

“Yet, the blue-blooded François de Valois took an English earl’s daughter as his wife.”

Marguerite relocated on the bed’s edge. “He will never blame you for your birth.”

“I hope so.” Anne’s current sarcasm stemmed from her ingrained fear that François was not faithful. They were apart for months, and he could easily have slept with someone in Italy.

The Queen of Navarre divulged, “At first, neither François nor Claude wished to marry the other, but a sense of duty bound them together. Later Claude became enamored of François, and this unrequired love was the tragedy of her entire life: though being one-sided, it took her breathe away. François felt guilty, but it is impossible to force oneself to love someone; nevertheless, he respected and admired his wife, and he was disconsolate when she passed away very young.”

“Poor Claude.” Anne and Marguerite both crossed themselves.

A grin stretched across Marguerite’s visage. “You are jealous of my brother, aren’t you?”  

“You presume to know too much, Margot.”

“My dearest friend Anne!  François has been faithful to you since he banished his former paramours. He shall not stray!  You are the love of his life, more beautiful than the stars.”

Anne’s brown pools lit up. “Many women desire to be with him.”

A grin flourished on Marguerite’s mouth. “My brother is thoroughly handsome in a male and chivalrous way, isn’t he?  As his wife, you know that very well.”

A blush of lush apples suffused Anne’s countenance. She then riposted half-jovially, half-sarcastically, “François’ looks have escaped my notice, as if they had vanished in Italy.”

“One lady called her husband the bonny Knight-King in her poem.”

Before their separation, only François had composed poems in his consort’s honor, but then Anne began doing the same. Thanks to the rich imaginative beauty of their works, their poetry, designed for romantic letters in the style of courtly love, blossomed into its full splendor.

Anne retorted, “Next time, I’ll control my feelings better.”

They burst out laughing, and laughed until the vowels were rolling across the walls.

However, soon Anne’s most disturbing concerns resurfaced, tears welling in her eyes. “I’ve not yet given François a son!  France needs a new prince. I pray that I’m carrying a boy.”

“Do not worry about the babe’s gender.” Marguerite wiped the droplets from her cheeks.

Anne hiccupped. “I cannot birth his third daughter!  That would be the end of me!”   

Marguerite clasped both of Anne’s hands in hers. “François will love any child of yours.”

Suddenly, the French queen doubled over in pain. “Oh my Lord!”

“Are you well?” the king’s sister asked agitatedly. “Is it the babe?”

A gush of liquid out of Anne’s body moistened the sheets. “My waters have broken.”

Therewith, Marguerite shot to her feet. “Madame de Foix!  Fetch our midwives!”

The commotion escalated as the queen’s ladies hurried to and fro through the quarters. In several minutes, two midwives arrived; Doctor Fernel remained outside lest his aid was needed.

§§§

“It hurts so!” Anne wailed as another contraction ripped through her.

Dusk mantled Blois. The Queen of France clung to her mother Elizabeth’s and Marguerite’s hands, scarcely aware of their encouragements. This delivery was more torturous than those with Louise and Aimée, though less difficult than her labor with Elizabeth Tudor. Her head bobbed to the rhythm of the contractions, her womb’s muscles strained like the cordage of a ship in a stormy sea. Yet, Anne focused herself on the mission at hand – to bring her baby into the world.

“My son!  Come out!” Anne addressed her child. “Come to me!”

Lady Elizabeth Boleyn chucked. “That is a marvelous way to talk to your baby.”

Marguerite squeezed her sister-in-law’s hand. “Soon our prince or princess will be with us.”

Marguerite and Elizabeth slanted glances of comprehension at each other. Neither of them wanted to strengthen Anne’s assurance of her baby’s gender not to be chagrined later.

“More water!” one of the midwives demanded. “Urgently!”

Louise de Montmorency, the Constable of France’s sister, brought another bowl of water, while Françoise de Foix put clean sheets into a chest of drawers. The maids were bustling back and forth through the queen’s quarters, diligently performing the midwives’ commands. Almost everyone in France, save the queen’s adversaries – from the monarch himself to peasants – hoped and prayed for a boy, for the country had lost two princes in a short span of years.

“The head is crowning!” Agnes, the older midwife, announced.

“When will it be over?” Anne howled like a herd of wolves.

“Soon!  Breathe deeply and push!” instructed the woman.

Elizabeth advised, “With as much strength as you can muster!”

Bolts of pain zigzagged through Anne. “Why is it a woman’s lot to endure the childbirth?”

Agnes muttered, “A punishment for the sins of Eve.”

“That is a superstition,” Elizabeth muttered, earning the midwife’s glower.

The queen was disposed towards a sarcastic answer. “I like trying to get pregnant, so Eve did the right thing when she sinned with Adam. But I’m not so sure about childbirth.”

“Ah, Madame…”  Agnes blushed at the queen’s frivolity.

Elizabeth chuckled. “A typical feeling provided that husband is attentive to wife.”

Marguerite joked, “The biblical Eve had a practical mind.”

Everyone in the room, except for the old midwife, burst out giggling.  

“François is at fault for my suffering!” Anne gritted her teeth at another contraction.

Marguerite joked, “Imagine him bearing the baby for nine months and giving birth to it.”

“Let’s offer him to swap places,” Françoise supported with a grin.

The ruler’s spouse opined, “My husband is too male and vain to acquiesce.”

After another round of laugh, the agony in the queen’s abdomen intensified, as if a serrated knife had sliced into her flesh. The whole area vibrated with her moans and sometimes her shrieks.

Elizabeth was making circles across her daughter’s back. “The pain we women endure in childbirth – a man cannot take an ounce of it; for him a stomach ailment may be too much.”

“Indeed.” Marguerite wiped the perspiration from Anne’s forehead with a damp cloth.  

Agnes prodded, “Just some more effort, Your Majesty.”

At last, Anne ejected the baby out of her womb with one final push. The child wailed even before the midwife slapped it, this high pitch suggesting its strength and excellent health.

“Who is it?” A sensation of trepidation sprouted in the Queen of France.

“A bonny baby boy!” Agnes swaddled the child into a blanket with the Valois arms.

A long-awaited Valois prince was born!  The room exploded with exorbitant cheers.

“Anne, you have done this!” Tears stung Elizabeth Boleyn’s eyes. “I’m so proud of you!”

“My brother has a son!” Marguerite’s smile was as wide as it had been when she had finally given birth to her first daughter Jeanne, after years of her many unsuccessful attempts.

The French queen crossed herself. “Thanks be to the Lord!”

“God bless the prince!” Elizabeth and Marguerite said in unison.

Agnes affirmed, “Congratulations, Your Majesty!”

“Is my son healthy?” Fright did not yet relinquish its grip from Anne.

The infant screamed in the midwife’s arms. “He is perfectly healthy.”

Elizabeth observed, “The prince is loud, which proves his strength.”

Agnes confirmed, “Yes, it is true.”

“Give my son to me!” the king’s wife demanded impatiently. “He is mine!”

“And my brother’s!” Marguerite’s grin was impish.

Rocking the infant, Anne declared, “He belongs to France!”

“Augustine is ours!” King François promulgated from the doorway. He had arrived at Blois an hour ago; out of all his generals, Claude d’Annebault accompanied him from Italy to France.

Turning her head to her husband, Anne flashed him the most resplendent smile he had ever seen upon her features. “I’ve given you a male heir, François!  We have a prince!”

“God has blessed us and France!” The ruler strode into the room.

The women, excluding Marguerite, lowered themselves into curtseys.

“Congratulations, brother!” the Queen of Navarre exclaimed.

Elizabeth joined, “May God send the prince a long and happy life!”

“Amen to that.” His scrutiny was fixed upon Anne and their son.  

Agnes coughed to gain the room’s attention. “Your Majesty, I beg your pardon, but we need to have your wife cleaned to avoid infection and possible complications.”

He nodded. “Certainly.”  

After the king’s departure, the ladies aided Anne to change into a new nightgown. The sheets were replaced with new ones. Then Marguerite placed the bundle into Anne’s waiting arms.

François returned in a matter of minutes. “What a divine picture!”

A rush of delight passed through Lady Elizabeth Boleyn. “I’m so happy to raise all of your French children, Anne. Maybe our dear Mary will give me more grandchildren soon.”

François smiled. “The new Madame de Montmorency sends her greetings from Milan.”

The Boleyns were saddened that Mary was not at the French court at present. Elizabeth Boleyn had become closer to Mary in France. Anne simply wished to share her triumph with her sister, but Mary had to stay in Italy in order to get to know Anne de Montmorency better.

The queen’s mother and the ladies curtsied, then retired. Only the king’s sister remained.

“My boy!” Anne half-laughed, half-sobbed. “I can barely believe he is here!”

For a long time, the ruler could not tear his gaze away from Anne and their son. His universe transmuted into a paradise of contentment, his exhilarated spirit soaring into the heights like a bird with outstretched wings. That softness and sweetness of salutary air that he was breathing first touched his scarred soul and magically cured it, although the traces of a grief were still there. God, I thank you for giving me another child. My and Anne’s son!  François rejoiced.    

“You have wanted to name him Augustine,” Marguerite reiterated.  

“Yes.” The monarch eased himself into an armchair next to his wife’s bed. “It is the Feast of St Augustine, and it is a favorable omen that he was born today. Moreover, St Augustine was an ancient bishop and a philosopher, famed for being an inimitable Catholic theologian. The name Augustine is from Latin ‘Augustus’, meaning majestic or venerable, which suits our boy well.”

Marguerite approved of the choice. “It is good to name the boy so.”

The siblings shared a laugh, and François said, “Augustine, Duke d’Orléans.”

Yet, they winced at the mention of this title. Charles’ death was too fresh in their memories.  

The king modified, “Augustine de Valois, Duke d’Angoulême.”

“That sounds better,” Anne opined, and Margot nodded.

Marguerite then excused herself, leaving the spouses in the much-desired privacy.

§§§

“Don’t cry, my darling,” the Queen of France cooed to her son.

Her husband seated himself by her bedside. “He may be hungry.”

“No. Augustine has already been fed.”

Anne cradled the infant until the baby dozed off. She was carried away to the realm of perfect happiness, which she had never experienced before, not even with the births of any of her daughters. My joy is very light and so serene, beautiful and gay, as if it were ethereal. She heard the sweet breathing of her slumbering infant in the invigorating air, whispering to her about her victory over Oizys, the Greek goddess of misery and bereavement, and over Henry Tudor.  

Anne inquired, “Do you want to hold him?”

At his nod, she handed the babe to his parent. “He is heavy and strong.”

As his eyes opened, the prince stared at his father with a quizzical expression. Augustine had the Valois long nose, high cheekbones, and amber eyes, just as Marguerite’s and François’ orbs. He was his father’s living image, save a tuft of wheat-colored hair on his delicate skull.

“Our boy is like you, husband,” Anne commented. “Except for his hair.”

François explained, “Some Capetian and Valois kings were fair-haired. For example, King Philippe the Forth was an attractive blue-eyed man with very fair hair. My direct ancestors – Louis the Ninth known as Saint Louis and Charles the Fifth – were both blondes with amber eyes.”

“So, Augustine has taken nothing from the Boleyns.”

“Now no one can doubt his paternity. He is both a true Valois and a true Capet.”

Both parents knew that the boy’s striking resemblance to the king was a useful thing. Anne’s reputation of a strumpet still existed among some ardent Catholics, though an unfair one.

François smiled as the prince gripped his finger. “He is amazing, wife.”

Soon the nurses brought their two daughters. When Prince Augustine was deposited back into his mother’s arms and rapidly fell asleep, François cradled Princess Aimée. A smile flourished across the girl’s small exotic features: Aimée resembled Anne in appearance, but not in character.

“Aimée looks like me,” Anne observed. “But I was a vivacious child of untamed temper.”

François kissed their daughter’s forehead. “She somewhat reminds me of Claude. Certainly, she is not as restless as Louise.” He veered his gaze to their firstborn daughter.

At the same time, Princess Louise swiftly moved across the bed until her mother stopped her so that she did not fall off the edge to the floor. Having turned two years old three months ago, she was too precocious and inquisitive for her tender age. She always took the initiative to be picked up or climbed into someone’s lap on her own. The girl loved being outside.  

Louise shifted on the bed closer to her mother. “I want to kiss my momma and Aimée.”

As François placed Aimée on the bed, the infant crawled towards Anne and Louise. The countenances of the royal couple radiated a luminous radiance that originated from their love for their offspring. As the girls kissed one another and giggled, their parents laughed.

“Quiet, girls!” Anne wagged her finger at them. “You might wake your brother.”

Louise looked at the bundle. “He is so small!”

“Yes, but he will grow.” Anne began rocking a stirring Augustine.  

“Can he play with me?” Louise wanted to have a new friend.

“A bit later,” the king answered. “Once you all become older, you will all play together.”

“Louise!” a giggling Aimée lisped. “Love!”

The queen’s lips curved in a grin. “Louise, your sister means that she loves you.”

The ruler’s heart was at peace. “Aimée is France’s and our beloved girl.”

Louise and Aimée both dedicated themselves to crawling across their mother’s bed. Aimée, usually quiet and taciturn, became animated whenever she played with her sister.

François wondered, “So, what is better: to have a child who is always pushing the limits, or a shy baby who is rarely active?  Obviously, Louise took after my mother in appearance and after us both in character. But neither you, Anne, nor I are phlegmatic and reserved.”

His consort presumed, “Aimée has her own personality. All children are different.”

The noise from the girls awakened Augustine. With effort, Anne calmed Louise. Elizabeth Boleyn and the nurses could collect the three children from the bedchamber.

Elizabeth halted to recover her labored breath. “Louise, Aimée, and now Augustine, as well as Mary’s Eddie and Annie are marvelous children. But at times, they knock the wind out of me.”

As the door closed, François reminded, “Wife, we need to send the children away from court. My other offspring grew up at Saint-Germain-en-Laye in their own household, so our girls and Augustine will go there before my departure to Milan. Mary’s children can go with ours.’ 

Anne hated this rule of the royal protocol. “I’ll part with them with a heavy heart.”

“I know, but they cannot stay at court forever. They are so young and should live in the countryside, where the air is fresh, and there is little chance to contract some malady.”

She tipped her head. “You are right. What about new governesses for them?”

“We discussed them with you in letters. Anne de Laval, Princess of Taranto and Viscountess de Thouars – for Augustine. Louise de Montmorency, Monty’s younger sister – for our girls.”

As he sat on the bed, François brushed her lips with his, a kiss tenderer than a rose petal.

“Thank you, Anne,” the ruler murmured as they parted. “For our son, for our marriage, and for being the muse of my soul. I love you so much!  I met you in my brooding despair just before the invasion, and you have become a vivid beacon to me in both darkness and sunlight.”

François then read aloud a couplet from one of the poems he had composed for his consort.

The Knight-King has seen that beauty and wit,

To the power of them and love he submitted.

A spark of merriment by the deepest shade

Of dark pools that the best joy of his life made.

“François!” Anne’s essence hummed with a hymn of awakening devotion to him.

The air pulsated with amatory energies, previously dormant in the queen’s life. There was such a keen, romantic edge to his gaze that her lips sealed his with sensual pressure.

§§§

After his exhausted spouse had fallen asleep, the ruler left her apartments.

Their countenances absolutely elated, the monarch and his sister strutted through the many hallways of the château’s François I spacious wing. After passing through corridors adorned with frescoes and bronze statues, they entered through the golden leaf doors into the hallway, where the grand marble statue of Hugh Capet, founder of the Capetian dynasty, towered.

A gathering awaited their liege lord. The males swept bows, while the females curtsied.

With a festive air about him, King François declared, “My subjects and friends!  Blessed be this day and its holy patron St Augustine! Blessed be this hour!  My beloved wife, Queen Anne, has been delivered of a healthy prince. I’ve named him Augustine in honor of his patron saint.”

Cries of jubilation erupted from the assemblage. Today they were truly happy.

Marguerite proclaimed, “Long live King François and Queen Anne!”

“Long live Their Majesties!” everyone shouted.

Claude d’Annebault appeared from behind his liege lord. “God bless Prince Augustine!”

“A true Valois prince!” added Elizabeth Boleyn, Countess of Wiltshire.

Some courtiers cast askance glances at Queen Anne’s mother. Was she deliberately making emphasis on the Valois paternity of her daughter’s son so that no one would ever forget it? 

The king’s sister uttered, “Long live Prince Augustine, Duke d’Angoulême!”

The crowd echoed. The Duchy of Angoulême pointed out to the Valois-Orléans-Angoulême line of the House of Valois, which at present ruled France.

The monarch stated, “My son Augustine also bears the name of the great Roman Emperor Gaius Octavius Julius Augustus Caesar, the founder of Pax Romana.” He pointed at his ancestor’s statue in the room’s center. “Although he is a Valois through and through, Augustine resembles a great deal our Capetian ancestors – he has blonde hair. May Hugh Capet never be forgotten!”

Acclamations vibrated through the air. Yet, some faces reflected the astonishment. What did the comparison of Prince Augustine to Augustus Caesar and his two grand titles mean? 

François spoke, “Even though I must return to Milan soon, we will celebrate today!  Let the bells ring and thousands of cannons fire!  Everyone will know about my son’s birth!”

“As Your Majesty commands,” Guillaume Poyet, the Chancellor of France.

The ruler noticed several members of the Bourbon-Vendôme family. As he and his sister began walking towards them, a trepidatious silence, full of anticipation, ensued.

François and Marguerite neared Françoise d’Alençon, who curtsied. Her two eldest sons – Antoine de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, and François de Bourbon, Count de Enghien – dropped into bows. With a wave of his hand, the king dismissed them from formalities.

The Valois siblings eyed Françoise d’Alençon, who was a Valois princess by blood, being the daughter of René d’Alençon and Marguerite de Lorraine. Only two years older than Margot, Françoise looked matronly, and a network of noticeable wrinkles formed on her otherwise nice face. Slightly corpulent from her fifteen pregnancies during her two marriages, Françoise still stood tall and grand in her gown of ochre velvet, her stomacher of bronze damask.

Françoise’s blue eyes expressed her fright. “How can we help Your Majesties?”

The king spat, “How well our cousin, the Count de Saint-Pol, served me in Milan!”   

A terror-filled silence stretched between them. Françoise paled, and so did her sons.

Antoine de Bourbon pulled himself together. “Your Majesty, Monsieur de Saint-Pol was my paternal uncle, but our family has never been close to him. My mother is a Valois, and neither of my brothers or sisters have ever wronged any member of the ruling family.”

François  and Marguerite examiend the new Duke de Vendôme. Antoine’s father – Charles, Duke de Vendôme, also a prince of the blood – had passed away in 1537. Charles had been a friend to the king, one who had always been loyal to François and headed the Council gathered in France after the monarch’s capture at Pavia in 1525. François mourned for Charles’ death.

His eldest son, Antoine, was a bold, smart, and straightforward man of twenty-one. His bearing a bit pompous, he had a round face with freckles, light brown eyes, strong eyebrows of the color black, and medium brown hair beneath a plumed flat cap of orange satin. Antoine’s doublet of black and crimson velvet, the placard and sleeves of which were worked with gold, attested to his penchant for extravagance. Antoine was an infamous womanizer at court.

In contrast to him, his brother was a tall and thin young man of twenty. In his brown doublet, François de Bourbon, Count d'Enghien, looked especially slim. His green eyes glimmered with both fear and hope, his face was pallid, his countenance naturally timid, much like his demeanor. He always remained in the shadow of his older brother and preferred to live in his estates.  

The king commented, “Indeed, Your Grace de Vendôme. Your father was my great friend. I hope your family will continue serving the House of Valois. You are also my son Henri’s friend.”

Antoine bowed in obeisance. “Your Majesty will never have a reason to doubt us.”

Marguerite interposed, “Françoise, we have long been friends. I don’t want anything to cast shadows upon our relationship. However, another Bourbon tried to kill my brother.”

“We knew nothing about Saint-Pol’s vile plot,” avouched Françoise in most sincere accents. “We have never been in contact with the Pope. Or we would have warned you about the danger.”

“I hope so.” Marguerite believed these words.

François decreed, “You will keep your offices and are not banished from court. But bear in mind that all the Bourbons will be under surveillance because of the events in Milan.”

Antoine reassured, “We are not complicit in any crimes, Your Majesties.”

“My brother and mother speak the truth,” uttered François de Bourbon truthfully.

Casting at them ambiguous glances, François and Marguerite walked away to other courtiers.

§§§

After receiving more congratulations, the Valois siblings quitted the chamber. They slid into the hallway decorated with biblical frescoes and Italian paintings. François halted near a fireplace, exhibiting the salamander, staring at the initials of the joint ‘F & C’ sculptured in the stone. These were the mementos of Queen Claude, for whom he had refurbished the palace years ago.

The ruler’s fingers caressed the letters. “May Claude’s gentle soul rest in peace!”

Marguerite nodded. “May she sleep in heaven, with your several children.”

“I’m glad Henri is not at Blois. He does not have a good attitude towards Anne, so he would have been displeased that she birthed my son. I’m sad that my daughter, Margot, is not here.”

“François, I suspect that Henri left on purpose in order not to see the birth of Anne’s child. During her pregnancy, everyone prayed for a son, and Henri was ill at ease.”

Two months earlier, Dauphin Henri had departed to Paris in the company of both Diane de Poitiers and, much to everybody’s astonishment, Catherine de’ Medici. They had taken Princess Marguerite with them, although the girl had not wished to leave her stepmother before her sibling’s birth. It had been Anne who had told the young Marguerite that the princess should spend time with her brother before her wedding to Ferdinand instead of being confined to Blois.  

“I knew he would react so.” The king asked, “Did Catherine and Diane really go together?”

His sister’s mouth curved in a grin. “I think they made a temporary truce because they both know that Henri must perform his marital duties to let his wife conceive.”

“They are clever women. Hopefully, Henri will have a son in the near future.”

A short silence, brimming with phantoms of the past, ensued.

Marguerite read his thoughts. “You are worried that Augustine might die young.”

“Or as an infant.” His sigh of bereavement was audible. “Fate is a fickle mistress who dotes on irony. I never thought that my late sons, François and Charles, would predecease me.”

“They are in a better place, my dearest brother. At present, they must be looking at us, happy that their father has a new son, and that the French succession is again secure.”

His brow arched in a doubtful lift. “Is it?  Fate is too unpredictable and volatile.”

Spinning on his heels, François prodded away, with a sighing Margot trailing after him.

The sentinels bowed to their sovereign and unlocked the massive oak door. As François and Marguerite entered, Jeanne d’Angoulême shot to her feet and fell to her knees before the king. In the dim candlelight, they noticed Jeanne’s terror and her effort to keep herself from fainting.

“Your Majesty!” Jeanne sobbed with desperation. “Forgive me, I beg of you!’ 

The monarch addressed her in a person manner, “Margot told me everything, sister. You should have notified us of your daughter’s kidnapping, and we would have started the search.”

“I’ve accepted my death.” Tears streamed down Jeanne’s cheeks. “Just help my girl!”

He assured, “We shall work tirelessly for her release.”

“The Pope is still plotting,” Jeanne stressed, and he inclined his head.

Silence flared fluids of ire, while weeping with tears for the kingdom’s uncertain future and because of the rift between the three Valois siblings, which could burn their souls into cinders.

The ruler vocalized his verdict. “Jeanne, you are still dear to me, despite your treachery. In honor of my son’s birth, I’ve decided to spare your life. You will accompany me to Italy.”

Relief colored Marguerite’s expression. “You have a merciful heart, brother.”

Despite everything, neither Margot nor François wanted their half-sister dead.

A look of sheer disbelief painted Jeanne’s visage. “Holy Father, bless Your Majesty and the little prince!  I shall never repay you for the clemency, and I do not deserve it.”

“I’ll demand something in return,” the king forewarned. “That is why I need you in Italy.”

“Whatever you want,” Jeanne said through tears of relief. “And my daughter–”

“Will be saved at any cost,” he finished. “Have a good evening, Madame.”

 After they were gone, the Countess de Bar-sur-Seine threw herself onto the bed canopied with a yellow brocade cloth. Jeanne’s mind replayed her royal brother’s order to travel to Rome. That made her cling to this memory. Most importantly, François would have her daughter freed.


November 21, 1539, Alcázar of Toledo, Toledo, the Province of Toledo, Spain

“Oh, Carlos!” Empress Isabella sobbed between contractions. “It is horrible!”

Her countenance contorted in agony, the emperor’s consort reclined on the pillows. In the light from many candelabra placed upon ebony tables, her bed draped with golden-yellow brocade glowed like flames. The lingering wisps of impending tragedy refused to dissipate.

Her labor had started tonight, even though it was a two-month premature delivery. She had conceived very soon after her return to Spain in April, despite the warnings of the physicians that any pregnancy could be fatal for the empress. After the dreadful ordeal with the stillborn Infant Juan in the spring of 1538, the diagnosis was that Isabella’s womb had been too damaged.

Emperor Carlos squeezed his wife’s hand, as if it could prevent the life from sipping out of her, just as the last snowdrift melts away in springtime. Although it was custom for a monarch not to attend the labor and come after his queen and the child were both cleaned, Carlos had been urgently summoned to his spouse’s side due to the complications during the delivery.

“My Isabella,” Carlos was whispering time and time again. “I’m here with you.”

“Don’t go now,” she pleaded. “Don’t go.”

“Nothing will tear me apart from you.” His voice was shaking.

Isabella screamed as another round of contractions wrecked her body. The midwife – the middle-aged woman called Estefania who had tended to the empress throughout all of her previous labors – approached, and Carlos stepped aside. He continued holding his beloved’s hand as she writhed in pain on the bed, and blood began leaking out of her, smearing the sheets.

Doña Leonor de Mascarenhas, the chief lady-in-waiting, rushed forward. She had watched the scene between the royal spouses for long enough, but Isabella needed her help. As she sat by the bed, Leonor dipped a cloth into water and wiped the perspiration from Isabella’s forehead.

Estefania massaged the swell of her mistress’ stomach. “Your Imperial Majesty, push!”

“Do something!” Carlos barked to the midwife. “Don’t let her die!”

“The baby is close.” Estefania went to the foot of the bed.

Carlos glanced at her in hope. “Will it be over soon?”   

Estefania nodded. “Yes, it will. Sharp contractions are coming more frequently.”

“It hurts so much!” Isabella complained. “Far more than ever.”

“I warned about the danger of a new pregnancy.” Estefania’s shoulders slumped.  

Confusion marred Carlos’ visage. “What do you mean?”

His wife tried to dodge the question. “It matters not.”

“It does,” Estefania insisted. “Our empress should not have conceived again.”

Leonor concurred, “Not after her horrendous labor over a year ago.” Her gaze flew to the emperor, whose shocked face spoke volumes. “Your Imperial Majesty did not know, did you?”  

He shook his head. “No, I didn’t. Or I would never have imperiled her life.”

Estefania encouraged, “Your wife needs to push now.”

“We must pray!” Leonor crossed herself.  

Mi amor,” the emperor whispered to his wife. “What have you done?”

“You need another male heir. I–”  A new tide of pain interrupted the empress.

Isabella continued laboring through the evening. Stretching her aching back, she endeavored to extrude the baby out of her womb. She could barely contain her terror at the thought of leaving her husband a widower, and her three children – Felipe, Juana, and Maria – orphans.  

Carlos murmured a myriad of sweet nothings and words of love to Isabella, oblivious to the ladies bursting to and fro with bowls of water and sheets in the midst of a storm of their desperation. From time to time, Leonor cleansed Isabella’s face from the gathering perspiration, while the other maids were reading Pater Noster and psalms in the corner of the room and in the antechamber.

“I can finally see the head,” Estefania declared. “A few more pushes, Madame!”

Isabella’s face was the color of ash. “I’m so exhausted.”

At this moment, both Carlos and Leonor grabbed her hands and squeezed them.

“Please, querida,” Carlos beseeched. “Do this for me.”

Leonor struggled to remain composed. “And for your child.”

With all the strength left in her battered form, Isabella expelled the baby into the world. As Estefania took the child into her arms, there was no cry from the infant.

Panic hit the empress. “What is wrong?  Why is the baby silent?”

“Tell us!” the monarch demanded, even though he already guessed.

Estefania sniffled, “I am sorry, Your Imperial Majesties. The prince has gone to heaven.”

“No!” Isabella was drowning in an ocean of anguish. “Why, my Lord?  Why?”   

Carlos briefly embraced her trembling form. “We will cope with this. Together.”

“Oh my goodness.” Leonor was praying for the dead baby boy.

Estefania handed the corpse of the stillborn prince to one of the empress’ ladies, their eyes tearful. Swaddled in black cloth, the infant was taken away from the chamber. Lamentations and prayers filled the royal quarters, Isabella’s sobs echoing through the air despondently.  

Carlos and Leonor attempted to calm down the distraught woman. Only when Isabella felt a sticky liquid flowing out of her in torrents, she stilled as if in the face of fatality.    

“God, what is this?” The monarch saw a puddle of blood beneath his wife.

Estefania returned to the bed. “Her Imperial Majesty is bleeding heavily.”

In a minute, the royal physician arrived to examine the empress. The midwife and the doctor bemoaned that they could not stop the bleeding. Isabella’s minutes were now numbered.

“There is nothing to be done?” Isabella enquired in a weak voice.

The physician looked apologetic. “God bless Your Imperial Majesty.”

Her hope for survival vanished into a pit of nothingness, as quick as a flash. A chaos – fright, heartache, and physical pain in every cell of her body – raged inside Isabella. With a significant effort, she pulled herself together so that she could speak with her husband for the last time.

Isabella let out a faint smile. “I love you, Leonor. Thank you for your loyal service.”

Leonor choked on tears. “Madame, I’ve always adored you!”

“Be a friend to my cousin, Mary,” requested the empress, and her lady nodded.

“Leave me with my spouse.” Isabella’s pallor deepened.

The protocol not forgotten even now, everyone bowed and curtsied, then exited.

“Forgive me, Carlos!” Isabella brought her rosary to her lips. “Forgive me!”

He kissed her hand gently. “There is nothing to forgive!”

“It is impossible to escape your fate.” Her sudden whimper was tiny.

Mi amor…”  His voice failed him as the color faded from her eyes.  

The empress heard the relentless drum of mortality in her ears. “I’ve always prayed not to die during your absences. I have to tell you something. If you remarry–” 

The monarch cut her off. “Hush!  For God’s sake, please!”

She persevered, “You owe to your kingdoms. You need more heirs.”

He laced their fingers together. Now they were both holding the rosary. “Never. Do you think that my love will die with you? Do you think that some woman might replace you?”

Tears trickled down her cheeks. “Even that stubbornness of yours and that lust for power…  I’ve loved them, too. Those days when we were happy, I remember all of them.”

“That is unfair!  The Almighty is too cruel to us!”

Isabella struggled to lift her head from the pillow, and he cradled it in his hands. She spoke in a voice as weak as the sound of receding footsteps. “Carlos…  A human soul is more valuable than the whole universe…  Do not sin so that it will be cursed. God’s heaven is a real treasure.”

Isabella closed her eyes. The sheets were soaked with a copious amount of blood.

Hot tears poured down his cheeks. “Too much red …” 

Her eyes flickered open, fathomless and imploring. “Be honest with me, Carlos. Did you order the attempt on François’ life when his son, Charles, was murdered?  Did you arrange his failed assassination in Milan?” Doubt was gnawing at her consciousness for months.

“I swear I did not,” Carlos vowed. “I did not try to get rid of Anne Boleyn after the invasion.” Indeed, he had learned about the Lorraine brothers’ villainy only after their appearance at his court. “I first heard about François de Bourbon, Duke d’Estouteville, only after the events in Milan.”

“Thanks be… to God.” Huge relief colored her each word. “Then my death… is not your punishment. Do not endanger your… immortal soul.” Dizziness was overcoming her.

The ruler was clinging to her hand. “Don’t say that!”

“Ferdinand,” she whispered. “Be kind to your wonderful brother. What he did in Milan was necessary… for his… release and… freedom. He will remain loyal if you don’t… persecute him.”

Any thought of his brother irked Carlos like nothing else could these days. The emperor had lost Milan because his younger brother had gifted it to King François! Carlos had not decided yet how to punish Ferdinand for what he construed as a betrayal of him and their empire. Yet, Carlos still adored his sibling, but now he was also afraid of Ferdinand, of his brother’s popularity and talents more than ever. Ferdinand, do not become my mortal enemy, Carlos begged silently.  

His wife’s tremulous voice spoke. “You were right, mi amado esposo: life is too short.”

“I shall love you forever.” He would keep this vow for the rest of his life.

“Embrace… me. Let me… die in your arms.” Her voice was a liquid rattle.

He hugged her dying form. Driven by his immense love, he kissed her on the mouth. The kiss was as brief as human life compared to eternity, just as their marital happiness on earth was.

Isabella’s lips moved, but produced only a breathless whisper that her husband had to strain to hear well. “Carlos… the love of my life… take care of Felipe… Maria… and Juana.”

Her words ended with a thin, trailing rush of air. In less than an instant, the tension dissolved from her rigid body, and she sagged into his arms, her head falling limply forward.

The emperor howled like a wounded animal. “No!  Isabella!  No!”

A thick haze of perpetual bereavement enveloped Carlos von Habsburg. He felt as though the ground beneath his feet had dropped away: his wife, his dearest Isabella, was dead. He buried his face into her hair and pressed his consort to his chest, as if he could force life back into her. Minutes passed as they remained locked in their last embrace, tight just as it had been every time Carlos and Isabella had met after their separations when he had visited his many dominions.

Weeping like a child, he did not release his beloved until a hand landed on his shoulder.

“She has gone to heaven,” a crying Leonor murmured. “Your Imperial Majesty, I know that your grief is immeasurable, but you have to be strong for your children.”

His breath still coming in ragged sobs, Carlos avouched, “I will.”

Casting a tearful glance at his lifeless spouse, the ruler trudged to the exit, trancelike.

§§§

“My beloved wife and empress–”  The monarch’s voice broke off as he faced the crowd in the corridor. “She has passed away. Pray for her soul and for that of our departed prince.”

“My poor mother!” moaned Felipe, Prince of Asturias – the emperor’s only surviving son.

Lady Mary Tudor made the sign of the cross. “God let her soul rest in peace!”

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Francisco de les Cobos began, “accept our deepest condolences.”

The emperor did not listen to a loud chorus of condolences, which cascaded onto him from all sides. He came to his son and enveloped Felipe into his arms, but he quickly parted.  

Tears shining in his blue eyes, Felipe of Spain fidgeted with his white silk doublet worn beneath a short-sleeved black leather jerkin decorated with bands of silver-thread embroidery. Slight of stature and round-faced at his twelve years, Felipe had a somewhat prominent Habsburg lip and pink skin, his overall attractive appearance being a mixture of his parents.

“Be strong, my son,” admonished Carlos. “For your mother.”

Felipe was on the verge of crying, but he said, “I shall try, Father.”

Wishing only for solitude, the monarch walked away, his wobbling legs barely carrying him forward. His universe morphed into the cinders of his fragmented heart, and the monster of ruin bound his entire being with fetters of iron. For the first time in his life, he yearned to die so as to be reunited with Isabella in paradise and to never be separated from his consort again.

He stumbled into the study full of precious manuscripts. Grabbing his rosary, which he had inherited from his grandfather, Ferdinand of Aragon, from the desk, he kissed it and tumbled into a gilded chair. The intricate geometric patterns on the walls, all of Muslim origins, irritated him. All of these calamities – Isabella’s and our son’s demises, my defeat in France, and Ferdinand’s betrayal – these are my punishments for not curbing the heresy spreading within my empire.

Carlos clenched the rosary in his hands. “Or did I sin so badly that God took away my loved ones from me?  They did not merit their deaths.” His head fell onto his hands as he cried.

From the doorway, Mary watched the emperor in his extreme distress. He sank to the floor, his determination to maintain the façade of calmness vanishing entirely. Shuddering sobs tore from his throat as he was kissing the rosary again, and this picture reduced Mary to tears.

Carlos does not need anyone now, Mary inferred. He will mourn for Isabella for years, if not for the rest of his life. As the door slipped shut behind her, her cousin did not check who had just departed. Mary retired to her apartments, where she dismissed her maids and collapsed onto the bed, gasping in violent sobs. During her stay in Spain, Mary had grown to love Isabella as a sister, and the empress’ passing hit her too hard, just as that of her late mother had done.

“Contentment is ethereal on earth,” Mary whispered to herself. “Or too short.”

Outside, the winter Spanish night was in its full glory. First snow mantled the park, and stars shone like pinprick diamonds with a chilly light. For hours, Carlos and Mary, each in their rooms, rocked soundlessly under the heavens of Toledo, too raw for tears. Their bereavement lapped at them in tides, growing in strength and hurting them until nothing was left but opaque emptiness.

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope you are all safe and a little cheerful in these difficult days.

This chapter is fully dedicated to the French court and to the event that must make all of you happy – Anne Boleyn finally gives birth to her first son with King François. The boy's name was known in advance – Augustine, which means 'venerable' and was a title given to Roman emperors after the Roman Principate (the Roman Empire) had replaced the Roman Republic.

Welcome to the world, Augustine de Valois, Duke de Poitou and d'Anjou! He will have a long life full of dangers, trials, and tribulations, for he will be one of the main participants of the future French Wars of Religion unfolding in a sequel to CWL. His name suggests that he will have a glorious fate against all odds. A spoiler: Augustine is the most intelligent child of Anne and François, the most unique and accomplished one. Augustine will be written much like the Roman Emperor Augustus Caesar, known Octavianus before he became the Roman Emperor. Augustus Caesar was a good-looking, calculative, inflexible, unemotional, and crafty politician for whom politics was like a game of chess, and he was also a great patron of the arts in ancient Rome; he has quite a lot in common with Philippe IV of France known as the Fair and the Iron King.

As there was no birth control back then, Anne and François will have more children, but it is not necessary she will not be pregnant every year. The short poem that François reads to Anne was composed by me. I hope you liked the family scene featuring the royal parents and their three children. At present, Anne is half-way in love with her husband, and over time, she will fall for him deeply. When she falls in love, she will want to have more children with François.

In the previous chapter, I warned you that Jeanne d'Angoulême, who is François and Marguerite's illegitimate half-sister, might have been forced to work for Pope Paul III. Her eldest daughter – Françoise de Longwy, who was Philippe de Chabot's wife – was abducted by the Pope's people and kidnapped to Rome. The disappearance of her daughter cornered Jeanne, and she thought that she had no choice except one – to work the Pope and the now dead Count de Saint-Pol to have her daughter released. I am sure nobody is astonished that François extended his clemency to his half-sister because of their filial bonds and one pragmatic reason – he needs her help in the grand Roman spectacle that will unfold within the next five-seven chapters as the Italian wars resume.

The elder male line of the House of Bourbon went extinct with the death of Charles III, Duke of Bourbon, the Constable of France from 1515 to 1521. He is infamous for his conspiracy with Emperor Carlos to defeat France and partition France. He commanded the Imperial troops in the Sack of Rome of 1527, where he was killed. At present in this AU, only the Bourbon-Vendôme line exists (Henry IV of France was a representative of this line). As François says, the House of Bourbon-Vendôme will be under constant surveillance given the attempt on his life in Milan.

We have to say goodbye to Empress Isabella. In history she died in May 1539, but I moved the date of her death forward because of her journey to France. The cause of her demise is similar to the historical one: Isabella dies due to the post-labor complications. I loved writing her, but I did not plan to keep her alive. Emperor Carlos will forever love his wife and mourn for her, even if he remarries to beget more heirs or for political reasons. Part of the farewell conversation between Isabella and Carlos was taken from the Spanish series 'Carlos, rey emperador', which is a nice TV show, although the Spanish made Carlos far nobler than he was in history while making François I worse than he was. Now only power and hatred for the Valois family are left for a broken Carlos.

VioletRoseLily and I began co-writing the story called "Entwined by a Golden Alliance", but we are posting it only at AO3. Give it a try, please, and thank you in advance!

I highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91, BellalunaMcKenzie, QueenMaryofEngland, and WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction. Let's support, review, and favorite each other!

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 40: Chapter 39: Intricacies of Politics

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 39: Intricacies of Politics

December 20-21, 1539, Greenwich Palace, Greenwich, England

“Do you bring interesting news?” King Henry asked the French ambassador to England.

Louis de Perreau dropped into a bow. “King François has laid siege to the city of Rome.”

Brooding silence ensued. The ruler’s erratic breathing amplified his shock.

The monarch shifted in his throne. “What?”

Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford and the king’s chief minister, nearly whistled.

In the past months, Hertford had considerably strengthened his authority at court. The Duke of Suffolk was banished because of his refusal to return to court after his release from the Tower. The Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Surrey had gone to oversee their estates in the countryside.

“Explain your master’s actions,” prompted Henry.

Louis de Perreau, Seignior de Castillon, swallowed. He had come to England during Queen Anne Bassett’s brief reign, having replaced Antoine de Castelnau. Upon hearing that Queen Anne of France had birthed his rival’s healthy son, the Tudor ruler’s temper had spiked to such incensed heights that Henry had threatened the new ambassador with sword, reiterating again and again that Anne was incapable of bearing sons. Perreau craved to flee England at first opportunity.

I hate England, and so does my wife, Louis de Perreau thought dolefully. He was married to the King of France’s illegitimate half-sister – Souveraine d’Angoulême, the daughter of Jeanne Le Conte who had once been one of the many mistresses of the late Count Charles d’Angoulême. His wife’s filial bonds with King François made the couple feel obligated to do the ambassadorial work well in England. Castelnau had died of a heart stroke soon after his return to France.

The ambassador spoke, trying to prevent his voice from shaking. “At present, it is known in the entirety of Christendom that Pope Paul the Third organized the attempt on Queen Anne’s life over a year earlier. Prince Charles, my master’s son, was murdered, God rest his innocent soul.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “Later, the treacherous François de Bourbon, Count de Saint-Pol, perpetrated the assault on King François in Milan. It was also arranged by the Pope.”

After a trepidatious pause, Perreau opined, “As a peaceful settlement with the Vatican is not possible, my sovereign must hold Allesandro Farnese responsible for his crimes.”

Henry dipped his head. “Despite my dislike of François, I understand his motives.”  

“My king is defending his family,” the diplomat stressed.

In silence, the ruler pondered the political situation. Even though the crushing defeat of the Imperial armies in France had upset Henry because of his implacable hatred for François and Anne, it was beneficial for England. Carlos von Habsburg had gluttonous appetites for power, perilous for the world. In case of his victory over François, Carlos would have utterly lost the touch with reality, considering it absolutely normal to invade any country and annex any territory.  

The recent invasion of France had transformed the European political landscape. At present, France was a victor, while Spain was a defeated warrior, her vitals wounded. But England did not need to have such a strong neighbor on the other side of the Channel. François was Henry’s both political and personal enemy: the English king hoped that one day, he would invade France.     

The ruler enquired, “Is King Ferdinand, the emperor’s brother, in Italy now?  I heard that he was in Milan during Saint-Pol’s attack. Is he really marrying Princess Marguerite de Valois?”

The diplomat nodded. “The response is yes to everything, sire.”

“Elaborate!” Henry glanced askance at Hertford anxiously.    

For a handful of heartbeats, Perreau was at a loss for words. “If Your Majesty asks whether my master and King Ferdinand are allies, I beg your pardon, but I cannot answer your question. I suppose there are certain agreements between them, but no official alliance has been announced.”

Hertford speculated, “Ferdinand von Habsburg aided François de Valois to conquer Duchy of Milan without a single drop of blood shed. On his orders, the Milanese garrison left the city for Genoa. Later, Ferdinand seems to have helped protect François in Milan, and soon he marched on Genoa with his mercenaries. François obtained the Duchy of Milan and strengthened his positions in Italy, while Ferdinand was liberated, got the hand of François’ daughter, and may earn the glory of defeating the Ottomans. If they are not in alliance, then what do their actions mean?”

The monarch liked his main minister’s logic. “They must be allied.”

“I know… not, sire,” the diplomat stammered. “My liege lord has not confirmed it.”

“Hmm,” Henry muttered. “Castelnau was smarter than you. You are dismissed.”  

Offended, Louis de Perreau made a bow and scurried out of the room.

The king leered. “François could have sent someone more qualified than Perreau.”

“I think so, too.” Hertford did not voice his conclusion. Like many diplomats, Perreau was afraid of the brutal and mercurial Tudor ruler, treading carefully in all matters around him.

The monarch stood up and lumbered over to a window. He had gained more weight and was now limping more than a month ago; Edward was too close to him not to know the truth.  

Dusk descended. Today, on the Feast of Immaculate Conception, the winter firmament was clear, as if God had dispersed clouds to easily find the Virgin Mary on earth in order to keep her immaculate during her conception of Jesus Christ. The snow, which had been falling since the morning, enveloped the park in a sparkling white mass, and the snow-capped trees shimmered.

Henry pivoted to his councilor. “Edward, what do you think of our possible alliance with the emperor once Spain stabilizes her economy and can again pay to her troops?”

All this time, the Earl of Hertford stood near the throne. “With all due respect, I think Your Majesty should not ally with Spain now. Apparently, there is a rift between Carlos and Ferdinand. It is not clear how it will end, and whose side we will need to take. Moreover, before the Habsburgs can replenish their coffers, Ferdinand must expel the Turks from Genoa and the surrounding areas, but they are still fighting there. Moreover, François is now waging his war against the Pope.”

The king landed onto his throne with a thud. “It is better to wait and see.”

The earl stepped forward. “Since your daughter Lady Mary’s escape with Chapuys, there is no Imperial ambassador at your court. We can offer Spain to renew our diplomatic relations.”

“That dratted girl!” Henry slammed his fist into the armrest of his throne. “I’ve not forgiven Mary for her disappearance and deception!  She committed an act of treason against me!”

For many months, the name of Lady Mary Tudor was a taboo at the English court.

Edward remembered about the emperor’s tragedy. “Now Emperor Carlos is so heartbroken over his wife Isabella’s death that he secluded himself in a monastery after her funeral.”

The ruler cupped his chin in one palm. “We have something in common: Carlos and I lost our wives. Maybe we will ally in the future.” He guffawed. “Now it is time for fun!  Let’s go!”

The Earl of Hertford quitted the presence chamber after his sovereign.

You are married again, Jane, Edward sighed. Today after matins, Archbishop Cranmer had conducted the marriage ceremony of Jane Seymour and Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, in the presence of the ruler and his entourage. Edward’s insides clenched: he had been rather harsh with Jane during her betrothal to Percy, but now Hertford had misgivings as to her new matrimony.

§§§

“A wedding night!” The king’s smirk was malicious. “Ah, such wonderful moments!”

The Percy apartments were thronged with nobles, their expressions ranging from curious to malignant, from astonished to sympathetic. Their wedding, which was quite a sensational event, was frowned upon and laughed at. For the sake of his vengeful purposes, King Henry had invited his courtiers to witness the consummation of his former wife’s marriage to Northumberland.   

“Let’s proceed!” Henry gestured towards the door. “After me!”

Led by the monarch, the procession strolled into Henry Percy’s bedroom.  

The picture inside was miserable, to say the least. Their gazes downcast, Percy and his new wife stood near a bed with wood-carved details and ornate finials, crowned by a scrolling metal canopy. Their ashen pallor was too pronounced, as if they had been dead persons who had long been entombed. In a way, it was true because they viewed their marital bonds as fetters of torture.

The king eyed Jane balefully. “Lady Northumberland, you are too pale and ought to look better after yourself. Or how you will bear male heirs for Percy?  He does not have a son.”

Their sovereign’s hint was easy to figure out. Even Edward Seymour pitied his sister.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty.” Jane did not lift her scrutiny to him.

It was more than Percy could bear. “Sire, my wife and I will fulfill our duty.”

The ruler surveyed the spouses with arctic contempt. The pain and forced resignation of this odd couple amused him, their awkwardness igniting in Henry sparks of venomous satisfaction that Jane, who had not given him a son, was now paying for her sins. Once Henry had bright hopes for his future with the Seymour lady, but her failures had shattered them all like glass. There could be no better punishment for Jane than being married to Anne Boleyn’s former sweetheart.

With a caustic grin, the monarch pontificated, “Northumberland!  The greater a woman’s beauty and strength are, the finer her mind must be, and the more loveable her temperament should be, regardless of whatever she is an obedient or feisty woman. The more highly she is endowed by nature and the better she is educated, the more likely she is to have a well-bred husband. But any woman’s primary duty is procreation.” He pointed at Jane. “Your wife is far from being an intellectually gifted and bonny lady. Hopefully, you will find some solace in her docility.”

Lady Honor Granville, the haughty grandmother of Prince Edward Tudor, leered. “Today is the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. Maybe they will create a baby on such a holy day.”

This elicited perplexed gasps from the assemblage. Edward clenched his fists.

As Jane began shaking visibly, an incensed Percy said flatly, “We are ready.”

“Then begin!” Henry called, “Cranmer, come and bless the bed!”     

Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, entered like a shadow. As he performed what was requested of him, his hands were trembling, his pitying gazes flying from Jane to Percy.

“The Lord be with the bridegroom and his bride.” The Archbishop sprinkled the holy water across the bed. “Bless this bedroom so that all who lie in it may live in peace and persevere in Your will. May they live a long life, serving You, and have children in years to come.”   

After Cranmer’s leaving, Henry smirked. “Time to enjoy the most dramatic spectacle!”   

A curious whispering grew in the room, dying as quickly as it had started.  

Slowly, reluctantly, Henry Percy pulled back the covers and aided Jane to climb into the bed. As they reclined on the pillows, their faces almost touched, but Jane shifted back and shut her eyes. He pinned her to the mattress, the weight of him centered on top of her, and she whimpered. Percy then covered them both with a white silk sheet so that nobody could see their intercourse.

“Don’t be afraid,” Percy whispered to her. “I mean you no harm.”

Jane’s eyes fluttered open. “I do not want it.”

Her husband heaved a sigh. “We have no choice.”

“Why this delay?” the monarch grumbled in the background. “Percy, take her now!”

Edward barked, “Don’t make His Majesty wait!  We have others affairs to attend to.”  

Percy regarded his spouse apologetically. “I’m sorry, but we must.”

“Do it quickly.” His breath was tickling Jane’s skin.

Percy lifted her nightgown up over her hips. “There will be no pain.”

“I am not a virgin.” The last word had a tart taste on her tongue.

Northumberland slid into Jane. The penetration was gentler than the one she had felt on her first night with King Henry when her first husband had been tenderer with her than during their other intimacies. Jane stared into space as the earl endeavored to make it at least a little pleasant.

His measured thrusts did not hurt Jane physically, but they awakened the emotional ache in her soul. At the time of her wedding to the king, Jane had been full of dreams, having believed that her ethereal euphoria would last forever. There had been a clear road before her: her male progeny would carry on the Tudor legacy, while their love with Henry would bloom like a garden of roses for all eternity. How naïve I was, foolish and idealistic, Jane chided herself bitterly.   

A series of tragedies had beset Jane like a crown of thorns. Her first miscarriage and the monarch’s accusations of their child’s death because of her imaginary sins. The constant pressure upon her to bear a male heir from the king and her relatives. Her former husband’s threats to her and his many affairs. Finally, the loss of her son after she had seen the ruler’s lovemaking with her sister-in-law. Jane was astonished that she had survived through this chain of heartbreaks.

The months preceding her wedding to Northumberland had been rather difficult for Jane. She would gladly have joined a nunnery after the annulment of her first marriage, but she had been compelled to enter into matrimony with the very man who had years ago courted and loved Anne Boleyn, her erstwhile rival and foe. Despite his unwillingness to wed her, a widowed Percy had tried to get to know her during their one-year betrothal, but Jane had kept him at arm’s length.

Jane opened her eyes and glanced into Percy’s orbs. Ideally, a couple’s engagement period should be a time of excited anticipation, unless a fiancé was an old and ugly man. It was not the case with Northumberland, who was an attractive man only eight years older than she was. Yet, neither of them could grow to love each other, Jane was sure of that, although they would perhaps accept their union over time. After all, they both were the victims of the king’s selfishness.   

The sensation of some substance rushing through her severed the string of Jane’s musings. Percy’s countenance was imbued with a tint of unexpected desire as he accelerated the rhythm. Something soared through her body, penetrating each part of it until every thrust left her breathless with an unforeseen enjoyment that however ebbed away as soon as anger with herself poisoned her system. I cannot enjoy what he is doing to me like a wanton creature, Jane berated herself.

Unbeknownst to his new wife, Henry Percy felt even more uncomfortable than she did. He had tasted sins of the flesh with many women since his adolescence. After the dissolution of his betrothal to his beloved Anne, Percy had never been faithful to his late spouse – Lady Mary Talbot, because he had detested her. Yet, now the situation was horrible: Percy was consummating his forced marriage with the former queen, while the king and many others watched them.

Unable to look at Jane, Percy closed his eyes. The distant delightful days he had spent with Anne and the moments when he had first kissed her fused into one invigorating vision. Percy was suddenly cognizant of the long-forgotten elation overmastering him, and his loins burned as he imagined that he was making love to Anne. Urgently, his arms fastened around Jane’s form as Northumberland locked them both in an oddly passionate embrace, pounding deeply into her.

With one final thrust, Northumberland spilled himself into his new wife. “It is over.” Yet, he forced himself not to cry out Anne’s name upon the realization of who lay underneath him.

“Thank you.” Jane was grateful to Percy for his noble treatment of her. Her own reaction shocked her: their coupling should have disgusted her, but her body thrived with erotic pleasure.

The ruler snickered. “The birds are done!  Let them fly in the sweet airs of the night.”

The departure of the concourse caused the thunderous pounding of their footsteps.    

As they remained alone, Northumberland jumped from the bed and slipped into the dressing room connected with the bedchamber. He returned fully dressed and with a small bag.

“Sleep well, Madame,” Percy uttered tonelessly. “I shall not disturb you anymore.”

Jane snuggled under the blanket and tried to fall asleep. The echo of his receding footsteps somewhere behind the doors was the only sound in the silliness of the descending night.

§§§

“Anne von Cleves is so lovely!” enthused King Henry in jubilation. “As fresh as a flower!”

Before the ruler stood the portrait of a young beauty with light brown hair.  Although her German garb lacked elegance and hid her bosom too much in Henry’s opinion, her regular features were enlivened by the spark of youth in her green eyes and dominated by a finely arched nose.

“Green eyes are so rare,” the monarch commented. “She will be my emerald treasure.”   

The Earl of Hertford was pleased with his liege lord’s reaction. “Your Majesty, I have our copy of the betrothal agreement signed by Duke William of Cleves and my brother Thomas, Baron Sudeley, as your representative. Now England has a new valuable ally.”

Henry could not tear his gaze away from the portrait. “Pass my thanks on to Sudeley.”

When the king had tasked Hertford to find him a new consort, Edward had offered to send his brother, Thomas Seymour, on this mission. Allied neither with France nor with Spain, the country needed new friends. Hertford had assisted his sibling in regaining some royal favor, yet a bad premonition was gnawing at him, deluging his blood. Its potency was steadily growing since Thomas’ departure to the continent in the company of the German painter Hans Holbein.

For a short time, King Henry had dreamed of marrying a teenaged Christina of Denmark, a Danish princess and a widow of Francesco II Sforza, Duke of Milan. However, when Holbein had arrived in Brussels to meet Christina and paint her portrait, she had categorically refused to be the English ruler’s spouse because of his mistreatment of each of his three previous wives.

If I had had two heads, one should be at the King of England’s disposal.

Christina of Denmark’s flagrant characterization of Henry was now on everyone’s tongue. Upon hearing it, the monarch had been forced to look somewhere else. Edward had opted for searching a bride in the German Protestant states. Sudeley and Holbein had journeyed to Düren to create portraits of Anne and her younger sister, Amalia, who were daughters of John III, Duke of Cleves. Henry disliked Amalia, but the portrait of Anne von Cleves captivated him.    

Henry scrutinized the sitter’s face. “That foolish Christina of Denmark is not nearly as nice as Anne von Cleves. Christina will regret that she defamed me for the rest of her life.”

Francis Bryan and Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, barely repressed sniggers. They did not speak a single word since their sovereign had started his regular contemplation of the portrait.

“Sire, you will be happy with Princess Anne.” Yet, a kernel of unease nagged at Hertford.  

“Ah, she has such a kissable mouth!” Henry admired the woman again. “She is as beautiful as all blossoms in the world, as pure as mountain water, and as sweet to the lips as a plump grape.”

Bryan put in, “She will give you more children, sire.”

The ruler eased himself into an orange-brocaded armchair. “I need at least one more son. I’ll be forever grateful to my late and third wife, Queen Anne, for giving me my Prince Ned. But human life is so fragile, in particular a child’s.” Fears for his son’s health plagued him.   

Because of his secret of the boy’s true paternity, Exeter hated the prospect of the king’s remarriage and the possibility of Henry having more offspring. Nevertheless, he purred, “Your Majesty’s future with this princess will be as sunny as weather on a warm summer day.”

An elated Henry clapped his hands. “I’ll have a Duke of York and a Duke of Lancaster!”

Bryan said servilely, “Perhaps you will have more than three sons.” He supported Elizabeth Tudor, just as Norfolk and Surrey did, but he would do anything to retain the royal favor.  

This sweetened Henry’s mood. “The more the better. Healthy male heirs!”   

Hertford’s gaze flicked to Exeter. “Will you meet Princess Anne in Dover, cousin Hal?”

Exeter nodded. “Of course. When is she scheduled to arrive?”

“In March,” Hertford answered. “Lord Sudeley and Master Holbein will return with her.”

Henry asserted, “We will have a small ceremony upon her arrival, for I do not wish to wait for long to consummate our union. Then we will have a public wedding in London.”  

“I may organize everything, sire,” proposed Bryan.

There was a chuckle from the king. “I trust you will do it well, my friend Francis.”

His subjects bowed and backed towards the door. Their sovereign’s voice halted them.

With an air of the utmost seriousness about him, the ruler affirmed, “Hertford, have Anne Boleyn exonerated of all the unfair charges leveled against her. Cromwell has been dead for almost a year, and I’ve been thinking a lot about my young daughter.” He emitted a sigh. “I shall never forgive Anne for her worst betrayal, for she married François, but Elizabeth is an innocent soul.”

The other three men were stunned into silence, their attitudes to the matter bipolar.  

Hertford was bewildered. “Should we make an official promulgation?”

“Yes. Within a week,” Henry confirmed. “I also want Elizabeth to attend my wedding.”

Francis Bryan barely contained his joy. He would write to Norfolk and Surrey today; they were winning despite everything. “Princess Elizabeth will be happy to have a stepmother.”

“Definitely.” The monarch missed Elizabeth more than he admitted to himself.

“And Prince Edward?” Exeter constantly thought about the Prince of Wales. Elizabeth was a rival for his little Ned, so the marquess did not want her to be high in her father’s favor.

Henry shook his head. “My son is too small to travel. He might get sick, God forbid.”

Exeter smiled. “His Highness is England’s everything.”

The king loved the prince wholeheartedly. “My main treasure, for he is a boy.”

The monarch’s countenance conveyed repugnance as his thoughts drifted to the Countess of Worcester. “Thomas Audley was executed, but Lady Worcester has been in the Tower for a year. As now I am confident of Anne’s innocence, this harpy must pay – I want her to be executed. Ensure that bloodthirsty crowds will gather on Tower Green to watch her beheading.”

Francis Bryan rejoiced. “I’ll fulfill all your orders, Your Majesty.”

Exeter said half-seriously, half-derisively, “The more people will come, the better it will be.”

The ruler yelled, “I want that Worcester vixen dead!” His subjects bowed and left.

Alone in the presence chamber, King Henry leaned his head against his seat’s back.

Anne Boleyn was his everlasting obsession. Her beguiling poison had enticed him with her exotic allure years ago, having made him prostrate on the altar of Anne’s womanhood. Part of the monarch’s heart would always miss the love he had felt for her. It was curtained from the outside world with the rich growth of flowers, which flourished deep in him at the mere sound of her name.  

“Anne,” the ruler drawled like a deep yearning either for revenge or for just another meeting with his former wife. “You have never loved me, or you would never have sinned with François.”  

She finally birthed François’ son!  Henry could not pronounce it aloud. Augustine de Valois!  Duke Duke d’Angoulême! Damn him!  Arrows of heartache were shooting through the king’s whole being at the thought that Anne also had two daughters with his French counterpart. Three children throughout three years of her marriage to that Valois swaggerer!  Although Anne had not slept with those executed men, her matrimony with François and the birth of their three offspring were the most abhorrent betrayals in the monarch’s eyes. 

It hurt Henry like a burn that would linger for eternity. The king’s longing for Anne retreated like an army giving up a town to the foe. Her betrayal had left the ruler broken-spirited, and with the pain, came hatred more potent than his earlier amorous sentiments. The impulse of vengeance in the drama of Anne and Henry’s story was essentially stronger than that of forgetting her.

§§§

Lady Jane Percy née Seymour, the new Countess of Northumberland, awoke early. Her eyes closed, her fingers crept around the bed between the silk sheets. I am alone, just as he promised, she inferred, relieved. Her spouse had abandoned her to lick her wounds in solitude.  No sound or movement disturbed the still and cold air; the fire in the hearth had long since extinguished.

Throwing back the covers, Jane scrambled off the bed. Shivering, she swiftly donned a beige brocade gown with white slashings without any ornamentation. A servant brought more logs and set them alight, and soon a pleasant warmth began spreading from the fireplace.

The Earl of Hertford barged into her bedroom. “How was your wedding night, Janie?”

“How dare you appear here!” Jane bristled against his unceremonious intrusion.   

Anne Seymour, Countess of Hertford, emerged beside him. “As the royal chief minister, my husband must be well-informed. Northumberland deserted you in the dead of night!”   

“Edward!” Jane could no longer refer to him as her brother. “You have retained the king’s favor after our family’s banishment. You climbed higher than you could imagine. You consider women fit only for procreation and for giving men pleasure. Yet, this whore rules you!”   

“Do not insult my wife!” His eyes blazed with an irate light. “I’ve never been anyone’s toy. For idiots, craft is an end in itself. For intellectuals, craft is the vehicle for expressing their vision.”

Anne admired her husband. “Craft is the visible edge of art of power.”      

“Not for Jane and the likes of her.” Hertford attempted a half-smile. “We need to talk.”

The minister approached the bed, but Jane retreated from him, as if he were a pestilence.

Jane leaned against the wall. “Is your aim to heap more disparagements upon me?”

“What is wrong with you, sister?” Her brother stepped to her.

Jane croaked, “I need a distance between us!”

Anne snapped, “You are a naive weakling, Jane, one who lost everything. In the meantime, the strong Anne Boleyn birthed King François’ son and will definitely give him more heirs.”  

Unbidden, a toxic mixture of envy and anger dissolved in Jane’s bloodstream.  Anne Boleyn had succeeded even after she had given her French spouse two daughters. Upon learning of Prince Augustine’s birth, Jane had searched for explanations why Anne was more fortunate. Why could I not have a prince?  Yet, her next thought was that she did not want to be close to King Henry.

“I wish Queen Anne only well.” Jane’s voice was devoid of her bitterness.

Hertford’s sniggering hit Jane like a whip. “Being nice to your former enemies, Janie?”

“Lord Hertford,” Henry Percy addressed severely from the doorway. “I’ve heard enough. Whomever you are, you have no right to abuse my countess in our apartments.”

The Hertford spouses perused their new brother-in-law. If not for his fatigued face and dark circles under his eyes, the Earl of Northumberland would have looked as a well-rested, dashing courtier in a doublet and hose of lavender and black damask worked with threads of gold.   

Instinctively, Anne stepped to her husband. “We have to warn you.”

Hertford asserted, “Out of my filial affection for you, Jane, which still exists.”

Percy went to Jane. “Hertford, I’ll not let you terrorize my wife, blaming her for the loss of her queenly position. Before our wedding, she had to obey you, but now it is not so.”    

Hertford ignored his affirmation. “The king demands that you abide by the society rules. You, Northumberland, left the palace on your wedding night!  This is scandalous, even though it would have been normal on any other night. God knows what else Henry will do to torment Jane.”

Northumberland escorted Jane to a red-brocaded couch by the hearth. A question about his whereabouts during the night hovered over her lips, but she did not ask him anything.

“He strives to torture us both,” amended Percy, “because it amuses him. I’ll eagerly leave for my estates if I am allowed to do so. But I am not sure that the king will be charitable to us.”

Jane perched on the edge of the couch. “Edward, can you ask His Majesty about it?”

Deep down, Hertford felt guilty for being callous towards Jane. “I shall try.”

“Why are you helping me?” Jane wanted to know.

Edward did not respond, but Jane heard him sigh. Then the Hertford spouses walked out.

Jane’s mind raced: Percy had defended her mere moments ago. “Thank you, my lord.”

Northumberland shrugged. “No normal husband would let anyone mistreat his wife.” At her look of surprise, he supplemented, “You are not accustomed to hearing that, my lady?”

“I had a different experience,” his spouse muttered.

“I can imagine.” He despised their liege lord with every fibre of his being. “Make yourself comfortable and pray that your brother will persuade our liege lord to let us retire from court.”

Henry Percy headed to the living quarters. He had spent hours until dawn with Francis Bryan in a tavern, drowning his frustrations in wine. Now Percy intended to drink again.

A flurry of questions barraged Jane. Was Henry Percy different from King Henry?  Was he really an honorable man as she began to see him?  Suddenly, Jane discerned a new path in front of her, one not leading to happiness, but to the opportunity of gaining peace of mind. Her goal would not be easily won: she would not attain it without luck and Percy’s willingness to become friends.


January 23, 1540, Palazzo Medici, city of Florence, Tuscany, Italy

The firmament began to lighten with the advent of dawn when Marie de Montmorency née Boleyn, the wife of Constable de Montmorency, knocked on her sister’s door.   

“Anne, wake up!” the queen’s sister called urgently. “Something needs your attention!”

This awakened the French queen. Her daughter, Louise, slept peacefully in her mother’s bed canopied with a lavender silk, a doll clasped in her arms, her chestnut hair sprawled across the pillow in silken waves. Afraid that the child would wake up, Anne raced to the door.

“Quiet!” Opening the door, Anne huffed, “Louise is sleeping!”   

Marie, as Mary Boleyn was now referred to in a French manner after her marriage to Anne de Montmorency, beckoned her to walk out. “I’m sorry for intruding upon you so early.”  

The queen slid into the antechamber. The spacious apartments were furnished sumptuously with all possible amenities for a comfortable stay, the interior tinged in artistic hues. Wall frescoes of mythological and biblical themes, created by Fra Angelico, Filippo Lippi, and Sandro Botticelli, as well as massive and elegant oak furniture, gilded and painted with floral motifs – they all belonged to the period of Lorenzo de’ Medici Il Magnifico and his grandfather, Cosimo the Elder.

Anne tumbled into a gilded X-shaped chair near the hearth. “Yesterday, it took me hours of telling stories to Louise to make her retire for the night. Now you have almost woken her up.”

“Louise is a formidable force.” Marie’s mouth lengthened into a smile.

Her sister chuckled. “A force of nature!  She is more headstrong that ten kings altogether.”

Marie made herself comfortable beside the queen. “Duke Cosimo wants to see you.”

Hope enlivened Anne’s sleepy expression. “Excellent!  The Duke of Florence has kept us here for weeks. Maybe he will finally agree to sign an alliance treaty with France.”

Three months ago, Queen Anne had journeyed to the Duchy of Milan together with Princess Louise. Princess Aimée and Prince Augustine were too small to travel. Unable to be separated from all of her children, Anne had brought Louise to Italy, having received François’ grudging permission. In Milan, she had been reunited with Marie, who had stayed there with Montmorency.

Unexpectedly, François had tasked Anne to represent him in negotiations with Cosimo I de’ Medici, Duke of Florence. Preparing for a war against the Vatican, France needed as many allies as possible, in particular Italian duchies, city-states, and republics. Having spent four weeks in Milan, the spouses had parted their ways: the ruler had led his troops to Rome, while his consort had departed for Florence. Montmorency had gone with the king; Marie had joined her sister.

Marie quizzed worriedly, “Will Florence remain at least neutral in this conflict?”

Anne stared into the flames, hands pressed tight against her forehead. “I pray that it will be so, although it would be far better for us to ally with Duke Cosimo against Pope Paul.”

“Are you feeling unwell, sister?  Should we send for a physician?”

The queen dismissed her concerns. “I’m tired, for someone did not let me rest well.”   

Marie feigned offense. “Thanks to me, you have not slept late into the day, so it will not destroy the possibility of this alliance. Be grateful for my loyalty to His Majesty.”   

A wave of dizziness assailed the queen. “It is the duty of every Frenchman, including your own spouse who is the king’s most loyal servant. Now France is our home, Marie.”

“Don’t you distinguish my jokes?  ‘The gods too are fond of a joke’, as Aristotle said.”

“I do.” The queen rose to her feet. “I ought to get dressed. Will you help me?”

“Sure.” Marie stood up. “Wear your blue gown today. The duke will be impressed.”

A rush of dizziness swirled in Anne’s head. Suddenly lightheaded, she was hit by a bout of nausea so intense that her stomach lurched. She grabbed a bowl from a nearby table and threw up the contents into it. In a minute, Anne unloaded the rest of her yesterday’s supper once again.

“Aren’t you pregnant again?” Marie handed a cloth of white cotton to her.

The queen wiped her mouth with the cloth. “Most likely, it is true. My monthly have courses stopped.” She then gave her sister the cloth, and Marie took it away, then returned.

The queen’s sister commented, “It will be your fourth child with François.”

The nausea receded, leaving a nasty taste in Anne’s throat. “With either Henry or François, it was enough for me to spend in their bed several weeks, at times a few days or one night, to get pregnant. Louise was conceived on my wedding night with François.” A jocund laughter flowed from her. “This new baby is a memento of my Milanese amorous adventures with François.”

During the four weeks Anne had spent with François in Milan, they had been engulfed in a cocoon of pleasures whenever possible. Although kings and queens lived separately according to the royal protocol, her husband had relocated to Anne’s suite and even received important visitors there such as the Milanese governor and his councilors. Their vigorous nights in her bed, canopied with burgundy velvet, were tinctured with their fierce passion of the same color.

Marie giggled. “Once I told you that François is a fabulous lover.”

A pang of vain jealousy shot through the queen. “Marie, your affair with my husband is long in the past. I hate being reminded that you were intimate with both Henry and François.”

This time, Marie really took umbrage at the outburst. “I would not have slid under François’ sheets again, even if he had offered me to become his mistress once more. However, he did not love me, and he would never have humiliated you, his dearest wife, by sleeping with her sister or anyone else, for François is besotted with you, Anne. I’m also faithful to Monty.”

“I apologize.” The queen emotionally hugged her sister.

Marie disentwined herself from their embrace. “You are jealous of François.”

“Perhaps, but only a little.” A grin blossomed on Anne’s face.

“That is a very good sign.” It was high time for Anne to fall in love with François.

The queen changed the subject. “Let’s go to the dressing room.”

According to her sister’s advice, Anne selected a fashionable gown of blue damask with gold detailing, with a square-cut neckline and a quilted, white stomacher decorated with diamonds. As Françoise de Foix appeared, she and Marie dressed Anne, who then put on her sapphire jewels to emphasize for the wealthy Medici her high status – Anne was a magnificent Queen of France.

Marie placed a gold tiara upon Anne’s head. “Let’s leave your hair loose.”

Françoise was pleased with the appearance of her mistress. “A nymph!”

Anne liked her reflection in a looking glass. “Very good.”

Françoise enunciated, “My most sincere congratulations on your condition, Your Majesty. However, such frequent pregnancies might have a bad impact on your health.”

Marie tipped her head in concurrence. “That is my concern, too.”

Anne’s glare bore into Françoise, whom she adored as a friend. “I am the Queen of France!  My duty is to give my husband as many children as I can.” Her scrutiny oscillated between them. “The late Dauphin François and the late Prince Charles, God let their souls rest in peace, died young and childless, leaving the French succession unsecure. Then, thanks be to God, Augustine was born, but France needs at least one more prince. I know how worried François still is.”

None of them could refute the veracity of this affirmation. The Valois male line was still rather depleted of male heirs, having only two princes. If Marie or Françoise were in Anne’s shoes, they would have birthed as many children as their health would have allowed them.

§§§

“Queen Anne of France!” the herald said as the King of France’s consort entered.

Her posture regal, Anne glided across the room. The plafond was decorated with a series of stunning frescos of secular topics. The rectangular chamber was adorned with gilded stucco and Flemish tapestries of hunts, courtly life, and adventures of ancient heroes. On one of them, Anne recognized the Duke of Burgundy’s castle at Hesdin and the painted history of the Golden Fleece.

“Beautiful?” a male voice spoke. “In childhood, I always wanted to live here.”

Her scrutiny fixed upon the Medici couple sitting on a red-brocaded couch at the other side of the chamber. A matching chair stood next to the couch, left vacant for Anne.

An athletic man of twenty, Cosimo de’ Medici had a strong face framed with hair the color of brown earth. His eyes, hazel and perceptive, focused on his guest. The saturnine handsomeness of his countenance was set off by his complexion light like watery milk. His plain doublet of black velvet, covered with golden scrollwork, added to an air of regal austerity about him, as did a richly enameled gold brooch that held the mantle of purple silk in place around his shoulders.

Named after his illustrious ancestor Cosimo I the Elder, Cosimo had become the Duke of Florence after the assassination of Duke Alessandro de’ Medici, Pope Clement’s illegitimate son. Cosimo was a descendant of Lorenzo Il Magnifico on the side of his mother, Maria Salviati. As Lorenzo’s male line had died out, the young duke represented the junior line of the Medici family that descended from Lorenzo de’ Medici the Elder, a younger brother of Cosimo the Elder.

Anne strolled over to the couch. “The Medici home is truly a luxurious place with lots of artworks, although it also expresses the spirit of rationality, order, and classicism.”

Cosimo nodded. “It was typical for the era of the earlier Medici.”

“I don’t like this place,” his wife, Leonor, complained. “It is not grand enough for royalty.”    

They conversed in Italian because Anne and Leonor spoke the language very well.

He squeezed his wife’s hand. “My lark, I shall refurbish the palace for you.”

The queen took a seat. “Your reign has just began. Youth is like a bird: dream and soar in the air, euphoric and full of dreams. You have a whole life ahead to move wherever you want.”

This brightened the mood of Duchess Leonor. “That is well said.”

A slender brunette with brown eyes, Doña Leonor Álvarez de Toledo had an oval-shaped face, imbued with majesty and pride inherited from her Spanish ancestors. She was accoutered in a gown of elaborate brocaded Florentine velvet, with a square-cut neckline, its massed bouclé effects of gold weft loops in the style called riccio sopra riccio. Being her spouse’s coeval and a daughter of the rich viceroy of Naples, Leonor had married Cosimo in the spring of 1539.  

The Duchess of Florence was visibly pregnant, her hand resting on her baby bump.

Cosimo’s voice brought the two women’s attention to him. “I have three tidbits.”

“Three?” Leonor and Anne uttered in unison, and he nodded.

“Your Majesty,” Cosimo addressed their foreign guest. “First, three weeks ago, King Henry the Eighth issued the decree exonerating his second wife, Queen Anne, of all the charges levelled against her by the deceased Thomas Cromwell. This created an uproar in England.”

“Is that true?” Anne blinked in disbelief, a small flame of hope spurting into life.

“Yes.” A tiny smile graced his visage, gone in a fraction of a second. “Your arrest and exile happened before my ascension to the ducal throne. Yet, I was aware of the happenings in England, which horrified many people in the world. Now justice has been restored.”

A tempest of emotions whirled inside Anne, like a spinning wheel of amazement, relief, and exhilaration. A year earlier, her English allies had presented Henry with the evidence of Nicholas Carew’s attempt on Elizabeth Tudor’s life and William Brereton’s correspondence with Pope Paul III. According to the Duke of Norfolk, Cromwell’s last letter before the suicide had revealed the truth to the king. Yet, the Tudor ruler had not hurried to declare his former consort innocent.   

François’ plan to prove Anne’s innocence had worked, except for Henry’s continued silence. Anne had been most frustrated that she was still labeled a traitor in her home country, despite all their efforts. It had not mattered that most people realized the truth, and that in Europe, especially in Protestant lands, Anne was hailed as a victim of Henry Tudor and a heroine of France. The queen needed her name to be cleared for herself and for her beloved daughter Elizabeth.

In their messages, Norfolk and Bryan had advised that Anne should wait, having assured her that they would devise some new plan. Impatience corroding her vitals, she had begged François to interfere. He had promised that he would pressure his English counterpart after the end of the current Italian campaign. Nevertheless, the French ruler had enough on his plate, leading the war in Italy in the attempt to counter the Pope’s aggression, so Anne had not asked again.

Just when she had lost all hope, Henry himself had done the unthinkable. Questions rapid-fired through Anne’s brain. Why had Henry suddenly rectified his mistake?  Why had he become so generous to the woman whom he must hate for her matrimony with his Valois rival?  Had Henry done that for Elizabeth?  Nothing can bring my dear George back to life, but at the very least, his name is no longer besmirched. Her grief over her brother’s death was as immeasurable as infinity.

Anne’s enemies – Thomas Cromwell, Nicholas Carew, and Elizabeth Somerset, Countess of Worcester, who had served in her household – were all dead. Only the Duke of Suffolk remained alive. Her revenge plans had been accomplished, but feelings of anguish and hollowness pierced Anne like a thousand knives at the remembrance of her tragic drama in May 1536.

Then a sense of utter triumph over Henry colored Anne’s visage. “I’ve always known about my innocence, but I’m glad. Now my daughter, Elizabeth, is free from the unfair taint.”

Leonor was happy for the other woman. “Congratulations!  As Christina of Denmark rightly said, a woman might marry King Henry only if she has two heads. It is dangerous to be his wife, or she might find herself defamed, ejected, a head shorter, or dead on the day of her child’s birth.”  

Cosimo concurred. “No man, a king or not, should treat his wives so horribly.”   

Anne’s sigh was audible. “But it is Henry.”

Leonor hypothesized, “He will be remembered as Henry the Butcher through generations.”

A gay feminine laugh rippled through the air. Cosimo grinned ever so slightly.

The Duke of Florence announced, “Second, after months of ferocious battles on land and at sea, King Ferdinand from the House of Habsburg defeated the Turks. The former government in Genoa was restored. Now his troops are marching to the city of Rome to join King François.”

Anne and Leonor crossed themselves. The Muslim threat to Italy had been eliminated.

“Thanks be to God!” Leonor lifted her eyes to the ceiling, as if she could see the heavens. “I fear to imagine what would have happened if the heathens had not been stopped.”

“They are too perilous,” agreed Anne agreed.

Cosimo noted, “And they still are. They tend to avenge defeats.”

The duchess scolded the King of France. “Your Majesty, your husband is a Catholic, despite his religious tolerance. The heathens!  He should break the alliance with Sultan Suleiman.”

Cosimo glowered at his consort. “Leonor, France’s affairs are none of our business.” His gaze flew to Anne. “This is my wife’s Spanish upbringing speaking for her.”

Leonor pursued her lips. “I’ve voiced everyone’s thoughts.”

“It is fine, Your Grace,” Anne told the duke. Her scrutiny flicked to his wife. “Madame, you are Spanish, but look at this through the lens of the French. I assure you that we are all grateful to the Ottomans for their aid to weaken Spain, which helped us expel Emperor Carlos.”

The duchess mumbled, “I’ve not been through such an invasion, so I may not understand.”

Cosimo redirected the conversation. “More good news!  I am ready to make an alliance. In fact, my Lord Chancellor prepared the treaty yesterday, so we can sign it today.”

Leonor’s Spanish allegiance seemed unwavering. “Cosimo!  Please no!” The ire propelled her to jerk to her feet. “Carlos provided you with official recognition for your position as Head of the Florentine state. He assisted you in recovering the mighty power of the Medici.”

The ruler remained seated, scowling. “My initial alliance with the Habsburgs was necessary, but circumstances have changed. Carlos is an undoubted hero of infamy. I’m an honorable man, so I cannot side with him and the Pope, who both consider regicide a trivial thing.”   

Anne recalled the assassination attempts on her life during and after the invasion. She found Cosimo a young and promising ruler because of his intelligence and forward-looking views.

Leonor pleaded, “At least remain neutral.”

He stood up and clasped his wife’s hands in his. “The most precious treasure Spain gave me is you, Leonor.” Hardness shadowed his expression. “But do not dictate to me what to do.”

To cease the clash, Leonor said to Anne, “We will see each other soon, Your Majesty.”

“She will get used to it.” Cosimo observed his wife gracefully move across the room.

Anne deduced that the Duke of Florence viewed himself as the undisputable head of their family. There was a deep affection between the spouses, but Cosimo had domineering tendencies. Perhaps after they invested their youth in their marriage, he would trust his spouse more.

The queen jested, “A collision of two temperamental natures.”

“They say I’m a cold fish.” He sat onto the couch. “There is something else, Madame.”

She stiffened, leaning forward. “What?”

Cosimo enlightened, “One of my relatives is a cardinal, and I might know something King François does not. Pope Paul tried to ally with Spain, but Emperor Carlos refused because of his country’s almost bankruptcy and his inability to hire troops, even though the liberation of Genoa will trigger the flow of gold and goods between Spain and the other Habsburg dominions. The Pope senses that many Italian duchies and city-states are eager to become France’s allies in the aftermath of her victory over the Habsburgs. Paul cannot form a holy league against France.”   

“What else?” Anne was relieved that Rome was not Spain’s ally.  

“Pope Paul the Third, or Allesandro Farnese as he was named at birth, resolved that if King François attacks Rome, he will excommunicate His Majesty and the entire government of France. He might also put the French population under interdict if even one drop of blood is shed.”   

“Oh my goodness!” Shock whitened her facial skin. “The people are innocent!”

“The Pope is a ruthless politician before being the Supreme Pontiff. The French army is far stronger than the Papal one, so he is seeking ways of self-defense. He might perpetrate this villainy in the hope that knights will abandon their liege lords – both François and Ferdinand – fearing for their eternal souls. Paul remembers well how Pope Sixtus the Forth excommunicated Lorenzo Il Magnifico and the whole government of Florence in 1478, later putting the city under interdict.”

A white-hot hatred seized Anne as she paced. “I must go to my husband’s camp near Rome!”

“In your condition when the Vatican’s agents can find and harm you?”

She stopped in the center, her brow arched. “How do you know, Your Grace?”

His smirk was affable. “There are no secrets for me within these walls, Your Majesty. Send the captain of your guard to the town of Ostia, where King François is camped, with a letter for your husband. The news of our alliance will brighten his days considerably.”

Somewhat dizzy, the queen tumbled onto the couch next to him. “I shall.”

Cosimo pointed at the opposite wall. “Look there!  This tapestry celebrates the Florentines’ victory over the Sienese at San Romano more than a century earlier. Such displays of civil virtue connect the allegorical frescoes and wall hangings with the personifications of justice.” He further allayed her, “Just as my ancestor, Lorenzo, managed to dupe the vile Pope Sixtus and win, François will be able to do the same. The Almighty sees who is evil, and who is just and good.”   

“I pray that it will be so,” was all Anne said as she contemplated the tapestry.

§§§

Anne put the quill onto the marble table, her eyes skimming through the letter for François. Beside this document lay another parchment – France’s copy of the treaty between Duke Cosimo and King François, represented by his consort, stamped and signed by the parties.

“Deliver it to His Majesty,” she ordered. “No one else must see it.”

“I shall!” Jean, Seigneur de Rambures and Count de Dammartin, was captain of the queen’s guard since his sovereign had toughened security measures around the royal family.

Princess Louise barged into the room. In a gown of green brocade slashed with white silk, she looked like a charming forest elf. A small emerald necklace glittered on her bosom. Fond of precious stones, she always asked her parents for a gift of jewelry, and no one could refuse her.

Stopping near the desk, the princess enquired, “Are you here to defend us, Monsieur?”

Dammartin bowed. “Yes, Your Highness. I shall gladly give my life for you both.”

“Show me your sword.” The girl’s scrutiny was glued to the weapon at his belt.

Anne stood up. “Louise, my dear, you should not demand such things from a warrior.”

The azure of her daughter’s eyes darkened, signaling her annoyance. “Why?”  

The queen towered over the toddler, who refused to go into her arms.

Anne sighed at the child’s stubbornness. “A knight needs a sword to protect his country.”

Dammartin marveled at the princess. “As well as Your Majesty and Your Highness.”

Louise shook her head. “My name means a warrior!”

A chuckle erupted from Anne. “Do you want to become a heroine of France?”

The girl nodded happily. “Yes!  Like you and Jeanne d’Arc, mama!”

“In many years, but not now.” The queen’s laugh made her daughter giggle as well.   

Louise persevered, “I can still look at his sword.”

Dammartin drew his weapon from the scabbard. “Your Highness, I cannot give this thing to you, but you can see how long and sharp it is. It helps me punish the enemies of France.”

The princess stood as though mesmerized by the steel flashed in the bleak sunlight streaming inside through the windows. “I’ll have such a sword when I grow up. I shall fight.”

At this moment, Anne envisaged her adult daughter – a strong, fierce, and lovely creature – on the battlefield. No, she would not think of another war!  “We must let Monsieur de Dammartin leave. He is going on a mission of the utmost importance for France and us all.”

He sheathed the blade. “I’ll be in Ostia soon. Will you be protected until my return?”

Anne dipped her head. “His Grace of Florence is our ally; we are perfectly safe here.”

Louise’s clever gaze exuded anxiety, for she comprehended that her country and her people were in peril. “Godspeed, Monsieur. Save my papa and our Knight-King.”

Dammartin smiled, for the girl’s blue stare brought back the memories of the late Louise de Savoy he had often seen at the French court. “His Majesty will win.” Bowing, he hastened out.   

The queen kissed the girl. As the mother and her daughter froze in an affectionate embrace, remembrances of her beloved estranged Lizzy rushed into Anne’s consciousness. Anne prayed that now Henry would devote more time to Elizabeth. Even though Louise was now in her arms, the queen missed Elizabeth terribly, and she hoped that one day, they would be reunited.

When Anne’s sister took Louise for her breakfast, the Queen of France crossed to her prie-dieu and grabbed from a nearby marble table an illuminated manuscript that had been gifted to her by François after Augustine’s birth. Her book of hours in Latin, despite her religion, had enameled gold binding embellished with precious stones and two large and intaglio-engraved oval carnelian plaques. It had been similar to François’ own book of hours, which had been produced for him in 1530 by Matteo del Nassaro of Verona, who had also manufactured this thing for Anne.

The queen admired this masterpiece of the jeweler’s art.  Written entirely by hand, the book contained sixteen full-page painted illustrations, as well as prayers and litanies in Latin, along with supplemental texts and over two hundred and fifty small miniatures, decorated with tempera paints and gold leaf. She opened the page where St Francis of Assisi was portrayed.

After crossing herself, Anne brushed her lips across the page. “God, I beseech you to keep François alive for me and for our children.” Her hand flew to her so far flat stomach.

The queen prayed fervently to her husband’s patron saint, a blend of English and Latin words coming out of her mouth. The wedding ring on her finger attracted her attention, and she kissed it with the devotion to François awakening in her heart like a budding flower, delicate and vibrant with all kinds of joy. A mere thought of his possible demise was like a dagger to her soul.

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope you are all safe and a little cheerful l in these difficult days.

In this chapter, we are back to the English court. King Henry and his chief minister, the Earl of Hertford, learn interesting news from Italy: the French troops laid siege to the city of Rome. How will this siege end? With another Sack of Rome? Edward is right that it is not a suitable moment for the alliance with the emperor who secluded himself in a Spanish monastery, just as Carlos did in history, spending many months there in mourning for his beloved Isabella.

Now Anne is in Florence acting for the first time as the King of France's representative as she negotiated the alliance treaty with Cosimo de' Medici (later Grand Duke of Tuscany). As Cosimo informs Anne, Ferdinand expelled the Turks from Genoa after months of fierce battles, so soon the gold and goods from the New World will be able to be exchanged for gold and will be directed to the Spanish currently empty coffers. Ferdinand saved the Habsburg dominions from total bankruptcy and Europe from the Turks, but will this be appreciated by Carlos? François understood from the beginning that that they could not allow the Muslims to be in Genoa, but he wants to keep his alliance with Sultan Suleiman, so his aim was to have them defeated not by the French troops as if he were implicated in this – a crafty political strategy.

King Henry chose his new wife, and he is charmed by her portrait, just like in history. Only time will show what will happen to Anne von Cleves in England. Henry cleared Anne's name of all the charges levelled against her by Cromwell together with the names of the other executed men. He did it not for Anne, but for Elizabeth whom he loves. It is perhaps one of the few good things Henry does in this AU, for Anne and François will forever remain his mortal enemies. As you see, Henry is shocked and hurt that Anne has 3 children with his French rival.

Jane Seymour and Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, are not going to have an easy marriage. Percy and Jane have to consummate their union in front of many people: Henry did it on purpose – to hurt Jane and punish her for not giving him a son. I hope you noticed the changes in Jane's mindset.

Anne Boleyn is pregnant again after she spent a month with François in Milan. Well, there was no birth control then, but she will not be pregnant every year. Obviously, Anne is falling hard for François, but slowly, yet he became very dear to her, and they found themselves passionate and compatible in bed. It is not a great love yet, but the François/Anne pairing is a slow-burning couple. I hope you liked the addition of little Princess Louise to the Florentine scenes.

We are going to have the Florentine storyline as Cosimo de' Medici, so far Duke of Florence who only started to rule, is France's new ally. All the historical information about Cosimo, his background, and his marriage to Leonor of Toledo is correct. You can google Palazzo Medici Riccardi (back then, it was called Palazzo Medici) – it is a beautiful place, which I visited many times. Cosimo II de' Medici (from the junior branch of the Medici family) was one of the most notable Medici: he created a second Golden Florentine Renaissance, the first one being the creation of his maternal ancestor – Lorenzo de' Medici known as the Magnificent (Il Magnifico). There will be a lot about the Florentine Renaissance in this story. Some historians call François I of France, who is the founder of the French Renaissance, 'the French Lorenzo Il Magnifico'.

In the aftermath of the Pazzi conspiracy of 1478, Lorenzo de' Medici and the entirety of Florence were excommunicated by Pope Sixtus IV. The Pope seized all the Medici assets that Sixtus could find. Don't be astonished with Anne's shock at the news that Pope Paul III can put the entire government and population of France under interdict, like it happened to Florence years ago. There were kings and notable people in all times who were excommunicated, but excommunications were either lifted or not. It was the most horrible thing in the mind of a medieval and Renaissance person that meant a soul's eternal damnation. So, François and Ferdinand are in danger of being excommunicated, but maybe they can avoid it somehow…

VioletRoseLily and I are co-writing the story called "Entwined by a Golden Alliance", but we are posting it only at AO3. Give it a try, please, and thank you in advance!

I highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91, BellalunaMcKenzie, QueenMaryofEngland, and WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction. I also recommend Lady Plantagenet in the White Queen fandom at AO3. Let's support, review, and favorite each other!

Yours sincerely,

Lady Perseverance

Chapter 41: Chapter 40: Twists in Italy and England

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 40: Twists in Italy and England

January 30, 1540, Ostia, near Rome, the Papal States, Italy

Exorbitant cheers rang through the air as the cavalcade neared the French military camp. It was pitched in Ostia, a large neighborhood near the eternal city famous for its Roman past.

Having more than fifty thousand men in his army, King François still considered Rome too large to have it completely encircled. Thus, eight camps were set up around the city, overlooking the main gates and access routes to the city, including the one where the ruler resided in Ostia.

“Long Live King Ferdinand, a victor over the Turks!”

“God bless King Ferdinand for expelling the heathens!”

“Thank you! Thank you for what you have done for the Christian world!”

His bearing haughty and yet amicable, Ferdinand sat astride a stallion caparisoned in red and yellow damask. He headed the procession, consisting of his men and loyal generals – Philip von Wittelsbach, Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg, and Giovanni Battista Castaldo, Marquess di Cassano. Among them traveled Austrian advisors who served Ferdinand, not Emperor Carlos, as well as his Hungarian and Bohemian knights, followed by some of his many hired Swiss mercenaries. Most of Ferdinand’s troops were stationed near Ostia, in the vicinity of the mouth of the Tiber River.

“You have saved the entirety of Christendom from the Muslims!”

“Long live King Ferdinand!” Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg intoned, and others chorused.

Ferdinand waved to them and smiled. Unbidden, thoughts of Emperor Carlos assailed his brain. I’m being hailed and adored as much as Carlos was after the conquest of Tunis. He loved his elder brother, and they had once been united in their goal to lead the House of Habsburg to triumphs until his French captivity. Yet, his recent experiences had reshaped his mindset: now Ferdinand disapproved of the emperor’s warmongering policies, and all he wanted was peace.

Philippe de Chabot and Anne de Montmorency steered their stallions to the guest.

Montmorency grinned. “His Majesty King Ferdinand, by the grace of God a great victor over the Ottomans, King of Hungary, Bohemia, Dalmatia, Croatia, Slavonia, Rama, and so on.”   

Ferdinand saluted to him. “Constable of France! You have warmed up to me, haven’t you?”

“You ejected the Turks.” A trace of irritation colored Montmorency’s voice.

“Ah! How prosaic!” Ferdinand put on an offended expression. “I’ve begun to hope.”

“Hope never dies.” Chabot was better disposed towards the Habsburg monarch.

“Admiral de Brion,” Ferdinand uttered. “François wrote to me about your wife’s abduction.”

Chabot heaved a sigh. ‘I pray that the Pope does not harm my spouse Françoise.”

Ferdinand admitted, “His Holiness has definitely crossed a line.”

Montmorency noted, “You will soon learn more about that man’s deeds.”

A scowl darkened Ferdinand’s visage. “What else has he done?”

“His Majesty will explain everything,” Montmorency dismissed further questions.

Philippe de Chabot nodded. “Our liege lord has been waiting for you.”

There was no snow on the ground as the winter in the coastal regions was mild, while the moisture was plentiful. They dismounted before a large pavilion, blue with royal standards poised along the circular frame. A gonfalon hung from a pole to the side of the tent entrance, displaying the Valois heraldry – a blue and white shield with repeated patterns of golden fleur-de-lis.

As grooms led the horses away, the entire group entered the royal tent. 

§§§

Ferdinand and the two other men stepped through the opening in the tent. Three sentinels stood back at the tent’s distant wall. The King of France kept his most reliable bodyguards always at his side, in particular after the siege of Rome had started two months earlier.

François sat at a table loaded with books, parchments, papers, inkstands, and seals.

“Thank you,” said François to the man who had delivered to him Anne’s letter. “Go back to Florence and safeguard my queen more than the most precious treasure.”

“With my life, Your Majesty.” Count Jean de Dammartin bowed and exited.

François slid his gaze to his visitors. “Ferdinand! Welcome and congratulations!”

The King of France strode to his guest, and they embraced in a friendly manner. To their mutual surprise, the spirit of camaraderie between the former enemies was already quite strong.

François commented, “Your victory in Genoa will be as well remembered as Carlos’ triumph in Tunis. You not only won the decisive battle on land, but also significantly damaged the fleet of Haireddin Barbarossa. That is quite an achievement! You are rightfully hailed as a hero!”

Ferdinand revealed gloomily, “In Genoa the Ottomans burned towns and villages, killed and enslaved many people in order to sell them in Constantinople. They are beasts! Their forces were trounced first at Savona and then at Sanremo. My fleet defeated Barbarossa at Corsica.”

François said in an allaying undertone, “Their aggression was curbed. God bless those who suffered at their hands, but now the Christians will restore order and peace in Genoa.”  

François gestured towards armchairs, adorned with intricately carved leaves and flowers. After easing themselves into their seats, they stretched their legs out towards the fire cracking in the small hearth. Chabot and Montmorency settled themselves into nearby chairs. 

“For now,” underlined the emperor’s brother.

Montmorency sat facing the two monarchs. He spoke with his typical directedness. “Does Your Majesty hint at our alliance with Sultan Suleiman?”

“Yes.” Ferdinand could not contain his worries anymore. “François, the Christian world has tolerated your coalition with the heathens for long. We concur that the Inquisition should be less cruel towards those whom they call heretics. I told Carlos that the Church’s atrocities would not stop the spreading of heresy, but he never listened. Yet, the heathens are a different case.”   

Chabot jeered, “What do you suggest doing with the heretics, Your Austrian Highness?”

Ferdinand scowled at this sarcasm. “Don’t forget who I am, Admiral de Brion!”

François’ brows shot up. “So, the Muslims?”

His counterpart ruminated, “We cannot free Constantinople. Our forces are not equal, but they must be kept as far from Europe as possible; if necessary, they should be annihilated.”

His mellow temper ruffled, François slapped his hand across the marble table that stood between their armchairs. The loud sound startled everyone, causing a collective flinch.

“Ferdinand!” The King of France’s glower was now piercing the other monarch like knives. “The Franco-Ottoman alliance safeguards my country from the Habsburgs and other foes. Even though we are allied with the Protestants, France cannot afford breaking other treaties when we are encircled by the Habsburg lands. My nation suffered enough because of foreign invasions.”  

Ferdinand tapped his fingers on the armrests. “You have many heretical alliances.”

“Only two,” parried François. “And nothing will change.”

Ferdinand persevered, “I want peace in Europe.”

“I know,” the Valois ruler assured. “But I do not trust Carlos. With the liberation of Genoa, the Spanish treasury has started receiving gold from the Genoese bankers. As soon as the emperor becomes capable of paying to his soldiers, he might invade France again or try to take Milan back.”

Ferdinand refuted, “Spain’s debt to the Genoese bankers is huge, though lower than those to the German Fuggers. He must redeem some of his debt before engaging in costly wars.”

“Perhaps,” François said. “However, we cannot take such risks.”

Tenebrous shadows mantled Ferdinand. “Now Carlos is incapable of doing anything. Spain is governed by Francisco de les Cobos, while my brother secluded himself in a monastery after my cousin Isabella’s death. I regret that I was not in Spain when the empress passed away.”

François crossed himself. “God let her rest in peace.” His subjects followed suit.

Ferdinand made the sigh of the cross. “May Isabella’s gentle soul find peace in heaven…” 

In a short funereal silence, they gave silent tribute to the deceased Holy Roman Empress. 

“Isabella was a remarkable woman,” the King of France affirmed. “Headstrong, intelligent, beautiful, kind, and brave, she was a model consort. I liked and respected her a great deal.”

“Yes, she was.” The ruler of Hungary nodded. “I loved Isabella dearly.”

François maneuvered the discussion to the matters at hand. “Ferdinand, I give you my word that in case of a new Ottoman invasion of Italy, I’ll break my alliance. Is that enough for you?”

Ferdinand pondered the matter for a moment. “Yes.”   

François grinned mystically. “Over time, you may decide to ally with the Turks.”

Ferdinand shook his head, but slowly, for his best instincts whispered to him that one day, he might need external help or protection lest Carlos became his enemy. “Only God knows…”    

The King of France retrieved his wife’s letter from the desk, then handed it to Ferdinand.    

“What is this?” The Habsburg archduke was puzzled.

François returned to his armchair. “Read it.”

My dearest François,

I pray that this letter finds you in good health. The news, however, is horrible.

The viciousness of Pope Paul has no limits. Now when Rome is surrounded by your armies, and after he failed to ally with the emperor who is grieving for his good wife, God rest Isabella’s soul, Paul is seeking for other means of defense. He will excommunicate you and Ferdinand, who will join you in Ostia, if you launch an offensive on the city. Drawing parallels with the past, Allesandro Farnese intends to act in the same way as Pope Sixtus IV did when he excommunicated Lorenzo Il Magnifico after the Pazzi conspiracy and put the Republic of Florence under interdict.

Duke Cosimo de’ Medici and I concur that not a drop of blood should be shed in Rome. I don’t know what you will do, François, but I plead with you not to expose yourself to such a colossal danger. Remember that our children and the baby I’m now expecting need you alive.   

Your queen who is missing you and is worried about you.

Ferdinand handed the letter back to François. “Pope Paul the Third killed one French prince and tried to do away with the Queen of France to cleanse Europe from heresy. I’m shocked...”

François put the letter on the table. “For years, I reckoned that Carlos was the quintessence of all that I loathe the most. Perhaps I was wrong – the Pope is far worse than your brother.”   

This surprised Ferdinand. “What will you do?”

The monarch of France stared into the fire, imagining the Pope writhing in agony in the flames. “I laid siege to Rome because I did not want to act precipitately. I expected that the Pope would want to apply some ace of trumps, which I could not figure out until today.”

“Now we know it,” Montmorency muttered.

François smiled. “Il Magnifico broke Sixtus’ alliance with the Kingdom of Naples and won. The interdict was lifted, and Lorenzo kept his power in Florence. I intend to do the same.”

“How?” the others chorused.

“We shall not shed blood.” François looked back and forth between all of them. “In Rome, there are many innocents who do not deserve the rampage we might perpetrate. We shall not act like the treacherous Constable Charles de Bourbon did during the Sack of Rome over ten years ago.”

“No one is totally innocent,” retorted Chabot.

The sovereign of France kept staring into the flames, as if searching for divine inspiration in them. “The civilians are not guilty of the Vatican’s crimes. I’m not interested in dethroning that Farnese: he must understand what a churchman can do and what he cannot.”

“If only a simple talk could help…” Still a Catholic, Montmorency could only sigh.

“Action is required,” Ferdinand asserted as he glanced at his fingernails. “Over a century earlier, there were two Popes in Rome and Avignon. The Council of Constance held from 1414 to 1418 recommended that all papal claimants abdicate, and that another Pope be elected. The same can be done in Pope Paul’s case. Allesandro Farnese cannot be the Holy Father.”

Chabot tipped his head. “That is true. Why not have Paul overthrown?”

Montmorency voiced his reasoning. “If every Pope can be deposed, then every king might be as well. We should not create anarchy, for its eruption might lead to dreadful consequences.”

François’ lips compressed tightly together. “In a way, I concur.”

Ferdinand signed. “Then Paul must realize that he can be replaced, and a new Pope may be elected by the Conclave. If he does not, then he should be deposed. He is a source of danger!”

François boomed, “Farnese has gone too far, but so have we. We cannot stop now.”  

An unsettling feeling swept over Ferdinand. Until the recent days, he had believed that the Pope and the cardinals were the true arms of Jesus Christ, sweeping away the plague of heresy that was consuming Europe like a fever. However, learning about the Bishop of Rome’s crimes, and seeing the growing alienation of the people from the corrupt Church in the Habsburg lands…  All these things had shaken his beliefs to the core. Those whom we call heretics are not against God.

Montmorency’s musings whirled. Although Farnese’s villainies did horrify him, he feared that in the future, the heresy now confined to the brains of individuals would flare into a fire of demands to legalize their faith, and the French society was not ready for it. All those who are fond of religious novelties claim to be peaceful and moral, but who knows what occurs during their secret assemblies…  The violence displayed during the Affair of the Placards proves that.

In contrast to them, Philippe de Chabot had already secretly converted into Protestantism. Having always been interested in all things intellectual and progressive, he had never viewed what the Catholics called heresy as a huge problem in France. The Pope’s acts of savage perversity had further distanced him from Catholicism. My beliefs coincide with those of Queen Anne, he mused ironically. The nobility and the common people must both support the king’s policy of tolerance.

Ferdinand’s gaze bore into the face of François. “Indeed. I shall stay here with you.”

An astonished François asked, “Why do you need this, Ferdinand?”

The King of Hungary scanned them all. “Today the Pope yearns to destroy François and his wife. Tomorrow he might have a change of heart and excommunicate Carlos or me.”

Nodding his comprehension and appreciation, the Valois monarch outlined their strategy. “Then we continue siege without attacking Rome. We shall wait until they surrender from famine. No blood will be shed, so Paul will have no reason to excommunicate us. All the roads leading to Rome are closed for entry and regularly patrolled by our men. Therefore, even if Farnese writes official excommunication decrees and wants to make them public, he will not be able to voice such promulgations anywhere other than in Rome, and nobody else will learn about them.”

Montmorency assured, “Your Majesty, none of your men will abandon you even if the Pope dares proceed to this extreme measure. They love you and will never shift their allegiances.”

Chabot supplemented, “All your knights believe in you just as the Florentine people trusted Lorenzo de’ Medici. They are also aware that the Pope is an evil devil.”

“I pray that it is true.” The loyalty of his men warmed François’ heart.

The fanfares of trumpeters ended their conversation. They walked out.

§§§

“What is happening?” Ferdinand asked François.

“Someone is arriving.” His French counterpart assumed, “Perhaps from Rome.”

First appeared several trumpeters in Farnese livery, blowing loud flourishes. Then came a small party of halberdiers with pennons streaming from the tops of their pikes. At last emerged a warrior, encumbered in heavy polished black armor adorned with strips of silvery barbs, on a black stallion in rich housings of red velvet. Behind him rode several pages, dressed in crimson satin.

“What a spectacular pomp!” Chabot observed. “These are the Duke of Castro’s arms.”

“Who let him in?” Ferdinand was astounded, for the security measures in the camp were so strict that he had been delayed for questioning before his cortege had entered.

“I did.” Jean du Bellay, Bishop of Bayonne and of Paris, approached them from the back. “I’ve checked his identity. Most of his innumerable retinue remained outside.”

“Come, all of you!” François hollered. “The Pope’s son has arrived to have a parley.”

The knights surrounded the King of France and his entourage for their safety.

“François de Valois!” The guest scanned the soldiers disdainfully.     

“I’m here!” François stepped forward in the semicircle formed around him.

Pier Luigi Farnese removed his helmet, and his page took it. Remaining on his hose as if to stress his superiority, he glared at the French ruler. His tousled brown hair framing his long face, he had raven eyes, fiendish and furious, and a prominent chin covered with a beard.

Born in Rome, Pier Luigi was Pope Paul’s eldest illegitimate son. Primarily a military man, he had been employed as a mercenary by the Republic of Venice in 1520, together with his brother Ranuccio, and the two of them had participated in the Sack of Rome in 1527. This conduct had besmirched their reputation, but his father had nonetheless appointed Pier Captain General of the Church upon his election as the Supreme Pontiff and also made him Duke of Castro.

“Your Grace of Castro,” François addressed the man in a more polite manner, in contrast to Pier. “I heard that you are a typical mercenary: savage and amoral. That is definitely true.”

This both confused and angered Pier. “Is that another game of yours?”

The ruler’s smirk was biting. “A duke usually possesses gallant manners. They do not make the man, yet they improve his appearance and the impression he makes on others.”

Pier’s temper flared. “Shut your lectures into your ass, you stronzo! You are nothing: worse that a fistful of earth under my horse’s hooves, and even worse than its excrements.”

The warriors raised their swords at the men, but their sovereign’s voice halted them.

The monarch jeered, “Do not befoul your hands. His Grace’s body is stained with his horse’s excrements. And the epithet “stronzo” is more applicable to his father.”

This sardonic joke produced rounds of vehement laughter from the knights, which lasted for nearly a minute. Pier and his entourage could do nothing but swallow the humiliation.

François raised his hand for silence. “Why are you here, Castro?”

“A message from His Holiness!” The Duke of Castro’s horse twirled around as he roared, “Pope Paul will excommunicate all of you if this army attacks and sacks the holy city. Your souls will be burning in the unquenchable fire of hell for all eternity if you do so.”   

Contrary to his expectations, the soldiers did not look frightened – they were cursing him.

“Damn Pope Paul! He is a wretched criminal!”

“He tried to kill Queen Anne! Prince Charles was murdered!”  

“That is not a man of God, but a bloodthirsty thug!”

“He is not His Holiness! He is His Brutal Unholiness!”

“The Roman Church has become too evil and very corrupt!”

“The followers of Luther and Calvin are right!”

François addressed a shaken Pier, “Who told you that we would sack Rome?”

“You will!” Pier recovered from the shock. “You have besieged us! Your men are not only in Ostia, but also near the walls of Rome. We saw your cannonry and siege machines.”

“Ah, you are mistaken,” François flung back. “It is all for our defense.”

“You stronzo!” Pier blustered. “I would have made mincemeat out of you!”

“Out of me too?” Ferdinand spoke up. “You are a vulgarian, but with a pompous air about you. God above, you have been a duke for only two years, but you will always be a mercenary.”

Pier spat, “The emperor’s brother! You might be excluded from the Catholic community.”  

Ferdinand shot a verbal arrow. “Just as you want to excommunicate the whole kingdom of France and her government? Will you also do the same to Emperor Carlos and all of his lands? Then another Sack of Rome will definitely occur, but it will be far more savage than before.”   

Pier gripped the reins tighter. “Are you not afraid for your immortal soul?”

“I am,” the emperor’s sibling fired back. “However, I’m against the Supreme Pontiff who considers regicide, as well as murders of an anointed royal person and children a banal thing.”   

More knights flocked to the center of the camp, where the royal tent was located.

Pier regarded the assemblage with indescribable contempt. “Don’t you see this is less about justice and more about control of the papal lands? You have no right to lay siege to the eternal city! You will all be damned forever if you harm the Holy Father and anyone in Rome.”

“The Pope is already damned,” one of the soldiers opined.

Someone else said, “His soul has merited eternal damnation.”   

Jean du Bellay declared, “Pope Paul is an ungodly man! As a bishop who dedicated my life to the Almighty, I cannot condone his crimes, and neither can any other honest man.”

Pier glowered at the bishop, whose church outfit of crimson silk was replete with regalia. “As a man of God, you must defend His Holiness from thugs! Where is your sense of duty?”

“With my king,” Belay claimed proudly. “Because the Pope is in the wrong.”

“You must all be slaughtered,” bellowed Allesandro Farnese’s son.

“How valiant!” François rolled his eyes. “You are a bit overzealous, Castro.”

“You…” Pier hated the King of France.

François noticed veins pop slightly from Pier’s temple, where his furious pulse was beating. “We shall not launch an attack on Rome. We shall not shed blood at all, but you will surrender.”

“Never!” Pier’s voice shook as he realized what their enemies planned.

The King of France advised, “Tell your father that we know you failed to ally with Spain. France is a friend of King Ferdinand, allied with the Ottoman Empire and the Protestant nations, as well as the Republics of Genoa and Venice and the Duchy of Florence. Milan is ours.”

Two weeks earlier, François had received tidbits from Venice. A skilled diplomat, Thomas Boleyn had convinced the Doge Pietro Lando to sign the treaty with the kingdom of France.

“You are now alone,” Ferdinand emphasized. “Surrender and hand the Pope to us. Or live months in the besieged city until the starvation forces you into submission.”

Montmorency appealed, “The Pope should capitulate. It is the only way out for him.”   

Chabot said, “There will be no battle – only a long siege. The Pope must understand that he has no reasons to excommunicate our liege lord, King Ferdinand, our countries, and none of us.” He warded off the urge to shout the accusations of his wife’s kidnapping by the Vatican.

François tilted his head to his right. “Will pride or rationality win?! We shall wait.”

A dismayed Pier pursed his lips. “I’ll inform His Holiness.”

The humiliated Duke of Castro and his party rode away without pomp.

§§§

King François and Montmorency stopped near a small tent in the depths of the camp. The five sentinels, who guarded the tent, bowed. Then the king and his constable walked in.

Jeanne d’Angoulême, Countess of Bar-sur-Seine, lived here. Having taken his half-sister to Italy, François had used her as a communication channel with the Bishop of Rome, who was not aware of her discovery as his spy. Jeanne had sent Allesandro Farnese letters as if from France, gathering intelligence about the fortifications of the city, the papal army, and the Pope’s plans.

“Sister!” Despite everything, François treated her exceptionally well.

Jeanne curtsied. “Your Majesty, is everything all right?”

“Yes. Is there anything you need?”

She smiled gratefully. “No, thank you. You have been most kind to me.”

Although she was closely guarded, the countess lived in luxury. A bed, canopied with brown velvet, stood at one end of the area. There were also chairs and a fireplace in her tent.

“We need to write a letter.” François seemed to be addressing all of them.

“Of course,” Jeanne responded eagerly. “Do you have news about my daughter?”

The king apologized, “I’m sorry; but we know that she is alive. You have to be prepared for a long siege. Months will pass before Allesandro Farnese surrenders.”

Montmorency pitied the woman. “Soon we will move you to a villa in Ostia.”   

“What to write?” Her sullen eyes betrayed the anxiety beneath her outward calmness.

“About the Viceroy of Naples.” They had to know whether the man would ally with Rome.

Even though Anne was now in Florence, the ruler thought that Leonor di Toledo, Cosimo’s consort, would not work to sway her father to their cause. Immensely loyal to the emperor, Pedro Álvarez de Toledo, Marquis of Villafranca, was a competent Spanish viceroy of Naples since 1532. Ferdinand had said that the best they could count on would be Pedro’s neutrality in this war.

§§§

King Ferdinand and his generals entered the tent, where he would be lodged in the French camp. They would spend the night here before returning to their own camp. Outside, it was replete with colorful flags of Ferdinand’s own domains – Bohemia, Croatia, and Hungary. His standard of Archduke of Austria hung from the ceiling to the right of the entrance to the tent.

Ferdinand walked across the tent. “Did my other advisors and knights return to our camp?”

The monarch of Hungary’s generals discarded their armor with the aid of several pages. The armor was taken away by the pages from the tent, and several candelabra were lit up.

Trojan von Auersperg, one of Ferdinand’s main Austrian councilors, answered, “Yes, they did, Your Majesty. The French allocated several tents for us and your bodyguards.”

“Excellent.” Ferdinand eased himself into an armchair. 

Philip, Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg, examined his surroundings. “Quite luxurious!”

The spacious tent was furnished with golden-tapestried couches, as well as bronze-brocaded armchairs and a marble desk, where clean parchments and inks lay. A bed, canopied with a mass of yellow silk, stood in the corner. A thick magenta-colored carpet flowed throughout the area.

Giovanni Castaldo chuckled. “They are the French! What else did you expect?”

At their master’s gesture, they all seated themselves into chairs.

Born into one of the oldest Austrian families, Trojan was a tall and sturdy man in his mid- forties, with an intelligent face dominated by a firm jaw and wide-set green eyes, his skin pale and his hair brown. Ferdinand’s coeval of a slim build, Philip, Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg, had an oval face, the attractiveness of which was emphasized by his almond-shaped eyes of the rare color violet. The oldest of them was Giovanni Castaldo, his average face exhibiting wrinkles under his hazel eyes and upon a large forehead, over which a few locks of his raven hair fell roguishly.

The Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg fumed, “The Pope’s actions are awful. I am shocked that the Catholic prelates have become so corrupt that they are eager to murder queens and princes.”

Castaldo forewarned, “Be careful, Your Bavarian Grace. I’m a Catholic.”

Palatinate-Neuburg was unrelenting. “Don’t you see the Pope’s wickedness?”

“I do,” acknowledged Castaldo. “And it pains me a lot.”

Auersperg eyed Ferdinand. “Your Majesty knows that I’ve become a Protestant.”

The King of Hungary nodded. “I do, and it is your personal choice, Auersperg. You are all aware that I’ve always advocated conciliatory religious policy.” He was silent for a fraction of second. “It is a great pity that my brother, Carlos, yearns to eradicate all those whom we Catholics call heretics. I fear that one day, the whole of Europe will be burning on Carlos’ orders.”

“You will not allow that to happen,” Palatinate-Neuburg supplied.

Castaldo admitted, “No burnings will stop heresy from spreading across Europe.”

“I fully agree with you.” Ferdinand stretched his legs ahead.

Auersperg said quietly, “The question is how the emperor will treat Your Majesty.”

They shared perturbed glances, afraid of Carlos’ repercussions against Ferdinand.

“I’ll handle everything,” Ferdinand claimed. “As long as I can maneuver between François and Carlos to keep the current peace in check, there will be no bloodshed.”

The emperor’s brother leaned back in his seat. The image of Princess Marguerite de Valois flashed through his mind, and a jolt of attraction surged up through him. Although François had today released him from his promise to wed Marguerite, Ferdinand was determined to go through with this wedding. Carlos would not welcome it, but Ferdinand was tired of doing everything only for his brother and family. Carlos will not manage my personal life, Ferdinand vowed.   


March 1, 1540, Rochester Abbey, Rochester, Staffordshire, England

The small cortege slowed to a trot. The weather was frosty, so the roads were often frozen during the forenoon. It had taken the travelers a lot of time to get from Greenwich to Rochester.

“I’ll charm Princess Anne!” King Henry laughed jocundly. “With words and then love.”

Francis Bryan smirked. “Your Majesty, kiss her and don’t stop until she is shaking.”

Disgusted, Sir Thomas Culpeper and Sir Arthur Plantagenet, Viscount Lisle, wrinkled their noses. The husband of Lady Honor Grenville, Lisle had become especially close to the monarch after the late Queen Anne Bassett had birthed Edward Tudor, Prince of Wales. Culpeper, who was younger than most of Henry’s friends, had earned the royal favor and been made gentleman to the King’s Privy chamber, having intimate access to their sovereign and his quarters.   

Henry chided, “Bryan, where is your decorum? We are discussing my bride!”

“Of course, sire.” Bryan shrugged, for the king had begun joking himself. 

They dismounted before the gray stone building, its towers rising into the murky sky. The ruler had decided to have his first meeting with Anne von Cleves at Rochester Abbey on her way from Dover. Founded between in the 12th century, it was the Augustinian abbey of St Mary. The king and his friends, as well as their attendants, paused in a large courtyard.

“It is quite small.” Lisle sighed at the sight of the building, much of which was dismantled.

The wind carried Henry’s laughter across the area. “When Cromwell’s agents checked this abbey, there were only eight monks and one abbot here. Of course, it was dissolved, and their wealth filled the state treasury. Now this land belongs to Richard Trentham, one of my knights.”

An ardent Catholic, Culpeper stifled the urge to shout. “Your Majesty, should you go?”

Anxiety speared through the monarch. “Did I dress well when we made our last stop?”   

Adhering to the traditions of medieval courtly love, King Henry had opted for not wearing his usual rich robes today. He would appear before Princess Anne as a modest nobleman and court her. Excited about his upcoming nuptials, the ruler was in merry and indulgent spirits as of late. Now his temper was as smooth as a lake, so everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief.

“Like Gaius Julius Caesar!” Bryan sweet-talked to his sovereign. “A military man through and through, Cesar preferred to dress in plain, though expensive, clothes.”

Culpeper followed Bryan’s suit. “Your Majesty is as magnificent as ever. The majesty of your personality and deportment makes everyone experience breathtaking thrills of joy.”

Lisle was not as servile as these two men. “Princess Anne will not recognize you, sire. You will see her reaction to someone else’s courtship, not to the appearance of her betrothed.”

Though pleased, Henry knew that his cronies behaved as seasoned courtiers. “Lord Lisle, your advice is very useful. We will check whether my bride has propensity for betrayals.”

The Earl of Hertford exited the abbey, and the king strode to him. The others followed.

“Your Majesty,” commenced Hertford, bowing. “How was your journey?”

Henry’s grin revealed his teeth. “Very merry! We have all come from Greenwich.”

“I’m glad.” Hertford concealed his extreme perturbation with a smile.

“Why so taciturn, Edward?” The ruler guessed that something troubled his chief minister. “I’m marrying soon, and you ought to be happy for me. Have you seen Princess Anne?”

Hertford expelled the cold air out of his lungs. “Yes. She is now resting in her rooms.”  

The aquamarine of the king’s gaze sparkled. “I must see her!”

The monarch entered the abbey, and a groom helped him out of his sable cloak.   

A moment later, Bryan, Lisle, and Culpeper were beside Hertford.

“Why so upset, minister?” Francis Bryan scrutinized the main councilor. “Has your wife failed to use her amorous talents to please you? A gloomy guest doesn’t fit a wedding feast.”

Flames of ire illumined Hertford’s cold eyes. “Shut up, Bryan! My last warning: never say anything like that about my countess. Or you will regret that you were born.”

As the royal chief minister stomped off, Bryan broke into a sarcastic laugh.

Culpeper was surprised. “Lord Hertford usually maintains an icy façade, but not today.”    

“What is wrong with him?” Lisle wondered.

Bryan conjectured, “Maybe it is connected with Princess Anne.”

§§§

A moody Anne von Cleves sat on a bench by a window. The bed in the religious house was not comfortable enough for her, so she needed more time to rest after her voyage.

The appearance of a cortege in the courtyard attracted her attention, and her heart thumped in anticipation. “Who is here?” she asked herself in her native German.

Her feelings alternated between her wishes to find a new home in England, and, on the other hand, to return to Cleves. Her fears tumbled over each other in her brain. Would the King of England like her at least a little? Would Anne’s traditional upbringing satisfy his tastes in women? After all, the monarch had been married to such sophisticated women as Catherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. The Princess of Cleves knew little about Jane Seymour and Anne Bassett.

I’m afraid to wed King Henry, the princess admitted to herself. To her, this man was a cold-hearted and capricious monarch not because she had never seen him, but because Henry Tudor was responsible for acts of savage cruelty, of which no human being could think without a shudder. The inhuman executions of the Catholic insurgents in the north of England horrified everyone. Moreover, Henry’s abhorrent treatment of all his wives was notorious.

Anne von Cleves would be the fifth consort of the Tudor ruler. Catherine of Aragon. Anne Boleyn. Jane Seymour. Anne Bassett. The first two wives had been humiliated, calumniated, and ejected from court and in Lady Boleyn’s case from the country. Jane Seymour had been set aside and cruelly forced into marriage to Anne Boleyn’s former fiancé, which perplexed the continental courts. The death of Anne Bassett on the day of Prince Edward’s birth had come as an utter shock to the whole of Europe, and most supposed that Henry had murdered her in a fit of rage.

“My dear, you will be an outstanding queen,” her brother, Duke William of Cleves, had told Anne before her departure. “A Protestant queen of a great country that broke with Rome’s evil! We are so lucky to have procured this match for you! You could not have risen higher!”

His daughter had responded, “King Henry had many queens. Will I be his last one?”

John had instructed, “Do not think of his past. Just give His Majesty a son.”

A spark of terror ignited in the pit of her stomach. What if Anne had failed to produce his male progeny? Would Henry discard her and send her home in disgrace? How would her brother react, then? Would she be browbeaten into joining a convent? Or would she die in childbirth or under some odd circumstances? A myriad of scenarios, all of them negative, dropped through her head like grains of possibility sifting through a sieve, consternation paralyzing her limbs.

The princess had been raised in accordance with the strictest teachings of the Protestant Church and the ducal protocol. Though obedient and proper, Anne had dreamed of immortal love. She remembered her parents being affectionate with each other in her childhood, but over years, they had lost their matrimonial zest, their union having transformed into a tolerable coexistence. Anne had concluded that it was an inevitable result of being together constantly.

However, Anne might not be given the opportunity to have a long-lasting relationship of any kind with the monarch. The daily torment of the fear of the unknown was so strong, unshakeable, and all too real for her that she brooded about her future every night. Anne had accepted the Duke of Cleves’ choice of the match for her out of duty, but she did not want to be Henry’s wife.

Anne crossed herself. “God, please help me! Protect me from his cruelty!”

The door opened, and someone said in English, “Your Highness! A gift from the king!

The princess comprehended the meaning, but now she did not want to see anyone. “Please, give it to one of my ladies. Thank His Majesty for his kindness and generosity.”

Her thick German accent puzzled and irked Henry. Her English was barely understandable! Didn’t the Duke of Cleves hire tutors of foreign languages for his sister? When Catherine had first appeared at Henry VII’s court before her wedding to Arthur, her English had been excellent.

“Madame, let’s talk!” He closed the door, the jewelry box clasped in his hands.

She was staring out. “It is not proper to talk to the king’s bride before he does it.”

This expression of modesty pleased Henry. “Heaven and hell house two distinct species of men, the good and the bad. The greatest part of mankind gravitates to vices.” He stepped into the depths of the room. “I’m delighted to see that our future queen is such a virtuous maid.”

“Thank you.” Anne struggled to formulate a response to his speech, her brain searching for words in English. “Most humans are… betwixt vice… and virtue.”

It seemed that she did not know some English words. “Your heart is too kind.”

Anne contemplated several unfamiliar men and Hertford, whom she had already met, speak in the courtyard. “It will be better if you leave. I must abide by the rules of etiquette.”

Why does she not turn to look at me? Henry wondered irritably. She could not be aware of whom she was now conversing with. She seemed to be more interested in what was happening outside, perhaps in one of his subjects, than someone who had delivered a gift for her.

The ruler articulated, “Imagine that you live in a fascinating age, but lack someone for whom your buoyant love can flower into a brilliant happiness. You are looking for your lady love.”

Anne wondered as to the identities of those men. “These things are inappropriate.”

Her indifference wounded Henry. “The healthy spirit enjoys meeting what life brings. Do you have it, my lady? I’m a simple courtier who has heard a lot about your allure.”

O joyous, blossoming, ever-blessed flowers!

’Mid which my pensive queen her footstep sets;

O plain, that hold’st her words for amulets

And keep’st her footsteps in thy leafy bowers!

O trees, with earliest green of springtime hours,

And all spring’s pale and tender violets!

O grove, so dark the proud sun only lets

His blithe rays gild the outskirts of thy towers!

O pleasant countryside! O limpid stream,

That mirrorest her sweet face, her eyes so clear,

And of their living light canst catch the beam!

I envy thee her presence pure and dear.

There is no rock so senseless but I deem

It burns with passion that to mine is near.

He spoke in Italian, his debonair voice shimmering like sun on a lake.

At last, Anne directed her gaze at him. “I do not know Italian.”  

He is so broad! the princess observed silently. Broad in countenance and waist. The red-gold hair… Who is he? Despite wearing somber doublet of black satin and matching hose, which were not embroidered, Henry looked like a man of a massive body size. In his small aquamarine eyes, Anne discerned bemusement and a distinct trace of brutality in his whole being.   

The ruler gawked at her, and the box dropped to the floor with a clatter.   

In the space of one second, his sensations cascaded from monumental bafflement to crushing disappointment. She was not the beauty from the portrait who had captivated the king!   Especially not as Anne sat stiffly garbed in a high-waist velvet gown of the color mustard yellow, the sleeves paneled with broad panels. Her face was a little too square, her nose too large, while her eyes – they were brown – set too close to each other. Her chemise was sticking out from her sleeves.

Where is my nymph from Cleves?  Henry quizzed silently. I’m not attracted to her at all! The German fashions caused her to look less slender than she really was. The conclusion formed: the portrait created by Hans Holbein misrepresented the appearance of Anne von Cleves, and the sweetest reports of her beauty from Thomas Seymour had been all faked or exaggerated.

Feeling more than a little awkward, Anne rose to her feet. She had not understood the poem, but it was clear that a man was courting her. “Sire, it is not allowed. Please, leave!”

To dissipate his disbelief, Henry asked, “Are you Princess Anne?”

Her bride folded her hands behind her back. “Yes.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“You are a royal page. When will His Majesty come?”

In the next moment, Henry stormed out and was absent for a few minutes. When he returned, he was habited in a doublet of purple brocade, the placard and sleeves of which were wrought with gold. A girdle of crimson and black velvet, enriched with gems, encircled his waist.

The English king! Anne screamed silently. It is him! Surprise and fright blended themselves into an amalgamation of the worst embarrassment she had ever experienced. How could she have been so foolish, thinking that someone other than her fiancé would dare read her poems?

“Your Majesty!” Anne lowered herself into a curtsey.

“You did not greet me properly.” His tone was bitterer than he had intended.

Her scrutiny was downcast. “I beg your pardon.”

“Take some rest.” All he wanted was to leave and never see her again.

She glanced at him. “What was the poem about?”

“One of Petrarch’s sonnets to Laura.”

“Petrarch and Laura.” She struggled with the pronunciation of these names in English.

“They are not you and me. The gift for you is in the box.”

Without a backward glance, Henry stomped away, cursing Holbein and the Seymours.

Anne picked up the box and opened it. Inside there was a massive emerald necklace with an intricate gold bangle. Even though she had never seen such beautiful jewels before, tears welled in her eyes. She had unintentionally humiliated her betrothed, and he disliked her.

§§§

“You will pay!” The monarch spotted the Seymour brothers at the end of the corridor.

The Earl of Hertford remained calm. Thomas Seymour, Baron Sudeley, was agitated.

The hearts of Sudeley and Hertford trembled in fright, but then their determination to protect themselves prevailed. The royal chief minister was already concocting a story.

An incensed Henry declared, “You lied to me! That is high treason!”

“Your Majesty, let me explain. It is–”  Hertford could not finish.

“I like her not!” their sovereign clamored. “She is an ugly and fat cow!”

Sudeley attempted to soothe the ruler’s temper. “Sire, you are unaccustomed to the German looks and fashions of Princess Anne. However, once she gets used to her new home, your attitude to her will change. She will dress in the English style and learn our tongue better.”  

Hertford regarded his sibling with momentary disdain. “Thomas, let me speak.”

“As you wish.” The baron’s frantic gaze oscillated between the two men.

“Justifications, Sudeley?” The king towered menacingly over the shorter, thinner Thomas. “You and that dratted Holbein deceived me. You spent weeks in Cleves and met with that animal-like creature many times. Nevertheless, you reported that she is as lovely as a garden of flowers. Holbein painted either a different woman or eliminated the flaws of her appearance.”   

“I… I…” Sudeley stammered, now paler than death itself.   

“Her eyes are not green!” Henry complained between gritted teeth. “Her forms are those of a matron who birthed ten children. Her heavy-lidded eyes and a pointed chin are horrible!”

Sudeley muttered, “These are foreign fashions! She is slimmer!”  

The king harrumphed, “No man would take that Flanders mare as a wife!”

“Edward, please!” Sudeley entreated his brother for help.

The Earl of Hertford assumed an uncharacteristic role for himself as he launched a defensive counterstrike. “Your Majesty! I beseech you to listen to me! Duke William of Cleves did not allow Thomas to see the faces of his two daughters. When Thomas first saw them, they wore veils tied to their hoods. When Master Holbein came to paint their portraits, Amalia and Anne appeared in the room wearing veils less transparent than those they wore while meeting Thomas.”

Henry was bewildered. “So, you did not see them? Why?”

Hertford continued, “It is custom at the highly conservative court of Cleves. You know that Duke William is a radical Protestant, so he thinks that no man should see his sisters close until they are officially wed.” Half of his words were true, the other half invented.

“But the reports,” their liege lord pointed out.

“The duke,” stressed the chief minister. “He spoke about the beauty of his sisters every day, and so did others. Under their veils, their faces looked stunning.”

Sudeley confirmed, “That is all true, Your Majesty.”

The ruler demanded, “Hertford, find a way out of this engagement for me.”

Pallor marred Hertford’s countenance. “Sire, I implore to forgive me for what I must say. The alliance treaty and the betrothal agreement are signed. At this juncture, it is impossible to cast Princess Anne aside without endangering the vital alliance with the Germans. England has been largely isolated since the break with the Vatican, and we need this alliance for our safety.”

Henry gripped his councilor’s forearms. “You proposed this marriage!”   

The royal chief advisor’s blood ran cold as he stared into his sovereign’s pitiless orbs.  Jane’s words echoed in his head like a prophecy of his demise: ‘The king will destroy you just as readily as he will anyone who displeases him’. Edward prayed that it would not happen to him.

Hertford garnered his courage. “Not without the break of our friendship with Cleves.”  

The monarch pushed the earl away. Edward staggered back to the wall.

Hertford labored to plant the seeds of calm into the king’s mind. “The princess comes from a fertile stock. Maria of Jülich-Berg, her mother, birthed four children, just as her sister Sibylle of Cleves did. Your betrothed will give you another son and secure the succession.”   

“Several sons!” intoned a scared Sudeley.

Exasperated even more, Henry resolved to demonstrate that their fates were in his hands. “I shall marry her, even though I’m not eager to fuck her. My Lord, if it were not to satisfy the world and my realm, I would do this for no earthly thing. But you two… should be careful!”

The Baron of Sudeley recoiled from him. “Forgive us, Your Majesty!”

Henry’s heart leapt with a brutal satisfaction. “Remember Cromwell.” He stormed away.

As the king’s footsteps receded in the distance, the Seymour brothers breathed deeply.

The chief minister veered his gaze to his brother. “You are a goddamned dullard, Thomas. What you did in Cleves… only a dim-witted man can do! And now I have to save you.”

His brother corrected, “To protect us. We are together in this!”

“I do not have secrets.” Edward heaved a sigh. “If you fall, you will be alone.”

Thomas Seymour had committed a fatal mistake in Cleves. He had realized that the English ruler would like neither of the duke’s sisters upon seeing Anne and Amalia. Once he had played cards with Duke William, and in spite of his skill of a gamester, luck had deserted him. Sudeley had gambled away a fortune, and his outstanding debt to the man had still been large.

Wallowing in despair, Thomas had begun drinking heavily. Then the calculating William had offered a deal: he would write off all the debt and pretend that they had never engaged in any card contests if Sudeley had made one of his sisters the Queen of England. A cornered Thomas had forced Hans Holbein into painting the unrealistic portrait of Anne von Cleves by embellishing her appearance with a loveliness that would definitely attract the prurient Tudor ruler.      

The Earl of Hertford went to the chamber where he had been lodged upon his arrival at the abbey. Attired in black, the Baron of Sudeley trailed after him like the train of a mourning garment. After they had turned into a juxtaposed corridor, the Marquess of Exeter appeared.

“Gods are smiling.” Exeter had overheard their confrontation with the ruler. “One day, I might help you fall.” His aim was to become the king’s chief minister for Prince Ned’s sake.

§§§

Storming out of the abbey, the folds of his cloak swinging close around, King Henry saw his friends laughing. He hoped it would not be snowing heavily so that they could travel.

“Your Majesty changed into royal clothes,” stated Culpeper.

“How was it, sire?” Viscount Lisle quizzed. “Is she as nice as in the portrait?”

Bryan frowned at the sight of the ruler’s scowl. “Is everything all right?”

“I like her not!” Henry approached them. “But I have to marry her.”

Everyone was stunned speechless. Exeter walked into the courtyard.

The king beckoned the marquess to him. “Cousin, what is your impression?”

“I met Princess Anne in Dover,” started Exeter, performing a bow. “Her English is not good enough to live comfortably in our country. I fear Your Majesty might be not pleased.”

Henry’s frown deepened. “Did she say something about me?”

“Her Highness is elated because of the wedding.” In reality, Exeter was under the impression that the girl did not yearn to marry the ruler. He could not blame her for that.

“That cow must learn the rules of proper conduct.” The king spit onto the ground at the memory of her behavior. “In addition, she does not know languages and is not cultured.”

Exeter was inwardly delighted. “I’m sorry, sire.”

No one uttered a word, fearing to further exacerbate the royal temper.

A chariot, draped in red cloth of gold, rode into the courtyard. Drawn by four sumptuously caparisoned palfreys, it contained the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk. Next succeeded a company of henchmen of the Suffolk household and their guards. As the cavalcade halted, Charles Brandon stepped out of it and assisted his wife in climbing out; then they curtsied and bowed.

Henry neared them. “Finally, you have answered my call, Charles.”

“Yes, sire.” Brandon did not know how to communicate with him.

The ruler castigated, “I released you from the Tower, just as I promised.” His gaze slid to the duchess – he had pledged to her to liberate her husband. “You ignored my request to come to court after your release and instead went to your estates. How can you explain that?”

Suffolk faced him intrepidly. “I wanted to be with my family, Your Majesty.”

Henry stared back for several heartbeats, a hailstorm of fury whirling in his inner universe. “I’ve not been granted the deference I rightfully deserve. Should I strip you of your title?”

“I apologize.” Suffolk feared losing his titles.

His sovereign barked spitefully, “Better apologize than provoke me.”

Indignation twisted the duchess’ insights. “How else can we serve you, sire?”

“You, Exeter, and Hertford will accompany the Flanders mare to Greenwich.” The monarch turned to Bryan. “There will be only a small ceremony. Cancel the public wedding.”

Bryan nodded. “As you command, my liege.”

“Suffolk!” the king bellowed. “Leave my sight!”

As Brandon walked away, his spouse interceded on his behalf. “Your Majesty, my mother is in poor health. She wanted us to stay with her and our children for as long as possible.”

Henry viewed the Duchess of Suffolk from head to toe. Her marten coat was unbuttoned, and he drank in her form clad in an elegant gown of shining white silk, trimmed and slashed with silver serge. A knotted sense of urgency blossomed in the monarch’s gut and loins.   

The ruler lowered his voice, and no one could hear him. “Beautiful Catherine Willoughby! My secret adventure that haunts me day by day. We shall enjoy each other again soon.”

“Maybe, sire.” Her eyes fluttered closed as the tiniest of sighs escaped her.

“Look at me, my sweet.” He felt warm.

Catherine obeyed. “Your Majesty, please don’t–”

The king cut her off. “My wish is the law.” He then lumbered away.

The monarch and his friends departed, excluding Exeter who returned to the abbey.

Henry is an iron-hearted lecher, the duchess bemoaned. If I refuse, he might harm Charles. Having spent months with her husband in Westhorpe Hall, she was exceptionally happy again, for Charles had pledged his heart and body to her after his many infidelities. The guilt of her betrayal with the king plagued her with a dreadful persistence. However, she would have to yield to Henry.

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope you are all safe and a little cheerful in these difficult days.

King Ferdinand and his troops join the armies of King François near Rome. Ostia is a neighborhood near the town of Rome, Italy, near the ancient port; it is also archaeological site. Ostia was a port and commercial centre of both Republican and Imperial Rome. The Romans considered Ostia their first colony, supposedly founded their fourth king – Ancus Marcius.

Ferdinand defeated the Turks, so he is now hailed as a victor over the Muslims. Savona and Sanremo are towns in the former Republic of Genoa. François wove intrigues and used Ferdinand, his new ally (so far unofficial, although others understand everything as they are together) to expel the Turks from Italy. I know that François is sort of backstabbing Suleiman the Magnificent, the Ottoman Sultan is his true ally, but the truth is that the Europeans were afraid of the military power and prowess of the Ottomans, so they all agree that the Turks had to be expelled from Italy. The Franco-Ottoman alliance will be kept.

Pope Paul III (born Alessandro Farnese) had several illegitimate children: Pier Luigi II Farnese, Duke of Castro; Paolo Farnese; Ranuccio Farnese; Costanza Farnese; Lucrezia Farnese. Pier Luigi II Farnese was called 'an immortal mercenary' by his contemporaries, and he was indeed rewarded with the office of Captain General of the Church. Pope Paul advanced the power and fortunes of his family, especially those of Pier Luigi. From Italian, 'stronzo' means bastard, shit, son of a bitch, a despicable person.

Philip the Contentious, who was a member of the Wittelsbach dynasty, was Count Palatine of the Rhine and ruling Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg. He will not die in 1548 and will appear from time to time, more often in the second half of the epic. In history, he was a close friend of Ferdinand von Habsburg who mourned for his friend's death in history.

In England, Henry VIII met with Anne von Cleves who was brought from Dover to Rochester by the Marquess of Exeter. The place of their first meeting is historically correct – Rochester Abbey. In history, Henry disguised himself as a page as he craved for a courtly love spectacle, and then he went to meet with his future wife. She didn't greet him properly and was staring out a window, and I am sure that you know the rest of their sad story during their first meeting. Henry had no idea that Anne's upbringing was not suited for life at the English court, and that Anne had been given only elementary education by the standards of the Tudor time. So, the scene of their meeting follows what we know from history, but Anne's character arc will be unusual and dramatic. I recommend that you relax and enjoy drama – there will be a lot of drama, and there will be twists you might dislike which is normal because opinions differ.

By the way, at the end of the previous chapter, Anne prays using the Prayer Book that François gifted her after Augustine's birth. This book is like the famous François I's Book of Prayers that was finally returned to France only in 2018 when the Musée du Louvre, sponsored by LVMH and other investors, purchased it from some Englishman for 10 million euros. François I's Book of Prayer is a dazzling masterpiece of the French Renaissance: the jewelled book represents a splendid combination of precious stones, metalwork, and illuminated pages. I'll visit the Musée du Louvre and have a look at this book as soon as the Covid madness settles down.

VioletRoseLily and I are co-writing the story called "Entwined by a Golden Alliance", but we are posting it only at AO3. Give it a try, please, and thank you in advance!

I highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91, BellalunaMcKenzie, QueenMaryofEngland, and WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction. I also recommend Lady Plantagenet in the White Queen fandom at AO3. Let's support, review, and favorite each other!

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 42: Chapter 41: Artistic and Sensual Spirits

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 41: Artistic and Sensual Spirits

August 25, 1540, Palazzo Nani, Venice, the Republic of Venice

“So formal,” mused aloud the father of Queen Anne. “Is silence golden?”

Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire and the French ambassador to Venice, scanned the letter from his royal daughter. A horrific devastation ruined his universe. Then he experienced the touch with the past only through his vision, with all other senses and feelings switched off.

Little Anne, Mary, and George learning to read. Anne playing a hide-and-seek game in the gardens of Hever Castle with Mary and George. Card contests between his children and his wife, Lady Elizabeth, laughing with them, for Anne and George had usually won. A young Mary and a teenaged Anne, both merry and full of dreams, departing to the Low Countries and then to France. His daughters’ happiness when they had basked in the splendor of the Valois court.

Thomas refused to think of his offspring at any older age, for this would make him guilty of their woes. Remembrances of their childhood and adolescence haunted him with a peculiar insistence, as if some divine spirit could turn back time and made Boleyn young again. He had loved his offspring, having favored Anne. Even though their love for him had perished in a haze of the past, now good memories arose like ghosts out of some forgotten chambers in his mind.

I’ve lost myself betwixt good and evil, Thomas thought bitterly. I’ve forgotten the way back. My family and I live in two different realms, where we will never meet. His perplexed numbness vanished, and he saw himself standing alone – more alone than ever – gazing into a bottomless pit of his numerous sins, in which he was drowning. Every day, every deed, every word, every step inexorably pushed him over the brink, whatever forces of angels or demons were at work.

As he re-read Anne’s letter, he concluded once more that she was indifferent to her parent.

Lord Wiltshire,

My spouse, King François, and I thank you for your work. Our alliance with the Doge of Venice will aggrandize our power in Italy. Please, continue serving us loyally and diligently.

God has blessed us with another healthy son. Prince Jean de Valois, Duke de Guyenne, was born on the eve of St Jean the Baptist Day, soon after the midnight on the 24th of June 1540.

By the grace of God, Queen Anne of France

From a window, Thomas watched gondolas traverse a network of channels back and forth. The summer day was warm with people hurrying about their business, and the sky was blueish, in some parts of its vast canvas whitish-blue. Yet, a creeping cold chilled his inner world.

Anne wanted Thomas Boleyn to know that she had produced a second son. She had also apprised him of Prince Augustine’s birth. Apart from these letters, there was no correspondence between them, and Thomas had not written to his relatives. He had learned about Mary’s wedding to Montmorency, which had both puzzled and delighted him, from the Doge of Venice.   

“Jean,” he drawled. “Quite an unfortunate name for a French royal person.”

Apparently, the infant had been named after the boy’s patron saint. Maybe they had also honored François’ paternal grandfather – Jean d’Orléans. The name Jean seems to foreshadow misfortunes for French princes, just as the name Richard is unlucky for English royals.

Perhaps Anne and François were not superstitious, or were they? They ignored or forgot that King Jean I of France the Posthumous, successor of Louis X, had passed away only five days after his birth. King Jean II of France had spent one third of his reign in English captivity after the catastrophic defeat of the French at Poitiers in 1356 during the Hundred Years’ War. Louis de Valois, Duke de Guyenne – a son of Charles VI of France called the Mad and his queen, Isabeau of Bavaria – had perished of some malady at the age of only eighteen. However, Louis’ death had been mysterious: Jean the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy, could also have murdered the prince during the Burgundian-Armagnac civil war in France from 1407 to 1435. The poor prince had become Dauphin of France for a few years after the deaths of his several elder brothers.

“At least the baby boy is not Louis,” Thomas said to himself. “It is better to be Jean, Duke de Guyenne…  But neither this title nor this name has never brought happiness to French royals. There were other princes who were created Duke de Guyenne and later died in childhood.”

Anne’s second son was unlikely to ascend the throne, for Jean was a third male person in the French succession. Truth be told, Thomas Boleyn had always been proud of Anne. At present, she was higher than ever in his esteem: she had birthed the King of France’s two sons. The late Dauphin François and the late Prince Charles had both passed away, making Dauphin Henri his father’s only adult heir. Dauphine Catherine de’ Medici was childless, at least so far. It would be wonderful if Anne’s eldest son succeeded his father in France while Elizabeth ruled England.

Would these dreams materialize? Only time would show it. With these thoughts, the Earl of Wiltshire crossed the study. He placed the letter on a table with black marble top surmounting carved walnut frame. As he remembered about his notable guest, he hastened downstairs.

§§§

His posture erect despite walking with his cane, the Doge Pietro Lando entered the great hall through the doors banded in walnut with bronze handles shaped as vine leaves.

“Welcome, Messer Lando!” Thomas Boleyn dropped into a deep bow.

Lando approached him with a smile. “All the pleasure is mine, Messer Wiltshire. It is a huge honor to have Queen of France’s father as the ambassador to Venice.”

Wiltshire’s Italian was almost flawless; he spoke quite many languages very well.

“You are flattering me.” Boleyn fended off the impulse to snicker at the mention of his filial bonds with Anne. “I’m a mere earl who didn’t find his place in England. You know that I came here because I’ve always enjoyed diplomatic work more than anything else.”

This was the story that Wiltshire had circulated among Venetian aristocrats after his arrival. He would not let them know that he was a pariah in both England and France. I wonder whether Lando believes me. In the man’s eyes, there was nothing like distrust and mockery.

A man of lithe build, Pietro Lando had a wrinkled, yet healthy, face with a grizzled beard at its bottom. He was sinewy and athletic despite his advanced age that forced him to use a cane for walking. His garments of red satin, wrought with gold, attested to his propensity for luxury. A distinguished Captain General of the Sea, Lando had become the Doge of Venice in 1538.

Lando sent him a sympathetic look. “Well, you could not stay in England after your daughter was ejected by that English king who is sadistically fond of tormenting his wives.”

Boleyn’s chest constricted with anguish. “The man caused my children too much pain.”

“You survived through hell in England. God save you and your daughters, and let the soul of your son, George, rest in peace. All these afflictions are behind, and you are safe now.”

Wiltshire nodded. He is not aware – cannot be aware – that I abandoned poor George and Anne to their fates. That I forced my daughters to prostitute themselves for my self-advancement. Shame suffused his whole being, but even through the thick cloud of guilt, he saw one thing crystal clear: he would not act differently if he had had a choice because of his love for power.

“Safe,” Wiltshire turned the word over on his tongue, as if it were unfamiliar. “Of course. King François is not a tyrant, unlike King Henry. It is a pleasure to serve my son-in-law.”  

“I’ve always admired cultural achievements of the Valois family.”

The diplomat tipped a head. “That is true! Years ago, I served as King Henry’s ambassador at the French court, and I admit that it was the happiest time of my life. I witnessed the French elite transform into one of the most enlightened classes in the entirely of Christendom.”

The Doge studied him closely. “Power comes with responsibility and risk. I, too, sometimes think that it would have been easier if I had remained a simple sea captain.”

They laughed, each knowing what kind of danger was associated with power.

“Should we go to the dinner table?”

Lando shook his head. “My visit will be short, but I’d like a cup of wine.”

The Earl of Wiltshire and the Doge of Venice seated themselves at the ebony table in the other part of the room. While maids served wine and Italian delicacies, they contemplated the elusive poetic beauty of frescoes by Giorgione and Gentile Bellini. The light from the chandeliers shimmered like stars in a dreamlike sky. Their radiance was reflected on the elaborate walnut and marble furniture arranged throughout the chamber, and architectural elements such as columns, pediments, and cornices dominated the impressive space.

Wiltshire sipped some wine. “I admire Giorgione’s idyllic Arcadian scenes.” He pointed at the fresco ‘Three Philosophers’ on the opposite wall. “It possesses a great sublime beauty.”

Lando was slowly drinking wine. “Its meaning is enigmatic. The three figures stand near a dark empty cave. This can be construed as symbols of Plato’s cave, or the three Magi.”

“His soul romantic, Giorgione was very talented. It is a pity that he died in his mid-thirties.”

“Messer Wiltshire, you are as much interested in the arts as Queen Anne must be. You need to have nice outings with our aristocrats, who adore painting, sculpture, and literature.”

Boleyn led a solitary life in Venice. “Maybe.”

The Doge drained his goblet as if it were no more than water. “To save your lordship the necessity of asking questions, I’ve come because King François wrote me.”

“I’m all attention.” Wiltshire finished his tarts.

Lando nibbled an apple. “I’ve delivered your new credentials, which I received from His Majesty yesterday. He appointed you his ambassador to Venice for the next five years.”   

“I see.” Wiltshire almost choked on a morsel of venison that he was putting into his mouth.

It was not the outcome Thomas Boleyn had expected. He masked his tumultuous emotions with a semblance of a smile. After he had convinced the cautious Lando to ally with François, he had hoped to be recalled to France. Notwithstanding Anne and Mary’s hostility towards him, their parent had hoped for their reconciliation in the deep recesses of his consciousness. Damnation! François must have fulfilled Anne’s wishes. They have all resolved to put me into oblivion.

Was there something Wiltshire could do? The pain of loneliness ever-present in his breast, Wiltshire realized that he would have to stay here. It would be better to be a successful ambassador in the elegant city of Venice rather than tolerate humiliation from his daughters and his wife, and immeasurably safer than serving the Tudor ruler. Boleyn was convinced that the proclamation of Anne and George’s innocence was the result of François’ crafty scheme. Elizabeth Tudor, his granddaughter, did not need his protection, for she had Norfolk to take care of her.   

“Be at ease, Messer Thomas,” allayed the Doge. “Everything will be all right.”

Did the Doge realize now that he was in exile in Venice? “I know that,” said Boleyn. 

Pietro Lando drank more wine. “All of the thirty members of the Great Council concur that a notable ambassador such as the King of France’s father-in-law deserves to have privileges in our republic. They all voted for awarding you with the status of a Venetian nobleman.”

An astonished Boleyn exclaimed, “That is so unexpected!”

The Doge extracted from a pocket of his doublet a folded sheet of paper. He gave it to the Earl of Wiltshire. “This is the patent of your nobility in Venice, Messer Thomas.”

Boleyn scanned the document, his heart fluttering. “I am immensely grateful to you, Messer Pietro, and to your colleagues from the Great Council of Venice.” He then folded the paper, stood up, and walked to a table in the corner. He left the patent of nobility there.

Lando sipped wine. “You are most welcome, and we are happy to have you in our charming city. It is fitting your high status as the Queen of France’s father, Messer Thomas. The Barbarigo family also gifted to you this palazzo, so you no longer have to rent it. They own several palaces in Venice, most notably the Palazzo Barbarigo where they usually reside.”

Boleyn returned to his chair. As he seated himself comfortably into it, Boleyn’s expression blossomed into a half-grateful, half-triumphal grin. “Messer Lando, these gifts are too generous. I shall never be able to repay you for your benevolence. I’m honored to be your friend.”

“And so am I.” The Doge smiled slyly. “We hope that your king will ensure the Turks do not attack our lands in the Mediterranean Sea. You are aware that we had to cede our last possessions in the Peloponnese to the Ottoman Empire, and we do not wish to lose anything else.”

Anne’s father inclined his head. “Everything has its price.”

“Especially if you gamble for power.” Lando raised a toast. “To our cooperation!”

Laughing, they emptied their goblets and set them on the table.

Clearing his throat, the new Venetian aristocrat hesitated and then spoke. “I shall try, but I cannot promise anything, Messer Lando. King François makes his own decisions.”

“Your lordship, we merely count on your wise counsel given to your daughter’s husband.”

Boleyn tipped his head. “Please, introduce me to some local artists.”  

“Gladly. Jacopo Bassano has become quite popular, and Titian resides in Venice.”

After the Doge’s departure, Thomas Boleyn paced the floor made out of Venetian terrazzo; this durable, lovely material was not used anywhere else in Europe. He smirked to himself: how Anne and Mary would react to his ennoblement in Venice? At present, Thomas comprehended that his life could become less meaningless even far away from France and England.   


September 29-30, 1540, Palazzo Medici, city of Florence, Tuscany 

The chanting of Jean du Bellay, Bishop of Paris and Bayonne, echoed through the Chapel of the Magi. A congregation attending the wedding of Ferdinand von Habsburg and Marguerite de Valois was small, for they had opted for a modest ceremony due to the continuing war.   

Queen Anne had stayed in Florence for months. During all this time, King François had traveled between Ostia, Milan, and Florence. The Bishop of Rome persevered in resistance, and no one knew when the siege would end. Thus, Bellay had escorted Princess Marguerite to Florence for her wedding to the Habsburg prince, which would have happened earlier if not for the war.

Duke Cosimo and his wife, Leonor di Toledo, stood as witnesses. François and Ferdinand wanted the ducal couple to perform this role in order to give the union the ultimate credibility. At first, Leonor had refused because this matrimony was a betrayal of Emperor Carlos in her eyes, but Cosimo had persuaded her to do so for the sake of Florence and out of human empathy.

“Your daughter is stunning,” Queen Anne told her husband.

King François murmured, “Not as fragile as her mother was.”

She heard relief in his words. “Hopefully, they will be happy together.”

“I pray that my decision to marry Margot off to Ferdinand was the right one.”

“Why such fears, François? Look at them: they are charmed by each other.”

Their hands joined, Ferdinand and Marguerite stood on the knees before the altar. A lovely maid and a handsome victor of the Turks! Her gown of burgundy silk, wrought with threads of Milanese gold, had long, open, and pendent sleeves and ample skirts, while from her neck dangled a cordeliere. His doublet of crimson velvet matched hers in ornamentation, the placard of which was worked with gold. Their costumes were the finest products of the Florentine silk industry. The warm gazes of the bride and bridegroom caressed one another; the fingers were entwined.

“It seems so.” The king breathed out a sigh of relief. “If he offends her, I–” 

Anne shushed him. “Hush, mon cher! Ferdinand is a gentleman.”

His smirk turned wicked. “Did you have a secret womanly talk with my girl?”

“Yes, I did. I explained a few things to our princess. She is not afraid.”

François laced their fingers together. “My daughter needed a motherly touch.”

“She will have a wonderful night.” She caressed his fingers with her thumb.

He tilted his head to her. “Like our nights?”

“Perhaps not as artistic as ours.” Anne removed her hand, for his seduction was working.     

The ruler’s breathing hitched. “You want me, don’t you?”   

His voice was too quiet, but the queen heard him. “That is not a topic for the church.”

Chuckling, Cosimo and Leonor noticed them converse. So did the Montmorency spouses, who stood behind the assemblage. Anne and François lapsed into silence.

The queen busied herself with perusing the majestic chapel. Frescoes ‘The Cavalcade of the Magi’ by Benozzo Gozzoli occupied three of the four walls. Her admiring gaze focused on the scene of ‘The Journey of the Magi’, dedicated to a sacred subject but depicting the characters in colorful robes, sumptuous and elegant in a secular way. Anne knew that the pilgrimage of the Medici family was depicted on these frescoes, but she had no idea as to their identities.

Cosimo caught Anne’s confused glance and came to her. “Do you like the frescoes?”   

Sparks of joy ignited in the queen’s orbs. “Of course!”

Cosimo elaborated, “In the procession of knights, there are numerous portraits of our family members. The bonny blonde boy on the white horse leading them is Lorenzo Il Magnifico.”

“His idealized depiction,” pointed out François.

“Yes.” Cosimo stressed, “That is how the arts are applied for public purposes.”

François smiled. “That is what any clever ruler does.”   

“Especially to build a dynasty,” Cosimo whispered. The French couple nodded.

Cosimo covered the gap between Leonor and him, then took her hand tenderly.

After the exchange of vows, Bellay proceeded to the final part of the ceremony.

You have declared your consent before the Church. May the Lord in His infinite goodness strengthen your bonds and bless you for procreation. What God has joined, men must not divide.

“Amen!” The bishop’s words reverberated throughout the chapel like benedictions. 

There was a bride’s gasp as the massive ruby ring circled Marguerite’s finger. Gleeful spirits hummed a hymn of praise to the Almighty that the alliance between the Houses of Valois and Habsburg had finally been validated by this marriage, even though Emperor Carlos would hate it.

Ferdinand and Marguerite rose to their feet in unison.

“Be happy together,” François told the newlyweds. “Let God guide you in life.”

“We shall, Father,” said Marguerite, the new Queen of Hungary, Bohemia, and Croatia.

Cosimo joined, “May the years ahead be filled with lasting joy!”

Leonor affirmed, “God bless you both to have a good and large marriage!”

“All the best,” Anne uttered. “Always take care of each other first and foremost; everything else will fall into place.” Her tender gaze was divided between François and his daughter.

“Treat marriage like a war with breaks for peace and rest,” Montmorency jested.

Marie grinned at him. “A martial man as always?” Montmorency smirked at his wife.

Ferdinand led his spouse down the nave. “We married for peace, and peace will reign.” He sighed. “At least between François and me.” He did not know what Carlos would do.

“For a certainty.” François read his mind and emitted a sigh.

The gathering had walked out. Only the French royal couple remained inside the oratory.

The monarch concentrated his scrutiny on the altarpiece ‘Adoration of the Child’ by Filippo Lippi. “Imagine Augustine or Jean painted on some fresco.”

Anne loved this idea. “We should commission frescoes depicting them in France.”

He enveloped her into his arms. “Thank you so much for our little Jean.”

His lips stole her breath with steamy kisses. Candles blazed around them tranquilly, and the people on the frescoes rejoiced in their happiness, singing amorous songs for them.

§§§

The celebration took place in the great hall on the first floor, the windows overlooking Via Larga. At the ducal court, fêtes and masks of unimaginable gayety were conducted here, within the walls of marble embellished with bronze-gilt trophies, and among antique statues.

The feast was splendid, with numerous types of Florentine food and Italian wine available. No nobles from Tuscany were invited, for François and Ferdinand wished to avoid making any comments about their campaign against the Vatican, which was criticized by some. Moreover, the two rulers were exceedingly careful concerning those who communicated with them, fearing that some assassin hired by the Pope would do the dastardly deed from the shadows.

After the dinner, the newlyweds retired to their apartments for the consummation. François and Anne went to the nursery to play with little Louise and Jean. Cosimo and Leonor visited the nursery to see their six-month daughter Maria; now the duchess was pregnant again. Montmorency busied himself with reading, while Mary excused herself and went to their quarters.

Soon the ducal couple invited the French royals to the upper gallery.

Cosimo asserted, “The Duomo clock has struck eight. Soon Bronzino will come.”

“Your court painter?” queried François.

“Yes,” replied the Duke of Florence. “He paints portraits and religious subjects, sometimes allegorical paintings. He created my portrait and those of Leonor and my late illegitimate daughter Bia.”   

Leonor supplemented, “Thanks to our great commissions, Bronzino lives in luxury. He has become a popular portraitist for aristocrats in Tuscany. His fees have increased.”   

“Quite a pragmatic man,” noted Anne. “Should artists not be less down-lo-earth?”    

François burst out laughing. “No, my dearest queen! The intertwining of art and money is such that one cannot develop without the other. Demand from those who patronize artists to say goodbye to either their riches or their artists, and they will choose the latter.”

The four of them stood in the center of the fabulous gallery. Tapestries represented scenes in the lives of the Medici family, including their pilgrimages to saints. Masterpieces by notable Florentine artists of the first rank adorned the walls. As the gallery was also used as a reception room for courtiers, two thrones of silver were installed on a dais at the end of the room.

Cosimo tipped his head. “Beggars are not attracted to beauty, for they need food.”

Leonor admired an artistic streak in her husband. “Aristocrats have enough not only to live a comfortable or luxurious life, but also to invest in education and culture.”

Cosimo glanced at his French counterpart. “A ruler’s goal is to attract talented masters and to finance art projects. The artists’ mission is not to disappoint their patrons.”

François developed a great respect to the pragmatic, art-loving Cosimo. “You have defined it spectacularly! Nonetheless, any artist’s tasks are more complex than their patron’s. The artist is capable of creating a masterpiece if they can become humble before humble things, small before small things, subtle before subtle things, and can gather them all together without omission.”

Cosimo let out a smile. “These are words of a true artistic person.”

Leonor opined, “The artist is more successful than their peers if they learn to aim less high, to look more closely, to observe better, and to paint well but differently.”

“Yet, originality,” Anne elaborated further, “by itself cannot constitute a remarkable talent. If you deprive an artist of all they have borrowed from the experience of others, the originality left will be but an insignificant part of their talent. It is also important to be true to their own vision.”

A man in his thirties entered and crossed to the center. “Skills are acquired with experience. I’m convinced that it is necessary not only to be acquainted with the arts of your peers and all art styles, but also be inwardly imbued with a complete comprehension of them.”

Attired in black, the guest was the painter Agnolo di Cosimo. Tall and lithe, he had a swarthy face framed with a red stubble at the bottom. His quite long flaming hair was combed tightly back, emphasizing his vigorous complexion. Because of these, his sobriquet was Bronzino.

“Welcome, Bronzino!” Cosimo greeted enthusiastically.   

“Good evening, everyone.” Bronzino made bows to each of the rulers.

Cosimo addressed his counterpart, “Your Majesty, Bronzino painted your family.”

François was euphoric. “Thank you, Your Grace! Let me have a look at it!”

Anne had already seen the work. “You will be pleased, husband.”

On a gold easel stood the portrait of Queen Anne with her children. They were all placed in the forefront: Anne cradled Jean, while Louise stood to her left. Obeying the rules of perspective, Bronzino had painted hazy blue mountains and green rolling hills in the background. Louise held a small Bible in her hands, a symbol of her fulfilment of Old Testament prophecies.

As always, Bronzino paid a great deal of attention to the detail of their costumes. Lush folds of Anne’s sumptuous gown of black, white, and crimson damask, with open and pendant sleeves, green-lined and richly embroidered, the yellow slashings on the skirts matching her slippers of yellow linen, and the V-shaped neckline trimmed with exquisite black lace. This splendor suited an exotic air about Anne and her multilayered personality to perfection. Louise was accoutered in a similar small gown; the baby Jean was swaddled in the blanket of the same colors.

In silence, they all marveled at the artist’s majestic skill – the portrait was very true to life. Bronzino had called the immortal picture ‘The Exotic Queen with her children’. At the bottom of the canvas, there were Bronzino’s signature and the date – the 1st of August, 1540.   

The King of France was beaming. “The whole sophisticated character of my beloved queen is naturally and indelibly written upon the canvas by the masterful hand of a genius.”

“Do you like it?” Leonor inquired. “Her Majesty and the children posed for a long time.”

Bronzino’s mouth curved into a grin. “They were all fine models. It is difficult to paint infants because they cry very often, but Prince Jean is an incredibly calm child.”

“That is true about Jean.” Anne beheld her husband with a grin. “We faced a huge dilemma when it came to persuade our Louise not to be restless while posing as a model. We had to promise her that in the future we will commission her portrait with sword.”

“Quite an unusual child.” Leonor thought that Louise was too feisty for a princess.

François shone with pride. “She has the soul of a warrior.”

Anne questioned, “Do you know why I wear such multicolored clothes?”

François shook his head, so Bronzino elucidated, “Phoenix is a multicolored bird. Its body contains five main colors: black, yellow, white, red, and green, with its reds and yellows being the most striking. This symbolizes the rebirth of Her Majesty as the Queen of France.”

“The local merchants adore your wife,” Leonor jested. “She paid a lot for these things.”

“When we were buying these fabrics…”  Anne laughed. “It was funny.”  

“They must be very expensive,” opined François.

Bronzino spoke up, “It is a pure joy for me to see that the queen, the tone, the pose, the line, the color, that exotic, enigmatic face – they are all authentic to the living image.”

For a while, the Valois ruler was absorbed in contemplation. “It is truly magnificent!”

With an air of graciousness, Cosimo stated, “It is yours, Your Majesties.”

“Thank you so much,” the Valois spouses chorused.

“I’ll not permit Bronzino to go to France,” forewarned the Duke of Florence. 

The artist tipped his head. “My place is in my beloved Florence.”

Leonor concurred. “He will paint me and all of my future offspring.”

François nodded. “Your Grace aids him to gain more recognition in Italy.”   

The group, except for the painter, returned to the room where they had dined. To everyone’s astonishment, Princess Louise, with Prince Jean in her arms, froze near a table.

Anne raced to her daughter. “Louise! You will drop Jean!”

Louise veered her scrutiny to her mother. “He is sleeping. He always does.”

“The princess is spoiled,” remarked Leonor.

François neared his daughter. “My Louise is simply strong-willed.”

Cosimo winked at Leonor. “Spirited and courageous children may be a challenge when they are young. But if sensitively parented, they become awesome and strong leaders.”

“Just like you.” Leonor figured out her husband’s hint.

“Yes.” Cosimo’s expression was blank, but his eyes twinkled.

Anne rocked their son. “Such children learn things for themselves rather than accept what others say, testing the limits over and over. My mother, brother, and I were like that.”

“It is also applicable to me,” the French monarch acknowledged.

Cosimo smiled at Louise. “I’d like to have such a strong daughter.” The girl grinned back.

“Soon, husband.” Leonor put a hand on her growing bump.

Anne kissed Jean’s chubby cheeks. “You took your brother from the nursery, Louise!”

“I had a reason,” Louise defended herself. “I was going to show Jean this room.”

Louise often ran around the palace, and the great hall was her favorite place. Even though some items had been stolen during the two periods of the Medici’s exile from Florence, the luxury was unparalleled: tables of gilded wood and mosaic, the marble walls enriched with gold relief, the chimney pieces bossed with silver, golden and silver chandeliers, branched candlesticks.

François crouched down to her level. “Loving luxury, my little princess?”

“Why not?” The princess pursed her lips. “I’m a Valois knight!”

Their collective laughter echoed through their vastness of the chamber.

The hungry baby wailed, so Anne went to the nursery to find Jean’s wet nurse. François and Louise followed her. After the feeding, the baby slept in his mother’s arms.

The queen studied their son. “Who has Jean taken after?”

The king shrugged. “I have no idea. He is a mixture of you and me.”

Prince Jean, Duke de Guyenne, was small, but perfectly formed and healthy.  He had blue eyes, the Valois saturnine complexion, and curly black hair like his mother’s. There was a halo of melancholy about his angelic face, as if fatality were hovering over Jean. When he did not sleep, his eyes exuded gentleness and grace. Unlike his siblings, this baby had a quiet temperament. 

“He has Capetian eyes.” Jean’s birth somewhat healed the ruler’s wounds from the loss of his older offspring. He would never recover from the tragedies, but his grief lessened.    

Anne assumed, “Or perhaps my mother’s eyes, although they are two shades lighter.”

“I’m noisier,” lisped Louise as she emerged next to her parents.

François lifted the princess to his knees. “Noisier than a canon.”

Their laugh jingled through the air as Anne deposited Jean into a nice silver crib, bought in Florence. Undisturbed by the din, Jean dozed off, a trace of meekness etched into his features.   

§§§

“Marie!” Anne de Montmorency entered his apartments. “Where are you?”

The splendid rooms, decorated in the Florentine style of the 15th century, were illuminated with candelabra. The living quarters were empty, and nobody, save saints on frescoes, saw his return. He found his wife in the bedroom: Marie sat on a bed canopied with ornamented red velvet, with pink pillows and covers. With her back turned to him, she was in her own world, as usual.

His heart tightened; such a familiar feeling. “You don’t want to talk to me, do you?”

Since their wedding, the spouses had been as distant as heaven and earth. In public, Marie put effort into making their marriage seem normal, but in private, she ignored him. His questions remained unanswered, while any reference to them as spouses produced the same – ghastly silence. She nevertheless discussed Anne and her children with François, as well as her own offspring with the late William Stafford with an eagerness so intense that it hurt Montmorency.

“I’m tired, Monsieur.” He sighed; she at least acknowledged his presence.

Montmorency neared the bed. “Why did you retire early?”

“I had my reasons, Monty. And please don’t appear unannounced.”

Her use of his nickname, given the Constable of France by the king in childhood, gladdened him. “It is impossible. We are husband and wife. We share the same apartments.”

“That is such a pity.” Marie sat, her knees curled up as she hugged them, her head bowed.   

Montmorency observed the delicate lines of her cheek, and the long lashes fluttering slightly as she closed her eyes. “How do you find Florence, Marie? Have you toured through the city? I came to the city only six weeks earlier, but you have been here with Queen Anne for months.”

A sigh fled her. “It is a wonderful place if you adore the arts.”

He recalled a jubilant Marie dancing with him at masques and festivities in France years ago. They had been so young at the time! “Aren’t the arts what your sister and you love a lot?”

Her eyes remained shut, as if she avoided even looking at him, the bane of her existence. “Anne invited several Italian artists to France. They accepted because of the handsome pay.”

Montmorency rejoiced. “Queen Anne and you will patronize the greatest artists of the time.”

“Anne, not me.” Another sigh from her, deeper than before.

He mentioned the ruler’s gift to him. “His Majesty elevated me to Duke de Montmorency, so now you are my duchess. He also granted us new estates in Picardy and Provence.”

An acrid tirade spilled out of her. “A prince should be slow to punish, and quick to reward. You have many high offices and will soon wield power over your own sovereign.”

Her biting sarcasm communicated that she desired to be alone, dreaming of what she could never have. “You know about my loyalty to King François. He is like a brother to me.”

Another jest cascaded onto him. “Then maybe you should relocate to his rooms.”   

Montmorency had mastered the art of deciphering her dark, frequent mood swings– a stark contrast to her optimistic spirits in youth. He remembered his wife as a maid who had just appeared at the Valois court. Back then, Marie had been one of the merriest and most graceful ladies of the court. She loved to laugh and found humor in everyday life. As a flirt who reveled in witty banter and in the court’s splendor, her adventurous nature had led her into Montmorency’s arms. 

Due to her numerous woes, Marie’s disposition had changed. Montmorency did not know a lot about her previous marriages, save what Marie had told him about her love for William Stafford. With her new husband, Marie was obedient if he had asked her to do something, and she accepted his caresses when Montmorency sought intimacy in the dead of night. Devoted to her loved ones, her caring attitude to the limited circle of her existence never slumbered. Only with Monty, she was disinterested, as if they were strangers bound together by the random crossing of their paths.

William Stafford! At times, I hate the dead man who is always on my wife’s mind, standing between us like a perpetual shadow. Since their wedding, they had been apart for most of the time because of the constable’s travels between Milan, Florence, and Ostia. Occupied with military and state affairs, Montmorency had blocked out the dissatisfaction with Marie’s behavior. Yet, in Florence, within a brief span of time, watching the happiness of the Florentine ducal couple and that of Anne and François, Monty’s passive acceptance of his situation had been overthrown.    

“Marie…”  Montmorency paused. He had resolved to have a candid conversation with her, its contents repeated over and over again in his mind. Yet, now his throat constricted.

At last, Marie’s eyes fluttered open. When her scrutiny rested on her husband, she flinched. “When will the war end? I want to return to France and be with my children.”

“The siege of Rome should be over in several months.” In an apologetic voice, he supplied, “You miss little Eddie and Annie, but they are faring well in France. Your mother and the king’s sister are taking the best care of them. It would be dangerous to take them to Italy.”

She stood up and brushed out rearranged skirts. “Louise and Jean are with Anne.”

Montmorency perched himself on a mahogany chair. “François permitted to bring Princess Louise at first to Milan and then to Florence reluctantly. Little Prince Jean was born here.”

Her chin slightly lifted, Marie confronted him, her hands on her hips. “If you don’t miss your own offspring, it does not mean that I’m indifferent to mine. I’ve been estranged from my Harry and Cathie since my wedding to William. Now I’m being kept away from Eddie and Annie.”

“For their safety,” he underscored. “I maintain regular correspondence with my eldest son François, a boy of ten summers. I would not endanger my children by inviting them here.”   

“Such a loving father,” came the acrimonious rejoinder.

“I do realize you have no affection for me. However, what providence has bestowed upon us for our comfort and support should not be lightly and unthankfully disregarded. Can we try and be civil with each other, if not friendly?” His tone was as gentle as a summer breeze.

Now Marie occupied a scissors chair with an X-shaped frame at the opposite end of the room. “Do you consider me a bitch? For what do I have to be grateful to fate? For my marriage to you, Your Martial Majesty of the French realm? Or for my dear William’s murder?”

“In the name of everything holy, Marie! You cannot love someone who is dead as you did when they were alive. Your love kept evolving from the day you met William Stafford for the first time, and he seems to have been your true love because even when he endangered the lives of his family by joining the Pilgrimage of Grace, your feelings for him did not waiver.”

His spouse bristled, “Don’t speak badly of William!”

Montmorency’s patience thinned. “The death of a loved one leaves a hole in the life of a survivor – you are a survivor – that can be occupied by their children and a new love.”

A scoff erupted from her. “Said someone who has never truly loved a woman.”

“I have not,” he uttered with regret. “However, I was never as miserable with Madeleine as I am with you, Marie. I can live without love, but I wish to have a good companionship with my wife. One needs a person to assist them in getting back into the saddle when they falter in life.”

Marie folded her arms in contemplation. “To have a shoulder to cry on?”

Montmorency inwardly frowned at the phrase that, in his view, was a typical expression of feminine melodramatics. “Don’t you need it? To embrace your life with someone else?”

Her calm façade was beginning to break. “There is no peace for me.”

“Come to terms with the finality of your loss and move forward. Fail to understand this, and we will both end up more disconsolate than star-crossed lovers from some Greek tragedy.”

Droplets of salty liquid splashed on her cheek. “Monty, I betrayed William’s memory when I married you. Now I’ve betrayed him again because I’m with child.”

The news caused him to bounce to his feet. “You are not mistaken, are you?”

His wife chewed at her bottom lip, her eyes intense and tearful. “We were apart very often, so it took me a long time to conceive. The midwife confirmed it a couple of days ago.”

A smile on the severe countenance of the French constable was brighter than a newly minted coin. He darted to his spouse and hoisted Marie to her feet. For the space of a heartbeat, he gazed into her eyes as if locking her image into his soul, and a dumfounded Marie blushed under his stare exuding innate tenderness. Then he hugged Marie and twirled her around the room.

“My wife!” Montmorency repeated her name. “It is a new beginning for you! For us!”

“Let go off me!” she implored. “My head is spinning!”

Her husband complied. “Will you give us a chance?”

Tears trickled down her cheeks. “I shall. I’ve never wanted to hurt you, Monty.”

“I know, I know. Let’s re-discover the sweetness of life together, ma chérie.”

Marie stepped aside, but Montmorency enfolded her into an embrace. She wept in his arms, as close to him as she had never been before, tears splashing into the dust of her fading pain.

Perhaps I can find peace, Marie lamented. I’m his wife until death do us part. For the first time, she referred to Montmorency as her spouse without the unease that had gnawed at her whenever her mind drifted to her third matrimony. Yet, thoughts that her new marital experiences were betrayals of her love for William were scratching at the edge of her consciousness. Like in stories of combats with beasts, Marie felt herself like a victim of reality. Would she win this battle?

§§§

"I’ve found you!” huffed Marguerite, the new Queen of Hungary, Bohemia, and Croatia.

King Ferdinand sat on a marble bench in the garden. Located at the back of the palazzo, the park was laid out in a typical Florentine style with potted lemon trees and a small fountain.

The moonlight whitened his face into a ghostly shade, almost like that of his white silk shirt. In the midst of the Greek and Roman sculpture collected by the generations of the Medici family, the Bohemian ruler looked like a king of ancient artists surveying their works with a critical eye.

Ferdinand veered his scrutiny to her. “I wanted to breathe some fresh air, Margot.”

Although Ferdinand spoke French very well, they now talked in his native Spanish. Her education was stellar, so Marguerite knew Latin, Flemish, Spanish, English, and German.   

Upset, she did not settle on the bench beside him. “Did you dislike… me as a woman?”  

“What?” He then fathomed out her thoughts. “Of course not! I fear that I could disappoint you. I am sorry for causing you pain, but it will be different the next time.”

“I’m aware of that. Why did you leave me?”

Their wedding night was playing out in their heads. Her breath had caught from a stab of pain upon the penetration, but the unpleasant sensations had vanished in the melodiousness of his endearments. Their mind-numbingly slow and gentle lovemaking had been like an epic tale of the God Eros caressing a nymph. Afterwards, they had slumbered in each other’s arms.

“It is not connected with you. Come to me, Margot.”  

His wife settled herself on the bench next to him. “What is wrong, then?”

He fidgeted with his sleeve. “While you slept, a page delivered a letter from my brother. It is the first time Carlos contacted me since my release from captivity.”

“What does he say? He does not approve of our marriage, does he?”

Ferdinand described the emperor’s devastating message; he could repeat it by heart.

My treacherous brother,

Betrayal is worse than death. The latter delivers what it promises – oblivion. Betrayal is a slaughter of hope and love. Nothing comes without price: you will be betrayed by someone else.

I’ve emerged from a monastery and will rule my lands myself. Out of my eternal love for Isabella, I shall not dismiss you from any of your positions in the Habsburg realm. Stay in Vienna or in your late wife’s dominions in Hungary, Croatia, or Bohemia, but I do not wish to see you.

I shall not interfere with your war against the Pope. Now I am focusing on Spain.

Carlos V, Holy Roman Emperor 

“Ah!” Marguerite gasped. “Your brother is being unfair to you.”

Her husband laughed tragically. “Is he?”

“Yes.” Only now, she noticed the sheet of paper in his hand. “Is it the letter?”

“I brought it here, although I cannot read in the dark. Each word is imprinted on my heart.”

Unable to hold this document anymore, Ferdinand threw the letter away on the grass. His skin burned, as if from touching the paper, just as a sense of guilt was scorching his soul.

She speculated, “The emperor cannot deprive you of your title of King of the Romans. You were elected as his deputy in the Holy Roman Empire – he did not appoint you on this position.”  

He smiled wanly. “Indeed, my Queen of the Romans! The electors will not allow my brother to do this dastardly deed lest Carlos ever wants to act so. I am on good terms with them.”  

“You have always been popular in Germany and Austria, haven’t you?”

“I have.” Her husband was positively surprised by her knowledge of his biography.

Marguerite glanced towards the statue of Hercules by Andrea del Verrocchio. “You could be involved in your brother’s warmongering policies until Doomsday. Hercules is perhaps best known not for his strength and invincibility, but for his fantastic feats, so you could strive to be like him. But would it be heroic if you had attacked other countries and killed their people?”

Ferdinand looked in the same direction. “No, it would not.” He grinned. “Yet, it would be adventurous to slay the nine-headed hydra or tame the hound of Hades, Cerberus.”

Her gaze slid back to him. “To me, Cerberus symbolizes the emperor’s appetites for power. Someone had to curb them: my father and you have both accomplished that, at least for now. None of your actions is a betrayal as long as it was done for peace and tranquility in Christendom.”  

“Perhaps,” he said grimly, not convinced.

Marguerite gazed skyward. “Do you see the stars, gleaming like pinpoints of light and sparkling through the weft and weave of the black canvas above us? They are so close and yet so distant: we cannot touch them, but we can dream as we look at them. Dream of doing something that makes others happy instead of dreaming of conquests and doubtful glory on the battlefield.”

She admired his profile in a beam of the moonlight. Ferdinand was one of the finest-made men, and Margot had seen many nobles in France. She loved how his brown hair feathered around his face; even his slightly protruding Habsburg jaw accentuated his masculinity. Despite being a former foe, Ferdinand was a warrior-prince in Marguerite’s opinion. But I cannot be silly enough to fall in love with him. My mother loved my father, but he never reciprocated her feelings.   

Ferdinand clasped her hands in his. “The stars are as high as we should strive to climb. The path to our good goals, though full of thorns, leads us to heaven. Carlos does not understand it.”

“You will not be ruled by your brother again. He does not want to see you, right? You will comply with his wish. We will live in Vienna or somewhere else far from him.”

Confession tumbled from his lips. “I am afraid that my brother will never forgive me.”

Marguerite chose her words carefully. “Time must pass, Ferdinand. Of course, Carlos will never forget that you aided my father to conquer the Duchy of Milan. And that you married his sworn enemy’s daughter. And that you are waging war against Rome together with my father. But your brother is a practical man, and once his wounded ego heals a little, he will realize that only thanks to your triumph over the Turks in Genoa Spain will be able to replenish her coffers.”

Ferdinand was impressed. “You are my compass in my relationship with Carlos.”

Her cheeks flushed from the praise. “Carlos must be grateful to you.”

“You have never met my mighty brother. Even though I love him dearly, I cannot deny that he is an ungrateful and cunning miscreant.” A touch of bitterness colored his tone.

“That is how I’ve always thought of him.”  

He stared into the darkness. “Most likely, Carlos will hate François and the House of Valois for the rest of his life. He will never accept you into our family, Margot.”

“I don’t care about it.” A question slipped from her mouth spontaneously. “You do not hold a grudge against me for being forced into this marriage, do you? You can afford to ignore me because you are a man, and you have heirs. You may treat me like an unwanted wife.”   

He said truthfully, “What kind of a man would I be if I hurt such a wonderful lady? I did not want to wed you at first, but when I got to know you better, I realized that I’m a lucky man.”

She smiled coyly. “Really?”

The monarch confessed, “Margot, your father released me from the promise to marry you when we were in Ostia. I could simply travel home to Vienna, but I have not.”   

“Why?” Her heart thundered in her breast.                        

Ferdinand took her hand in his. “After my first wife Anna’s death, I would have remarried in any case – eventually. I would not have spent the rest of my life single only with mistresses. Who could be a better match than a superbly educated and lovely young Valois princess?”

A knot twisted in her gut. “So, you wed me to warm your bed and satisfy your lusts.”

His lips curved into a smile, for he enjoyed seeing her in anger. “I’ve never been a libertine. I fully enjoyed the life of a bachelor before my wedding to Anna of Bohemia years ago. I also had a few random affairs during my first marriage. We men might be cruel to those whom we dislike, and we need passionate paramours for emotion and drama; women have less freedom.”

“That is highly unfair to us! You can do whatever you want, while we have to obey.”

The ruler thought that François’ initial description of his daughter as a feisty and stubborn girl was correct. “Margot! I adored and respected my dearly departed Anna. I’m not going to compel you to do things you detest, and you are welcome to bring your French habits to Austria.”   

The queen smiled. “Thank you.”

“Do you want to know something else, Marguerite?”

“Did you have liaisons after your release from captivity by my father?”

His response was frank. “Yes – two affairs. With Genoese and Milanese noblewomen.”

Her heart swelled with jealousy. “We were betrothed at that time.”

Ferdinand was inclined to be candid with her now to avoid potential clashes between them. “I spent more than two years in celibacy during my imprisonment. Moreover, it happened after my first wife’s death and before our exchange of marital vows hours ago.”

François’ daughter stared at the dark firmament. “The moon is gorgeous, and a symbol of devotion for love birds. However, it is also a friend for lonesome souls as they talk to the moon because they have no one else – it might become my consolation if I spend nights alone.”

“Why are you pessimistic? I do not intend to abandon you.”

Marguerite laughed as she recalled her father’s poem and read it aloud in French.

This sheen – it is a romantic glow of moonlight,

This night – it is a calming dose of moonlight.

I think about the black-eyed priestess

Of love, seeing it in the flow of moonlight.

I see silver-wings around her slender portrait.

Spread widely, as if a blessing of moonlight.

I see her deep black pools in my imagination:

They are more mysterious in a shaft of moonlight.

And in my ode to moonbeams, that silver shape

Of my love for her – I glorify it, eternal in nature

And flying in the sky, shimmering in the moonlight.

Her wings sway like the trees in the breeze.

The silence penetrates the lonely night,

My Anne, I worship you in the moonlight.

The King of Hungary smiled. “I saw François compose poems for Anne during the siege of Rome. He has a tremendous talent! He is the most cultured man I’ve ever met.”

Marguerite switched back to Spanish. “I have my father’s spirit!”  

He pulled her into his arms. “I can see that, Margot. Though not a poet, I like that romantic streak to you. Not a boy anymore, I no longer look for adventures. But whether I remain faithful to you depends on how deeply you will wrap me into a sticky web of your French charms.”

An intentness about him made her shiver with excitement. “Have I done so?”

“Shhh, alma romántica! Perhaps even more than I intended to allow it to happen.”   

Ferdinand kissed his wife, the touch of her exquisitely soft lips sending a rush of elation through them. Marguerite met his advance with equal fervor, their tongues battling for domination. The night air contained hot-blooded fluids, charging the starts with them to shine more brightly.

She pulled away. “What if Carlos invades France again?”

“I swear that I shall do my best to keep my brother’s warmongering tendencies in check.”

His wife would not receive any other response; at least not now. “I understand; thank you.”

The monarch picked up his brother’s letter, and they left the garden.

They paused in the central courtyard with Corinthian columns, designed by Michelozzo, just as the palace had been. Boasting a refined classical detailing, the arcade encircled the area, illuminated by torches set in iron brackets. Medallions, attributed to the sculptor Bertoldo, adorned the frieze above the arcade, alternatively displaying the Medici coat-of-arms and ancient classical figures. The air smelled of freshness and of flowers placed in vases of precious metals.

Ferdinand eyed the ‘Bronze David’ by Donatello, the first freestanding statue since antiquity. “I’ve seen the whole grand collection of the Medici statues, but this is my favorite one. The youth is naked, excluding a laurel-topped hat and boots, and bears the sword of Goliath.”

Marguerite liked it as well. “He is pictured after crushing Goliath. Maybe we have defeated Carlos’ ambitious.” However, her husband’s gaze said to her that it was temporary.

On the way back to their quarters, Ferdinand could not tear his gaze away from Marguerite. His love for the late Anna of Bohemia lived beneath the surface, but Margot’s presence gave him unparalleled physical and mental comfort. Youthful, she would get exposure to a border life with him, and he would guide her like a loyal shepherd devoted to her. Attractive, sagacious, and smart, Marguerite is a model consort, Ferdinand mused. Maybe something good will come out of this.

§§§

Through the windows, the afternoon sun leaked into the spacious bedchamber occupied by the Queen of France. She and her husband rested on a wide bed canopied with green velvet. They were both nude, like Adam and Eve, their bodies entwined, his arm wrapped around her. Their forms were not covered: all the sheets lay on the floor near the bed, dropped there at night.

Defying the royal protocol, François shared the quarters with Anne in Florence, just as he had done in Milan. Cosimo de’ Medici had smiled at the Valois ruler’s eagerness to be with his wife; Duchess Leonor had been scandalized. Despite the strong affection between Cosimo and Leonor, they lived separately, and Cosimo came to her every night, but he eventually left. 

Anne stirred. “François… Are you asleep? It must be late…” 

Her spouse opened his eyes lazily. “I would gladly sleep for another hour.”

Her eyelids were heavy, her voice drowsy. “For another two hours.”

During the siege of Rome, François had often come to Florence. He had attended the birth of Prince Jean, and by the time he returned again, Anne had been churched, so they resumed marital relations. The spouses were blanketed in an aura of romantic tenderness in the daytime and in a sultry web of primeval passion in the dead of night. The king and queen indulged themselves into the most extravagant lovemaking with a vehement and exceeding eagerness, experimenting with poses and different ways to provide each other with the most ambrosial sensual gratification.

We have tried many intimate things that were new for me. Anne stretched her body along the bed. I never fantasized that the act of physical love can be so artistic. Henry of England and I were passionate and even often wild together. François colored our nights with poetic sensuality and transformed them into fabulous sacramental rites. Her hand groped for him, and she caressed the smoothness of his chest, marveling at François’ tall height and his slenderness – a stark contrast to Henry’s corpulent frame, which Anne remembered since her last nights with the English ruler.

The monarch caught her hand and kissed it, his eyes closed. “If only Pope Paul could see us now, mon amour.” He laughed; his hands journeyed to the bare skin of her thighs. 

The delight of being with him burned upon Anne’s face. “Or the Duke of Castro, his son.”

His eyes, full of mirth, opened. “That vulgar mercenary understands nothing in love.”

Suddenly, the door flung open. Princess Louise entered. “Good afternoon, mama and papa!”

Instantly galvanized into action, a profoundly blushing Anne bolted into a sitting position in the bed. She frantically fumbled for a sheet, but found nothing. Her waist-length raven and tousled hair concealed her bosom and her midsection well, while her hands were pressed to her private parts. A dumfounded Louise watched her father swiftly grab sheets from the floor.

“Why are you sleeping without clothes?” Louise’s curiously piqued.

Anne breathed out a sigh of relief when François, who was grinning wickedly, covered them with emerald silk sheets up to the neck. “Daughter of ours, you have come to your parents’ apartments even without knocking. A Valois princess ought not to breach the royal protocol.”

A frown puckered over Louise’s brow. “Duchess Leonor says that you are both doing it.”

François crossed his arms above his head, touching the bed’s headboard. “Duke Cosimo does not always comply with the protocol either, although not as often as we ignore it.”

Louise stepped to them. “Why are you two naked?”

A deep blush stained Anne’s cheeks like the raindrops of the color red. “Louise, please don’t ask such questions. When you grow up and marry, you will understand everything.”

The king burst out laughing facetiously. “Your mother and I were enjoying nice pranks that might result in another sibling for you, if God wills it. They are an expression of love.” 

Louise exclaimed, “I want more brothers who will practice swordfight with me.”

“You will have them, with the Lord’s blessing.” Anne wanted more children with François.

The ruler kissed his wife’s cheek. “Marriage can bring a sheer delight.”   

Anne swatted him playfully on the head. “How dare you… in front of our girl!”

In the next moment, Mary de Montmorency and Françoise de Foix appeared at the doorway. Both women lowered themselves into curtseys, blushing and giggling at the sight of the scene in front of them. They had never woken up the couple earlier than at midday or in early afternoon.

“Your Highness,” called Mary. “Let us take you to your brother, Prince Jean.”

Louise persisted, “I want to have a stroll in the gardens with mama and papa.”

“Our daughter is so much like my late mother,” the king told his wife.

Françoise insisted, “Their Majesties need to rest. Later they will find you.”

With effort, the ladies-in-waiting led the princess out of the bedchamber.

As the door closed, the monarch pressed Anne to him and started kissing her. “There are more intoxicating things to do than sleeping. We shall climb to the highest mountain of joy again.”

His lips traced her cheekbones in the lightest of kisses. “You are a debaucher, François de Valois.”

“I've taught you many amorous tricks, Anne de Valois,” purred François. His hands cupped her breasts and massaged them in a circular motion. His mouth nuzzling her neck, he whispered hoarsely, “My experience and my eccentric fantasies have given us both enormous pleasure. Will you deny it? Remember what we liked doing at Blois in our marble pool constructed for batching.”  

Her hands slid down his torso to his muscled abdomen. “You are an excellent teacher.”

He threw the sheets away. “A womanizer in the marriage bed! I am a libertine with my own wife! That sounds amusing! Don’t you think so, mon amour?”

Anne chortled, then captured his mouth with hers. “My libertine…” 

Enfolding his hand around the back of her thigh, François draped her leg over his hip, opening her body to him. He sank into her with one long stroke. Thrusting into her, he lavished kisses onto her neck, back, and shoulders. “I’ll show you more brazen things.”

“Most gladly.” She arched her back into him, allowing him full access to her.

Her husband was now moving faster inside her. “I love you so much, mon amour.”

Shrieks and moans mingled like breath and air. Feeling his tongue slither down her throat, Anne stared at Sandro Botticelli’s fresco depicting the Birth of Venus where the goddess was on the shore. François has become so dear to me. I’ve experienced my exquisite rebirth with him. What exactly do I feel for him? Her musings were interrupted by spasms of pleasure rocking their bodies, and Anne smiled as François cried out her name, feeling his hot seed between her thighs.

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope you are all safe and a little cheerful in these difficult days.

We got a glimpse of Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, in Venice. Although he secured the alliance between the House of Valois and the Republic of Venice, no one wants to see him in France, so François extends his appointment as his ambassador for another five years. Thomas knows that Anne now has two sons, and he is proud of his daughter. I hope you can see that although he is a controversial man, one who used his children as pawns, he does miss them and feels guilty in secret, but his pride does not let him try to reconcile with his daughters and his wife.

The information about Pietro Lando, the Doge of Venice from 1538 to 1545, is historically correct. The Venetian Republic ruled by the Doge, who was elected by members of the Great Council of Venice (the city-state’s Parliament), and ruled for life.

Anne Boleyn had another son – Prince Jean de Valois, Duke de Guyenne. Now Anne and François have 4 children: Louise, Aimée, Augustine, and Jean, who is not their last child. As there was no birth control then, and as Anne & François are both passionate people, it is logical that they will enjoy the marriage bed, and over time they will have more children. François can start taking precautions (a withdrawal method), or Anne might begin to use herbs to prevent conception only if their physician tells them that frequent pregnancies have a detrimental effect on her health. In other words, something needs to happen to make it realistic… Anne is falling in love with François, and she wants to bear his children because François because very dear to her. Anne also feels that it is her duty to give her husband more princes and princesses.

We have Princess Louise in Florence because I wanted to show more family moments for Anne and François. Louise will be portrayed much like Louise de Savoy, which makes the girl a remarkable person. But my favorite child among all of Anne and François’ kids is Augustine: I am happy with his unique personality, similar to that of Emperor Caesar Augustus and Philippe IV of France the Fair (le Bel), which will be obvious in Augustine’s childhood and adolescence. The scene when Louise comes and finds her parents in bed was a random fantasy on my part.

All the historical information about Cosimo de’ Medici and his wife, Leonor, is correct. It might seem that Leonor is very pro-Spanish due to her Spanish origins, as her father is the viceroy of Naples employed by the emperor. Over time, her sentiments will change as more plots will unfold. I need Cosimo and Ercole d’Este, Duke of Ferrara, for all the future Italian wars in this AU. All the descriptions of the Palazzo Medici are also correct. The information about Agnolo di Cosimo, usually known as Bronzino or Agnolo Bronzino, is also correct.

Ferdinand von Habsburg and Princess Marguerite of France are now married. He married her because he liked her while they were in France, and because he could not be a widower after his first wife’s death, as he truthfully tells his new wife. Moreover, Ferdinand is tired of doing everything for his family and his brother who abandoned him in France. Yet, Ferdinand still loves Carlos, and how can he not love Carlos? They are brothers! Carlos also loves him in his own way: the letter Ferdinand received from Carlos, who finally left the monastery where he had prayed for the deceased Isabella, proves this. At present, Carlos focuses on Spain: he cannot now interfere in Italian wars due to the still empty Spanish treasury, which he will try to refill because Genoa is now free of the Turks thanks to Ferdinand. Ferdinand keeps his offices and titles… so far…. This might change in the future because Ferdinand and Carlos will have a tremendously difficult relationship that will make Ferdinand face many moral dilemmas.

Finally, we have insight into the marriage of Mary Boleyn and Anne de Montmorency. Now they are Duke and Duchess de Montmorency. Mary adored William Stafford a lot, and it will take her quite some time to forget Stafford, so her marriage to Monty will be a complex one at first. Mary is pregnant, which makes Monty happy and gives her hope for a better future.

We will be back to the English court in the next chapter, and many events will happen.

VioletRoseLily and I are co-writing the story called "Entwined by a Golden Alliance", but we are posting it only at AO3. Give it a try, please, and thank you in advance!

I highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, Marina Ka-Fai, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91, BellalunaMcKenzie, QueenMaryofEngland, and WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction. I also recommend Lady Plantagenet in the White Queen fandom at AO3. Let's support, review, and favorite each other!

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 43: Chapter 42: Surrender of Rome

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 42: Surrender of Rome

November 2, 1540, Ostia, near Rome, the Papal States, Italy

“We are close to Ostia,” a male voice spoke in accented French.

“Thanks be to God,” a female voice responded in natural French.

A rickety and travel-worn cart moved like a snail along the cobblestone road. In the coastal area, in Ostia’s vicinity, the weather was rather unpredictable, especially in the fall. The heavy rain had ceased yesterday, and the autumn day was warm; an orange disk of the rising sun had recently torched the treetops in forests shimmering with oranges, yellows, and browns.

The driver looked like a peasant in an old wool cloak, but the imperial way he carried himself told a different story. He was Ercole II d’Este, Duke of Ferrara, Modena, and Reggio, who had heroically snatched Philippe de Chabot’s captive wife away from the Pope’s clutches. Clothed in a plain cloak of coarse fabric, the young woman – Françoise de Longwy, Dame de Pagny and de Mirebeau – had traces of sleepless nights upon her face, also tinctured with relief.  

“Can we drive faster?” Françoise asked wearily.

Ercole laughed at her, as if she were a lunatic. “Madame, we are fortunate that I managed to find this old horse and this horrible cart when we escaped from Rome.”

She nodded her comprehension. “The animal will die if you make it go faster.” She watched another cart appear on the road. “Are we in peril?”  

“No, they are locals. There are many camps, both large and small, around the city of Rome. For the most part, the French forces occupy them, and there are King Ferdinand’s men there, too. They have blocked all of the roads to Rome, so nobody could come there without our notice during the past year. If we meet a squad, they will simply escort us to one of the two royal camps.”

“Your Grace is a hero!” she lauded. “My Uncle François must reward you!”

This strokes of his ego pleased Ercole. “I’m simply the King of France’s friend. A romantic duke from Ferrara who cannot watch men mistreat ladies, even if they are Popes.”

His handsome face mesmerized Françoise, as did his playful and engaging manners. “Is that true that you saved Duchess Mary de Montmorency from the emperor and his agents?”

“Yes, it happened during the invasion of France. She is a brave lady, just as you are.”  The duke flirted with her, enjoying Francoise’s reactions to their banter and her encouragement to flirt.

“Ah!” She giggled merrily. “Your Grace must have charmed everyone in Ferrara.”

Ercole relaxed as though he were at his court in the company of one of his many mistresses. “A snap of my fingers, my smile, and my laugh – and women’s clothes tumble from their bodies.”

A blushing Françoise was elated. “Oh, Monsieur d’Este! Your jokes are so frivolous!”

“I’m an Italian man,” the duke crooned. “I have an adventurous spirit, but there is only one wonderful woman I’ve always worshipped. She is my consort – Renée of France.”

At this moment, she envied his famous wife, for her relationship with Chabot, her husband, was tense at best. “You are a dedicated follower of courtly love, and it is beautiful.”

He burst out laughing. “Yes, I am.”

The cart moved past the well-preserved Roman ruins. Scattered around the fields and either side of the Tiber River, they gave a vivid glimpse into how life had been two thousand years ago: the remains of mansions, ancient docks, warehouses, apartments, shopping arcades, and baths.

Françoise ruminated, “I don’t have a military mind, but I consider King François’ decision to besiege Rome from all sides extremely smart. During the Roman Empire, Ostia’s position at the mouth of the Tiber saw it transform into a port town and commercial base for goods and foodstuffs. Ostia was a storage center for Rome’s grain supplies, so the king must have decided to have his strategic camp there for the better control of the city’s grain supplies.”

Ercole contemplated the ruins in wonder. “Indeed. Most of the Pope’s grain and other food supplies are stored outside of Rome, mainly in Ostia. I spent a week in the holy city before stealing you from Farnese, but I gathered a great deal of useful information. Famished and demoralized, the whole populace now demand that Pope Paul the Third surrender, letting them survive.”

Françoise cast her blue eyes towards the remains of a bathhouse. “Despite being a hostage, I was not imprisoned: they kept me in one of the rooms at the papal residence on the Quirinal Hill. But look at me, Your Grace! Months will pass before I recover from the starvation.”

The duke glanced over his shoulder, although he had already seen her. Her pallor too deep, she looked emaciated, even though not a skeleton, under the voluptuous folds of her cloak.

“You will recuperate soon, Madame de Chabot. I’m sorry, but we could not have saved you earlier. At first, we believed that you were incarcerated at Castel Sant’Angelo. When François’ men infiltrated into the city and launched your rescue, they did not find you at the castle. Several more operations were conducted, but we failed despite your mother’s effective work for them as France’s double agent. It was when I resolved to go to Rome on my own in disguise.”

Françoise admired the Duke of Ferrara. “My family and I will be forever grateful to you.”

“The pleasure is mine.” Ercole laughed uproariously. “Farnese must be in a black fury now, although I learned that he could have left Rome. He either escaped or will capitulate.”

In half an hour, the cart entered a large military camp. A deafening roar of cheers, followed by a loud blowing of trumpets, held their breath. As the cart made its way to the central part of the camp, Ercole was hailed as a hero of France, in spite of being an Italian duke.  

King François stepped out of his tent and strolled towards the cart. “Welcome, Your Grace of Ferrara! You have showed outstanding courage when saving my half-niece.”

Duke Ercole grinned. “Your Majestic Majesty! My prediction: Rome will surrender soon.”

The Duke of Ferrara gallantly assisted Françoise de Chabot in climbing out of the cart.

The monarch eyed Lady Chabot with sympathy. “You are safe with us.”

Françoise curtsied to him. “I’m delighted to be home, Your Majesty, my Uncle François.”

“Your mother has been awaiting you.” The ruler gestured to the right. “Go!”

Françoise de Longwy threw herself headlong into her mother’s embrace. Tears shining in her eyes, Jeanne d’Angoulême sobbed with relief as her arms wrapped around her daughter.

“Mother!” Françoise called. “I feared that I would never see you again!”

Jeanne answered, “I knew that King François would save you!”

The monarch neared them. “Françoise, your mother is a heroine. She helped us ensure that the Vatican remained isolated on the Apennine peninsula. Even Naples is now neutral.”

The Bishop of Rome had lost all of his allies. After the emperor’s refusal to interfere, the Catholic lands within the Holy Roman Empire had soon chosen neutrality. Thanks to Jeanne being France’s double agent, they had managed to thwart Farnese’s plans to receive reinforcements from Naples. The Republic of Venice and the Duchy of Florence were the King of France’s friends; the Duchy of Milan and Piedmont were occupied by the French. Allesandro Farnese was alone!

“My pleasure.” Jeanne was glad that her half-brother had forgiven her for her betrayal.

Ercole winked. “So many heroes and heroines!”

Their laughter was interrupted by the approach of a smiling Philippe de Chabot.

“Wife,” Chabot said shortly. Then he led his spouse and his mother-in-law to his tent.

In the next moment, Ferdinand appeared. “François, our men say that the Pope is coming.” He paid no attention to a disguised Ercole, thinking that the man was a peasant.

François told the Duke of Ferrara, “Ercole, Farnese should not see you.”

“Ercole d’Este, Duke of Ferrara?” Ferdinand was abashed as his gaze traversed Ercole.

Ercole flourished a bow. “Yes, Your Bohemian, Croatian, and Hungarian Majesty!”

“Nice to meet you, Your Grace,” pronounced Ferdinand with a smile.

Smiling and nodding, the Duke of Ferrara sauntered over to the tent he occupied in the camp.

§§§

“The Pope is indeed here,” Ferdinand said incredulously.

François could not believe his eyes. “It is like the Appearance of the Messiah.”

Indeed, Alexandro Farnese, known as Pope Paul III, was in his enemies’ camp. He had not arrived with a sumptuous retinue: he was accompanied only by his intemperate son – Pier Luigi Farnese, Duke of Castro and Captain General of the Catholic Church. They were thin and fatigued, their countenances pale and haggard. Their peasant clothes, which they had used as disguise to travel from Rome to Ostia, looked old and threadbare, in some places worn into holes.

“Surround them!” Anne de Montmorency commanded. “Two circles!”

Immediately, several dozens of mounted soldiers encircled the unexpected visitors. Another squad of arquebusiers formed a second circle around them.

The Bishop of Rome spoke unusually softly. “Two circles around your two kings? My sons, I’m an old man, and we have      empty stomachs. We cannot cause you any harm.”

At this, the soldiers roared with implacable animosity, fury, and acrimony.

“Burn in hell for all your sins, you old villain!

“You are a murderer! You tried to kill Queen Anne!”

“His Bloodthirsty Holiness destroyed Prince Charles!”

“That thug is an unholy rat! He must be deposed!”

“Go to hell, Paul! The new Pope must be elected!”   

“You are the devil who has conspired to murder our king!”

 “Allessandro Farnese must be imprisoned for life!”

“That devil incarnate cannot lead the Christians!”

François and Ferdinand kept silent to let the pontiff see the people’s real bad attitude to him. If the Pope had any illusions as to their moods before, their curses shattered them.

“Today is All Souls’ Day! It would be nice to kill him on this holy day!”

“Today prayers are offered for the dead. But he is still alive!”

“These are cries of the Protestants.” François silenced them, “Don’t speak blasphemy!”

The Pope shouted above the din, “We must see King François and King Ferdinand!”

“I am here!” François stepped forward while remaining inside the circle of his guards.

Ferdinand followed François. “And so am I.”

The Bishop of Rome viewed them from top to toe. Unlike him and his son, the two monarchs looked hale and hearty. Attired in a cloak of ermine and sable, François wore a crown of diamonds, sapphires, and rubies. A diamond-studded crown on his head, Ferdinand was garbed in a cloak of sable, its placard trimmed with marten fur. Anger boiled in the back of the Pope’s throat, for these people had not starved and suffered for months. Be calm, Paul, calm, he told himself.

“May you and your people prosper,” the Pope uttered loudly.

François spoke in a voice layered with steel. “They will, rest assured. I’ll not allow a villain such as yourself to engage in further plotting against France, my family, and my people.”

Farnese could not admit his guilt, and he could not let his emotions break his civil façade. “My son, the Almighty is more powerful than the devil – good is stronger than evil. I am still alive despite my bad health and my starved body. So, I cannot be evil, or I would have died.”

An irate Ferdinand affirmed, “Christianity teaches that the Lord is the source of all goodness. All good Christians believe this, and so do I.” His voice rose an octave. “But you are just a man elected by the Conclave with the help of those whom you bribed.”

François led his verbal vanguard into the battle. “As St Augustine said, ‘Clean and unclean birds, the dove and the raven, are yet in the ark.’  There are both honorable and immoral men in the Vatican, and I’m sad that you are the leader of the most greedy and sinful ones.”

The Pope’s temper spiked. “I’m God’s representative on earth!”

The King of France fired, “There is no blood of Christ coursing through your veins.”

His fists balled, Pier Luigi glared between François and Ferdinand. “You are two stronzos! Saints Peter and Paul founded the apostolic see of Rome in the 1st century. Since the era of early Christianity, the Supreme Pontiff has been the heir to Peter. How dare you insult him?”

François’ grin scorched them with its intense malice. “Your Grace of Castro, welcome back! Almost a year ago, you came to our camp and shouted this wonderful word. Have the famine and deceases kept you so occupied that all other disparagements slipped from your mind?”

Soldiers jeered at Pier and his father until François waved for silence.

“The Lord is our Father,” declared the Valois ruler with genuine fervor. “He is the beginning of everything, and all that He has created is good. People, not Him, twist their souls in pursuit of ambition and wealth. All people are like trees: those bearing good fruits are spared, while those bearing filthy ones are thrown into the fires of retribution, just as it happened to you, Farnese.”

The Pope preached, “When you pray to God in time of temptation, do not say, ‘Take this or that away from me’, but pray like this: ‘O Jesus Christ, sovereign Master, help me and do not let me sin against Thee…’  But you two have sinned when you have besieged us.”

An annoyed Ferdinand barked, “Enough, Farnese! You cannot outlive this siege. Spain, as well as Italian duchies and city-states have abandoned you. It is foolish to resist!”

François’ grin was wide. “Not a drop of blood was shed. There was no physical attack on Pope Paul. There is no reason for excommunicate any of us.”

“You have won this game. So far.” Pier emphasized the last word.  

Paul berated his son. “Pier, do not antagonize them.”

Pier snorted. “They have merited the most gruesome ends possible! I would have–”

François interrupted, “Burned us, two stronzos. We already know that.”

The assemblage tittered, considering Pier a furious and cornered idiot.

“Why do you beat the air, Farnese?” Ferdinand refocused on the topic at hand.

A trepidations hush fell over the concourse. So very quiet that one could hear a fly buzzing through the gathering. The air thickened with unseen presence of France’s triumph.

The French ruler asked forthrightly, “Will you surrender, Farnese?”

They do not address me by my title, Pope Paul blustered. François hates me for my attempts to dispose of him and his whore. But why is Ferdinand against me? Farnese was convinced that he had worked to get rid of Anne Boleyn and her hellspawn for a holy reason. Those who abjured the Roman Church must be punished, the heretical communities cleansed with fire and sword.

Paul’s thoughts drifted to the current bone-chilling chaos in the eternal city. In the summer of 1540, the enemy troops had taken control of the Tiber River, having cut the supplies going into Rome. Starvation and illness had spread throughout the city like cataclysmic wildfire. At first, grain had been rationed to one-half and then one-third of its previous amount. According to the last report from his cardinals, the meagre food stocks would run out by the end of the week.

Although no blood was shed, Rome now represented the most miserable scene of universal distress. Only the sacks of Rome by the barbarians such as the Visigoths and the Vandals during the fall of the ancient Roman Empire had been far worse. Hunger in every face, the roads littered with corpses and bodies of the dying, and many buried where they had perished. This omnipresent scarcity was aggravated by dysentery and malignant fevers, which had killed many inhabitants.

There has been no Sack of Rome, yet there are many victims of this siege. In 1527, far more people had passed away or been murdered by the Constable de Bourbon’s troops. At present, no hordes of savage mercenaries raped women, children, and nuns, and no sodomites killed those who refused to indulge in sin. No prelates, bishops, and abbots were annihilated; no churches were desecrated and robbed. Yet, the number of deaths was not only a tragedy, but also a large-scale and symbolic historical sign – it was Rome’s second Crucifixion during the past decades.  

A heartbreaking scene resurfaced in Paul’s brain. Once Pier and the Pope had gone to make a reconnaissance in disguise in the city. In one of the streets, they had seen a man and his boy.

“Father, there is no more food!” a malnourished boy had mumbled, his cheeks hollow.

His parent had looked starved with his sunken eyes and sharp features. “I’m sorry, my son. Many died. Priests loaded their bodies into wagons and transported them to mass graves. Many of our friends are there, and there is little chance that we will escape similar fates.”

A crafty malefactor, rapaciously hungry for power and wealth! That was who Farnese really was! He did not deny that he possessed this toxic combination of qualities illicit for a man of God. Yet, the conversation the Pope had overheard on that day had injected a sense of dread in him. Supported by Pier, he had stumbled away from the family, his eyes incredulous, as though he had seen Lucifer in himself. It was when Farnese had decided to put an end to the collective despair.

Allesandro Farnese turned to Pier. For a short time, they conversed quietly, and the tension in the camp was growing to a breaking point, like an arrow only seconds from release.

The Pope demanded, “I need your word that Rome will not be sacked.”

Pier added, “If you lead your men into Rome, they cannot pillage the city and rape civilians.”

François crossed himself. “I’m a true Catholic. I would not have done what the Constable de Bourbon, my cousin but a traitor to France, did in 1527. I swear on all I hold dear.”

Ferdinand made the sign of a cross. “I swear that none of my men will do anything of the sort. On the contrary, the inhabitants will be given food, medicaments, and fresh water.”

Farnese inclined his head slowly, unwillingly. “Then we surrender. Today, on All Souls’ Day, we implore you to extend your mercy to both of us and the populace of Rome.”

“Give us the key!” Montmorency strode over to the two men.

Pier bellowed, “There, you pezzo di merda!”

Montmorency’s temper flared. “Give them to me, you pezzo di merda papale!”

Collective sniggering and outright cynical laughter rolled around the area.

“Pier, son, don’t make it worse,” implored Allesandro Farnese.

Montmorency snatched the keys away from the old man’s hands. He recoiled fast, sucking in his breath. “This would not have happened if you did not sin so badly. Take them away!”

Chabot and Annebault separated from the knights and approached the Pope and his son. Part of those men who protected the two monarchs retreated into the depths of the camp, but half of them remained so as not to leave Ferdinand and François vulnerable.

§§§

The Pope and his son, Pier, were isolated in the tent guarded by ten knights. It was furnished with a table, borrowed from some villa in Ostia, several chairs, and two makeshift beds.

Pier’s mood was foul. “Do you suggest that we eat at our adversaries’ table, Father?”

“Yes. Come here.” Allessandro motioned for his son to join him at the table.

“I hate them all!” Pier clamored. “I want their blood!”

The Supreme Pontiff sighed. “You have always been an intemperate man, Pier. Haven’t I told you many times that emotions cloud judgement and deprive you of wisdom?”

“And where did it lead us, Father? Into the Franco-Spanish captivity?”

“Enough, son.” Allessandro leaned his stiffening back onto his leather chair. “François and Ferdinand are still Catholics. Their chivalry, especially François’, will not let them kill us.”

Pier itched to slain the two rulers. “Will we live in perpetual disgrace?”

The Pope knew that later, he would find a way out. “Have I ever failed you, Pier?”

“No.” His son’s dark countenance was softened by his love for the Bishop of Rome.

“Trust me: we will ascend to the heights of power whatever the cost is.”

Pier knelt to his parent. “I shall do anything for Your Holiness.”

The Pope’s stomach rumbled. “Son, take a seat. We are hungry.”

The two captives were ravenously eating meat of various kinds, fish, and eggs.

Allessando’s attentive mind listened with equal voracity to the sounds outside, and to what the sentinels discussed. His knowledge of the French language had been implanted in him by his tutor in childhood, when he had received his humanist education at the University of Pisa and also at the court of Lorenzo de’ Medici. He had communicated with the French ecclesiastical men and diplomats at the papal court. The short hairs at the back of his neck prickled with dread.

The Pope paled to the grayness of a ghost. “Oh my Lord…” 

Pier swallowed a morsel of pork and quaffed a goblet of wine, then wiped his mouth with the back side of his hand. “What is wrong, Your Holiness? What are these skunks saying?”

As a young cleric, Alessandro had enjoyed a giddy whirl of dissipation and always lived in luxury. His mistress, Silvia Ruffini, had birthed him three sons and two daughters, including Pier Luigi, and he had them legitimized in 1505. Unlike his smart parent, Pier did not know French well because despite his good education, the young man was always more interested in war.

“They have…”  The Pope’s voice failed him. “They wish to convene the Conclave.”

An incensed Pier bounced to his feet like a tiger. “They will not dare dethrone you!”

Allessandro’s shoulders slumped. “My weapon is cunning and the zeal of those who follow the true faith and are eager to eradicate the seeds of heresy as much as I am.” His wrinkled face twisted into a troubled expression. “But I’m an old, frail man. What can I do against them now?”

His emotions spinning out of control, Pier spat, “I shall send these two stronzos to hell!”

“No, Pier! Stay here!” After refilling his son’s cup with red wine, Allessandro handed it to Pier. “Drink this, son. You need to keep your strength to aid me instead of having misadventures.”

Pier grabbed a cup. As he stared into the maroon liquid, he fantasized about the blood of his foes gleaming on his longsword. Having drained the cup, Pier stood up and exited the tent.

“Pier! No!” The Pope’s chest was heavy with ache, and it was painful to breathe.

Outside, Pier grabbed the front of a sentinel’s livery. “There is your master?!”

The man understood his barely recognizable French. “He is busy.”

Pier’s temper spiked tremendously. “Damn you!”

Pier surreptitiously unsheathed the guard’s sword. Before the man could react, Pier reached out with his left hand, grabbed the man’s bulbous lips, and sliced them off, also cutting with the blade the tip of his nose. Nevertheless, his victim’s arms hit the Pope’s son rather hard despite the blood spurting out of man’s wounds. Then the guard fell dead to the ground.

A momentary shock on another soldier’s face gave way to a scowl. “You bastard!”

A bellow of rage and alarm sounded throughout the camp, as if hundreds of trumpets were blowing together. Commotion escalated as soldiers rushed to the Pope’s tent.

Pier flashed an evil sneer across his face. “All the French must be slain!”

The sword Pier had stolen sliced through the skin and bone of a nearby knight. But before he could stab someone else, the warriors surged forward with an ululating cry. Screams, curses, and flying fists – a dozen men at least descended on the murderer and pinned him to the ground, kicking Pier with their legs, until Montmorency’s guards dragged them away from the man.

Montmorency glared at the knights. “Castro is the Pope’s son whatever he did.”

“He killed two of us,” one of the sergeants explained.

Montmorency’s scrutiny veered to pools of blood, which colored the white snow beneath the corpses. He slid his own sword out of the scabbard. “The skill of a mercenary is evident.”

Though beaten, Pier persevered, “You are all traitors to the Pope and the Lord!”

Montmorency was rooted to the spot. “Warn King François.”

“What is happening?” François inquired. He and Ferdinand were not far from them.

A moment later, Pope Paul walked out of the tent. His terrified gaze glued to his son’s prostrate figure, he roared, “You killed my Pier! I’ve had enough of your treason against God!”

“What will you do, you old goat?” Someone defamed the Pope.  

“Enough,” François scolded the throng. “I’ve sworn that no one will be harmed.”

“Castro is alive,” Montmorency declared. “His berserk rage led him to where he is now.”

The congregation quietened, fearful of their sovereign’s wrath.

“Take His Grace of Castro to a physician!” instructed Ferdinand.

Pier lay on the ground, but he managed to hit several men who were restraining him.

“His temper is unbearably wild,” Ferdinand assessed. “Just as I heard.”

“Pier, stop this lunacy!” The Pope appealed. “Obey me, or I–” 

A pale Allessandro Farnese began gasping for air, clawing frantically at his throat. A bout of pain shot through his chest, tossing him into a state of severe heart attack. His arms were flailing in the air as the Pope staggered backwards and tumbled to the ground at the threshold of his tent.

François cringed. “Fetch our physicians for the two Farneses!”

Ferdinand flinched, too. “The Pope and his son…. They are both awful.”

“Liars and troublemakers.” His French counterpart heaved a sigh.

“Will the Conclave be convened? It should be done.”

“We will wait and think.” François did not know how to solve all the dilemmas.

The Supreme Pontiff was carried back to his tent. The French doctors hastened to examine him. A beaten Pier was escorted to another tent under heavy guard.

“I pray that the Bishop of Rome will not die.” Ferdinand’s voice was tinged with anxiety.

François nodded. These happenings brought him to a consideration of exceedingly practical matters, which his previous sense of triumph had overshadowed. Defeated and incapacitated, Pope Paul was now like a man chained to a rock and dying of thirst, while a stream flowed at his feet, yet his captors refused to give him water. We must be careful so that this situation and the Pope’s craft does not transform Farnese from the evil villain into the holy lamb beaten by thugs.

§§§

“To the Pope’s surrender!” offered Philip the Contentious, Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg.

King Ferdinand brought a goblet of claret to his lips. “To that viper’s defeat!”

The monarch and his friend emptied the goblets and placed them onto a marble table. During the long siege of Rome, Ferdinand had lived either in his camp, located nearby, or in the Valois one. He even had his own tent in François’ camp, finding it more convenient than his own living conditions. The French luxury nevertheless did not make Ferdinand relax in the slightest.

“It is a temporary victory,” assumed Ferdinand as he seated himself in a nearby chair.

At the ruler’s sign, the duke settled himself in a matching chair beside him. “Why?”

“François will hesitate to convene the Conclave and have the Pope re-elected. In fact, he is right: if the Popes and monarchs can be easily dethroned, it might lead to anarchy. Yet, I think that it would be better to replace the Head of the Vatican, or at least make him more controllable.”

Being a Lutheran, Philip hated popery. “How, Your Majesty?”

Ferdinand vocalized his thoughts. “Someone loyal to France must control Rome. If the new Governor of Rome is Anne de Montmorency, then he will rule it with iron fist.”

“Monty,” the duke drawled the Constable of France’s nickname. “A man of war.”

“Yes, he is. I’m glad that he started liking me a little.”

“However, it is far easier for Your Majesty to communicate with Claude d’Annebault.”

“Indeed.” Ferdinand switched to another topic. “Philip, I ask you to return to Vienna and take care of all my children. Carlos said that he would not interfere in this war, and I believe him because now he has many internal problems to handle. As the flow of gold from the New World has renewed into his treasury, Carlos will slowly be stabilizing his realm’s financial position.”

The Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg detested Emperor Carlos. “Ah, thanks to Your Majesty’s campaign in Genoa. This accomplishment, just as your loyalty, will not be appreciated.”

“My loyalty…”  It was a painful topic for Ferdinand, so he reiterated, “Go to Vienna.”

“I shall,” vowed Philip. “I’ll ensure that your family is well taken care of, although you have a great number of your loyal Austrian vassals and your several regents.”

Ferdinand stressed, “I trust my family to you.” As Philip nodded, the king supplemented, “Prepare them for the arrival of my wife – Marguerite, who is now pregnant with my child.”  

The duke was surprised with the news. “Congratulations, Your Majesty.”

Leaning back in his seat, Ferdinand shut his eyes. Unbidden, the image of young Marguerite de Valois blossomed in his brain, his heart letting out a silent whimper of longing. He recalled the night when their baby could have been conceived: unlike their frequent slow couplings, there had been no gentleness in their intercourses as they had ravaged each other’s bodies on the night before his departure from Florence to Ostia. Heaven help me, but Margot has become important to me.


December 15, 1540, Greenwich Palace, Greenwich, England

Guttural moans and grunts filled a chamber at the back of the palace. King Henry came here for trysts with his married mistresses and servant maids to indulge in pleasures of the flesh. The names of his favorite concubines at a particular point in time were usually known to courtiers, but there were many other women, willing and faceless, who also slid under his sheets.

“Cathy!” The ruler entered his paramour with a hard slapping sound. “You are mine!”

I do hate him so much, Catherine Brandon, Duchess of Suffolk, hissed in her mind. She was chewing onto her bottom lip as he withdrew and slammed forward, this time faster. He pounded into her as if the matter of possessing her were a battle he had to win or die. She had been forced to renew her affair with the monarch six months ago, and since then she prayed that her husband would not learn the truth. To his credit, Henry was discreet with their meetings.

She was stifling groans, not of enjoyment but of emotional hurt. This would not take long. There was no tenderness as he crushed her insides over and over again, his thrusts growing wilder, his desire more and more primeval. Their encounters were ones of mental coercion for Catherine, and they smeared her with the eternal filth of his selfishness. For Henry, making love to a lover far younger than him was akin to drinking the ambrosia of life from her lips and flesh.

With a shout, Henry spilled himself into the Duchess of Suffolk, his seed besmirching her thighs. He sank to her breast, and his mouth took the nipple, danced over it, tugging and pulling. He pinned her down to the mattress completely with his corpulent body, so Catherine could barely breathe. He slid off her and lay exhausted until his groom, Thomas Culpeper, knocked.   

Culpeper opened the door slightly. “Your Majesty! It is time!” He rapidly closed it.  

Henry fondled her breast. “He did not see us, don’t worry.”

“I must return to my rooms.” Catherine inwardly squirmed in repugnance.   

“I would gladly have married you, my little duchess.” He licked a trail up to her midsection.

“I’m married, and so are you, sire.”

Henry rolled off of her and climbed out of bed. “I shall be free soon.”

“What about Queen Anne?” Catherine began hastily putting on her clothes.

“I like her not.” Laughing, he supplied, “Sadly, we have to part our ways, my girl.”

Grabbing her garments from a bedside table, Catherine rushed to the small room adjacent to the bedroom. As the ruler had gained more weight, it became more difficult for him to get dressed. His mistress always left him alone so that he could call Culpeper to help him do that. The groom was astonished that now the king’s waist seemed to be a little broader than a month earlier.

Having emerged from the room, Catherine rushed through a maze of corridors. Turning into the hallway connected with the Suffolk apartments, she almost collided with Charles Brandon.

“Husband.” She labored to catch her breath.

“Catherine.” His voice was as hard as chipped ice.

After the tryst with the monarch, the duchess yearned to be pressed to her spouse’s chest, to join their spirits in a dance of true love. “I need the connection between us. On all levels.”

A long time passed before Charles growled, “Is that another lie?”

His wife blinked. “What?”

Suffolk’s expression was a canvas of solemn acceptance and detrimental affliction. His eyes ignited with conflicted thirst for vengeance, which caused his wife to quail. His affection for Catherine vied with his loathing for her. Charles was a creature of the night, while a shuddering Catherine embodied a vulnerable object of pity. She had never seen him so angry and yet resigned, so suspicion stirred in her. He knows! Oh my God! He knows! the duchess guessed with dread.

“You have betrayed me!” he growled tersely, glaring at her. “You are his mistress!”

“How?” She sucked in a deep breath. “How, husband?”  

“You disappear every week on the same day at the same time. It has continued for months, and your behavior intrigued me. Today I spied upon you and saw the king come.”

He stepped forward, eyes glittering fiercely, and slapped her hard across her face. The punch sent her reeling backwards into the wall, and his spouse climbed to her feet, hollow with shock.

“It is the first time I do this thing to a woman.” His ire did not abate. “To a whore.”

She put her hands on her hips. “What about your own affairs?”

Charles dodged her question with his accusations. “No one, except for Emperor Carlos, fights dirtier or more brutally than Henry Tudor. I could expect such a betrayal from him, for once he jailed me because he learned of what I did to Anne, forgetting that he himself wanted to get rid of her. I thought that our love would last throughout life and death – strong and unchanging, no matter which afflictions beset us. However, I shall not fight for the slut who lied to me for months.”

The duchess watched flashes of tenebrous shadows across his countenance – his animosity towards her. “You were released because I begged Henry to spare you. If not for me, you would still have languished in the Tower. He could have killed you if I did not intercede on your behalf.”

“Henry?” the duke snarled. “How intimate! Do you call him so when he fucks you?”  

“The king said that his wishes are the law. I did not want to be with him, but he pursued me after our return. What could I do, Charles?” The duchess did not mention that the ruler had first courted her during Suffolk’s imprisonment, and she had even liked Henry’s poems.

“It matters not. The betrayal – the worst treason of a wife against her husband – remains. I could have forgiven your adultery with someone else, but not with Henry Tudor.”

This cruel, yet fair statement fell upon her ears like a hammer pounding on a rock, destroying all the solid substances in her essence. “You have to understand me.”

A mass of lethal clouds descended om him. “What God joined I would gladly put asunder.”

The final decision ingrained in him, Charles Brandon spun on his heels, his heart in tatters.

“Charles! Stop!” she beseeched him, but he was already gone.

“What is going on?” Jane Seymour emerged from a nearby corridor.

Tears streamed from Catherine’s eyes. “What did you hear?”

Jane eyed her with concern. “Just your husband’s last words. And I’m sorry.”

A sudden bout of dizziness overcame Catherine. Her stomach lurched, and she vomited onto the floor. She felt so lightheaded that she had to lean against Jane in order to steady herself.

“You are either ill or pregnant, Madame,” Jane presumed. “Let me help you.”

Catherine pushed her away. “Let go off me! And be silent!”

I’m carrying the king’s child, the Duchess of Suffolk bemoaned. When she staggered into her room, servants scurried to her, but she dismissed them. She called for Charles, but he was not in their apartments. Catherine collapsed fully clothed onto a bed canopied with azure and black damask, weeping rivers of agonizing tears because her universe was forever wrapped in darkness.

§§§

King Henry and Queen Anne sat in their ornately carved thrones under a canopy of cloth of gold upon a raised dais. Humming something under his breath, he was very relaxed, in his head experiencing the nostalgia of his youth after his passionate coupling with the Duchess of Suffolk. Below them, the courtiers danced, drank, gossiped, and laughed while musicians played.  

“Your Majesty,” the queen interrupted the ruler’s daydreams. “Are you all right?”

The monarch scowled at her. “Yes, of course.”

His monosyllabic replies had long become normal. “If only I can serve you somehow–”

“You sound like Jane Seymour. Her motto was ‘obedient and something.’  How boring!”

His wife sighed at his irritation. “I’m always at my husband’s disposal, just as a good wife should be.” She stressed the word ‘husband’ on purpose. “I’ll do whatever you command.”

He masked his rising ire with mockery. “The fair belle of Cleves is looking a bit bedraggled today, even though the English fashions suit you far more than that German rubbish.”

Anne swallowed her umbrage. “I’m delighted that you approve of the change.”

Henry perused his undesirable wife. Today the German cow, as he labeled her in his mind, was attired in a gown of cloth of silver tissue, raised with pearls of silver damask, with a stomacher of gold similarly raised, and long, open sleeves lined with chequered tissue. A chain of diamonds and pearls dangled from her neck, from which also suspended a diamond cross. Under her French hood ornamented with sapphires, her brown hair cascaded down her back in waves.  

His reddish brows arched, the monarch wondered who had helped his consort improve her style. Despite these alterations, I do not want that Cleves horse. She is not desirable. He had no illusions about Anne von Cleves, all his fantasies of having many sons with her crushed by his dislike of her appearance, despite her now more English-like manners. Life appeared to be such a grim business to be endured without hope, so Henry dreamed of dissolving their union.

“Not exactly,” he said harshly.

The queen shivered under his chilly gaze. “What do you mean, sire?”

His answer pierced her like a spear flung at her by some enemy. “New garments do not make you a different woman. Who aided you to adjust to English ways?”

“My new lady-in-waiting. The young Lady Catherine Howard.”

The ruler steepled his fingers under his chin in consideration. “She must be a daughter of Lord Edmund Howard and a niece of Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk. Hasn’t the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk had her household at Lambeth filled with her many nieces and nephews?”

“I don’t know a lot about the Howards; only that they are a prominent clan. I’ve never seen any of them, save Kitty. Sir Francis Bryan introduced her to me among my other ladies.”

The king keeps me isolated, Anne von Cleves thought. In spite of the monarch’s promise of having both a private and public wedding to her, the ceremony had been almost clandestine at the queen’s closet at Greenwich Palace, conducted by Archbishop Thomas Cranmer soon after their first meeting at Rochester. Raised as a staunch Protestant, she had conformed to the Henrician form of worship, so the problems in their matrimony stemmed not from religious discrepancies.

After their disastrous wedding night, Henry had abandoned his spouse at Greenwich and gone with his court on progress for months. He had sent all of her German handmaidens back to Cleves, much to her chagrin. He had then ordered Francis Bryan to find English noblewomen to enter into the queen’s household, including Catherine Howard or Kitty as she was called, and Jane Boleyn, Viscountess Rochford, who had recently returned from the countryside. Anne had also been prohibited from speaking German, and Bryan had hired an English tutor for her.

Busy with her studies, Anne had soon gotten accustomed to loneliness that no longer made her shudder with its clammy touch. During all those months, she had heard the ruler visit many Tudor palaces and manors of his lords, but he had not returned to Greenwich despite his summer hunts in the area. Sequestered in her rooms, she had read countless books in English, even though she always preferred doing her embroidery or being involved in other traditional activities.

Only a month earlier, Henry had finally came back to Greenwich. Though being married for months, Anne had seen her husband only on the wedding night and then spent with him only four weeks out of the eight months of their marriage. Her brother, Duke William of Cleves, had written to her, scolding her for the lack of pregnancy and for the monarch’s abandonment of her. Due to her limited time at the Tudor court, many English nobles were still unfamiliar to Anne.

The king’s voice invaded into her musings. “At least, you speak English better now.”

The queen assembled the courage. “I would have spoken it even better if Your Majesty had paid me more attention. I’d love to give you a male heir, but I cannot.”   

His eyes narrowed at his consort. “Maybe you haven’t slept well alone. Or did this beautiful gown make you think that you can dictate to me, your sovereign, what to do?”

Anne recoiled from her husband. “All the power belongs to you, sire.”

A sense of superiority colored his countenance. “Subjects must humble themselves to their king, and the way you do that is by serving him well. Whatever I say is the law for you.”   

“I know that.” She asked, “Sire, can I visit Prince Edward and Princess Elizabeth? I met the princess on our wedding, but I would like to get to know her and her brother closer.”   

At the mention of his children, Henry’s face shone like a sun. Elizabeth seemed to have warmed up to her father during their last meeting on his wedding to Anne von Cleves, and a bubble of joy had exploded in him. Although he missed them both horribly, he did not allow them to stay at court for long. They were his only two surviving heirs, and he could not risk losing them.

“Yes,” the king said. “I shall pay them a visit soon.”

“Then I’ll accompany you. Of course, with your permission.”

He nodded absently, indifferent. “I don’t mind.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Anne’s interest in the royal children was genuine.   

The ruler peered into the crowd of nobles. “Where is Lady Catherine Howard?”

“There! A nice girl dancing with Sir Francis Bryan.”

The ruler’s gaze caught the sight of the utmost perfection. A goodness of youth, her hair loose down her back in a glossy, auburn cascade, dancing with the graciousness of the Greek Muse Terpsichore. Her youthful face was serene and bright, tinged with dazzling hues of immortality. Her light brown eyes were like still waters, running inevitably deep. The seductiveness of her lithe form beneath a gown of burgundy velvet, ornamented with pearls, overwhelmed the king.

Adorned with jewels set in a tiara on her head, this nymph in all her pristine splendor wielded a power over Henry. A substantial power equivalent to that of Cleopatra had centuries ago had over an enamored Mark Anthony as Cleo had coaxed him into deserting his docile, noble Roman wife, Octavia, and returning to her. A sexual power at a time of need for penetration into nature and for the infinite variety of erotic adventures. Henry could not keep himself away from this girl.

Anne guessed what this lewd glance meant before he said, “Have a good evening, Madame.”

Henry stood up and crossed to Bryan and the desirable lady, who bowed and curtsied to him.

“I’ll dance with her.” The ruler took her hand.

“Of course, sire.” Bowing with a grin, Bryan stepped away.

The king kissed the girl’s small, elegant hand. “You are uncommonly beautiful.”

Catherine smiled tentatively. “Your Majesty can call me Kitty.”

Henry laughed boisterously. “Like little kitten, lovely and gentle.”

Kitty broke out into a girlish grin. “And a frolicsome kitten.”

His loins stirred at the thought of kissing her. “That is good.”

She, however, blurted out, “Though my Uncle Thomas, the formidable Norfolk, says that I must grow up and become more serious because I’ve recently turned seventeen.”  

His face became still, but something in his eyes – a shadow of his younger self – enlivened his visage. “We have youth only once in life, even though you can be reborn later.”

“How so?” She blinked like a bird emerging from the nestling.

The ruler did not explain. “Let’s dance, Kitty, and celebrate our meeting.”  

Nodding, Kitty curtsied, a sense of intrigue steadily building inside her. With a broad smile, Henry led her to the center of the great hall, just as the first notes of a galliard sounded. Despite his bad leg, Henry was still a good dancer, and when they stepped away from each other before it was his turn to move, he hopped with a merry verve, landing to his feet adroitly. Kitty and Henry laughed all the time as they jumped, skipped, turned, and twirled, enjoying the spirited tune.

“His future mistress,” the unwanted Queen of England said to herself.

At present, Queen Anne sat alone in her throne, watching the nobles dance the galliard. She would love to dance, but she was a dignified queen and would comply with the royal protocol. No English courier dared invite Anne, maybe because the monarch’s neglect of her was far-famed at court, or they were simply not interested in her. Offence flared on her features, and Anne failed to hide her mortification, for her husband’s actions were a smack in the eye.

The blurred images of her wedding night with Henry crowded her mind. Anne had labored to expel them from her head forever, but they haunted her like plague. After their ceremony, Henry had come to her, his temper exacerbated, his eyes spitting fire of rage. She had already known that he did not like her appearance, but at first, Anne had supposed that he would get accustomed to her. She had not known what to do, and when he had tried to kiss her, she had not responded, which had sent Henry into a fit of fury. Then the ruler had fled from his wife’s bedroom.

There was no hate for her husband in Anne’s soul. All she felt was intense humiliation and a brinish sense of injustice. King Henry, who was the primary cause of her misery, continued his prurient escapades, whereas she, who was totally innocent and ready to fulfill her marital duties, suffered the ignominy of their union.  The love of things in this life, while it certainly exists, is far from being predominant for a true Protestant. I can live without love, but not without respect.

“May I have the next dance?” a male voice inquired. “If you don’t mind, Your Majesty.”

This yanked the queen out of her trance. “Who are you?”

“Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk,” he introduced himself.

This man looks so much different from my husband! Queen Anne cried in her mind. Unlike Henry, Charles was an athletic man of slender build, in spite of being several years older than his liege lord. His countenance had a devilishly attractive look, and an aura of masculinity surrounded him, which made women flock to him. His stature and deportment were arrogant, tinctured in the hues of maleness. Suffolk’s orange damask doublet, passmented with gold, as well as matching hose and toque, festooned with two white feathers, attested to his appreciation of fashions.  

Anne glanced into his sea-colored eyes, entranced. “Are you not afraid?”  

He was puzzled. “Of what or whom?”

“The king may be angry, Lord Suffolk.”

“He is too preoccupied, and you are aware of that, Madame.”

Anne was overwhelmed by his presence. “Yes.”

Something – a shadow or an abstract form – passed between them, connected with the future and yet unknown. Almost like a shared knowledge, but it was fleeting and slid away like sand through the hourglass. To Anne, it was like a stunning romantic poem, whether painted or written, large or small, as Suffolk led her to the dancefloor, and it all seemed a beautiful life, one that was not possible for the German princess as long as she was tied to the English monarch.

After the galliard, the basse danse followed. In the Duchy of Cleves, most of the Italian and French dances were not included in the court’s repertoire. Nevertheless, many dances had been imported from the Burgundian court, including this one. Lightness filled her bosom for the first time in months as Suffolk and Anne glided across the chamber gracefully and slowly. The ruler continued dancing with Kitty, smirking at his consort and Brandon if they neared one another.   

The queen heard Henry say, “Kitty, I want to hear your carefree laugh.”

The girl giggled. “I shall laugh for the rest of my life.”

When will the king bed Kitty? Anne wondered. Will she agree? There was no jealousy in her that was closed for her husband – she could never love such a cruel man. How a teenager such as Kitty could seemingly lust after a man who was far older and sick? Anne would never forget the repugnant, pungent odor from the ruler’s ulcers, which she had sensed on the wedding night.  

Brandon’s voice redirected her attention. “You are not the only one whom he offended.”

Anne peered into Suffolk’s handsome face. “What?”

His disdainful scrutiny flew to their sovereign. “It matters not.”

At the same time, Francis Bryan and Hal Courtenay watched the two couples. Everyone noticed that the monarch gravitated towards the Duke of Norfolk’s niece, while wondering why Brandon had invited the queen. The looks of Edward and Thomas Seymour were anxious.

Bryan smirked. “Three cannot occupy the same throne. One must get out.”

“Anne von Cleves,” Exeter deduced. “That Howard girl might become a new queen.”

Bryan and Norfolk planned to make Kitty at least a royal mistress. As Exeter’s thought took shape in his mind, Francis smiled smugly. “Our king is as fickle as English weather.”

The basse danse was followed by a tourdion due to their contrasting rhythm. Anne returned to her throne. Henry and Kitty were about to proceed to an opening pose until his gaze fell on the French ambassador who entered the chamber together with his wife – Souveraine d’Angoulême.

Whisperings arose. As if to demonstrate their unwavering fealty to France, Louis de Perreau, Seignior de Castillon, and his spouse wore attires of white and blue silk embroidered with gold. They could not have their clothes embellished with French royal fleur-de-lis, but they could use colors of the House of Valois. A diamond, oval cut necklace glittered on the throat of a beaming Souveraine, and a gold chain of rubies and sapphires dangled from her husband’s neck.

The ruler gestured towards the diplomat. “Monsieur de Perreau, share news with me.”

Louis de Perreau declared in the finest orator’s voice that signaled his absolute jubilation, “The city of Rome has surrendered to King François and King Ferdinand.”

Souveraine promulgated victoriously, “My majestic half-brother, King François, has won!”

The music and charting ceased, and everyone’s mouths hung open, speechless.

The entirety of Christendom awaited the outcome of France’s campaign against Rome with the Habsburg support. Throughout the siege, grave and optimistic improbabilities blended with the truths of the Pope’s crimes. The fact that the Catholic kings waged war against the Bishop of Rome was larger-than-life. Now, when the one-of-a-kind historical event materialized in reality, questions about the Vatican’s future and the balance of power in Europe moved to the forefront.

Leaving Katherine Howard with the Duke of Norfolk, King Henry stomped towards the ambassadorial couple. His visage contorted in berserk rage, he walked over to them, and the entire chamber froze in fearful anticipation. The monarch stepped on an area of the carpet that was wet with wine, so he unexpectedly slipped and fell on his back, hitting his head with a thump. Darkness enveloped Henry, and in the distance, he heard shouting before everything went black.

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope you are all safe and a little cheerful in these difficult days.

Finally, the city of Rome surrendered to King François and King Ferdinand. Well, the siege lasted for about a year, which is not odd.

The question is what happens now: the Pope had a heart attack as a result of the stress associated with his surrender and to what he witnessed his son did. Will the Conclave be convened and the Pope dethroned? François, despite making some crafty decisions, can make political mistakes, just as he made them in history, some out of his chivalry. Some mistakes he might make are explained by the fact that I need him to do so in order to create a certain plotline. In addition, mistakes make characters less perfect, and I don’t like ideal characters – even François.

Pier Luigi Farnese, the Pope’s eldest illegitimate son, was indeed a very intemperate man in history and not very clever. Pier’ manners were like those of a typical ruthless mercenary, and he is portrayed close to his historical self in this AU. We have good news: Marguerite, Ferdinand’s young wife, is pregnant, which was expected given that they married in Florence and spent some time there. Ferdinand will have quite many children with Margot.

Charles Brandon learns the truth about his wife’s affair with King Henry. Catherine does not love the monarch, so her motives to renew her affair with the monarch are not selfish – she feared that her husband could be harmed in some way. What will happen between the Suffolk spouses? How will Charles react to the news that Catherine is pregnant with their sovereign’s child? Will Charles forgive her? What do you think?

We have more insight into the unfortunate marriage of Anne von Cleves and King Henry. Finally, we have Catherine Howard who appears at a feast. Henry is immediately feeling the pull of attraction towards the young beauty. Henry loved young lovers because they allowed him to feel young as well. I hope you liked the arrival of the French ambassador and his wife with the news of Rome’s surrender, but unfortunately for Henry, as he went to the diplomat, he slipped on the floor. Henry fell onto his back and hit his head, suffering another head injury.

Princess Elizabeth and Prince Edward will appear in the next chapter. The next two chapters are focused on the events England.

VioletRoseLily and I are co-writing the story called "Entwined by a Golden Alliance." Give it a try, please, and thank you in advance!

I highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, Marina Ka-Fai, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, Secret-writer91, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91, BellalunaMcKenzie, QueenMaryofEngland, and WhiteRoseQueen at FF. I also recommend Lady Plantagenet in the White Queen fandom at AO3. Attention: Secret-writer91 is now posting her story ‘Festina Lente’ at AO3, and if you could please copy your reviews from FF to AO3, it would be nice of you to do so – merci in advance.

Nonetheless, given the recent revelations don't expect my former generosity – it is gone. I've changed as well because this fandom has traumatized me enough and has changed me enough, and I shall not allow anyone to use me. Fans can decide themselves whom to read.

The next update will be on the 20th of October, or on the 21st of October. I’ll be staying away from the fandom for a few days because my emotions are rather hurt and unbalanced.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 44: Chapter 43: Waters of Youth

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 43: Waters of Youth

January 12, 1541, Hatfield House, Hatfield, Hertfordshire, England

The Tudor family members assembled in the presence chamber, whose walls were swathed in blue silk; oak furniture and marble tables were arranged around the room. The king and queen of England had arrived at Hatfield at sundown, and Henry immediately summoned his daughter.   

Princess Elizabeth asked, “Is Your Majesty feeling well now?”

King Henry briefly touched his cap of black velvet. “Much better, daughter of mine.”

After the ruler had slipped on the floor and hit his head, Henry had been unconscious for hours. A team of competent royal physicians, including Doctor Butts, George Owen, and Thomas Wendy, had worked hard to help him regain consciousness, but in vain. The king had spent the whole night in the darkness of unknown worlds before his eyes had opened in the morning.

Since then, the monarch complained about having headaches, but otherwise, he seemed to be healthy. The physicians and courtiers were relieved that their liege lord had remained alive after having sustained his second head injury. Nonetheless, if one looked attentively into the ruler’s aquamarine eyes, it became clear that the danger that had always been lurking in their depths moved closer to the surface, having shaped into the omnipresent peril that Henry emanated.

“This is Queen Anne,” the monarch introduced. “She wanted to meet you again.”

Princess Elizabeth sank into an elegant curtsey in front of the royal couple. The monarch’s heart skipped a beat, for his daughter’s curtsey was so much like Anne Boleyn’s.

Lady Katherine Ashley, the girl’s new governess, as well as Lady Margery Horsman noticed the monarch’s visible flinch. Margery and Katherine accompanied their charge everywhere.

“Welcome to Hatfield, Your Majesties.” Elizabeth’s tiny smile was reserved.

The queen’s grin was broad. “Your Highness, I’ve heard a plenty of wonderful things about you. We saw each other briefly on my wedding. I wish to become a good stepmother to you.”   

“We have a life ahead,” the princess said, her countenance as if carved out of marble. “The strongest of all warriors are time and patience. They are both important human virtues.”

Anne was astonished with her precocity. “Ah, you are such a serious girl!”

Henry’s sigh signaled his frustration. “She once was quite carefree.”  

The queen guessed that her husband thought of the girl’s mother, but it was not her place to meddle into their relationship. “Her Highness is so impressively accomplished.”

The king viewed his daughter from top to toe. Even though Henry had visited Hatfield more often after the proclamation of Anne’s innocence, he had endeavored to ignore that Elizabeth was quickly growing up. It was easier to perceive his daughter as a harmless toddler, denying even to himself that he was getting older. Nonetheless, the bitter reality took its purest form when he had seen Elizabeth in this room – now she was a girl of seven, no longer a small child.

The charming baby had grown into a very, very young nymph, with more feminine features and grace of movements, like those of a swan. Radiant, flaming hair flowed to the middle of her back from beneath a French hood ornamented with diamonds. Her gown of purple and silver brocade stressed her slender form, now more shapely than several years ago. Elizabeth has Anne’s dark eyes – twin pools entrancing me. They will haunt me forever, the king huffed silently.     

Elizabeth informed boastfully, “I’ve excelled in French, Flemish, Italian, and Spanish. But I speak French better. I’m also learning Latin, but my Bible is in English, and it is right to pray in our native tongue because not everyone can understand the scripture and theology in Latin.”

Katherine Ashley joined the conversation. “Princess Elizabeth has an unparalleled talent for languages. I myself taught her French, Flemish, Italian, and Spanish.”

Margery Horsman supplemented proudly, “Nonetheless, it was not enough for our clever princess. Her thirst for knowledge is unquenchable, and languages are one of her favorite subjects. So, we hired a special tutor for her who is now teaching her German and Portuguese.”

Henry studied the two women who were responsible for the upbringing of his daughter.

At thirty-five, Margery was an attractive woman with hazel eyes, dark brown hair hidden beneath a French hood, and light olive-colored skin. Her tall height and slenderness were stressed by an orange and black brocade gown, whose bodies and sleeves were decorated with diamonds. The king did not quite like her presence in the princess’ household because Margery had once been Anne’s friend. Margery had been a maid of honor to Henry’s first two queens before entering into Elizabeth’s service. Lady Horseman’s appearance reminds me of Anne, damn her.

Yet, Henry would never dismiss Lady Horseman because his daughter adored her, and they already had a strained relationship. The monarch was fond of Lady Katherine Ashley and of her simplicity. Katherine’s round face, illuminated by large blue eyes, was honorable and without a trace of hypocrisy. A bit plump, Katherine preferred dark gowns to make herself look slimmer: today she was clad in a gown of black satin embroidered with some pearls on the front.

Henry opined, “She should also have basic knowledge of Greek and Hebrew.”

“As Your Majesty commands,” Lady Ashley said, and the king nodded.

“I’m very impressed!” Anne exclaimed. “Do you really speak my native tongue?”

“I do.” Elizabeth spelled out, “Übung macht den Meister.”

The queen translated it into English, “Practice makes perfect. This is amazing!”

The princess affirmed, “Leonardo da Vinci said, ‘Nature is wise.’  We can learn everywhere and from everything and everyone. Only the educated people are free of superstitions and fears.”

Henry remarked, “Experience is often a better teacher than tutors.”

His daughter spoke sagaciously, yet in a sardonic undertone. “The purpose of life is to live it honorably, to taste it to the utmost while complying with the rules of society and not forgetting about a moral code. We can follow our destiny only if we turn our wounds into wisdom.”

It was the hint at the trauma the ruler had caused her by expelling her mother. “You have read too many books, so your brain cannot absorb all this information, Elizabeth.”

“Your Highness studies a great deal of time,” Lady Ashley rejoined. She glimpsed the worried glance of Lady Margery Horsman, and they nodded at each other.

With her challenging gaze directed at her parent, the princess countered, “Your Majesty, it is as true as the fact that humor and seriousness are not in opposition to one another.”

A sigh erupted from Henry. “Go speak with your stepmother, Elizabeth.”

Obeying without protesting, the princess bobbed a curtsey that caused him to cringe again. She and Queen Anne seated themselves onto a blue brocade-draped couch near the fireplace. Lady Ashley and Lady Horseman curtsied and cast worried glances at the princess before exiting.

Henry wondered whether his earlier impression of Elizabeth’s warming up to him had been incorrect. A rain of contrition drizzled half-heartedly upon his inner realm, but it soon stopped. He should have been more attentive to the girl, and visited her more frequently, but sometimes, he was unable to do that because his daughter reminded him of Anne too much. My Lizzy is now more formidable, and perhaps even more dangerous than she was at the age of three.

“My papa is here!” Prince Edward ran into the room. “Papa has come!”

Henry swung the child into his arms and twirled him once, their laugh echoing blithesomely.

Edward kissed his father’s cheek. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

The king gently kissed him on the forehead. “I’m a monarch and have a country to rule.”

“But do you remember me?” lisped the boy.

Henry gazed warmly into his prince’s eyes. “Always, my son. God protect you!”

Prince Edward was an active, lively, and a little chubby boy of two summers. In a doublet of red satin wrought with silver thread, and matching hose, he looked every inch the small, haughty prince. His hair was blonde, just as his late mother’s hair had been. His joy brightened Edward’s big, almond-shaped eyes, which were a bright crystal blue, so much like Elizabeth of York’s eyes.

“Your eyes are like those of my beloved late mother, your grandmother Elizabeth.” Unlike his daughter’s Boleyn dark pools, Edward’s eyes did not bring back any bad memories for Henry.

“The Woodville eyes,” the boy pronounced. “I heard my governess say that.”   

Lady Margaret Bryan was short of breath as she rushed into the room. Despite her old age, she had been chasing after Edward through the whole palace; after his birth, the prince had become her main charge. The mother of Sir Francis Bryan, Margaret was now seventy-two, but she still seemed healthy and strong enough to perform her duties of a governess. Her plain gown of black satin stressed her thin complexion, and a white taffeta coif covered her completely gray hair.

Margaret curtsied to her liege lord. “Your Majesty, I do apologize for Prince Edward. He should mind his manners. As soon as he was apprised of your arrival, he ran to you.”

Bouquets of joy bloomed in Henry’s soul. “It is all right, Lady Bryan.”

The king settled himself in a chair adorned with the Tudor arms. He was relieved to stretch out his legs, one of which troubled him. A servant brought a tray of apples and sweet cakes.

He motioned for Edward to take a seat. “Here, have some apples, my dearest son, for they are delicious. Tell me, Edward, how have you been? Have your studies progressed well?”

“Very well, Father.” The prince nibbled at an apple. “Lady Bryan is pleased with me.”

Margaret elucidated, “Prince Edward is good at mathematics. It was easy for me to teach him to count up to thirty and to make simple divisions and additions. However, he needs to be interested in what he does, or otherwise, he loses his concentration swiftly.”   

The monarch watched his son with delight. “It is normal. He is a toddler.”  

The governess did not verbalize her thoughts: at the age of two, Princess Elizabeth had been far smarter than Edward. “He is not quite interested in languages, but he likes Latin.”

The boy stuffed the whole cake into his mouth. “I love the sound of Latin.”

Henry detested his son’s declaration. “Edward, you are the Prince of Wales. One day, you will succeed me as King of England and will lead this great country to the light, not to the darkness of Catholicism. You need to read the Bible in English, just as Elizabeth does.”

Chocolate smeared Edward’s fingers and his cheeks. “Latin sounds beautiful.”

Henry and Margaret Bryan, who was a devout reformer, shared anxious glances.

The ruler leaned his head on the back of the chair and stared meditatively at the prince. “Son, you have a duty to your kingdom and people. So, you must learn as hard as you can.”

As Margaret wiped the prince’s face and fingers with a napkin, Edward complained, “It is not that I don’t like studying. But it takes much time, and I want to do something else.”

“He is fond of active games,” the governess clarified.

Henry instructed, “Edward ought to spend more time with his tutors. And if he runs around in the garden, he should be watched closely so that he does not harm himself.”

“Yes, sire.” Margaret comprehended the king’s concern about his only son.

He enjoined, “Lady Bryan, have Edward study the Bible in English even if he protests.”

“No, Father!” Tears brimmed in the boy’s orbs. “Please, don’t make me do that.”

The monarch waggled a finger at the prince. “You will do that regardless of your desires.”   

Darkness blanketed Hatfield. For some time, the ruler conversed and played with his son. Soon, tired after the journey, Henry dismissed his offspring and retired to his rooms.

§§§

At midnight, the monarch entered the bedroom of his unwanted queen. The chamber was dimly lit by a fireplace in the corner, and he saw that his wife was abed. The pain in his leg was strong again, and he lumbered over to a bed canopied with golden silk, moved the drapes aside, and looked at the sleeping woman. Anne lay on her back, her long tresses scattered about her.  

Henry sighed in disappointment. If not for her face, she would have looked like a siren. He was not sure that his decision to try and bed her today was correct. Perhaps Elizabeth’s affection for her new stepmother had galvanized Henry into making another attempt after so many months of his estrangement from his wife. He climbed into his consort’s bed and lay next to her.

“Who is it?” Anne’s sleep vanished as she gaped at the king.

Her husband propped himself on an elbow. “You are calm when you sleep.”

“How can I help Your Majesty?” Turbulent emotions whirled inside her.

He shifted closer to her. “Husband and wife are meant to be together.”

A cascade of disbelief, terror, and embarrassment swamped Anne; she experienced the same feelings on their failed wedding night. “If I had known, I would have prepared.”

“Don’t worry. We are just two nice people who need to feel warmth in the dead of winter night. You must be happy that Caesar has consented to come to your bed.”   

His smug smile secretly disgusted her. “I’m delighted, sire.”

“Show me, then.” Curiosity of what she would do overwhelmed him.

Blushing to the roots of her hair, Anne lapsed into silence. Her mother had told her and her sisters that a woman must submit herself to her husband during every bedding, and that there is pain during her first time. To Anne, the primary goal of matrimony was the establishment of a family based on a healthy progeny. A woman is not a source of pleasure, but a mother and wife.   

Irritation rippled under his skin. “Have I shocked your maidenly sensibilities?”

This snapped Anne out of her trance. “What should I do, sire?”

His prurient smirk hit her sharply. “Give me pleasure with a hand at first.”

Henry unlaced his hose, leering at her deepening blush. He dragged her trembling hand to his bulging manhood, then had it slide along the length of him. Anne’s eyes were tightly shut, for she could not look at what she called one of the worst sinful indulgences for both genders.

“More.” Despite his misgivings, the monarch groaned.   

As her hand moved up and down his shaft, her husband’s moans intensified. Unbeknownst to her, the ruler felt a little embarrassed, knowing that his requests were strange for her. However, he had to ensure that he would be aroused enough by the time of their joining. Henry would never forget how he had not taken Anne on the wedding night because of the lack of his arousal.

“Massage it slightly,” he commanded huskily. “Be careful.”

Nevertheless, the queen’s eyes were still shut. Even if she had forced herself to observe the whole process, she would not have understood the meaning of his words. Any of his mistresses, including Catherine Brandon, would have done something bolder, knowing how to please a man. Anne Boleyn, with a fierce passion ingrained in her entire being, was a priestess of love in bed.  

“Argh!” Henry whimpered. “It is rather painful. I told you to be more careful.”

“I… apologize.” Her voice was thin, her cheeks red like lush apples.

“Open your eyes, damn you!” he demanded. “You want me to do all the work.”

Her gaze reflected her confusion. “I do not understand.”

“Move!” His desire was beginning to ebb away. “Spread your legs!”

Henry removed his hose, his shirt of red silk still laced. After pulling her nightgown of white taffeta up, he positioned himself on top of his wife. Closing his eyes not to see her face, he captured her lips with his, and they kissed with a solemn intensity before his tongue invaded her mouth and stroked its silky inner recesses. The queen’s eyes fluttered closed, her hands at her sides.

It is my duty to please the king, Anne labored to convince herself. I must endure all things he is doing to me. My husband is my lord and master. Yet, a feeling of wrongness was growing deep inside her soul, for she did not want to be his. The smell from his ulcers heightened her sensations of repugnance and regret that she was Henry’s spouse. His weight crushed her into the mattress like a multitude of bricks, causing her huge discomfort, and she could barely breathe.   

He raised her hips, while his other hand went to her private place. However, no penetration followed because his arousal faded to nothing, as if it had never been, and the awkwardness of this encounter enraged the ruler. A flush of mortification painted his cheeks, his male ego pulverized.

“It is your entire fault!” Henry bellowed as he rolled off of her. “Only your fault!”

A panicking Anne snuggled under the sheets. “How did I wrong you, sire?”

“In many ways, you cow!” He hastily put on his hose and boots.

His insult sent shivers down her spine. “I simply lay quietly.”

Henry glared at her like an exasperated owl. “I cannot have a son because of you.”

The monarch shut the door, as if escaping from his prison and his death sentence.

Tears stinging her eyes, Anne threw pillows onto the floor, then another one. Taut as coiled wire, she curled up in a ball and wept, as though she had seen the Lord with His wounds bleeding. In these moments, she did not care whether she lived or died. After she had let loose her wrath, heightened by her offense, it refused to be stilled, so Anne stood up and trampled the pillows.

Then, for a long time, she wandered around the room like a helpless sleepwalker. The words of prayer were on her lips in German, for she still found it difficult to pray in English.

Holy Father, I’m not at home in England, and every day I want to flee and never get back. Pour out some of Your heavenly grace upon my life, for my weak spirit is filled with despair.

The queen’s feet touched almost every part of the room, save the space occupied by walnut furniture adorned with delicate rosettes. Anne did not even notice that she was now praying aloud, like the blind despairingly searching for the most sacred temple to find a cure from his illness.

May I understand my role in this journey, Lord. Why did I become the king’s wife?

The door opened. Lady Jane Boleyn, Viscountess of Rochford, slipped inside.

Jane curtsied. “Your Majesty, you are not sleeping.”

The queen stopped near the bed. “Leave me.”

“You are in a difficult situation,” Jane continued. “Kitty and I saw the king enter your room. I want to help you. There will be no Duke of York if he does not enter you.”

A wave of shame assailed Anne. “Don’t speak indecorously, Lady Rochford!”

“Please, let me clean the chamber and prepare the bed for you.”

“Do it quickly.” The queen halted near a window.

Jane Boleyn left and returned with new pillows. Anne still stood staring out.      

Questions besieged the queen. Could marital intimacy be mutually satisfying? Her mother had confided that the intercourse could be enjoyable. Was it possible to have it with an egotistical man such as Henry? Was she guilty that they could not consummate their union and have a child? However, marriage happiness could not be achieved merely by asking one of the spouses to give: there must also be mutual offering in their relationship. But Henry has not done anything good.

§§§

King Henry kept walking. The snow cracked under his feet, leaving deep pitted footprints, and snowflakes swirled all around him. Above, the branches of trees in an alley leaned forward and touched others under the heavy weight of snow, forming a tunnel of darkness. Nonetheless, he did not return to the manor, too furious to be in the same house with his consort.

A stirring of trees instigated him to turn around. He saw a lithe figure cloaked in furs.

His expression was alert. “What are you doing here, Lady Howard?”

“Master Holbein’s page has arrived,” Kitty Howard announced, her breathing erratic from the running. “He has an urgent message for you. We have tried to find you, but failed.”

His chuckle startled her. “Why you?”

She shrugged. “Sir Francis Bryan told me to search for you in the garden.”

The ruler pursed his lips. Had Bryan discovered him, but instead of approaching him, had tasked Kitty to go inform Henry about the page? Was Bryan pushing Kitty into his bed? Was it a mere coincidence? Randomness was a foreign thing to the crafty, clever, and accurate Bryan, for his deeds were well planned beforehand. Yet, it did not matter because Henry was glad to see her.

The moon silvered Kitty’s face, slightly red from the cold. Her small figure, set against the endless dark firmament, looked peculiarly appealing and pretty, younger than her real age. A child lost in the chilly garden and looking for rescue! For salvation in his arms!

“A goddess of winter,” Henry purred, with the language of beauty in full resonance around him. “You are fresh and so unearthly beautiful. I can see the allure of everlasting youth and purity in you: it arises deep within you and takes visible forms when you smile at me.”   

Kitty was cognizant of the change in him. “Your Majesty is being poetic.”

All at once, he rushed to her and drew her against him. Bending his head to her, he enveloped her into his arms. “Kitty,” he called tenderly. “My kitten and my rose!”

She drowned in his kingly presence, her cheek pressed against his sable-cloaked shoulder. As she lifted her head, he planted a kiss on her lips, gently, with deliberate restraint. At last, she pulled away and stepped back, looking up at him with a note of wonder, trembling.

“Who am I to you, sire?” Kitty backed up against a tree.

His intense eyes were penetrating, his own voice full of emotion. “Someone who I’ve been looking for too long. My youth is hidden under years of woes, but it can bloom again when the past shrivels in your young passion. Someone may aid me to be reborn in a temple of love.”       

“This speech is for intelligent romantics. At court, my life is full of joy since Your Majesty’s return to Greenwich. In spite of his absence at court, Uncle Norfolk sends to me lovely clothes and jewels. I suffered too much while living with the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk.”

“Was she so strict that she did not allow you to express your joy?”

Her laugh warmed the chilly air. “She is an old, self-serving, and avaricious bore.”

The monarch enveloped the girl into the circle of his arms again. “It is either stupidity or cruelty not to let you live merrily. You might have a different future with me.”

“How is that possible?” She disentwined herself from him.

His loins swelled with need. “Do you want to be with me, kitten?”

Catherine Howard tensed. Her abashment was profound, but she understood her sovereign’s request. Or was it a command to yield to his egocentric nature that had turned out to be fatal for quite many women? Being with the king was like being positioned on the edge of a cliff, looking down into a void of uncertainty, thinking the unthinkable, feeling both attracted and repulsed.

The Duke of Norfolk’s lecture resurfaced in the banks of her memory.

All visible beauty is fading like any flower that eventually withers. An intelligent woman must comprehend that beauty is a marketable quality. The more men are around, both as your admirers and your suitors, the more likely she will find favor with someone before it fades.

I’ll not be young forever, Catherine lamented. Norfolk had removed her from the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk’s household at Lambeth. Her father, Edmund Howard, was a third son of the previous Duke of Norfolk, one who had many brothers. Norfolk had repeated several times that Kitty had to use her beauty purposefully, but she had thrust his words aside until now.   

“Kitty, I’m giving you a chance,” the Duke of Norfolk had uttered. “A chance at having a better life. You are too young and pretty to wilt in my stepmother’s household.”

“Thank you, Uncle Thomas!” Kitty had cried. “You are so kind to me.”

His eyes had glistened with something unknown. “If you attract the king, the best thing a woman can do is to serve her sovereign, helping her family and herself. Or you must find a worthy match, but if you fail, nobody will give you a dowry, so you will remain a childless spinster.”

It was a hypothetical end of her life – a single unmarried creature with wrinkles. However, the most abhorrent outcome for her would be to return to Agnes Howard, the sinister harpy, always grumbling and so greedy that Kitty had had only six gowns, some of them too small for her, while having lived at Lambeth. Her childhood had been gloomy and sterile of affection, for her father had forced several of his many offspring to live at Lambeth because he could not support them.

Uncle Norfolk is right, Kitty deduced. Only my loveliness might help me secure comfort for myself and my future children. If they are royal bastards, they will live in luxury and have a plenty of opportunities. The epitome of her girlish fantasies was a knight in shining armor coming to her rescue, marrying her, and making Catherine happy forever. Once she had naively believed that Francis Dereham had been such a man, but it had been a mistake. Only she could save herself.

Kitty put aside her hesitation. “I do want it.”

Henry beamed at her. “Let’s go to the gardener’s house, sweetheart.”

Hand-in-hand, they strolled along the snowy path towards the opposite side of the park.

“What about Queen Anne?” Kitty pitied her neglected mistress.

“I’m not captivated by that woman. I’m totally charmed by you, kitten.”

She was silent until they arrived at the house occupied by the gardener’s family.   

“Go away,” barked the monarch to the puzzled old man. “To the palace.”

The gardener gazed askance at Kitty. It dawned upon him why the king had appeared at his house. “Of course, Your Majesty. There are more logs in the corner if it becomes cold.”

“Clean sheets are in the wardrobe, sire,” the gardener’s wife added.

After their departure, Henry assisted Kitty in getting rid of her cloak and her gown. Wrapped in a sheet of cotton, she went to an oak bed draped in some dusty brown material. She eyed the small house: furnished nicely, but not splendidly, it had a sitting room and a small bedroom.

“What are you doing, sire?” Kitty watched him wash his leg, his back turned to her.

“Don’t be so curious.” Henry needed to lessen the odor from his ulcer.

She involuntarily wrinkled her nose from the stench. When the ruler bandaged his leg with a cloth he had made from the sheet that he had torn apart, she was awash in relief.

“Let me drink youth from your mouth.” Henry tossed his clothes onto the floor.

The king wanted Kitty so badly that his reactions would have been on the far side of extreme, if he had not been sure of her virginity. Such a young creature had to be a maid, for she had lived with the strict, pious Agnes Howard for years. He kissed her neck and bosom as his hands caressed her frame with a favonian gentleness, which Henry rarely applied to his paramours. Kitty’s joy of living, that jocund twinkle in her orbs, that laugh flowing from her aroused him further.

Kitty moaned and giggled as his expert hands baptized her with their tenderness. They were everywhere: along her hips, at the undersides of her breasts, dipping to the back of one knee, gripping her wrists, and along her bare back, then sliding up and down her sides. Her clandestine encounters with Dereham had been short, though satisfying, but she had never seen him completely nude. For the first time in her life, male hands and lips were caressing her whole body.

It is so very magnificent, Kitty murmured wordlessly. His Majesty is taller and fatter than Dereham, and he is also more experienced. Is he always so tender? A vertigo of marvelous sensations switched off her musings as Henry fondled her bosom, then his thigh settled between her legs. Her mind dazed, visions of Dereham driving himself wildly into her before someone could discover them evanesced in a lake of the infinite enjoyment she had never known before.

“I’ve got you.” Kitty tentatively took his manhood, instantly feeling the way his arousal, so long and thick, leapt eagerly against her palm. She feigned her blush. “I’ve never seen it before.”

Henry’s frown was forbidding. “You do not behave like a virtuous girl.”

This pierced her like a spear. She lowered her scrutiny so that he would not see the acuteness of her terror. “I’m a true maid, but I wanted to please you, sire.”  

He softened. “I shall teach you everything, my rose without thorns.”  

Kitty sighed. “Is it my new nickname?”

My rose without thorns,” the king repeated as he lay on top of her.

Henry put his mistress on her side and invaded her slowly from behind so that his weight did not compress her to the mattress. Kitty gasped, as if in pain, and blinked, as if in surprise. It took her some time to adjust to him inside her, so Kitty must be as innocent as Anne and Jane had been when Henry had first claimed them. Yet, Kitty was not begrimed with betrayals, and the thought that there had been oddly little resistance as he had penetrated her dissolved in a carnal ocean.

This must be a dream, Henry said to himself while thrusting into her. Kitty is the answer to my prayer, to hundreds of my prayers! She smelled of verbena and lilac, her perfume floating above them. The swift thudding of their hearts accelerated even more as Henry let out a grunt and spilled himself into her, the twittering of gratification from her lips like that of an jocose bird.

“My Kitty!” Henry spoke in a throaty voice. “You have resurrected my old self – full of hope, young, and forever merry. Now I can demand that you fulfil the covenant to ‘love, honor, and obey me’ at any moment in time because you belong to me until Doomsday.”   

The ruler discerned her bafflement, but she answered, “Of course, sire.”

The monarch rapidly fell asleep. Then Kitty got off the bed, grabbed a needle from a bedside table, and slashed the skin on her left toe so that the king did not see the cut in the morning. The injury was superficial, but it was enough for her to make the sheet stained with some blood.

Uncle Norfolk must be proud of me. Catherine Howard put the needle back on the table and reclined on a pillow. The embroidery of the gardener’s wife helped me. Her dreams glided to her brain through the intricate passages of her self-reproaches and prayers that the ruler would never learn the truth. Nevertheless, life was pitiless, and for one to cope, they had to adjust to it.   

§§§

The ruler and his new paramour returned to the manor at dawn. Francis Bryan greeted the king with a smile as Henry entered the presence chamber. Kitty had gone to her room.

“Good morning, Your Majesty.” Bryan bowed to his liege lord. “Are you happy?”

Henry patted his minion’s shoulder. “I was in the waters of youth during the whole night.”

Notwithstanding his dissipation, wild and insatiable, Francis Bryan was neither a sentimental fool, nor a complete rake whose unrestrained passions befouled the streams of his conniving mind. That was why he retained the royal favor throughout Henry’s entire reign, always conforming to his sovereign’s opinions, dancing to all of the volatile ruler’s whims. Norfolk and I could not even dream that Kitty would slid under the king’s sheets so quickly, Bryan effused silently.

Bryan handed Holbein’s letter to the king. “The Seymour brothers have come, too.”

Henry broke the seal and scanned the text. “Sir Francis, summon them to me!”  

Bryan realized that something serious was happening. “I’ll fetch them both immediately.”

The monarch hurtled the letter to the floor. Bryan rushed out of the room.   

Within the matter of minutes, the three men appeared. As they all bowed, the king glared at Sudeley from the massive chair with a footstool where he was seated at the other side of the room.

“Sudeley, you are a traitor!” Henry bellowed like a bull. “You deceived me in Cleves!”

“What?” Sudeley’s wine-dulled mind was unprepared for this confrontation.

“Idiot!” Edward regretted that he had helped his brother regain the royal favor.

The Seymours had set off to Hatfield upon learning about Holbein’s page. They had arrived at Hatfield House in the dead of night, for they had failed to intercept Holbein’s letter because the page had already given it to Sir Francis Bryan. Sudeley had drowned his fears in wine until dawn, while Hertford had wondered how to extricate himself from the mess his brother had created.

Henry pointed at the letter on the floor. “Read it aloud for us.”

His hands quivering, the Baron of Sudeley took the sheet of paper and complied.

Your Majesty,

I must admit that I’ve wronged you, though not out of my own volition.

While we were in Cleves, your ambassador – Sir Thomas Seymour, Baron Sudeley – gambled away a fortune in contests with Duke William of Cleves. He did not have enough funds to redeem his debt. Duke William offered Sudeley to pardon the whole debt if the baron ensured that one of his sisters would become Your Majesty’s wife. Sudeley threatened that he would kill me if I refused to paint Princess Anne with embellishments of her beauty while eliminating her flaws. Browbeaten into submission, I fulfilled his order, and later, Sudeley intimidated me into keeping silent.  

My conscience has pricked with guilt. I’m leaving England out of fear for my own life, for even though I understand that my fair punishment is death, I’m a weak man who wants to live.

Begging for your clemency and praying to the Lord for your health.

Hans Holbein

The paper dropped from his hands as Sudeley tumbled to his knees. “Forgive me, sire!”

Bryan picked up the letter and placed it in his doublet’s pocket. “A worthless traitor.”

Sudeley’s beseeching gaze flicked to his brother. “Edward, save me!”

Hertford’s countenance was stony. “You are an ignoramus, Thomas. I can do nothing now.”

The ruler glowered at his chief minister. “Did you know about Sudeley’s scheme from the very beginning, Lord Hertford? Why didn’t you report the case to me?”

A muscle twitched in Hertford’s jaw. “Your Majesty, I implore you to try and understand that Thomas is my brother regardless of what he did. I learned about his mistakes shortly before your first meeting with Queen Anne at Rochester. I was shocked and did not know what to do.”     

“Brotherly love,” Henry deduced. “So, you have a heart, Edward.”

The Earl of Hertford swallowed agitatedly. “Brothers are what best friends can never be.”

“There is no buddy like a brother.” Bryan sympathized with Herford.

Still on his knees, Sudeley whimpered, “Sire, Edward did not threaten Holbein!”

The monarch did not spare the traitor a glance. “As a man, I understand and even praise you for the protection of your brother. As your sovereign, I cannot condone your lies, Edward.”  

Hertford cast his scrutiny down in resignation. “I shall accept any punishment.”

An apprehensive stillness settled over them. From time to time, Henry glanced hatefully at Sudeley, whose countenance evolved into one of abject terror. Arrases with battle scenes from the Wars of the Roses glared at them from the walls, charging the atmosphere with a dark premonition.

Sudeley’s intoxication incited him to say, “Your Majesty, is Queen Anne so unattractive to you? Women with wide hips are more likely to produce a brood of children.”

“Thomas!” Hertford paled profusely. “Sire, wine has hit him too hard.”

Seized by monstrous rage, the monarch jumped to his feet. He darted to the baron like a matador that had just dispatched a feisty bull, and roughly hoisted Sudeley to his feet.

“What did you say, you piece of shit?” Henry was seething with insane rage.

“Forgive me, my liege,” pleaded Sudeley, white-lipped with fright. “I beg of you!”

“I married that creature from Cleves because of you!” The ruler spat into Sudeley’s face.

Bryan grabbed the Earl of Hertford’s hand to restrain him. Henry beheld the man whom he held accountable for his abominable matrimony, and then his hands encircled the baron’s neck.   

Sudeley coughed from the pressure on his throat. “Use her as a breeding mare, sire.”  

Snow of draconian animosity swirled in the monarch’s soul, its flakes blurring his vision and entirely blocking out all the rationality in his brain. He was now head deep in a mass of his insane, white-hot fury. Bloodlust seized him like some ravening beast. Quick like a lightning bolt, Henry drew his poniard from the belt at his waist and plunged it into Sudeley’s heart.

“For God’s sake, don’t…” rasped Thomas Seymour as the blade penetrated his chest.

A bemused Henry looked down at the traitor who gurgled with blood and fell backwards. Dead! In ghastly silence, Bryan and Hertford watched the scene in consternation.

“Throw him to the dogs.” The ruler recovered his wits.

Bryan found his voice that sounded muffled. “As you order, sire.”

Hertford’s countenance was of ashen color. “Brother, no…” 

Henry pivoted to his main councilor. “It is far better for Sudeley to die from the hand of his wronged king than the executioner’s axe.” His face a mask of aversion, he articulated, “Anne von Cleves looks like a horse, and I cannot be with her. Contact Archbishop Cranmer and make him annul this accursed marriage as soon as possible. I must remarry and sire sons!”  

The earl nodded numbly. Then Henry stormed out and banged the door behind him.

Bryan’s doleful countenance came into Edward’s view. “The storm of the king’s rage, which was holding its breath, has broken with a singular fury. You could do nothing.”

“I’ll bury Tom,” Hertford choked out, notes of indescribable anguish in his voice.

The morning traffic of servants had not started yet, so Bryan and Hertford slipped out of the palace quietly. They dragged the corpse of Thomas Seymour to the stables, placed him into a cart, and then Edward departed for Wulfhall, intending to bury his sibling in the family chapel.


February 1, 1541, Basilica of Santa Aurea, Ostia, Papal States, Italy

“It will be over soon.” François looked up at the sky leaden with the promise of rain.

Ferdinand arched a brow. “Are you certain the Conclave should not be convened?”

“That was my initial intention.” The French ruler’s voice was laced with regret. “The Pope’s heart attack has created quite an uproar in Christendom. Any violence against the Supreme Pontiff is a compelling reason for excommunication. Although no one attacked the Pope in our camp, and Pier’s aggression killed our two men, someone might interpret everything differently.”

Ferdinand inclined his head. “That is true, unfortunately. At present, Farnese has grounds to excommunicate not only you and me, but also all the people of France and my lands.”

“We have no choice but negotiate with the Vatican.”

Their spirits low, the two rulers entered the small basilica. One of the most notable churches in Ostia, it had been constructed in the 15th century by the Italian architect Baccio Pontelli. The martyr Saint Aurea, who was the patron saint of Ostia, was buried in the building’s vicinity.  

François and Ferdinand sauntered down the nave. The profound stillness of the holy edifice was charged with fluids of animosity. Decorated with frescoes of Saint Aurea, the solemn interior, not as rich as that of most Roman and Italian cathedrals, was illuminated by one rose window and double lancet windows.  They reached the chapel of Saint Monica and walked inside.

Pope Paul sat on a pew near the marble statue of Saint Monica. He bestowed upon his guests a melancholic smile, displaying his toothless gums. During the past few months, he had fought for his life tooth and nail after the severe heart attack he had sustained in the military camp. The best doctors had nursed Allessandro back to life, and he had survived. It seemed that Farnese had aged at least ten years: his wrinkles deepened, and his sunken eyes were haunted.

“Farnese,” snarled François with endless scorn.

As the kings stopped beside him, neither of them bowed to the Pope.

The Bishop of Rome croaked, “I’m glad to see you both in perfect health.”

“How are you feeling, Farnese?” Ferdinand inquired coldly.

“My sons,” Farnese addressed them in a weak voice. “I’ve recovered, almost, even though it is still difficult for me to walk and speak for a long time. I need more rest.”

François barked, “Our conversation will not be long.”

“What will happen to me?” Farnese’s pulse was beating furiously.

“We have demands,” began Ferdinand. “If you agree, the war will end.”

The Pope signed. “Do tell me, sons, what your enlightened minds have invented.”

With an air of finality about him, François outlined. “First and foremost, France’s Constable Anne de Montmorency will station our divisions in Rome. You will appoint Monty Governor of Rome, and he will watch you closely. Monty will oversee the order in the city and help you restore stability and prosperity. He will stay in the Papal States as long as I deem it necessary.”  

The Vicar of Rome objected, “He is a military man.”

François pressured the prelate. “You have no choice, Farnese. As my trusted man, Montmorency will accompany you and your son, Pier, to Rome from Ostia. Neither Ferdinand nor I will enter the city. You will treat Monty with honor and respect.”

The old man nodded reluctantly. “Something else?”

Ferdinand asserted, “The Vatican’s treasury is full of gold. You could not buy grain and food not because of money shortage, but because of the siege. We shall take half of what you have in your coffers for our soldiers; you will use the rest to buy food for the inhabitants of Rome.”

Farnese swallowed his indignation. “I accept these terms.”

François’ mouth stretched into a grin. “Be grateful that we shall not sack the city. When in 410 the Visigoths entered Rome, they pillaged the city and stole expensive moveable goods. They ransacked many buildings, including the mausoleums of Emperors Augustus and Hadrian, and the ashes from the urns in their tombs were scattered. Such acts of blasphemy, don’t you think?”

Ferdinand underlined, “Many centuries later, Carlos allowed his troops, led by the Constable de Bourbon, to brutally pillage Rome. I’m not my brother: I did never and shall never desecrate any holy place. You will be safe as long as you do not plot any murders again, Farnese.”

The Pope recalled, “The Visigoths burned the Basilica Aemilia and the Basilica Julia, but they spared the major cathedrals dedicated to Peter and Paul. The Constable de Bourbon’s troops and mercenaries desecrated churches and killed priests. They also imprisoned Pope Clement the Seventh in Castel Sant’Angelo until his ransom was paid, just as you jailed me in your camp.”   

François frowned forbiddingly. “We have never apprehended you, Farnese. You yourself came to our camp, and you have lived in a luxurious local villa since that day.”

“No ransom has been asked,” growled Ferdinand, his loathing towards the Pope increasing. “You have been treated far more gently than my brother’s troops treated Clement.”

The Bishop of Rome leered. “The entirety of Christendom knows about my incident in your camp. The circumstances under which I got sick are shrouded in mystery for the world. I heard rumors: some whisper that the harsh conditions of my imprisonment resulted in the deterioration of my health. You both need to keep your good reputations intact.” He pointed at François. “The chivalrous Knight-King cannot be associated with violence against the Church.”

Ferdinand’s eyes narrowed. “You shall not corner us, Farnese.”

François disregarded this bravado borne out of the old man’s helplessness. “Your second son, Ranuccio, will travel to France and become a guest of honor at my court. This will guarantee that you will not order the assassination of my family as long as your son is with us.”

A fist of nausea twisted the Pope’s vitals. “Will you take Ranuccio as a hostage?”

Ferdinand’s visage exuded disdain. “Your elder son, Pier, is too wild to be a quiet guest. I concur that the younger Ranuccio will be a better visitor at the Valois court.”

Allessandro Farnese pondered a course of action. By the Holy Virgin, how could he send away his kind and shy Ranuccio? Yet, with the future of his pontificate hanging in the balance, how could he not sacrifice his son? The Pope’s fear for his own fate overshadowed everything else: he would have to part with Ranuccio. I’ll avenge my afflictions and disgrace, Pier’s bruises received in the camp, and Ranuccio’s captivity at any cost. I shall lie low as long as necessary before the ravens of my wrath will start pecking François and Ferdinand. The incensed man clasped his hands so tightly together that the crescents of his nails were biting into his flesh.

“I have to acquiesce,” Farnese breathed the appropriate words.

Stealing a glance at Ferdinand, François declared, “Excellent. Self-preservation and terror of losing everything have prevailed over the loyalty to your own son.”

“Sweet Christ,” the Pope ground out. “What have I gotten myself into?”

“Not now,” Ferdinand corrected. “When you perpetrated your crimes.”

Allessandro Farnese regarded the emperor’s brother with immeasurable contempt. “I can understand why your friend hates me so. But how have I wronged you, my son Ferdinand?”

Ferdinand was bewildered. “You, whose brain is filled with most intricate stratagems, are confused? You are pretending! You tried to annihilate François and his family. One day, if Carlos and I cross you, we might be disposed of or excommunicated. Murder is a game for you.”

The prelate glanced away, at a stained-glass window. “Is that all?”

“Isn’t that enough?” the Habsburg prince fired back.

“In the Bible, they stoned blasphemers.” The Pope’s expression was that of a knowledgeable theologian. “What should the Lord do to you, Ferdinand and François, for your sins? You haters of the Holy See, don’t you understand that antagonism towards the descendant of St Peter means enmity against God? Anyone who chooses to be a friend of yours becomes a foe of the Lord.”

François quoted a passage from the Gospel of Matthew.

Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees! You give a tenth of your spices – mint, dill, and cumin. But you have neglected the more important matters of the law – justice, mercy, and faithfulness. You should have practiced the latter without neglecting the former.

“Does it tell you something, Farnese?” questioned the King of France.

The Pope defended, “My son François, perhaps I’ve not always been equitable towards you, but it was all made for the salvation of all Christians.” He stilled for a moment, and a feverish zeal entered his eyes. “The lips of that Boleyn whore, which you kiss most ardently, drip with sin; her heretical speeches are sweeter than honey. Nevertheless, she is sharper than a double-edged sword. Her feet trample her and your souls, bringing eternal damnation to France.”

Hatred for the pontiff glared from François’ orbs and purpled his compressed lips. “You are a fanatic! This might lead you straight to the abdication if you do not stop now.”

The Head of Rome fretted, “That Boleyn witch has ensorcelled you completely. My son, you drink poison from her mouth, more sinful than Eve’s. You must keep away from her, and you cannot go near the door of her house, but instead she is the queen of your heart.”

With a titanic effort, the Valois ruler warded off the impulse to pummel the villain with his fists. “I’ll not listen to this absurd. Pray for the absolution of your own soul.”

Ferdinand menaced, “The deposition of Liberius in the late 4th century and that of John the Eighteenth in 1009 are well known. It is also worth mentioning the Council of Constance of 1415 when Gregory the Second abdicated. Do you wish to follow in their footsteps, Farnese?”

The Pope bristled. “You will not stigmatize yourselves after my famous incident.”   

François hissed with abhorrence, “Do not test our patience.”

The vehemence in their tirades made Farnese’s alarm escalate. In a state of nervous shock, his knees lost their firmness as Ferdinand and François both fixed him with hostile glares. If the Bishop of Rome was not seated on the pew, he would have collapsed. However, as the prelate envisaged the realization of his vengeance in years to come, his eyes flashed ferociously.

The Pope gathered his wits. “Don’t provoke the sleeping lion, as they say.”

François recollected, “King Alaric, who sacked Rome after a long siege in 410, said, ‘The thickest grass is easier to cut than the thinnest.’  Don’t forget that, Farnese.”

Under the downpour of their revulsion upon him, Allessandro Farnese wanted the meeting to end. “My sons, we have made a deal. I’m tired and want to return to my villa.”

The King of France continued, “There is something else, Farnese. Have you prepared the papal dispensation I requested when Anne de Montmorency gave you my note a week ago?”

Cardinal du Bellay had recently pointed out that the French clergy had missed one important thing. As Mary Boleyn – now Marie de Montmorency – had been the Valois monarch’s mistress years ago, there was an impediment to François’ marriage to Anne – affinity. Thus, having the Pope in his control, François had demanded that the dispensation permitting him to marry Anne Boleyn be granted to him. No one must ever doubt the validity of my marriage to Anne and the legitimacy of our children, especially if one of our sons ever becomes the King of France.   

Pope Paul extracted a folded sheet of paper from a pocket of his rich red robes. “Yes. The papal dispensation that allows the true son of Christ to marry the Boleyn witch is here.”

“Watch your tongue, Farnese,” Ferdinand huffed.

François asked, “Is it dated more than one month before my wedding to Anne?”

“It is.” The Pope nodded. “Dated the 1st of June 1536.” His visage contorted in rage. “Of course, you have four children with her and will have more. You are worried about them.”

“Give it to me and shut up.” François stepped forward and grabbed the parchment.

“Is everything fine?” Ferdinand inquired as François checked the document.

François tipped his head. “Yes, it is. Cardinal du Bellay will additionally have a look at it.”

Farnese stressed, “I’ve given you everything you wanted, my disobedient French son.”

“I have no wish to talk to you.” François put the document in his cloak’s pocket.  

Ferdinand tipped his head. “Neither do I.”

Without paying deference to the Supreme Pontiff, the rulers stomped away along the nave.

I’ll be patient, the Pope resolved. One day, I shall have the House of Valois destroyed to dust. My long-delayed revenge will be fulfilled. As he eyed the statue of St Monica, he imagined a fat tear trickling down her cheek, and sadness permeated him. Yet, as soon as he remembered Catherine de’ Medici, joyful snakes crawled into the undergrowth of his new evil intrigues.     

§§§

François and Ferdinand paused near entrance to the church. The French entourage mingled with the Austrian and German generals and councilors, who awaited their sovereigns.

“Ferdinand,” began the French monarch. “When are you departing for Vienna?”

The King of Hungary replied, “As soon as possible. The Austrian lands of the Holy Roman Empire and all of my other domains have been governed by my regents for long enough. They have done their job well, but they cannot decide some things without me.” He grinned. “I am their monarch, after all. And I shall bring their new queen with me to my realm.”  

François requested, “Please, take the best care of my beloved daughter, Ferdinand.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Margot and my son, Henri, are the only two surviving children from my marriage to Claude.” He directed a meaningful glance at the other man.

Ferdinand avouched, “Your daughter is a magnificent young lady. Be at ease: I swear on my life that she will be treated as my true queen by everyone in Austria.”   

“My grandchild will be born in Vienna, far from me.” It was unusual for François to think of grandchildren, for his own offspring with Anne were small. Yet, he was not ancient at all!

Marguerite, the new Queen of Bohemia, Hungary, and Croatia, was still staying in Florence. Now she was several months along in her pregnancy, having conceived soon after her wedding to Ferdinand. The first child with Valois and Habsburg blood would join Ferdinand and François in new ways, cementing their alliance with unbreakable ties, much to the emperor’s displeasure.     

Ferdinand could read the other man’s mind. “My eldest son, Maximilian, is fourteen years old, but sometimes I also feel that I’m aging. Yet, neither you nor I are old yet.”

François shrugged. “Depends on how you define old age.”

The two monarchs laughed gaily. Their camaraderie was growing into friendship.

Ferdinand measured the Valois ruler with a serious glance. “I shall do my best to prevent another invasion of France and bloodshed in Europe, although my warmongering brother can do anything. Yet, as long as I can interfere and keep the two of you away from clashes, I’ll do so.”

François trusted this promise. “I’m grateful, Ferdinand. Make my daughter happy.”

“Margot fascinates me,” confessed Ferdinand, his heart pounding.  

I was not mistaken, François thought. Ferdinand is different from Carlos in a positive way. François believed that Ferdinand would be distant from Carlos, both emotionally and physically. Marguerite had confided in her father that Carlos did not wish to see Ferdinand again. Ferdinand’s intention to act as a peacemaker between the Habsburgs and the Valois family was a perilous mission, and he would have to tread very carefully around Emperor Carlos.

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope you are all safe and a little cheerful in these difficult days.

Finally, Elizabeth Tudor appeared, and she is now older. She did not forget who had separated her from her mother. Her relationship with her father will be a rocky one in years to come. Henry’s obsession with Anne will grow as he watches her happiness with his French rival – Anne and François will have a large family together, and this will anger Henry a great deal.

I wonder what you think of Prince Edward. Do you like the boy? As he resembles his York ancestors, it will be nearly impossible to prove that the king is not his biological father.

After his fall, Henry was unconscious for hours, but he survived. He could not die now because there would have been no story without him. Many believe that Henry's jousting accident in the winter of 1536 caused irreparable damage to his brain and perhaps his madness, which might explain the king's horrible cruelty after 1516. Henry will have quite a dark character arc in this AU. The murder of Thomas Seymour is perhaps the first expression of his thickening darkness, but I believe that he could have killed anyone in rage even before 1536, for he was very intemperate and cruel even in his youth (remember his first victims – Edmund Dudley and Sir Richard Empson whom he executed soon after his ascension because of his father's high taxes).

Henry tried to consummate his marriage to Anne of Cleves again, but he failed. I think you all understand that Anne cannot feel well after such terrible night; Jane Boleyn is back at court because Anne Bassett, who disliked her, is dead. Catherine Howard, or Kitty as she is also called, became a mistress of King Henry, and perhaps it will lead her to a new position. Don’t forget that the Duchess of Suffolk is pregnant, but her situation will be resolved soon.

Pope Paul III sustained a heart attack. Evil people often live longer lives than good ones. Did you notice it in history? We don't need him dead now. François and Ferdinand don't convene the Conclave because his heart attack can be interpreted differently – it can be used as a reason for excommunication not only of François and Ferdinand, but also of their people. The two monarchs cannot allow this to happen, so they take other measures against the Pope.

All the information about the sacks of Rome (oh, the city was sacked and besieged many times) is historically correct. All the facts about depositions of Popes are also correct. Ranuccio Farnese was Pope Paul III's second son with his mistress, Silvia Ruffini.

Warning: murders will start in chapter 45; some characters, even my favorite ones, have dramatic fates.

VioletRoseLily and I are co-writing the story called "Entwined by a Golden Alliance." Give it a try, and thank you in advance!

I highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, Marina Ka-Fai, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, Secret-writer91, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91, BellalunaMcKenzie, QueenMaryofEngland, and WhiteRoseQueen at FF. I also recommend Lady Plantagenet in the White Queen fandom at AO3. Attention: Secret-writer91 is now posting her story 'Festina Lente' at AO3, and if you could please copy your reviews from FF to AO3, it would be nice of you to do so – merci in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

Chapter 45: Chapter 44: Fettered by Grief

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 44: Fettered by Grief

February 5, 1541, Hatfield House, Hatfield, Hertfordshire, England

Shivering in a cloak of ermine, the Duke of Suffolk contemplated the town of Hatfield ahead. Just beyond, there was a stretch of wilderness with ice-covered streams and snow-capped trees. The frost was so severe that the ice on the roads had thickened, so they were perilous.     

Charles Brandon steered his horse towards the splendid red-brocaded litter that was silvered by snow. Inside there were his spouse and his mother-in-law – Catherine and Maria de Salinas.

“We shall arrive soon.” Charles breathed out a steam of chilly air.

Maria pulled away the drapes in the litter’s window. “I hope so; we don’t feel well.”

“It is so cold!” The duke could hear Catherine’s teeth clattering.  

Suffolk allayed, “We will be at Hatfield in half an hour.”

Charles rode astride his richly caparisoned black stallion at the helm of the cortege. A large retinue followed him, consisting of knights and esquires, their faces red from the frost.

As they moved slowly, Charles had enough time to contemplate his personal awful situation. When he had said to Catherine that he would gladly break their matrimonial bonds, he had not lied. At first, his wife had not been satisfied with their marriage due to his infidelities. Brandon had loved her, but he was a healthy man with needs, one who had the right to take a mistress. However, he could understand her frustration: a woman in love was possessive and jealous.

The Duke of Suffolk had perpetrated the executions of the insurgents upon the king’s orders. He had fulfilled his duty, just as the other nobles had done. In the state of shock from his deed, Catherine had suffered a miscarriage and later blamed him for the loss. Due to her alienation from him, the duchess might have surrendered to the ruler. How could Catherine have betrayed Charles so horribly? How could she have dropped her pride and dignity to the level of a whore?

Catherine Willoughby and King Henry! Who could have imagined them together? There was no gossip about Catherine’s status of a royal paramour. Henry had not only imprisoned Charles for months, but also taken his wife away from him. The child in his duchess’ womb – the fruit of her adultery – would remind Suffolk of what Catherine and the monarch had done to him. Her treachery is worse than the king’s betrayal of our friendship, Suffolk sighed silently.

Finally, the procession stopped in a large courtyard in front of the palace. After dismounting, Charles assisted Catherine and Maria in climbing out of the litter.

“Go inside,” he advised. “You both need to get warm.”

Catherine asked shyly, “And you, Charles?”

The duke shot her a contemptuous glower. “We will visit His Majesty together.”

“I’ll be with you,” Maria said firmly. “I must look into this man’s eyes.”

Catherine doubted this course of action. “Do we have to tell the king?”    

Charles ground out, “I shall not acknowledge your bastard as my baby.”

“I understand.” His wife cast her scrutiny down, distressed.

Maria de Salinas castigated her son-in-law, “Suffolk, be more gentle to my Cathy. She is not guilty of what His Majesty forced her to do. No woman can reject a tyrannical monarch.”

His contemptuous scrutiny flicked between them. “It is not my fault that Catherine has found herself in this situation. My wife despises Anne Boleyn, but she is a trollop as well. Perhaps she is worse than Anne, for the Queen of France did not sleep with any of the executed men.”

Maria jumped to her girl’s defense like a lioness. “Don’t you dare insult my daughter, you English upstart! You and your beloved king both sleep around and sire bastards.”

“I’m a man.” Charles glared at his spouse. “She is a mere woman; a harlot.”

Some enquires and servants eavesdropped upon them, their mouths hanging open.

Catherine blushed, tears welling in her eyes. “Mother, they are all gaping at me!”

Maria wrapped her hand around her daughter’s waist. “It is Brandon’s entire fault.”

The Duke of Suffolk could hear only the intermittent rumbling of loathing in his ears. But before he could leave, a howl pierced the thickening gloom of his consciousness.     

“Cathy, daughter!” cried Maria desperately. “How are you?”

Charles swiveled and saw his wife supported by Maria and one of his enquires.

Reluctantly, the duke stepped to her. “What is wrong?”

The duchess almost doubled over in pain. “Oh God! I’m losing it…” 

“Take her inside! Quickly!” Maria shouted to her daughter’s husband.   

This awakened worry in Charles. “Lady Maria, find a midwife.”

Suffolk scooped his duchess into his arms and hastily carried her to the castle. Maria and the duchess’ maids rushed after them, while members of the Suffolk train went to their duties.”

“We need help!” Charles hollered as they entered the parlor. “Where can I take her?”

“Ah, Charles,” Catherine choked out. “Forgive me! For heaven’s sake!”

Lady Margery Horsman rushed down the stairs and came to an abrupt halt next to Maria. Looking at the Suffolk spouses, she replied, “Take Her Grace upstairs; I shall escort you.”

“Could you please fetch a midwife?” Maria’s voice was colored with desperation.

Margery sighed. “It is the residence of the king’s children. We do not have her here.”

“Fetch a physician, then.” Fear whitened Maria’s features.

Margery nodded. “Of course. I’ll also send someone to the town for a midwife.”

With his spouse in his arms, Charles mounted the stairs, each of them feeling like two bereft spirits in an embrace. His disdain no longer mattered, his world narrowing to his concern for her.   

§§§

The day outside was listless, with a gray sky hanging like a vast stormy firmament over the earth. Hail rattled on the palace’s roofs. As evening drew on, the hail intensified, its drops against the window glasses echoing the screams of Catherine Brandon, both of anguish and physical pain.

Her eyes puffy from the weeping, Catherine rested upon a bed with a canopy of golden silk. The sheets were soaked with blood. The maids scurried to and fro, bringing bowls of water and fresh clean sheets. The flagrance of fatality penetrated each and every part of the room.

The doctor from Hatfield, who oversaw the health of the royal children, beckoned the Duke of Suffolk and Maria de Salinas, who were Catherine’s bed. An old midwife joined them.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” the physician apologized. “I cannot do anything for your wife.”

“Why?” Charles Brandon looked like an artist deprived of his masterpiece.

Maria swallowed a sob. “Save my daughter! For the love of Christ!”

The midwife commented dolefully, “The bleeding is too substantial. We cannot stop it. May God be with Her Grace! The baby appears to be a male foetus of four months in gestation.” She had arrived at Hatfield from the town in an hour after the duchess had felt her first pains.

Grief painted Suffolk’s visage. “Is everything so hopeless?”

“She does not have much time left,” the physician confirmed. “My condolences.”

Maria dissolved into tears. “Oh God! No, that cannot be true!”

Suffolk supported his mother-in-law. “Lady Maria, give me a few minutes with Cathy.”

“Your husband is coming,” one of the maids apprised the dying woman, then stepped away.

“I need Charles!” exclaimed Catherine. An instant later, she lamented, “I must beg him for forgiveness so that I can go to heaven with a calm conscience.”

“God bless you, Madame,” her handmaiden muttered through tears.

Charles settled himself in a chair by the bed. “Why are you hurrying to be dead?”

His wife let out a faint smile. “I hear the Lord’s call for me.”

“Our children and I need you,” he returned in a hollow tone.

Catherine murmured with ill-suppressed terror, “You will not repudiate them, will you?”

He took her hand in his. “How could such thoughts cross your mind, Cathy?”

“What I hear now,” the duchess bemoaned, pausing to let out a discordant half-laugh, half-sob. “I was certain that you would not wish to see them, just as you rejected me as a wife.”

Guilt speared through the duke. “You know why I did that. But our boys are my children.”

“Will you take care of them?” Catherine’s voice now sounded weaker.

“I’ll love them for us both,” avouched Charles. “We shall all pray for you.”

Agony shot through her body. “Can you forgive me?”

“Do you see nothing?” Charles kissed her hand over and over again.

“Nothing,” she muttered. “Save the man I’ve always loved.”

“My only true love,” Charles said, tears brimming in his eyes. “I thought that I would never be able to look at you again. Until now. But when we can lose everything, I comprehend that I could have pardoned you for anything, even if you had birthed a brood of the king’s children.”

Catherine’s life was ebbing out of her together with blood. “I’ve always believed that there was more in you than it appears on the outside. More kindness and constancy than all of your wives could see. That was one of the reasons why I fell in love with the handsome Brandon rake. I was right: if you can forgive me for such a vile betrayal, then you have a big heart, Charles.”

He beheld her in tormented wonder. “I do not deserve you, Catherine. I’m a bad husband: I had mistresses when I should have pledged my soul and body only to you.”

She caressed his cheek. “Not always. You have been mine since your release.”

“Yes.” He planted gentle kisses all over her face. “I could not think of another woman.”

Catherine tugged at his doublet’s collar, pulling him to her face. She whispered, “The king is not what he seems to be, take my word on it. Lord love you! He pretends to be our benevolent monarch and your good friend, but he killed those rebels, God rest their souls, and compelled his best friend’s wife to be his lover. Henry is not worthy of your friendship, my darling.”

Charles bared his heart. “I shall never find peace after I ordered their deaths.”

“Promise me…”  Catherine trailed off as a gush of blood leaked out of her.

“What? Everything.” He gazed at her apprehensively.

“I’m so perplexed.” His spouse’s head was spinning from the dizziness that was assailing her. “I guess one feels so in the face of death.” Her eyes wide and flashing with a glint of mortality, she demanded, “Never do what you did to those hapless rebels again.”

“I swear.” Brandon traced the contours of her face. “I love you, wife.”

The duchess tucked a lock of his hair behind his ear. “I love you too, husband.”  

His grief was rising, a tide that included all of his losses. “I do not want to lose you.”

Her whole being was now depleted of strength. “I could not escape Henry’s advances, and I was with him mostly because I feared that he would harm you, Charles. I’m cursed with the twin devils of the king’s desire for me and my contrition for betraying you, my beloved.”

“How I hate him,” Charles admitted, his fists clenching.  

“Now I regret that I loathed Anne Boleyn so fiercely. It was wrong of me to feel so.”

“Wrong of me as well.” Brandon was slowly reassessing his previous beliefs.  

“Lady mother!” Catherine remembered about Maria’s presence. “Come to me.”

Maria eased herself onto the bed’s edge. “I adore you, my dear girl! The light of my life!”

Catherine smiled ever so slightly. “I love you too, Mother.”

Maria kissed her daughter’s face and her hands. “May God bless you, my dear!”

“He surely will.” Suffolk’s voice trembled like the stretched string of a lute.

Catherine’s gaze flew to a window pelted by snowflakes and hail. “It comes, it comes…  The rain, the hail, the snow – a torrent, a deluge! Blessed is the body the raindrops touch. Splash, splash – water, thunder, snow, and hail altogether. Is that not fine? It is! It cleanses me, and the heavens weep for me. Mourn for me, but not for long. Splash, splash, I can see the Lord…”

“Catherine…  My wife…”  Tears flowed out of Suffolk’s eyes.

The duchess recalled, “It is the Feast of St Agatha, the virgin and martyr... I die today…”  

A lethal haze encompassed Catherine, and her eyes closed forever. A bereft Maria rocked her only daughter in her arms like a baby, her sobs reverberating through the room. Charles was holding his wife’s hand, salty droplets forming traces of his heartbreak across his countenance.

I shall never love another woman, Charles Brandon vowed silently. Forgive me, Catherine, for my adulteries and for the pain they caused you. He submerged into an ocean of bereavement and self-loathing, which corroded him like acid, marking his conscience with permanent scars.

§§§

Charles Brandon and Maria de Salinas entered St Ethelred’s Church. Located near Hatfield House, the church was dedicated to St Etheldreda, an Anglo-Saxon princess who had founded a monastery at Ely in Cambridgeshire. They had gone there to pray for Catherine’s soul.

They sat on the pews near the altar, their heads bowed, words of prayer on their lips.

Charles stared at the statue of St Catherine, which wonderfully exhibited the artistic skill of some sculptor. In the somberness of the church, he struggled against the terrifying despondency that had seized him when his wife had breathed her last. Catherine Brandon, Duchess of Suffolk, was dead! Where is her soul now? Can she see how bereft and lost without her I feel now? Bandon’s worst fear was that he would not be reunited with his Catherine in the afterlife.

“Forgive me, my dearest Cathy,” Suffolk whispered, his gaze glued to the statue of his wife’s patron saint. “You were the greatest gift God has sent me. May you find peace in heaven…” 

At last, Charles realized that the young girl, who could have been his daughter due to their significant age gap, had been wiser than he was. During their union, she had been his compass guiding him to light, his home that had warmed his flippant soul. Now he was adrift in a sea of helpless shame that he had not treated her better in her lifetime, despite her liaison with the ruler. He had been a bad husband to all of his spouses, having betrayed them with countless women.

You do not know the meaning of the word, Charles. You can love, perhaps for a year, a month, a day, even for an hour. And in that hour I do believe you love as well and deeply... as any man. But after that hour, you love not! You love another, and then another.  

This remembrance heightened his depression, ripping his soul wide open. His third wife – Princess Mary Tudor, Dowager Queen of France, had said these words weeks before her demise of consumption. Having married her without the monarch’s permission, Mary and Charles had been ejected, having paid a fine for their transgression. The couple had been happy during their exile in the countryside, but after his return to court, Charles had been back to his old merry ways.   

Waves of guilt battered Charles, gathering momentum and washing over him again. He had never felt anything for his first two wives – Margaret Neville and Anne Browne. However, he had loved both Catherine and Mary, although his affairs had hurt them both. A dreadful husband who had been loyal to his liege lord so profoundly! The sovereign who had forced his latest wife to be his lover! His mistakes and misconceptions were scratching at the edges of his consciousness.

I’m cursed by my loyalty to the king, Suffolk mused. By my former friendship with that man. Although he would not rebel against his liege lord, he would never be Henry’s comrade again. Charles dreamed of spending the rest of his days in his estates with his children. Grief was the captain of his whole being, but he had to shake off that feeling, go mad, or kill himself. He had seen wounded men begging for a weapon to commit suicide. But who would end his sufferings?   Suffolk’s soul was fettered by perpetual sadness and grief, from which he would never recover.

Charles broke the silence. “Mary, my third wife, once told me something. She said that I do not know what love is, and that ‘my love is most generous when it is most hurtful’.”

Maria glanced at him. “Your dalliances caused pain to your wives, but most men behave so. If you had not known true love, you would not have forgiven Cathy for her sin with the king.”

“I should have listened to Cathy when she tried to explain why she surrendered to him.”

“Yes, you should have done so, but you cannot turn time back.”

“I cannot.” Endless bitterness colored his voice. “But I would want that.”

“Me too.” Maria inclined her head very low. “To correct my own mistakes.”

“Which ones?” Suffolk felt her motherly pain for the loss of her daughter.

“I should not have lied all those years ago. Perhaps my daughter’s adultery with our liege lord, which resulted in her death, is my punishment for some falsehoods.”

Maria dived into prayers not only for her deceased daughter, but also for her own soul. Years ago, after the passing of Prince Arthur Tudor, they had received instructions from Isabel of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon to say that the late Catherine of Aragon had still been a maid so that the girl could wed Prince Harry. Maria detested the deed, but she could not have disobeyed the Spanish sovereigns. Maria had been obligated to keep her mistress’ secret.

Maria agonized: I regret that I did not persuade Catalina to return to Spain. Yet, would I have succeeded when she believed so fervently in her destiny to be England’s queen? That was the greatest lie of Catherine’s whole life and all those who had come with the young Infanta from Spain. Catherine had not produced a male heir not because of this charade, for all of King Henry’s queens and lovers, including her late daughter, had similar childbearing problems. However, Maria had believed from the beginning that the egocentric Henry would never be a good husband.

“Charles!” a familiar male voice resonated. “My condolences! It is such a tragedy!”

They stood up and pivoted to King Henry. Neither Maria nor Charles paid deference to him.

“Thank you, sire,” the Duke of Suffolk responded in an arctic voice.

Maria glared at the king. “You are sorry after what you did? I doubt that.”

The ruler stopped next to the Suffolk family. “What do you mean, my lady?”

Maria hissed, “Catherine carried your baby, Your Majesty. We came to Hatfield to tell you about it. The journey and the stress must have caused her miscarriage; it was a male child.”

Shock manifested on Henry’s countenance. “Catherine did not apprise me of her condition.”

“Cathy did not want to be with you!” Suffolk’s nerves snapped like a flag in the strong wind. “You compelled her to be your strumpet to satisfy your whims. You could have taken any other woman, but you chose my wife. You knew how much I loved her, but you ruined our lives.”  

“Careful, you both,” Henry warned with a lopsided leer. “I might punish you.”  

A bellow of the duke’s funereal laughter met this threat. “What else can Your Majesty do to me after you besmirched our marriage with Catherine? Send me to the block for all I care!”

“Catherine consented to be mine,” Henry countered, endeavoring to suppress his ire.

Maria stepped to her son-in-law’s side. “At first when you courted her. After the return of Cathy and Charles to court, my daughter avoided you, sire, but you persevered.”

This knowledge hurt Charles like a million knives. “Nevertheless, Catherine and I would have been happy together if Your Majesty had not meddled in our lives.”

“You speak out of turn in grief,” growled the Tudor ruler.

She blustered, “You destroyed my daughter’s life!”

Henry underlined, “She wanted me as much as I wanted her. At least at the beginning.”

“Your baby killed Cathy!” clamored Maria. “You must be sick, sire. All of your sons died, save Prince Edward, but Anne Bassett was a harlot. Too many women miscarried your children.”  

Wrath reddened the ruler’s visage. “Don’t you dare disparage my late wife and my son!”

Her heart constricting in increasing pain, Maria de Salinas began taking gulps of air, like a fish out of water. Her legs wobbled, and she tumbled to the floor, disoriented and breathless.  

Charles crunched to her. “Oh my goodness! She seems to be having a heart attack!”

A nonplussed Henry said, “I’ll call for help!” He then rushed out of the church.

Brandon cradled Maria’s head in his hands. “The doctor will come soon.”

“No need,” his wife’s mother uttered between gasps. “I’ll meet with Cathy in a few moments.”

Panic hit Charles. “Don’t say that, Lady Maria.”  

“Listen…” she pronounced with a gargantuan effort. “Catherine of Aragon consummated…. her marriage to Prince Arthur Tudor…  We lied after we had… received the order from Spain…  She repented of her actions… and said so in… her last confession…” 

A dismayed Suffolk mumbled, “No, that cannot be true.”  

Maria choked out, “In my things I have… letters where I admit… my lie, and where Isabel of Castile enjoined us to act so. Give it to Princess Elizabeth… when time comes.”     

Before she could finish, Maria’s heart collapsed in her chest and ceased beating forever.   Leaning over his dead mother-in-law, the Duke of Suffolk wept aloud. When the physician arrived with servants, Charles rose to his feet and walked out, oblivious to everything around him.


February 21, 1541, Hatfield House, Hatfield, Hertfordshire, England

Due to the foul weather, the King of England could not leave Hatfield for weeks. Yet, Henry was not despondent at all: he spent his days with Prince Edward and Princess Elizabeth, while his new paramour, Kitty Howard, satisfied his carnal whimsies under the cover of darkness.

Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, bowed to his liege lord. “I bring good news, sire.”

“Has Cranmer done what I commanded?” The ruler was itching with impatience.

Norfolk extracted a parchment from a pocket of his doublet. “This is Archbishop Cranmer’s decree annulling your union with Anne of Cleves on the grounds of non-consummation and her pre-contract with François de Lorraine, son of Duke Antoine de Lorraine.” He and his son, the Earl of Surrey, had returned to London from their estates several weeks earlier.

Henry’s visage brightened. “God be praised! I’m no longer chained to that fat cow.”

“Congratulations, Your Majesty,” Francis Bryan affirmed.

The air in the presence chamber seemed to be charged with the monarch’s jubilation. The arrases, portraying mythological festivities, added to the joyful atmosphere.

The king left his oak carved armchair and strolled to the duke. He grabbed the much-desired document from his subject’s hands. “I’m as free as a bird! That is a huge relief!”  

Bryan jeered, “Marriage is a mosaic you build with your spouse. Millions of tiny moments creating your story of infidelities and babymaking, and rarely your love story.”

“I shall remarry!” Henry gushed like a teenager. “She will be carrying my heirs!”

Norfolk was delighted with the monarch’s annulment. “Who is this noble lady?”

The ruler stepped to Norfolk and put his hands onto his shoulders. “Your Grace, I’m sure that your niece sent to you letters in your absence. You are aware of our relationship.”

The duke smiled. “Kitty wrote to me that she is making you happy.”

“Absolutely felicitous,” Henry answered with a large grin. “But you don’t know the most important thing. My lovely rose without thorns – I call Kitty so – is pregnant.”  

The smiles of his subjects were as wide as if they themselves had carried this baby.

“That is marvelous!” The duke had had no idea as to Kitty’s condition until this moment.

Bryan tittered. “Your Majesty has had two months of merriment at Hatfield.”

Henry patted Norfolk’s shoulder. “Your niece is more precious to me than gold. I’ve been awaiting the nullification of my dratted union with that German mare. I shall marry Kitty today, and you both will be our witnesses. Why should we wait for another week or two?”

Norfolk and Bryan shared triumphal glances. Having hoped to make Kitty a royal mistress, they had nevertheless not suspected how quickly she would attract Henry’s attention, sleep with him, and conceive. They would have another Howard queen, who would produce a son. The more princes and princesses would have the mighty Howard blood coursing through their veins, the more power they would wield. Prince Edward, a half-Bassett child, grated on their nerves.

His gaze lecherous, Bryan retorted, “By all means, marry today, sire! You owe more heirs to your kingdom. You will get a good and lovely wife, whose youth will rejuvenate you.”

Norfolk stressed, “Rashness belongs to youth, prudence to old age. Your Majesty is not old yet, but having a very young and fertile wife will definitely add color to your life.”

The ruler clapped the duke on the shoulder. “Says someone who has been estranged from his own wife for more than a decade while dallying with the young Elizabeth Holland.”

Norfolk’s features became uncharacteristically soft. “Bess is my drink of sweetness.”

The king returned to his armchair. His subjects stood in front of him.

The duke broached another important subject. “Your Majesty, we have also received a letter from Duke William of Cleves. To preserve the alliance, he requests that Princess Anne marry one of the English high-ranking aristocrats. Otherwise, he threats to break our treaty.”

The monarch grouched, “That jackal has the gall to blackmail me after he made the bargain with Thomas Seymour. He knows that he will be unable to find a new husband for her.”

Bryan ruminated, “Your Majesty is the most offended party in this sordid affair. However, there is no evidence of Duke William’s deal with Seymour, save Hans Holbein’s letter.”

Norfolk’s and Bryan’s gazes intersected. To hide Sudeley’s murder at the king’s hands, the Earl of Hertford had circulated the official story that they had been attacked by bandits on the way to Hatfield, and that Thomas had been killed. Nonetheless, Bryan had informed Norfolk about the real circumstances of Baron Sudeley’s demise, and now when they faced the monarch, they walked on eggshells around Henry more than ever, feeling as though they were conies in a snare.

Henry knitted his brows. “What should I do, then?”

It was all clear to Norfolk. “Accept Duke William’s conditions and keep the alliance.”

“So, someone should marry that cow?” The king’s sniggering turned to full-blown laughter. “That German woman’s body is heavier than a wagon loaded with bricks. I pity her husband!”

“The poor man would have to take her from the back on her fours. If she straddles him, he will be squashed.” Bryan’s vulgarity made their sovereign almost roll with laughter.

Norfolk was less frivolous. “Sir Francis, watch your tongue.”

“It is funny!” Henry’s head bobbed in laughter. “His Grace of Suffolk might marry her. Now he is a widower, one who is extremely loyal to me. He will do his duty to his liege lord.”

Bryan speculated, “A practical choice. A widowed Suffolk is one of the few dukes in the English peerage. If you enjoin him to do that for England, he will obey.”

Norfolk strove to comply with traditional rules for widowers and widows. “Your Majesty, I advise that their wedding is scheduled for the next summer when Suffolk’s mourning is over.”

“Write everything to Duke William,” instructed Henry.

“Of course, sire.” Norfolk nodded.

The ruler addressed Bryan, “Go to Princess Anne, Francis. Inform her about the annulment and her new upcoming nuptials. Our settlement is generous, so she must be happy.”

“Should I also speak to Suffolk?” Bryan enquired.

“Naturally,” the king confirmed. “He must be sulking in his chambers.”

Charles Brandon had hoped to have both his wife and his mother-in-law interred in a chapel at Westhorpe Hall. Due to severe snowstorms, they could not have departed, so Catherine and Maria had been buried in the St Ethelred’s Church, where Maria had passed away. The monarch had commissioned to create a monumental marble tomb for the mother and daughter.

Norfolk asked tentatively, “Shall I talk to my niece?”

“Yes.” Henry’s loins swelled with desire as he imagined a nude Kitty. “Tell her to find a white gown in her wardrobe, and if not, then she ought to wear something purple.”  

After dropping into bows, Norfolk and Bryan left the presence chamber.

The monarch peered at the ceiling, his brows furrowed. Despite his delight to have Kitty in his bed, his mind took the same route more and more often as of late. He remembered of Anne Boleyn every day with mingled longing and hatred. Pain and jealousy lived in his heart, endless and unable to fade away, inflicted upon it additionally by the news of Prince Jean’s birth.

Four children within four years of marriage, Henry grumbled with envious animosity. Why is she so fertile with François when her womb produced only a girl and dead boys with me? Anne merited indescribable torments in Hades for marrying his life-long rival, and for birthing another king’s sons and even daughters. Henry hoped that the emperor or the Pope, in their sinister ways, would send the French couple to their early graves, or he himself would harm them in the future.

Henry clenched his fists in berserk fury. “I shall never forgive you, Anne. Your sons with François should have been mine.” His temper boiled until he roared, “Mine! Only mine!”

§§§

Lounging in her study, Princess Elizabeth was reading the Odyssey by Homer. In an hour, she would have a mathematics class, but right now, she was engrossed in the work about Penelope and Odyssey. Due to her young age, she was not mature enough to understand everything, but she adored their story of incredible love and unwavering fealty to each other.

Halfway through the book, Elizabeth was astonished that Penelope was always on Odysseus’ mind during their long separation, his yearning for her supplying him with the strength to endure arduous challenges to reach home. The most appealing aspects of Penelope’s character were her intelligence and loyalty. The king could not love my mama as deeply as Odyssey adored Penelope. Their story could not be as great as Penelope and Odyssey’s because of my father’s vices.       

The herald announced the arrival of Queen Anne. As her stepmother entered, Elizabeth rose to her feet, strode to the center of the room, and swept a graceful curtsey.

Anne flashed a grin. “Your Highness, how it your day?”

Elizabeth let out a reserved smile. “I’m fine, Your Majesty. How are you?”

“I want to talk with you a little.”

“Take a seat.” The princess gestured towards two chairs near the fireplace.

Elizabeth and Anne settled themselves in matching oak, curule chairs. The fire in the hearth blazed merrily, casting a shower of orange and yellow sparks up the chimney.

“Do you like England?” the princess inquired politely.

The queen shrugged. “I do miss the Duchy of Cleves, my country.”

The girl nodded her comprehension. “I, too, miss Hatfield House when the king summons me to court. Hatfield is my home since my birth, and here I feel as if I were in a stronghold.”

“You must have many memories about this place, including those of your mother.”

Despite the proclamation of her mother’s innocence, she discussed her mama only with Lady Margery Horsman and Lady Margaret Bryan. “I rarely think of her.” Elizabeth had to be secretive.     

Anne reached out to take her hand. “Every child wants to be together with their mother. Even in adulthood, a girl misses her mother, especially when she needs her counsel.”

“Do you miss your mother?”

“Oh, yes! My mother, Duchess Maria of Jülich-Berg, is far away, and I think of her every day.” Anne’s face evolved into sadness. “I’d love to write to her from time to time, but I cannot.”

Elizabeth was well disposed towards her new stepmother. “Why?”  

The queen explained, “The king wants me to use only English.”

“Are you prohibited from writing to your relatives in German?”

After the wedding, the monarch had ordered his consort to stop using her oral and verbal native tongue. Once his servant had found Anne’s letter to her brother in German. The next day, Henry had lectured Anne on the obedience of a wife to the authority of her lord and husband.

Anne thought that it would be improper to blacken the ruler’s name in the eyes of his child. “I must get accustomed to England. His Majesty has been too kind to me, Your Highness.”

“Really?” The princess could not help but titter. “The king’s benevolence has some special form that most normal people either do not understand or do not accept.”

The queen’s heart swooped. This smart and charming girl is so traumatized by her father’s wrongdoings. Anne admired Elizabeth who possessed an independent and critical mind. Anne also saw that the princess had mastered the art of masquerading her emotions with politeness and smiles, which must have helped her remain in her father’s favor after her mother’s exile.

The queen opined, “Your father loves you, even though he does not always show it.”  

Elizabeth’s sigh was audible. “Not as much as he would have adored me if I were a boy.”

Because of her traditional upbringing, Anne believed that the natural order was that men had the upper hand in the society. “We live in a man-dominated world. Boys are more important.”

The princess gave her a mysterious look. “I do not think so.”

“Your Highness need to learn these things from childhood. One day, you will be a wife, and your husband will have certain expectations of you, including submission to his will.”

“I shall be married to England,” the princess proclaimed with confidence.

Anne was bewildered, to say the least. “I’m sure His Majesty will find a match for you.”

Elizabeth stood up and seated herself at the small low table. “If I marry, it will be for the good of my country. However, I shall never put my private interests before those of England.”

Her stepdaughter surprised the queen more and more in a positive way. “You speak like a true queen, one who is made not in times of prosperity, but in times of hardship.”

Queen Anne rose to her feet and came to the desk. She took the volume of the Odyssey, and inquired, “Are you reading it, Your Highness? This is a very serious book.”

Elizabeth loved everything about books. “Yes. I’m enjoying it a lot.”

Anne browsed through the book. “I read it only once, but the story of Penelope and Odysseus had quite an impact on me. I remember the scene of Odyssey sitting on the shore of an enchanted island, lavish comforts awaiting him around, while the goddess Calypso dotes on him. Yet, he weeps, his scrutiny fixed on the horizon as Odyssey longs for home and his wife, Penelope. Even though he spends with Calypso several years, Odysseus eventually departs to Ithaca.”

“I like this episode,” the girl supplied enthusiastically. “Calypso keeps Odyssey prisoner at Ogygia for seven years. She enchants him with her singing and her promise to make him immortal. Odyssey loved Penelope so that he chose his mortal wife over the lovely goodness.”

A misty smile illumined the queen’s face. “Every woman dreams of such love.”

“Do you?” The princess was not sure that Anne was happy with her ruthless parent.   

“Every woman does,” repeated a downhearted Anne. “Don’t you wish that the king loved your mama as much as Odyssey adored Penelope? But these are dreams, while life is different.”

The blood drained from the girl’s face. How did her stepmother fathom her out musings? “We need to learn classics for our education. Without them, we will not understand the world.”

The queen smiled at her fondly. “I wish to be your friend.”

A moment later, Prince Edward ran into the room. “Lizzy! Tell them to leave me alone!”

Elizabeth rushed to her half-brother. “What has happened, Ned?”

The prince stared at his sister beseechingly. “They are forcing me to pray in English. But I want to pray in Latin. I’m the Prince of Wales, and they must do my bidding.”

“Edward,” the princess said strictly. “You must do what your tutors command. The Bible in English must become your handbook that you open first thing every morning for prayers.”

The prince grimaced. “You are boring, Lizzy. You do not love Latin.”

Elizabeth answered truthfully, “No, I do not. Most common people do not know Latin. The king’s religious reform brought the true light of faith to England, including the English Bible. His Majesty is using the Bible in our native tongue, and it is your duty to do the same.”

“No!” The boy shook her head. “I shall pray in the way I prefer.”

Scowling at his sister, Prince Edward stormed out of the chamber.

Elizabeth looked disgusted. “He loves Latin…  Something must be done with it.”

“You are not close with Edward,” the queen inferred.

“No, we are not,” the girl acknowledged. “He is a sweet boy, but we are very different.”

A moment later, Francis Bryan entered and flourished bows to them both.

“Your Majesty and Your Highness,” Bryan began. “I bring news.”

Curiosity was overriding Anne’s other feelings. “About me? Tell us.”  

Bryan viewed the former queen. Anne inclined her head, the curve of her neck exposed as her hair fell to her shoulders. In a red gown ornamented with emeralds and diamonds, she did not look like the oddly dressed woman they had first met at Rochester Abbey. Catherine Howard is younger and prettier, but Anne is quite attractive. Suffolk will easily sleep with her.

Princess Anne,” stressed Bryan. “Your marriage to King Henry has been annulled by the Archbishop of Canterbury on the grounds of non-consummation and of your pre-contract to François de Lorraine. Your first betrothal was not dissolved properly. From now on, you will be an esteemed member of the royal family and will be referred to as ‘the king’s sister.’  His Majesty granted you a generous settlement, including Richmond Palace and many other estates.”

Bryan handed three parchments, stamped with the Tudor seal, to the former Queen Anne.

Torn between relief, disbelief, and offense, Anne replied evenly, “Thank you.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “She is no longer a queen?! Why?”

“It is the king’s will,” Bryan claimed. “We must all obey.”

“Is His Majesty marrying again?” the princess quizzed.  

Anne and Bryan’s gazes collided in mutual amazement at Elizabeth’s question.

Francis cackled with good humor. “His nuptials will take place here at Hatfield in an hour.” His gaze flicked to Anne. “Your presence is required, Your German Highness.”

Anne noticed that his manner of addressing her had changed. “Who is the bride?”

“Lady Catherine Howard,” Bryan answered. “She is already preparing.”

“I should have guessed.” Anne scoffed: the monarch was again marrying his paramour.

“Why is this so urgent?” Her parent’s actions discomfited the princess.   

His Majesty is changing wives again to have another son. The look in Elizabeth’s eyes could have shattered granite. Angry and disdainful sentiments towards the monarch curled in her bosom. How many wives would he have? The ruler was obsessed with sons, and that insulted her.

 “Our sovereign’s will,” reiterated Francis Bryan. He then told Anne, “Your brother, Duke William of Cleves demanded that you marry a high-ranking English nobleman to keep our alliance. You will wed Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, after his mourning is over.”

With a fierceness breaking through the courtly air, Elizabeth countered, “Are you sure?”   

“Your Highness,” Anne started composedly, “everything is all right. I shall obey.”

Bryan bowed to each of them. “Your will not regret it, Madame.” Then he left.

Anne smiled at the girl. “We will see each other soon.”

Elizabeth offered her a sympathetic smile. “I’ll be glad to meet again.”

As she was no longer England’s queen, Anne bobbed a curtsey to the princess and exited.

I was his third wife called Anne, the German princess ruminated, the documents proclaiming her freedom clasped in her hands. Certainly, His Majesty should not marry another Anne. It is an unhappy name for him. She liked her own name, and once her mother, Maria, had said that Anne was the name for remarkable women, strong and favored by the Creator. This name meant ‘favor or grace,’ but these things had vanished in the memories of her happy days in Cleves.   

In 1527, her father had betrothed her to François, son and heir of Duke Antoine de Lorraine. She had seen the boy twice and taken liking of him. Once he had gifted to her a diamond necklace and said that the name Anne was that of ‘a goddess representing all beauty.’  Anne regretted that she had not married that romantic boy to find at least a semblance of happiness with him.

Anne of Cleves was confident that she was not destined for greatness. Yet, relief as light as a feather inundated her, for she was glad to be free from the marital bonds to the Tudor ruler. The future did not seem to her a bright prospect, for she would have to enter into another loveless matrimony. Yet, as she remembered her dance with Suffolk, her lips curved in a smile.

§§§

The marriage of Catherine Howard to King Henry was taking place on the Feast of St Peter Damian. The Duke of Norfolk and Kitty Howard stood near the St Ethelred’s Church. It had ceased snowing in the morning. The steeple on top of the church’s west tower rose into the glacial sky in menacing decadence, as if symbolizing the danger of this union for Kitty.

“Speak not of this, you silly girl,” the duke snarled. “Pretend that you love the king.”

Kitty lamented, “Uncle, my heart is breaking. It is not meant to beat for him.”

“Absurd!” Norfolk grimaced. “You are carrying his babe. Or is it not his?”

“It is! Unfortunately!” Kitty cried with desperation. “Fine! Be happy, Uncle Thomas! I shall marry His Majesty and let you accumulate power. Be as happy as I’m wretched now.”

The duke was annoyed. “Niece, love is worthless. Didn’t I explain it once?”

She nodded. “Your words about fading beauty pushed me into his sovereign’s arms.”

Norfolk patted her cheek. “You will succeed under my guidance.”

Yet, Kitty bemoaned, “I did dream of the crown, seduced by the prospect of being the first lady in the realm. Now I wonder why I ventured myself into this horrible position. And I do not want to marry in the church where Lady Maria de Salinas died a couple of weeks ago.”

“Her senses are gone.” Francis Bryan stood nearby. “She is a whiny toddler.”  

Kitty sobbed, “He will torment me!”

The Duke of Norfolk scrubbed the tears away from his niece’s cheeks. “Stop melodramatics, Catherine. The hour for consideration is past. Let the marriage proceed, at all hazards.”

She took a fortifying breath. “You are adding to my despair.”

The duke ordered, “Cast off this weakness and follow my advice unquestionably.”

“Shall we set out?” Bryan quizzed. “The king is waiting inside.”

They entered, and two servants immediately aided them to remove their winter cloaks.

Norfolk led his niece along the nave, with Bryan trailing after them. Solemnly and in silence, they moved like forlorn phantoms, as if the rites would be those of funereal. Indeed, to look upon that distant visage of the bride, her pallid cheeks every vestige of color, and to see the bridegroom happier than Caesar must have been during his Egyptian wedding to Cleopatra – it all appeared to be some grotesque ceremony practiced by ancient priests rather than human beings.

Henry’s aquamarine eyes glowed with ardor. “My beloved kitten is coming to me.”

“I’m here, sire.” Kitty schooled her features into blankness.  

Not having a white dress, Kitty had opted for a sumptuous gown of purple velvet and raised cloth of gold, and a long stomacher of purple gold was similarly raised. She had a diamond coronet upon her head and matching earrings. Henry’s doublet was of crimson and purple satin, worked with threads of Venetian gold, his hose of the same material and identically embroidered.

The ruler could not wait anymore. “To the altar!”

Norfolk promulgated, “Let’s solemnize your love, Your Majesty.”

Norfolk and Kitty slowly advanced towards the altar. The light from many candles reddened the walls and biblical frescoes slightly. The monarch, with the recently arrived Marquess of Exeter to his left and the Duke of Suffolk to his right, beheld his fiancée with an animated grin.

God, why do you punish me so? Kitty’s soul wept, fettered by sadness. I do not want that broad, aging man to touch me until my dying day. One day, I might vomit from the stench of his rotting ulcers. Her dream was to escape into some isolated house, to securely bolt and lock every door, to darken every window so that Henry would not snatch her away. How she regretted now that the practical side to her had prodded her into becoming the monarch’s paramour.

A grinning Henry grabbed her hand, while Kitty trembled in his presence. They did not kneel at the altar because of the ruler’s leg, and the priest started the marriage service.

“My rose,” the monarch purred into her ear. “We belong to each other for eternity.”

“Yes, my liege,” tumbled from Catherine’s lips.

I’m alone with my grief, Kitty sobbed silently. She could not expect sympathy from those in attendance. Yet, as her gaze landed on the compassionate countenance of Anne of Cleves, she felt a kindred spirit in the discarded woman, ashamed of sleeping with Anne’s former husband. Kitty would wear a false face in public, just as her maidenhead had been. No one must know the secrets of her affairs at Lambeth; this sheer disgrace must not be whispered and suspected.

The Duke of Norfolk was squeezing his niece’s hand from time to time. What was it? Was it a sign of his moral support? Or was it his reassurance that he would not desert her in a critical moment if it came, just as he had abandoned her cousin, Anne? Kitty was puzzled as to Norfolk’s expression that seemed torn between uncharacteristic sympathy and pure avarice.

“Calm down, Catherine,” admonished Norfolk quietly. “There is no way back.”

She asked forthrightly, “Will you defend me if necessary?”

He breathed out a sigh. “I have to think about myself and the whole family. In Anne’s case, I had no choice: I could do only what our liege lord wanted, or I could have lost everything.”

“Perhaps even your life.” Icy terror chilled her to the bone.

“You had two ways: finding a low-ranked husband at court or becoming a royal mistress. It happened that you caught His Majesty’s eye and got pregnant. You trapped yourself.”

“I did.” Her tone was bitter. “Because of your advice.”

Norfolk managed a smile. “Beauty does fade away. Station remains. Ensure that you will be loyal to our sovereign and don’t commit your cousin’s mistakes at the very least.”

“I will try.” Kitty was biting her bottom lip.

Bryan warned, “No private conversations anymore. We are too close.”

Nevertheless, the fatal truth fastened itself in her soul. During the nights she had spent with Henry, Kitty had often remembered Francis Dereham’s young, slim body sprawled on their narrow bed, making a tangled mess of the sheets when he had made wild love to her. Such remembrances assaulted her especially often when Henry requested that she kiss him from head to toe. The king’s demands, which had had no baneful significance at first, now irritated and disgusted Kitty.

Bending his head, Henry murmured, “My love! My kitten!”

Catherine feigned a smile. “Yes, my Tudor lion!”

The monarch’s attention was centered upon his new bride. Catherine of Aragon’s lies about her virginity, Anne Boleyn’s failure to give him a son and her betrayal of having children with François, Jane Seymour’s two miscarriages, Anne Bassett’s untimely demise, and his disastrous marriage to the German Anne – it was such a long chain of matrimonial setbacks. Anne Bassett was his best wife, for she had given him a son. Now there was Kitty Howard, his would-be sixth wife, who was younger than his previous wives and paramours, as well as Anne Boleyn’s cousin.

My Kitty is an embodiment of purity and youth, Henry smiled at her fondly. After their first night in the gardener’s house, he had seen her virginal blood on the bedsheets. After their return to the palace, he had ordered his groom, Thomas Culpeper, to later collect the sheets so as to keep them. Catherine’s and Anne’s many sins had deprived him of the faith in human goodness. Kitty had lifted his thoughts above sordid cares and rewards, making him kinder and younger.

Henry gazed into Lady Howard’s eyes. “I give you this ring on the occasion of our marriage as a symbol of my eternal love. I call upon these persons here present to witness that I, Henry, do take thee, Catherine, to be my lawful wedded wife to love, respect, and cherish, now and always.”

Kitty’s faint voice formulated the response, her lips scarcely moving.  

I proclaim you husband and wife. What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.

Henry took a massive ruby ring. “Sprinkle it with the holy water in the form of a cross.” It was his way to bless their matrimony once more, and to thrust aside his superstitions.

“It is a lovely ring,” giggled Kitty, her spirits recovering a bit.

Her husband pronounced, “You are my new Tudor queen.”

“Bravo!” shouted Francis Bryan. “Many children to you!”

I doubt this girl is his last queen, Charles Brandon speculated. The ruler’s boyhood friend, he had attended each of the ruler’s weddings, including the ceremony with the Boleyn slut whom he still disliked. They all, except for his wedding to Catherine, represented a degrading spectacle, in particular his marriages to Anne Bassett and Kitty Howard. He pitied all of the king’s women.    

After his own wife’s miscarriage, Charles did not believe that Kitty would increase the Tudor sovereign’s male progeny. Or at least it would be difficult for her to accomplish that. Only Anne Bassett had birthed Prince Edward. His world tilted like the plate for a moment: the discovery of Catherine of Aragon’s secret had abashed Charles, and he still could not accept the truth.  

Norfolk and Bryan’s smiles were wider than Henry’s growing girdle.

Henry and his new consort sauntered along the nave. The others followed them, with Anne being the last one. The chore sang psalms in voices tinged with dirge-like tones, as if it were someone’s funeral. The newlyweds donned their winter clothes; the others followed suit.

Outside, the blasts of chilly wind hit them. It was snowing heavily again.   

“Charles!” the king addressed the man whom he still considered his comrade. “Soon we shall celebrate your wedding. You and Princess Anne will be married in the summer.”

“Congratulations, my friend,” Exeter said, even though he pitied Charles.

“A nice match, Your Grace of Suffolk,” jeered Bryan.

“As Your Majesty wishes.” Ire warring with apprehension in him, Suffolk was not sure he would find a way out of his betrothal to the German princess. “It will be as God wills it.”

On the way to the manor, the Duke of Suffolk glanced at Anne of Cleves. Her countenance verbalized her apology for the union forced upon them, although she was not guilty of it. Anne was a despairing maiden, beneath whose mask of calmness melancholy was lurking. We are both preys to unutterable anguish of souls, bleeding for our losses. Yet, I do not yearn to marry her.   

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope you are all safe and a little cheerful in these difficult days.

As I promised, Catherine Brandon’s difficult situation was resolved in this chapter. She had a dramatic and tragic end, but she reconciled with her beloved Charles, who also loved her and forgave her. I think that had she survived, Charles and she could have started afresh. However, I had a different plan for her – to kill her off. It was obvious that the king would have his marriage to Anne of Cleves annulled, but he needed to preserve an alliance with the Duchy of Cleves so that England would not become politically isolated again. Therefore, I came up with the idea to have Duke William of Cleves demand that Anne marry some English high-ranking nobleman – in our case, Charles Brandon who is now a widower. Do you like this this? Thoughts?

Why did Catherine have a miscarriage? Henry VIII’s wives had unfortunate childbearing experiences, suffering many miscarriages and producing stillborn and premature children. I agree with those specialists and researches who believe that Henry had Kell positive blood (you can google this theory on the Internet), which could be the reason for his wives’ misfortunes. Given the above, Catherine’s miscarriage looks plausible, and she also experienced tremendous stress after her break-up with Charles and due to the continuation of her forced affair with Henry. I also had Catherine admit that she hated Anne Boleyn too much so that she could die peacefully.

Maria de Salinas breathed her last as well… Two tragedies for Charles Brandon! So, do you pity him now? Maria’s heart did not sustain the pain from the loss of her only daughter. As for the letters Maria mentioned to her son-in-law before her death, in this fiction we assume that Catherine of Aragon’s marriage to Arthur Tudor was consummated because the Catholic monarchs commanded Catherine to say that she was a maid to keep an alliance with England. How could a young girl disobey them in such a situation? I’m not sure that Catherine and Arthur slept together, for we were not inside their chambers and did not see it, but there are many reasons why they could have done it, especially because they both knew their duty and lived in Ludlow for months before Arthur’s death of the sweat. I don’t buy theories of Arthur being so sickly that he could not bed his wife for months. But maybe it was unconsummated – we just don’t know. Catherine is an admirable woman in many aspects, but her Spanish pride and stubbornness cost her a lot – she should have stepped aside and retired to a nunnery, letting her daughter to remain legitimate when Henry offered it. This is my opinion, so you don’t have to share it.

Anne of Cleves and Elizabeth are forming friendship. Henry is now married to a pregnant Catherine Howard. How many wives will he have? What do you think? Kitty has her own secrets, and perhaps one day, they will haunt her… Will she give Henry a son or not?

The church is dedicated to St Etheldreda is indeed located close to Hatfield.

Warning: murders will start in chapter 45; some characters have dramatic and even tragic fates. Someone will leave many dead bodies behind.

VioletRoseLily and I are co-writing the story called "Entwined by a Golden Alliance." Give it a try, and thank you in advance!

I highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, Marina Ka-Fai, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, Secret-writer91, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91, BellalunaMcKenzie, QueenMaryofEngland, and WhiteRoseQueen at FF. I also recommend Lady Plantagenet in the White Queen fandom at AO3. Attention: Secret-writer91 is now posting her story 'Festina Lente' at AO3, and if you could please copy your reviews from FF to AO3, it would be nice of you to do so – merci in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance and Lady Nature

Chapter 46: Chapter 45: A Murderous Puzzle

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 45: A Murderous Puzzle

March 28, 1541, Hampton Court Palace, London, England

Glowing with immense pride, the English king led his young spouse through the hallway. 

As the snow had thawed sufficiently, the monarch had journeyed to Hampton Court, having taken Princess Elizabeth with him. The Duke of Suffolk had retired to his estates to mourn for his relatives. Anne of Cleves had gone to Richmond Palace to settle in her new home. 

“My friends!” the Tudor ruler affirmed ebulliently. “Today, I’m introducing to you my new wife, Queen Catherine.”  He glanced at Kitty Howard with adoration. “I was first attracted to her by her notable appearance of honor, cleanness, and maidenly behavior. It is absolutely incredible to have obtained such a perfect jewel of womanhood, who bears a strong love towards me.” 

A volley of cheers echoed through the air. The Duke of Norfolk beamed. 

Henry promulgated, “A love that will not only give me the peace I’ve been yearning to find for so long, but may also provide me with the much-desired fruits of our matrimony.” 

Whisperings arose, little by little. Then some bold spirits ventured a jest. 

“So quickly with child,” Thomas Culpeper surmised. “Congratulations, Your Majesty!” 

The monarch shot his favorite groom a glare. “I said that we may have a prince soon. You must all show your new queen profound respect befitting her highest station in the realm.” 

Culpeper winced. “I’ve never meant any offence. I wish you all the best, sire.”    

“I know, Thomas.”  Yet, Henry chided, “But some jokes are not allowed.” 

“Of course, sire.”  The groom’s eyes went to the queen.   

As Culpeper’s and Kitty’s gazes locked, they silently conveyed their mutual attraction. Her hair streaming down her shoulders in a rich auburn cascade, Kitty looked like a goddess of the sun in a French, low-cut gown of cloth of gold with black velvet undersleeves and underskirt. His head full of curvy blonde hair, Culpeper’s youthful features, illuminated by sapphire-blue eyes, exhibited nearly a nebulous grace enhanced by a silver doublet worked with threads of gold. 

Norfolk proclaimed, “To Queen Catherine!” 

“To Queen Catherine!” the courtiers echoed with exuberant applause.  

The king’s stomach rumbled. “Now let’s eat! I’m starving!” 

After the congratulations ended, the royal couple strutted into the great hall. 

The brightly lit gigantic chamber, adorned with garlands and Flemish arrases, was a fabulous sight to behold. The tables were overflowing with exquisite victuals. As the monarch was very fond of meat, its various types were served in abundance: beef, pork, venison, veal, goat, rabbit, hare, lamb, mutton, swan, seabird, and heron. Numerous richly dressed courtiers engaged in a lively talk, gossip, and card games; the guards in Tudor livery stood along the walls.

Henry and Kitty took a seat at the main table on a dais. The Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Surrey, as well as the Marquess of Exeter occupied their places around the Tudor spouses. Lady Honor Grenville, Viscountess Lisle, sat to the king’s left, having this privilege thanks to being the grandmother of Prince Edward; Arthur Plantagenet, Viscount Lisle, sat next to her. 

Tense due to the queen’s stare directed at him, Culpeper made a bow to his sovereign. He presented a cup of gold and a silver salver, on which there was a full decanter of wine. 

As the servants filled goblets, the Duke of Norfolk brought a cup to his lips and articulated, “Blessings to the most adorable royal couple! May the commitment that you two share deepen with time and let the bond between you grow stronger with every passing day!” 

Exeter joined, “Our warmest wishes to the loveliest spouses!” 

Lisle added, “We are honored to be part of this celebration.” 

Surrey shone with pride, just as his father did. “Lots of love today and beyond!” 

“We shall be happy forever!” King Henry proclaimed as he drained his goblet. 

Kitty managed a smile. “I hope so, sire.” 

Goblets were emptied and refilled, wine flowing like water. Everyone was laughing. 

Honor Grenville said, “May Your Majesties’ marriage be brighter than a thousand candles!” 

Henry genuinely liked his son Ned’s grandmother. “Thank you, Lady Lisle.” 

Culpeper was permitted to seat at the main table at the opposite side from his liege lord.  “Wishing all the happiness to our magnificent sovereign and our queen!” These days, he found himself spending more and more time with the monarch who favored him a lot.   

The ruler grinned broadly. “Thomas, you are my dear friend.”  He turned to his consort and kissed her cheek. “Kitty, your beauty has enthralled me like an endless tale of adventure.” 

His spouse giggled. “Your Majesty is full of claret. Shouldn’t you drink watered wine?” 

Henry bent his head to her. “Wine arouses me. I want you, my kitten.” 

“Tonight, my lion.”  Kitty was not eager to share a bed with him. 

The monarch sighed with regret. “I’ll not touch you until the birth of our baby.”  His hand flew to her still flat stomach and caressed it. “We will have our Duke of York in six months.” 

Thomas whispered, “So, Her Majesty is pregnant.”    

“Shhh,” Henry silenced his groom. “We shall announce it in due time.” 

Embarrassment suffused the queen’s cheeks. She did not wish Culpeper of all men to know about her condition. “I’ll try to give you a prince, sire.” 

“Congratulations!” chorused Exeter and Lady Honor, both inwardly upset with the news.  

“It will be a boy,” Surrey uttered, and Norfolk nodded at him. It was their greatest hope. 

“My Duke of York.”  The ruler imagined his perfect infant. 

A sharp needle of fear pricked Kitty’s mind. What if she would have a girl? Or what if she would miscarry? She masked her terror with a smile. “God will make our child a son!” 

Henry scanned the chamber. “Where is Francis Bryan?” 

Norfolk shrugged. “I’ve not seen him since vespers. He must come soon.” 

As the evening drew in, platters were loaded with an unlimited assortment of viands. Even exotic flamingo tongues and peacock brains were served for the guests. The dancing began, and the sound of feet tapping caused the room to shudder as a galliard started. 

“Ah, I want to dance!” Kitty finished off morsels of heron and seabird. 

The monarch’s expression was apologetic. “I cannot, my rose.”  He sighed, for the pain in his leg was disturbing as of late. “However, I’ll not deprive you of this joy.” 

The queen exuded hope. “Can I?” 

“Yes,” her royal husband permitted. “Thomas, dance with my queen.” 

Kitty blinked as a slender male hand took hers. As she stood up and peered into the blueness of Culpeper’s orbs, her pulse commenced beating spasmodically. Their gazes remained locked as they joined others in the room’s center. Kitty could see that they were both conscious only of each other as they performed a series of steps to the left and to the right, then hopped in the air. 

“You–” the queen breathed in a sultry whisper. “Don’t press me too close.” 

Culpeper’s grin was haughty. “I’ll never harm Your most amazing Majesty.” 

She chastised, “Be more modest, Sir Thomas.” 

“Why should I be?” His grin turned derisive. 

“I’m your queen!” she grumbled, her brows furrowing. “Remember that.” 

The Viscount and Viscountess Lisle joined the dancing couples. The queen lost count of the number of times she found Culpeper grinning at her. When the galliard ended, she hurried to the royal table, for despite her attraction to him, Kitty did not want to behave inappropriately. 

The Marquess of Exeter stood up. “I’ll go out to refresh myself.” 

“Return to us soon, cousin.”  Henry was eating a mixture of rabbit, hare, and lamb. 

“I like venison more.”  Kitty eased herself in a throne-like chair next to her spouse. 

“More venison!” the ruler demanded from a passing servant. 

A moment later, a platter filled with venison and veal appeared. Kitty sighed at the sight of her husband ravenously consuming a great deal of meat, and she was relieved when he finished. 

“The gardens are beautiful.”  Exeter rejoined the celebration in a few minutes. 

The queen tipped her head. “The weather is quite nice at the end of March.” 

“Not as hot as Their Majesties obviously are,” Lisle joked. 

An explosion of their merry laughter rolled across the chamber. 

The ruler brushed his fingers against his consort’s cheek. “Are you pleased, my rose?” 

“Yes, my frolicsome king!” The queen laid a finger on his lips, pressed firmly, took it away, and kissed him lightly where she had touched him moments ago. “That was a small prank.” 

Lust rushed through Henry. “I’m utterly captivated with you, my kitten.”       

A felicitous Kitty almost sang, “I’m most charmed with you, sire.” 

“Where is the Earl of Hertford?” Honor inquired with interest. 

The king stiffened. “Despite his important station, I allowed Hertford not to participate in feasts until the end of summer. He is mourning the loss of his brother, Thomas.” 

Exeter sipped wine. “Poor Lord Sudeley! To die young at the hands of some bandits!”

Lisle was frustrated, too. “The forest roads have become so perilous.” 

“The criminals were all punished,” the Duke of Norfolk underscored. 

Surrey interjected, “My father personally took care to capture them.” 

“Good job.”  Henry nodded his thanks to both Norfolk and Surrey. It seemed that everyone believed Hertford’s story about the attack on him and Sudeley on the way to Hatfield. 

The feast lasted into the late evening. The queen did not dance again, spending all the time with the monarch and laughing; she was relieved when Culpeper left early. Smiling smugly at the couple, Norfolk wondered why Bryan had not appeared at the festivities. Exeter, Lisle, and Honor showered the royals with compliments, all of them insincere but camouflaged as truth. 

§§§

Princess Elizabeth lounged at the low table, the volume of Homer’s ‘Odyssey’ in her hands. Having feigned illness, she remained in her quarters not to watch the introduction of the new queen by the monarch, who was not her beloved mama and who could be not his last wife. 

She enjoyed the rhythm of the poems, which was as melodic as the sound of waves crashing on the shore. Her nimble mind, hungry for knowledge and beauty, conjured pictures of ancient life in Greece and Italy. She created the vocabulary of words which she did not know, and later, her literature tutor always explained their meaning to her. Yet, many things remained unclear. 

King Henry had allowed Elizabeth to have her own study because of her adoration for books. It had windows with painted glasses, overlooking the River Thames. The wall tapestries depicting Roman myths matched the princess’ passion for the classics and literature. All of the shelves were stuffed with academic, history, and philosophy books in various languages.

Lady Margery Horsman entered, a sheet of paper clasped in her hand. 

“Your Highness,” Margery commenced. “I have something interesting for you.” 

Elizabeth put her book aside on the desk. “A letter?” 

Margery approached and curtsied. “Yes. From Queen Anne.” 

Squealing in joy, Elizabeth ran to Margery, disregarding the royal protocol. She grabbed the paper and scanned through it, a blush of excitement heating her countenance. 

Elizabeth, my own heart!

I’ve missed you so much that there are no words to describe my feelings. These years away from you have been a torment for me, even though I love your little siblings very much. But none of my children with François, King of France, can take your special place in my soul. I hope that one day, you and I will meet again, my Lizzy. Only God knows what will happen tomorrow.

Louise and Jean are now with me in Milan. In a month, we will depart for France, where I shall be reunited with my dearest Aimée and Augustine. One of the reasons why I took Louise to Italy is that she reminds me of you – she is a clever and headstrong girl. I wish you could meet your half-brothers and sisters. With God’s blessing, you will have another sibling soon.

Always remember that I love you more than life itself. Be strong and smart, and I pray that in the future you will succeed your father and usher England into a Golden Age.

Your mother, Queen Anne of France

“Mama misses me,” Elizabeth murmured with tears in her eyes. She pressed the letter to her lips and kissed it. “I would have given anything to see her and my siblings.” 

“This separation is difficult for Your Highness, but you have to endure it.” 

The girl nodded. “That is what my mother says. She mentioned a new baby. How?” 

Margery would not explain to the princess how women got pregnant. “Your Highness is too young to understand it. Queen Anne wrote to me that she is expecting another child.” 

Elizabeth went to the hearth where a fire blazed blithesomely. Her heart heavy, she threw the paper into the flames and watched it burn until only the ash remained. Every time she received correspondence from her beloved mother, the princess had to annihilate it because if one of the servants unsympathetic to Anne and loyal to Henry found it, she would be punished. 

Lady Margery Horsman exchanged letters with her former mistress and friend every three months. Anne sent her messages for Lizzy to Margery, who passed them on to the princess. The letters were smuggled to England by the French ambassador at the Tudor court. 

Elizabeth looked at Margery with anguish. “Will I ever be able to correspond with my mama openly? Her innocence was proved, and His Majesty cleared her name.” 

Margery stepped to the girl. “It gave your mother a peace of mind, and it is beneficial for you. But His Majesty is angry because she married King François and has a family with him.” 

“My father is jealous because he cannot forget her.” 

“Perhaps, Your Highness. He is furious and hurt that she birthed his rival’s children.” 

Elizabeth’s face evolved into puzzlement. “Why did my mama give His French Majesty two sons while she had only me during her marriage to my father? It is strange!” 

Margery believed that it was nearly impossible to conceive healthy children with the Tudor monarch. “It must be God’s will. The Almighty wanted to give Queen Anne a daughter with King Henry and several children with King François. No one can determine their destiny.” 

Taught to believe in the Creator from childhood, Elizabeth tipped her head. “Then it is His will that my mama became the Queen of France, and His Will that we are estranged.” 

“The Lord’s ways are unfathomable, Your Highness.” 

“I shall never forgive the king.”  The girl’s voice was layered with bitterness. 

“I understand your feelings, but you must keep them to yourself.” 

“That is what I’ve been doing for several years, Margery.” 

Lady Horseman admired the resilience Elizabeth had developed over time. “Queen Anne loves you so much! Her admiration would have been boundless if she could see you now.” 

Elizabeth smiled gleefully. “I shall make England and my mama proud.” 

The princess stared into the flames. She had not forgiven her father for exiling her mother and having her almost murder. At present, the girl was older and smarter: she knew that the ruler had executed her uncle George, whom she vaguely remembered from her early childhood as a kind, dark-haired man who had brought her cakes whenever he had visited Hatfield.

Although the monarch treated the girl as a princess and loved her, there was some emotional distance between them. Margery had told her that she reminded the king of Anne, and Elizabeth liked thinking that in her dark eyes her merciless parent saw the image of her unforgettable mother whom he had wronged terribly. Moreover, Elizabeth noticed that Henry adored little Edward more than her because he was a boy, which additionally alienated her from the ruler.   

Elizabeth vowed, “The king’s benevolent attitude to me will not buy my affection. I’ll be his obedient daughter, and he will not know that he lost his special place in my heart.” 

Margery heaved a sigh. “In a way, your father punished himself.” 

The girl’s brows shot up. “How?” 

“Your mama is married to another king and has his four children. What can be worse?” 

An arctic chilliness splashed across Elizabeth’s countenance. “He deserves grief.” 

I love my siblings, the princess mused, but I might never see them. Margery had explained that Anne had wed another monarch, and that women can be married several times. Elizabeth wished her mama happiness that she could not have in England, and the girl prayed that the King of France, who existed in her mind like a knight in shining armor, was not like her cruel father. 

Elizabeth returned to her desk. “My mama believes that I’ll be the Queen of England. However, Edward will succeed my father. The king might also have new sons.” 

Margery recalled, “Before Your Highness’ birth, Queen Anne was a given a prophecy about her child. She was told that you would usher England into a Golden Age.” 

The girl grinned. “That is what mother says.” 

“Every day, I pray that you will succeed His Majesty, my princess.”  Margery lowered her voice as she confessed, “Prince Edward…  His love for Latin is alarming, to say the least.” 

Elizabeth shared these misgivings. “I have affection for Ned, but I agree with you.” 

Margery examined the study in wonder. “There are so many books here that the sweat stands on my brow at the sight of them. How can someone read them all?” 

“I shall,” pledged the princess seriously. “Over time.” 

Suddenly, high-pitched shrieks rang out outside. Footsteps rushed towards the sound. 

Margery knitted her brows. “What is it?” 

“Let’s learn that.”  The princess went to the corridor, followed by Margery. 

§§§

Princess Elizabeth and Lady Horsman raced through the hallway and into the juxtaposed corridor thronged with many courtiers, their countenances colored with consternation. 

“What is going on?” asked the princess, her head swiveling back and forth. 

Someone answered, “It is something horrible.” 

“Your Highness, we ought to leave,” Margery offered. 

However, the girl was stubborn. “No. I want to see it.” 

The clamor and commotion were interrupted by Lady Jane Boleyn’s desperate sobbing.

“Help, please!” Lady Boleyn shouted. “They are dead! Assassinated!” 

Elizabeth tried to squeeze through the assemblage, but she felt a hand upon her shoulder. It was King Henry, his expression tinctured with worry for his princess. 

The monarch purred, “My dear daughter, curiosity is one of the forms of feminine courage.” 

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty.”  The girl was shaking because she had been caught. 

“I’ll not berate you, Lizzy,” Henry responded. “But you should not be here.” 

Margery apologized, “I beg your pardon, sire. The princess is so feisty!” 

“It is fine,” the ruler assured her. “Take Bess away and don’t leave her.” 

After the princess had departed, the monarch searched for the owner of the voice that, he knew, belonged to Jane Boleyn. Kitty and he had heard the screams from the queen’s apartments. 

“Make way for His Majesty!” the Duke of Norfolk appeared next to his sovereign. 

Therewith, the concourse relaxed their grip. Henry and Norfolk walked between them and gasped at the dreadful sight at the end of the hallway, which made hairs on their necks prickle. 

In pools of blood lay bodies strewn about the area, with daggers embedded in the dead flesh like arms sticking out of a grave. One of them was Louis de Perreau, Seignior de Castillon and the French ambassador to England, his head severed. Sir Francis Bryan was sprawled on the floor next to his two servants, his whole torso dappled with numerous knife wounds.

Henry’s blood ran cold. “Oh my Lord! Not Francis!” 

Norfolk’s sangfroid shattered. “Francis… my friend…” 

More audience gathered because of the commotion, all of them terrified. 

The Viscountess Rochford sat on the ground with her back pressed against the wall. Insane screams erupting from her, she kept staring at the corpses, her gaze lunatic. She was a slender and plain woman with no distinguishing features save her large, expressive, green-gray eyes and her lush lips. Her gown of brown damask was accented with an embroidered flowered sash. 

The king was lightheaded from the shock. “How… did it happen?” 

The Earl of Surrey had arrived here earlier than the monarch and his father did. His voice tremulous, he informed, “Lady Jane Boleyn found them here. They were killed.” 

Perspiration flowed down Henry’s brow. “Take Lady Rochford away.” 

Surrey hurried to Jane and hoisted her to her feet. “Let’s go, Madame.” 

“Francis! Not you!” Jane Boleyn screamed. “You cannot be dead! Francis!” 

Due to the spreading panic, no one paid attention to the fact that her cries indicated her close relationship with the murdered Vicar of Hell, as Bryan was labelled at court. Surrey gently led her away from the place of the crime. From time to time, Jane paused and glanced back like a scared doe, her eyes full of profound bereavement, for she had lost someone very dear to her. 

This part of the hallway, swathed in tapestries portraying scenes from the lives of the Tudor dynasty, now resembled a battlefield after a particularly bloodthirsty skirmish.  

The blood was everywhere. It smeared the walls and stained the floor under Bryan’s corpse, gushing out of the poor man’s countless wounds like crimson rivers. Francis’ eyes were wide open and lifeless, his face congealed with the ghastliness he had experienced before his death. Even his face was red, for his throat was slit – this mortal injury had terminated his life. 

Apparently, the ambassador had died quickly from the beheading, unlike Bryan. Perreau’s severed head lay not far away from his corpse, and crimson traces covered a nearby wall. 

Souveraine d’Angoulême, widow of the late Louis de Perreau, appeared at the end of the corridor. A woman of short stature in her mid-forties, she was paler than a hundred ghosts; her oval face now seemed thinner than ever before. Only her amber eyes – the same color as those of King François and Queen Marguerite – glittered with indescribable fear and bottomless grief. Her gown of ochre brocade, ornamented with pearls, accentuated her pallor and her consternation.

“Louis! My husband!” A bereft Souveraine d’Angoulême sprinted forward. 

The crowd, even the king, let her pass to the ambassador’s remains. Souveraine dropped to her knees in front of his headless body and buried her head in his shoulder. Waves of heartrending sobs wracked her form, echoed by Jane’s screams that alternated with their sobbing. 

“Louis,” moaned Souveraine. “We came to England only because of our duty to France and my half-brother, King François. But those beasts destroyed you! My Louis!” 

Norfolk interjected, “Madame de Perreau, your loss is great, and we are sorry for it.” 

King Henry uttered for form’s sake, “Accept our condolences, Madame de Perreau.” 

Souveraine climbed to her feet. After casting a glance at her husband’s head, she glared at Henry with abhorrence. “It is all falsehood! You hate France and my brother François!” 

Norfolk reprimanded, “Madame, your heartbreak makes you speak out of turn.” 

Souveraine screeched, “I know that you will be extremely happy if something bad happens to France and my relatives. You pray that François will be killed in the Italian wars.” 

“Madame–”  Henry trailed off, for her eyes were those of his mortal adversary. 

Sir Thomas Culpeper approached Souveraine. “Madame, I’ll escort you to your chambers.” 

“François is a far better man than you can ever be,” shrilled Souveraine boldly. 

Everyone gaped at her audacity, while the King of England leered at her. Souveraine took Culpeper’s hand. The assemblage stared after them as the diplomat’s widow was led away. 

In the next moment, the Marquess of Exeter, pallid like milk and agitated, emerged from a nearby corridor. He prodded over to his liege lord and questioned, “Is Your Majesty unscathed?” 

“I was not here during the murder.”  The king’s voice was laced with abashment. 

The Earl of Hertford arrived as well. “It is a dreadful butchery.” 

Within seconds, Henry, Norfolk, Exeter, and Hertford neared the slaughtered people. They tried not to step into large pools of blood forming beneath the corpses. 

Henry’s white knuckles gripped the hilt of his sheathed poniard. “Prepare the bodies for burial. Search the length and breadth of the palace, but find the murderer or murderers.” 

“I shall do my best, sire,” avouched Hertford. He was not a friend to Bryan, but the villainy shook him to the core. “I’ll interrogate every noble and servant.” 

Norfolk was still in a state of appalled disbelief. “And so will I, Hertford.” 

Hertford and Norfolk nodded at each other. They had to cooperate despite their enmity. 

In his subjects’ eyes, the ruler discerned the reflection of his own horror. “We shall have the criminal hanged, drown, and quartered, or perhaps boiled alive. Just find him or them.”    

Norfolk finally gathered his wits. “Perreau could have been eliminated by the Pope’s agent in revenge for Allessandro Farnese’s surrender to King François. But why is Bryan dead?” 

Hertford’s brain labored to combine all the pieces of this puzzle. “Perhaps Sir Francis was a random witness of Perreau’s murder, so he and his servants were annihilated as well. Obviously, Bryan fought fiercely against his assassin, who had to be a skilled fighter to overpower him.” 

An incensed Henry looked like an iron-hearted Minotaur. “If there is the Pope’s agent at my court, he must be discovered. He might perpetrate new evil deeds and try to harm me.” 

Norfolk had similar thoughts. “I’ll increase the number of your guards, Your Majesty.” 

Exeter inquired anxiously, “Are you all right, my liege?” 

“As much as I can be when my dear friend is dead.”  The monarch then stormed off. 

“Disperse!” Hertford commanded. “Everyone! Leave! Now!” 

Hertford, Norfolk, and Exeter organized the delivery of the bodies to their quarters. As the nobles departed, a funeral stillness ensued, a mourning dirge sounding in the sanguineous mayhem. 

§§§

Lady Elizabeth Holland endeavored to help a distraught Lady Jane Boleyn, whose tears were flowing like a waterfall down her pale cheeks. Jane’s howls of despair and anguish echoed through her small room until, finally exhausted, she sank onto the floor and curled into a ball. 

Bess came to Jane. “Let me assist you, Lady Rochford.” 

“Francis…” stammered Jane. “He meant so much to me.” 

Norfolk’s mistress figured out: Francis Bryan and Jane must have been lovers. “Sir Francis was a philanderer hungry for power, but he was not a bad man. God rest his soul!” 

Jane lifted her vacant eyes to the other woman. “Thanks to him I returned to court after that Bassett woman had banished me. He was my friend and taught me to be happy in life.” 

“It is easy to guess which ways of merrymaking you mean.” 

A hard edge entered Jane’s quivering voice. “Lady Holland, you cannot accuse me of my affairs when you yourself are at the service of Norfolk whenever he wishes.” 

Bess contradicted, “I did not want to insult you. I think it was a good choice to be a paramour of Sir Francis who knew his ways around women.”  She extended a hand to Jane. “Lady Rochford, let me put you to bed. Sir Francis would have been upset to see you now.” 

This worked. “Thank you.”  Jane took her hand and scrambled to her feet.   

In a handful of moments, Jane Boleyn lay on a bed under white linen sheets, its headboard inlaid with extravagant scrollwork. She hiccupped, and Bess gave her a cup of water. 

After emptying it, Jane asked, “Will His Grace of Norfolk contact Queen Anne?” 

Bess took the empty goblet from her. “He will write to King François.”  Although the French ambassador was dead, there were other secret channels of communication. 

“Will he help me send a letter to Anne?” Jane muttered. 

“Norfolk might add your letter to the package of his own missives, which he will send to France soon. We know that you wrote to Anne several letters through the late Sir Francis.” 

“Thank you.”  A rattling thunderstorm of emotions blustered inside Jane.  

Bess was concerned about her. “Should I fetch Doctor Butts?”

“Don’t bother him,” the Boleyn widow whispered. “I want to rest.” 

“Try to relax as much as possible, in spite of today’s tragedy.” 

After Lady Holland’s departure, Jane again wept until her eyes felt raw, her throat ached, and her lungs throbbed with the need for oxygen. Then she fell into a fitful sleep. 

§§§

The Earls of Hertford and Northumberland sped through the riverside park. The garden was awakening in the mild weather after throwing off the blanket of snow two weeks earlier.

“Jane should have stayed home.”  Henry Percy’s head was pivoting back and forth. 

Hertford spat, “If you had been drinking less, you would have known where your wife is.” 

Percy snarled, “My personal life is none of your business.”      

They dived into a maze of hornbeam, the distinctive feature of the Hampton Court bosquets. They weaved in and out of the maze, from time to time going to the adjacent vegetable and herb gardens. They finally discovered Jane in the monarch’s favorite and splendid heraldic garden, surrounded by bold green and white painted fences, and silvered by the moonlight.

“Jane!” called Seymour urgently. “Why are you here so late?” 

“My lady,” Percy addressed her officially, “it is dangerous to be out at night.” 

Jane pivoted to them. “Why? Can I be killed, just as Thomas was?” 

The moonlight swamped the area, painting the trees in a shimmering glow.    

Her brother Edward’s eyes were like clear water in a stream, gray and tumultuous. At the mention of their deceased sibling, his sorrow and guilt reflected in their depths. His scrutiny was fixed upon the raging grayness of Jane’s orbs identical to his own pools.     

Jane steeled herself so as not to flinch as she held his gaze. “You may keep silent, but we both know that Thomas was not murdered by bandits in Hatfield’s vicinity.”    

Percy grumbled, “It is not time to discuss it now, Madame.” 

She did not spare her husband a glance. “Have you suddenly remembered about your unwanted wife, Lord Northumberland? You were wallowing in self-pity and wine for months.”   

“She is right, Percy.”  Hertford was not looking at him either. 

The Earl of Northumberland was glad that the darkness concealed his embarrassment. He had spent most of his time drinking cognac and staring out of a window in his study. Although Percy had behaved as a gentleman prior to the marriage and even attempted to court Jane, he had erected a thick wall between them after the wedding. He did not have conjugal relations with his wife and slept in the study on a sofa when he was not with one of his several mistresses. 

During his matrimony with his first wife, the late Lady Mary Talbot, Northumberland had never been faithful to her. After his forced wedding to Jane Seymour, he led the same lifestyle, trying to forget his frustrations in the arms of pretty women, though in vain. If only he had been married to Anne Boleyn, his lost sweetheart, he would have dedicated his life only to her. In contrast to his unsavory behavior, Jane had endeavored to bridge the gap between them, inquiring him about his health. I should have treated Jane better, Henry Percy berated himself silently. 

Jane continued, “The king must have ordered the private execution of Thomas. Or he could have killed him in a fit of rage because of Thomas’ deal with the Duke of Cleves.” 

“How do you know about it?” Hertford was astounded. 

Jane sighed ruefully at the memory of her late brother’s distress. “Once Thomas came to me, inebriated and frightened. He was panicking, complaining that His Majesty hated his German consort calling her an ugly cow. It was when he revealed to me how he intimidated Hans Holbein into painting her wrong portrait so as to make our sovereign interested in her.” 

Seymour’s gaze shifted to a bed of herbs. “For a long time, I was the keeper of Thomas’ secret, risking my own safety and my offices. I wished to protect our brother, but failed.” 

Her expression softened. “Thank you for your attempt to save him.” 

Ned mourned the loss of Thomas wholeheartedly. “It was my duty to our brother. I blame myself for my failure, yet I’m lucky to keep my head attached to my shoulders.” 

“How did he die?” Tears stung Jane’s eyes. 

Her brother would not tell her how the monarch had mortally stabbed Thomas. “It is enough for you to know only that it is the king’s fault. I was there, but could do nothing.” 

“How did you keep your position?” This surprised Jane the most. 

The royal chief minister elaborated, “The king plans massive religious changes in England. I’m a staunch Protestant, but not as radical as Cromwell was. Therefore, Henry chose me to implement his reforms in years to come. He understands that I’ll not be as greedy as Cromwell was. I shall never confiscate wealth from the monasteries and put it in my coffers.” 

“More drastic novelties?” quizzed Percy, who had been temporarily forgotten. 

“Yes,” Hertford confirmed. “Our sovereign believes that if he proceeds with more audacity in establishing the Protestant Church in England, the Lord will bless him with many sons.” 

Jane’s laugh was humorless. “Is his new plaything already pregnant?” 

Hertford dipped a nod. “There are such rumors.” 

Jane gestured annoyingly. “As if Henry is capable of siring healthy sons! The king’s new wife could be his daughter. I’m surprised that he did not marry a girl of twelve or thirteen.” 

Northumberland’s mind drifted to the French queen. “Anne Boleyn struggled to give him a prince. Nevertheless, she has two sons with the King of France. That means something.” 

“My wife says the same,” Hertford uttered. “However, it matters not. It is better to be as far away from King Henry as possible. Thus, you two will leave England.” 

“What?” chorused Jane and Percy, their faces expressing discombobulation. 

The ruler’s main councilor enlightened, “I asked His Majesty several times to permit you both to retire from court. However, he rejected my requests. After his marriage, Henry softened and gave you his leave, yet I felt that your relocation to the countryside will not be enough.” 

Percy frowned. “We may live at my family’s Alnwick Castle.” 

Seymour shook his head. “It is too close. Henry might recall you back anytime.” 

“What did you do, Lord Hertford?” Percy feared that he would be exiled. 

The advisor delivered, “Lord Northumberland, you Speak Italian, so the king has appointed you the English ambassador to the city of Florence. You both ought to pack your things and travel to Italy. Percy will serve at the court of Cosimo de’ Medici, the young Duke of Florence.” 

“Impossible!” objected Jane. 

Hertford cleared his throat. “It is not for discussion. Your credentials are in my rooms.” 

“I shall not be ejected from my home country!” clamored Northumberland. 

“Calm down, you hothead,” admonished Hertford. “In the king’s eyes, it is indeed an exile. Nonetheless, taking into account the monarch’s increasingly volatile temper and Thomas’ violent death, it will be safer for you two to stay away from England as long as Henry is alive. Moreover, the murders of the French ambassador and Sir Francis Bryan make it perilous to be at court.” 

Silence that followed stamped with a hint of horror the nebs of the golden lion of England, the white greyhound of Richmond, the red dragon of Wales, and the white hart of Richard II. 

Jane’s gasp broke the pause. “What? Bryan and Perreau are dead?”   

The chief minister studied the line of the heraldic beasts. “Exactly. They were butchered during the festivities when Catherine Howard was introduced as our new queen. Norfolk and I will lead the investigation, and God help us find the Pope’s agent who sinned so awfully.” 

Percy supplemented, “That is why we looked for you, Lady Jane. You went to the gardens alone while they were murdered. The assassin could run away through the park.”    

Jane was relieved to be alive. “I wanted to breathe fresh air. I did not see anything.” 

“It is one of the courtiers.”  Seymour was confident of his suspicion. “It must be a crime out of revenge for King François’ victory over Pope Paul the Third in Rome.” 

Jane snapped, “No, the Pope could not do such a thing.” 

“That Farnese thug did far worse things.”  Hertford found his sister’s naivete with regards to the Catholic Church irritating. “He almost disposed of François and Anne.” 

Percy’s shoulders sagged. “I’ve heard about Anne’s misfortunes. The Almighty save and protect her and her children. Even though I’m a Catholic, I cannot condone the Pope’s villainies.” 

She put an instinctive hand to her throat. “Ah, I don’t understand this world.” 

Hertford stared at his sister. “Janie, you and your husband are both Catholics. You can find common ground if you both put effort into this. Who knows, maybe you will be content in the artistic environment of Florence. Duke Cosimo is a great patron of the arts.” 

“Don’t laugh at us.”  Jane took a step backwards, away from her spouse. 

Our marriage is a torture, Northumberland thought. Even though he resolved to be kinder to Jane, her presence in his life was unwelcome, just as that of Mary Talbot had been. He did not love Jane, and he never would, the inescapability of their grim situation twisting his insides with his grievances that he had not married Anne years ago. Percy could feel an invigorating sweetness in the air and could see a fairer color in the skies even when he heard Anne’s name. 

Henry Percy closed the discussion. “Let’s return to the palace.” 

The three of them hastened back through the garden and the maze. The stillness everywhere was undisturbed, save the sound of a sighing wind, as if the nature had no idea about the dreadful crime in the palace. Unbeknownst to one another, the Percy spouses now reckoned that it was a good idea for them to extricate themselves from the Tudor court for their own safety. 


April 30, 1541, Palazzo del Quirinale, Rome, the Papal States

A squad of soldiers rode towards the papal palace. Next succeeded a chariot draped in red cloth of gold, and drawn by four white palfreys sumptuously caparisoned – it contained the Duke and Duchess de Montmorency. Behind them moved a contingent of henchmen armed with gilt partisans. Clad in their master’s livery, they were bearing the Valois and Montmorency standards. 

“You don’t have to see the Pope,” suggested Anne de Montmorency. 

Marie compressed her lips in a straight line. “Why? Because of my condition?” 

“I don’t want you to become distressed and place yourself in jeopardy.” 

“Or your male heir’s life,” she flung back. “All men are similar.” 

An offended Montmorency flung his hands up. “I’m not like other lords, Marie. Moreover, I have several sons from my first marriage. I do not care about our baby’s gender.” 

A shaft of guilt speared through her. “I’m sorry, Monty. I know this.” 

His smile warmed her soul. “You call me like François and others.” 

A grinning Marie pronounced his possible nicknames. “Mont, Montmor, Montmoran, Montmon, Montromen, Montmoran, Moran, and Mot! Are they better, husband?” 

His spirits were now soaring. “This is laughable, wife! Let me be Monty. If you have to live with a beast, you will learn to howl at least, even though my beast is very lovely.” 

She scolded, “Am I your monster? I’ll complain to François.” 

“He might leave Milan for France before your letter reaches him.” 

After their conversation in Florence, the spouses became closer, although Marie's heart was closed. Montmorency did not strive to awaken amorous sentiments in his wife. Neither of them possessed any illusions: they were still young enough to be ardent lovers, yet old enough to know that love was not the culmination in any matrimony, but only an ecstatic phase that could fade away with the advent of maturity, and that contentment was possible without mutual feelings.

Marie scrutinized her husband. Although not very attractive, Anne de Montmorency had an aura of austere, yet charming, intelligence and strength about him. He had smart and vigilant hazel eyes, thin lips, and short, brown hair hidden beneath a cap of black brocade. An athletic man of average height, he was dressed in a doublet of gray velvet passmented with gold.   

After the end of the siege of Rome, Montmorency and Marie had relocated to the eternal city. They had rented a grand villa from one of the old Roman aristocrats for an astronomical amount of money. He wanted his duchess and her two children, who would soon arrive in Rome, to feel as comfortable as possible. Montmorency had also summoned his oldest son and heir, François, to Rome, praying that the large French army, stationed nearby, would guarantee their safety. 

Marie balled her fists. “Allessandro Farnese’s soul consists of ice and carrion.”    

Montmorency’s face assumed a worried expression. “Strong emotions might be detrimental for you. Once Anne lost her son due to the shock from her former husband’s adultery.” 

“We are all right.”  Her hand flew to her baby bump.  

“Still, I can go talk with the Villain of Rome alone.” 

“I must,” Mary insisted. “Clearly, there is the Pope’s agent in England. That man or woman must have killed Louis de Perreau, although I cannot comprehend why my cousin, Francis Bryan, was assassinated. But this agent might attempt to rid of my niece, Elizabeth.” 

Montmorency stroked his brown stubble. “I suppose King Henry will search the length and breadth of his kingdom to find the assassin. He is one of the most brutal and mercurial monarchs in European history, but he loves his daughter and will safeguard her as his jewel.” 

The duchess doubted it. “According to Lady Horsman, Elizabeth is now in his favor. Yet, Henry has Prince Edward, and his new wife – astonishingly, also my cousin – is expecting his babe. Trusting Henry with the girl’s safety is like rolling the dice and hoping to win.” 

He assumed, “The Duke of Norfolk will take care of the girl.” 

“No doubt of that,” she agreed dryly. “But would that be enough?” 

“I pray that it is so, Marie. Anne and you want Elizabeth to succeed Henry, right?”  

It was her cherished dream. “Of course. But there is Prince Edward.” 

“Nature might run its course. The King of England’s sons did not live for long.” 

“I’m not evil to wish ill upon a child.”  Anne’s sister caressed her abdomen. 

His hazel eyes were lakes of passionate fire. “Marie, I care deeply for you.” 

For a handful of moments, Marie was quiet. She reached out with tapering fingers to caress her spouse’s cheek. “Thank you very much for your kindness. You are a good husband.” 

The Duke de Montmorency smiled. The knowledge that his spouse’s heart still belonged to William Stafford hurt him worse than a spear plunged in the ribcage. The feminity that had come with this pregnancy rendered Marie a rare beauty, highlighted by the cerulean blue of her joyful eyes and her smile. Why do I feel a pang in my gut thinking that she loves the dead man?

The Quirinal Hill gleamed with a cheerful iridescence. The cortege crossed the large Piazza del Quirinale with a huge obelisk in the middle. The procession halted near the pontifical palace, the beauty of its two-storied façade with a portico and a loggia concealing the Pope’s darkness. 

§§§

Pope Paul III rested upon a gilded bed with ornately carved frame and a canopy of cloth of gold. He looked sick and weak, his cheeks sunken. At either side of the bed stood his son Pier Luigi, Duke of Castro, and one of Pier’s sons, Cardinal Allessandro Farnese. At the age of twenty-one, Cardinal Allesandro was a man of medium height and lithe build, with a long countenance framed by a black stubble and by black hair that matched the color of his eyes. 

In the cupola of the papal bedchamber, the genius Michelangelo had painted an allegorical picture of the faceless Supreme Pontiff hurtling thunderbolts and carrying a shield emblazoned with the image of St Peter, while the people were kneeling in awe. The adornments – filigree of gold and silver – matched the gilded bas-reliefs, which contrasted handsomely with the dark marble walls. Frescoes, representing a congregation of all biblical saints, adorned the walls. 

Montmorency accused, “Your agent took the life of our ambassador in England.” 

The Pope croaked, “I know nothing. I’m focused on my health issues.” 

Marie’s hatred for the man spilled out in torrents of animosity. “You are so selfish and vile! Of course, you care more about your own troubles than the needs of the Roman people.” 

“Don’t insult His Holiness, you puttana!” Pier attacked verbally. 

Montmorency desired to punch the immoral man. “Watch your tongue, you rascal!” 

The young Allessandro defended, “You are talking with His Holiness!” 

Marie pointed an angry finger at the Pope. “You are ancient and ailing. Yet, you are weaving deadly intrigues behind our backs, killing people at a whim. A month ago, you destroyed the French ambassador at the Tudor court and my cousin, Francis Bryan. Who is next?” 

The Bishop of Rome eyed the Duchess de Montmorency with interest. He had never seen any of the Boleyn sisters before, but he had heard a lot about them. Despite his loathing of Marie, Farnese found her appearance lovely and her rich gown of azure and silver velvet, though tightly enveloping her baby bump, modest enough. She does not look like a harlot, he observed. 

The old prelate’s gaze pierced her like an arrow. “Madame, you are rather heavily pregnant. Nonetheless, you are not staying home, embroidering clothes for your baby.” 

Mary lifted her chin defiantly. “My worry for my niece, Princess Elizabeth, made me come. She might become your next victim. Nicholas Carew planned her murder, but he was discovered.” 

The Pope cursed Carew in his mind. The dead man had not listened to him, having failed to bridle his emotions. “I know not what you mean, my daughter.” 

She pressured him further. “Is my niece in peril?”     

The Pontiff grimaced. “My old bones are aching. How can I kill a child?” 

Marie shot back, “Your tried to dispose of Anne and her offspring.” 

“And then of François,” supplemented Montmorency. 

“It is all in the past,” the Pope roared, his wrinkled face contorting. “François and I made a bargain. You allocated your many divisions in Rome. At present, the Papal States are full of soldiers, and you, Montmorency, are the de-facto ruler, not me. I gave half of my gold to your troops, although it should have been used to purchase grain and food for my people.” 

“No one is hungry now.”  Montmorency regularly received reports about the situation in the city. “A great deal of your funds was used to buy grain, meat, fruit, and other provisions. Every day, my men distribute them among the civilians. The illnesses no longer ravage the city.” 

“That is all your doing, feccia!” Pier could not contain his wrath. “If you had not besieged us, the Roman inhabitants would not have died of famine and maladies.” 

Montmorency riposted, “If Your Unholiness had surrendered not in a year after the beginning of the siege, but in a month or so, the populace would not have suffered so much.” 

“Perhaps.”  The Pope could not deny that there was a lot of truth in these words. 

The young cardinal reproached, “How dare you refer to His Holiness so coarsely!” 

“He deserves that,” Montmorency barked. 

Pier interfered, “You have been rude towards the Supreme Pontiff!” 

Montmorency demanded, “Are you behind the assassination of our diplomat?” 

“No,” the old Allesandro said, this time truthfully. “I had no reason to eliminate Bryan, who was the Duke of Norfolk’s Catholic friend. In Europe, everyone is lamenting how cruelly they were killed. Do you think I would have ordered to have a true Catholic slaughtered?” 

Marie and Montmorency shared confused glances. Would the Pope murder a Catholic? 

The Head of the Roman Church continued, “Several years earlier, King Henry had the rebels executed in the most heinous way. His soul will burn in hell for all eternity.”  His voice rose to a crescendo. “Do you think that Henry has no enemies in England who could destroy Bryan, one of his minions, just to spoil the king’s mood? Or perhaps in vengeance for something?” 

The Pope emitted a sigh. “Do you assume that François has no foes except for me? Many of his former Catholic friends are displeased that he had the Lutheran woman crowned. Some are angry that he kept Rome besieged for many months. The Protestant nations, his allies, were happy, while some Catholics disapproved of his war against me strongly and vocally.”   

“You did not do that, did you?” Montmorency was not convinced. 

“I swear that I did not.”  The Pope blessed himself with the cross. 

Marie narrowed her eyes. “What about Elizabeth?” 

The prelate laughed smugly. “Why do I need to eliminate the girl who is not the first heir in the line of succession? Especially if I hear that Prince Edward is quite interested in Latin.” 

The duke and his wife exchanged bewildered glances, for they did not know that. 

Montmorency threatened, “I shall watch you very, very closely, Farnese. I have spies in this palace and everywhere in Rome. If I notice something suspicious, I’ll convene the Conclave.” 

The Bishop of Rome heaved a sigh, for he still feared that. “You have bribed most of my cardinals. Well done, Your Grace! They will dance to your whims and fancies.” 

Pier ended the discourse. “The audience is over.” 

Without paying any deference, Montmorency and Marie stomped towards the door. 

“Wait!” the Bishop of Rome called. “How is my son, Ranuccio?” 

As they swiveled, Montmorency informed, “Ranuccio is already in France. Be at ease: he lives in luxury, surrounded by great artworks and books, but under heavy guard.” 

“Please, take care of him,” beseeched the Pope. 

Montmorency leered. “I like that imploring tone of yours, Farnese. It suits you more. Your son will be hale and hearty in our country; he seems to be kinder than any of you.” 

Cardinal Allesandro whined, “Go away! His Holiness must rest.” 

After their unwelcome guests were gone, Pier released a series of profanities. 

“Shut up, Pier!” instructed the Pope. “I hate when you use such words!” 

“Grandfather,” the young cardinal addressed in a personal manner. “Did you really not order the assassination of that diplomat and that Englishman? You have allies in England.” 

The Pope dipped his head. “I have agents at the Tudor court, but I have not contacted them since the siege. Yet, one of them or they together could avenge my surrender to François.” 

“Why did they kill Bryan?” Pier wanted to know. 

The Pontiff shrugged. “I have no clue.” 

Pier growled, “Monty, as they call him, might govern the city for years.” 

The face of Cardinal Allesandro reflected a bit of his fury, just as Pier’s did. 

The Pope admired his bejeweled hands. “We shall lie low and plan a big coup.” 

“Will Catherine de’ Medici act soon?” Pier inquired. 

Spreading his hands, as though hugging the universe, his scrutiny lifted to the cupola with the depiction of some Pope’s fury, the old Allesandro Farnese pontificated, “All the evil caused to me and my family shall be avenged. Not now, my beloved son and grandson, but in the future.” 

In the meantime, the Montmorency spouses exited the palace.  The duke aided his wife to climb into the chariot, and the sharp edge of her profile betrayed her scarcely suppressed rage. 

“I’ll write to King François,” Montmorency uttered. “He will decide what to do.” 

Mary hugged her abdomen. “That old villain might be guilty or not.” 

He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Farnese could not send any letters during the siege of Rome and after it was over. Now my spies check his correspondence every day.” 

The cavalcade rode away towards their palazzo. The firmament was blue and cloudless, and the sun was warm. The spring in Rome was warmer than that in Milan and Florence. However, they were both gloomy and indifferent to the glory of the morning, anxiety scratching at them. 

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope you are all safe and a little cheerful in these difficult days.

King Henry introduced his new wife, Queen Catherine Howard, to his court. Well, Catherine is pregnant, and Culpeper is here… What will she do next? What do you think? Princess Elizabeth Tudor indeed had a great passion for books and languages. She is communicating with Anne. Lady Margery Horsman was Anne Boleyn's friend in history.

Finally, the murders started, just as I promised… The English court is shocked. We have several victims of an unknown murderer or murderers: Sir Francis Bryan and Louis de Perreau, Seignior de Castillon and the French ambassador to England, as well as several servants. Who killed them? And why? Pope Paul III has agents in England, but are they guilty? And who are they? Jane Boleyn is so hysterical because she obviously found them dead and is distraught, for Bryan was her lover; we have several scenes with them in previous chapters.

Edward Seymour is again helping Jane and Henry Percy. The Earl of Northumberland is a good man, but he is not an ideal husband. Now Jane and Percy will have an unconventional character arc in Florence. It is better to stay as far away from England as possible. The description of the garden with heraldic beasts at Hampton Court Palace is historically correct.

Montmorency and Mary (we will call her Marie because she is now a French nobleman's wife) found common ground, but so far, their marriage is not based on love. Yet, we know that there is passion and respect between them. We assume that Mary was born in 1500 like she was in history. Many queens and noblewomen in history had children in their early forties, for example Elizabeth Woodville, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Jacquette de Luxembourg, Marie d'Anjou (Charles VII of France's wife), and many others. Jeanne the Lame, consort of Philippe VI of France, had her last child at 46 – I am not joking. Mary will not have many children with Montmorency as she is 8 years older than Anne, but I want her to have 1 or 2 kids with him for her happiness.

VioletRoseLily and I are co-writing the story called "Entwined by a Golden Alliance." Give it a try, and thank you in advance!

I highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, Marina Ka-Fai, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, Secret-writer91, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91, BellalunaMcKenzie, QueenMaryofEngland, and WhiteRoseQueen at FF. I also recommend Lady Plantagenet in the White Queen fandom at AO3. Attention: Secret-writer91 is now posting her story 'Festina Lente' at AO3, and if you could please copy your reviews from FF to AO3, it would be nice of you to do so – merci in advance.

One thing. If you are in this list and have not updated your story for a long time, you have to understand that readers will not wait for you. People can come to your story, but if it is abandoned for months, they leave. So, please don't torment readers – you know who I mean.

Yours sincerely,

Lady Perseverance and Lady Nature

Chapter 47: Chapter 46: Loss and Love

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 46: Loss and Love

May 19-20, 1541, Palazzo Reale, Milan, Duchy of Milan, northern Italy

The King of France threw Montmorency’s letter onto a giltwood table. His mood had been foul for weeks since getting the tidbits of his diplomat’s assassination at Hampton Court Palace. The study was paneled with intricately carved dark wood, with portraits of the Visconti and Sforza dukes lining the most distant wall and a high bookshelf along another wall stuffed with books.

“What will you do with the Pope?” questioned Ercole d’Este, Duke of Ferrara.

Cunning and resourceful, the Duke of Ferrara was the French ruler’s friend and his agent in the Apennine peninsula. Ercole had returned to Ferrara for months and now paid a visit to Milan.  

François had no idea as to his course of action. “What would you do, Ercole?”

The two men spoke in Italian, for the Valois ruler knew it brilliantly.

Ercole took a goblet of cognac from the table. “Monty is correct that Farnese might not have ordered the death of Louis de Perreau. My independent sources in the Vatican claim that the Pope did not send any letters during the siege. As he was abandoned by his former allies, his traditional channels of communication did not work, and they are still not in operation.”

“Monty’s spies say the same. Who is the culprit, then?”

Ercole sloshed the contents around in his cup and then swallowed it. “My agents informed me that the Pope has agents in England, one of them being close to your mad counterpart.”

The king’s eyes flashed. “Their names?”

“I know not. Oh, François, mio vecchio amico!  I love all these spy scandals and conspiracies.”

The monarch’s mind floated to his sister and niece: Jeanne d’Angoulême and Françoise de Longwy, Philippe de Chabot’s spouse. The two women had gone to France together with Chabot. François had granted full pardon to his illegitimate half-sister. After Montmorency’s departure to Rome and Chabot’s return home, only Claude d’Annebault remained in Milan.

“Some might be forced into working against us, just as it happened to my sister, Jeanne.”

“It was noble of you to forgive Jeanne for her espionage. I would not have been so lenient towards her, François. I would have saved her daughter and had the mother executed.”

“Ah, such a tragedy, Ercole,” the king sighed dramatically. “My niece, Françoise, admires you so!  She told me that you are her personal hero, yet you want her mother dead.”

The duke pointed at a fresco. “Look there!”

The they eyed the fresco on the opposite wall, which portrayed the triumph of Zeus and the Olympians over Cronus and the Titans. It was the work of Giovanni Ambrogio de Predis, who had been a painter of miniatures at the court of Ludovico Sforza in the 15th century.

Since the subjugation of Milan, the city flourished under Governor Pier Maria III de’ Rossi, Count di San Secondo. The Rossi family were in the process of refurbishing and transforming the ducal court. Many rooms had been expanded, and new chambers were for official functions.

“It is a bit depressing,” the sovereign of France said. “Even though it is also stunning.”

The Duke of Ferrara assumed a serious expression. “You call yourself the French Zeus, but you don’t act like him. After defeating Cronus and the Titans, Zeus had them imprisoned in Tartarus under heavy guard. You ought to follow in Zeus’ judicious footsteps.”

“Some of the Titans were allowed to remain free.”

“Just as Jeanne d’Angoulême and some others whom you pardoned.”

“I’m the Knight-King,” proclaimed François with pride. “I do not kill women and children. Many great things can be expressed in several words: freedom, justice, honor, and mercy.”

“Your chivalry might lead you to your untimely death, God forbid. You ought to be harsher with your foes: less forgiving and tougher. It is far safer for a ruler to act so.”

“Whatever floats your boat,” François retorted rhetorically. “You speak like Carlos von Habsburg. Yet, I’ve always found that clemency bears richer fruits than strict justice.”

The French ruler’s mind detoured to his daughter, Marguerite. Scenes of her wedding in the Medici chapel flashed in François’ mind: Ferdinand laying his lips on those of the Valois maiden and then the priest’s blessing. I pray that Marguerite will be happy with Ferdinand in Austria.

“Your chivalry,” emphasized the duke, “is a dangerous experiment.”

“Enough.” The king’s expression reflected his boredom. “Let’s agree to disagree.”

“I’m just worried about you.”

François filled a goblet with claret. “Tell me more about the Pope’s spies.”

“My men will try to learn more. One of them is among Henry Tudor’s favorites.”

“The monarch sipped wine, looking around as though he expected a tiny winged creature from the English woodland to burst out of nowhere. “Interesting.”  

A servant brought a tray with platters of refreshments; he was then dismissed.

François reached out to take a cup of wine from the tray. “Given Henry’s increasingly brutal tendencies, I’ll not be astounded if he has his favorites and cousins in England executed.”

“Henry’s countless queens!” The Duke of Ferrara tipped his head and laughed, then winced. “Love!  Death!  Marriage!  Countless loves and unions, and even more losses!  These words mean nothing to that Pharisee!  He should marry the whole country in one single ritual. Maybe if he has access to all the Englishwomen at the same time, he will not abandon his current queen.”

François despised his Tudor counterpart’s inconstancy. “Do you wish ill upon so many?  The more women don’t give him a son, the more will be deserted, humiliated, and killed.”

“Henry will not consummate thousands of marriages. There is a precedent: he failed to make his fifth wife, Anne of Cleves, a woman, and set her aside because of that.”

François sniggered. “Henry has not enough male strength to satisfy so many ladies. Perhaps Princess Anne is the luckiest of Henry’s wives, for she escaped alive and rich from him.”

Ercole greatly enjoyed the wine. “Oh, the tragedy with your ambassador…”  

“My other half-sister,” began the monarch of France. “Souveraine d’Angoulême, a daughter of my late father’s mistress… I’ve received a letter from her. The late Louis de Perreau, Seignior de Castillon, was her husband, God rest his soul.” François and Ercole crossed themselves.

“Did poor Madame Souveraine return back to France?”

François was glad that his sister was now in her estates in Angoulême. “Yes. Louis was her second husband, and she has children from her first marriage. She is with them at present, but she asks me to demand from King Henry a more meticulous investigation to find the murderer. I sent Henry several letters with such requests, and he promised to do so.”

“Well, his safety is at stake. Who will be your next ambassador to England?”

Nervous, the ruler put his half-empty cup onto the table and tapped his fingers on the pile of papers. “Charles de Marillac is an ideal candidate. A Catholic prelate and diplomat, he is loyal not to the Pope, but to me. Charles has a cold, bright, and calculative mind. At the chaotic English court, cunning and sangfroid may become the only reasons for one’s survival.”

Ercole finished off the goblet. “The vagaries of Tudor politics are beyond my understanding. Henry is so volatile that I would better put my head into the wolf’s chaps than serve there.”

“I’m certain that most of my diplomats share your sentiments, Ercole.”

Hearing the door creak open, François and Ercole turned to see Louise de Montmorency. She was the Constable of France’s sister and one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting.

Louise curtsied and leaned against the doorframe. “Your Majesty, the queen has miscarried.”

Ercole stared at his friend. “I’m sorry.”

“How is my wife?” A droplet trickled down from the king’s eye, either sweat or tear.

“Her Majesty is distressed.” Louise was saddened with the events as well.

This hurt more than a dagger in the heart. François jumped to his feet and hastened out.

§§§

A chilling silence howled and wept in the French queen’s bedchamber. The air, drenched with the odor of sweat and blood, was encompassed in a dismal shroud. The color of Anne’s raven locks, scattered over the pillow as she rested upon a bed canopied with masses of ochre velvet, matched everyone’s mood. The Virgin Mary, portrayed on the wall frescoes with the infant Jesus, was crying for Anne’s dead baby. All of the furniture was ebony, and the carpet a deep maroon.

“Oh God! No!” Queen Anne sobbed, her head buried in Françoise de Foix’s shoulder.

The midwife said plaintively, “I’m very sorry, Your Majesty. It seems to have been a male child of four months in gestation. Now you need to pray and recuperate.”

The queen rasped, “How can I sleep when my baby is dead?” Even now, Anne was able to speak in Italian, or the midwife would not have understood her.

“My most sincere condolences,” the Italian woman reiterated.

“Calm down, Madame,” Françoise soothed. “You will have other children.”

Tears weaving patterns of grief upon her face, Anne watched her ladies gather and take away the bloodstained sheets. Her baby would not be born!  These words pierced through her tormented consciousness like a poisoned dagger, twisting her entire essence until she could no longer endure the agony. She broke into heart-wrenching sobs, and Françoise pulled Anne into her arms.

“Leave us,” the queen commanded.

At present, Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant, served as the queen’s première dame d’honneur, or her principal lady of honor. The queen’s handmaidens, including Louise de Montmorency, remained with Anne throughout her stay in Italy. Some of the maids from the Bourbon family had been exiled to their estates after the Count de Saint-Pol’s treachery.

“My child!” Anne moaned in between her sobs. “Why?  Why is it dead?”

Françoise stroked her hair. “There will be others.”

“But not this one.” The queen wanted it too much.

After Prince Jean’s birth, it had taken Anne months to conceive again. Given the birth of her four healthy children, she had become proud of her fertility. She had spent two months with François in Florence, and after the surrender of Rome, she had left for Ostia, but she had not met with the Pope there. Yet, despite their regular lovemaking, there had been no sign of a baby.

Milan had met the Valois spouses with the fragrance of fresh grasses and flowers. As the spring had advanced, her monthly courses had ceased, and after the confirmation of her condition, they had both rejoiced in the news. In the past two months, the magical breeze of happiness had been stirring in their matrimonial gardens, blossoming with all existing flowers.

Nevertheless, having slept until midday today, Anne had awoken in a pool of blood. The midwife had been summoned, but she could have done nothing to keep the child inside the queen’s womb. Unbidden, Anne’s memories of her last tragic miscarriage in England resurfaced.

You have lost my boy. I cannot speak of it. The loss is too great. But I see now that God will not grant me any male children. When you are up, I’ll speak with you.

Henry’s hurtful statement boomed through Anne’s head like a funeral bell tolling. Although more than five years had elapsed since those events, the pain did not fade away. Instead, it had been lessened by her romance with her loving French husband. However, Anne knew that in the twinkling of an eye, one might plunge from the celestial heavens to the darkness of a grave.  

“Anne!” called the monarch’s anguished voice. “Mon amour, I’m here.”

A despondent King François rushed into the chamber like a whirlwind. He knelt before his wife’s bed and took her hand in his, pressing gentle kisses onto her palm.

“I lost the baby,” sobbed out the royal wife. “It was a boy.”

The ruler glanced into her eyes affectionately. “Grief is mitigated by the passage of time.”

The queen regarded him in amazement. “Even though it was a male child?”

An annoyed François did not display that it hurt him his spouse still admitted he could be obsessed with male heirs. “It matters not to me. Most importantly, you are alive.”

Françoise still sat by the queen’s bed. “Everything will be all right, Madame.”

The midwife approached them. “I apologize, but the queen must be cleaned.”

“Of course.” The ruler stood up and reluctantly walked out.

A tearful Anne had been aided to change into a nightgown of blue brocade ornamented with golden thread. Then the ducal physician, Luca Bianchi, came to examine the queen.

Unbeknownst to his wife, François returned. He stood at the doorway, watching the doctor work. The monarch’s soul writhed in agony, as if it were being ripped from his physical form.

Françoise put a hand on his shoulder. “My condolences, Your Majesty.”

The ruler knew that the countess felt his pain like her own due to her lingering feelings for him. “Françoise, you are one of the few people who I trust. Take care of my wife.”

As Madame de Foix nodded, the monarch prodded away, his eyes still watery.

§§§

After the doctor had left, the Queen of France dissolved into tears again. Her fears returned, although the king did not blame her for the loss. “My husband might not forgive me.”  

The Countess de Châteaubriant crossed to her bed. “Why does Your Majesty think so?”

“Henry did not.” The queen’s sobs were beginning to subside.

“Woe betide Henry Tudor!” exploded her lady-in-waiting. “When will you understand that François de Valois is very different from that man who almost murdered you?”

“Yes.” Anne brushed away the tears. “Yet, the king’s male heir is gone.”

Madame de Foix spoke in a poetic undertone. “For so long, the heavens of our sovereign’s personal life were curtained with folds of darkness, for François could not find his true love. When he married you, they were illuminated by a bright moon that is floating in a watery halo of his soul’s tears. Why?  François has waited for the heart of his beloved queen patiently.”

The queen looked as lost as a captain at a stormy sea. “François has been exceedingly tender and caring about me. We write poems to each other, but I don’t know what I feel for him.”

Françoise squeezed her hand, lending her moral support. “Can you live without him?”

This caught Anne off guard. “Oh, it is difficult.”

The Kings of England and France were opposites. Where Henry was cruel, impatient, and intemperate, François was soft, amicable, patient, and moderate. To Henry, Anne had been his goddess and an incarnation of purity only until she had given him their Elizabeth. To François, Anne was the queen of his spiritual and real kingdom since his proclamation of his love for her, proved by his faithfulness to her, all this regardless of her initial coldness to him and her ghosts.

To Henry, the instinct behind marriage was to sire as many male heirs as possible, and if his wife had failed in her duty, she could be disposed of. François viewed marriage as a source for procreation as well, but he would not have disposed of his spouse even if he disliked her, just as he had not tried to have his union with Eleanor of Austria annulled. How many queens will Henry have? wondered Anne incredulously. Poor Kitty Howard, my young cousin. I pity her! 

Visions of the Tudor ruler crowded her brain. Henry’s broad face with small aquamarine eyes, sharp and piercing like a foe’s sword, his reddish brows furrowing dangerously at her. Those eyes glared at her, just as they had done during their last meeting in the Tower of London, but now from the depths of her mental chambers. It was when Anne realized that she was no longer afraid of Henry. I’m free from the demons of the past and Henry, she enthused. Completely free! 

“Your Majesty, I’ve long watched our liege lord and you. Your relationship is tinged with radiance of serenity as tender as white clouds hurrying along the starlit skies. There are good men in the world, and one of them is your husband, who is very dear to you.”

Despite the pain in her belly, Anne smiled as she envisaged François. “While we were apart during the latest Italian war, I prayed for my spouse every day. At the thought that he could be killed by the Pope or fall in battle, my heart was bleeding like a mortal wound.”

“King François has brought a peculiar flavor of love and beauty into your life.”

“Yes.” Indeed, the ruler had restored Anne’s faith in human goodness.

The countess verbalized her sagacious opinion. “There is a sign when the spiritual union of man and woman has taken place. It is neither procreation nor living together under the same roof. It is not any superficial unity or congeniality of interests. It is an emotional reaction.”

“When?” Anne reveled in such wise conversations with the countess.

“At a time of intimate physical communion. At a time when husband and wife feel a flood of feeling of an absolutely special nature – a feeling that, once experienced, leads them to realize that it is a sensation of togetherness and affection, which enters and fills every nook and cranny of their souls. Here, in Italy, I’ve seen you and François feel something like this many times.”

“When we were reunited between his battles, my longing for François overflowed me like divine waters. The sun and the moon shone brightly for me only when he was with me.”

“Excellent, Your Majesty. What I can say?  You love him!”

I’m delighted for Anne and François, the monarch’s former mistress thought. Françoise had first deciphered love for the ruler in Anne’s eyes a year ago, but the queen had not comprehended it. During all these years, Anne had gradually been wrapped into the king’s male charms.

“Yes.” Anne’s heart thrummed like a hummingbird trapped beneath her breastbone.

The fingers of sleep pawed at the queen like misty hands. Her dreams were tinctured not only with heartache, but also with the exhilaration, which she experienced at her discovery.

§§§

The Queen of France awoke at dusk. The smell of blossoms from the garden filtered in through the open windows. The rim of the sun was barely visible above the tree line.

At her request, the monarch invited the ducal physician to his consort’s apartments again.

“Why did it happen?” The heart of King François was in tatters.

Luca Bianchi, who had served the deceased Duke Francesco Sforza, was a middle-aged man with a superb medical education from the University of Padua. Since the arrival of the French royal couple in Milan, he had observed the queen’s pregnancy, worried that Anne would not be strong enough to carry the baby to full term, even though he had not discovered any complications.

The physician explained, “Your Majesty, frequent pregnancies put a lot of pressure on the body and might have adverse effect on a woman’s health. Your wife had four successful pregnancies in the past four years. The strain of this pregnancy was just too much for her.”

François heaved a sigh. “We didn’t even thought about that.”

Anne swallowed convulsively. “I was so thrilled that I could have healthy children.”

You can, Madame,” the doctor assured. “You are healthy and not old yet. I recommend that you do not try for a child for a couple of years. There should be intervals between births.”

The king recalled, “Numerous successive pregnancies exhausted my first wife, Claude.”

Luca’s gaze flew to the ruler. “There are various herbs to avoid conception, or Your Majesty should not–”  He broke off, embarrassed of what he had initially intended to say.

The monarch nodded. “I know that. I shall never put Anne’s life in peril.”

Luca advised, “I also suggest that you abstain from marital relations for six months. The queen’s body needs enough time to heal before she can engage in them again. Still, please bear in mind that it will be highly undesirable for her to fall pregnant within the next two years.”

“Abstinence?” a perplexed Anne gasped. “You must be joking!”

The doctor’s expression was serious. “It is necessary for your health, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you, Messer Luca; you may go,” the king dismissed.

Bowing, Luca Bianchi hurried to leave them alone.

§§§

The monarch settled in a chair by the bed. “Be at ease, mon amour: I shall not take a mistress. I’ve been faithful to you since I promised you that, and I shall abide by my word.”

Disbelief flickered in his consort’s dark pools. “I cannot let another woman have you.”

Mischief glittered in his amber orbs. “I’m all yours, my beloved Goddess Hera!  Yes, you have not misinterpreted my words: the French Zeus is on his knees before his wife.”

This elicited a grin from Anne. It was nevertheless replaced by a half-confused, half-hopeful expression. “Will you really not bed Claude de Rohan-Gié or someone else?”  

François pressed her hand to his heart. “Wife, I do not need anyone because I love you. Our marriage began as a political arrangement, but I fell for you. I’ve been in love with you for several years. I believe that God led you to France to me after Henry had ejected you from England.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Forgive me for the miscarriage.”

“Shhh,” the ruler soothed. “Mon amour, I must apologize. I am a man and husband, and I should have predicted that annual pregnancies will have their toll upon you. Unfortunately, Claude experienced the same and faded away like a withered lily in her early twenties.”

“Queen Claude always had a delicate health,” Anne recalled.

“That is true. You are far stronger and healthier than Claude, but this does not mean that I’ll use your body for pleasure and to impregnate you every year. Your life is precious to me.”

At this moment, Anne yearned to reward François with a kiss for his solicitude, generosity, and tenderness. She captured his mouth, and he enveloped her into his arms, kissing his queen with all the affection he possessed. In a handful of moments, the couple parted.

“The image of a teenaged Anne Boleyn has long lingered in my mind. A striking memory of your dark, hypnotizing eyes. In them, I discerned the unhampered freedom of soul, intelligence as vast as the skies looking from their cool heights down onto the changeful sea of her emotions.”

The queen was deeply touched. “Do you really remember me from such a young age?”

“Naturally. What man would forget you, Anne?  You enthrall everyone with your charms.”

A felicitous smile beautified her visage. “In adolescence, I dreamed of meeting my only true soulmate. Of glory in our matrimony, colored in the most refreshing hues of its singular beauty. Of having a life full of happiness and peace, not of pain, regret, and struggle. Of sitting by the fire and exchanging sweet reminiscences of bygone times when we grow old together.”

“Did you dream of being together even after our spirits enter the realm of eternity?”

“Yes, I did.” Her fingers stroked his cheek before latching on to his hair to pull him closer. “I could not have it with Henry because it was never possible. I’ve found it with you.”

The ruler’s heart hummed an amatory hymn of life. “Wife?”

Nymphs of marriage whirled Queen Anne in a dance, spinning her in the imaginary chamber of fate. In the magical mirror of her destiny, she could now see her present and future more clearly than before – it was connected with François. Without him, her day would never be bright and sunny, and the sea of her emotions calm and benignant, while the air in her lungs would never be graced with the promise of endless summer. François was her heaven on earth and in eternity.

She recollected the prophecy of the English astrologer who had predicted Elizabeth’s golden reign. This woman had also said: “Two kings! One is your pain and ruin, the other is your joy and life.” Now these words echoed through Anne’s head like a bell of the Gospel truth.

I do love François, Anne realized with absolute certainty. He owns my heart. I must have fallen for him a while ago. Her feelings for her husband were not as tumultuous as those she had once had for Henry. They were as deep as a bottomless ocean, as tender as a child’s skin, soft and tinted like a rose petal, as full of lyrical tunes as Orpheus’ songs for his Eurydice were. Only the king’s smile could dispel the gathering gloom in Anne’s inner realm lest something tortured her.

The entwining of their fingers symbolized the communion of their souls. “I want us to hand-in-hand pass through our many days and nights, until the night of age comes. Together!”

He hoped to hear her confession. “I’m yearning to always be with you, Anne. The sun does not paint the heavens of my inner world with pinks and reds if we are apart.”

She cupped his face. “I love you, François.” His whisper was as tender as their love.   

“Anne,” he whispered as they parted. “You have made me so happy!  Now you look lovelier than a rose in its full bloom. Flowers are as unique as the world, and so is your soul.”

His wife grinned at him. “Your Most romantic Majesty exaggerates, as usual.”

“No, I don’t,” cried the monarch, feigning offense. “Your arrow of doubt has wounded me in the heart. My spouse denies me the right to compliment her, so I am now bleeding. Oh, Gods of Olympus, I’m a useless mortal if my Anne does not want to be with me!”

Her laugh was like a waterfall. “François, you are like a Greek orator who stepped on the stage with full confidence that he could move the crowd to tears or laughter.”

“I may demonstrate my talents in public speaking. I have two gifts, including a poem.”

Unutterable gladness was effervescent in their blood as he read his poem aloud.

The very sun steals down to rest

Within the hollow of your breast,

Your face gleams in the sunlight,

Your smile blossoms like heaven

As you unfold a letter from me,

All thrives, thaws the snow,

Wings carry away the shade,

  Peace and calm flow into me,

The tide brings them to my shore,

They are mine forevermore,

  They ebb not back like the sea.

My Anne, I’m the ocean of blue

       That worships the vivid high sky,

I’m the deep pond of all opaque

As I peer into the orbs of yours.

My hopes are heaven-high,

They are all fulfilled only in you.

I’m the pool of gold, I shine

 When sunset burns and dies

As you hug me forevermore.

Anne’s smile was luminescent. “It is amazing!  You are so talented!”

Her husband’s grin was infectious. “So are you in poetry. I have another gift.”

François went to his bedroom that was connected with his wife’s. He returned in a minute, with something, wrapped in blue velvet, clasped in his hand, and eased himself on the bed’s edge.

The queen unfolded and gasped at the sight of the most magnificent ring she had ever seen. It was a ruby, sapphire, and onyx ring with intricate fleur-de-lis and cross pattern in its design.

“It is stunning!” The ring fit her finger perfectly.

“It belonged to my mother, Anne. It was done for her upon my ascension.”

“I shall always wear it. It will give me strength in the most hopeless situations.”

“You speak like my mother. Let’s pray that our woes are over.”

The spouses kissed deeply and ardently, sealing their deep spiritual connection.

Soon Françoise brought Prince Jean to his parents. Princess Louise arrived with a sorrowful expression, for she had been told that her baby brother or sister had died. Accustomed to seeing her mother’s gladness at the birth of her siblings, the girl did not know how to behave.

“May I hold Jean?” Louise was quiet and somber.

Anne nodded. “Yes, but be careful, my dear.”

François placed his one-year-old son into his daughter’s arms. “Jean is sleeping.”

The girl muttered, “He will awake, unlike another baby.”

Letting out a sigh, the queen crossed herself. “My dear daughter, your sibling has gone to heaven. It is the Lord’s will, and you should pray for its soul as a dutiful sister.”

“I shall,” Louise pledged. “I’m a warrior. Could I not save it?”

“No, my brave Louise.” The king’s voice was laced with melancholy. “No one could.”

Anne locked her gaze with his. “I swear that I shall give you more children, François.”

Her spouse sighed. “It is not necessary. I shall not risk your life.”

Tossing discontentedly in her sister’s arms, the baby Jean wailed. As the child was returned into his mother’s warm comfort, he yawned sweetly and started suckling on his fingers.

Tears rolled down Anne’s cheeks. “Jean is not our last son.”

“Do not be obsessed, wife.” François did not like her mood.

Having spent an hour with the children, the queen retired to bed. Nevertheless, sleep did not approach her eyelids for hours. I shall give François more offspring. My dream of having at least three boys will materialize. At times, the queen imagined how her husband and she would play with them in the gardens of Fontainebleau, Blois, or Amboise, and how they would look like in adulthood. Anne always envisaged her boys resembling the Valois or Capets, never herself.

§§§

The morning sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky, and outside the city of Milan was busting with activity. Anne lay on the bed in the circle of her husband’s arms. The pain in her stomach had subsided a little, but it was still hurting deep inside her body. She dissolved into tears, feeling François stroke her hair lightly; the monarch rested on his side, his body pressed to her back.

The door to the antechamber was open, and the tunes of a dulcet French chanson reached their ears. As the ruler often took some of his favorite artists with him, the composer Claudin de Sermisy entertained the couple in Milan. Although Sermisy headed the choir of the Saint-Chapelle in Paris, he never refused his patron’s requests to accompany the monarch anywhere.

So long as I live at a flourishing age,

I will serve love’s powerful god,

Many times you left me languishing,

Since I have the love of a beautiful woman with a fine body.

An alliance with her

That is my pledge:

Her heart is mine,

Mine is hers,

Boo to sadness,

Since in love there is so much good.

Swallowing a sob, the queen murmured, “I adore Claudin de Sermisy’s works, and I’ve kept the songbook with his chansons since my adolescence. But at present, nothing is helping.”

The monarch kissed the nape of her neck. “There is a lot of goodness in love, wife. In my love for you, and in your feelings for me. Black days will pass, my dearest cousin.”

She slowly rolled over onto her back and glanced at him, tears shining in her brown pools. “I’m a Howard on my mother’s side. Princess Marguerite de France, a daughter of King Philippe the Third and his second wife, Queen Marguerite de Brabant, was an ancestress of the Howard family.” She touched her spouse’s face. “This monarch is your direct ancestor.”

He let out a smile. “Indeed, mon amour. You and I share ancestors starting from Philippe the Third of France, called the Bold, and down to Hugh Capet and Charlemagne.”

“So, we cannot be weak.” Her hand was caressing his features. “But we are very distantly related, which is almost negligible. I cannot even count the degree of our kinship.”

François was glad to see his consort feel better. “It is not necessary.”

Sermisy continued performing the chanson, and they listened in silence for a short while.

When with fine jewels want to decorate her name,

When I see her, and visit her often,

Envious people just murmur about it

But our love won’t therefore endure less;

So far or further will the wind carry it.

Despite envy

All my life

I will love her

And I will sing,

“She is the first

She is the last."

“I shall serve you for the rest of my life, mon amour,” the Knight-King vowed.

The queen kissed him on the nose. “Stay with me for the whole day, François.”

“I shall.” He shifted on the bed closer to his spouse.

Anne peered into his face that had an orange softness in the sunlight filtering through the windows. “Henry Tudor is your cousin through Catherine de Valois who married Owen Tudor after Henry the Sixth of England had died. I know what this ruler did to France and your ancestors during the Hundred Years’ War, so we will not discuss his ruthless and inequitable actions. That monster and you share ancestors starting from Charles the Fifth of France and down to Charlemagne, which allowed the English kings to claim that France belongs to them.”

The ruler’s countenance contorted in abhorrence. “Charlemagne would have been ashamed to have an evil descendant such as Henry Tudor. Once you asked me why no one in France would cancel the Salic Law: it is not only the ancient Merovingian tradition, but also the legal instrument to protect the country from civil wars and invasions.” His expression taut, he avouched, “Neither that Tudor tyrant nor any foreigner will ever rule our realm. Only the House of Valois – my Henri and our sons, or their descendants, or the Bourbon family if our male line goes extinct.”

“It will not happen. We already have two sons and will have more.”

“It is not necessary, wife. Let the Lord decide the fates of dynasties and thrones.”

Nodding, Anne said, “Monsieur de Sermisy, thank you; have a good day.”

From the distance, Sermisy’s voice responded, “Take care, Your Majesties, and God bless you both.” He then left the antechamber, and one of the queen’s maids closed the door.

The queen moved and flinched as a tide of slight pain lanced through her abdomen. The monarch grabbed from a bedside table a goblet full of herbs, which the physician had prescribed.

François propped his wife on the pillows and brought the goblet to her lips. “Drink it.”

Anne swallowed the tart liquid. “I don’t like it, but this concoction of herbs lessened the pain yesterday. The doctor explained that it is a mixture of calming and other herbs.”

He took the cup away as she drained it. “You will use it until you recover.”

Tears stung her eyes. “The baby… I want a large family with you, François.”

The ruler enfolded her into his arms. “Me too, Anne. However, I shall not risk your life.”

They were both in nightclothes, and François covered them with silk sheets. The King and Queen of France both drifted off to peaceful sleep in each other’s affectionate embrace.


June 15, 1541, Château de Pau, Béarn, kingdom of Navarre 

“My Henri,” purred Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly. “I want you so much.”

King Henri of Navarre was on fire with need. “I’m all yours, my Anne.”

Their mouths devouring each other, Anne unlaced his hose and reached down, stroking his manhood with her slender, long-nailed fingers. As a desperate moan erupted from Henri, she knelt in front of him and began alternately kissing, sucking, tonguing, and stroking his arousal.

Henri threw his head back. “You are so experienced.”

“Am I your Hedone, the Greek goddess of desire?”

“Yes, mon amour.” The duchess’ perfectly curved body was a sight to behold.

The Navarrese ruler carried his mistress to a bed draped in beige brocade, its canopy of white satin embroidered with the Albert green and golden arms. He entered her with a long, hard thrust, hankering release more desperately than the captain of a lost vessel strives to find the right path at sea. As he set the rampageous rhythm of their ride, she arched into his hips in boneless delight.

She let out a whimpering noise. “You are mine, only mine!”

He took her breast into his palm and squeezed it. “My heart belongs to you.”

Her mind drifted to the French king. “Do you love me more than François did?”

“Of course.” He thrust into her more deeply. “We have been lovers for years.”

Anne’s legs enfolded the monarch’s waist in her prurient grasp. Henri pounded into her with feral strokes, their heated skin slapping together in a sharp, staccato rhythm. The lovers pawed and clawed, moaned, tossed, and scratched, his hands grabbing fistfuls of her nightshirt, until he tore the garment from the front. He was pushing his mistress higher and faster, and with the first wave of pinnacle, Anne locked her legs around his hips more tightly, utterly chaining him to her.

“Henri,” she called breathlessly. “You are my Pan.”

Henri kissed his mistress ardently. “I love you, Anne!”

His body clenched as he thrust into Anne de Pisseleu one last time. His release into her was hot and plentiful, then Henri fell onto her limply, his eyes closed, his breathing erratic. She clung to him, her breasts flattening against his chest and her hard nipples poking into him.

As the Duchess d’Étampes rested exhausted and satisfied. “I feel so good.”

Henri was slowly emerging from a haze of lust. “You have beautiful breasts.”

His voice, low and hoarse, caused a lascivious ache in her belly. “Complimenting me is not going to make up for the fact that you have not acknowledged our son yet.”

His hand snaked around her waist possessively. “I’ll do it, my Hedona. Our Arnaud is my only surviving son. I want him to bear my name. Soon everyone will know about him.”

My Arnaud and Charlotte, Anne de Pisseleu enthused silently. I’ll never stop thanking God for giving me my miraculous children. She had no clue as to why she had never conceived during her long-term affair with King François. Anne had been certain of her bareness until she had found herself pregnant with Charlotte, the only posthumous child of Prince Charles, Duke d’Orléans. When Anne and Henri of Navarre had renewed their affair, she had quickly conceived again.

Wishing to be with her lover, Anne de Pisseleu had eagerly moved to Béarn from her estates. The lovers no longer concealed their affair, knowing that Queen Marguerite of Navarre must have learned about their public cohabitation at the Navarrese court in Pau. Anne had confessed to Henri about her daughter with the late Prince Charles, and they had kept the existence of the girl secret.

An adorable grin crossed Anne’s countenance. “François does not acknowledge his bastards, even though he sired quite many. You are a better man than him.”

He rested his head on her bosom. “Don’t complain that François is a bad lover. I shall never believe that.” He nibbled on her jaw. “I want you to forget him and the past.”

“Henri, I had other lovers, your brother-in-law among them. For years, I craved to be with François with a fanatical fervor, for I was captivated by his artistic and irresistible charms. He indulged me like a goodness. Years elapsed, and I enjoyed the power François permitted me to wield. But then he discarded me, and now I know that it was for the better.”

“Go on.” His tongue licked away the drop of sweat sliding down the skin of her neck.

Anne de Pisseleu cupped his face. “Henri, no one has ever dedicated his heart to me. No man, save you. I can see this clearly now, just as I know that François never loved me as much as I had adored him until my feelings for him were superseded by my affection for you.”

“I’m the happiest man, then.” He nuzzled his face into her blonde hair.

Moaning from his caresses, the duchess supplied, “Only in your arms, I feel the embrace of freedom in a thousand ways. You have colored my entire life in various hues. I shall never shut the doors of my senses because I feel the fragrance of heavenly contentment with you. The currents of your love wash over my body and enliven it with life. I feel like a woman worshipped!”  

Henri tangled his hands into her hair, tipping her head back, his mouth finding hers in a searing kiss. “Anne, you are so vivid, so gorgeous, and too passionately alive in body and mind. Your spirit is stronger than mine, and without you, I’m the most maimed man.”

“And Marguerite?” She inhaled sharply at the feel of his erection against her hip.

The King of Navarre breathed out a sigh through his pursed lips. “I loved Margot once. But she chose her brother and the French court over Navarre. Over time, I fell for you.”

“I love our son so much.” They both dotted on their little boy.

Henri was sucking her earlobe. “Our desires ripen into fruits of love." 

“I want more children with you, Henri. A boy and a girl, perhaps more.”

“Another son with your eyes and hair. And a girl as beautiful as her mother.”

Like a wheel of fortune, the world was spinning as they coupled vehemently. The declining, wan moon and the lightening sky, flaked with ghostly clouds, witnessed their union.

§§§

Her countenance impenetrable, Queen Marguerite of Navarre struggled to compose herself. Although she had learned about her husband’s affair with Anne de Pisseleu several months ago, her emotions boiled and whirled violently inside her. Yet, she held her head high, and the grandeur of her promenading gait was apparent to those courtiers whom she encountered in the hallways.

“Everything will be all right,” soothed Anne de Vivonne, Baroness de Bordeilles. She was Marguerite’s favorite lady-in-waiting and her close friend. “You shall cope, Your Majesty.”

“I shall,” pledged the Navarrese queen. “Perhaps the pitiful stares of all these people are the most difficult thing to endure. I’ve already ripped my feelings for Henri out of my heart.”

Anne de Vivonne doubted that. “I pray that you are right.”

As they halted near the royal quarters, the sentinels crossed the spears in front of her.

An exasperated Marguerite glared at them. “Let me in!  I’m the Queen of Navarre!”

The guards were aware that the king’s mistress lived with him, just as the whole court was.

Marguerite raised her voice. “Your heads will be on the spikes if you don’t move aside.”

“Obey Her Majesty,” her lady barked. The terrified men complied.

“Go to little Charlotte. I’ll be back soon.” Marguerite opened the door and entered.

The fragrance of a piquant perfume hit her nostrils. That singular violet scent that the French and Navarrese nobles associated with the Duchess d’Étampes!  Her husband’s paramour was in the same room where Marguerite and Henri had conceived their daughter Jeanne and their late son Jean. Marguerite pulled herself together and strode into the depths of the king’s quarters.

Everything was as Marguerite remembered. The wallpaper was scrolled in gold and silver filigree, and two walls were frescoed with scenes from medieval romances. The mahogany furniture was scattered around the space atop fine, Aubusson carpets. The plafond portrayed King Henri of Navarre and his vanquished enemies kneeling at his feet. Floral scents from the roses in vases were punctuated with the musky smell of lovemaking, still hanging in the air.

“Damn you, Henri,” Marguerite cursed, but then she berated herself.

The queen passed through the living quarters and approached the bedroom. The door was half open, and her soul writhed in agony as she observed Henri and his paramour with their infant son. The lovers sat on the bed, cooing over the baby boy, their faces tinged with contentment.

Anne cradled her son. “Motherhood is so sentimentalized and romanticized in our culture. Yet, many women say it is the unending responsibility that the parents will feel forever.”

Henri kissed the baby’s forehead. “Maybe women feel so in large families, like the family Queen Claude had with François and like the one Queen Anne is now creating with him.”

The mention of her former rival’s offspring with François did not sent Anne over the edge. “When we are surrounded by a brood of our children, each passionate and smart, I shall never regret having them. They will be noisy, but I’ll play wild games with them.”

His grin was broad. “Mon amour, you are already feeding our son. I was shocked when you rejected the idea of finding a wet nurse, but I can see how happy it makes you.”

She laughed as the baby giggled and held his palm out. “Arnaud, you are possessive from such a young age!  What do you want?  I fed you an hour ago.”

Henri admired the delicacy of the infant’s face. “He is the greatest marvel in the world.”

Marguerite’s heart swooped. On the day of her son Jean’s birth, the Albert spouses had been festive, and Henri had professed his undying love for her. With Jean and Jeanne in the Navarrese royal cradle, Marguerite had reveled in their marital life. So strong had been her faith in the never-ending happiness that she had dedicated her essence to her husband and their offspring. But then Jean had passed away, and the winds of tragedy had blown away Marguerite’s delight.

Years ago, Marguerite had entered into matrimony with Henri d’Albert. Despite their eight-year difference, she had been lovely, of great pedigree and dignity, of remarkable intelligence that her second husband, unlike her first spouse – the late Charles de Valois, Duke d’Alençon – had valued a lot. While having lived in Navarre for a short time, he had taken her counsel and let her rule alongside him, knowing how much good Marguerite had done for France.

Despite her unfortunate first marriage, she had still interposed a rose-colored glass between her eyes and her actual experiences. Marguerite had suspected that Henri had enjoyed the services of some noblewomen and whores, but he would not have dared seduce her own ladies out of fear to enrage his formidable wife and her powerful brother. Despondent because of the lack of rapport between them, Marguerite had desperately clung to the idea of Henri’s eternal love for her.

After Jean’s death, Henri had not voiced his disappointment because of Marguerite’s failure to produce his male progeny. However, any ruler yearned to have a male successor to prove his virility and to ensure the realm’s stability after his death. Margot had attempted to give him a male heir, but her pregnancies had ended in miscarriages, just as it had happened in her marriage to Alençon. For so long, I did not wish to see evident things. For years, Henri slept with Anne de Pisseleu behind my back. Another woman birthed my husband’s son, and I lost his love.

Unable to tolerate it anymore, Marguerite stepped into the room. “Some say that intellectual passion obliterates sensuality, but you are an exception, Madame d’Étampes.”

Anne’s mouth was hanging open in horror. “Your Majesty…  I…” 

Henri veered his scrutiny to his wife. “Marguerite!  What are you doing here?”

The queen discerned no trace of shame on her spouse’s countenance. “I come as I please. I’m still the queen of this country. Or do you intend to have your mistress crowned?”

“Don’t be acrid, Margot.” The sight of his wife standing in the shadows, anguish slashing across her still smooth features with very few winkles, would haunt Henri for days.

“You have lost the right to call me so,” Marguerite snarled, now with stony calmness.

The queen’s gaze lingered on the bed with messy sheets, and then flitted to pillows on the floor. The king sighed: he and his mistress were lucky to be dressed. An embarrassed and terrified Anne snuggled closer under the sheets, clutching the infant closer to herself.

Marguerite laughed as Anne blushed to the roots of her hair. “Messalina will always find another royal lover after one king discards her. Congratulations, Madame d’Étampes!”

“I did not want to hurt anyone.” The duchess lowered her eyes to the sleeping child.

“What a family scene!” The Queen of Navarre gestured around. “You look like two doves with their nestling. Only that your Arnaud will never be King of Navarre.”

Henri strolled towards his wife. “I’ve never said that he will.”

“Do not come anywhere near me,” his wife articulated with disdain.

The ruler stepped away. “Marguerite, you have appeared in Pau for the first time in the past five years. Do you really believe that I should have existed in celibacy?  You prefer to live in France, and I accepted it years ago. You made your choices, and I made mine.”

Marguerite measured him with a chilly glare. “It is not about us, Henri. It is about the little girl who is awaiting me in my chariot. We will soon depart to Fontainebleau.”

The ruler grumbled, “What are you implying?”

Anne’s sobbing intruded into their argument. “How did you learn about Charlotte?”  

The Navarrese queen leered at her brother’s former paramour. “Your sister finally did the right thing and told us everything. Not Péronne – Louise. Youths are talkative.”

“Don’t take away my daughter,” the duchess beseeched.

“It is my brother’s order,” Marguerite snapped. “François and I are aware of your one-night stand with my nephew, Charles. We rejoiced that Charles left a daughter. We will raise her with François and Anne’s children. She will have many playmates and will be taken care of.”

“No!  You cannot take her away!” Anne de Pisseleu had never looked more miserable.

A gloomy Henri went to the bed. “Anne, we cannot disobey.”

Marguerite felt ire with herself brewing in her chest. She should not pity this woman!  After years of childbearing silence, Anne had birthed a daughter, so it must be horrible for her to lose the girl. Nevertheless, Margot yeaned to hurt the trollop who had conquered her husband. I want that Pisseleu whore to drown in tears, just as I did when I learned about Henri’s shameful romance with my brother’s former mistress. Little Charlotte is a Valois, so her place is with us.

Henri eyed the ancient tapestry, which Jeanne I de Navarre, his ancestress, had sewn a few centuries ago. “What about our daughter?  When will I see her?”

His wife nodded. “Come to France, and we shall discuss our situation. As you know, Jeanne is at Saint-Germain-en-Laye together with my brother’s children.”

“Can I take her to Navarre?” He already knew the answer, but still asked.

Marguerite contained her rage with effort. “You can visit Jeanne, but she will live with me.”

“I’ll come from time to time.” Henri’s conciliatory tone surprised his wife.

A tearful Anne implored, “Please, let me say goodbye to my daughter.”

Cruelty and kindness vied in Marguerite, and the former won. “You had enough time with Charlotte while you kept her away from François and me. I bid you a good day.”

Swiveling gracefully, the queen swept out of the apartments.

“Don’t let Marguerite go!” the duchess wailed. “Please, stop her!”

Henri felt guilty. “Mon amour, we cannot go against François’ order.”

Gulping sobs wracked his paramour’s frame. “The loss is too great!”

The baby wailed, and Henri took the infant into his arms, cradling. “I’m sorry.”

A wave of dizziness assailed Anne de Pisseleu. As she vomited the contents of her stomach onto the floor, the realization dawned upon her. “I must be pregnant again.”

The King of Navarre rocked the still fussing child. “That is wonderful news, Anne.”

Meanwhile, Marguerite sauntered through the château, her posture more regal than before. Everyone stared at her in anticipation that she would crumble like a dam in a flood, but their stares did not faze her. The court of Navarre was not nearly as lavish as the Valois one, but Marguerite had introduced the French grander and sophistication into the life in the small Pyrenean kingdom.

In the great hall, the queen passed by the benches between the windows, the many-branched candelabra, the tubs in which trees grew, all made of silver. The frescoes had been commissioned by her and painted in accordance with her taste. Fabulous tapestries, family portraits, elaborate or ornate furniture, and many other amazing objects d’art – all these things had been bought for the palace by Marguerite during the best days of her life. Maybe I’ll never return here, will I? 

Many ‘H & M’ initials were present on the walls and ceilings here and there. Whenever she saw them, Marguerite inwardly howled with fury. A faintness at her heart did not disappear until she climbed into a chariot, swathed in cloth of silver, and eyed the brown-haired Charlotte with amber eyes who was in her lady’s embrace. Contemplating this girl of three summers, the queen redirected her thoughts to the late Prince Charles as the procession rode away from the castle.

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope you are all safe and a little cheerful in these difficult days.

François gets some news from Ercole d’Este, Duke of Ferrara, Modena, and Reggio. Who can Pope Paul III’s spies in England be? Could they commit the murders in the previous chapter? Renée of France, Duchess of Ferrara, will not appear in this AU, but Ercole plays an important role in the Italian wars.

Just as many reviewers predicted, Anne Boleyn had a miscarriage. Anne was pregnant four times in the past four years, and as she carried François’ children, she did not have miscarriages. Like my cousin, Athenais, I believe that Henry carried the rare Kell antigen in his blood (you may google it). Anne also had miscarriages in 1536 and 1534 during her marriage to Henry, and Elizabeth Tudor was born in 1533. No wonder her body could not sustain more strain.

It is not Anne and François’ last child; many queens had their last children at 42, 43, or even later, but Anne will not be pregnant every year – she needs some breathing space, and we cannot damage her health. Anne and François already have two sons. Anne and François were indeed distantly related via Marguerite de France, daughter of Philippe III of France and his second wife, Maria de Brabant. Moreover, Anne is also descended from Charlemagne on both paternal and maternal sides, and so is François (genealogy might be a tricky thing).

We hope that you liked the scene of Anne’s love confession to François. Do you like the romantic character arc for Anne? Anne and François have been married for over five years, so it was high time for her to realize that she had fallen in love with him some time ago. The romantic poem in this chapter was written by Athenais; the chanson indeed belongs to Claudin de Sermisy. Anne indeed had a songbook (it is now in the British Library) where she collected motets, chansons, and masses by Claudin de Sermisy and Clément Janequin.

Anne de Pisseleu returned to the story. She is now a mistress of King Henri II of Navarre, and they even have a son. Marguerite de Navarre… while we feel for her, it is understandable that Henri of Navarre could not live alone in celibacy while being estranged from his wife, Marguerite. Charlotte, Prince Charles’ only daughter, will be raised with the Valois children. Will the Duchess d’Étampes be allowed to see her daughter again?

VioletRoseLily and Athenais are co-writing the story called "Entwined by a Golden Alliance." Give it a try! We highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, Marina Ka-Fai, BubblyYork, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as BubblyYork, WhiteRoseQueen at FF, and Lady Plantagenet in the White Queen fandom at AO3.

A reminder: we made François 4 years (born in 1498) younger than he was in history to make his life longer and make his a coeval of Emperor Charles/Carlos V. So, Marguerite of Navarre is born not in 1492, but in 1496, while Henri d’Albert’s year of birth remains unchanged – 1503.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance and Lady Nature

Chapter 48: Chapter 47: A Poisoned Fountain

Notes:

Lady Perseverance is getting better and will be home in a few days, but the test is still positive.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 47: A Poisoned Fountain

August 20, 1541, Château d’Anet, near the town of Dreux, northwest of Chartres, France

“I have a daughter!” Dauphin Henri effused. “My beloved girl with my Diane!”

Diane de Poitiers was still abed after the labor. “Can we name her after me?”

Henri laughed. “Yes, of course, ma chérie. I’ll do for you whatever you want!”

Blithesome spirits soared in the apartments of the dauphin’s mistress. Two hours ago, Diane had birthed a healthy baby girl despite being in her early forties. Nevertheless, Diane’s health was excellent, so she had carried the child to full term, although the delivery had been difficult. The midwife recommended that although Diane had her courses, they did not try for another child.

Motherhood allows you to soar like a bird, Diane ruminated with a radiant smile. Soar in tremendous exaltation! The births of my older daughters made me happy, but not as much as that of Henri’s babe. At present already adults, Françoise and Louise de Brézé had been born in 1515 and 1517, respectively. Due to her thirty-seven-year-old difference with the late Louis de Brézé, Seigneur d’Anet and Count de Maulevrier, Diane had not produced his other offspring.   

Years ago, Diane had hated the idea of such an old man begetting heirs with her. Yet, her father – Jean de Poitiers, Seigneur de Saint Vallier – had wanted his daughter to marry a powerful lord with royal blood. Having been Sénéchal of Normandy and Master of the Royal Hunt, Louis de Brézé was descended from Charlotte de Valois, the second daughter of King Charles VII with his beloved mistress, Agnès Sorel. Thus, Louis had been an ideal candidate for Diane’s spouse.

Despite the passage of time, Diane shuddered at the memories of her matrimonial existence. Louis had assumed that as her husband, he must have had total control over Diane as his wife, just as most men reckon. Louis had governed all the activities of his spouse, and Diane could not have even breathed freely without his permission. Even though the secret revolt had permeated every fiber of her being, she had suffered from his dictatorship and danced to his whims for years.

As beautiful as a goddess, Diane had never taken a lover during her matrimony. Louis had quirky tastes and fancies in the bedroom. Not an amorous man, he had slept with his wife rarely, but their couplings had been vigorous and frequently forceful. Louis could have ravaged her young body for hours, causing her an awful lot of discomfort. At times, he had compelled Diane to disguise herself in some costume and then slowly undress in front of him to increase his arousal.

Henri’s voice broke into Diane’s musings. “Our girl will be the apple of our eye.”

“She looks like me!” she observed. “My other daughters did not take after me.”

The happy father planted kisses onto the girl’s forehead. “Your daughters with Sénéchale de Brézé are pretty and have many admirers, but our girl will be more beautiful.”  

“Will you acknowledge her?” It worried Diane since she had learned of her condition.    

“I shall,” the dauphin pledged heartily. “His Majesty will preach fire and brimstone sermons. But he can do and say whatever he wants: I’ll act in accordance with my own will.”

She heaved a sigh. “The king was displeased with my pregnancy because he loathes me.”

Henri paced the room while cradling the newborn babe. “My father might be furious until Doomsday. I do not care what he thinks of our relationship.”

“You cannot quarrel with His Majesty. You are his heir apparent, but Prince Augustine and Prince Jean are close on your heels, and they might take your place.”

Henri returned to the bed and handed the fussing infant to Diane. As the girl felt her mother’s affectionate comfort, she smiled at her parents and drifted to a peaceful sleep.

He landed in an ornately carved chair by the bed. “As they were born, it was God’s will.”

His mistress gaped at him. “Don’t you feel any danger from them?”

Contrary to her expectations, the prince shook his head. “They are too small to pose threat to me. They are my brothers, not my rivals, and I love them with all my heart.”

“You have never seen them,” huffed an agitated Diane. “We left Blois three months before Augustine’s birth. Then that slut journeyed to Italy to our monarch, where Jean was later born. They returned from Milan only a month ago. You have not seen the king for over two years.”   

Dauphin Henri and Diane de Poitiers, as well as Dauphine Catherine had installed their own court at first at Château du Louvre in Paris and then at Château d’Anet, which was owned by the mistress. The main royal court in Blois had been ruled by Queen Marguerite of Navarre; she had acted as regent during the king’s absence. François’ angry letters to Henri had been ignored, for the dauphin had plunged into a whirl of merriment and enjoyments with his paramour.

“We will return to the Loire Valley as soon as you can travel, Diane.”

“Don’t move the thread of our conversation away from the most pressing issue, Henri.”

Henri’s brows knitted forbiddingly. “You encouraged my rivalry with my late brothers – Charles and François.” His voice trembled at the last words as grief washed over him. “I adore you, Diane, but I shall not let you plant seeds of enmity between me and my living brothers.”

His paramour was abashed. “Do you view them and their mother as your relatives?”   

“Definitely,” he stated with certainty, absolute and heartfelt. “I do not like that Queen Anne is a Lutheran, but I accepted her as the king’s wife. She has done no harm to France and aided my father to secure a valuable alliance with Duke Cosimo de’ Medici in Italy. Moreover, no one has seen her reading a heretical book, and she does not have a Protestant chaplain.”

“Her chaplain is a Catholic prelate with interest in new religious ideas.”

Henri was growing tired of this topic. “I wish Anne happiness with my father. I’ve grown up! She is our queen, ma chérie. You have to comprehend that we cannot change anything.”

“I must make you realize that her progeny poses a threat to your future.”

The dauphin leaned over the bed closer to his lover, his typically frigid countenance drawn into harsh lines of ire. “Madame, listen to me carefully. Get it into your head that Queen Anne and her children are my family. I have the most sincere intention to be a caring elder brother to Louise, Aimée, Augustine, Jean, and any of Anne’s future offspring with my father.”  

Diane recoiled from him. “Don’t be furious at me, Henri.”

“Do you understand me?” he ground out. “I shall not repeat again.”

His ferocity scared her. “Yes, I do.”

“Good.” The icy hardness in his expression melted. “You are warned, Diane.”

§§§

A moment later, Queen Marguerite of Navarre entered. Her gown of russet silk, embroidered with silver and gold thread, stressed a thick regal air about her. As her gaze rested on the infant in Diane’s arms, a grin curled her mouth, but as she glanced at the baby’s mother, it vanished.

Jeanne d’Angoulême and Françoise de Longwy, her daughter and the wife of Admiral de Brion, had arrived together with the monarch’s sister from Blois to visit Dauphin Henri.

Marguerite scanned the bedroom, where one of the most scandalous couples in Europe lived. It disgusted her that while residing in Diane’s château, Henri lived in her quarters instead of retiring to his own after their vehement nights. This is too much! François was such a libertine until he fell in love with Anne. Yet, he did not live with any of his paramours in his rooms. My brother shares rooms with Anne and rarely sleeps in his own quarters, but they are husband and wife. François does not touch Anne now due to the doctor’s prohibition, but they are inseparable.

Madame de Poitiers rested upon a huge, gilded bed with a canopy overhead of multicolored silk. The polished furniture, with inlays of precious stones, gold, and ivory, together with many priceless objects of vertu, shone like a flames of the lovers’ lechery. Created by Rosso Fiorentino’s skilled brush, six frescoes of the Goddess Diane contributed to the chamber’s grandeur. On one wall there was a stucco relief of Dauphin Henri on horseback clad like a Roman general.

A grinning Marguerite stopped near the bed. “My beloved nephew Henri! Now you know how much joy parenthood brings.” She added rigidly, “Congratulations, Madame.”

“Congratulations,” chorused Jeanne and Françoise awkwardly.

“My dearest Aunt Marguerite!” The dauphin’s expression evolved into a blooming bouquet of joy. “I cannot describe in words how exhilarated and proud I am.”

Diane managed a frosty smile. “The Lord has granted Henri and me a girl.”

Marguerite answered, “The child of any gender is God’s blessing.”

As he watched his daughter sleeping, Dauphin Henri gushed, “Especially for me! That Italian woman has failed to conceive for years, but Diane got pregnant and gifted me our little Diane.”

Although Anne’s sons had strengthened the French succession, Marguerite understood that the dauphin needed to have his own children. “Nephew, have you consulted a physician?”

The prince’s visage darkened. “They say that Catherine and I both are young and healthy.”

His aunt emphasized, “Then other doctors shall examine you and Catherine.”

“Do you want to hold our girl, Your Majesty?” Diane maneuvered the discourse away from the topic that was worrisome for them all. She herself hoped that Catherine was fertile.

“Yes. Was she named in your honor?” It was an easy guess for Marguerite.    

Diane nodded, while Henri passed the child to his aunt. He confirmed, “Of course.”

It disappointed Marguerite that the infant did not look like a Valois. A blue silk blanket with the Valois heraldry, in which the child was swaddled, matched her cerulean blue eyes. A tuft of blonde hair on the baby’s head attested to her paternal bonds with Madame de Poitiers. At least, little Diane is not as cold as her whorish mother. The girl will definitely be pretty, Margot mused.

“She resembles you, Madame,” commented Marguerite, rocking the baby.

Jubilation inundated Henri. “She is my dearest Diane’s miniature copy!”

“Indeed.” Marguerite handed the baby girl to her father.

This exchange amused the dauphin’s paramour. “Thank you for coming, Your Majesty.”

The Queen of Navarre said sarcastically, “Soon we will all return to the warmth of the Valois family from the cold of the Brézé abode. François will be delighted to see his granddaughter.”

Henri was offended. “Diane must be tired.”

“Rest well, Madame.” Without looking at her nephew’s mistress, Marguerite pivoted and told Jeanne and Françoise, “Ladies, now we can pay a visit to Madame la Dauphine.”

Henri and Diane cooed together over the sleeping infant for a long time. The new father could not tear himself away from their side. No quarrels occurred between the lovers.

§§§

Dauphine Catherine de’ Medici raced along the garden paths towards the domed chapel. The white stone edifice was an architectural gem, but crestfallen tears misted her vision. The oratory’s ornamental and stunning interior was made by the best artists of King François’ epoch.

She flung the doors open and sprinted across the nave. Catherine collapsed to her knees in front of the altar and burst into gut-wrenching sobs. Her heart was in tatters, her very soul burned to cinders, her spiritual calmness terminated by the birth of Diane’s daughter.

“My God,” rasped Catherine. “Why did Henri’s courtesan have a child? Why not me?”

I do hate Diane and the entire universe. For the first time, the sacrilegious doubt of the Creator’s existence is sneaking into my heart. Does the Lord exist if He gives a baby to the wanton woman while denying me the greatest wish of my whole life? Why don’t you see my patient face of suffering and hear my beseeching voice when I kneel in my rooms twice a day and pray?

“I’m a blasphemer,” the dauphine berated herself. “My Lord, forgive your foolish servant!”

Maddalena Bonajusti entered the chapel. “At times, we might doubt God and His will.”

Catherine recognized the voice of her favorite lady-in-waiting. “Has it happened to you?”

“Yes.” Maddalena knelt on the floor beside her mistress. “Especially when I look at your ungrateful husband. Your Highness loves Dauphin Henri more than life itself. You would have died a million gruesome deaths for him. Yet, he shrinks away from you, as if you were a leper.”  

“I don’t understand Henri’s lunatic adoration for his strumpet. I’m not as beautiful as Diane, but I’m far younger. Together we could have compelled the world to kneel to us.”

Maddalena’s heart ached, for she pitied the princess. “Your spouse would eagerly accept the advances of a stranger. Perhaps it is so because he was forced into this marriage.”

Catherine’s sobs receded into the focused expression of someone trying to make sense of the cruel world. “I asked him this question many times, but Henri never responded. A year after our wedding in Marseilles in 1533, I appeared in his quarters with the childlike confidence that one candid conversation can resolve our differences. Diane and he were not lovers at the time: she was his governess, and he often invited her to play cards and speak. Before he dismissed her, I glimpsed Henri’s heated gaze directed at her, and it was when I began suspecting the truth.”     

“What happened during that visit, Your Highness?”

“Henri was reserved, but he endeavored to be a gentleman – we spoke for the whole evening. I did my best to let him see myself in a clear light, unstained by evil back then. I told Henri of my orphaned childhood in Florence when I was raised by my aunt, Clarice de’ Medici, and of my loneliness. In a year after this, I allied with Diane to destroy the late Dauphin François.”

After a pause, the dauphine continued, “My husband asked me about the time when I lived at the Palazzo Medici. The Florentine people called me their duchessina. Henri was interested in the majestic art collection of my ancestors and in particular in Lorenzo de' Medici Il Magnifico. I enlightened him how I was taken hostage after the Medici had been overthrown in 1527.”   

“I remember their abhorrent shouts…”  Maddalena’s voice thinned like smoke in a gale.

“The fickle mob and soldiers wanted me, a great-granddaughter of the great Il Magnifico, dead.”

Kill that little Medici girl! Have that damned duchessina displayed naked to all of us! The Medici have always been tyrants! Let’s show their whore how the free people of Florence crush their oppressors. Beat her to death, stab her, and have her body chained to the city walls.

Images slithered back into the memories of Catherine and Maddalena. In 1527, the Medici had been deposed by Cardinal Silvio Passerini’s faction, which had opposed the young Ippolito de’ Medici, who had been made Duke of Florence by Pope Clement VII. As the chaos had broken out, together with Maddalena Bonajusti and Lucrezia Cavalcanti, Catherine had been almost killed in several abbeys. The furious mob had breached their sanctuary, but they had escaped.

Later, Catherine and her friends had enjoyed three years of peace in the convent Santissima Annuziata delle Murate. When Emperor Carlos had besieged Florence, having responded to Pope Clement’s call for help, clouds of dreadful hostility had encompassed the minds of the Florentines – they had demanded Catherine’s murder. Perhaps the folk’s revulsion towards the Medici family had only been stronger when Piero di Lorenzo de’ Medici, known as the Unfortunate, had been evicted from the city in 1492, following his father’s demise two years earlier.

One day, soldiers had infiltrated into the convent and violated the abbess, nuns, and Lucrezia. One of them had been close to raping Catherine. Just as the devil had pushed himself between her legs, Maddalena had stabbed the man from the back. Then Catherine had snatched away a dagger from the scum’s belt and slit his throat. In several hours, the Imperial troops had rescued them.

“You saved me from that rascal,” the dauphine recalled. “You, Maddalena!”

“I only started the deed. You finished it, Madonna Caterina.”

The three girls – Catherine, Maddalena, and Lucrezia – had gathered near the corpse. They had vowed on that rascal’s blood to always support and protect each other. Since then, they were sisters-in-bloody-arms, comrades in affliction and conspirators weaving their web of intrigues.

The dauphine surveyed the statue of the Virgin. “It was the last time when Henri and I talked as spouses. I attempted to become an incarnation of purity in his eyes, to show the contrast between most women and me, his wife – an innocent girl who suffered a lot in her short life. Although Henri languished in Spanish captivity, he did not see a kindred spirit in me.”

“Your husband is short-sighted, Madame.”

“I’m no longer innocent. My soul is tainted with the blood of his two brothers.”

Maddalena shifted on the floor. “Nobody remains unblemished forever. You did bad things for Dauphin Henri because you want him to become an illustrious King of France. Diane’s hands are also besmirched with the blood of his both siblings; so are mine and Lucrezia’s. Montecuccoli is our comrade-in-bloody-arms as well. If we had not poisoned Dauphin François, your husband would still have been Duke d’Orléans. If Prince Charles had been alive, then King François could have excluded Henri from the line of succession so as to make his favorite son his heir.”

They glanced around to ensure that they were alone. The chapel was empty.

Catherine stared at the fresco of Jesus Christ’s Annunciation. “I do swear by all that I hold dear, and by my eternal soul that I shall destroy anyone who will try to take the French throne from Henri. One day, he and I will rule this magnificent country, and if we cannot do so, our descendants will.” Her drastic voice expressed her fanatical determination vindictively and zealously.   

If necessary, they would burn Paris to conquer it for Catherine and to purge French soul from heresy, just as the Roman Emperor Nero had set a great fire of Rome centuries earlier.    


September 19, 1541, Château d’Anet, the town of Dreux, northwest of Chartres, France

The afternoon sun blazed down onto the elegant château, which had been built upon the foundations and cellar vaults of a castle, dismantled by King Charles V of France. The lush greenery in the park, beautiful and verdant, basked in the sun's warmth, its light glinting off every leaf and every flower. The cicadas and the birds were so loud that the air seemed to vibrate with their songs.

Four women sat in an arbor surrounded by beds of roses, magnolia, and begonias. The arbor was covered with thick gnarled vines, sprinkled with violet flowers shaped like miniature bugles.

“I’m most happy to be home!” cried an exalted Jeanne d’Angoulême. “France is golden!”  

Her daughter, Françoise de Longwy, twittered festively, “France is far better than any other country. It is a more cultured and brilliant place than any other kingdom on earth.”    

Jeanne gazed at the Navarrese queen. “All thanks to our sovereign and Your Majesty.”

Marguerite glanced between her relatives. “All your woes remained in the past.”

Françoise exclaimed, “God bless my uncle King François!”

Queen Marguerite and her companions had already spent several weeks here.

I’m glad that François pardoned Jeanne, Marguerite mused. Their half-sister’s treachery had hurt them deeply, like a knife stabbing into their chests. Neither François nor Marguerite were capable of harming their relatives unless they had to resort to such extreme measures. Yet, Jeanne’s work in Italy as France’s double agent had assisted them in defeating the Bishop of Rome.

Dauphine Catherine de’ Medici was absorbed in her thoughts. She surveyed the stunning Italianate parterre gardens, the first ones in France in this style, and then stared into space.

Marguerite’s scrutiny swiveled to the Dauphine of France. “Catherine, all will be well.”

Immediately, Françoise and Jeanne tactfully lapsed into silence.

“Henri does not think so.” There was an air of melancholy about Catherine.

The Queen of Navarre took the dauphine’s hand in hers gently. “Your Highness, you are so young and have a life ahead. What does not kill us makes us stronger and wiser. You should give your thanks to the Lord for letting you grow spiritually and develop stamina through sacrifices, trials, and tribulations. I can see the strength and courage inside you, so act resolutely!”

The Dauphine of France flashed a wan smile. “Perhaps my life will be long, Your Majesty, but it will be unhappy. If God is all-seeing and knows the future, then Adam and Eve were doomed from the start, just as Henri and I were because he fell for Diane soon after our wedding. I did not know that at first. But how could Adam and Eve not have eaten from the forbidden tree?”

In the voice of a philosopher and theologian, Marguerite responded, “The Almighty knew what would transpire in Eden between Adam and Eve. He could have put the tree of the knowledge of good and evil in a place where Adam and Eve could not reach it, but He did not. Why?”

In a similar tone, Catherine speculated, “A serpent crept into Eden and slyly revealed why the Lord did not want them to partake from the tree. A tempted Eve ate from it, and so did Adam. Afterwards, they lost their childlike innocence, becoming aware of their nakedness. Their desire for one another made them man and wife, and soon Eve birthed her first son, Cain.”  

Marguerite continued, “God sent the serpent on purpose. If not for the snake, none of Adam and Eve’s children would have been born, and mankind would not have existed.”

Catherine’s sigh was so deep that her body shuddered. “This biblical Eden story illustrates that human existence is merely an exile from a world of divine perfection.”

“Nobody is perfect,” the Navarrese queen emphasized. “Neither Henri nor you, Catherine. Imagine that Diane is the serpent sent by the Creator to test your strength and resilience. Just as the serpent helped Adam and Eve become spouses, Diane might assist you and Henri.”

Catherine bristled, “Do you mean that she will stand forever between us?”   

“I know not, Catherine. Unfortunately, Henri adores her, so he will not abandon her. At least not now. He has lost his faith in your procreative ability. Now only Diane may convince him to continue visiting competent physicians and trying for a child; neither François nor I will be able to do it. So, you have to accept it and let her play the role of the biblical serpent in your life.”

Catherine’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears. “I’m so tired.”

Marguerite caressed her cheek. “I know, my girl. However, you can become a survivor only if you are tested by trials and tribulations. Henri is your Adam, and you are his Eve, and if it is the Almighty’s will, then Diane will not be your serpent forever or for some time.”

“I’ll be strong,” promised Henri’s spouse. “I’ll do as you suggest.”

Marguerite planted a kiss on the dauphine’s forehead. “God bless you, my dear.”

The Queen of Navarre stood up. Françoise and Jeanne followed suit.

“Stay with me,” Catherine requested imploringly. “I don’t want to be alone.”

At Marguerite’s nod, Jeanne and Françoise curtsied to her and settled back onto the bench. Her head high and regal as always, Marguerite glided away with the grace of a gazelle.

While sauntering towards the castle, Marguerite examined her surroundings. She had been here together with her late mother, Louise de Savoy, in the lifetime of Louis de Brézé.

Since the beginning of Diane’s liaison with the dauphin, the castle’s roofs, chimneys, façade, and courtyards had been altered. Italianate ornaments had been added to the building, which had been enlarged and now boasted several loggias. The château’s exterior was especially notable because of the statues of Diane de Poitiers as the goddess of hunt, by Jean Goujon, and the relief by Benvenuto Cellini over the portal. In the park, tree-lined avenues had been laid out, while the planting of labyrinths, hedges, and bosky retreats had created a romantic glow all around.   

Henri is extremely generous to his lover, the Queen of Navarre fumed in her mind. Diane is rich, but my nephew financed most of the reconstruction. Unbidden, grievous thoughts of her own adulterous husband, Henri d’Albert, resurfaced. Would her Navarrese spouse have their castle in Pau, which had once been their sanctum, refurbished for his mistress, Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly? After learning about her spouse’s affair, Marguerite now pitied Catherine more than ever.

§§§

Jeanne and Françoise both empathized with the Dauphine of France. It was horrible that her husband’s older mistress had birthed his daughter, while Catherine struggled to get pregnant.

Jeanne attempted to console Catherine. “Your Highness, your husband will see, eventually, that Madame de Poitiers is more interested in his power and wealth than him as a man.”

“Dauphin Henri is a clever man,” Françoise stated. “As he matures over time, he will learn to distinguish between dignity and effrontery, modesty and wantonness.”

“From your mouth to God’s ear,” retorted Catherine drearily. Then she plastered a smile on her face. “Tell me about your adventures in Italy. I wish to know everything.”

Françoise grimaced. “I spent many months in Rome as the Pope’s hostage. Although I was treated well, I consider Pope Paul the vilest of all men who has ever stepped upon our earth.”

Jeanne supported her daughter. “I’m glad that I helped my brother François win the war.”

While the two women spoke about the Italian events, Catherine did not listen to them, yet always nodding. Instead, remembrances of her months spent with Henri and Diane under the same roof cascaded through her cognitive fields. At times, she smiled to feign her attention.

When they had tarried at Louvre, Henri and Diane had whirled in their dramatic spectacles of dissipation. Diane had commanded a series of fêtes to be arranged, and for numberless days, wine had flowed, and festivities had lasted until dawn. Every day there had been luxurious balls, masques, and merry promenades through Paris. Every night, Diane and Henri had allowed the dauphin’s gay young friends, who had flooded their court, to enjoy eccentric pleasures.

I understand why King François was so angry with Henri, Catherine speculated. It is all Diane’s detrimental influence. At the same time, that harlot tells him not to antagonize the king! Diane was using Henri’s power and riches to make her life as sumptuous and entertaining as possible, perhaps to compensate for the years of her misery with Louis de Brézé. If only Diane could be eliminated out of the picture, Catherine would have guided Henri to the right path.

While at Louvre, Catherine had befriended Princess Marguerite, the ruler’s daughter. Marguerite had been worried about her nuptials with Ferdinand von Habsburg, debating over arranged matrimony with Catherine. After Marguerite’s departure to Florence, the two women maintained correspondence, and Catherine was aware that now her husband’s sister now lived in Vienna. Her letters detailed and optimistic, Marguerite loved her life in Austria, and Catherine was glad for her. Marguerite had given birth to her first son with Ferdinand – Archduke Charles.

Soon they had relocated to Château d’Anet. The sacred temple of the two lovers, where they had consummated their romance on the grass in the same garden where Catherine was now. That confession had hit Catherine hard when an inebriated Henri had once come to her bed in the dead of night after another of their numerous parties. Nonetheless, Henri’s debauchery had dwindled abruptly once Diane’s pregnancy had been discovered, and he had sent all his friends away.

From the depths of her troubled consciousness, Catherine heard Jeanne speak. “While I was in Italy with the king, the Pope believed that I had stayed in France. Due to the siege, Allesandro Farnese could not communicate with anyone, including me, but he was certain that I had worked on his behalf in France. In the meantime, I did my best to deprive him of his few allies.”

Françoise laughed. “Mother, I could not have fantasized that you were a spy. Isolated from the world, I prayed every day that our liege lord would find a way to break me out of my prison. The Pope came to me several times, and even though he was civil, I loathed him incredibly. Then François sent the Duke of Ferrara to rescue me from the unholy man’s clutches.”   

Jeanne’s countenance turned troubled. “That horrible man deserves to burn in hell.”

Françoise tittered. “At present, Anne de Montmorency is ruling the city of Rome and the entire Papal States. This must have caused the villain’s ego to deflate – it must be hurting him.”

Jeanne was now pensive. “It would have been better if François and Ferdinand had convened the Conclave and had the nefarious villain of Rome deposed. He is still dangerous.”

Françoise noted, “Montmorency handles him as effectively as he does his sergeants.”

Jeanne asserted sulkily, “I do not doubt Montmorency’s talents, but I’m afraid that the Pope’s vile spirit is yearning to extract revenge upon François, our family, and France.”

“How can he, Mother?” Françoise watched a bird soar to one of the highest limbs of a tall elm and balance on a tiny branch. “The Chief Villain of Vatican was deserted by all his allies.”

Jeanne nodded. “When Farnese once sent an entreating letter to the viceroy of Naples, the French spies intercepted it. Later I wrote to the viceroy, identifying myself as Farnese’s spy and using my name; I apprised him of the Pope’s plea to remain neutral and not to antagonize anyone. The Spaniard believed me and did not send his divisions to try and lift the siege of Rome.”

Disgusted with their statements, Catherine submerged into her own musings once more. The fact that Diane had birthed her husband a daughter had twisted the dauphine’s heart with despair too enormous to describe. Her rival, who was far older, had birthed the fruit of her sinful amours with her husband while Catherine’s womb remained empty. Why? How was that possible? Was she barren? Yet, her astrologers had told her that she would have children in years to come.

I need a child urgently! Catherine de’ Medici wailed silently. A son who will be the copy of his father! Her life was something akin to a moonless night without dawn because there were no signs of pregnancy. Taking into account that the Boleyn witch and slattern had produced two sons, the ominous weight of her predicament became too heavy for her to bear. If only she could dispose of Anne and Diane, Catherine would have performed a Bacchic dance upon their graves.

Her Florentine astrologers – Cosimo and Lorenzo Ruggieri – had cautioned her against such misdeeds. Their predictions were that the murders of Queen Anne and King François at Catherine’s hands, as well as the end of Diane upon her orders would lead to the demise of Catherine herself and that of the Medici family. These prophecies were still ringing in the dauphine’s ears. No, she would not risk so much and would wait, taking their potions and herbs to conceive.

You are as barren as a winter’s landscape, as dry as famine. You are the winter of my soul, Catherine, the bane of my existence! Your Italian merchant ways do not arouse me in bed.

Dauphin Henri had heaped that cruel disparagement upon his wife because of his lover’s pregnancy. Since then, his wife was in the position of a starving woman looking enviously through a window with bars at a table full of convivial feasters, contemplating deplorably the happiness of Henri and Diane, while her heart wriggled under their atrocious punches. Catherine could not annihilate Diane because the mistress was her ally in their surreptitious stratagems.

The Italian accent of her loyal Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli jerked Catherine out of her reveries. “Your Highness and my ladies, do you want to refresh yourselves? It is so hot! The legend is that those women who drink from the fountain of the goddess Diane in the park will always be as lovely as Madame de Poitiers. Every female who visits the castle does it.”

Françoise de Longwy sprang to her feet. “Yes! I want to be young forever!”

Jeanne stood up. “Madame Diane does not age at all. She must have a secret.”

Montecuccoli stressed, “Madame de Poitiers drinks water from his fountain.”

“I’ll go with you.” The dauphine climbed to her feet as well.

They promenaded away from the arbor. The avenues were of white sand, with grassy by-ways on either side, bordered by iron railings and a blend of oaks, elms, and sycamore trees. Here and there were scattered star-shaped retreats, whose carpets of grass and moss were sprayed by murmuring fountains. Inside thickets and niches were placed statues and marble benches.

They stopped near a monumental fountain built by Philibert de L’Orme in honor of Diane de Poitiers. In the center of the fountain, the goddess Diana reclined on one arm around the neck of a stag holding up its head, accompanied by her greyhound and water spaniel.

Françoise marveled at the beauty in front of her. “What a stunning sculpture!”

Jeanne opined, “Madame Diane possesses not only prurient talents, but also knowledge of the arts. She has a stellar education, but she, however, lacks dignity and honor.”

Catherine cast an askance glance at Montecuccoli, who nodded at her conspiratorially.

The dauphine sighed. “I cannot disagree with you, ladies.”

Françoise labored to cheer Catherine up. “Let’s distract ourselves!”

“We should.” Something flickered in the bulging, hazel Medici eyes.

The mother and her daughter drank from the fountain and sat down beside it, laughing and chattering. Catherine and Montecuccoli observed the scene with flagitious satisfaction. The water splashing from the fountain, the almost blinding glare of the sun, and the serenity of the afternoon formed a picture worthy of Leonardo da Vinci’s or Michelangelo’s brush.   

Catherine’s scrutiny was glued to them. “If the sun possessed consciousness, it would think that it lived to give light to the worlds. Someone’s sun sets forever every day.”

After consuming water, Françoise’s gaze veered to her. “What, Your Highness?”

Jeanne’s lips were wet as she glanced at Catherine. “Maybe my aging form will morph into the ravishing, youthful body after this. Why are you not drinking, Madame?”

Catherine pressed a hand to her forehead, as though she were feeling faint. “I think the sun is too much for me. I’ll go to the floral room in the château and drink lots of cooled wine.”

Jeanne presumed, “Of course, Your Highness. You must be dehydrated.”

“Take care of yourself,” Françoise advised with concern.

In a minute, Catherine and Montecuccoli were already strolling through the park. In many places there were marble classical busts and marble benches, all of them inviting for repose.

The dauphine’s heart drummed against a ruby necklace upon her bosom, set off by a gown of white satin. “Destiny and chance! Two names for the same thing, each wholly unmanageable for fools, but not beyond the scope of intelligent human inventions. Not for us, Sebastiano!”   

Montecuccoli’s smirk was devilish. “Your and Madame Diane’s idea to poison the water in the fountain is amazing! Everyone who drinks it will die within a day or so. Many servants refresh themselves from the local fountains. As they will all have similar symptoms of the plague, doctors and others will be certain that they will die of this malady, not of our dear sweetest poison.”

A cloud of hatred encompassed Catherine. “His Holiness will be avenged. The time will come when they all shed tears of blood and despair for what they did to the Pope.”

“The Holy Father will be grateful to Your Highness and Madame de Poitiers.”

She balled her fists. “I wish that Diane had drunk the poisoned water, too.”

“Remember the astrologers’ prophecy,” Montecuccoli reminded.

Implacable adversity flashed in her eyes. “That is why Diane is alive. But predictions might change, and once she outlives her usefulness, she will drain the poisoned chalice of pain.”  

Arriving at a courtyard adorned with statues, they were met by Catherine’s most loyal ladies – Maddalena and Lucrezia. Their exchange of heinous sneers signaled that the two women, who had contributed to the Supreme Pontiff’s disgrace, would breathe their last soon.  

§§§

Their expressions jocund, Dauphin Henri and Queen Marguerite observed little Charlotte trying to play the lute. The toddler could barely hold the big lute in her small hands, which were not accustomed to holding such a musical instrument. Though shy and reticent, the child was stubborn and determined. Charlotte’s gown of white damask, embroidered with silver, accentuated her almond-shaped amber eyes, her brown-haired head, and her general dour attractiveness.

Marguerite chuckled. “My dearest Charlotte, you will not succeed.”

“I shall,” the girl persevered. “I’ll play better than others.”

A grin curved Henri’s mouth. “Only when you grow up, Charlotte.”

Charlotte performed the melodies which her mother, the Duchess d’Étampes, had played at the Navarrese court. However, her hand often slipped away from the instrument, and the strains of the lute sounded more like a broken harp. The interrupted rhythms made the melodies sound like a cacophony of sounds chasing one after another. Yet, the girl enjoyed the musical chaos.

“My mama plays so well,” lisped Charlotte. “Far better than me.”

Henri’s compassionate gaze flicked to his father’s sister. “Henri of Navarre is a blackguard. I’m sorry that he has hurt you so much, Aunt Margot. He has lost a jewel of France.”  

“My husband is a philanderer, just like most men are.” Marguerite smiled lamentably as she riposted, “But aren’t you doing the same to your own wife, my lewd nephew?”

The Queen of Navarre briefly examined the study. Like in other chambers, the wall hangings depicted the Goddess Diane, and the gilded furniture was of extraordinary richness. The tables had golden and marble tops, as well as ornaments in bronze and silver. Even the shelves stuffed with books are gilded. Henri is usually rather tight-fisted, but Diane encourages his profligacy.

“I shall not speak of it. Neither with you nor with my father.”  

“Very well, then.” Marguerite knew that her efforts to talk sense into the dauphin would be futile. “Tell me what you think of Charlotte. She does resemble our dear Charles.”

The dauphin’s heart tightened. “Apparently, the girl is a Valois! That long nose and those amber eyes attest to her origins. She has our saturnine complexion and facial features. In contrast to her outspoken late father, she is timid and quiet. Is she eccentric in some way?”

“Charlotte has a flair for drama. It becomes obvious when she is denied something she desires. I think that once she gets used to her new surroundings, she will be livelier.”

Henri watched the girl laugh as she started playing another spirited melody. “I’m delighted that my late brother sired a child, even though I’ve always loathed her mother.”

Charlotte interjected, “My mama is the best!”

Marguerite ignored it. “Charlotte is my and your father’s consolation.”

Henri turned his head away to brush away a tear so that his aunt did not see it. “I shall never recover from the loss of my two brothers. Their deaths left a large void in my heart.”

“Augustine and Jean,” the queen said. “They are bonny boys; Augustine is very precocious. You have never met them. Be a good older brother to them, and they will be your comfort.”

“I wish to see them,” he pronounced sincerely. “I’ll love them with all my heart; I already do. I want to participate in their upbringing and form strong bonds with them.”

Marguerite nodded. “François will welcome that. Anne will not mind at all.”

“And my sisters too!” he enthused with a grin. “I have four small siblings!”

The Queen of Navarre reveled in the display of Henri’s positive attitude towards Anne and François’ offspring. “You may have more siblings in the future, though not too soon.”

“Why?” Henri beheld Charlotte, but his thoughts were on the late Charles d’Orléans.  

His aunt explained, “Anne miscarried while in Milan. She needs much time to recover and live for herself. A woman cannot be always pregnant, or it will wear her out.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry for her and my father’s loss. At least, she is very fertile.”

Marguerite stepped to him, resting her hand upon his shoulder. “Nephew, François and I will hire the best physicians in Europe for you and Catherine. They will help her conceive.”

The prince muttered, “Only if Diane does not object.”

His aunt hated that he was under his mistress’ thumb. “Whatever it takes, Henri.”

“Did my father recognize Charlotte as his granddaughter?” Henri was aware that the king had bastards, although François usually did not acknowledge them for some reason.

“Yes, in Charles’ memory.” Marguerite grinned as the child began singing.

It meant that Henri would freely recognize his newborn natural daughter. “Aunt Marguerite, why hasn’t His Majesty ever acknowledged his illegitimate issue?”     

Marguerite divulged, “My parents did not have a happy marriage. My father, Count Charles d’Angoulême, had countless mistresses; he never loved my mother, although they were on good terms. When his lover Antoinette de Polignac, the mother of Jeanne d’Angoulême, birthed a son Étienne, he fell in love with the boy so insanely that he wanted to disinherit François, who was an infant back then. In a year, our father died, and later the baby Étienne passed away as well.”

Now the dauphin understood many things. “I never knew that. My grandmother must have told the king about it, so my father has always been afraid of rivalry.”

“Rivalry for the succession,” his aunt’s voice underlined. “And civil wars.”

“I can understand these terrors pretty well. If father had wanted or intended to disinherit me, I would always have lived in ghastly fear that one day, I would have to take up arms against my own brother in order to defend my birthright to become the King of France.”

“Such thoughts have never crossed François’ mind, Henri.”  

The dauphin had the decency to blush. “There were times when I thought that he would do this thing to me in order to make Charles his heir. I often doubted his love.”

“You have no reason to think so. Have you ever spoken to François like a son to his father?”  

His blush deepened. “Very rarely, but His Majesty is very dear to me.”

Marguerite recommended, “Then patch up your relationship with François.”

Henri smiled. “I shall do my best.” His aunt smiled back.

While conversing, they did not notice that there were no sounds of the lute anymore. 

“When will I see my mama?” Charlotte inquired. “I want to hug her!”   

Marguerite and François had decided that the child would not be returned to her mother. Charlotte could have been restored back to the Duchess d’Étampes if she had not dallied with Henri d’Albert, as François had said to Marguerite. My husband unintentionally deprived Anne de Pisseleu of the opportunity to raise Charlotte. Oh, my goodness! The slut was proclaimed the King of Navarre’s maîtresse-en-titre! The woman who slept with my brother for years!

The queen approached the toddler and snatched the lute away from her grasp. After putting the instrument onto a nearby table, she crouched to the girl’s level. “You may hug me.”

Charlotte went into Marguerite’s embrace. “I like you a lot.”

“And what about me?” The dauphin appeared next to them.

The girl looked up at him. “You are nice! You gave me cakes!”

Henri squatted down. “I love you, dear Charlotte, as much as I adored your father.”

Marguerite and Henri embraced the toddler together. The girl burst out laughing, her arms trying to encircle each of her relatives, but failing due to their short length.

In half an hour, the governess escorted Charlotte to the nursery.

The Valois relatives settled in matching gilded armchairs near a window. Outside, the sun was sinking behind the trees, whose leaves were turning yellow and orange.

The queen asked forthrightly, “What do you think of the Pope’s crimes?”

“I’m completely shocked.” The prince’s deathly pallor confirmed that. “I shall always be a Catholic. Unlike you, I’ve never been interested in new religious ideas. Yet, Pope Paul is guilty of my beloved brother’s death, and I’ll never forgive him. I also understand why my father waged war against him, and I realize why the king could not have deposed the villain without a damage to his reputation and without causing a great uproar in the whole of Christendom.”  

“The story of Farnese’s dramatic heart attack was twisted too much to taint François.”

“It is difficult for me. I need more time to process the information.”

“Of course.” She welcomed the fledging changes in her nephew’s views.

“Do you have any other news, Aunt Margot?”

The Queen of Navarre informed, “Many things happened during this period of my regency. A few months ago, Monsieur Jean-François Roberval, whom François named our first Lieutenant General of New France, sailed back to the northern lands of the New World, which France is now colonizing. Several fortified colonies are already built in what we call New France.”

Henri was torn between surprise and doubt. “I’ve never been interested in the New World. Are these overseas explorations useful? They must cost a lot of money for us.”

She nodded. “Your father and I invested a lot in these risky overseas expeditions. We firmly believe that there is a great potential in colonizing these unknown lands, as well as a lot of gold which, François and I hope, one of our men will discover during their voyagers.”

The prince recalled, “The Spaniards call their overseas territories the Indies.”

“Portugal and Spain both receive tons of gold from the New World. Under the rule of Emperor Carlos, earlier settlements in the Caribbean, particularly on Hispaniola and Cuba, were extended. Hernando Cortes and his conquistadores invaded the Aztec Empire in Mexico and then the Inca Empire. The gold shields and feathered cloaks, as well as the gold and silver found by Cortes – they were transported to Spain and then to Flanders where Carlos lived by in the 1520s.”

Henri commented, “The flow of money from these lands proved vital to finance Spain’s aggressive foreign policy. Yet, the Turks curbed their rapacious appetites for a while. However, we had to expel the Muslims from Italy, which was achieved by King Ferdinand; I reveled in the knowledge that the Spanish treasury was empty. Now they might pose a threat to us again.”

In the next moment, Anne de Vivonne flung the door open. She bobbed a curtsey and stood on the threshold, her eyes full of disquiet. “Madame Jeanne and her daughter exhibit symptoms of plague. Our physician examined them and says that their hours are numbered.”

Marguerite and Henri bounced to their feet and shouted, “What?”

The Queen of Navarre scurried over to the door. “Are you certain?”

“Yes.” Her lady tipped her head. “They must have been infected some time earlier.”

Henri regarded his aunt. “You must have brought it to the castle.”

A perturbed Marguerite screamed, “Henri! Take away Catherine, Diane, and your daughter from the château. Charlotte will remain with me for fear of contagion; we will leave separately.”  

His pallor deepened. “You do not look sick.”

“So far.” The queen sucked in her breath. “Escape! You must live! Nothing else matters!”

The dauphin dithered, then nodded. “Take care of yourself and Charlotte.”

§§§

The next hour was like a blur. Diane, Catherine, and their maids, as well as the infant Diane and Henri were separated from their guests. Marguerite was adamant that if they had brought the lethal pestilence with them, Henri must be protected from it at any cost. The dauphin oversaw the urgent preparations for their departure; no things were packed up out of fear that they could be infected. Soon many servants displayed symptoms of the plague, and chaos erupted.

Henri carried his daughter, followed by Diane and Catherine. They sped through the hallways, each overflowing with the riches of frescoes, gilded tables and armchairs, mosaics, marbles, vases of precious metals, golden chandeliers, branched candlesticks, vases. While Diane and Catherine laughed in their minds, Henri was a tangle of nerves, fright, and frustration.

In the central courtyard, the prince aided Diane to climb into a litter, and then handed the crying child to her. The area was overcrowded with the dauphin and his wife’s people.

Catherine pleaded, “Henri, let me travel with you.”

Her husband snapped, “No! Stay with the Count de Montecuccoli.”

The mistress inquired, “What about Queen Marguerite?”

Henri notified, “My aunt and the others have already departed separately.”

Catherine fought against a tide of sobs as the dauphin’s grand litter, swathed in cloth of gold with the Valois escutcheon, rode away drawn by four black and richly caparisoned palfreys.

“I’ll help Your Highness.” Montecuccoli extended his hand to the Medici princess.

“Nothing will make me smile.” Catherine climbed into their litter.

Maddalena Bonajusti and Lucrezia Cavalcanti stood near the dauphine’s litter.

“One word,” Maddalena began quietly, “and she will not see the next sunrise.”

Lucrezia’s eyes flared with animosity towards Diane. “Everything for you, Madame.”  

“I cannot,” Catherine moaned. “We are in the same boat because of our deals.”

The Florentine handmaidens then boarded into their own chariot.

The dauphine’s litter, draped in green brocade worked in gold thread, followed the prince’s. The procession of litters and chariots headed for Paris, running away from what they all considered the plague. At the same time, Jeanne and Françoise writhed in the throes of death agony.

Tears fogged Catherine’s vision. “All of our efforts are in vain.”

Montecuccoli objected, “We have disposed of the Pope’s two enemies, even though he has not ordered us to act. It seems that many servants drank from the poisoned fountain due to the heat. These idiots are certain that the plague has attacked them. It is so hilarious!”

Her heart tripped a beat. “Sebastiano, I mean my Henri, my husband.”

“Your Highness, I shall do anything for you. My fate is in your hands.”   

Tears blinded her. “Give me Henri’s love, but you cannot! So, keep silent!”  

As the château perished from their view, Catherine de’ Medici wept in the arms of Sebastiano de Montecuccoli. As her tears soaked his doublet, Montecuccoli hated Dauphin Henri for the first time in his life. He was in love with Catherine, so hopelessly and absolutely, despite his affairs with Lucrezia and other women. She would always suffer from her unrequired sentiments towards Henri; the count’s unreciprocated feelings enfettered Montecuccoli to Catherine until Doomsday.   

Notes:

Hello everyone! I hope you are all safe and a little cheerful in these difficult days.

Catherine de' Medici and her posse started killing. They poisoned Jeanne d'Angoulême, Countess de Bar-sur-Seine, and her daughter and the wife of Philippe de Chabot, Admiral de Brion – Françoise de Longwy. Wasn't it an elegant way to get rid of them by poisoning the water in the fountain and making it seem as if many people were dying of the plague? This was a murder in revenge for the siege of Rome; expect more murders for different reasons.

Dauphin Henri and Diane de Poitiers have a daughter. Remember Alexandre Dumas' novel 'The Two Dianas' (French: Les Deux Diane), where Diane and Henri had a daughter – also Diane. In history, Henri had a daughter with his Piedmontese mistress – Filippa Duci, and this girl was Diane, Duchess d'Angoulême. In this AU, Henri's firstborn child – Diane – is his and Diane de Poitiers' daughter. There were speculations that the real mother of little Diane was the dauphin's mistress who made her lover say that the girl was not her daughter in order not to blacken her reputation. Little Diane de Valois will have her own character arc.

Dauphin Henri has matured, and he will surprise you. He is actually one of my favorite characters in later chapters, and he does not have an easy character arc. Imagine what will happen when Henri learns the truth about his paramour and his wife… Henri will be a very good brother to his little siblings. I hope you liked his conversation with Marguerite de Navarre and little Charlotte, who also has her own character arc in this AU.

What Marguerite and Henri discuss about the explorations of the New World by the French and the Spanish is historically correct. Many Canadians do not even know that the explorers whose expeditions were financed by François discovered their country. In 1524, Giovanni da Verrazzano claimed Newfoundland for the French crown. In 1534, François sent Jacques Cartier to explore the St. Lawrence River in Quebec, Canada, where the French settlers began to arrive soon. In 1541, Jean-François de Roberval sailed to the New France and settled in Canada. The Spaniards and the Portuguese found more gold because they claimed more southern territories.

Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly became an official maîtresse-en-titre of King Henri II of Navarre. The trio of Marguerite, Anne, and Henri d'Albert have an interesting character arc. Jeanne d'Albert will not be disinherited, and in the previous chapter, Henri clearly stated it.

The story of Diane's miserable marriage with her husband, Louis de Brézé, is fictional, but the facts about their age difference, their children, and his background, are correct. The information about Château d'Anet, owned by Diane de Poitiers, is real. Google it – it is a beautiful place. Catherine's memories about her misfortunes in Florence are historically correct, save our idea that someone wanted to rape her and violated nuns and others in a convent – we do not know it.

VioletRoseLily and Athenais are co-writing the story called "Entwined by a Golden Alliance." Give it a try! We highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, Marina Ka-Fai, BubblyYork, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as BubblyYork, WhiteRoseQueen at FF, and Lady Plantagenet in the White Queen fandom at AO3.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance and Lady Nature

Chapter 49: Chapter 48: Royal Births

Notes:

We are sorry for the delay in updating this fiction, but we needed a pause after the severe harassment that several authors and I had to endure at FF. This story will now be updated only at AO3, and it was deleted from FF; my other Tudor stories are at AO3.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 48: Royal Births

January 19, 1544, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, France

On the Feast of the Epiphany, which is also called Three Kings’ Day, the visit of the Magi to the Christ child and, hence, Jesus’ physical manifestation to the Gentiles is commemorated.  This day brought the greatest joy to the whole of France – the birth of Dauphin Henri’s son. 

The bedchamber of Dauphine Catherine was crowded with the royal family. The flickering candles cast shadows onto the walls, frescoed with mythological allegories and grotesques. Unlike Queen Anne’s new quarters with the gilded interior, Catherine’s rooms contained elegant ebony furniture decorated with fanciful wooden patterns, to the dauphine’s well-concealed envy.

“I have a son!” Dauphin Henri cried in jubilation. “My son, my prince, my heir!”

His wife smiled brightly. “Our son will usher France into a glorious age!”

The radiant smile of Catherine de’ Medici matched the motherly glow in her hazel eyes. The rare tenderness, observed in them in these moments, created a halo of peculiar gentleness about her, transforming her ordinary features into more youthful and even more attractive countenance. From a bed hung with lilac-colored curtains of Sienese silk, Catherine beheld her ecstatic husband walk across her bedroom with their newborn son in his arms, rocking him slightly.

“May I hold my grandson?” the King of France inquired.

Henri approached the ruler. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

François held the child in his arms. “The baby boy has the Valois nose and cheekbones. I also see his Medici eyes, and he does not have our dark complexion.”

“He is a Valois,” Catherine emphasized.

François tipped his head. “Undoubtedly.”

“Congratulations, Henri,” the monarch gushed. “Parenthood is God’s blessing.”

“At last, we have a legitimate heir,” Queen Marguerite of Navarre proclaimed.

Queen Anne joined, “May your son’s babyhood be filled with lots of fun, love, and cuddles.”

François rocked the baby. The boy was rather small and frail, not as strong as his two sons with Anne had been in infanthood. The curious, brown Medici eyes and chubby cheeks belied any state of good health. François saw that his consort and sister shared his concerns.

The monarch’s gaze veered to his wife. “Are you tired, Anne?”

Anne acknowledged, “Yes. I’d like to retire.”

Henri was also concerned. “Your Majesty ought to take good care of yourself.”

“I shall.” Anne’s tight gown of mulberry brocade stressed her enlarged stomach.

François uttered, “Henri, name your son as you wish. He will be Duke of Brittany.”

“Thank you, Father.” Henri’s son would have the title of his deceased elder brother.  

The king handed the infant to the dauphin. “We shall see each other soon, son.”

“Most definitely.” Henri smiled heartily.

His hand wrapped around Anne’s expanding middle, François led his spouse out of the room. After another round of congratulations to the new parents, Marguerite followed them.

The day was descending to its close. Yesterday, Catherine had felt the first pains in the dead of night, and soon royal midwifes had arrived in her apartments. As it was her first child, her labor had progressed slowly, but steadily and without complications. Doctor Fernel had stayed in the antechamber all the time. After hours of contractions, Catherine had finally birthed a son.

Diane de Poitiers was not at Fontainebleau at the moment. Her elder daughter, Françoise de Brézé, had sickened, and now Diane tended to her in the estates of her husband, Robert IV de La Marck. Catherine hoped that her husband’s paramour would stay away from court.  

Catherine asked, “Henri, why is our son only the Duke of Brittany?”

Her husband touched the baby’s soft cheek. “What is wrong?”

She was not satisfied with the king’s decision. “Everything is fine.”

§§§

Dauphin Henri devoted the next hour to getting acquainted with his firstborn son. Admiring the sleeping child, he eased himself in an armchair at the other end of the chamber.   

He played the boy. “I’ll name my son in my older brother’s honor.”

“Why not Henri?” The reference to the late dauphin, who had been poisoned by her and Diane, unsettled Catherine. The dauphine was always running away from her memories.

“Why should I name my son so if my lost two beloved brothers so early? And I want my firstborn male heir to have our sovereign’s name, for father and I have become close.”

Catherine plunged into the abyss of her scarred soul. She was exhausted not only from the delivery, but also from her intense emotions: her heartache over Henri’s indifference to her, her envy to Diane loved by Henri and to Anne worshipped by François, and her perpetual terror that her secrets could be unveiled. Why is Henri so cruel that he refers to our boy as his son, not our son?

The dauphine pushed her anxiety behind the exterior of her facial blankness, but her features had lost their short-lived gentleness. “Now your siblings are in a better place.”   

“I did love my brothers – François and Charles,” he avouched with an air of profound dignity tinged with bottomless anguish. “Our next son, if we have him, will be named Charles.”

Once more, Catherine extricated herself from the harsh reality and retreated into her dreams. Fantasies about a loving husband and a brood of their offspring. Then hurtful memories wormed their way to the surface: King François and Queen Anne’s children playing outdoors on a summer day, and their parents laughing and playing with them. Catherine had last seen them at Blois where the court had spent the summer of 1543, and these visions tortured her like nothing else.

The dauphine flinched from the remembrance of Henri’s merry games with his three-year-old daughter Diane. Charlotte, the only child of the late Prince Charles, had often joined them. The royal children lived at Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye; the princes’ illegitimate progeny stayed at court. Catherine watched Diane’s happiness with her husband and their bastard every day.  

Why cannot I be content? Catherine’s soul wept. Scenes of her adolescence in Florence and of her joyful days at Pope Clement’s court in Rome, from which the remorseless fate had separated her years ago, blazed in her mind like a mirage in the sunshine. They were gone forever, and now only the pitch-black darkness with Catherine’s yearning for the French throne remained.

The dauphine broke the pause. “Should we settle for some original name?”

Henri planted a kiss on the child’s cheek. “Father and his wife select unusual names. No French prince was named Augustine before their firstborn son, but I like it a lot.”

A wave of monstrous rage lacerated the dauphine’s consciousness. It irked her to the core that the Queen of France was pregnant again. For more than two years after the end of the Italian campaign against Rome, there had been no sign of Anne’s pregnancy. Catherine had prayed that her sworn foe would never conceive again, but two months earlier, Queen Anne’s condition had been announced, much to her chagrin. How I hate that Boleyn trollop, Catherine cursed silently.   

“Do they hope for a third son?” Her voice was devoid of animosity.

“Anne feels that it is a boy. I’ll be delighted to have another brother.”

Catherine was astonished and alarmed. “When did the queen become Anne for you?”

The dauphin barked, “Don’t pry into my personal affairs.”

She exclaimed, “We will have three or four sons, Henri.”   

“You are a merchant.” The smirk upon Henri’s face caused her heart to drop.

Catherine screamed in indignation, “I’ve given you a son, husband!”

“That is true,” sneered Henri, “but it is not enough to make you my desired wife. My father’s mistake of his alliance with the late Pope Clement the Fifth cost France a great deal. Your dowry was not paid, and we only got a daughter of Florentine usurers who, however, came to France ‘stark naked,’ as my father rightly said. Then I had to endure eleven years of your bareness.”

She protested vehemently, “I’m fertile! I’ll have many princes and princesses!”

He stood up. “Maddalena! Take Prince François to his wet nurse.”

The dauphine’s premier lady-in-waiting, Maddalena Bonajusti, came from the antechamber. Luigi Alamanni now courted her; he was a Florentine poet living in France.   

Maddalena enquired, “Should the baby prince stay with Her Highness for longer?”

Henri shot her a withering look. “Such audacity might have consequences.”

“I apologize, Your Highness.” The maid curtsied and carried the prince out of the room.

Henri wrinkled his nose at the sight of his spouse. His disgust with Catherine had magnified due to the fact that their son’s birth signified the permanent end of his hopes to be liberated from this Italian girl. Dear Lord, it would have been better if I had not impregnated Catherine. I was so close to having our union declared null and void. He fretted over it time and time again.

The dauphin decreed, “My dearest François will sleep in the nursery. He will spend as little time with you as possible. My Diane will be his governess when she returns to court.”

“Why do you treat me so?” Catherine wrung her hands. “Why?”

Sending his wife a disdainful gaze, Henri groused, “I’ve never liked you, and never will. I do not want my son to be taught your merchant ways. So, Diane will control his upbringing.”

“Anne Boleyn is a woman with a scandalous past, even though she was declared innocent of all the charges leveled against her. She is the daughter of a knight elevated to an earl.”

He scowled at his wife. “Queen Anne is not born as low as you. Through both of her parents, she is descended from King Edward the First of England and Eleanor of Castile. Through them, she has a blood connection with Henry the Second of England and Eleanor of Aquitaine.”   

The Dauphin of France stormed out. His spouse then burst into tears.

Lucrezia Cavalcanti ran into the room and to her mistress’ side.

Lucrezia implored, “Your Highness, focus on Prince François.”

Catherine scrubbed her tears away. “Yes, I shall live for my baby.”

Lucrezia added, “For your future children as well! Your husband might say anything, but once you are churched, he will return to your bed and perform his conjugal duties again.”

The Medici woman chuckled sadly. “That he will. To sire more heirs.”

The past three years flashed through Catherine’s head like an infinite ribbon of hurt. Henri’s attempts to have their matrimony annulled because of her empty womb! Although King François had once been Catherine’s protector and liked her thanks to her stellar education and intelligence, the monarch had been swayed to his son’s opinion because of Catherine’s childlessness. The ruler had petitioned to the Bishop of Rome for the nullification of Henri’s union with Catherine.

Those days had been more horrible for Catherine than death itself. With Montmorency still ruling Rome, François and Henri had almost accomplished the annulment, but Duke Cosimo de’ Medici had interceded on her behalf. Despite his alliance with France, Cosimo had threatened to ensure that all of France’s treaties with Italian duchies and city-states would be broken lest his relative had been discarded. François feared to shatter the fragile peace on the Apennine peninsula.

However, it had been not François but Diane who had persuaded Henri to postpone his plans. The dauphin had acquiesced to be examined, together with Catherine, by numerous reputable physicians, who flocked to the French court from the whole of Europe. No one had understood what was wrong with the couple; the dauphin had a child with his mistress, so he was not sterile.

According to the advice of her astrologers, Catherine had drunk the urine of pregnant mules before every coupling with Henri, and worn a talisman made of goat’s blood, metals, and human blood. Diane had witnessed many of her rival’s intimacies with her lover, advising them regarding positions that were better for conception. Nonetheless, nothing had helped Catherine for two years, and François had again sent a command to Rome – Montmorency ordered the Pope to have Henri disentangled from his marital bonds. Yet, in late spring of 1543, the dauphine had gotten pregnant.     

Catherine spat, “Even King François is against me, despite my achievement.”   

“He rejoiced to see his grandchild,” Lucrezia pointed out.

“His congratulations were stiff. No one wants us in France, but I shall prevail.”   

“The courtiers are celebrating the birth of your son.”

Catherine dragged an irate hand through her hair. “They would prefer someone else to be the prince’s mother and the dauphin’s wife. They even like the Boleyn whore more than me.”  

Lucrezia bowed her head in deference to her mistress. “I shall always be at your side.”

The dauphine smiled. “I know, my friend. Will my astrologers come tonight?”

“Yes. You will meet with them in the gardens at two in the morning.”

“I’ll sleep a little, then.” Catherine reclined on the pillows. “I’ll have a busy night.”

§§§

The winter night was beautiful. The moon hang full in the sky, as though it had been painted. The majestic royal gardens were cloaked in a silvery blanket of snow, and the distinctive outlines of barren trees stood out against a bright array of stars stretching across the dark canvas.

At this late hour, the young woman wished to breathe fresh air. Today, the court was abuzz with news of Prince François’ birth. The great hall, numerous salons, chambers, and hallways were thronged with courtiers. Their high-pitched squeals and gay laughter boomed everywhere. The château’s walls resounded with the fanfares of trumpets and the beating of kettledrums.

“There was no moment of silence,” she told herself. “The garden is so peaceful.”

Cloaked in a rabbit mantle, this lady was Adrienne d’Estouteville. She strongly preferred to be addressed by her maiden name after the execution of her husband – François de Bourbon, Duke d’Estouteville, as well as Count de Saint-Pol and de Chaumont. Although five years had elapsed since the Estouteville conspiracy, everybody remembered this name because of the dead villain’s association with Pope Paul III, and because of his rumored execution by King François himself.

Everyone in France was well aware about the true parentage of Adrienne’s two children. Her oldest child, Nicholas d’Estouteville, was a bastard of King François I of France. Her daughter, Marie de Bourbon, was the only biological daughter of the late Duke d’Estouteville. Nicholas was the new Duke d’Estouteville, Count de Saint-Pol and de Chaumont. Adrienne administered affairs in her son’s duchy and in his counties until Nicholas came of age to do it on his own.

Lifting her eyes up, Adrienne contemplated the moon, which diffused the darkness with its chilly radiance. In childhood, her mother had told her that witches loved the full moon because it amplified the power they could harness and let them make the most powerful spells. I’m foolish! I should not be superstitious, Adrienne chided herself. New moons mean new beginnings.

What could Adrienne hope to accomplish? Her late spouse had married her because of her large dowry. She could never understand why King François had bedded her eight years earlier in Normandy. The monarch’s mistresses had been beautiful, but Adrienne believed that her dignified bearing and her superb education could not compensate for the lack of physical perfection.  

She halted near a wide canal that ran around the greater part of the buildings. The large pond bordered the château on one side and the rest of the park on the other. Even though they were covered with a layer of ice, she commenced feeling the influence of the dank atmosphere.

Adrienne walked through a wide avenue of rows of snow-capped trees. To shorten the way back, she dived into a maze of trees, little frozen channels scattered here and there all around. She stopped again, her attention attracted by the snippets of the odd conversation she could hear.

“Unfortunately, your son will not have a long life.”

A low female voice spoke. “That cannot be true! Have you studied his horoscope correctly?”   

“We are sorry, but that is what the stars communicate to us.”

“You must be mistaken!” the woman objected. “My boy is fragile, but he will get stronger.”

They talked in Italian, but Adrienne knew this language quite well.

The desperate mother was clinging to the illusion of her baby’s good fortunes. “No, no, no! That is impossible! After so many years of trying and failing miserably, I gave birth to my precious boy! My golden son! I shed oceans of tears when his father humiliated me and blamed me for my bareness! The Almighty cannot be so cruel to me and give me an ailing child!”

Adrienne braced herself against a tree and listened. Her heart ached for the hysterical mother who had been apprised of her son’s appalling fate. Questions circled Adrienne’s mind. Who were these people? Why did they not speak in French? Who was the baby they were discussing? Why did it all sound like fortune telling? Her curiosity roused, Adrienne strained her ears.

The man’s voice vibrated with sorrow. “Not every human is destined to live a long, happy, and illustrious life. Few leave after themselves the legacy to carry on with honor and to admire in centuries to come. Your son will barely reach adulthood when God calls him home.”

“No!” the disconsolate mother bemoaned. “When the Lord assigns a great fate to His child, He knows that this person’s life will not be long enough to fulfill this task. I’ll teach my boy that greatness is acquired through struggle, failure, disappointment, patience, and at last, victory.”   

Another Italian man interjected, “He will not be interested in such things.”

“Enough!” another male voice interjected. “How dare you distress your patroness?”   

The woman dissolved into tears. Her companions endeavored to calm her down.

Flattening her spine against the tree’s trunk, Adrienne closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The air was briskly cold, and her breath came out in white puffs. She craved to return to the castle, but she feared to be detected by those whom she was eavesdropping upon. As the lady’s sobs echoed through the alley, Adrienne’s mind drifted to the king’s bastard – Nicholas d’Estouteville.

Although the King of France had not acknowledged their son as his bastard, the substantial pension had been paid to her. Her liege lord protected Adrienne from the malicious gossip about her criminal spouse, so she had never been treated as the disgraced widow of a traitor. Sometimes, François had written to her to inquire about Nicholas’ wellbeing. A month earlier, Adrienne had been summoned to court because the monarch wished to make acquaintance with Nicholas.   

Now Nicholas was a boy of seven, energetic and even-tempered. His superior intelligence and interest in the arts at such a young age had been inherited from his royal parent. Her son’s amber eyes awakened in Adrienne memories of her affair with François, and in such moments, she regretted that her sovereign had dismissed her after several nights. The king’s public adoration of Queen Anne, whom Adrienne found exotic and untouched by age, made her a little jealous.  

I do envy Queen Anne, Adrienne mused. She is in her mid-thirties, but she looks far younger despite her many pregnancies. His Majesty loves her so! Nicholas had been born when the queen had carried Princess Louise, and Adrienne wondered when François had become faithful to his consort. The birth of Dauphin Henri’s son was a sensational event for France, but Adrienne liked neither Dauphin Henri nor his Italian wife, being more interested in Queen Anne’s children.

Threats from the woman jerked Adrienne out of her reveries. “Don’t blabber nonsense! I might kill you and have your corpses thrown to the dogs. You will not have even graves.”   

Another female voice hissed, “Don’t provoke Her Highness and us.”

“Madame la Dauphine,” the third female voice addressed. “What should we do?”

A wind of indescribable horror paralyzed Adrienne, chilling her to the innermost recesses of her entire being. The understanding descended upon her like a wave of clarity. This woman must be Dauphine Catherine de’ Medici, and the females who had interjected from time to time must be her ladies. The subject of their discourse was the fate of the newborn Prince François.

“Cosimo!” Catherine then requested, “Examine the charts again.”

The astrologer sniggered. “Will your dogs lick my bones if I tell you the same?”

“Shut up!” Now Adrienne recognized the voice – it belonged to the Count de Montecuccoli. She had heard him speak with a group of some Italian courtiers last week.  “I enjoy watching men go through the most excruciating torments before their souls depart to hell or heaven.”

“Sebastiano, calm down,” Catherine disapproved of his menacing demeanor. “Lorenzo, you are Cosimo’s brother. You are both talented astrologers, alchemists, and soothsayers. I treasure your unwavering fealty, but you must comprehend my feelings for my beloved prince.”  

The second astrologer, Lorenzo, uttered, “We know how difficult it was for Your Highness to endure the many afflictions that have beset you in France. Years ago, we said that you would give Dauphin Henri children, and our words were not falsehood.”  He sighed.

“Go on!” The dauphine’s voice rose an octave. “Don’t be silent.”

Lorenzo repeated their predictions. “You love Prince François, but his horoscope is bleak. Even if we give him herbs to make the prince less sickly, he will never be strong.”

Cosimo stated, “You cannot fight against destiny, Madame.”

One of the dauphine’s ladies-in-waiting – Adrienne did not know who she was – broke into a series of Italian profanities. Then she asked, “Will Her Highness have more offspring?”

“Yes,” confirmed Lorenzo. “Your next son will be more robust.”

“Will my François become king?” Desperation colored Catherine’s voice.

At Cosimo’s next prediction, consternation speared through everyone, twisting, disfiguring each of them, dismantling the hopes of Catherine’s supporters like a crumbling edifice.

Death will dance under the sounds of organ. Crimson droplets will bedew the stone floor. However, God’s wrath will be at the heels of the namesake and shall claim his soul in repayment.

Fright overwhelmed all those in attendance, like water breaking free from a dam.

“What does this mean?” the Dauphine of France demanded. “Whose namesake?”

Adrienne scarcely stifled a scream of terror. Unable to stay here anymore, she dashed away from the tree that had supported her trembling frame moments ago. Light as her footfall was, it was heard due to the cracking of snow, accentuated by the omnipresent silence in the night park.

“We have been overheard!” Montecuccoli alerted.  

Catherine instructed, “Lucrezia, take Cosimo and Lorenzo out of the park and castle through the pavilion at the end of the pond. Maddalena and Sebastiano, go with me.”

Bowing to their patroness, the astrologers followed Lucrezia.

“We shall locate the intruder,” Maddalena assured.

§§§

The conspirators quickly surrounded the area from where the sound had come.

Losing her footing onto the slippery ground, Adrienne slid down onto the snow. Her cloak got caught in a low branch of the tall oak that loomed over her like a shadow of mortality.

“Here!” Maddalena neared the source of trouble. “It is a woman!”

Montecuccoli scoffed malignantly. “Look! Madame Adrienne d’Estouteville!”

“Good night, ma chérie!” Maddalena crouched beside their target.

From the tree line emerged a hooded figure, swathed in nondescript fur and woolen material. Taking off the hood, Catherine de’ Medici directed her ferocious eyes at the fallen woman.

“Do what is necessary.” The dauphine’s voice was like a splash of the frigid water.

Sebastiano and Maddalena grabbed the arms of Adrienne, who struggled against them. But Montecuccoli was stronger, and in the space of a few heartbeats, he subdued Adrienne.

Maddalena glowered into Adrienne’s scared eyes. “Madame de Saint-Pol, we will test our new poison on you. We are the true Florentines who appreciate the art of apothecary. I welcome the challenge of experimenting with a new poison that annihilates the victim more agonizingly.”

Sebastiano’s laugh was diabolical. “Our perfect poison killed some notable people.”

“My goodness!” Adrienne was terrified out of her senses. “You will not dare!”   

Catherine stepped forward like the demoness from the netherworld. “I’ve now transformed into the Greek Adrestia venerated as a goddess of retribution, revolt, and sublime balance between good and evil. Today, I must do one small bad thing for the sake of France’s salvation.”

“No!” Adrienne’s mind floated to King François. “You have deceived His Majesty!”

The dauphine leered. “Don’t believe what you see. You shall die from the improved version of the poison that destroyed the late Dauphin François. The prince suffered for hours. The herbs, which my astrologers added to the concoction, will suck the life out of you within minutes.”

The shock of the discovery overwhelmed Adrienne. “Oh Lord! Oh my goodness!”

Adrienne punched Montecuccoli. Nevertheless, he pinned her to the ground and pushed his knees to her bosom. Maddalena extracted a flacon of dark liquid from a pocket of her cloak.

Montecuccoli jeered, “Death stalks a woman that is not so pretty if you look at her in a beam of the moonlight. Ah, Adrienne, pass my regards to your husband, the late Count de Saint-Pol.”

“He must be in hell,” croaked their victim. “Just as you will all be.”  

Maddalena opened the flacon. “Pray as long as you can.”

Catherine asserted nonchalantly, “Death in the park from the cold. They will think so.”

Adrienne whispered only several words of prayer before the flacon was pressed to her mouth. Her sniggering echoing Montecuccoli’s, Maddalena shoved the contents down her throat. As the liquid went into her stomach, the utterance of Adrienne’s farewell with earthly existence was quiet because Montecuccoli clamped his hand over her mouth to preclude her from screaming.

For about three minutes, they witnessed their victim’s wretched convulsions. All at once, Adrienne went still, so still that the murderers’ breathing was heard.

Maddalena placed the empty flacon back into the pocket of her cloak. “Your Highness, we must return to your apartments. You birthed Prince François in the morning and must rest.”

Montecuccoli rose to his feet. “Your health is precious to us, Madame.”

“How can I sleep?” Catherine beheld the dark sky. “After what the astrologers said...”

In ghastly silence, the assassins grimly trudged towards the château. Adrienne’s corpse lay in a heap of snow, several feet away from the pond. Darkness concealed their crime like a coffin.


June 13, 1544, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, France

The Feast of St Antoine of Padua marked a festive event for the French royal family.

“How will we name him?” Queen Anne asked as she cradled her baby boy.

King François sat in a gilded chair near his wife’s bed. “Mon amour, something unusual.”

The monarch leaned over the bed and took the infant into his arms. The king’s newborn son stared into his parent’s face with his green eyes, oddly sagacious for such a small creature. The child’s face with high cheekbones and the long Valois nose was framed by a tuft of raven locks, like his mother’s. The prince embodied a fine mixture of his Valois and Boleyn ancestors.

Resting on a gilded bed, its headboard gilded, the queen smiled at the scene of her husband giving his affection to a new fruit of their union. Her scrutiny flew to a fabulous canopy of cloth of gold embroidered with the Valois heraldry, thinking that her life in France was golden.

Now I have three precious sons! an exultant Anne cried. My Valois boys! Since Augustine’s birth, it had been her dream to have three sons. However, after her miscarriage in Milan over three years ago and their return to France, Doctor Fernel had given the spouses special herbs to prevent conception. If they had been overcome by urgent passion, François had always pulled out.   

Amazingly, the ruler had not wanted to admit a single chance for his consort to get pregnant. Anne had birthed two sons, so the succession was relatively secure. However, any king wants to have as many male heirs as possible. Nevertheless, François cared a lot about his consort’s health, a stark contrast to what was happening to the queen’s hapless cousin, Kitty Howard. Anne and François had resolved to have another baby in two years and a half after her last miscarriage.

When Anne had discovered her condition in the late autumn of 1543, François had gifted to her Château de Chenonceau in the Loire Valley, and she intended to invest much money into this project. Her pregnancy had progressed smoothly, and several hours ago today, the queen had brought into the world a healthy prince. Elizabeth Boleyn had attended to Anne during the labor; Marguerite of Navarre had gone to her daughter, Jeanne, to Saint-Germain-en-Laye.

Her husband’s voice intruded into Anne’s musings. “Our son has eyes of a philosopher, one who aims by nature to view all life truths. He must possess a brilliant mind.”  

Anne laughed. “Most parents tend to embellish their children’s abilities.”

He feigned offence. “Wife, you are being unfair to me.”

“I’m stating the obvious truths, Your magnificent Majesty.”   

“I’m trying to formulate the best description of our new child, Your feisty Majesty. ‘There is only one good thing – knowledge – and one evil thing – ignorance,’ as Socrates rightly said.”

Anne and François broke into laughter that only lasted for a handful of heartbeats before the infant stirred and gave out a cry. The monarch cradled the babe and hummed a lullaby.

As the child dozed off, the ruler commented, “When I look into his eyes, I want to say: don’t bend and don’t amend your soul according to the fashion of court, country, and era.”

These thoughts were surprising. “Honor and wisdom are prerequisites to greatness.”

The baby sighed and scrunched up his nose, then continued sleeping in his father’s arms.

“Antoine,” pronounced François emphatically. “Today is the Feast of St Anthony. We can name our little one after his patron saint. A friar of the Franciscan Order, Saint Anthony of Padua was noted for his powerful preaching, and for his devotion to the poor and the sick.”

Her lips stretched into a grin. “A Valois Robin Hood!”

Their blithesome laughter rippled through the air scented with blossoms. Outside the summer day was bright and blue, not a single cloud in the firmament, so the windows were ajar.   

The ruler articulated, “I admire the Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, who ruled in the 2th century. He was the last emperor of the Pax Romana and an illustrious philosopher.”

“Antoine de Valois! This sounds fascinating!”

“Prince Antoine de Valois, Duke de Provence. A member of our new dynasty!”

“Hopefully, our sons will bring great glory to France and the House of Valois. Let’s visit our children at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, for I’m yearning to see them.”

“I’ve missed them a lot. We will go there as soon as you are churched, Anne.”

The queen broached another subject. “Have you thought of Nicholas?”

The ruler’s mind meandered to the winter morning months ago when the dead Adrienne d’Estouteville had been discovered in the park. The gardeners had fetched a physician, but it had been too late to save the poor woman who had been frozen to death. No one knew why Adrienne had gone there in the dead of a frosty night after the court’s celebrations of the birth of Dauphin Henri’s son. Since then, the children of the dead woman – Nicholas, Duke d’Estouteville, and Marie de Bourbon – lived at court together with little Charlotte de Valois.   

François wondered, “Why did Adrienne die in the gardens?”

Anne sighed sadly. “Indeed, it all looks odd.”

He dithered for a long moment. “I’ll recognize Nicholas as my son, but only if you do not object. He will be an only illegitimate child I acknowledge as mine.”

“I don’t mind.” The queen was aware of her husband’s illegitimate progeny. She had long guessed which lords were raising the king’s bastards as their own, but they had never touched upon this topic. “He might reside together with our children at Saint-Germain-en-Laye.”

François smiled gratefully. “Thank you, wife.”

The ruler stood up and put the child in a gilded cradle, another recent gift for his wife.   

He returned to the bed. “How are you feeling, mon amour?”

“It is not my first labor, and it was quite easy.”

He stroked Anne’s hair, admiring the glossy raven cascade streaming down her shoulders. “You need to rest. I’ll come to you after the meeting with my councilors.”

Anne thought of her Louise, Aimée, Augustine, Jean, and Antoine before falling asleep.

§§§

Dauphin Henri paid a visit to his stepmother in late afternoon. Since his reconciliation with the king after his return to court from Château d’Anet, he participated in every meeting of Privy Council. François valued his input a great deal and commended Henri on many occasions.

“So, these are the far-famed gilded rooms!” Henri perused the chamber.

The Queen of France’s ‘golden apartments,’ as courtiers labeled them, were majestic. The ceiling was broken up into octagonal caissons like those in the François I gallery, their areas alternately laid with gold and silver, bearing the queen’s monogram – a crowned phoenix. Some phoenixes were portrayed alone, but in most of them, they were joined with the king’s personal emblem – a salamander. The parquet’s elaborate design reproduced that of the ceiling.

The luxurious interior epitomized the opulence of the modern style: golden-colored marble walls, elaborately shaped gilt ornaments, and gilded furniture that was adorned with mythological reliefs, bronze, and mosaics. The walls were frescoed with episodes from myths about the Goddess Hera with her husband Zeus, and those from the Goddess Minerva’s adventures. On every wall were emblazoned in gold the initials of Anne and François ‘A&F,’ everywhere entwined.

“Yes.” Anne expected a snarky comment about the king’s generosity, but she was mistaken.

“I had Diane’s apartments in her castle refurbished in gold.”

“I’ve heard about that from our beloved Queen of Navarre.”

He eased himself onto a golden-brocaded couch near the bed. “Aunt Marguerite did not like what she saw at Château d’Anet, but it is my small paradise where I hide from the world.”

Anne signaled her comprehension. “You need a place where you feel at peace.”

For the first time, Henri characterized his private life in his stepmother’s presence. “Like most princes and princesses of the blood, I’m deprived of marital happiness. I love Diane, but she could never be my wife. I’m with her because I cannot deny myself the delights of home.”

The queen detested his mistress, but she concealed her animosity out of her affection for her stepson. “I know what you feel, Your Highness. I married your father without love.”

For a moment, his penetrative stare burned her with its intensity. “I’m glad that everything changed between our liege lord and you. His first two marriages were loveless.”

His maturity was undeniable. “Thank you.”

An aura of sadness encompassed him. “If only Catherine understood that we cannot love on demand, we could have been friends, but she strengthens the agony of her own spirit.”

Silence ensued. Not a breath, not a vibration as Henri was lost in thought.

The queen had concluded a truce with the Dauphin of France. They had never touched upon religious topics anymore, maintaining an amicable relationship. At first, she been surprised with Henri’s change of heart towards her, but then she had responded in kind.

Due to their constant communication, Anne discerned a trembling soul behind the dauphin’s austere façade. Young and clever, Henri ached with the desire for life in its fullest sense. Yet, he was traumatized by his Spanish captivity and the loss of his brothers – wounds that would never heal fully. Henri did not know how to endure the heavy royal burden of life, which he would have to face because he was not yet ready, especially in an emotional aspect, to be King of France.

Sympathetic to her, Anne believed that the dauphine did not comprehend the male nature. Several times, she had heard Catherine’s pleas to Henri not to abandon her and give her a chance to worship him. Despite her high intelligence, Catherine was not experienced to know that those men who did not love could be cruel and became callous when the object of their irritation shed lakes of tears. Catherine is pushing Henri away with her obsessions and her pursuit of him.  

Unbeknownst to Anne, the dauphin was also thinking of his stepmother. Years ago, he had seen her as a threat to France’s Catholic landscape, but he had been mistaken. Anne attended Mass together with the royal family and prayed in Latin, although she discussed Luther and Calvin’s teachings with intellectuals from Marguerite of Navarre’s circle. I’m grateful to Anne for her love for my father, and for giving me many siblings. They have become my consolation, Henri mused.  

The typically frigid countenance of the monarch’s son was now alive with emotion. “Your Majesty, I’m delighted to have another sibling. You have done a great service to the Crown.”   

“And so has Your Highness,” Anne emphasized. “You have a son of your own.”

“My little François is as fragile as a drop of rain. Even a breeze might blow him away.”

A surprised Anne said, “So, you have thought of it.”

His expression evolved into endless melancholy. “Those who have ever seen Prince François, Duke of Britany, think so. But they all keep silent, even my father.”  

Guilt for hurting him laced through her. “The prince may grow stronger.”

“I pray about it every day.” His sigh was so deep that she felt it from a distance.

Henri got to his feet. “Can I hold my brother? Antoine, right?”

Anne smiled. “Certainly. Yes, François named him so.”

The dauphin approached the crib and looked inside. “A good name for such a strong and bonny prince! It means ‘highly praiseworthy,’ so Antoine will become a great man.”

Henri took the infant into his arms. As his daughter with Madame de Poitiers had lived at court for the most part during the past three years, he had learned how to handle children.

“Those Savoy green eyes! Antoine is big!” He bounced the child to examine him. “As strong and healthy as Augustine, but unlike my son François. Jean has a more gentle constitution.”

The queen was positively surprised that her stepson remembered such details about his half-brothers. However, given the considerable amount of time Henri had spent in Saint-Germain-en-Laye with Anne and François’ children, she should not be astonished in the slightest.

“You are observant.” Anne smiled at her stepson.

Henri bounced the baby in his arms again. This triggered a series of Antoine’s giggles.

The dauphin stroked the child’s hair. “Let me know when you travel to Saint-Germain again. I’ll go with you. I’d like to see my own son, as well as my brothers and sisters.”

“I shall. They must be missing you, in particular Augustine.”

“This boy is too clever for his age,” Henri lauded. “And too unemotional.”

“I’m myself amazed despite being Augustine’s mother, Your Highness.”

“Henri,” he corrected. “Address me by my name.”

Her face split into a grin. “Then I’m Anne for you.”

The dauphin burst into enthusiasm. “I must go, Anne! Diane and I have been apart for months due to her daughter Françoise’s illness. Now all is well, and she is returning tonight.”

His stepmother hid her displeasure. “Have a nice evening, Henri.”

After his departure, Prince Antoine wailed like a wounded boy. Françoise de Foix swaddled him into clean sheets of red silk, and then she took the baby to his wet nurse.

As the queen’s gaze fixed upon the initials of her and François, euphoric memories slithered into her mind. She heard her own clear voice declaring the soul-stirring words of her adoration for her husband, which she had confessed to François in Milan three years ago. Since then, Anne had never regretted that she had fallen in love again after the devastating heartbreak in England.

I’ve found my happiness with François, the Queen of France enthused. It was perhaps the best decision in my life to go to France after Henry Tudor had exiled me. Afraid of men, marriage, and life in general, she had started to perform her marital duties after the birth of Princess Louise to bear a son so as to extract vengeance upon Henry. Yet, Anne had eventually found herself wrapped in the charms of her Valois spouse, and they had created a family together.

The Valois spouses had a harmonic life and understood each other well. Their opinions had clashed harshly only when François had wanted to have Dauphin Henri’s matrimony annulled, for Anne emphasized with the dauphine’s afflictions. In other things, the queen experienced a sense of unparalleled exaltation, of endless satisfaction that she had never felt before. When I think of my marriage to François, I feel as if I am blessed by heaven to be with him. I am a lucky woman.

Since their wedding in August 1536, the profound transformation of Anne Boleyn’s life had happened. Thanks to François, who was a caring, honorable, gentle, and faithful husband, she had resurrected like a phoenix. At present, Anne was not only a powerful queen, but also a content wife and mother of many children. No man had respected and valued her as a person, a woman, a friend, an intellectual mind, and even as a state councilor more than François did.

However, there were also problems in the French royal family. Marguerite de Valois was estranged from her adulterous husband, King Henri of Navarre, fearing that he would try to annul their marriage because Anne de Pisseleu had produced two more sons. Furthermore, the deaths of Jeanne d’Angoulême and Françoise de Longwy, Philippe de Chabot’s spouse, of the plague at Château d’Anet had hit both François and Marguerite hard, who still mourned for them.

§§§

As the shadows of dusk enveloped the palace, the maids lit up candles in the queen’s rooms. Humming something under his breath, King François returned to his wife’s apartments.

The ruler seated himself on the bed’s edge. “How have you been without me?”

“Henri left an hour earlier. He was intrigued with our son’s green eyes.”

“Duke Philippe de Savoy had green eyes. Antoine inherited them from my grandfather.”  

His wife nodded. “That is what Henri said.”

“Where did he go?” François hoped that Henri would not forget about his wife.

The king would not like the answer. “To greet Diane de Poitiers.”

A frown plucked at the monarch’s brow. “Indeed, she is arriving today.”

“Catherine will be forgotten again.” She pitied the dauphine.

The ruler disapproved of his son’s behavior, but he could not alter it. “I wanted to have Henri’s marriage annulled because of Catherine’s seeming bareness. As Dauphin of France, Henri needs to produce legitimate male progeny. Only the girl’s pregnancy saved her. I must say that I respect Catherine for her intelligence and even more for her forbearance, for I doubt that most other women would tolerate as many insults as Henri is heaping upon her.”

“Catherine has suffered a lot and proved her fertility.”

Soon after the birth of Prince François, the dauphin had returned to his unwanted wife’s bed. Within three months, Catherine had conceived again, and her husband had ceased their conjugal relations. With Diane’s return to court, the dauphine would have to endure more emotional abuse. At least, Catherine will have her children for consolation, Anne hoped silently.  

François dipped a nod. “She needs to produce another son, stronger than little François.”

Anne had similar thoughts. “With God’s blessing, everything will be well.”

He half-reclined on the bed. “Have you missed me, mon amour?”

Anne playfully swatted him on the chest. “I had other visitors.”

He pulled her into his arms. “I could think only about you and Antoine.”

The spouses kissed for a long time with an urgency that expelled all the worry and anxiety out of them. However, they were interrupted when Lady Elizabeth Boleyn brought the infant.

“The prince is fed and well-rested,” announced Elizabeth.

A smiling Elizabeth handed the child to her daughter. Then she bobbed a curtsey and jested, “I’ve seen enough of your felicity to smile for the rest of the day.”

The ruler laughed. “I shall take the best care of my queen.”

His mother-in-law chuckled. “Maybe another little Valois will arrive soon.”   

The queen blushed. “Mother, just go!”

A grinning Elizabeth curtsied. “Ah, how good it is to be with a knight!” Then she left.

For some time, François made faces for the child, while Anne cooed over them both.

He offered, “I’ll ask François Clouet to paint you with all of our children.”

Everyone admired the portrait of Queen Anne, together with Princess Louise and the infant Prince Jean, by Bronzino. The talented François Clouet was son of Jean Clouet, who had worked as a miniaturist and painter for the French ruling family until his death in 1540.

Anne beamed. “I want that very much!”

“Someone also needs to paint Louise with her small wooden sword.”

“Our girl would be most happy, husband.”

They discussed their offspring and their dreams for them. In the light from candelabrum, the gilded furniture gleamed like treasures of gold, and their future seemed more golden.

François bounced the newborn up and down. The prince giggled, holding his palm out to his father, who squeezed it. “Our philosopher is so merry!” jested the king.   

“More frolicsome than his Roman namesake.” They laughed together.

The baby yawned, and the monarch rocked him to sleep.

Staring intently into his amber eyes, Anne was perfectly content. “Do you know how much I love you, François? You have become my home, love, happiness, and destiny. With you, even the darkest night is full of silver, becoming the silent bed for our bodies and souls.”

His sensual grin sent butterflies in flight in her belly. “Antoine proves how silent our nights are. Your ladies are accustomed to hearing shrieks of pleasure in your rooms.”

She teasingly waggled a finger at him. “You are a libertine!”

“But you like this, Your passionate Majesty. Your body becomes a river in my arms.”   

“Only when you are with me, Your lascivious Majesty. You belong only to me!”

The king loved a possessive facet to her character. “Such jealousy!”

“François,” she savored the sound. “I’ll not survive if you take a mistress.”   

“Anne,” he drawled softly. “Only you exist for me.”

The queen knew that it was not a falsehood. “Yet, sometimes I’m worried, especially when I see how young ladies fawn over you at court. I’m no longer as young as I once used to be. You are a connoisseur of female beauty, and you have a colorful past of amorous conquests.”

“Nobody is eternally young, Anne. With age comes wisdom and appreciation of things you did not treasure before. Yet, neither you nor I are old yet, and we will be together forever.”

“François, every day I pray that we will be happy for many years.”

The king placed the baby into her arms. Antoine did not even stir.

Cupping her face, the monarch articulated poetically, “Anne, my wife, my queen! How can I want someone else when you are the priestess of my soul? When the brightness of your gaze touches my heart lightly like a hand of tranquil warmth… When you gave me the new summer of my life whose flames make golden all our thoughts when we are apart.”   

The queen’s countenance was exhilarated. “Either years ago, I was certain that my life was over. I rejected you out of my fear to be burned like a moth drawn to a flame. However, you proved that even the gloomiest night might fade away if true love shines upon you from the heavens. Now I’m too enraptured to be disturbed by a sea of dread and demons from the past.”

He brushed his lips against hers. “Do you mean that I’m your true love?”

An enamored Anne cast a glance at their entwined initials. “Precisely, François. My feelings for Henry were like an obsession tinged with romantic hues and possession. I did love Henry, I cannot deny it, but our feelings were selfish – we ignored how much pain we caused to Catherine and her daughter in our quest to be together. It was a turbulent and unhealthy passion.”   

François smiled smugly, but the expression in his eyes was serious. “I don’t think Henry is capable of true love. He adores himself and his caprices more than anyone else.”

Holding the infant in one hand, her other hand flew to his face. “After our wedding, my feelings for Henry brought me nothing but hurt, insane jealousy, and constant quarrels.”

“Have I given you peace, mon amour?”

“Of course! Serene peace!” A smiling Anne caressed his cheek. “Thanks to you, my world has transmuted into a garden of the loveliest flowers. Years have elapsed since I surrendered to your charms, but my summer still goes on and on, and I don’t want it to end.”

“It shall not,” François whispered.

Anne murmured, “May your kind amber eyes guide me on earth.”

“My wife, you shall wear a diamond gown of our joy for the rest of our lives.”

“Only if you strip me off my raiment. Or we will not have more kids.”

The king roguishly conceded, “With a more gladness than you can imagine.”

She kissed him briefly. “We are a salamander and a phoenix. Together.”

“Together,” the enamored monarch echoed.

His lips captured hers in an ardent kiss. Prince Antoine slept on the bed between his parents as they kissed like thirsty doves in the desert. Hera and Zeus both smiled at them from the fresco portraying their wedding feast with the golden background, as sunny as their spirits.

§§§

Antoine de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, had already consumed too much claret. Setting his goblet onto a nearby marble table, he commented, “Your Highness, we will both have an awful hangover tomorrow if we continue drinking so heavily. My temples are already hurting.”

A tall and handsome man with pompous bearing, Antoine de Bourbon was son of the late Duke Charles de Vendôme and his wife, Françoise d’Alençon. He was the Dauphin of France’s friend and almost coeval, having entered into his service a few years ago. Antoine’s expressive features were the versatile mirror of his many passions: he had penchants for extravagant clothing, women, and gambling, his main positive feature being his unwavering fealty to his master. In the past three years, the Bourbon family had started to come back to the Valois court.

Dauphin Henri drained the contents of his cup. “No, my friend. I shall drink more to forget. Unlike me, you have no reason to grieve. You are not tied to someone you do not love.”

There were three people in the study – Dauphin Henri, Antoine, and Diane de Poitiers, who worked upon a gold-embroidered kerchief – a gift for Prince François, her lover’s son.

Henri poured more claret into his cup and gulped it rapaciously.

“Henri.” Diane’s voice was quiet. “You are frustrated because Prince Antoine is healthy, while Prince François is frail. Catherine is fertile and will produce another healthy son.”

The dauphin rose from his chair and crossed to a window, then looked out. “The park outside is as dark as my soul. Dark from the pain caused by that Medici creature.”

“Catherine will give you another male heir,” reiterated Diane.

At this, Henri pivoted to his paramour, scowling. “Why are you defending her, Diane? A mistress who befriended a wife? That sounds hilarious, don’t you think so?”

Diane put the embroidery aside. “Henri, you have had too much claret.”

The dauphin forewarned, “Diane, don’t throw yourself into a fire of my temper! I am not always calm and frigid. I’ve long noticed that there are some qualities in you which I dislike.”

Her jaw was literally hanging open. “I mean to help, mon amour.”

“Get out!” roared Henri. “Out, Diane!”

Scared and even more offended, Madame de Poitiers stumbled to the door and exited.

Henri returned to his place to sit before his silent friend. His expression strained, he supplied, “My world is becoming strange, Antoine. I do not understand myself.”

“All will be well, Your Highness,” a baffled Antoine answered.

During the rest of the evening, the Duke de Vendôme watched the Dauphin of France almost drown himself in alcohol. At dawn, Antoine fetched servants, and they carried Henri, who had passed out, to his bedroom. The loyal Antoine guarded his prince’s sleep for hours.

Notes:

Hello everyone! It's nice to see you all again!

We have had a time jump, and now we are in 1544. Catherine de’ Medici gave birth to her eldest son – Prince François, Duke of Brittany (in history King François II of France) – on the same historical date. Like in history, the boy is fragile and sickly, and perhaps you can already imagine his character arc as Catherine’s astrologers apprised her of some unfortunate things.

Do you have any idea what the prediction of Catherine's astrologers mean? This one: "Death will dance under the sounds of organ. Crimson droplets will bedew the stone floor. However, God’s wrath will be at the heels of the namesake and shall claim his soul in repayment."

We learn that during the past three years, King François and Dauphin Henri tried to have Catherine’s marriage to Henri annulled mostly because of her seeming bareness. The interference of Cosimo de’ Medici, Duke of Florence, does not mean that he will not be France’s ally in years to come – Cosimo was and will remain one of François’ main Italian allies. Cosimo knows nothing about his cousin Catherine's crimes; he just tried to defend his cousin.

We hope you like Catherine’s memories as she speaks with her ladies-in-waiting. Catherine and her posse killed another poor woman who was an unfortunate witness of their secret meeting with the astrologers – Adrienne d’Estouteville, who appeared in chapter 12/3 and who was the King of France’s paramour during the invasion of France by the Imperial forces. Adrienne is a random victim, and she was a wife of the Count de Saint-Pol who tried to kill the King of France in Milan. Adrienne's son, Nicholas, will be taken care of. As for Dauphin Henri, he did not love Catherine in history, and he will not love her in this AU, while his obsession with Diane is not eternal.

In the second half of the chapter, there is another time jump. Queen Anne has just had another son who was named Antoine in honor of the Roman Emperor Mark Antoine. We hope you like romantic scenes for Anne and King François; there will be more scenes with their children soon. Dauphin Catherine is again pregnant; maybe she will have another son, maybe not.

Dauphin Henri and Diane de Poitiers are still lovers, but something is changing between them slowly. Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly is still an official maîtresse-en-titre of King Henri II of Navarre, and she had another son with her lover; we will learn more about them soon.

VioletRoseLily and Athenais are co-writing the story called “Entwined by a Golden Alliance.” Give it a try! We highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, Marina Ka-Fai, BubblyYork, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Lady Plantagenet in the White Queen fandom.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 50: Chapter 49: The Parade of Sycophants

Notes:

Finally, we know what happened in England after our 3-year time jump. Let us know what you think.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 49: The Parade of Sycophants

June 28, 1544, Oatlands Palace, near Weybridge, Surrey, England

His countenance bored, King Henry watched his courtiers from his gilded throne. Dressed in expensive clothes, they laughed, gossiped, and chatted. Although the festivities in honor of his birthday were magnificent, he was not happy because he felt his age catching up with him.

The monarch was acutely cognizant of everyone’s assessing stares at him. In the past three years, he had put on more weight because of his inability to perform any athletic exercises. Clad in a doublet of crimson velvet, the placard of which was embroidered with rubies and emeralds, he wore the girdle of onyxes, which his French counterpart had gifted to him several years ago, for it reminded him of Anne Boleyn’s black eyes. Now I’m not as slender and energetic as I once was. However, at least my hair is as red-gold as always, the ruler consoled himself.

At present, the Tudor court resided at Oatlands Palace. The king had acquired this house on the bank of the River Thames in Surrey in 1538. The castle had been rebuilt later on the place of the former 15th-century moated manor for his current wife – Catherine Howard. The palace was smaller than Hampton Court and Greenwich Palace, but Henry liked its coziness and location.   

Queen Catherine darted to her throne and curtsied. “Your Majesty.”

“Kitty,” he drawled sharply. “Are you enjoying the celebrations?”

She lifted her scrutiny to him. “Yes, I do. You know how much I love dancing.”

“You may join someone on the dance floor.”

“I regret that you don’t dance,” she lied without remorse.   

“Do you?” Henry discerned fear lurking in her orbs. “I cannot move like youths do.”

Kitty schooled her features into the utmost seriousness. “I do, sire. However, although I’d like to entertain with you on the festivities, I comprehend that you cannot. It is my wifely duty to ensure that your wellbeing is not in jeopardy. I would never do anything to displease you.”

“Deliberately not. However, unintentionally you have disappointed me awfully.”   

At this, her temper flared. “I gave you Prince Edmund, Duke of York!”

The crimp between his brows deepened. “Where is my third son you promised me?”

For a handful of heartbeats, their gazes clashed in a silent struggle. The harsh aquamarine glare blamed Kitty for her second miscarriage two months earlier, promising her all fires of hell if she failed to provide him with his much-desired Duke of Bedford or Lancaster. The willful brown glower chided the ruler for the unbearable pressure he was putting on her to give him sons.  

At the strains of a pavane, the monarch veered his gaze away. “Go, Kitty.”   

“Thank you, my most benevolent husband.” She curtsied and left.   

The ruler’s mind floated to the beginning of his sixth marriage. Kitty Howard had been like an ambrosial drink of eternal youth and hope for Henry. Her pregnancy had strengthened his faith in his matrimonial happiness. In August of 1541, Kitty had birthed a Tudor boy, and the entire country had rejoiced. Henry had named his son Edmund, Duke of York, for he had not wanted to give the baby a name of any of his deceased children in order not to tempt fate.

However, it had rapidly become clear that the monarch’s elation had been premature. Sickly and small, Prince Edmund had been privately baptized, without lavish christenings, at the oratory in Whitehall Palace due to his weakness. Now Edmund was kept at Hatfield isolated because of fear that he could catch infection and succumb to it. Every time I stare into my little Edmund’s eyes and stroke his red-gold hair, my heart tightens in apprehension, Henry bemoaned silently.  

The queen’s two other pregnancies had ended in miscarriages. These fiascoes had decreased the value of Kitty Howard in the monarch’s eyes. The emotional distance between the spouses was growing, and at times, Henry had not seen his wife for months after leaving her at one of the palaces and going on progress with his court. At night, in the solitude of his room, Henry struggled against terrifying depression, and in such cases, his mind always wandered to Anne Boleyn.

§§§

“Dancing is the best part of a feast!” the Queen of England exclaimed insouciantly.

Queen Catherine Howard, or Queen Kitty, as she was nicknamed at court, appeared in the center of the great hall. Sir Thomas Culpeper approached and bowed to her with effeminate grace. As he extended his hand to her, Kitty grinned at him buoyantly. A moment later, Culpeper and the Queen of England made two single steps forward and then one double step forward.

I do not want to be bedded by that aging king, Kitty thought with disgust. She had never wanted to wed the monarch, but the golden glow of the Crown had seduced her three years ago. The Duke of Norfolk’s lessons of pragmatism and cynicism, in particular his statement about a fading beauty, had instigated her to become a royal mistress. Nevertheless, now she regretted that she had not escaped from St Etheldreda’s Church at Hatfield not to be the ruler’s spouse.   

Thomas Culpeper neared Kitty in the dance. “Your Majesty looks majestic.”

A girlish blush stained the queen’s face. “Do you really think so, Sir Thomas?”

His lewd gaze confirmed it. “Of course not. You are like that fat German cow.”

She bristled. “Anne von Cleves is a marvelous person. She is the king’s sister and my good friend. She is also close with Princess Elizabeth. Anne is not ugly at all.”   

“I’ve never thought that you like her so much.” He was bewildered.

Kitty stepped back, then forward. “I know her well because we are close. Don’t forget that she is the Duchess of Suffolk. She is not a pariah in the society, and you must respect her.”

This irked Culpeper. “Was I rude? I repeated what His Majesty said about her.”

She lowered her voice. “My husband was not right.”

The monarch’s groom scoffed. “Then, why does His Grace of Suffolk dance with others?”

As they moved around the room, the queen spotted Charles Brandon performing the pavane with Lady Philippa Bassett, a younger sister to the late Queen Anne Bassett. Brandon’s spouse, Anne Brandon, was engaged in a conversation with Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey.

Kitty’s heart ached for her friend. “Brandon should pay more attention to his wife.”

Culpeper eyed the other couple. “Philippa Bassett is prettier than Anne Brandon.”

“I shall speak to the king about Brandon’s behavior.” It was a spontaneous decision.

“I would rather not,” he uttered so quietly that it seemed to be an important warning in fact. “His Majesty has been in a very foul mood as of late. Moreover, you cannot lecture him on the shortcomings of his best friend because he himself is as promiscuous as Suffolk is.”

The queen did not care about her husband’s infidelities. “Such tirades might be construed as treason. You are lucky that I’ll not recite your words to anyone.”

“You will not destroy me because of my youth.” Culpeper winked at her.

Another series of steps, and she then asserted, “You are older than me, Master Culpeper. Be careful with how you look at me and with what you say. I’m your queen!”

His grin was boastful. “His Majesty asked me to dance with you because he cannot. He said that I ought to become your Heracles and protect you with all my strength.”

In the silence that followed they perused each other, mesmerized. In a stylish gown of purple velvet embroidered with flat gold and black lace, Catherine looked like an enchanting siren whose beauty intoxicated Culpeper, just as some rare exotic perfume could. Sumptuously attired in a doublet and hose of red damask, Culpeper exuded youthful zeal, exuberance, and charm.

“Really?” Her eyes widened in fascination. “It is Henry’s style.”

The royal groom perused her avidly. “You are more well-read than they say.”

The queen’s confusion goaded her into inquiring, “What?”

Culpeper desired the queen since he had fist seen her. “Many believe that you are too young and immature, but they might be wrong. I need to have a closer look at you to make conclusions.”

“I know who Heracles is,” she snorted in offence.

The pavane ended, and Culpeper bowed to the royal wife. “I’m sure you do.”

An angry Kitty hissed, “People grow up in adulthood, Culpeper! You must!”

As the groom bowed to her mockingly once more, Kitty merely stomped away.

§§§

As a galliard began, the English queen found herself paired with Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter. Kitty did not like this man because of his seeming ability to crawl under one’s skin and wait until attacking a person in the moments of his target’s vulnerability. Despite her adoration for the dance, Kitty moved stiffly as they stepped to the right, to the left, and then made cadence.

The Marquess of Exeter observed, “Your Majesty is friends with Thomas Culpeper.”

“No,” the queen denied vehemently. “On the contrary, I think the king trusts him too much.”

“And so do you.” His smirk was annoying.

“You are wrong,” she insisted. “I care not a whit for him.”

“His Majesty made a great disservice to himself when he asked his trusted groom who is also a notorious rake to dance with you because my cousin cannot do so due to his injured leg.”

Kitty’s blush was deep. “You are being coarse!”

For the rest of the dance, the queen did not exchange a word with Exeter. At the end of the dance, Kitty darted away from him like a small trout from a large sturgeon.

The queen neared Lady Jane Boleyn née Parker, Viscountess Rochford, who served as her principal lady-in-waiting. The Boleyn widow, who had long become Kitty’s confidante, no longer wore dark colors and was now garbed in a gown of auburn silk ornamented with yellow ribbons.

“How are you, Jane?” Kitty quizzed. “Are you enjoying the evening?”

“I am!” Jane Boleyn grinned sheepishly. “For the first time in years, I feel free.”

“I’m glad for you.” The queen secretly envied her friend’s freedom.

Jane fathomed out her thoughts. “Is everything fine with His Majesty?”

“As well as it can be.” A halo of sadness fell like a veil about Kitty.

“Do you need my help, Madame?” Jane was worried about the queen.

Kitty whispered into Jane’s ear. “My advice is to never marry. Never!”  

Jane emitted a sigh. “You will get pregnant again.”

“If he can sire healthy children.” The queen’s voice was unnaturally low, and Kitty pressed her hands together to keep them from shaking. “My son Edmund has never been strong.”

Her maid accentuated, “Prince Edward and Princess Elizabeth are healthy.”

“Two aberrations among many others who were sickly and died.”

Jane’s head pivoted back and forth. They stood near a table loaded with cakes and sweets.

“We must be careful, Your Majesty,” the Viscountess Rochford implored.  

A muscle twitched in Kitty’s cheek. “Indeed, this place is full of snakes.”

As a tarantella started, Queen Catherine and Jane Boleyn whirled in line with the animated music. It was when Jane noticed a tall, handsome brunet with a nose too big for his face, and as their gazes locked, a tide of heat sizzled Jane’s skin, a yearning erupting in the pit of her stomach.

§§§

In the meantime, the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk strode across the chamber to the thrones. Charles Brandon dropped into a bow; his wife, Anne Brandon, bobbed a curtsey.

“Happy birthday, Your Majesty,” Charles began politely.

Henry sighed, but smiled. “Thank you, my friend.”

“Why so gloomy, sire?” Anne Brandon asked. “On such a festive day!”

The king lamented, “Youth is slipping away through my fingers like sand.”

Charles spoke with the amicability that that did not reach his eyes. “Your Majesty, I’m older than you, but I know that we are not yet ancient. Your depression must thaw like ice melting on a sunny day, because your life has been great despite some woes you have sustained with honor and courage. Now you have two sons, and the English succession is finally secure.”

His liege lord did not concur. “My Edward is a robust, healthy boy. Yet, his admiration for Latin worries me.” His gaze toured to a dancing Kitty. “My little Edmund is too sickly.”

Anne defended the queen who she considered her friend. “Your Majesty, Queen Catherine and you have been content together, in spite of your afflictions. If you extend to her a hand of support that she has granted you throughout all these years, she will birth you another baby.”  

Henry huffed, “I myself know what to do with my wife.”

“I apologize,” Anne put in hastily. “We wish you only well.”

Charles was fed up with the king’s outburst. “We have a gift for Your Majesty.”   

The monarch’s visage brightened like that of a child whose broken toys were glued together. “My friend! You know my habits and tastes like no one else! What have you prepared?”

At the snap of Brandon’s fingers, the servants brought a gold cup with a wide rim and a lid. Inside the cup, it was inscribed: ‘Blessed are those who place their riches in heaven.’

“A cup of youth, sire.” Suffolk knew that it was what his sovereign wanted to hear.

Henry’s grin shone like ivory in the night. “What an excellent choice, Charles! Keep your life free from love of money, and be happy with what you have, or you will forsake the Lord.”

Anne was conscious of the hypocrisy in her former husband’s statement. Every king loved luxury, and the profligacy of Henry VIII’s court was too excessive in her opinion. “The cares of the world, the deceitfulness of riches, and the desires for other things enter our lives and destroy the God’s commandments about their sinful nature. Sometimes, we ignore God’s words.”

Charles felt the danger emanating from their sovereign. “My wife is exaggerating.”

For a moment, Henry did not tear his scrutiny away from Anne von Cleves. She had changed a great deal since the annulment of their union. She spoke perfect English and was slenderer than she had been at the time of her arrival in the country. In a gown of orange brocade embroidered with gold, Anne now looked like a woman glowing with that rich, warm softness that reveals, through the transparency of her flawless skin, the inner flame and the pulsing life.

Suddenly, Henry burst out laughing. “She is feisty. Have you tamed her, Charles?”

A familiar resentment flowed through Anne. “With all due respect, my husband and I–”

Charles cut her off. “We are happy to make Your Majesty merry.”

The ruler’s scoff discomfited them both. “It is a pity that you are childless.”

She said mystically, “Perhaps not forever.” Charles eyed her with a frown.

Henry rose from his throne and embraced the Suffolk spouses in turn.

His grin wide, the monarch pontificated, “Charles and Anne, you are both most welcome at my court! Charles, you are my best and oldest friend, I love you dearly. Anne, you are my sister. Whatever you say or do amuses me, and I’ll always forgive your mistakes.”

Notwithstanding the royal favor, Charles and Anne were relieved to walk away.

§§§

The Duke and Duchess of Suffolk stood near one of the banquet tables. Next to them, others congregated at the tables, where various tarts and sweetmeats lay alongside the finest victuals of dried shrimps and oysters, all covered with a layer of crusts of fried bread. Anne Brandon was enjoying a dish of cream cheese, while her husband nibbled at some bread and bacon.

Anne measured him with a curious glance. “Charles, are you not hungry?”

“I’m full.” Suffolk managed a grin. “Of wine and meal.”

She glimpsed his lustful gaze traveling towards a beautiful lady, garbed in a lavender dress cut in the French style and adorned with jewels. She was Elizabeth de Vere, the oldest daughter of the late John de Vere, Earl of Oxford, and wife to Thomas Darcy, Baron Darcy of Chiche.

Malice leaked out of her. “If you have eaten a lot, will you be able to bed Lady Darcy?”

Immediately, the duke turned to his wife, glaring at her. “I’m your husband, and your duty is to obey me. You were aware before our wedding that I would not be faithful to you.”

Anne placed an empty platter at the table. “Women weep quietly because physical infidelity is an appalling way to cheat. But it is far worse to emotionally cheat on somebody.”

Charles sighed. “Anne, please–” 

“My parents,” interrupted the duchess as she eyed him with resignation. “They had a happy marriage for years. However, as my mother Duchess Maria aged, father – the late Duke John von Cleves – took several very young mistresses, and it broke her heart, but she remained dignified. Do you know how my mama comforted herself when her husband dallied with her ladies?”

It surprised him that the deceased Duke John von Cleves, a staunch reformer who adhered to Erasmus, had paramours. “Did Her Grace find her consolation in their offspring? In you?”

“Yes, in us. Maria also knew that deep down John still loved her.”

Suffolk deciphered tears in his wife’s eyes. “Forgive me, Anne.”

Anne took a plate of sauce-drenched venison. “I knew that you have no feelings for me when we married. I would gladly find consolation in children, but you spend too little time with me.” Not wishing to see him now, she gestured towards Lady Darcy. “Go speak to her. Good night.”

An irritated Charles walked away. He winnowed his way between the courtiers and made progress towards Elizabeth de Vere, Lady Darcy. She stopped twittering with other women as the attractive Duke of Suffolk approached. The air around them reeked with perfumes heavily, but it was not disturbing – his scrutiny was glued to Lady Darcy, who grinned at him coquettishly.

§§§

The English royal couple sat in their thrones like arrogant masters of the universe. Courtiers approached them to congratulate the monarch on his birthday. As they presented lavish gifts to their sovereign, Henry nodded and dismissed them with a monarchial wave of his hand.

Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, and his wife, Anne, came. After formal greetings, the king’s chief minister gifted his sovereign a detailed map of England, its surface gilded, where the former monastic houses, dissolved by Cromwell and Hertford, were pointed in black.

Hertford swept a low bow. “We hope that you like our gift.”

The ruler laughed. “Hertford, it is an eminent reminder about our accomplishments.”

The minister smiled. “I’m delighted that you like the map.”

“I’ve chosen this gift,” the Countess of Hertford informed.

The king viewed his former mistress from top to toe with interest. In the past several years, Anne Seymour had been almost annually pregnant, having given her husband three daughters and two sons. This roused bitter jealousy in Henry, even though one of Edward and Anne’s girls had died in infanthood. Anne’s gown of rose and black satin, wrought with silver threads, stressed her feminine curves, and it surprised the monarch that she was still slim and charming.

Henry flashed his former paramour a salacious grin. “That was a spectacular choice.”

Being next in the queue, the Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Surrey dropped into obsequious bows to their liege lord. They had two gifts for their sovereign: several platters of gold of various sizes, the Tudor coat-of-arms emblazoned on each of them, and a silver sword, its sheath adorned with emeralds and rubies. Several servants were holding these princely presents.

The ruler eyed the gifts. “My Howard friends, I’m pleased. Your taste is exquisite!”

The Duke of Norfolk flattered, “Your Majesty, you may use this sword in your next battle. According to the legend, this weapon once belonged to King Henry the Forth of England known as Henry Bolingbroke. We purchased it from one of the merchants on an auction.”

“It is for your collection of arms,” the Earl of Surrey added.

A flash of ambition and elation enlivened the king’s countenance. “That is marvelous!” he cried as he clapped his hands. “Henry Bolingbroke applied the claim of his grandfather, King Edward the Third, to France. You have reminded me that I must conquer France.”

Both Norfolk and Surrey forced fake smiles, regretting their choice of a gift.

With an air of ruthless formidability about him, King Henry climbed to his feet. A deathly hush of anticipation fell over the courtiers, their gazes glued to their sovereign.

A conflagration of hostility towards the House of Valois flashing in his pools, the Tudor ruler proclaimed, “My ancestors have the rightful claim to the French realm. Time is nearing when I’ll assemble a large army and cross the English Channel. We shall disembark in France and march on Paris, where we will lay siege until the city surrenders. I must prevail!”

The concourse trembled in trepidation mingled with apprehension. Such announcements from the king had long become usual, but he had never lifted a finger to realize them.

Norfolk and Surrey concealed their anxiety. Hertford and his wife feigned smiles. Despite the Howards’ animosity towards Hertford, none of them wanted any war against France.

Queen Catherine did not take her spouse’s words seriously. She peered at Culpeper who stood near Sir Francis Dereham, whose appearance at court was the last thing she had anticipated. Terror squeezed her like a serpent. Her former secret lover was here! Why did Dereham come to court for the first time since I became a queen? What does he want? Kitty wondered.

The king’s acrimonious scrutiny flickered between Norfolk and Hertford. “You have made a wonderful gift for me! Does your treacherous relative, the Boleyn courtesan, know that you want me to subjugate France? I cleared her name because it was my duty after Cromwell’s suicide and his confession, but she still betrayed England when she married François without my permission.”

At this, everybody concluded that the monarch was still obsessed with Anne Boleyn.

Norfolk wriggled out of the awkward situation. “My niece Anne is the Queen of France, not a subject of England. My son and I are true Englishmen who love our great country. Although we wish Anne and her French children well, we are concerned with the wellbeing of England.”

“Bravo, Norfolk!” Henry was pleased, also admiring the man’s acumen.

“Long Live King Henry!” Surrey shouted ebulliently.

Hertford promulgated, “God bless His Majesty! Let all your plans come true!”

“Long Live King Henry! Happy Birthday King Henry! All the best to Your Majesty!”

As they hailed their sovereign, no one mentioned his dream to vanquish France.

As the concourse quieted down, Henry stated, “Continue to give me presents.”

“Thank you all for your generosity!” Kitty intervened. She intercepted the glares of Surrey and Norfolk, for they had chided her for her two miscarriages, which worried them all.

Before Hertford, Surrey, and Norfolk could leave, the king’s reprimand halted them.

Henry affirmed, “You are all loyal and effective councilors. Nevertheless, I’ve not forgiven you for your failure to find the murderer of Sir Francis Bryan and Louis de Perreau.”

His subjects shuddered. The ruler frequently castigated them after the assassination of Sir Francis Bryan and the French ambassador at Greenwich Palace. In spite of their assiduous efforts to find a clue to the identity of the villain – the Bishop of Rome’s agent – they had failed.

Hertford blanched. “We will do our best.”

“I’ve already heard it many times.” Henry’s scowl made him look like the fierce God Ares. “If I had found who killed my comrade Francis, I would have cut him to pieces myself.”

Surrey said genuinely, “Your Majesty, my father and I are still mourning for him.”

The king’s hiss frightened them. “I need action and result. The Pope’s people might kill me!”

“This will never happen,” Norfolk emphasized. “Since Bryan’s death, we have significantly toughened the security measures in the royal palaces. Your Majesty is not in danger.”

Henry corrected, “Not in immediate peril, but still in danger.”

Hertford initiated, “We might launch a new investigation, sire.”

“Yes,” the ruler approved. “You, Hertford, together with Norfolk and Surrey, will lead it. Remember: I need the result. François sent me many angry letters about his ambassador’s murder, but I’m more worried about my own safety. We must also avenge Francis Bryan’s death.”

Bowing to their liege lord, the three men backed away from the throne. Anne Seymour cast an impenetrable glance at the king, then dropped a curtsey and followed her husband.

The next in the line of the king’s sycophants was the Marquess of Exeter. Accoutered in a doublet of green satin decorated with emeralds and diamonds, Exeter looked like a typical rich and snobbish peer of the English realm. He brought a stunning gold chain garnished with massive pearls, diamonds, and rubies, which he had commissioned from a Venetian goldsmith.

“This thing has arrived from Venice, sire,” Exeter apprised as he bowed.

The ruler adored such things. “Such subtle elegance! Thank you, cousin.”

Exeter handed the box to Henry with the gift. Henry immediately opened it and put the chain on his bosom, admiring how it suited his attire. Then the king hugged his cousin heartily.

As they parted, the monarch announced, “I have a gift for you, Lord Exeter. I’ve appointed you Head of the Hatfield household so that you take excellent care of my three children.”

Exeter beamed like a warm sun. This was more than he could ever hope for to stay as close to Prince Edward as possible. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I’m most grateful to you!”

Next succeeded Lady Honor Grenville, Viscountess Lisle. Her second husband – Sir Arthur Plantagenet, Viscount Lisle – had passed away a year ago, so now she lived at court alone. Still in mourning for her spouse, Honor wore a dark-dyed gown, which was trimmed with white lace, along with the cuffs on her sleeves; a veil of black taffeta covered her hair.

“Bring my gift!” Honor commanded as she swept a curtsey.

The servants delivered a portrait of Queen Anne Bassett, painted posthumously. Attired in a flowing white dress in ancient fashion, worked with gold threads, the deceased queen was depicted as the fresh and lovely Hebe, the Greek goddess of youth. A chaplet of white roses upon her head made Anne’s luxuriant blonde hair shine; her long hair streamed down her back in waves. Anne’s bright golden-green eyes twinkled as she held a cup of youth near her lips in the painting.

A hush ensued, their gazes riveted on the painting. Apparently, Honor Grenville had made this gift to their sovereign in public to remind everyone that her dead daughter was the mother of the next King of England. No one noticed Exeter’s sorrowful glance directed at the portrait.

Tears brimmed in the king’s eyes. “It is the best present for me, Lady Honor!”

Anne Bassett is my favorite queen, the monarch told himself. It was odd for him that he had not loved his third wife during his short marriage to Anne, despite having been charmed with her youthful beauty and her mischievous demeanor. Anne Bassett had produced Prince Edward! In the years that had followed her demise, Henry had missed his Bassett nymph terribly, her image having long become the idol of the perfect beauty without affectation, coquetry, or pretense.

Honor declared, “My beloved Anne does live in my heart.” She was on the verge of tears at the remembrance of how she had accidentally caused her daughter’s untimely death. “Anne left us so young! I want everyone remember her as a beautiful, kind, and virtuous lady.”

The courtiers kept staring at the monarch and Honor. Nobody caught the Earl of Hertford’s smirk at the woman’s words about her daughter’s purity, for Edward had once been Anne’s lover.

“Anne was an ideal woman,” Henry declared with an uncharacteristically cordial air about him. “In this portrait, I contemplate the pure and great beauty of my late wife, Queen Anne Bassett, which is embodied in everlasting harmony, charm, gentleness, elegance, freshness, and grace.”   

Honor apologized, “I beg Your Majesty’s pardon for inviting Master Hans Holbein back to England without your permission. Feeble in health, he cannot sustain himself because he did not have many commissions in Europe after his departure back to the continent.”

The king asserted, “It is good that Master Holbein returned to England. Our disagreements with him are in the past, and he is again our honorable guest at my court.”

Honor was relieved. “Thank you! Master Holbein created the portrait of my Anne.”

“His talent is rare and outstanding,” the ruler assessed. “I want Holbein to paint my portrait, as well as Queen Anne Bassett’s painting with our son Prince Edward.”

“He will do it.” Honor would ensure that the artist created the best possible work. “Our dearest Prince Edward deserves to be immortalized together with his great mother, sire.”   

Henry nodded vigorously. “Definitely, Lady Honor.”

Hiding her indignation with a grin, Kitty interjected, “I’m sorry for intruding, Your Majesty. Can Hans Holbein also paint my portrait together with Prince Edmund?”

Her husband regarded her irritably, but then he said evenly, “Of course, Kitty.”

“God bless Queen Anne Bassett’s soul!” cried Exeter in artificially detached tones.

“Let my daughter’s soul rest in peace.” Tears trickled down Honor’s cheeks.

Henry crossed himself. “We shall remember our dear Anne forever!”

Kitty warded off the urge to roll her eyes at her husband’s show of fake affection. His love was so contingent upon male heirs that her repugnance towards him was colossal. The king calls Anne Bassett his favorite wife. He remembers the late woman so well only because she died on the day of Prince Edward’s birth under odd circumstances and before she could disappoint him.  

After lowering herself into a curtsey, Lady Honor Grenville departed with pomp.

§§§

The ruler caught a glimpse of the French ambassador Charles de Marillac. While the subjects had congratulated their liege lord, Marillac had paraded himself about the room in a doublet of golden brocade adorned with the Valois arms, a chalice in his hand, his expression jovial.     

“Monsieur de Marillac!” The king disliked the man more than previous French ambassadors.

The diplomat approached. “I have one gift and some news for Your Majesty.”

In contrast to her spouse, Kitty was secretly fond of the French diplomat. Only two men at court could accelerate her pulse: Thomas Culpeper and Charles de Marillac.

Henry demanded impatiently, “Present them now!”

Marillac bowed gallantly to the king and queen. “Patience, sire.”

The ambassador’s servants delivered a sheathed weapon. At his signal, they extracted an exotic longsword with a curved blade, its hilt decorated with emeralds and rubies.

Henry marveled, “Is it Muslim?”

Marillac explained, “Your Majesty, I spent several years in the Ottoman Empire. I bought this Oriental blade from the same armorer who supplies Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent. Eastern scimitars are curved and longer than the straight and double-edged European swords.”

“Give it to me!” The king was exhilarated to have such a rare thing.

Henry stood up and grabbed a scimitar from the servant’s hands. Taking a step back from the throne, he swung the scimitar like a scythe in tight circles before him. The nobles observed the monarch with this unconventional weapon they had never seen before with interest.

“It is so light!” the ruler effused. “It must be more effective in battle than any broadsword.”

The ruler’s gladness amused Marillac. “The Turks use such weapons. It is one of the reasons why the Christians are afraid of their hordes which threaten Austria and Hungary.”

Henry brandished the scimitar in the air. “The Ottomans are demons on the battlefield. Has Ferdinand von Habsburg been successful in driving them out of Hungary?”

The diplomat answered ruefully, “Half of Hungary is still occupied by the Turks.”

“Then why is he called King of Hungary?” jeered the monarch.

“Sire, I pray that His Majesty will expel them, just as he ejected the Turks from Italy.”

If I were not a queen, I would have had lovers, Kitty mused grievously. If choosing between Culpeper and Marillac, she would have opted for having the Frenchman in her bed. Tall, athletic, and dark-haired, Charles de Marillac possessed the irresistible charm of the Greek God Apollo and the imperial bearing of a prince despite being a prelate. Yet, Kitty had been faithful to Henry out of fear to be arrested and executed, for she remembered her cousin Anne Boleyn’s case.  

Marillac possessed devilish intelligence, as well as cunning and superior logical thinking. By the age of twenty-two, he had been an advocate in parliament in Paris, but due to his sympathies with the reformers, he had left after the Affair of the Placards of 1534. He had journeyed to the East with his cousin Jean de La Forest, the first French ambassador to Constantinople. After his return to France, Marillac had been sent to England because of Louis de Perreau’s murder.

The diplomat stressed, “My master, King François, has a similar weapon.”

Henry beckoned Culpeper to him before shouting, “Take it away, Thomas!”

“I hope you like it, sire.” Marillac inwardly sniggered at the king’s reaction.

The monarch settled his broad frame in his throne. “You promised me good news.”

The diplomat began conspiratorially, “A great fortune has befallen France!”

Henry gurgled with laughter. “Which one? To have my former wife as your queen?”

The monarch’s behavior was purposefully contemptuous and condescending, but Marillac played his game. “Why, of course, Your Majesty! My master and his wife love each other. The whole of France sings about their romantic story that started during the Imperial invasion.”   

Charles de Marillac sang in French a ballad about Queen Anne and King François.

On days of fresh and tranquil health,

When life is as fine as a conquest,

As pleasant as summer sunshine,

The exotic lady sits down by the side

Of King François like an honored friend.

It is his beloved Queen Anne, his fate,

His dear friend, his advisor, his muse,

She comes to us from cold England,

But with words brighter than the dews,

Loving our Knight-King with such a fervor

That he is eternally devoted to their love.

“Enough!” screeched Henry. “Some bad musician composed it.”

“Why, sire?” Marillac switched to English. “It sounds very nice.”

The king’s temper spiked. “You are a damned Frenchman!”

I like putting that Tudor fanfaron on the edge, Charles de Marillac thought. But it might be perilous when it comes to teasing him with what he cannot have – Queen Anne’s heart. He almost imagined how the volatile ruler would impale him on the gifted scimitar. Nonetheless, Marillac’s unflappable posture and his imperturbability impressed everyone, including King Henry.

The ambassador notified, “Prince Antoine, Duke de Provence, was born a few weeks ago. A bonny and healthy baby boy, he is a credit to France and the House of Valois.”   

Henry sucked in his breath. “Another son?”

“Yes,” Marillac confirmed. “Queen Anne has given my master a third son.”  

Penetrating silence ensued. Everybody stared at the king, anticipating fireworks.

“No,” the ruler said, shaking his head in denial, but Marillac nodded.

When Henry envisaged François making love to Anne, he experienced mental sufferings. It was even worse when Henry’s mind conjured the odious pictures of Anne and François together with their children. Imagining his once wife Anne with his Valois archrival was akin to enduring the slow, horrible hours of his flesh being tortured. I do hate Anne more than I’ve ever loved her.

The flame of Henry’s loathing for the French couple reflected in his words. “Your master is a cockerel who happened to triumph over Carlos by chance. But I shall defeat him!”

There was a portentous silence as the King of England lumbered away from his throne.

The ruler briefly paused near the Earl of Hertford and his wife. “Edward, send another letter to the emperor. He did not respond to our previous messages, and we have not yet re-established our diplomatic contacts. Now I want to see his ambassador at my court more than ever.”

His chief minister tipped a nod. “All will be done tonight, sire.”

The monarch stormed out of the chamber like an enraged matador. He could think only of François and Anne’s new male child. Another prince whom his former queen had carried in her womb! Henry had plunged into a toxic mixture of his jealousy, anger, and disdain, more murderous than ever. Anne’s three sons with François should have been mine, his dark soul wept.


July 10, 1544, Oatlands Palace, near Weybridge, Surrey, England

Lady Anne Brandon, Duchess of Suffolk, awoke because of the disquieting solitude in the chamber. Her scrutiny drifted to a window: shades of magenta and gold colored the firmament, interspersed with wisps of clouds. The other side of the bed was empty.

“Charles!” she called, yawning. “Where are you?”

She climbed out of bed and donned on her wrapper of yellow and red silk.

Yesterday, the Suffolk spouses had retired to their quarters early from another masque. The celebrations continued for weeks after the monarch’s birthday, as though the sovereign of England labored to bury his jealousy of Anne Boleyn, which was well known to everybody, in a multitude of opulent feasts. At least, the king became more attentive to Kitty, Anne remarked to herself.   

“Charles, are you there?” The duchess peered into the adjoining bedroom where her husband slept if he did not want marital intimacy. However, no one was there.  

A disheartened Anne strolled to the window and threw open the shutters. The late morning sun slanted inside, and she lazily leaned over the sill to contemplate the view. The vibrant and large park was full of variegated blossoms, blushing in myriad shades to form a stunning carpet of color. Because they resided on the second floor, she could observe most of the park.  

To the right, there was a narrow road, running beneath the window. Anne noticed Lady Jane Boleyn and Sir Francis Dereham, who were arranging their clothes and adjusting their hair.   

“Where did they go?” a curious Anne asked herself. “Why are they together?”

As Dereham kissed Lady Rochford lustfully, Anne’s mouth flew into a perfect ‘o.’ Then Dereham grabbed Jane around her waist, but as his hands roamed under her skirts, she pulled away from him as if he had burned her. Her head swiveling back and forth, Jane looked alarmed that someone could have discovered them. In a couple of moments, they entered the palace.

Charles emerged behind his wife. “These lovers danced together a lot yesterday.”

Pink stained Anne’s visage. “They are having an affair. The court is a frivolous place.”

As always, his spouse’s decency both pleased and amused the Duke of Suffolk. “Every royal court is such a place, especially if a monarch himself keeps many mistresses.”

“In Cleves, my brother William has a highly respectable and dignified court.”

Her husband’s smirk caused her blush to deepen. “The Germans have a puritanical mindset.”

Anne protested, “A well-bred woman would not have any liaison because it goes against God’s will. Every extramarital relationship is sinful and a form of harlotry.”

Boredom tinged his countenance. “Without the frivolities, which you, the Protestants, loathe, life would have been gray like a winter sky, monotonous and dull. People have needs.”

She lowered her scrutiny. “As you wish.”

He raised her chin to glance into her eyes. “Anne, it is the truth of life.”

She maneuvered the conversation into a different territory. “Where were you?”

“I let you sleep late because you were sick yesterday. You are feeling better, I hope.”

“Yes.” Emotions was overflowing her. “There is something I must tell you.”   

Charles stiffened. “Good or bad?” Since learning of his late wife Catherine’s affair with the king, he always became alarmed when someone was about to announce something.   

“I am–” His wife paused delicately, “I’m pregnant. At last.”

“Have you consulted with a midwife?”

Anne tipped her head. “Yes, she confirmed it.”

Charles crossed to a carved ebony cabinet. He poured a goblet for himself from a pitcher of wine that stood there, and then drained its contents in one voracious gulp. Since Catherine’s death from miscarriage three years earlier, any mention of a child could send Suffolk into an abyss of despair and terror. Even though Catherine had lost the monarch’s baby, she had been his wife, and Charles still loved her dearly. Out of all his wives, Catherine Willoughby was his greatest love.

After the tragic deaths of Catherine and her mother Maria de Salinas at Hatfield, Charles had gone to his estates. Mourning for the loss of his beloved, yet adulterous, wife, he had spent months with his relatives at Westhorpe Hall. Charles had loved all of his offspring, especially his daughter with Princess Mary Tudor – Frances Brandon, who was now married to Henry Grey, Marquess of Dorset and had two daughters with Dorset. Frances often visited her father with her family.

Catherine Brandon’s two sons – very young Henry and Charles – had been disconsolate upon learning of their mother and grandmother’s demises. Frances and Eleanor, Suffolk’s another daughter with Mary Tudor, had taken care of the orphans. The duke had found his consolation in them and devoted all of his time to them until the summons from court had arrived.

Exhilarated with the birth of Prince Edmund, King Henry had accepted Charles as a brother. However, their friendship, which had once been one of the things Suffolk had treasured, had been ruptured permanently. Nevertheless, Charles had married Anne von Cleves at Eltham House in August 1541, while the royal couple had acted as their witnesses. The monarch had thrown a great feast to celebrate his best friend’s nuptials, but Charles had not even remembered it well.

Suffolk’s wedding had salvaged the alliance with the Duchy of Cleves. Charles had married Anne for England, not because Henry had ordered him to do so. Anne and Charles maintained a friendly, yet distant relationship that could not become warm because they were too different. His wife’s exceedingly strict Protestant upbringing made Anne too chaste, too moral, and too principled for his liking. Charles performed his conjugal duties rarely and had many paramours.

Anne’s voice intruded into his musings. “You are not happy, are you?”

“I’d prefer not to have more children.” His voice was abrupt and sharp.   

His duchess closed her eyes tightly to ward off tears. “You do not want this baby, Charles. Are you suggesting that I get rid of it somehow? That would be an irredeemable sin!”    

“I did not say that, Anne.” He felt himself a cad at the moment.

As he opened his mouth to object, Anne kept him silent with only the irate uplift of her brows and the plea in her eyes. “I’m aware that you did not want to take me as your wife. Neither did I! After the king set me aside, my only desire was to return to my homeland, Cleves. But my brother commanded me to marry a high-ranking English nobleman to preserve the alliance.”  

“We are in an arranged political marriage.” A baffled Charles was not accustomed to Anne’s outbursts because she had been docile before. “I wed you for the same reason.”

She prodded over to a wooden bench, adorned with gold lions and covered with yellow silk. She tumbled onto it and continued in a tremulous voice, “I obeyed my brother and King Henry. I was taught that a woman’s role is to be supportive and subordinate to men. Since our wedding, I’ve been a good and loyal wife to you, Charles. Can you deny that?”

Brandon did not understand where she was going. “You are a model wife.”

“Perhaps not an ideal one.”

He refilled his goblet and drank the contents quickly. “I’ve tried to treat you with respect.”

“Really?” She smiled through tears. “How many times did your daughter Frances disparage me in your presence? She dislikes me because she claims that I am nothing compared to Catherine Willoughby, whose guardian you had been before you married her. Catherine grew up with Frances, so your daughter still mourns for her. Nonetheless, I’ve never wronged Frances, but she keeps insulting me every time we meet. You have never defended me, Charles!”

A blend of guilt and irritation speared through him. “Frances is my daughter.”

“And I’m your wife.” Her gaze glowed with wrath. “I deserve respect!”

He sipped some wine. “Anne, listen to me. You–”

She interrupted brusquely, “How many women have you bedded since our wedding? I’ve turned a blind eye to your infidelities, just as your previous wives did, I suppose. You keep several ladies as your mistresses, and you leave my bed in the dead of night when we stay at court. You were with one of them tonight, and that is why I did not find you in the morning.”   

His hand squeezed the stem of his goblet. “I’m a man! You must obey me, woman.”

Now calm, Anne countered, “At court, I do not see you with your whores, which is fine with me. Nevertheless, I will not be humiliated under the roof of my own house. You have slept with my maids, and I’m relieved that at least they did not bear your bastards. There were servant girls as well. When you leave my bed at Westhorpe Hall after our short, formal intimacies, you go to my maid Jane or Sarah, or that girl from the kitchens… I don’t remember her name.”

“How do you know?” Charles sounded strained.

“I’m fully aware of my surroundings.” Her voice hardened; there was a surprising fierceness in her expression. “The king called me ‘that German cow’ and ‘Flanders mare.’ Your Frances labeled me ‘that fool from Cleves.’ How do you refer to me in the company of your harlots?”

Throwing his goblet away, the Duke of Suffolk stomped over to his wife, unable to see the wounded offence in her features. He feared that the stress she was experiencing now could trigger her miscarriage, just as it had happened to Catherine. Charles did not love her, but he did not wish Anne dead, and a nagging feeling of guilt for his misconduct was prominent in his chest. I was sure that Anne knew nothing of my dalliances. She is more observant and cleverer than I thought.

“Anne, don’t be so dramatic,” he requested gently.

Nevertheless, the Duchess of Suffolk could not stop the flow of accusations from her mouth. “What have I done wrong, Charles? I’ve accepted your two sons with Catherine as my own. I’ve loved little Charles and Henry, and endeavored to be their mother! At least, your daughter Eleanor is not a harpy, and she is the only one of all your children who befriended me.”

“Don’t be so nervous,” he demanded in a harsher manner.

She challenged, “And what if I do not comply this time?”

Charles Brandon settled on the couch next to her. “You can harm the baby.”

Rage, jealousy, and resentment reared their ugly heads, and Anne snapped, “Anyway, you do not want any children whose mother is not your beloved Catherine. It took me three years to get pregnant because you rarely grace my bedroom with your presence.”   

He felt the need to explain his behavior to her, and confession spilled out of him with fervor.  “I loved my late wife with all my soul, although I was not always a good husband to her. Catherine had an affair with His Majesty, but they were hiding it from everyone for a long time. Eventually, I learned the truth, and soon Catherine passed away from the bleeding after a miscarriage.”

Anne’s eyes widened in shock. “Catherine was the king’s mistress, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, before and during your marriage to our sovereign.”

Anne recollected, “When you invited me to dance for the first time, you said that you are not the only one whom Henry offended. Now I comprehend what you meant.”

“After Catherine’s passing, I kept her dalliance confidential. I did not want to ruin her reputation and the good memory of others about her. Only her mother knew everything.”

Suffolk’s mind drifted back to the day of Maria de Salinas’ death at St Etheldreda’s Church. Charles had harbored the fleeting hope that perhaps Maria’s words about Catherine of Aragon’s secrets were not true. Until he had found the confession written in her own hand among her things, just as his dying mother-in-law had told him. The truth had come as a gigantic shock: Catherine of Aragon had never been the ruler of England’s true wife, but Anne Boleyn had been.   

Hereby I, Dona Maria de Salinas Willoughby de Eresby, solemnly confess that my mistress, the late Queen Catherine of Aragon, consummated her marriage to the late Arthur Tudor, Prince of Wales. I repent of my lies with all my heart, just as Catherine did before her death…

These words echoed within Brandon’s head like a scream in the midst of a huge valley. He had found many papers: from Isabella of Castile where she had commanded Catherine to swear on the sacrament about her virginity, from Ferdinand of Aragon, Catherine’s letters to Emperor Carlos begging him to sack Rome if necessary so that the Pope was under his control, and many others. Suffolk concluded that Catherine had passed them all to Maria de Salinas before her demise.

At first, Charles had been inclined to give these letters to Henry. Then vindictive deities had convinced him to keep them for himself to extract silent revenge upon the monarch for seducing his wife and for besmirching their matrimony, even more for destroying their friendship. None of this correspondence mean anything now. Elizabeth Tudor is legitimate in accordance with the laws of England, but she will not rule because now the king has two sons, Charles speculated.

Anne’s voice returned him to reality. “I’m sorry, Charles. I did not want to hurt you.”

“Do not say that.” Brandon pressed his palm against her cheek. “I beg you for forgiveness. His Majesty mistreated and discarded you. I was only a little better than him, even though I did not apply ridiculous epithets to you like those Frances and Henry invented for you.”  

A wan smile signaled her acceptance of his apology. “Thank you.”

“No one will insult you anymore. And please be careful during your pregnancy.”

His caressing tone made her smile. Then she asked, “Do you want this child?”

“I do.” He laughed mirthlessly. “At least, I know that it is mine.”

Anne’s heart constricted for him. “I would never have betrayed you with anyone else.”

“Don’t say what you don’t know.” Charles Brandon removed his hands from her face and balled them into fists. “Henry forced Catherine because she wanted to leave him.”

Her eyes widened. “How could he do that? You are his friend!”

“I was his friend,” he corrected. “Now calm down.”

Charles embraced Anne, but she responded in a niggardly way, as though to remind him of his transgressions in their matrimony. He vowed to himself to be kinder and more attentive to his wife, although Suffolk would not be faithful to a spouse whom he did not love. However, Charles would no longer sleep with her maids and those who Anne knew well so as not to distress her.

Notes:

Hello everyone! We hope that you are fine and sane in these difficult days.

After a 3-year time jump, we see what happened to the marriage of Henry VIII and Catherine Howard. They have a son – Prince Edward, Duke of York. Catherine also had 2 miscarriages, and the monarch is not faithful to her. Of course, Henry wants to have as many sons as possible, so he is not pleased with Catherine’s failures to give him another male child. However, Catherine is young, so he hopes that she will produce another son. We hope that you noticed that Henry put on weight, and his health is not improving, so he is following in his historical footsteps.

It is King Henry’s birthday. Catherine Howard and Thomas Culpeper (it is correct to write his surname with one ‘p’) dance together, and they are attracted to each other. Yet, Catherine is also attracted to the French ambassador Charles de Marillac, in spite of Marillac being a prelate. Catherine remains faithful to her royal husband because she fears that if she commits adultery, she might be arrested, harmed, and even killed. However, will she be able to resist temptation?

Jane Boleyn, Viscountess Rochford, has a close relationship with Catherine Howard, just as they had in history. You might be surprised with the affair between Jane and Francis Dereham, Catharine’s first lover, but they will have their own storyline. Jane deserves romance.

We will continue to develop the murder character arc. So far, the mystery of the murders of Louis de Perreau and Francis Bryan remains unsolved; there will be other murders.

Lady Honor Grenville reminds King Henry that Anne Bassett gave him Prince Edward. So, we had Hans Holbein paint Anne’s portrait posthumously. To Henry, Anne Bassett is his “favorite wife” only because she gave him a healthy “son”. Henry has no idea that the boy is healthy because Edward is biologically the son of Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, who was appointed Head of the Tudor children’s household. Exeter has an interesting character arc.

We hope that you liked Henry’s reaction to the birth of Anne and François’ new son.

In the second half of the chapter, Anne Brandon, Duchess of Suffolk (former Anne von Cleves) has a personal conversation with her husband – Charles Brandon. It was clear that they would not have an easy marriage, for Charles wed her for political reasons, as he himself says. Charles still loves Catherine Brandon, his dead wife; he does not love Anne, so he is not faithful to her. Anne Brandon is now pregnant, and Charles understands that he did not treat her well.

The curved sword or scimitar was widespread throughout the Middle East from at least the Ottoman period.

VioletRoseLily and Athenais are together co-writing the story called “Entwined by a Golden Alliance.” Give it a try! We highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, Marina Ka-Fai, BubblyYork, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Lady Plantagenet in the White Queen fandom.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 51: Chapter 50: A Captive Queen

Notes:

Attention! VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance (Athenais) are co-writing the story called “Entwined by a Golden Alliance.” Give it a try! We are sure you will like it.

We hope you like the changes in Mary. We have a new character – Juana of Castile known as Juana the Mad, one of the most tragic queens in history.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 50: A Captive Queen

August 23, 1544, Royal Palace of Tordesillas, province of Valladolid, Spain

“Is it really true, Your Excellency?” asked Lady Mary Tudor, or Infanta Maria of Spain as she was called on the Iberian peninsula. “Is England allied with Spain again?” 

Eustace Chapuys smiled at the young woman who he loved as his own daughter. With the passage of time, Mary had become more feminine and attractive. Garbed in a modest black lace-trimmed gown of red silk adorned at the neckline with the pomegranates that had been Catherine of Aragon’s symbol, Mary resembled the younger version of her late mother, which brought tears into Chapuys’ eyes. Her Spanish headdress of pearls covered her hair completely.

“Exactly,” the diplomat confirmed with a grin. “Moreover, I’ll be reinstated as the Imperial Ambassador to England after King Henry meets with Emperor Carlos in Flanders.”

Immediately, arrows of her questions assailed him. “Who offered friendship first? The King of England or the Holy Roman Emperor? What are the terms of their alliance? Does England need this treaty to ally against France again? Will there be an Anglo-Imperial invasion of France?”  

“Wait a bit, Your Highness, and then I’ll tell you everything.”

“Of course, Your Excellency. I’m happy to see you again!” 

Mary and Chapuys seated themselves in two matching chairs swathed in black leather.

Like all the rooms in the palace, the interior of the chamber, where Mary received her guest, was dark and solemn. The heavy ebony furniture, which dated back to the second half of the 15th century, was ornamented with the heads of lions, bulls, eagles, and rams. The walls were colored in horizontal bands of black and brown, their lower parts paneled with small stone slabs.

Chapuys sent her a paternal smile. “I’ve been so worried about you!” 

Mary grinned jocundly. “I’ve been perfect, and in a wonderful company.”

This surprised him. “Do you really like your life in Tordesillas? It must be hard for a woman of your refinement, culture, and royal upbringing to lead such a cloistered life.”

“Well, I was far lonelier in England when I was estranged from my mother.”

For a short time, they discussed Mary’s situation. Chapuys was eager to learn all the details of Mary’s reclusive existence at the Palace of Tordesillas, for he was astonished that she did not live at one of the many luxurious Spanish royal residencies. Few people understood why after the departure of Emperor Carlos V from Spain to the Low Countries over four years ago, Mary had relocated to the place where Queen Juana of Spain was imprisoned for a long, long time.

Following the untimely death of Empress Isabella in childbirth, her disconsolate husband had sequestered himself in the Monastery of Yuste in Extremadura. For months, Carlos had stayed there, devoting himself to a fervent prayer for the soul of his beloved spouse. While his younger brother Ferdinand had besieged Rome together with the King of France, Carlos’ universe had been disintegrating, whereas his dominions had been governed by his loyal councilors.

The emperor had emerged from his voluntary confinement to his monastic cell in a year after the tragedy. At the time, Mary had lived at the Alcázar of Toledo, where Isabella had died. When Carlos had appeared there, Mary could not recognize him because her cousin was a different man. His cheeks pale and flushed, as if with fever, his eyes vacant, Carlos had spoken to her unwillingly. I shall never forget Carlos’ lifeless eyes, yet those of a living man, staring at me.

“I’m leaving Spain,” Emperor Carlos had told Mary Tudor, “for Flanders where I was born. My most trusted councilor, Francisco de les Cobos, will act as regent in my absence.”

Mary had gaped at him. “When will Your Imperial Majesty return?” 

He had flung his arms up. “Perhaps never, maybe in several years. I don’t know.”

Her eyes had widened. “Never? But you are the King of Spain!” 

Carlos had smirked. “My mother is the Queen of Spain, although she will never rule.”  

“What will your commands for me be?”  Mary’s heart had hammered like a drum.

His gaze detached, he had asserted, “Cousin, you may live in any palace here. My only request is not to create troubles for the Houses of Habsburg and Trastámara.”

Indignation had flared in Mary’s bosom. “Do I cause you problems?” 

Carlos had grimaced. “Your mother landed in trouble, and you might follow in her footsteps. Although they started their charade years ago, Aunt Catalina must have acted more convincingly with your father. Then I would not have been obligated to sack Rome and desecrate holy places.”

A nonplussed Mary had pleaded, “Please explain!”   

The monarch had dodged her question. “You should not know, Mary. There is the solitude of suffering when you go through the pitch-black darkness that is intense, ineluctable, and dreadful. You lived in such darkness in England. I’ll not inflict more pain upon your scarred heart.”

She had neared him and clasped his hand in hers, her first intimate gesture towards Carlos. “Sire, your heart was injured by the death of Empress Isabella. I loved her too, for she was a great woman. Let us mourn for her together, and maybe I can somehow ease your pain.”

Carlos had removed her hand from his, as if she could infect him with a malady. “Nothing and nobody can ever make my world right again. Only my reunion with Isabella in heaven can.”

“No, don’t say that, Your Imperial Majesty. You are young and have a life ahead!” 

His expression had softened. “So do you, Mary; but not me.”

To her chagrin, Emperor Carlos had then exited the chamber, turning his back on Mary’s offer of friendship. The next day, Mary had learned that he had departed for Bruges together with his friend, the Duke of Alba. For a year, she had tarried in Toledo, where she had befriended some of Isabella’s former ladies-in-waiting, including Doña Leonor de Mascarenhas. At first, Mary had hoped that the emperor would come back and arrange a marriage for her, but he had not.

The tidbits from England had been unpleasant and astonishing for Mary. The quickness with which her royal father had been changing queens had horrified her more than the proclamation of her enemy Anne Boleyn’s innocence. Then the most horrendous news for her had arrived: the Bassett prostitute had birthed Edward Tudor, Prince of Wales. Mary’s hopes for her queenship had been shattered like glass, and she had descended into an abyss of despair.

De les Cobos, despite being the emperor’s regent, disliked the bastardized English princess for some reason. In his master’s absence, he had decreased the allowance that had been paid to Mary from the Spanish treasury upon Carlos’ orders. Understanding that Carlos had been a broken man facing an awful lot of dilemmas within the Habsburg empire, she had not complained to her cousin in letters. It was when Mary had relocated to Juana of Castile’s prison.   

I’ve been here for so long with Aunt Juana, Mary Tudor mused without bitterness. Several years in Tordesillas had allowed her to comprehend many things about the Habsburg family and, most importantly, Carlos. She had realized that Juana was a gentle woman with an extraordinarily good, yet principled, heart, and the sharp intelligence that rivaled a man’s. It was all too painful to discover that Mary’s relatives had calumniated her jailed aunt for the sake of power.

The sprightly voice of Eustace Chapuys restored her thoughts to the present. “If England’s alliance with the Holy Roman Empire is made, everything will change in your life. As the emperor wants to see you in the Low Countries, something important must be happening.”

“I’ve always disliked the French. When I was briefly betrothed to the late Dauphin François, I hated the very idea of marrying into the Valois family.”

Chapuys’ grin was snarky as he recollected, “Your Highness, do you remember the meeting with King François in Calais years ago? That little Valois bastard did not allow you to kiss him when it was customary for you both to greet each other in this way despite being children.”

Her response was not what he had anticipated. “Don’t disparage the late Dauphin François! Regardless of my feelings for the Valois family, we must show respect to the dead.”

“I beg your pardon. Your words prove how truly golden your heart is.”

His apology was a fake one in her eyes. “Your Excellency is exaggerating.”

Chapuys’ countenance contorted in distaste. “Now there is the new Dauphin of France. He is rumored to be friendly towards his whorish stepmother.” His fists balled, and his glare flared with berserk and opaque animosity as he ground out, “That Boleyn courtesan birthed three Valois male whelps and two little sluts for that heretical King François. That is unbelievable!” 

Mary’s spirits swooped downward. “Your Excellency, never again insult innocent children in my presence. Never, you hear me! In spite of my attitude towards Anne Boleyn, her offspring with King Henry and King François must not be held accountable for her sins.”

His jaw dropped in awe. “Do you defend the witch’s progeny? Why? Her children have the evil blood coursing through their veins. Such creatures of the Lucifer should not be in the line of succession to any throne. Witches and their spawns must be burned at the stake.” 

That was more than Mary could bear. “How dare you pronounce such blasphemies! Are you a true Christian or not? Your hatred of Queen Anne and the heretics has blinded you to the simple fact that children are not responsible for the transgressions of their parents.”

His eyes widened in disbelief. “They are that trollop’s brats!” 

“Now listen to me, Chapuys,” said Mary with a hardness that was more than a little daunting. “Elizabeth Tudor is my sister! I’ve missed her wholeheartedly since my escape to Spain. I would have given a lot for another chance to see Lizzy and embrace her, to learn how she is faring alone under my father’s mercurial rule. As for Anne’s children with King François, they are all raised as Catholics in spite of their mother’s religion, and I do not wish ill upon them.”

It hurt the diplomat that for the first time, Catherine of Aragon’s daughter referred to him by his surname so harshly. In her eyes, Chapuys deciphered a blend of novelty and familiarity. He failed to fathom out the nature of these new and unwelcome alterations in her personality.

“Has Your Highness changed your opinion of the Protestants and Lutherans?” 

She shook her head. “Of course not. I shall never abjure the true faith.”

“Then why are you lenient towards Elizabeth and the whore’s French progeny?”

Mary stood up and stomped over to an ebony table in the corner. She poured out a goblet of wine for herself. “Do you know something about the sisterly bonds, Chapuys?” 

Her seeming alienation from him troubled the diplomat. “The salvation of an immortal soul is far more important than family values and all worldly things. Heretics are accursed people with a perverted understanding of the faith. They undermine the Holy Scriptures.”

“And?” She sipped more wine.

“When it comes to the matters of a soul’s salvation, no family relations matter.”

To her chagrin, Catherine’s daughter was disappointed in the man who she had grown to love like her guardian angel. “I do not concur, Your Excellency. Filial bonds mean more than faith, riches, or power. In God’s eyes, mercy is important. That is why I love my sister Lizzy.”

“France has become a nest for snakes, heretics, and harlots.”   

She remarked, “The French monarch is a Catholic.”

“King François is a heretic!” hissed Chapuys with diabolical repugnance. “He married that damned sorceress who drove him astray and aided him to defeat His Imperial Majesty in France. Later, she made him besiege Rome and also ensorcelled King Ferdinand to join their forces.”

“My cousin, Ferdinand, seems to be happily married to the young Marguerite de Valois. As far as I know, they have several offspring and live peacefully in Vienna.”

A haze of religious fanaticism encompassed Chapuys. “That Boleyn vixen bewitched King Henry, King François, the French royal family, and King Ferdinand. She must be burned!”   

She drained the goblet’s contents. “I no longer know who bewitched whom.”

“What?” He was so bewildered that he did not know what else to say.

“Let’s continue this conversation later, Your Excellency.”

Unable to handle the radicalism of Eustace Chapuys, Mary set the cup at the table. She exited with the measured gait of royalty, her frame of mind darker than the room’s interior.   

This must be Juana’s detrimental influence on Mary, inferred the diplomat. A councilor close to Emperor Carlos, Chapuys was aware that the numerous fantastic stories about Juana of Castile’s insanity had been a product of fiction. Yet, his allegiance to and his admiration for the emperor would never waiver. He detested Juana after he had once heard the captive queen’s lectures about life to her monarchial son when Chapuys accompanied Carlos to Tordesillas.

§§§

“What a dreadful place!” Eustace Chapuys said to himself as he exited.   

The windows were ajar, and the breeze wafted inside the flagrance of blossoms from the gardens. Although the queen was not usually permitted to leave the palace, it was a vivid reminder that even in the presence of dejection, there could be sweetness and beauty. Yet, the diplomat imagined that a foul odor, the scent of prison and illness, enveloped and suffocated him.

A chill smote Chapuys as he halted in the corridor at the sight of the two women at its end. Mary Tudor stood near the Queen of Castile, the mother of Carlos von Habsburg, and they were involved in a discussion about a dinner that they both wanted to be served on the terrace, the only place from where Juana was allowed to see the park, the Douro River, and the city.

As they noticed him, Mary called, “Your Excellency! Go greet Queen Juana!” 

Reluctantly, Chapuys trudged towards them. “Good day, Madame.”

“Why not Your Majesty?” Juana’s voice was layered with disgust and mockery. “Do I not deserve to be addressed properly? Or have you forgotten who I am?” 

He bowed. “I have the deepest respect to the emperor’s mother.”

“Show it, then!” ordered the queen. “Bow lower to me, just as the protocol dictates.”

A humiliated and furious Chapuys complied. This time, his bow was so deep that he nearly lost his footing. “I know the royal protocol very well, Your Majesty.”

Juana’s loathing for the man spilled from her lips. “The rules of etiquette could have become different in Savoy compared to Spain. The Duchy of Savoy has been occupied by the French since 1536, if I am not misinformed. France is a country of majestic culture and refinement, so it may be worth visiting your homeland again to take lessons of French gallant manners.”

“Aunt Juana?” A dumfounded Mary was at a loss for words.

The queen smirked. “We have known each other for a long time, and he despises me.”   

The diplomat purpled in rage. “Madame, you–” 

“Save your breath!” Juana pointed a sarcastic finger at him. “Do I seem excited? Yes, I am, but not mad, and you know that. If you had been locked up for years in a room without windows, you would have been elated at even the barest chance of being free to go outside.”

He muttered, “You are confined to this place not on my orders.”

“A short, fat, and coarse thing,” jested the queen sardonically. “You have changed, Chapuys. Only the color of your eyes is the same. Bless your little heart of a religious fanatic.”

Mary and Juana scanned the diplomat. Short of stature, Eustace Chapuys had put on weight in recent years, and his previously brown hair sported some gray streaks. Now he walked with the aid of an ebony cane, and his skin was as white as bleached bone, looking quite unhealthy. His ascetic doublet of black velvet, tightfitting and high-collared, matched his silk trunk hose.   

Chapuys barely smothered his fury. “Sarcasm suits Your Majesty.”

The queen assessed, “You have aged prematurely, my friend. I hear that Henry of England still has a head full of flaming red hair and does not use a cane, in spite of the problems with his leg. François of France is in perfect health and does not have any grizzled hair, although it is fair to add that he is almost my son’s coeval and is younger than Henry and you are.”

Mary and Chapuys wondered, independently of each other, how the long-time prisoner of Tordesillas knew such detailed information about foreign monarchs and courts.  

“I’m not going to die,” croaked the diplomat.

“God forbid it happens, Your Excellency,” Mary put in.

Juana’s glare landed upon Chapuys. “You are yearning to see how Carlos allies with Henry, and how they will launch a new invasion of France. You will not pass away until it happens.”

“These are affairs of state, Madame.” The emperor’s mother was grating on his nerves.

“Poor France!” stated Queen Juana sorrowfully. “The French suffered at the hands of the English during the Hundred Years’ War. Then there were several other attempts to subjugate the Valois realm, one of them the last Imperial invasion. All of them were unsuccessful.”  

Mary regarded her aunt in bewilderment. “Isn’t France Spain’s sworn adversary? Didn’t my grandparents, the Catholic monarchs, detest everything French, just as my mother did?” 

Juana’s clever gaze rested on her niece. “Politics is a chilly, lethal, calculating game. Few politicians practice what they preach, and ever fewer mean what they officially proclaim.”

Mary viewed Juana from top to toe. So did Chapuys, not masking his interest.

Now an old woman of sixty-five, the Queen of Castile had a wrinkled and oval-shaped face, with wispy gray hair escaping from a cap of black silk and coiling along her cheek. Her tight black gown with billowing sleeves accentuated Juana’s shapeliness, for she had kept her excellent figure despite her age. The smart eyes of the famed women known as Juana the Mad – cerulean like blue skies – were full of melancholy that encircled her entire being like a saint’s halo.

Chapuys was maliciously satisfied that the imprisonment had taken its toll on his master’s mother. Yet, it was obvious that Juana had once been a stunningly beautiful woman: the perfection of line and form in her countenance, the alabaster color of her wrinkled, yet flawless, skin, were still present. He would want a spark of life, intelligence, and contempt towards him in those eyes to be gone forever. One day, Juana might become dangerous for the emperor’s reign.    

The diplomat scarcely managed to conceal his grimace with a half-grin as Mary enquired, “Do you mean that feelings and words are frequently deceptive, Aunt Juana?”

“Yes, my dear girl.” The captive queen smiled sagaciously. “For cold-blooded and practical people such as my son Carlos, feelings and words are both like water seeping into the sands. They flow from one area into a different one, filling them completely before streaming in torrents somewhere else. The river of a monarch’s life transforms many erstwhile words and sentiments into those less sensitive, more cynical, and more vicious – it happens almost always.”

Mary tipped her head sadly. “Like spring follows winter, nothing remains steady forever. I watched King Henry to evolve from a caring, loving husband and father into a savage, egocentric, and perilous man whom I no longer recognize. Does it happen to every ruler?” 

Juana’s scrutiny was directed at Chapuys as she responded, “No. Although I’ve never met François de Valois in person, I think he has avoided the coarsening of his heart and soul, unlike his rivals – Carlos and Henry. By heaven’s grace, he is nobler than them!” 

Eustace Chapuys prodded, “Is Your Majesty consorting with enemies of Spain?”

“How your heart is thumping!”  Juana sniggered at him. “Do you fear that someone might smuggle my letters out of Spain and deliver them to France? If you had said something like this to Carlos, he would think that you lost your mind, just as he portrays me as a madwoman in his tales about my aggressiveness and lunacy. No fly can penetrate the thick walls of my prison!”      

Mary reprimanded, “You exaggerate, Chapuys.”

“Shall we go, my dear?” The queen’s gaze was warm as it locked with Mary’s.

Catherine of Aragon’s daughter nodded. “Yes, I’m thirsty and hungry.”

Mary and Juana strode away from him. Guards patrolled the corridor back and forth.

“Damn that Queen Juana,” Chapuys cursed. “His Imperial Majesty will not be pleased with their closeness.” He then headed to his room in order to compose a letter for Emperor Carlos.  


September 1, 1544, Royal Palace of Tordesillas, province of Valladolid, Spain

Mary often spent hours talking with Queen Juana of Castile in her aunt’s apartments.

The gloomy interior of Juana’s bedchamber, where she had spent many despondent years in solitude, was really like total darkness compared to the blazing sun outside. An oversized ebony bed, its headboard studded with onyxes black like the color of Juana’s many agonies, served as the sleeping altar for the hapless woman, although it was impossible to find refuge from the heartache and loneliness that had been tormenting Juan’s entire being throughout her incarceration.

The room was never illuminated well because Juana did not like a lot of light. An intricately carved chest and a cabinet, decorated with stamped, raised, or plain silver and similar onyxes, a stately prie dieu, and X-shaped chairs were arranged around the area. The plaintive and ceremonial tapestries on the walls, depicting the Second Coming of Jesus Christ – the final and eternal judgment by God of all human beings – added to the funereal atmosphere in the room.

Queen Juana and Mary Tudor sat in matching chairs near the bed.

“Aunt, why did you say that François is noble-minded if you don’t know him?” 

Juana’s scoff was like a chocking sob. “I’ve lived and seen more than enough despite being a captive for most of my life. Neither Carlos nor your father, Henry, possesses the gentle soul that may bring the dead soul back to life, just as François seems to have done to Anne Boleyn. It’s the artistic soul that is capable of seeing the most subtle beauty in this cruel world.”

Mary objected, “We are not aware how Anne feels in her marriage to François.”

“I’m glad that you do not refer to your former stepmother as a whore.”

Catherine of Aragon’s daughter sniffed, releasing the breath of her woes into the universe. “I’ve not forgiven Anne. Yet, she is not the only one at fault for the sufferings of my mother and for my afflictions. Anne also triggered the horrendous religious reform in England.”

The queen leaned back in her seat. “If not Anne, someone else would have replaced Catalina in your father’s affections. The King of England is too fickle to love any woman for his whole life, and I suspect that he has never been devoted to anyone more than he adores himself.”

Mary’s scrutiny wandered to a window, where the sun was setting like a red ball in the sky. Does this sunset symbolize the end of my peaceful days? Or something else? A pious woman of marvelous faith and prayer, she had long become rather superstitious after myriads of misfortunes had beset her in England. She constantly wondered what premonitions had any significance.

The solitary days at Tordesillas had provided Mary with her peace and strength to move on with her life. At present, headstrongness and resilience flowed through her in continuous waves, and she could feel within herself the surge of vast stores of energy that she had lost in England and failed to regain during her stay at the Spanish court. Thanks to Queen Juana, a profound change had come upon Mary – yet, she remained the same woman, unaltered at her core.

Since Anne Boleyn’s return to England, Mary had stopped being the child who had once been the pearl of her royal father’s world. Henry’s oldest daughter had tumbled into the chaos of chasmal disappointment, ruined hopes, and ever-growing terror. Her life had twisted, and turned around, and swiveled somewhere many times. Until Catherine had died alone and disgraced at Kimbolton Castle, until Mary had run away to Spain, until she had come to Tordesillas.

Mary had matured into a wiser, more resilient personality. Perhaps thanks to her trials and tribulations, and partly under Juana’s guidance to the truth. Watching the unfortunate fates of the English ruler’s wives from afar, she had realized that no life and happiness were annihilated unless a country’s sovereign wanted that to happen. The undeniable reality is that the king – it is not easy to call him my father – would have discarded my mother in any case because he is obsessed with male heirs. Anne Boleyn was no longer Henry’s consort, but he kept replacing his queens.

At last, Mary admitted aloud, “My father wanted a son insanely. He would have gone to any lengths to get what he coveted to have for years. I wonder whether he is happy now.”

“Such people are never fully content,” opined the queen. “They always need something else. Something they cannot have. Now Henry must be pining after Anne.”

Mary would not that to be true. “Only God knows that.”

“We hear a lot even within the walls of my prison. Since they vanquished Carlos, France has prospered under the House of Valois. It has taken François several years to revive the country’s economy, but at present, they are richer than before the invasion. As for Anne and François, there are many ballads about their romance, and they have a large family – it is logical that they are in love. Your former stepmother is now in a far better position than she could ever be in England.”

Mary cocked an eyebrow. “How do you know so much, Aunt Juana?” 

The queen smiled slyly. “I have my clandestine sources. So, I can say that François is a better man than Carlos and Henry. Despite his flaws, François is the quintessence of chivalry.”

Mary was astonished. “François married your daughter, Eleanor of Austria, against his will to have his two sons released from the Spanish captivity. His French Majesty openly neglected her, did not perform his marital duties, and dedicated himself to his mistresses, while Eleanor must have suffered alone. Nevertheless, Isabella told me that Eleanor had feelings for him.”

Juana’s heart tightened in heartbreak at the thought of her deceased daughter, Eleanor. “First of all, François did not kill Eleanor. She died of consumption, as Carlos himself confirmed to me. Yet, my son claimed that François had murdered her to use it as a pretext to invade France. After Carlos had returned to Spain defeated and recovered from his wounds, he visited me in a foul mood, and I lectured him about using Eleanor’s memory in such a despicable way; he was furious.”

After a moment’s pause, the captive queen continued, “The King of France failed to overlook his fierce hatred of Carlos and our family. Unfortunately, François has the compelling reasons to loathe us all after the captivities of his sons and his own imprisonment in unbearable conditions, and after the invasion of France of 1536.” Tears prickled her eyes. “However, my heart protests against such mistreatment of my dearly departed girl, who now must be in heaven, by her own husband. I wish Eleanor had been happier in France, but it was not possible.”

“It would have been better if she had never been compelled to marry François.”

“Indeed. Maybe Eleanor would have found contentment after King Manuel of Portugal, her first husband, had passed away. Eleanor could have wed any European prince or duke, perhaps not a king, and she would anyway have been less miserable than she was with François.”

“François did not act as a knight with Eleanor, but you are defending him.”

Juana shook her head resolutely. “I’m not defending François. I’m not praising him either, although there are many things for which he can be commended. François was not fair to Eleanor, but he did not try to annul their unwanted matrimony, which means that he respects his vows, even those given under duress. This deserves some respect despite everything.”

As her niece nodded, the queen continued, “Men might be cruel to women whom they don’t love and if they want their love, especially if such ladies are too annoying with the expression of their feelings. My late spouse, Philip, did not adore me, and he did not need my love. He abused me and often made a laughingstock of my feelings for him which I displayed openly – my love and my jealousy of his paramours. I was too young, impulsive, and inexperienced back then.”

“My father was cruel to my late mama when he wanted to annul their marriage,”

“So, you understand, Mary.” Her niece dipped a nod, and the queen sighed. “François is not ideal, but he is far nobler than Henry and my son Carlos. I brought him up because I enjoyed rubbing Chapuys the wrong way, and because we discussed Anne.”

“You reckon that France does not deserve to be put into place by Spain?” 

“Who determined this place?” Juana’s mirthful laughter was a stark contrast to the room’s opaque decorations. “My deceased mother and father who cared more about their power and that of the barbaric Spanish Inquisition they established than about their own children? Or Carlos who loves Spain’s wealth and the prestige of being a mighty Habsburg monarch?” 

Though accustomed to such tirades, Mary felt uncomfortable when she spoke so. “Carlos is your son, despite his shortcomings and the cruelty he has displayed towards you.”

Juana’s mind drifted to her second son. “I’d love to meet with Ferdinand. He had wanted to visit me many times before Carlos sent him away to Flanders and then to Austria. All our meetings with him were prohibited, although I begged Carlos to let me see him.”

“Carlos will not allow King Ferdinand to see you because in this case Ferdinand will learn that you are not mad. I’ve never met Ferdinand, but Isabella told me many good things about him. Ferdinand still believes the tale that was spread about you by my grandfather and your son.”

The queen smiled sadly. “I did not expect anything else.”

Mary recalled, “Isabella said that Ferdinand is quite different from Carlos.”

Juana heard the same about her second son. “Kinder, far more honorable, not warmongering, not as twisted with lust for power as Carlos is. Loyal to Carlos in everything, save his actions after his liberation from the French captivity when Ferdinand gifted Milan to France and then married Princess Marguerite. I last saw Ferdinand as a boy of five, and now he must not remember me.”

Again, Mary was surprised how Juana had learned about the terms of Ferdinand’s release. “With God’s help, Carlos and Ferdinand will remain true brothers forever.”

“I’m not so sure.” Premonition overmastered Juana.

A despondent stillness filled each and every space of the chamber. No sound reached their ears, save the measured tread of sentinels in the corridors, audible in the profound silence.

Childhood memories paraded before Juana’s eyes, seeing how her late mother, Isabella, had adored her intelligence, and how she had punished her girl severely for what Isabella had called the notorious lack of piety. Juana’s mind’s eye beheld herself in the royal castles at Toledo, Seville, Segovia, and Valladolid, as her father, Ferdinand, had gathered her into his arms and whirled her, as they had laughed together until Isabella had scolded them for being too noisy.

Juana’s relationship with her almost fanatical mother had deteriorated due to the daughter’s religious skepticism. Although Juana always believed in the Almighty, even during the worst days of her life, she thought that the avaricious children of the Lord had twisted His true word and paid much attention to manmade ceremonies, too lavish to the real Creator’s liking. There is no Allah or Christ, Juana had deduced a long time ago. There is only one God, but every nation calls Him differently. The Lord is in one’s heart, not in those preposterous rituals invented by prelates.

Visions of Juana’s marriage to Philip von Habsburg, known as the Handsome or the Fair, blazed through the woman’s brain like a fire of her dormant passion for life. Years ago, Juana had been exhilarated and proud to be the wife of the young and handsome Duke of Burgundy. Their sumptuous castles in Bruges and Ghent had seemed to her the sheer paradise Philip had created for his beloved spouse. For a short time, Juana had been blissfully happy with him until she had found him with one of her ladies-in-waiting in their marital bed as the lovers had copulated.

Juana’s jealousy had been stronger that her ardent love for Philip. Therefore, her husband had ceased the entire pretense and hurtled at her so many humiliations that Juana would never count them. Bruges and Ghent, once the cities of their romance, had transformed into the cemetery of her marital wreckage – Juana’s war that she had waged against Philip’s numberless mistresses, always failing to reach out to his heart and make him love her as much as she had loved him.

Yet, Philip had bedded her often, and she had birthed him five children, both in Flanders and in Spain. For long, Juana had seen beauty in her spouse, which no one else could. The beauty of their love which she herself had imagined, one that had leaped to her eye whenever she had turned to Philip – a beauty of woods and hills in his green eyes, one that had never really reflected in his orbs. Men like Philip can never love a woman wholeheartedly. They love only pleasures.     

After her mother’s passing in 1504, Juana had inherited the Crown of Castile as Isabella’s oldest surviving child. Ferdinand had tried to lay his hands on the regency of Castile, but most of the Iberian nobles had disliked and feared him. They had invited Philip to Spain and recognized Philip as their sovereign. Squabbles and skirmishes had unfolded between Ferdinand and Philip, for neither of them had seen Juana as the Queen of Castile and grappled for power.

Juana remembered how her husband had been proclaimed King of Castile by the Cortes of Valladolid, with unprecedented pomp he had always coveted. Nonetheless, Philip had suddenly died of a typhoid fever at Burgos in the autumn of 1506. Juana had been so disconsolate that she could not have abandoned his body for days, having not allowed burying him. Little could she know at the time how her once caring father would use this fact against his daughter soon.

You are not healthy, Juana! You cannot rule this great kingdom! Your mind is not clear, my dear child. You showed the signs of insanity in adolescence, but your mother and I ignored them for too long. Thus, the Cortes of Castile have handed the regency of the county into my capable hands. You will be confined to the Palace of Tordesillas for your own safety, Juana.

As Ferdinand of Aragon had said that, a shocked Juana had buried her face against his chest and burst into a fit of sobbing. Her mind had connected the dots: her father had chosen power over his daughter, having resolved to immure her alive in prison. However, she had loved him back then! Juana had clung to him like a frightened child, and Ferdinand had held her tight. Then she had pushed him away, dismayed, startled, wondering what to do next, and had fled the room.

The queen’s expression morphed into the utmost sincerity. “I hated my father, Ferdinand of Aragon, for his inhuman treatment of me, but I forgave him after his passing. I cannot hate Carlos since he is my flesh and blood, but I’m not well disposed towards him. Maybe one day I’ll be able to forgive my son for the harm he has caused me. But will the Almighty let Carlos atone?” 

Mary’s piety resurfaced. “For the love of heaven! My cousin must release you!” 

“Empty hopes. He shall never do that. Never ever!”

“Is his heart made of stone? There must be light in his soul to guide him to the Lord.”

Juana stood up and went to a carved ebony table, where she herself lit a candelabrum so as not to fetch servants. “Carlos did love Isabella madly. More than life itself, and without her he will be like the captain of a ship sailing into the rough seas without any means for navigation. Yet, he adored his wife less than power, and I pray that God will forgive me if I am wrong.”

A thoughtful silence ensued. The queen lit candelabra placed upon tables around the room.  

“Why do you think so, Aunt Juana?” 

The queen returned to her chair. “Isabella often visited me in my prison, far more often than my own son did while he was in Spain. Her gentle heart was broken in a way no tender lady should ever know, and Carlos did that despite his immense adoration for her. There were two cornerstones in their relationship: my imprisonment and his insatiable thirst for power that was visibly eroding the tranquility of their marriage like a too-fast river might wear down a sandstone bed.”

“She fought for your freedom,” Mary admired.

“Isabella was an amazing woman. God rest her soul! She demanded that Carlos release me multiple times, but her words always ricocheted off my son’s chainmail that hides his ambitions. Isabella loved him, yet a small part of her despised her own husband for his attitude to me.”

“I’m experiencing the same.” Mary felt rather guilty for harboring such resentment towards the ruler who had saved her from England, but she could do nothing with herself.

“That means that you have a good heart, my niece.”

“I would have fought… for you as well,” Mary stammered. “If only I could.”

“And you would have made everything worse.” A sob fled the queen, but then Juana reigned in her emotions. “When Carlos was away from Spain and Isabella acted as his regent, she came to Tordesillas for many weeks with her closest councilors. Several times, she took me to Seville and Toledo until my son prohibited her from being so lax to Juana ‘La Loca.' Oh God!” 

This was new for Mary. “Isabella was a female warrior!” 

“Definitely.” Juana envisaged Isabella’s perfect face, and an errant tear trickled down her cheek. “A warrior in skirts with the heart a million times nobler than my son’s.”

Her niece made the sign of a cross. “The Lord let Isabella rest in peace!” 

The queen crossed herself as well. “Isabella was afraid for Carlos’ soul. When she appeared here while being pregnant, a few months before her death, she was beset by bad premonitions. She begged my forgiveness for her inability to have me liberated from my confinement.”

Again, Juana plunged into remembrances. I was relieved when my father died, God forgive me if you exist. When Carlos arrived in Spain, I hoped so desperately that he would be my knight in shining armor and would rescue me. However, my son is as much my gravedigger as my father was. After she had been compelled to invest Carlos with the regency of her kingdoms, her life was still in tatters, disfigured like the ancient ruins of once grand Roman and Greek buildings.  

The rightful Queen of Castile never considered herself a victim of the Creator’s injustice. All of her catastrophes had occurred due to her relatives’ desire for power. Sometimes, her father and her son could grow conscious of what it meant to be a sensitive man, a person in whom warm human values flowed strongly. Nonetheless, these moments were so rare that they usually twisted the lives of those who hindered their ascendancy to prominence, just as Ferdinand had done when he had concocted the lies of Juana’s craziness and when Carlos later embellished them.

Mary’s voice brought Juana back to the reality. “How could Carlos not listen to his wife?” 

A melancholic Juana was grateful to Mary for her sympathy. “Immeasurable lust for power has warped the soul of the mighty Holy Roman Emperor. He cannot kill me because the Spanish people who believe in my madness will not tolerate my violent death, and he will be deposed. However, he cannot let me go because if he does, they will learn that I’m not insane, and he will lose the right to rule the kingdoms of Castile, Leon, and Aragon. He cannot allow that to happen.”

Mary noticed that outside dusk blanketed the castle. “I remember the emperor’s empty eyes when he returned to Toledo. He seemed to be a shell of his former self.”

The queen nodded knowingly. “I know that. He deigned to pay me a short visit before his departure to Flanders. With Isabella gone, all that remains for my son is power and revenge.”

“Can something save him and you?” 

Juana smirked. “Only God, my dear! Good sentiments replenish the human soul with honor and benevolence, just as Carlos’ love for Isabella did. However, when the light of love perishes in the life of an iron-hearted ruler, the rain descends upon the earth and refreshes the foliage, but all the water seeps into the soil, and nothing is left to moisten this king’s soul.”

With an aura of unprecedented wisdom about her, the Queen of Castile glanced at a tapestry depicting the Last Judgment. “Such a monarch hears the inner voice of his conscience only at the beginning of his reign, when his heart is not entirely wrapped by the chains of greed and ambition. The echoes of his conscience flow like whispers through the depths of time, getting quieter and quieter over time until they recede into nothingness, and only darkness remains.”

Overcome by the strength of emotions, Mary staggered over to her aunt’s chair. She knelt and took Juana’s hand in hers. “My dearest aunt, you are wiser than any ancient philosopher. I’m so sorry that I cannot help you, but I shall try if I see an opportunity.”

The queen squeezed her niece’s hand. “There will be none, but I thank you.”

“Why am I summoned to Flanders?” None of Mary’s guesses was likely to hit the mark.

A rain of anxiety moistened Juana’s eyebrows in sweat. “It must be connected with my son’s alliance with England. I must say I cannot figure out why Carlos and Henry might need you.”

“Maybe Carlos will negotiate with Henry my reinstatement into the English succession. Is it possible, what do you think?”  It was still Mary’s cherished dream.   

Something flickered in the queen’s gaze. “I highly doubt it.”

“Why?” Tears stung Mary’s eyes.

Nevertheless, Juana absconded from answering. “I fear Carlos will use you as a pawn in one of his bloody chicanes. He has lost the sight of everything, save his hatred of King François.”

“How can my cousin use me? My father might recall me back to England.”

After a moment’s morose silence, Juana asserted, “Mary, Henry does not need you. He will not easily pardon you for your escape, and now he has two sons. It is something else.”  

Tears shone in Mary’s eyes like dewdrops on flowers. “Then what is it?” 

The queen emitted a sigh. “I’ll finally answer to your question about Catalina.”   

Catherine’s daughter frowned. “What do you mean?” 

Juana stroked her hair affectionately. “You asked me many times what my son’s words about the troubles Catalina created mean. I’ll open you a secret that will influence your mindset.”

A sudden presentiment snaked down Mary’s spine. “I am all ears.”  

“Forgive me in advance.” Then the queen began her long tale.


September 9, 1544, Royal Palace of Tordesillas, province of Valladolid, Spain

“God, how can it be true?”  Mary Tudor whispered to herself. “Why, mama?” 

Prostrated before the altar, the depressed woman prayed so fervently that the sweat gathering on her brow seemed like drops of blood falling onto the floor. Mary came to this oratory every day after the recent discourse with Juana, which had dissipated the last vestiges of her illusions.

The chapel was the only place in the palace where elements of the Mudéjar architecture were present. The lofty interior was notable for the amazing artesonado ceiling, the two walls frescoed with biblical scenes, with the two other walls covered with painted plywood and rose stones.

Catalina consummated her matrimony with Arthur, Prince of Wales. It did not happen on their wedding night because of the boy’s shyness. Nevertheless, they were together many times as husband and wife during the several months they lived at Ludlow Castle prior to his demise.

Juana’s life-transforming statements buzzed through Mary’s mind like angry gnats. At first, Catherine of Aragon’s daughter could not believe that her sainted mother had lied. She had shouted time and time again that it could not have been true, that the extremely pious Catherine would never have sinned so awfully. Juana had regretted that she had started their conversation, but her niece had continued bombarding her with questions, so the queen could not keep silent.

From childhood, young Catalina was taught that her destiny was to be the great Queen of England. When Arthur died, she hoped that she could be pregnant, but her monthly courses came. She did not wish to return to Spain. Our parents needed the alliance with England as well.

Juana’s compassionate, firm voice boomed through Mary’s brain like a judge’s verdict of her death, of execution of the fantasies she had ever had in her life. Her aunt had apologized several times for the truth, but eventually, Mary herself had beseeched to tell her everything.

Mary, your mother was a good soul. She was a desperate girl who would never have gone against her parentsorders. Catalina and her entourage in England would not have lied about her virginity if Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon had not commanded them to do so.

Juana had showed a letter written by Isabella of Castile for Doña Maria de Salinas and Doña Elvira de Villena Suárez, who had served as Catherine’s duenna back then. Isabella had enjoined to them to hide the fact of the princess’ marital relations with the late Prince Arthur. Isabella had advised to put the blame for the non-consummation onto Arthur’s “natural weakness” and his youth. Ferdinand of Aragon had written to them about his and Isabella’s desire to have Catherine betrothed to young Harry, the new Prince of Wales, at any cost for political reasons.   

The sweat broke out on Mary’s face again as she speculated about all this. Juana had said that these were copies of her parents’ letters that her husband, Philip, had made after he had become the King of Castile and discovered the secret. The original documents were kept in the archives of Emperor Carlos. Philip had intended to blackmail Catherine or to use her as a pawn in international affairs, but fate had intervened – the man had died young, and soon Juana had been declared mad.

The sound of footsteps secured her attention. Mary turned her head to the entrance.

Queen Juana walked down the nave. “You are again here, niece.”

Mary dropped her head to her chest. “It is all true. I’ve implored the Lord to guide me.”   

“What do you feel now?” Juana halted beside her.

Her niece stared at the wooden cross of Christ that hung above the altar. “Today the full realization of what your confession means for me has engulfed me with terror.”

“Why?” The queen suspected what her response would be.

Tears trickled down Mary’s cheeks. “I do not complain about injustice of God or my father to my late mother. Nevertheless, I ask myself what I would have done if I were in my mother’s shoes when Arthur died. Would I have said a falsehood to become the Queen of England?” 

“Would you go against Catalina’s order?” 

Mary nodded. “I would if that command would have gone against my conscience.”

“Politics and conscience are incongruent things, Mary. I swear to you on all that I hold dear and upon my immortal soul that Catalina was a kind and pious woman. But she and I were raised by the ruthless, ambitious, powerful, and mighty Catholic monarchs, fanatical not only in their persecutions of those whom the Catholics call heretics, but also in their ferocious pursuit of power and control. They wanted their descendants to rule the whole of Europe, and both Isabella and Ferdinand would have gone to any lengths to ensure that their dream could materialize.”

“Did they hate the House of Valois because no dynastic marriage took place?”  

Juana peered down on Mary with a smile. “That is an intelligent guess – you are quite right. However, it is only one reason. Their decision was more political than religious and personal.”

Mary concluded, “Ferdinand and Isabella were more politicians than parents.”

“Exactly! My sisters and our brother, Juan, were raised with the belief that Spain must dominate in Christendom. The morals and principles, which our parents and tutors instilled into us in childhood, were opposed by their growing desire for power. Ferdinand and Isabella arranged my marriage to Philip the Handsome to plant the seeds of Spanish superiority into Flemish soil. Your mother’s union with Arthur Tudor and then with Henry happened for the same reason.”

Catherine’s image resurfaced in Mary’s mind. “My mother always told me that I must keep my allegiance to Spain and to the emperor whatever the cost might be.”

The queen knelt by her side. “Catalina was Spanish through and through. Even after her marriage to Henry, she remained more loyal to the House of Trastámara than the Tudors.”

“What should I do now, Aunt Juana? How can I bear these burdens?”  

“Live just as you have always lived, although some things might change for you.”

“Elizabeth…”  Mary broke off, as if she were suddenly confused. “She may be legitimate.”

“It must be difficult for you to say that.”

“It is.” Mary’s tearful eyes flew to the ceiling, as though she could see the heavens. “If my mother’s union with Uncle Arthur was legal and valid, then her matrimony with my father was…” She trailed off, but then assembled her courage and uttered, “was incestuous and void.”

Juana finished, “In this case, Anne Boleyn was the rightful Queen of England. On the other hand, Pope Alexander the Sixth favored my parents so much that he provided Catalina and Henry with two dispensations, one of them covering the consummation of Catalina’s first marriage.”

Mary nodded. “I heard about it. Yet, the revelation is horrible.”

“The truth is better than a sweet lie,” the queen said slowly.

Her niece crossed herself. “Yes. I’m glad that I am no longer delusional.”

Juana gazed into her eyes warmly. “Mary, it does not matter whether you are legitimate or not. What matters is whether you are in peace with the world and your conscience.”

“I’ll live as I’ve lived.” Mary indicated her assent by a nod.

The queen scrutinized her appraisingly. “Whatever Carlos offers you in Flanders, don’t do this as long as it will bring you more bad things than good ones. Keep your eyes wide open and do not make hasty decisions. But I think it is better to do something than regret not doing it.”

Mary’s gaze slid to the statue of the Virgin Mary. “I’m worried about my voyage.”

“Don’t be,” Juana consoled. “If Carlos has found a husband for you, remember that you are a Tudor and a Trastámara. Nevertheless, take it from me: no woman should adore her husband for his Grecian profile alone. Nine times out of ten, man’s looks have nothing to do with who he really is. It is better not to love at all – I’ve learned this from my own terrible marital experience.”  

As they retraced their path along the nave, Mary shook off the fear that seized her after she had heard the truth. Reviewing the dramatic panorama of her past years, Mary inferred that her blunders were her religious prejudice and her idealization of the world and her mother. Mary did not want to feel the same infinite misery for the rest of her life, with which Catherine had died.

Notes:

Hello everyone! We hope that you are fine and sane in these difficult days.

Finally, we learn what happened to Mary Tudor after the death of Empress Isabella (she was one of our favorite characters, a great woman indeed). We assume that Mary spent all this time in Spain. Emperor Charles/Carlos V spent months in seclusion in a monastery, just as it happened in history, and then he departed for Flanders to be away from the place where his wife died.

We have a new character – Joanna/Juana of Castile known as Juana the Mad. A queen who never ruled her kingdoms and spent most of her life in confinement to the Palace of Tordesillas. After the death of her husband, Philip the Handsome, Ferdinand of Aragon forced Juana to yield her power over the kingdom of Castile and León to himself and became her regent. Joanna was confined in the Palace of Tordesillas near Valladolid, and her faithful servants were dismissed, replaced by those loyal to her father. After Ferdinand’s death, Charles and his sister, Eleanor of Austria, arrived in Spain and met their mother at Tordesillas in 1517. Juana acquiesced to grant her grandson power to rule Castile and Aragon, which she also inherited after Ferdinand’s demise, but her imprisonment would continue. Poor Juana died in Tordesillas at the age of 75.

The question is whether Juana was as insane as Ferdinand of Aragon and Emperor Charles wanted people to believe. For them, she was an obstacle to power, so they got rid of her by locking her up on the grounds of her insanity. There are accounts according to which she was not always treated well by her guardians. Juana seems to have loved her husband, who was a philanderer, and perhaps her extreme jealousy of Philip began the rumors of her odd mental state. She was also religiously skeptical, which Isabella of Castile definitely hated, and which could be another reason to think that Juana was not fine. Ferdinand and Charles V also spread rumors of Juana’s madness, for she had to be recognized as unfit to rule so they could rule in her stead.

Yet, it is possible that Juana could have inherited the madness of Isabella of Castile’s mother – Isabella of Portugal, Queen of Castile (her mother was her father’s half-niece, oops!). The representatives of the House of Aviz (Portugal) and the Houses of Trastámara and Habsburg often married cousins, and for centuries intermarried each other. In Portugal, marriages between uncles and nieces started long before in Spain, King Philip II of Spain married his niece, Anne of Austria. Intermarriages result in a narrow genetic pool, hereditary illnesses, and inbreeding depression.

We cannot prove that Juana was absolutely insane and aggressive. Some historians assume that the degree of her insanity was highly exaggerated because her father and then her son needed her to be locked up. Or perhaps she was not crazy at all. We are taking the version that Juana was more or less normal, save her melancholy and religious skepticism, which in our modern eyes is a normal thing. Juana formed a close relationship with Mary Tudor and changed her life and mindset.

Now Emperor Charles is recalling Mary to the Low Countries? Why? Do you have any ideas? We hope you like Juan’s memories of her marital life with Philip the Handsome and her childhood. It is our approach, but her story reflects many historical facts from her biography.

Attention! VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance (Athenais) are co-writing the story called “Entwined by a Golden Alliance.” Give it a try, please! We highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, Marina Ka-Fai, BubblyYork, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Lady Plantagenet in the White Queen fandom.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 52: Chapter 51: Princes and Princesses

Notes:

Finally, family scenes! King François and Queen Anne, accompanied by Dauphin Henri, visit the royal children at Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye.

Attention! VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance (Athenais) are co-writing the story called “Entwined by a Golden Alliance.” Give it a try! We are sure you will like it.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 51: Princes and Princesses

August 30, 1544, Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, close to Paris, France

King François and Queen Anne halted near the entrance to the spacious chamber. The sound of the children’s blithesome laughter was mingled with that of singing under the strains of the lute.

The Valois princes and princesses usually assembled in this room. Lady Elizabeth Boleyn, Countess of Wiltshire, had jestingly labeled it ‘the children’s presence chamber.’ Lacquered, painted, and gilded Venetian candelabra were placed on marble tables near many couches draped in soft multicolored silks. The wall tapestries of Zeus, King of Olympus, with his children by Hera and his numerous demigod offspring by mortal women, fitted well into the interior.

Princes Aimée, now a black-eyed and raven-haired girlof six, held the small lute, which had been produced especially for her. Her fingers plucked over the lute masterfully, as though she had years of experience with this instrument. She was singing in a mellifluous voice a famous hymn of King François and Queen Anne’s love, which her father had composed in honor of her mother a couple of years earlier, and which had quickly gained popularity in France.

We have no forbidden apple with us,

My French Eve called Anne and I,

Yet, the splashes of day and night

Falling around us like holy rain dapple

The same Eden with purple and white.

This is our valley of our endless love,

Our Eden, our home, our haven forever,

Day shows it vivid with vibrant feeling,

The curtains of night cover our home

With shadows of more worldly love.

The light breeze, filtering in through the open windows, ruffled the brown hair of Princess Louise. A girl of seven, she sat in a low gilded armchair, her back erect and regal, her head held high as though she were a queen. Boredom conveyed in her clever blue eyes, she clasped a wooden sword in her hands, obviously waiting for her sister to finish the signing out of respect. Being too active and energetic, Louise relished in outdoor activities and games.

Louise’s patience was running thin. “Then will it be over, Aimée?”

“Let her sing,” came their older brother’s voice – deep and confident, cajoling and strict.

There was a cold and detached expression on the face of Prince Augustine, as if his thoughts were somewhere else. Everyone who first met the boy would say that he was not listening. Those who knew him well were aware of Augustine’s natural outward dispassionateness, while inwardly a conflagration of feelings and a whirlwind of desires, each for a book or a new wooden weapon and never for sweets and toys, flared inside of him like a beacon in the total darkness.

Tonight I looked into the eyes of my Anne,

I found deep love and only love in them,

Last night when I went with the lantern,

The darkness was grabbing the world,

But the light in her eyes illuminated me.

Today I awoke to the sound of her laughter,

I lay and listened, smiled and laughed,

Till I could no longer be away from her

I embraced her – we were both in Eden.

As Aimée’s fingers moved artfully, Augustine’s face grew more concentrated. At last, his amber pools – the Valois eyes – sparkled ever so slightly like a shard of the sun reflecting off the leafy dewdrop of a distant tree. In such moments, his parents and his caretakers understood that he was in the throes of emotion, feeling like a genius who completed a true masterpiece. Augustine smoothed a lock of his blonde Capetian hair from his light, sharply penciled brows.

His expression festive, Prince Jean occupied the place near Aimée on a red-brocaded couch. A gentle and kind four-year-old boy, Jean had the benign disposition of a knight and the purity of heart that rare and most virtuous souls possessed on earth. Not cleverer than other toddlers of his age, he was nevertheless fond of books and in particular of the Latin Scripture. He had inherited his chivalry from François, his blue eyes from the Capetians, and only his black hair from Anne.

“She has a musical talent!” exclaimed an enthused Prince Jean. “Bravo, Aimée!  You sing a hymn of our father’s love for our mother. You need to teach me to perform it well.”

Aimée paused for a moment. “You are a boy, Jean. You don’t have a feminine voice.”

Louise intruded, “Aimée sings well, but she cannot handle sword as well as I can.”

Jean frowned at her. “To boast is a sin, Louise.”

Augustine’s penetrating voice silenced them. “Aimée, continue please. When you sing about their love, my imagination works beautifully, and the rest of the world vanishes.”

When we rose together to rule France,

The morning sun on our home glistened,

I saw that it was wider than paradise,

More full of eternal love and divine grace

As soon as my Anne flashed like a sun.

I learned it all from my experience,

From long years of ruling and living,

This warm, perpetual, dumb wisdom,

My love for Anne is the finest teacher

Than years, illnesses, trials, and woes.

The children’s governesses did not interfere. Each of them knew that if they had interrupted the royal offspring when Aimée performed any romance authored by their father, Princess Louise would hurtle at them daggers of her temper sharper than those of some mythological Gorgon. Prince Jean would conceal his irritation out of his adoration for their governesses, and because of his shyness. Prince Augustine would become colder than the northern wind Boreas.

“Aimée deserves her name,” Dauphin Henri whispered as he appeared behind François and Anne. “Her exotic nature and her musical talent are incredible. France’s beloved girl, indeed!”

François murmured, “Aimée also possesses outstanding dancing skills.” His gaze slid to his wife. “In adolescence, Anne entranced my whole court with her talents in music and dancing.”

“You exaggerate, husband.” Anne smiled at the monarch fondly.

The king feigned offence. “I never do! It is the gospel truth.”

The queen observed, “Aimée is so much like me, but she does not have my fiery temper.”

Henri chided, “If they notice us, Aimée will be saddened because of the interruption.”

My Anne has taught my heartstrings to weave

Through the web of all laughter and tears.

I can see the valley filled all like me

With my feelings that evolve and quiver,

As they deepen, grow, and immortalize

Anne and me with their strength and depth,

Until Anne and I become one forever,

Until our Eden on earth is a perfect abode

Of divine grace, of which Anne is the giver.

Aimée played the last couplet with a poignant expression of feelings. Her imagination vivid and her memory tenacious, she had learned some of the songs the monarch had composed for the queen, and which her father had played and sung whenever they stayed at Saint-Germain.  

“Ah, Aimée!” an impressed Jean cried. “I don’t understand many things in this song, but your voice is amazing. And I also know that our father loves our mama.”

Augustine articulated in a reserved manner, “When I hear such music, I fear no peril.”

Louise de Montmorency applauded. “Our most beloved Princess Aimée! Bravo!”

“Truly marvelous!” uttered Anne de Laval, Princess of Taranto and Viscountess de Thouars.

After the return of the French royal couple from Italy, Louise de Montmorency had been appointed the governess of both Princess Louise and Princess Aimée. Anne de Laval served as the governess of Prince Augustine and Prince Jean, as well as little Prince Antoine.

Louise rose to her feet slowly and mannerly. She approached her sister and spontaneously embraced her. Even though the two girls had different characters, they were only one year apart and always played together. Aimée did not like Louise’s exercises with a wooden sword that was Louise’s constant companion, while Louise disliked the lessons of music and dancing. The two girls had something in common – their passion for books, like one their parents had.

“You sing well,” Louise commented as they parted.

Jean grabbed Aimée’s hands. “Like our mama!  You look like her with black eyes and hair.”

Aimée clasped her brother’s hands in hers. “How can I harm you? I love you all.”

Jean berated, “Augustine is as haughty as Caesar Augustus.”

“How do you know it?” Louise’s scrutiny flicked between Jean and Augustine.

Jean lowered his voice. “I heard our governess say it.”

Louise turned to Anne de Laval. “Madame de Lavalle, how dare you say such things about our brother? He is a prince of the blood, and you must respect his status.”

François, Anne, and Henri still stood at the other side of the chamber.

Anne de Lavalle curtsied and then apologized, “It was meant to be a compliment to Prince Augustine. His dignified bearing is so very regal that everyone is surprised with it.”

Augustine stood up, keeping his posture monarchial. Most people, children or adults, were astounded that his cool deportment never ceased being imperial, even in moments of relaxation. He could become a usual child only in solitude with his father and brother, Henri, allowing his emotions to spill out in torrents and words, yet only sometimes behaving so with Anne.

A man of few words, Augustine said, “I admire the Roman Emperor Augustus.”

Anne de Laval elucidated, “His Highness always asks me to tell him more about Gaius Julius Caesar’s nephew who inherited the Roman republic and made it the greatest empire.”

Augustine’s eyes shone with an odd light. “I call him Augustus, never Octavianus.”

Louise de Montmorency came to them. “I’d call Your Highness ‘The Iron Prince.’ I mean that with all the immense respect I feel for your parents and you, my prince.”

Jean raised a quizzical brow. “Why ‘The Iron Prince’? I’m confused.”

Louise de Montmorency admired Augustine more than any of the king’s sons. “I’d say that Your Highness is inflexible, just as King Philippe the Forth called the Fair was.”

§§§

Finally Anne, François, and Henri made their presence known to everyone.

“I concur,” the King of France proclaimed proudly. “Our Augustine has half of the soul of Philip the Forth, our Capetian ancestor, and half of my soul, because he also adores culture.”

“Papa!” all the children chorused, except for Augustine who remained silent.

Aimée and Louise ran to François, and he hugged them both, holding them in his arms for a long time. At the same time, Jean rushed to his beloved mother who embraced him.

Augustine sauntered over to Henri. “Brother, I’m delighted to see you.”

“Likewise, brother,” the Dauphin of France responded. “As usual, you are serious.”

Augustine’s eyes glistened with devotion, and so did Henri’s orbs. Out of all his siblings, Henri loved Augustine the most because they both maintained a wintry exterior.

Anne was still hugging Jean. “No one else wants to greet their mother,” she complained.

“We do!” the girls chorused. They rushed into Anne’s embrace.

Henri and Augustine smiled at the splendid sight of the queen hugging simultaneously Jean, Aimée, and Louise. As François neared them, Augustine dropped into a deep bow.

The monarch spoke jocundly. “Augustine, you do not consider formalities necessary with your beloved Henri, but you always bow to me lower than the etiquette requires.”

Augustine clarified, “Your Majesty is our king. No one shall forget it.”

“Inflexible!” François burst out laughing. “But a large part of your soul is mine.”

“An artistic one.” A smile was breaking around the edges of Augustine’s mouth.

The monarch pulled his son into his arms. The boy eagerly responded in kind.

Meanwhile, Aimée inquired, “Mama, in the lovely song papa composed for you and I sing about shadows of more worldly love. What does it mean? Is it not romantic?”

Augustine and François parted; then the ruler and his consort burst out laughing. Even Henri let out a grin. Both of the governesses flushed and broke into giggles.

Louise’s gaze was both imploring and commanding. “Papa, explain to us!”

François said mystically, “None of you would have existed without this worldly love.”

“My name means beloved,” Aimée said. “What this love is about?”

Anne intervened, “It is too early for all of you to know what it is.”

Jean lisped, “That is enough for me. I’m not curious.”

“But I am,” Louise persevered. “What is it? Is it connected with a kiss?”

“A lot of kisses.” François howled with laughter. “It is very pleasant.”

His wife stifled the urge to laugh as well. “That’s enough.”

“You will all learn when you grow up,” Dauphin Henri closed the topic.

“Obey your sovereigns,” Augustine enjoined to his siblings.

Everyone’s gazes were latched on Augustine’s chilly face. In spite of him being only five, the prince seemed great both in mind and in body, so imperial that it encircled him like a halo.

§§§

Followed by her jovial daughters, Queen Anne entered the nursery, where the girls often played together. Françoise de Foix brought a box with gifts for the princesses. The tapestries of Hera’s family celebrations with Zeus strengthened the buoyancy of the moment.

Anne glanced between her two girls. “I have gifts for you both.”  

Aimée glowed with gladness. “I’d love any gift from you, my precious Mama.”

Louise showed her demanding nature. “Jewels, books, and swords please, Mama.”

The queen grinned. “Ah, I know your tastes so well. You will both be pleased.”  

Françoise extracted a diamond necklace with a sapphire pendant in the form of the letter ‘V.’ Clearly, it indicated the girl’s origins and somewhat resembled Anne’s old Boleyn necklace.

“Oh, my,” Louise breathed out. “It’s for a Valois princess.”

“It is so lovely!” Aimée was however itching to get her own present.

Françoise smiled at the girl’s delight. “Everyone will know who Your Highness is.”

Louise raised her chin in immeasurable pride. “I resemble my dear grandmother – the late Madame Louise. I’ve heard countless awesome things about her intelligence. I’ll do my best to be like her! Even without this necklace, anyone guesses who I am because of my appearance.”

“You are a Valois through and through,” Anne underlined.

The queen liked the inner strength and acumen she could see in Louise. The precocious girl had an incredible thirst for knowledge! After spending a morning or the whole day outdoors, the energetic Louise could rush to her small study, stuffed with her books, and read until her governess put her to bed. Louise was also close with Augustine and had taught him to read very well.

The French royal couple admired the girl’s resemblance to Louise de Savoy. To François and Marguerite, the princess was a balm to their scarred hearts, which would forever mourn for their mother and France’s priceless councilor. If Louise’s character did not alter over time, she would become a formidable beauty with the brain of a politician. Dear God, let my Louise be like her grandmother in all aspects, except for love. Louise de Savoy never met her soulmate.

Françoise de Foix helped Princess Louise put on the necklace on her bosom.

“It looks stunning!” Louise glanced at her neck glittering with diamonds. “But the pendant is sapphire-blue, not like the color of the Valois eyes, which are amber.”

Her mother pointed out, “The pendant matches your eyes very well.”

“That is why it is blue?” Louise surmised.

Anne planted a kiss on her forehead. “Yes, my dear. You have your grandmother’s eyes.”

Louise looked towards a window where the sun was like a crown in the blue sky. “You are right, Mama,” she said in an elegiac tone. “I’ll wear this necklace often to feel closer to my beloved grandma. I pray for her soul and for the souls of our departed siblings every day.”

Aimée joined, “And so do I.”

The chaplain of the princesses prayed with them every morning after matins in the château’s chapel. Their brothers had a different chaplain, but they frequently prayed together.

The queen touched the pendant on Louise’s necklace. “Louise!  Every time your father and your Aunt Margot look into your eyes the color of fresh water under a layer of ice, they give silent tribute to their great mother. You are her living image, and you also have her intelligence.”

Louise caressed the pendant. “I’m very proud of this, Mama.”

“I know, my brave heart,” Anne jested. “The most intelligent female knight.”

The girl nodded. “You are a legend of France!  You aided father to eject the Spaniards!”

Aimée began feeling jealous of her older sister. “And where is my gift?”

“Here!” Françoise removed something wrapped in red velvet from the box.

“What is it?” Aimée strolled to her mother’s principal lady-in-waiting.

Louise hazarded a guess. “It must be a new musical instrument.”

“Naturally!” Anne sauntered over to Aimée. “Your papa and I are fascinated with exquisite antique things. That is why we ordered a Grecian lyre for you from the best court musician.”

Françoise unfolded the small rarity that had been created in this size especially for a child. Aimée and even Louise perused the string instrument with colossal interest.

Aimée was beaming. “Will my tutor teach me how to use it?”

The queen informed, “As we are planning to stay here for long, I’ll do this myself.”

Aimée touched the instrument that Françoise was holding. “What is the material?”

Anne explained, “This classical Grecian lyre has a hollow body, or a sound-chest producing the sound as your fingers pluck over the strings. Two raised and curved arms, which are hollow, extend from the sound-chest. The instrument is made out of turtle shell in accordance with ancient traditions. The fingers of your free hand can silence the unwanted strings in the chord.”

“It seems to me,” Aimée began enthusiastically, “that I’ll rapidly get accustomed to it. I do not quite understand how it is made from your explanation, but I like it.”

Aimée reminds me of myself at her age, Anne mused with nostalgia over her childhood and adolescence. She reveled that at least one of her five children with François resembled her, not a Capetian or Valois ancestor. It was to their benefit that Anne’s three sons looked like true Capetian and Valois males, because of the Salic law and the old rumors about Anne, which still plagued her from time to time. However, Aimée was a girl, so she was not in the French succession.   

With her exotic Boleyn features, Aimée looked like a siren from ancient myths. One could wonder how such an exotic and lovely nymph appeared in France from the mythological island of sirens called Anthemoessa, or the Sirenum scopuli, as Virgil and Ovid had named it. Gentle, pious, and considerate, Aimée did not have Louise and Anne’s strength, her freshness tenderer than a rose, her character more graceful and decorous than the surface of a mountain hyacinth.

The queen added, “The number of strings on the lyre varied at different eras and in different locations. There could be four, seven, and ten, but this one has only two for simplicity.”

Disappointment manifested on Aimée’s features. “So, it is a bad thing?”

“No.” Anne squatted near her second French daughter and gently stroked her hair. “When you grow up, we will commission another lyre of a bigger size and with more strings.”

“Thank you, Mama!” Aimée kissed the queen on the cheek. “I love you.”

Warmth inundated Anne. “I adore you too, my beloved girl.”

“Don’t forget about me.” Louise was sulking. “My heart of a warrior adores you both.”

Anne opened her arms for them. “Come to me, Louise and Aimée!”

Louise raced to them, and Anne pulled her daughters into an affectionate hug. With a smile, Françoise thought of her only daughter with the monarch who had been stillborn years ago.

As they parted from their collective embrace, Louise scrutinized Aimée.

“Why are you staring, sister?” inquired Aimée, annoyed and puzzled.

Louise assumed, “I’m a mix of the Savoy and Valois features. Aimée is more a Boleyn.”

This baffled Anne. “Where are you going with this?”

“Our sister Elizabeth,” Louise pronounced emphatically. “How does she look like?”

Chains of tremendous longing for her estranged daughter wrapped Anne’s heart tightly. The queen staggered to an Italian, X-shaped, oak chair decorated with heads of lions and medusas.

Anne breathed out her maternal anguish in a sigh. “Elizabeth is four years older than you, Louise, and five years older than you, Aimée. She is already a teenager. When I last saw her in England, she was a scared girl of barely three summers, one who feared to lose her mother. Lizzy looks like her father, King Henry, but she has my dark eyes. She is very intelligent, and we send each other letters every three months because we cannot do that more often.”

“Why?” Aimée craved to see the enigmatic Elizabeth.

Louise guessed, “The English king does not permit you to talk with Lizzy.”

The queen inclined her head. “Elizabeth and I cannot correspond officially.”

Aimée’s heart ached for her mother’s apparent grief. “We do keep our big sister Elizabeth in our prayers since we learned about her existence. We hope that you two meet again.”

Anne smiled with relief. “You are my wonderful girls!”

“As a Tudor, Elizabeth must have red hair,” ruminated Louise, and the queen nodded.

Louise and Aimée approached their mother and kissed her in turns.

The queen’s scrutiny drifted to Françoise. “It is good to have two daughters, my friend.”

Her lady read her mind. “It is excellent, Your Majesty. They are God’s blessings.”

Years ago, Queen Anne had been frustrated that her first two children with François were daughters. Obsessed with a son, she had been chagrined by Aimée’s birth. Later, after Augustine’s arrival, Anne had castigated herself for such unchristian thoughts. Louise and Aimée had been conceived when Anne had not yet loved their father; Louise was a random child from her mother’s wedding night with the ruler. Now Anne thanked the Almighty for having her girls.

§§§

François and Henri lounged in matching gilded armchairs, decorated with designs of classic antiquity. Augustine settled himself onto a purple-brocaded couch. A beaming Jean admired his new illuminated manuscript that had been passed down through the Valois family for generations. The wall frescoes with scenes from the lives of Roman emperors witnessed the reunion.

Jean’s fingers caressed the volume in the same way the sun caresses the ocean’s surface. “It is superb and dear to my heart, Your Majesty! My gratitude to you is endless!”

The monarch smiled cordially. “I’m exceedingly glad that you like my gift, Jean. I know that you are fond of illuminated manuscripts and Books of Prayer. Even though this gift is more suitable for an older person, I’m certain that you will be able to understand something from it.”

Jean nodded. “I’m so honored to have Your Majesty’s trust and faith in me. I love scripture.”

The ruler reclined in his seat. “It is not a simple scripture in Latin. This book belonged to my father, Count Charles d’Angoulême, who was your grandfather. On my paternal side, we are descended from Louis d’Orléans, the younger son of King Charles the Fifth of France. Charles d’Angoulême commissioned this book from a talented Flemish master, and ordered to incorporate into it not only prayers and psalms, but also the detailed stories of lives of St Charles and St Jean.”

Jean’s curiosity piqued. “Was the history of St Jean included because of King Jean the Second of France called the Good?”

This impressed Henri. “You know the Valois royal lineage well, brother.”  

Jean informed, “Madame de Laval taught me our family’s history.” His gaze flew to his older brother who he admired. “Augustine accomplished it with ease, unlike me.”

“You are exaggerating, Jean.” Augustine did not boast.   

François and Henri shared relieved glances. Although the boys were close in age, Jean was clever enough, but Augustine’s unprecedented intelligence could have caused envy on Jean’s part. However, Jean accepted Augustine’s mental superiority and was devoted to his older sibling.

François told Jean, “St Jean is your patron saint.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” murmured Jean.

“My dearest son, call me Father,” requested the ruler. It was not the first time when he asked this timid boy to be less formal with him in private. “You are my flesh and blood!”

Dauphin Henri smiled to himself. Memories of his own childhood resurfaced, as if he were picking up the disordered pieces of diary pages torn to bits. He recalled how the much young King François had frequently come to Henri and his siblings, most of whom were no longer in the world of the living. Their father had played with them and loved them all equally, even though François had been closer to the late Prince Charles and the late Madeleine, Queen of Scotland.  

Henri regretted that he had spent years resenting the monarch. He no longer held the grudge against François for his Spanish captivity, and his cordial relationship with his father had enlivened his soul with a natural and indescribable fondness of her parent. The dauphin remembered the comfy tenderness of his mother, Claude, of her clinging to him with soft arms and quiet, melodic laughter on her lips when they talked, and the monarch had frequently been with them.

Now the dauphin watched François praise Jean. Augustine even knew genealogic tree of the French Capetian and Valois kings by heart, as well as those of the English, Scottish, and Spanish rulers. Jean did not possess Augustine’s phenomenal memory, but François did not scold the less capable boy. François, my father and king, has always been a good parent, Henri lauded silently.

François elaborated, “Charles d’Angoulême’s Book of Hours contains full-page miniatures painted by Robinet Testard, who was a famed medieval illuminator and painter. My favorite scenes from this book are the picture of ‘the Spider King Louis the Eleventh and his daughter Madame Anne de Beaujeu.’ This woman was an incredible politician.”

“I think,” began Henri, “that Jean will love more the animated scene of the Annunciation to the shepherds, and the moral scene ‘Combat between Virtue and Vice,’ given his piety.”

Jean’s small hands could scarcely accommodate the large manuscript, but the boy pressed it to his chest. “I’ll treasure this thing. Every day I beseech God to give you, my most beloved Father, a long reign.” His scrutiny shifted to Henri. “I also pray for you, brother, and for your wife. After Prince François came to live with us, I started praying for him as well.”

The dauphin flashed a benign smile. “Every morning I pray for all of my siblings, my little brother. I thank you for praying for your nephew, who needs our attention.”

Jean opined, “Nephew François will be all right.”  

“From your mouth to God’s ears,” retorted Augustine in desolate accents. Several times, he had heard his governess Anne de Lavalle fret time and time again how fragile the little Prince François was. When Augustine saw him, the infant’s whitish skin had frightened him.

“Jean, isn’t the manuscript too large for you?” François jested.

Jean shook his head. “I don’t want to part with it.”

The king dissipated his worries. “You will have it for the rest of your life.”

The monarch stood up and crossed to the prince who stood in the chamber’s center. At the ruler’s request, a servant took the illuminated book from the hands of a frustrated Jean. François crouched to the child’s level and enveloped the boy into his arms.

The boy breathed with a smile, “My Papa, I love you.”  

François stroked the boy’s hair. “I adore you with all my heart, Jean.”

Henri and Augustine smiled at this idyllic picture of family happiness.

The king carried Jean as he returned to his armchair. As François eased himself in his seat, Jean comfortably settled in his lap and pressed his ear to his parent’s chest, listening to the steady beating of the monarch’s heart. Henri was grinning at them, and François was laughing.  

The ruler kissed his son’s head. “Do you hear the signs of life pulsing through me?”

Jean stared up at his father. “The Lord make your holy heart beat forever.”

Henri remembered how he himself had once done the same when François came to him in childhood. “Memorize these moments, Jean. You do not know what fate has for us in store.”

Jean lisped, “The Lord is benevolent and merciful, Henri.”

Jean is not spirited, François noted wordlessly. He cannot imagine how rambunctious and disobedient his parents were in childhood. Disciplined, well behaved, timid, and quiet, Jean’s sensibility was often wounded by his siblings’ sadness over trifles, or if he saw one of his parents gloomy or anxious. His pious, benevolent disposition was so fertile of compassion, forgiveness, and forbearance that Jean preferred his own mood to be bad than see someone suffer.

Dauphin Henri had characterized Jean as a creature notable for holiness and goodness. The king concurred: if Jean had not been born a prince, he would have made the finest saint or monk. Jean would never be a competent general or a ruthless leader – his fortes were religious texts and scholarly interests. Perhaps he would be called the Good Prince Jean, just as his namesake ancestor king, the incompetent Jean II, had been, but hopefully, this Jean would be more fortunate.

“Do you pray for our nephew François, Augustine?” Jean suddenly questioned.

Augustine tipped a nod. “I pray for each of you, but I do not speak of it.”

The king liked a tacit streak to the character of his firstborn son with Anne. “A man of few words is a man of effective action, Augustine. Water soaks into the earth, and words are like water. They may vanish if they are dull and do not come from the heart, or they can nurture people’s minds, like water nourishes foliage, then impact their beliefs and later put them into action.”

Augustine quizzed, “Is that how you defeated the Holy Roman Empire?”

His royal father found it incredible what a capable pupil this boy was. “Indeed. I did not have enough men in our armies, but I persuaded many countrymen to rally to our cause.”

“I can speak beautifully if I want and need,” Augustine highlighted.

“Oh, I know.” Laughter trilled out of François. “You are my artistic son, Augustine.”

“I am!” Augustine’s whole being effused pride.

Henri and Jean observed their dialogue. The little prince admired his brother; Henri thought that he had more in common with Augustine than with any of his other siblings.

The monarch shared his life experience. “Water flows in those directions where it does not encounter any resistance. However, if you take the easiest path to your goal, you will never learn how to attain truly great victories. Greatness is accomplished through sacrifices.”

Augustine tucked his curls behind his ear. “Greatness is borne out of the desire to win.”

“True.” François realized why his son had such thoughts. “You and your governess seem to speak a lot about Caesar Augustus, the first Roman Emperor. It all starts with setting and achieving clear and realistic goals. When you aim higher, you get better and learn. One victory at a time!”   

Augustine repeated, “One victory at a time.”

The monarch climbed to his feet and handed Jean to Henri. Grinning at the prince hugging the dauphin, the ruler summoned his page, who delivered something wrapped in purple silk.

“I have a gift for you as well, Augustine.” François sauntered over to the couch occupied by Augustine. “Like in Jean’s case, it is something for an older boy than you. Yet, I know how clever and hungry for knowledge you are, my son. So, you will appreciate my present.”

“May I have a look, Your Majesty?” Curiosity stirred in Augustine.

“Only if you call me Papa or Father.” The monarch was a little sad that both of his two oldest sons with Anne were formal with him despite their love for him. However, it also attested to their impeccable royal manners and their dignified upbringing. “You like ancient things.”

Augustine let out a wan smile. “Thank you, Father.”

At first, Augustine’s detachment had aggrieved François and Anne. Nevertheless, later they started appreciating Augustine’s relative reticence and his lack of outward reactions.   

As Augustine unfolded the gift, François spelled out, “A man of rare smiles has a whirlwind of emotions in his heart. Fewer words and more feats. Right, Augustine?”

The identical amber pools locked for a soul-stirring moment. The king’s eyes exuded all the love he felt for his firstborn son with his wife, while the prince’s orbs overflowed with affection. A moment later, François’ orbs still twinkled, but Augustine’s eyes deepened and seemed to have transformed into two ponds filled with brown, clear water, rippling with tides of emotion.

Augustine peered at the gilded volume of De Vita Caesarum by Gaius Suetonius Tranquillus. His governess had mentioned this historian as one notable for his biographies of twelve Roman rulers, from Julius Caesar to Domitian. Like his two sisters, the prince had a penchant for foreign languages. Reading in Latin, he would immerse himself into the daily life of ancient Rome.

Augustine asserted, “That is the best gift that you could have granted be, Papa.”

François placed his hands on Augustine’s shoulders. “You will not understand many things in this book right now; perhaps you will not be able to read significant parts of it. But over time, you will read this Suetonius’ work entirely.”

Augustine avouched, “I shall, my Papa.”

François ruffled his hair. “My prince, there is the biography of your favorite Caesar August in this book. In several years, I’ll check you what you have learned and will learn about him.”

“I’ll not disappoint you,” promised his son.

The ruler planted a kiss on the top of the toddler’s head. “I have no doubt.”

Augustine would make a brilliant and strong monarch, François mused with endless pride. Having excellent health, Augustine had hardened his boyish vigorous body by long outdoor strolls, as well as regular exercises with wooden swords and rapiers. Clever in the most spectacular sense of cleverness, in particular for his tender age, he had already learned some chess strategies, though not complex ones, and he could speak French, as well as some Italian, English, and Latin.

Unlike Jean, Agustin was unlikely to acquire the reputation of a saint. Augustine’s sangfroid and equanimity appeared to be an organic part of him, as if without them he would not be whole. Such a man would handle the most turbulent storms as pleasures, as if he were a competent sailor crossing the Atlantic Ocean into the New World, flourishing in areas where others stumble.   

The king’s arms encompassed Augustine with a veil of warmth. As they disentangled from each other for what could be an eternity, there was that immense and unadulterated affection in their countenances and eyes – one that could be attributed only to a devoted father and his son.

Jean interposed, “Shall we visit little Antoine and François?”

“I’m longing to see both of them.” Henri stood up and let go off Jean.

The king’s affable smile signaled his agreement. “My son and grandson are waiting.”

Augustine became an impenetrable boy again. “Waiting is golden, like silence.”

As they walked out of the room, Henri and François observed Augustine and Jean. Augustine would become Jean’s protector in the future, but so far, Henri assumed this role, having sworn to himself that he would try not to lose his other brothers, at least not in his lifetime.


September 10, 1544, Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, close to Paris, France

“Grow stronger, my son,” Dauphin Henri spoke to the infant, cradling the baby in his arms. “Life is so interesting that you will miss all fun if you do not comply with my wish.”

Nonetheless, there was no answer, as if Prince François were incapable of producing a sound. The walls, draped in fine white silk and frescoes of ancient Athens, did not interest him at all.  

Augustine, Jean, Louise, and Aimée gathered around the cradle where the dauphin’s son rested. Words of prayer tumbled from their lips like incantations regarding the infant’s wellbeing.

“My François!” Henri then entreated, “Even a whimper from you can make me happy.”

The prince, light like a feather, peered into the woebegone eyes of his father, whose touch he already recognized pretty well. During the past eight months, Henri had regularly visited Saint-Germain to meet with his son and his half-siblings, frequently staying here for weeks.

Gracious Lord, save and protect my grandson François, the French monarch prayed silently. How could a baby who had to love the sun, the hills, and the sea, all the sights of earth and sky, to be so unwilling to fight for his life? Was the Medici blood in the veins of this baby too weak? The king thrust such thoughts aside: the children of Duke Cosimo de’ Medici were strong.

François recollected the misfortunes of the senior Medici line that was descended from Cosimo di Giovanni de’ Medici. Piero di Cosimo de’ Medici had been incapacitated for years due to his ever-progressing gout. Lorenzo di’ Piero de’ Medici Il Magnifico, whom François admired, had passed away at the age of only forty-three from the even more debilitating gout. The health of the senior male Medici was miserable, to say the least, and they were Catherine’s ancestors.

Catherine’s father – Lorenzo di Piero de’ Medici, Duke of Urbino – had married Madeleine de la Tour d’Auvergne in May 1518. Before his wedding, he had contracted syphilis because of his excessively prurient escapades. Lorenzo had impregnated Madeleine while also infecting her with this lethal illness. Madeleine had carried Catherine when she had already been sick. Both of the dauphine’s parents had passed away shortly after the girl’s birth, making her an orphan.

When Pope Clement VII had offered the king an alliance against the emperor in 1533 and a huge dowry consisting of Italian lands and gold, François had jumped on this offer. His berserk animosity towards the Habsburgs had precluded him from thinking logically and recollecting the history of the Medici maladies. In the end, Catherine’s dowry was not paid to France. We got ten years of her bareness and now a sickly child, lamented François, blaming himself.

At present, a large part of François regretted that they could not have Henri’s matrimony with Catherine annulled. Perhaps it would have been better if the ruler’s attempts to do so in 1542 and 1543 had been successful. As Prince François was alive and Catherine was now six months along in her pregnancy, no nullification could happen unless these two children died.

As if the infant had heard his grandfather’s musings, Prince François wailed at the top of his lungs. A collective sigh of relief was heaved then, and the princesses giggled.   

“My son!” a gleeful Henri gushed. “You have a healthy pair of lungs! My dear boy!”   

“He wails so loudly,” Louise remarked. “He is not so fragile.”

Jean crossed herself. “God bless our nephew François!”

The prince’s skin unnerved Aimée. “Little François is too pale.”

“He has neither a Medici coloring nor a Valois one,” elaborated Augustine.

“You must be hungry, my François,” Henri crooned. “We shall fed you now!”

“Madame de Laval!” summoned the monarch. “My grandchild wants to eat.”

The governess of the princes, Anne de Laval, sprinted into the nursery and bobbed a curtsey. She darted to the crying prince and took him from the dauphin, then checked the infant’s blanket. “He needs both the feeding and the cleaning. I shall quickly take care of him.”

Henri forewarned, “Be very careful and gentle with him.”

The governess dipped a nod. “Trust me: everything will be all right.”

The dauphin asserted, “I’ve decided to appoint Françoise de Brézé, Diane’s oldest daughter, my son’s governess. You have three other children to take care of, Madame de Laval.”

Anne de Laval was relieved that she would no longer be responsible for the sickly prince. She was afraid of being held accountable for his death lest it occurred. “Of course, Your Highness.”

The governess departed the room with the child whose wails were getting louder.

Henri glanced at the king. “I need Diane at court with me, Father.”

François sighed, resigned. “Do as you wish, son.”

“Who is Diane?” Louise’s brows shot up. “Is it the famous Madame de Poitiers?”

“Enough of your curiosity, my girl,” the monarch discouraged her from further questions.

Another loud scream erupted from the similar gilded crib at the opposite end of the nursery. Prince Antoine wailed as if he were being tortured, signaling his immediate needs.

François hurried to the crib. “My Antoine is starving as well.”

The prince fit perfectly into the sanctum of his father’s caring arms. Nevertheless, his cries grew wilder, each one slicing into everyone’s flesh like a blade. The children encircled the king.

The baby Antoine was pink and perfect, looking up at the towering man who, he knew, was his father, with green wise eyes wide open and desperate for fresh milk. The rosiness of his cheeks and his heavy weight were a stark contrast to the small size and pallor of his nephew François.

Henri’s chuckle was good-humored. “The two princes want to eat at the same time.”

Augustine shook his head. “Henri, I come here three times a day. Antoine is hungry more often than little François. But sometimes, they wail together like wolves.”

“I see.” The dauphin’s heart was shedding anguished tears for his son’s weakness.

“Madame de Laval!” Louise shouted. “The green-eyed philosopher Antoine is famished.”

Antoine’s piercing wails rang in Jean’s ears. “Save my brother from starvation!”

Aimée blurted out, “Don’t philosophers eat deliberately to have more time for thinking?”  

Henri recounted, “Isocrates, an ancient Greek orator, starved himself to death.”

Terror bleached Aimée’s visage. “No! I want Antoine to live.”

“Be at ease, Aimée.” The dauphin stroked her hair. “He will live a long life.”

Short of breath from the running through the palace, Anne de Laval returned to the nursery and swept a curtsey. She hurried to the sovereign of France, who handed the baby to her.

“Another hungry prince,” the governess jested while leaving in haste.

Henri came to his father. “Antoine looks promising.”

The ruler patted his heir’s shoulder. “You will have more children, Henri.”

“I pray that it is so,” the dauphin returned. “I’ll do my duty to her. But will she do her duty?”

Before the king could respond, Queen Marguerite of Navarre and her daughter arrived. The royal sister lived at this palace for three months since her daughter’s recovery from influenza.”

Marguerite quipped, “We have heard a vocal concert of our princes.”

François teased, “You missed such an illustrious performance, Margot.”

Jeanne d’Albert curtsied to her uncle. “Your Majesty, I visit the princes every day.”

The King of France eyed his sister’s only daughter. The thirteen-year-old Jeanne was the only legitimate child of King Henri of Navarre. Illuminated by smart, dove-colored eyes, her face with a small nose and full lips was a composition of classic harmony and dignity. Her fashionable gown of azure and black velvet, wrought with gold, stressed her tall, shapely stature of a girl whom the magic of time had changed into the likeness of a pretty seabird with soft-hued skin.

“My niece Jeanne!” François effused. “One of the most gorgeous mermaids in my kingdom!  What subtle beauty in the fabulous grandeur of your face! What wistfulness in those spellbinding eyes the color of soft, linty clouds! What grace in your movements!  What a voluptuous youthful energy pulsating through you! You would make the most admirable Queen of Navarre!”  

Marguerite glowed. “Amazing, brother!  That is how a man should treat his lady.”

Louise began dreaming. “I wish to hear this from my future husband.”

A girl of more subtlety, Aimée said, “I would want something more poetical.”

Jeanne liked courtly love. “Does Your Majesty compliment your queen in this way?”

“I do.” The monarch grinned jauntily. “My wife, Anne, deserves all the best!”

“And so does Jeanne,” Augustine put in.

The king regarded his son inquisitively. “Do you know her well, Augustine?”

Jeanne clarified, “Augustine and I like talking about life and many things.”

Henri chuckled. “Is it an early courtship, Augustine? Aren’t you too small for it?”

Augustine did not even blush. “We just talk.”

“About Roman rulers and their empire,” specified Jeanne.

François and Marguerite were silent, but they shared meaningful glances.  

Jean complimented, “Jeanne is indeed quite nice!”

The heiress of Navarre repined, “I would bloom like a fresh rose if I had seen my father even for a day.” Her pleading gaze fixed upon her mother. “I miss him so much.”

Marguerite’s heart swooped. Again, she saw the familiar undercurrent of melancholy about Jeanne, the same hint of torment colored her daughter’s words. The haunting expression of her inner conflict hovered in the amber eyes as Marguerite acquiesced, “I shall write to him.”

Jeanne was a picture of sheer gratitude. “Thank you, Mama!”

Augustine had a sympathy to the girl who was not permitted to see her father. “King Henri of Navarre may come, and we will tell him a lot about ancient Rome.”

Jeanne was shining like an immortal vision. “Whatever you want, Augustine.”

“As you wish, my dear.” Marguerite’s teeth were clenched grimly. She would do anything for her daughter’s happiness, although she hated the idea of seeing her husband again.

François neared her and said quietly, “Don’t be so prone to a black mood, Margot.”

Henri joined, “Such attitude will aggravate the situation, Aunt Margot.”

In a handful of heartbeats, Queen Anne entered. The ebullient children surrounded her, and she clasped each of them in her arms, kissing them and chanting about how she had missed them. This time, even Augustine relaxed and dived into his mother’s warmth. The others observed the scene of such exuberant contentment with the delight with which they would contemplate all the flowers, all the plants, all the grasses, and all the beauties in the summer universe.

§§§

In late afternoon, the royal couple strolled through the formal gardens, which extended in rigorously symmetrical axial designs of patterned parterres, fountains, and basins, as well as gravel walks. François and Anne were alone as they arrived at a grotto in the terraced park.

Anne settled herself on a marble bench. “Any news from the New World?”

François eased himself beside her. “My friend, Jean-François Roberval, has been through many misfortunes. His settlements on the coast of the Saint Lawrence River lasted only for a few years due to the severe winter, famine, and attacks by the local populace, whom Roberval calls the Iroquoians in his letters. The Charlesbourg-Royal, founded by Roberval’s rival Jacques Cartier, is strong; it is the second colony in these northern lands after San Miguel de Gualdape.”

“San Miguel de Gualdape was founded in 1526 by Lucas Vázquez in more southern lands.”

“You are right, mon amour. The climate there is far less harsh.”

The king’s words resurfaced in her memory. “You sent Jacques Cartier to explore the St. Lawrence River in order to find lands where large quantities of gold and other riches can be.”

François made a face. “Instead, Cartier discovered only quartz and some iron pyrites after making three journeys to the New World. I hoped that Roberval would find gold and silver, which the Spaniards bring from there. Nonetheless, Roberval has failed in his main task.”

Anne noted, “You appointed Roberval our first Lieutenant General of New France.” After a tense pause, she asked, “Will he lose your favor, François? Will you recall him back?”

He gazed at the base of the grotto, where water tumbled off a rock. “Roberval went pirating and attacked towns and ships throughout the Spanish lands. He deemed that it was normal because of my war against the Habsburgs. So far Roberval will remain in the colonies.”

She laughed sardonically. “You cannot be furious with Roberval for acting as a corsair with regards to Emperor Carlos’ fleet. The ships captured by Roberval and transported to France had a lot of gold, which added to our state treasury. So, he is not a complete failure.”

François kissed his consort’s hand. “In this sense, he is not.”

“We need New France,” claimed the queen. “Spain and Portugal are very active in overseas explorations. Their expeditions have been highly profitable, while we have not been so fortunate yet. However, I believe that we can gradually build the French colonial empire.”

The monarch envied Spain and Portugal for their success in the New World. “You are right, wife. My dream is to have French encampments and permanent settlements in the lands where Cartier and Roberval traveled.  Over time, new trade enterprises may be established in France for trading with this distant continent, and the migration to the colonies will accelerate.”

Water murmured in the grotto like a constant lullaby around them. François hugged his wife, his hands groping for the lacings of her dress. A grinning Anne stood up while wagging her finger at him, then he followed suit. They nearly raced to the castle through the park and to the queen’s quarters – the nest of their love where they would revel in amorous joys for the rest of the day.

Notes:

Hello everyone! We hope that you are fine and sane in these difficult days.

Finally, we have family scenes for Anne and François’ children, and someone else’s offspring. Who is your favorite child and why? Aimée is singing a song about the love of François and Anne. She is six, so as she does not understand many things. Let’s assume that her parents often come to their children’s château, so Aimée heard songs many times.

Anne’s boys took after the Valois and Savoy ancestors. It is for the better because the rumors of her “wanton behavior” will always plague her reputation. All the children are being raised as Catholics, but some of them might be either religiously skeptical or convert into Protestantism, but not in this old story that ends in 1557 – in a sequel, it is a long way to go.

Louise is like her famous grandmother Louis de Savoy. Aimée looks like Anne and has her talents, but she is more delicate and vulnerable on the inside. Augustine is my favorite child, and he will keep intriguing you: he will be written like Philippe IV the Fair and Roman Emperor Augustus, who defeated Cleopatra & Mark Anthony and then started Pax Romana. So, get accustomed to seeing the unemotional, logical, extremely intelligent, and even ruthless Augustine, who nevertheless has his father’s artistic spirit. Jean is less capable and intelligent than his siblings, but he would make a great churchman or a saint. Antoine is too small.

Dauphin Henri loves his siblings. You will like him more and more in the next 20-25 chapters centered on Catherine and Diane’s intrigues. Poor Prince François, Duke of Brittany! So fragile and sickly, just as he was in history. Of course, his relatives are worried about him. Maybe you will be able to guess his fate, but Catherine is again pregnant and can have a son.

The gifts given to Augustine and Jean have their special meaning. Augustine, who is extremely intelligent for his age, gets a book about Roman history. Gaius Suetonius Tranquillus was a Roman historian who wrote during the Imperial era of the Roman Empire; the mentioned book really exists, and it was printed and reprinted numerous times in various centuries. Of course, a religious gift for Jean: the Hours of Charles d’Angoulême, which is now kept in the archives of Bibliothèque nationale de France. You can have a look at this book here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heures_de_Charles_d%27Angoulême

François’ thoughts of the Medici family, as well as their history and health are correct – the Medici men did not live for long. In history, the healthiest son of King Henri II and Catherine de’ Medici was Henri III of France, who nevertheless failed to produce a male heir because his queen was rendered sterile by a miscarriage – this is sad.

Reminder: François I of France is born in 1498 in this fiction. We want to prologue his life (he was far healthier than Henry) and to make him almost the coeval of Emperor Carlos V. Thus, Marguerite de Navarre is born in 1496, so her daughter is 3 years younger than Jeanne d’Albert was in history. Jeanne, born in 1531, is 8 years older than Augustine born in 1539. All the poems and songs are written by Lady Perseverance.

Attention! VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance (Athenais) are co-writing the story called “Entwined by a Golden Alliance.” Give it a try, please! We highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, Marina Ka-Fai, BubblyYork, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Lady Plantagenet in the White Queen fandom.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 53: Chapter 52: The Sundown of Life

Notes:

Hello everyone! It is high time to learn how Mary Boleyn, or Marie de Montmorency, is doing in Rome.

This chapter is dedicated to Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire. He died on the 12th of March 1539 at Hever Castle.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 52: The Sundown of Life

September 29, 1544, Palazzo Montmorency, Rome, the Papal States, Italy

Today’s Michaelmas, or the Feast of Michael and All Angels, was a doleful occasion. Clad in a black silk gown, Duchess Marie de Montmorency knelt beside the tombs of Edward and Anne Stafford, who had both passed away a month ago. Her spouse had commissioned the magnificent marble tombs for his two stepchildren from Michelangelo Buonarroti, but it would take the artist quite some time to finish them. The hapless creatures had died of odd stomach ailments.

The solemn chapel was illuminated by a profusion of flickering candles. The heavy mantle of funereal stillness wrapped everything, occasionally interrupted by sniffles. Frescoes by Giulio Romano illustrated the humanity of saints, but they were not soothing to Marie’s nerves.  

Anne de Montmorency sat on the floor. “I’m so sorry that they are not with us.”

Marie leaned her head against his chest. “I never thought that I would lose them so quickly.”

“Annie and Eddie Stafford were sweet and kind. I was honored to raise them as mine.”

“I dreamed of having a happy family,” she said in the voice of a bereft woman. “I beseeched the Lord that the winter of my life was over. For some time, the eternal sun of the Almighty made you, me, your son François, my children with William, and our girls happy.”

Montmorency’s heart constricted, feeling her pain. “No season lasts forever, Marie.”

“Nothing lasts forever. In particular not happiness that is as ethereal as youth.”

Her husband embraced Marie. “Time heals even the worst wounds, mon amour.”

She wept in his arms. “Oh God! I do not want to live without Annie and Eddie!”

“Do you want me to lose you?” His voice now more pained than her own tone.

Marie wrapped her arms around Montmorency. “No, I cannot admit such a thought.”

He pressed her to him tighter. “I cannot imagine my life without you either.”

As they parted in what seemed to be the saddest eternity, Marie felt his fingers, calloused from reins and regular swordplay, brush her damp cheek with infinite softness and concern.

“I’m not crying.” She dabbed at her eyes with the back of her sleeve.

“No?” He gave a weak smile. “Perhaps I should look at you more attentively.”

Montmorency stared into her eyes compassionately. For a long time, his fingers were tracing the wetness on her cheeks, a trace of her grief, his usually austere expression tinged with plaintive gentleness. It was a caress achingly kind and gentle, performed only for his wonderful wife.

“Is there anything I can do to assuage your anguish, Marie?”

“Be with me, Monty. Never leave me and our daughters alone.”

The best general of France admitted, “My love for you is an element of the unforeseen reality for a man such as myself. Before our marriage, I existed like a plant in an uncultivated garden, longing for all that a man yearns to have in life – a genteel lady with the heart of gold.”  

His wife slithered her fingers down his throat, across his chest until she landed on the place where his heart hammered. “I was pretty much in the same boat. Your care for me resurrected my hope for a brighter future, and it bloomed like a flower until my poor children died.”

He recalled, “My infant son, Gabriel, died two months before Madeleine perpetrated her horrible crime. So, I know what you feel, Marie, but we will cope.”

“Our little ones are now in a much better place. This idea consoles me.”

“I think so, too. Our children are in paradise with the benevolent Lord.”  

Allaying silence fell as the Duchess de Montmorency delved into memories. In a couple of weeks after their visit to the Pope following the French ambassador’s murder at Greenwich, Marie had birthed a healthy baby girl for her third spouse. An overjoyed Montmorency had named the child Marie in her mother’s honor. Soon Edward and Anne Stafford had arrived in Rome; three months later, the young François de Montmorency had come from France as well.

Montmorency governed the whole existence of Rome, the Pope, and the Catholic clergy with a hand of iron. Everyone in the Papal States, including the loathsome Pope Paul III himself, were afraid of the French Constable, who had been officially appointed Governor of Rome by the Supreme Pontiff. Montmorency’s policies were quite fair and attuned to France’s interests.

For over three years, Marie had flown on the wings of her happiness. She had befriended her husband’s son François, who also liked his stepsiblings. Two years earlier, Marie had given birth to another girl, named Christine in honor of her patron saint and Christine de Pizan, who had been a poet at the court of King Charles VI of France and whose works Montmorency admired.  

As they had settled into their married life, Marie had started to regard Montmorency with a lively interest. She had discovered the essential man under the outward exterior that seemed martial at first glance. Montmorency was someone more than the smart brain of a general designing strategies and tactics, strong muscles, and hands skilled with all kinds of weapons. With his rich inner world and his interests in culture, his appreciation of harmony in nature and human beings was in continual conflict over his military inclinations and his heart’s restfulness.  

Before her wounds from William Stafford’s death healed somewhat, she had comprehended her luck to be Montmorency’s wife. If she had remained single for the rest of her life, all her future doleful years would have run out into nothingness, and contentment would have avoided her, as if she had been a leper. Marie would never have had two more girls who she loved wholeheartedly.

When the sweltering June of the past summer had arrived, Montmorency had confessed to loving her. Once the spouses had stood in the garden near the statues of the Roman goddess Flora, basking in the sunshine, in which the foliage bloomed, the berries ripened, and the birds twittered. His utterance of love still drifted over Marie’s whole being like wisps of some surreal fog, for it was difficult to believe that she could have unwillingly conquered Montmorency’s heart.   

I love you, Marie. I never loved any other woman, and I’m surprised that I feel so now.

These words were engraved upon her memory like a memento of the precious, unexpected event. Not a romantic, Montmorency did not write for Marie poems proclaiming his undying devotion to her. François and Anne loved sending to each other letters with poems and songs more amorous, sincere, and meaningful than those the King of France had composed for Marie years ago to seduce her. However, Marie did not need anything like this stuff from her husband.  

What do I feel for Monty? Marie labored to guess her complex feelings as she gazed into his eyes. A curious companionship, harmonic and affectionate, had developed between them in Rome. Most of all, she respected in her spouse a natural quality of uprightness, a moral stoutness of soul that lifted him above petty judgments, and his loyalty to his sovereign and to her. Montmorency was faithful to Marie since their wedding, which gladdened her immeasurably.

“Am I enough for you, wife?” Her husband’s voice shook her out of her reveries.

Marie cupped his face and studied those hazel eyes now stormy with emotion. Few saw the intrepid and powerful Duke de Montmorency with such a naked expression of vulnerability.

“Our family and you,” commenced the duchess with a slight smile. “You make me content. What a helpless, crawling insect I would have been without all of you.”

The duke jested, “Perhaps a squirrel in the cage of loneliness.”

Laughing in response, Marie linked her arm with his as they rose from the floor.

“My mother must be waiting for us,” she said hurriedly.

He gave her a wink. “She must be preoccupied with her grandchildren.”

Can Marie love me? Montmorency agonized over and over again. Is Stafford still standing between us like an immortal shadow? It was his inner protest against his former acceptance of Marie’s philosophy that her love for another man would be a betrayal of her great love for the dead man. A cry against the weight of hopelessness to win her heart that tormented Montmorency, and the fear of his possible defeat on the battlefield of his love for Marie against her residual feelings.

The duke cast a brief glance at the joint tomb of little Eddie and Annie. He should not have such musings when they were near the graves of Stafford’s children. “Let’s go, wife.”

The Duke and Duchess of Montmorency strode towards the exit. As they left the chapel and entered the great hall, they did not see the evil smile of Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli.

§§§

The spouses found Lady Elizabeth Boleyn in the luxurious great hall. The matriarch of the Boleyn family sat on a silver-brocaded couch with her granddaughters: Marie, a blue-eyed fair-haired girl of three summers, and Christine, a dark-haired girl of two years old with hazel eyes.

Three years ago, Anne de Montmorency had hired the Italian painter and architect Giulio Romano to build his villa on the Quirinal Hill not far from the pontifical palace. Although the Palazzo Montmorency was still being constructed, the main living apartments had been finished in 1543. Then the family had moved to their new residence, more picturesquely fascinating than many other Roman palazzos and mansions. Numerous political deliberations took place within these walls, where life buzzed with possibilities and colors, making the heart of Rome throb.  

In the great hall, superfluous antique ornament wondrously matched the strictness of design. Massive silvered pieces of furniture had bold decoration of gilded bronze and marquetry. Walnut pieces were ornamented with various mythological figures. From the fabulous wall frescoes of Buonarroti’s angels and saints, as well as frescoes of Romano’s golden-haired nude sirens and his Italian landscapes, they gazed at the house’s owners with artistic eyes in all motion and excitement. Sculptures, placed around the room, exuded the vehement emotion of epic romances.

“Is everything all right?” Elizabeth Boleyn knew where her daughter had been.

“More or less.” Marie approached her mother, her hand clasped in her husband’s.

Elizabeth let out a sigh of relief. “I’m glad, then.”

Little Marie pleaded, “I’d like to play a hide-and-seek game in the gardens.”

“Oh, my darling, not with me,” Elizabeth answered. “I’m too old for running.”

Christine winked at Marie. “We will play with Mama.”

The Duchess de Montmorency noted, “But only after you greet your father, girls.”

“Yes, Mama,” Christine lisped as she ran towards the duke.

“Oh, my girl!” Montmorency lifted his youngest daughter in the air.

“Where are my cakes? I want them now!” Christine half-asked, half-demanded.

Her father placed her on her feet. “You should not speak to a governor like this.”

Christine furrowed her brows. “You are my Papa!”

“Yes, I am!” Montmorency pulled the little angel into his arms again.

“Monsieur de Montmorency,” Elizabeth addressed her son-in-law. “Christine looks so much like you. She even has your commanding air about her. She is your small copy!”

“Call me Monty, just as King François does,” the duke requested. “Indeed, Christine is more like me than any of my children. Our quiet Marie has taken after her gentle mother.”

Little Marie kissed her mother on the cheek. “I’ll go greet my Father.”

“Of course, my dear,” encouraged the duchess.

Laughing, Marie launched herself headlong into her father’s embrace. A scowling Christine, who did not wish to share her beloved papa even with her sister, stepped aside. Then Montmorency embraced both of his daughters, pressing them together before gently separating them.

“It is time to take a nap.” Montmorency gave each of them a kiss on the forehead.

After the governess took the children away, the governor of Rome came to his relatives.

The duke extracted a letter from his pocket. “It is for you, Madame Wiltshire.”

Elizabeth stood up. “I’ll pass it strictly to Lord Wiltshire.”

He nodded. “No one else must see it. In this matter, I trust you more than others.”   

His mother-in-law jested, “Be at ease, Monty. I’ll fly from Rome to Venice like a bird.”

Two months ago, the Countess of Wiltshire had come to Rome. Elizabeth had been escorted to Italy by Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli, for she spoke no word in Italian and needed his help. After several weeks, Eddie and Annie had suddenly fallen severely ill, and no physician in the city could save them. Due to this tragedy, the whole palazzo was in mourning.

“Do you want to see him, Mother?” the duchess asked cautiously.

Elizabeth’s mind floated to her estranged husband. “No, I don’t.”

Lady Boleyn had not seen the Earl of Wiltshire since his unwelcome appearance in France in 1538. Grateful to King François for expelling Boleyn to Italy, she had not written to him. She could have forgiven Thomas for his shortcomings, but not for the iron-hearted abandonment of Anne and George to their grim fates in the Tower of London, which had instilled aversion into her heart against her spouse. Thomas made our children miserable, Elizabeth said to herself.

Montmorency suggested, “Madame Wiltshire, I can send someone else.”  

The countess shook her head. “We must be sure that the missive will not be intercepted.”

He respected his mother-in-law a great deal. “It is brave and gracious of you.”

Elizabeth chuckled. “Not more audacious than your many famed military feats.”

“Now we have peace.” Montmorency stroked his chin. “It is our mission to keep it.”

Marie nodded vigorously. “We should try to avoid another war in Italy.”

Elizabeth looked a little absent-minded, as if lost in thought. “Plato used to say that only the dead have seen the end of war. I don’t want my daughters to become widows.”

Sending his wife an affable glance, Montmorency vowed, “I shall be with my wife until my last breath. François, my sovereign and friend, will always safeguard his beloved Anne.”

“We ought to preserve peace.” Elizabeth’s expression grew inscrutable. “I’ll go to Venice. Scared is what you are feeling. Brave is what you are doing. We can overcome our fears.”

The Montmorency spouses looked at this strong woman in admiration.

“Without fear there can be no courage,” put in the duke. “Even in a great woman.”

Elizabeth was fond of Marie’s husband. “A clever man acknowledges the strength of others.”

“Excuse me, but now I must go.” Montmorency swept bows to them and left.

Marie offered, “Shall we go to the gardens while the girls are sleeping?”  

Elizabeth liked the idea. “Yes, I’d like to breathe some fresh air.”

§§§

The sun, still pleasant due to the warm autumn in Rome, shone down onto the stunning park.  Elizabeth Boleyn and Marie de Montmorency wandered along the garden paths, in the midst of dozens of gold, bronze, and marble statues, reliefs, and ancient marble fragments. The vegetation full of pine trees, cypresses, oaks, and many other rare plants was still green and lush.

Elizabeth broke the pause. “I’ll leave for Venice, as Monty asked me, and then for France.”

“I see.” A twinge of regret and jealousy stirred in Marie.

Elizabeth tried to glimpse sadness or annoyance in her daughter’s eyes, but there was none. “You used to be emotional, although you have never had Anne’s flair for drama.”

“The city of Rome is a tough place.” Marie’s voice was firm and colored with the resilience she had acquired since Stafford’s demise. “It is not a holy eternal city ruled by the Descendant of St Peter. It is more like a huge pit of venomous snakes that might slither towards you any time and pounce upon you. There is no remedy against their poison if you let your guard down.”  

Her mother had similar thoughts about her oldest daughter’s life in Italy. “Of course, King François needed to send to Rome someone whom he trusts the most. However, part of me regrets that you have to stay here instead of being with Anne at the Valois court.”    

“Safety is a controversial thing. Can you really be always safe, Mother?”

“My royal son-in-law protects Anne and their children in France.”

Marie objected, “One of Anne’s Catholic foes might contact the Pope and begin plotting.”

It was what they all feared. “That is why Monty governs Rome.”

“Exactly.” With a half-frolicsome, half-doleful laugh, Marie quipped, “Moreover, as Tacitus rightly said, ‘The desire for safety stands against every great and noble enterprise.’ Right?”   

They halted in a grove of wild plants and blackberries, and a small pond, where the emerald water shimmered with a slight ripple from the breeze. The colossal rose marble statue of Flora, the Roman goddess of flowers and spring, towered above the trees, rising into the blue sky.

Elizabeth thought of her two daughters. “Now you speak like Anne.”

Marie’s erstwhile umbrage spilled out. “The dangers of life are infinite, and among them is a woman’s sharp tongue. But my sense of humor and wit will never rival Anne’s.”

Elizabeth processed what she had been told. “Marie, why such thoughts?”

“I apologize for my outburst, Mother.”

The Countess of Wilshire insisted, “Say what has been gnawing at you for years.”

A tempest of deep-seated indignation blew through Marie, blinding her. “In childhood and adolescence, you favored Anne and George openly. I remained in their shadows.”

Elizabeth predicted what she would hear. “That is not true.”

“Don’t deny it!” Marie shouted, flinging her usually gallant manners to the wind. “Anne has always been a goddess for you and our father. As your only surviving son, George was pampered and adored tremendously. I received crumbles from the family table of affection.”     

Guilt lanced through Elizabeth. “You are a mother yourself, Marie, so you know how it happens in families. You endeavor to be fair to all of your offspring, but you keep finding yourself spending more time with those who require more of your attention.”

Marie leaned against the trunk of a pine. “Am I not similar to you?” 

Elizabeth tipped her head. “You are like me in many ways. Neither you nor I have the inner rebellion that slumbers inside you until you are rubbed the wrong way, and then you get rid of all the obstacles on your way. Neither you nor I have the mulish stubbornness and the bravery superior to that of fearless warriors. George did not possess these qualities either.”

“Anne is like this.” Now Marie could not temper her ire. “Your favorite Anne!”

Elizabeth’s mind floated back to their childhood. “When the three of you were children, you loved each other dearly. Only your gentle heart, Marie, helped you avoid the bitter sibling rivalry. When Anne was a toddler, I could see that she was a natural fighter in skirts, and the older she was getting, the more obvious and fiercer the ardor of her recalcitrant soul was becoming. One could fathom abysses into which such a girl could plunge herself to accomplish her goals.”

“Always Anne!” Marie flung her arms up in despair. “Always her!”

Elizabeth continued calmly, “George was a noisy and rambunctious child. His head was full of dreams and misty stuff about culture, which neither Thomas nor I understood. Once he, a boy of ten, announced that in the dead of night he heard the voice of a nightingale that advised him to try his hand as a poet, and starting from that day, George began composing many lovely poems.”

Marie’s heart constricted at the memory of George. “They were lovely! He wrote for Anne more than for me, but when he did, I felt like a nymph living in a magical realm.”

“Thomas tried to make George a cynic,” Elizabeth recollected, her fists balling as a tide of the animosity towards her husband ripped through her. “He said that our romantic son would not find his place in the world if we did not shatter his fantasies. However, George continued writing, and later, he surprised us all when he demonstrated his diplomatic talents.”

“As well as a talent for languages. George spoke several languages, just as Anne does.”

“Just as Thomas does.” Elizabeth’s features hardened at the mention of the man.

Marie growled, “I do not wish to speak about that monster. Let him rot in Venice.”

Elizabeth redirected the conversation back to George. “George was a royal favorite, a good poet, a keen sportsman, a skilled diplomat, and a loyal brother. He loved you and Anne equally, although he was closer to Anne because of their penchant for everything artistic and French.”   

“Indeed. Anne and George played with me in their wild games, but I did not want to be involved too much. I loved feasts and masques at Hever. I’ve never understood the great passion Anne and George had for books and culture. Only after my coming to France, I began appreciating the magnificence and artistic splendors of life, partly due to my affair with François.”

Elizabeth admired the beauty of her mature oldest daughter, enhanced by sunbeams. “Marie, you were a quiet and obedient child in contrast to Anne and George. I attempted to make you interested in books, but I failed, yet it did not matter to me because I’ve never loved reading.”

Elizabeth stepped to Marie, putting her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “You must know that I’ve always adored you wholeheartedly, Marie. I favored Anne excessively because I’ve never had the mutinous nature that aided her to accomplish incredible things. I favored George because of his subtle soul, vulnerable and sensitive like a delicate flower that spends years unfolding and revealing its beauty. I reckoned that despite being a boy, George needed my protection.”

Tears filled Marie’s eyes. “I’ve always loved you too, Mama.”

Elizabeth gazed into her daughter’s eyes for a long moment before uttering, “I favored Anne and George because of the qualities which God did not grant to me.”

Her daughter felt herself like a fool. “Finally, I understand things which seem obvious now. Yet, I could not unravel the mystery of your personal preferences for so long.”   

“In childhood, you were well-behaved, so I did not think that you needed as much attention as Anne and George did. I did not let you see that I could not possibly love anyone else more than I adored each of my three children, including you. If I had done so, you would not have been hurt.”   

Marie’s scrutiny shifted to the gorgeous statue of Flora once more. “I was a proper maid only until I threw myself headlong into the artistic and sensual whirl of the French court.”

With a sigh, her mother confessed, “I had a short-term affair before my wedding to Thomas Boleyn. Neither Anne nor George knew about it. Your sister should know nothing.”

“She will not,” avouched Marie. “Does the Earl of Wiltshire know?”

“He does.” Elizabeth blushed at the remembrance of her confession to the young Thomas Boleyn. “By the time my liaison had ended, I regretted it. Then I was charmed by Thomas.”

“Who was your… erm… favorite, Mother?”

“Sir William Compton, a prominent courtier during Henry the Eight’s early reign. He died of the sweating sickness years ago.” Due to the candor between them, Elizabeth now felt more comfortable with her daughter. “I did not love Compton. Our liaison lasted for three months only.”

Her daughter’s gaze slid to the statue of the goddess Venus. “It is all the amorous breath of Venus that makes maids and young women desire the forbidden and the most sensual.”

“Perhaps, Marie. You and I have more in common than you think.”

Marie turned to her mother. “Was my father still willing to marry you?”

The Countess of Wiltshire smiled fondly as joyful visions illuminated her inner world with the light of her long-gone youth. “Yes, Thomas was. We escaped together from the Blickling Hall and eloped so that my father, the previous Duke of Norfolk, could not derail our plans.”

“Wiltshire must have worshiped you back then,” Marie concluded.  

“He did.” Shame prickled Elizabeth’s skin. “Because of your amours, I did not defend you when you wed William Stafford, and Thomas disowned you. A large part of me was still ashamed of my relationship with Compton. At the time, Thomas pitilessly reminded me of my adventure every day, berating me for being a bad mother who failed to raise our girls as well-bred aristocratic ladies. It did not matter that Anne was still a virgin waiting for Henry’s annulment.”  

Her daughter’s mouth twisted in a snarl of contempt. “The Earl of Wilshire should remember that he took many mistresses during Anne’s courtship with King Henry.”   

“Marie,” called Elizabeth. “My dearest, I love you. Forgive me.”

“Oh, Mama!” Marie flushed, so pleased. “I’ve always adored you with all my soul!”

The Boleyn mother and daughter flew into each other’s arms impetuously. Warmed by the sun caressing their features, Marie and Elizabeth were now tied together not only with the invisible cord of filial love, but also with the bonds of immense trust that they had years ago lost. From now onwards, it would always be so no matter whether they were miles away or not.   

As their parted, Elizabeth studied the statue of the mythological Flora. “Anne is the Goddess Minerva – unruly and stubborn, audacious and capable of leading an army to victory. However, you are a symbol of nature and flowers – the immortal Flora, feminine and benign, genteel and sweet like a dove. You and I became survivors only because hardships taught us so, Marie.”

“Monty had this statue installed here because he also associates me with Flora.”

A grin stretched Elizabeth’s lips. “He does love you a lot.”

“Yes, he does!” Marie’s felicitous laugh was as tender as roses in nearby flowerbeds. “Flora was wife of Favonius, also known as Zephyrus, the Greek God of the west wind. Nonetheless, Monty is a martial man through and through; now, in the time of peace, he feels restless.”

Elizabeth was relieved that Marie finally smiled merrily after the deaths of her two children. “Enjoy peace, my dearest daughter, because we don’t know how long it will last.”

Marie’s mind drifted to her two oldest children who had been estranged from her for years. “Mother, what do you know of Catherine and Henry Carey? Are they doing well?”

The countess informed, “They still reside in the Carey household. King Henry has not invited any of them to court because of his loathing towards the Boleyn family. There were rumors that the Carey family are looking for a husband for Catherine, but I know nothing else.”    

Marie emitted a sigh. “Ah, I see.”

Catherine and Harry have reached the marriageable age, Marie thought, and her heart was leaden. I shall not attend their weddings. The Careys will gladly ship Cathy, the English king’s bastard, off their hands. Despondency swirled throughout her body, mixed with her abhorrence towards the real father of Catherine Carey – Henry Tudor. While Anne’s letters to Princess Elizabeth were given to the girl from time to time, none of the Carey family would accept Marie’s letter from French spies, so Marie did not correspond with her estranged children.

“One day, you will see them,” promised Elizabeth, but her voice lacked conviction.

They retraced their path back to the palazzo. The palace and large park, which combined architecture, plant life, and sculpture, were still under construction and needed more flowers.  


October 30, 1544, Palazzo Nani, Venice, the Republic of Venice

“Such horrible weather,” bewailed Lady Elizabeth Boleyn, Countess of Wiltshire.

A long, wooden, luxurious gondola bobbed in the turbulent bluish-black water of the Grand Chanel. In this part of Italy contiguous with the north of the Adriatic Sea, the autumn was mild and too damp, and Elizabeth longed for the warmer climate in Rome. In the morning, a storm had broken over the city, and now when the sun was low, it was again gathering force.  

Elizabeth stared out the gondola’s window. “I wish I had stayed in Rome.” She would gladly have done that if she did not carry an urgent missive from Montmorency for Thomas Boleyn.

The firmament was a slate-colored mass of clouds, spitting squally bursts of rain that drove in wet lines against the window. As piazzas and embankments, deserted of people, flicked before Elizabeth’s eyes, she noticed that they represented a glistening area shot with massive streams and shallow puddles, which were constantly being refilled by the torrents of water.

On the way to Venice, she had seen the northeast shores of the Adriatic formed of sandbanks, islets, and shoals, which constituted the Venetian Republic for miles from Cavarzere to Grado. Located in a strategic place with a good climate and fertile soil, Rome sat on the seven historical hills on the Tiber River, and there was not much water around the city, unlike Venice.

At least I’m travelling on the sundown of my life, Elizabeth mused mirthfully. She had lived happily with the Valois princes and princesses at Saint-Germain-en-Laye for several years. Her involvement in raising her grandchildren was one of the greatest joys in her life, especially after the untimely demise of her son George. However, Elizabeth had been depleted of energy by the efforts she had invested into their upbringing, and her voyage was her much-needed repose.

Elizabeth looked out again. She admired the magnificent Doge’s Palace, constructed at the beginning of the 9th century and partly rebuilt in the mid-15th century by the Veronese sculptor and architect Antonio Rizzo. In the city’s central district, many palazzos had loggia-like windows and closely spaced small columns, which exhibited heavy tracery with quatrefoil openings above. This architectural formula from the Doge’s Palace had become iconic and popular in the city.

Outside, the wind droned its melancholy chant over the gondolas traversing the Grand Canal. It seemed that the roofs of many palazzos interspersed with mansions, churches, convents, public buildings and squares – all designed in Gothic and modern style colored with peculiar Venetian charm – shook with its unseen, powerful hands. Elizabeth could almost hear the beat of the Gulf of Venice, the seawater bursting over the quays and the cobblestones of squares and bridges.

A dreary dusk was falling, fitting Elizabeth’s mood. “Thomas! Even your ennoblement in Venice, which made all of us laugh, could not make you a better man. Only a vainer one.”

At last, they reached the Cannaregio district. As they neared Wiltshire’s Venetian residence, Elizabeth scrutinized the Palazzo Nani, bewildered that its façade was rather plain, consisting of four levels, including the ground and mezzanine floors, and that it was less ornately decorated than other aristocratic mansions. On each side of the quadrifora, or the four-light windows, on the first floor there was the rose stone Boleyn arms, which Thomas had installed there.

The gondola finally moored to the quay near the palazzo. Bowing deeply and gesticulating dramatically like a true Italian, the driver aided the Countess of Wiltshire to disembark. Sebastiano de Montecuccoli followed her, and they rushed inside the palace to hide from the rain.

§§§

“That is such bloody shame!” Elizabeth grouched before hustling into the great hall.

Thomas Boleyn followed her. “You had dallied with Compton before I married you.”

The Countess of Wiltshire had found her husband with a lover beneath the burgundy canopy of his antique bed. Elizabeth had witnessed a young woman trailing kisses along Boleyn’s fattening belly and then take his manhood into her mouth. With shrieks of disgust, Elizabeth had fled, having left a shaken Thomas sprawled on the red silk sheets together with his embarrassed paramour.     

The Count and Countess of Wiltshire froze in front of each other in the center of the chamber. A year earlier, the Venetian artist Jacopo Bassano had filled the palazzo with stunning frescoes on religious and landscape themes. The rest of the interior however consisted of a wealth of ornaments lavished by another master onto marble and walnut furniture in a random manner as if for display – scrolls, curves, and designs from leaves to heads of animals covered pieces of furniture.

She looked around. “Such luxury! You have developed a penchant for antiquities.”

He lifted his chin. “I’m a wealthy Venetian nobleman. I can afford many things.”

The sounds of her sniggering hit him hard. “Where is Italian elegance? The decorations lack beauty and grace coming from pure, simple, clear, and exquisite lines. I like frescoes and marble incrustations, columns of porphyry and mosaics, but not the other gaudiness.”

“I myself know how my house should look like.”

“For your lovers, your lordship? Or cheap courtesans from local bordellos?” 

Boleyn bellowed, “Vannoza is a nobleman’s widow who is fond of me.”   

“Oh my goodness! A namesake of Vannoza dei Cattanei, that lewd Borgia Pope’s mistress.”

His spouse’s smirk sent his temper to the acme of indignation. “Elizabeth, it is none of your business! You have long ceased acting as my wife and a Boleyn.”

She chuckled maliciously. “You are an old frog! An Englishman turned a Venetian satyr!”   

Boleyn’s nostrils flared. “I served as a guard at the château where Ferdinand von Habsburg was jailed. Then King François ejected me to Venice, thanks be to God as an ambassador.”

She tilted her head to one side. “I’ve never doubted your superb diplomatic talents, Thomas. However, I’ve long stopped considering you a human being. There is ice in your veins!”

His personal manner of addressing him did not soften Boleyn. “You betrayed me, Elizabeth. I am your husband in the eyes of God and law! The wife must love and obey her spouse.”   

“A good husband must ensure that his loved ones are taken care of in all senses.”

“I’ve done all that! The House of Boleyn climbed very high in England.”   

“And it fell from such altitude that we all almost died on the impact.”

“Most of us are alive,” he stressed dispassionately.

Elizabeth howled like a fatally wounded animal, “But not my beloved George!”

In a fit of bereavement, she dashed away from the great hall. The countess raced through the maze of corridors, until she slipped into a living room equipped with fancifully carved furniture encrusted with bronze. The wall frescoes by Bassano expressed the highly charged emotions of biblical subjects through the dynamic and stylized posture of the figures.

“Elizabeth!” Thomas sprinted into the same room, his breathing heavy from the pursuing her. “I shall not tolerate your accusations! I’m your husband!”

The countess settled onto a couch draped in silks of all the colors of rainbow. “I refuse to recognize you as such. Marie and Anne survived. Yet, George is still buried within the Tower of London, although his name was cleared because of François and Anne’s plan.”

Wiltshire grinned. “So, Anne was declared innocent thanks to François.”

“As well as our allies: my brother, Thomas Howard, his oldest son, and a few others.”

“Are they taking good care of my granddaughter Elizabeth? How is she?”

This question sent the countess over the edge. “Are you worried about Lizzy? After years of silence? That Tudor beast, obsessed with sons and craving to bed as many queens and women as his broad body can pin to the mattress, does not allow the girl to correspond with her mother. But thanks to French spies and Anne’s friends in England, she sends letters to Bess sometimes.”

He was satisfied. “It is the best Anne can hope to have.”

“Aren’t you interested in how our daughters are faring?”

Thomas crossed to an X-chair with the Boleyn heraldry. “Anne is the Queen of France who birthed her husband three sons. Marie married the Duke de Montmorency.”

“You have always viewed them as your tools.”

He ignored her asseveration. “Marie should hurry and give Montmorency a son if she is still fertile. They have been married for four years, and she birthed only two daughters.”

Elizabeth breathed out sedition. “Wiltshire! You are a creature from some horrible myth.”

“My daughters have power, which makes them happy.”

The conviction in his voice disappointed her utterly. “Don’t you miss George?”   

In a fleeting moment of weakness, a semblance of affection manifested on his countenance. “I know all my flaws, but I do not have the energy or the will for self-betterment. I would want George to be alive, but I cannot resurrect him. Anne and Marie are both content, but they do hate me too much to let myself think of them. I’m sorry that Marie’s children with Stafford died.”   

This softened Elizabeth. “You could write to each of them.”

“Oh yes,” Boleyn said absently. “They will toss my letters into the fire.”

“Maybe it will be different.” Now she saw in her husband a man tired of life.

Thomas scratched his hands over his face. “I arrived in France to be reunited with my family. However, the flame of ambition flared in me, and I quarreled with Marie and Anne. Later, I helped François deprive Pope Paul of his former ally – the Republic of Venice. However, my reward was the confirmation of my post as the king’s emissary here for another five years. Exile!”   

Pity colored her expression. “Only François and Anne can change that.”

Wiltshire’s scrutiny focused on a tapestry depicting the biblical Garden of Eden. It reminded him of the Hever park. “Nothing will ever be the same again. The two girls whom I played with in our garden and their brother are gone. Anne and Marie are alive, but different.”

Thomas Boleyn trudged over to a window. His mental fabrics fraught with loneliness, he watched the slanting lines of rain and listened to mournful cadences of the wind.

“Why have you come, Elizabeth?” 

The Countess of Wiltshire rose to her feet and headed to him. She retrieved a letter from a pocket in her skirts, and as the earl pivoted to his wife, she handed the missive to him. Boleyn unfolded the document, stamped with the Montmorency seal, and scanned through it.

Your Lordship of Wilshire,

As a man to his wife’s father, I assure you that I’ve taken the best care of Marie.

As our ambassador to Venice, you secured an extremely valuable treaty for France with the Doge Pietro Lando. Lately, Messer Lando has been in an increasingly ailing health. God forbid something happens to him, for France would then risk losing this alliance. Thus, King François and I hope that you will conduct reconnaissance who will be elected the next Doge and make him well disposed towards the House of Valois. France relies upon you in this mission.

Anne, Duke de Montmorency, also Constable of France and the governor of Rome

“I shall do whatever I can,” the Earl of Wiltshire promised.

“France and our girls need this alliance to last.” For Elizabeth, the wellbeing of Anne and Marie was her first priority. If the balance of power in Italy shifted again, another war with Rome or someone else would afflict their hearts with unutterable grief.

“Monty seems to be a good man.” Boleyn let out the smile of a broken man. “God help my daughters never be disappointed in their husbands as much as I’ve disappointed you, Elizabeth.”   

“Maybe there is still some kindness left in you, Thomas.”

Stillness, vibrating with the tremulous airs of unspoken questions, stretched.

Elizabeth and Thomas stared out. Folds of darkness blanketed the city of Venice. The rain had already pelted down for the whole day and evening. Minutes gone by, as they stood in silence, and all of a sudden, as if the clouds had discharged their aqueous cargo, they began sailing away.

He broke the pause. “You cannot leave in such dreadful weather.”

She nodded. “I’m tired after my hasty journey from Rome.”

“You must be, Elizabeth. We are no longer young.”

“I don’t regret aging, Thomas. Or I would never have seen my wonderful grandchildren.”

Boleyn corrected, “Our grandchildren.”

What do I feel for Thomas now? Elizabeth wondered. Her love for this man had vanished in the hellish circles of her and her children’s sufferings. Slowly, the feeling of something akin to pity was tugging a string in her heart. The Thomas Boleyn of today had no plan, purpose, or joy in his existence, except for those he fathomed out casually in pursuit of privileges.

He read her mind well. “In contrast to you, I’m a shell of myself. You have the love of our daughters. You helped Anne raise her children with François. You saw Marie and her offspring in Rome. When George was alive, he worshipped you and blamed me for my many infidelities. He must have died cursing me for what I did to him and Anne, and I merited his hatred.”

“I made peace with our oldest daughter. We have never been so close with Marie before.”

A sincere smile illuminated his wrinkled face. “I’m glad for you, Elizabeth.”

“You can repair your relationships with Marie and Anne, Thomas.”

“It is too late for regrets,” he rasped. “And for rapprochement.”  

The rain slowed, yet it was still a downpour of large quantities of water. In the darkness, the white marble palazzo at the canal’s opposite side glowed against the gradually clearing firmament. The crescent moon, hanging heavenward, cocked a lazy whitish eye over the city.   

I’d like to see both Anne and Marie, but I cannot, resolved Thomas Boleyn. He would not risk being rejected and ridiculed by them for his attempt to win their clemency. Wilshire’s soul was so sinful that he had condemned himself to the netherworld, and nothing could be rectified. In Venice, he was a man in full possession of his strengths and his fate. Despite his age, Boleyn’s mind was still sharp, while his body was crammed with vitality and need for pleasures.   

§§§

The Boleyn ambassador and his wife sat at the heads of the table. The servants brought many Italian victuals. Elizabeth gathered onto her platter artichokes, peaches, pheasant, and pears. Fond of salamis, Thomas assembled onto his plate sopressata, ciauscolo, and mortadella.

The diplomat dismissed all of the servants so that they could dine in privacy.   

Wiltshire chewed a slice of bread. “A tavola non si invecchia.”   

The countess enjoyed pheasant spiced with garlic. “I don’t speak this language. I’m relieved that the Count de Montecuccoli, the Dauphine of France’s courtier, escorted me to Italy.”

“This Italian proverb means, ‘At the table with good friends and family you do not become old.’ However, I doubt that I’m a good company for you, Elizabeth.”

“You have not become a Catholic, have you?”

“Never!” His grimace conveyed his repugnance towards the popery. “The King of France’s recent war against the Pope was very fair. Farnese almost killed Anne!”

She crossed herself. “God bless our daughters, and curse the Pope’s evil spirit!”

“Venice must remain allied with France.” Boleyn put a morsel of salami into his mouth. “Messer Lando does feel so ill that he often misses the Council meetings. Bad news might come any time. I suspect that Francesco Donato will win the dogeship.”

“Is it good or bad?” Elizabeth swallowed a thin slice of ham.

“Francesco Donato is seventy-five. In Venice, it is normal to have a political career for men over sixty, seventy, and even eighty. Fortunately, Donato is a friend of the emperor’s brother. He is like Ferdinand: being a Catholic, he nevertheless opposes the tyranny of the Roman Church and berates Emperor Carlos for his burnings of Protestants. He would keep relations with France.”

At the same time, Sebastiano de Montecuccoli was eavesdropping behind the door.  

For the rest of the meal, the Boleyn spouses debilitated Italian politics. They spoke English now, and it was pleasant for them both, for these days they rarely used their native tongue.

A dose of sentimentality washed over the Earl of Wiltshire. He took his wife’s hand and held it, looking down at the soft white fingers, weathered and made fragile by time. Although she did not withdraw it, Elizabeth remained a stony edifice of nonchalance and resilience.     

“Will you return to France or Rome?” His voice was oddly silken.

She disillusioned him. “I’ll not stay under your roof with your lovers for longer than I must. I’d want to spend more time with Marie in Rome, but Anne is waiting for me.”

“Vannozza is gone. She will not return if I don’t invite her.”

Elizabeth bristled. “Don’t speak to me about your paramours. You bedded many women in England. You must have slept around in Venice and France, but I don’t care. Today is the Feast of St Simon and Jude, Apostles of the Lord. Originally, it was a Catholic feast, but the Protestants also celebrate it as well. How could you disrespect God by bedding a whore today, Thomas?” 

His smile was naughty. “I’m a lonely man, Elizabeth.”

His countess tried to remove her hand, but Thomas held it imprisoned between his hands.

“Don’t leave me, Elizabeth,” he pleaded. “When I see you now, I remember the young and lovely lady I married years ago. Do you like and respect me enough to give me another chance?” 

Elizabeth visualized the tomorrows in which there would be Thomas, and then rendered her decision. “As you said tonight, the past is gone, so the present is all we have.”

“Life together is always a chance for the man and woman who have been married for years. When I think of us going on separate paths forever, my heart ceases beating.”

“What about Vannozza and your other paramours?” 

“They mean nothing.” He bent forward to study her face.

She permitted it, unresisting, that strange and thoughtful look still on her face. “Unlike our life in England, I have a choice, and you are not my lord anymore. I do not love you!”   

His expression was wounded. “I long to face life with you, and I dread to be alone.”   

For a moment, Elizabeth was silent, but then she retorted, “Keep as many lovers as you want, but stay away from me. I recommend that you attempt to befriend your daughters.”

“I’ve lost you.” He made a gesture of despair. “As you wish, my lady.”

Entering with a bow, Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli delivered a bejeweled decanter.

Elizabeth greeted heartily in French, “Messer de Montecuccoli, what do you bring?”

“Excellent Venetian wine, Madonna and Messer,” the Italian count purred in French as he neared the table. “This gift has just arrived from the Doge of Venice from his collection.”

Wiltshire subconsciously felt danger. However, Montecuccoli was the Dauphine of France’s loyal servant, so he pushed away his misgivings. “From Messer Lando?” he asked, also in French.

“Yes.” Montecuccoli poured out the red liquid into two silver goblets.

Apprehension coiled in Boleyn’s stomach. “In such terrible weather?” 

Montecuccoli elucidated, “The rain is almost over.”

Elizabeth laughed. “The Venetians are indefatigable! They are elected as councilors in their 70-ties when in most other countries people retire to the countryside at this age.”

Montecuccoli shrugged. “The same happens in the rest of Italy.”

“That is unusual.” She smiled, taking a goblet from the count.

Wiltshire took the cup. “It is one of the reasons why I like this place.”  

Elizabeth glanced at the Italian man. “Will you drink with us, Montecuccoli?”

Sebastiano apologized, “I ate ravenously and drank a lot of cognac during your dinner.”

“Then go rest,” she dismissed the count.

After Montecuccoli’s departure, Elizabeth looked towards a window, where the moon in the now clear, night sky silvered the water in the canal. It still drizzled, and the wind whistled. Thomas was quiet in spite of the pressure of words within him, which begged his tongue for utterance.

At last, Elizabeth turned to her husband. “To our beloved Anne and Marie!”

“To our girls!” Thomas intoned with eagerness.

Twirling the cup in his fingers, Wiltshire observed his spouse empty the goblet.

In a simple outfit of gray damask studded with pearls, Elizabeth seemed attractive to Thomas despite her wrinkles and dark circles under her eyes. Although her beauty had faded, she radiated so much warmth and benignity that she glowed. The poise, independence, and assertiveness etched into her whole being accentuated Elizabeth’s willful personality and her mature dignity.

Thomas realized with an overwhelming certainty how badly he needed Elizabeth, how much he yearned for her not only in intimate ways, but mostly to be his friendly beacon in the lugubrious, purposeless vista of years that stretched before him. He recalled that ire, joy, or excitement, any emotion that stirred in her, always making her seem more alluring and sparkle, as though in such moments she were a shimmering human jewel. Elizabeth is my greatest love, Thomas inferred.   

“Why are you not drinking?” the countess inquired.

The earl smiled jocundly. “I was just watching you.”

She set the goblet on the table. “You will become yourself as soon as I’m gone.”

“Never,” Thomas vowed.

Suddenly, his spouse gasped for air. Clutching at her chest, she collapsed on the floor.

“Elizabeth!” Boleyn held his wife in his arms. “What is wrong, my dear?”

Her mouth wide open and gasping, the countess could not breathe, the pain in her stomach twisting her vitals. Her body convulsed in spastic waves of mortality, and she went still.

A horrified Thomas eyed her. “Come here! My wife is sick!”

The door banged open. Montecuccoli and several servants scampered to Elizabeth.

“Let me help you.” Montecuccoli knelt by the countess.

Together Wiltshire and Montecuccoli checked Elizabeth’s pulse, but there was none.

Montecuccoli feigned his grief. “I’m so sorry, Monsieur Wiltshire. Your wife seems to have had a severe heart stroke and died quickly. My mother passed away like this.” He knew that any physician would confirm his words, for the poison made her demise look like a heart attack.

A bereft Thomas whimpered, “Fetch a physician anyway! Leave me with my Lizzy!”

The servants backed away to the door. So did Montecuccoli, muttering condolences.  

The Earl of Wiltshire embraced the lifeless body of his countess. He was so crushed in body and mind that his spirit was quenched, as if all his vitality had been drained. Now more than ever, he was cognizant of the meaningfulness of his entire life. Elizabeth is in heaven, but I’ll be in hell.

The Count de Montecuccoli peeked his head into the room. After Elizabeth’s corpse would be taken upstairs, he would collect the decanter of the poisoned wine and would throw it into a nearby canal, just as he had disposed of the real gift from the Doge. Thomas’ full cup, containing the venomous liquid, stood on the table. Why on earth didn’t that old Boleyn goat drink anything? Montecuccoli raged silently. His targets were both Boleyn spouses, especially Thomas, for Pope Paul III and Dauphine Catherine of France wanted France’s alliance with Venice to be broken.

“Damn Thomas Boleyn,” the count hissed. Then the poisoner noiselessly shut the door.

Notes:

Hello everyone! We hope that you are fine and sane. Take care of yourself!

In fiction and popular culture, Mary and Anne Boleyn are portrayed as victims of their ambitious and cold-hearted relatives. We also made Thomas a villain and deliberately maligned him for fictional purposes. Now let’s speak in defense of Thomas Boleyn, 1st Earl of Wilshire and of Ormond, and Thomas Howard, 3rd Duke of Norfolk.

Finally, we learn how Mary Boleyn, or Marie de Montmorency, is living in Rome. Anne de Montmorency is the governor of Rome because King François needs to regulate the Roman Curia and the life of the evil Pope Paul III. As Mary mentions to her mother, life in Rome is not easy, but she is relatively happy with Montmorency who fell in love with her. Mary is quite content with her marital life, save the deaths of her two children with William Stafford – we planned to kill them off, and according to records, Anne and Edward Stafford did not have long lives.

Now we refer to Mary Boleyn as Marie because her life is connected with France. In Mary’s conversation with Elizabeth Boleyn, you can see our interpretation of Mary’s relationship with her mother and our interpretation of George and Anne in childhood. Anne seems to have been her father and mother’s favorite child, so it is rather logical that Mary could have been jealous. George Boleyn was a courtier, diplomat, nobleman, and even poet, and, hence, we create the image of George as a gentle and good man who was dreamy and wrote poetry, despite being a politician. In history, George was indeed a successful diplomat and also wrote poetry, which is often forgotten.

Elizabeth Boleyn came to Italy to visit her oldest daughter and her grandchildren. She invested a lot of her energy into the upbringing of Anne’s French children, so she needed rest. As she does not know Italian, she is escorted to Italy by Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli, not knowing about the man’s connections with the Pope and his evil plans. As no member of the Valois family suspects of Catherine de’ Medici’s deadly secrets, it seems normal to them that Montecuccoli offered his services (in some off-screen scene, which is implied) to escort Elizabeth Boleyn to Italy as an act of “generosity.” Why should Anne and François not believe the count who serves at the French court and who is close to Dauphine Catherine? How can they imagine such lethal things? At this point, there is no reason for suspicions yet, but later, such reasons will appear in due time.

Montecuccoli has different plans: France’s alliance with the Republic of Venice, secured by Thomas Boleyn, should be broken. Therefore, Thomas and his wife by extension should die, but Thomas remains alive. We gave Thomas Boleyn the chance to meet his wife for the last time and to realize how much he wronged her, and that Elizabeth was his greatest love. Do not be astonished: many men in history are known to be sexually active with their wives and mistresses after 55 and 60, and even at a later age. For example, Jean de Valois-Orléans, Count d’Angoulême, had a son – Charles d’Angoulême, King François’ father – at the age of sixty.

Everything mentioned about Italy and the Republic of Venice is historically correct. Some of the Venetian Doges were elected when they were in their 60, 70, and even 80-ties.

Attention! VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance (Athenais) are co-writing the story called “Entwined by a Golden Alliance.” Give it a try, please! We highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, Marina Ka-Fai, BubblyYork, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Lady Plantagenet in the White Queen fandom.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 54: Chapter 53: Suffering and Temptation

Notes:

Henry VIII is on the dark path. The murderous puzzle is far from being resolved.

Attention! VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance (Athenais) are co-writing the story called “Entwined by a Golden Alliance.” Give it a try! We are sure you will like it.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 53: Suffering and Temptation

November 28, 1544, Oatlands Palace, near Weybridge, Surrey, England

His broad body sprawled upon the crimson silk sheets, King Henry watched his new mistress dance naked in front of him. The intricate movements of her slender and youthful body entranced him, sending powerful tides of desire, hot and intoxicating, through his very core. 

His heart drummed against his ribcage. “I don’t know which part of you to watch first. You are the waves rolling from the center of a sea with no end and no beginning.”

His paramour stepped back and bent over, her backside pointed in his direction so that her lover could see her niceties. “Enjoy an unrelenting ripple of my whole body.”

“You are the goddess of dance!” Henry enthused. “The gorgeous Terpsichore!” 

Her feminine laugh sent a wave of heat through him. “Yes, I am, sire.”

His paramour was Lady Philippa Bassett, the former mistress of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. After Charles had once boasted that he had seduced the young Bassett nymph, Henry had been spellbound with her dazzling beauty and style. Philippa’s French manners reminded the king so much of his second and third queens that he had snatched her away from his friend.    

“Do you like my dance?” Philippa wanted to know. 

“Yes, my Terpsichore!” The king reclined on the pillows. “Continue!” 

Philippa started with a sharp, yet graceful, movements of her middle and then those of her legs.  The room was lit by candles, shadows flickering across tapestries of hunts and forests. 

“Your alabaster skin fascinates me.” His loins swelled with hunger. 

“And my forms?” She twirled around the room.    

His breath hitched. “I want to touch them time and time again.”

“Just as it happened to my sister?” Philippa asked out of mere curiosity. 

He was somewhat embarrassed. “You are both very beautiful.”

She whirled and laughed. “Anne was incredibly pretty! I am worse!” 

“Philippa, you underestimate yourself.” A twinge of grief over the loss of Anne Bassett drove away some of his lust. “Your late sister and my queen, God rest her tender soul, was a blonde-haired goddess of virtuousness. We were lovers before our wedding, but she remained innocent in mind. I know that she was not a virgin when I took her to my bed, but Anne regretted that she had not given me her maidenhood. She was still my incredible and loyal queen.”

Philippa halted in the room’s center. “Because she gave you Prince Edward?”

“He is the best proof of Anne’s honor and gentility.” Henry smiled as he envisaged his son’s blue Woodville eyes. “I took your sister as my wife because she got pregnant. Yet, God blessed me with a healthy male heir despite the fact that Anne and I had an affair.”

Philippa darted to the other side of the chamber, dancing. “Some more entertainment.”

The king’s body was aflame again. “I want to penetrate you right now! I cannot endure it anymore.” Few women could arouse Henry to such an extreme degree. Not even Anne Bassett and Anne Boleyn were capable of performing such an erotic ritual of her body. 

As she inclined herself lower, Philippa’s sly grin did not vanish. The monarch could not know that his mistress was laughing at his naiveté and at his belief that the healthy Prince Edward was his son. During her sister’s short queenship, Philippa had been too young.    

In adulthood, Philippa had learned a great deal, including Anne’s secrets. The Marquess of Exeter was her first lover and her true love, Philippa uttered silently. At the time of Anne’s death, Philippa had no idea that Exeter was the real father of Prince Edward. It had astonished her that Anne had asked for her aid to get Exeter into her bedroom a couple of hours after the baby’s birth.  Over time, Philippa had realized that her sister had renewed her clandestine amours with Exeter.    

Philippa, it is far better to avoid besmirching yourself for status. The main condition for a happy marriage is mutual love, but I’m not certain that the blissful state will last.

The recommendations of her deceased queen-sister, spoken hours before her mysterious death, drummed through Philippa’s mind like a bitter reproach. Shame and guilt lacerated through her chest at the thought of her failure to follow her sister’s sagacious guidance.  Philippa had grown up into a stunningly beautiful woman, more seductive than her older sister had been. Men always turned their heads whenever she entered with a swanlike gait, falling silent and letting her pass. 

Philippa’s sensuality was larger-than-life, brilliantly balanced with an enchanting loveliness of lush strawberry blonde hair, large sea-green eyes, small nose, full and voluptuous lips, and the rest of her heart-shaped face equally captivating.  Her body and heart embodied a complicated coil of spiritual longings and physical hankerings, which she had been unable to suppress as soon as her first monthly courses had come. Philippa craved carnal pleasures more than Anne had done. 

Her smoldering passions had first led Philippa to the bed of Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey.  They had had countless tumblings into his bed and on the ground in the gardens, and Philippa had enjoyed his expert caresses for months. Eventually, Surrey had become enamored of his wife, Frances de Vere, once more after the period of their brief marital problems.  Having been discarded by Surrey, Philippa had changed several more lovers and ended up in Suffolk’s arms. 

Just as Anne Bassett had predicted, their ambitions mother had started looking for a high-ranking suitor for Philippa. Honor had scolded her daughter for her promiscuousness over and over again, but she was powerless to stop Philippa. However, as soon as the king had become attracted to Philippa, Honor Grenville had commanded her daughter to ensnare the monarch. Honor had contrived a plan: if Catherine Howard had been set aside, Philippa could marry King Henry. 

Nonetheless, Philippa imagined her future extremely differently. She would never become the next queen of the king whose obsession with sons repulsed her, and whom she feared.  She did not believe that her royal sister had died from injuring her temple because of Anne’s dizziness after the labor, suspecting that Anne could have quarreled with the mercurial ruler who had killed her in a fit of rage. Philippa had no clue as to her mother’s involvement in Anne’s demise. 

Watching the monarch’s lewd glances, Philippa laughed and danced. Sometimes pausing, she caressed herself with her hands, teasing him and further magnifying his arousal. His body did not disgust her despite its broadness, which she considered excessive, but the smell from his ulcer was unpleasant. Lady Mother, I obeyed you and seduced that aging tyrant, but I shall never marry him, Philippa spoke to the imaginary Honor Grenville. Let his queens suffer, but not me.   

His voice interrupted her musings. “Your motions hypnotize me, but I yearn to possess you.”

Abruptly, Philippa ceased moving. “Do you want me more than your queen?”

Henry’s hand flew to his private parts. “Yes. Kitty cannot dance like you.”

“Nobody can,” she bragged. “No one taught me.  I just do what my body wishes.”   

He beckoned her to him. “Come here, or I shall take you on the floor.”

A grinning Philippa darted to the bed. “I’m here, my sovereign! I’m yours!” 

“Finally, in my arms.” Henry grabbed her impatiently. 

“Let’s go to our little paradise.” Her voice is melodious.

They coupled rapaciously. Philippa was so slender and a little fragile – slimmer than the small-framed Kitty – that Henry usually allowed her to straddle him.  Just as Philippa’s dance did, she gave him all bliss and rapture that he needed to feel alive, and that he could no longer derive from his wife. Unbidden, thoughts of Anne Boleyn swarmed his head, and Henry sped his thrusts, making Philippa do the same, hoping to snuff out the flame of his obsession with Anne.

§§§

The moans of two lovers mingled in a lustful symphony. Their caresses and kisses became more demanding, and their thrusts wild until Charles Brandon pulled out and then spilled himself on the sheet next to his mistress. Elizabeth de Vere stretched across the sheets languidly, her blonde hair sprawling around her head like her own personal halo, her gray-green eyes shining. 

Elizabeth murmured, “It was short and intense, filled with need.”  

The Duke of Suffolk climbed out of bed. “It is our last rendezvous, Lady Darcy.”

She nearly chocked on her own saliva. “What, Charles? Are you kidding me?”

A disappointed silence permeated the air in the room, draped with tapestries depicting St Cecilia and St Margaret.  Brandon put on his shirt, doublet, hose, his motions quick and proficient.  Due to his countless affairs, he could dress himself without anyone’s help, swiftly and easily. 

“You will not get pregnant. Your husband has nothing to worry about.”  

This angered Elizabeth. “Is it all that you can tell me, Charles? You seduced me! Before our dalliance, I was faithful to my husband, Thomas Darcy. You made me an adulteress!” 

“If you did not want to be with me, you would not let me bed you on the night following His Majesty’s birthday, after only half an hour of our stupid court talk.” His tone was brusque. 

She lay back and stared up at the ceiling. “I’ve fallen in love with you. I’ve waited for our clandestine meetings with impatience, failing to find a remedy against my longing for you.”

A dagger of guilt speared through Charles. “It is only infatuation. Try to be close to your husband, and you will find consolation with him. Maybe a child will give it to you.”

When Elizabeth looked at him, treacherous tears were flowing from her eyes. “My husband, Thomas, has a mistress or perhaps two. I do not care about him. It was an arranged marriage into which I entered because my late father, the Earl of Oxford, selected this match.”

“Arranged unions are the backbone of the aristocratic society.”

She smirked ruefully. “You married the late Lady Suffolk, Catherine Willoughby, because of her great inheritance, but people say that you two were in love with each other.”

Charles was relieved that the court was not aware of his dead spouse’s escapades with the monarch. “That is true, Elizabeth, but it happens rarely. I wish you all the best.”

After closing the door, Suffolk heard female sobs, and a wave of guilt showered him. Yet, it was necessary to break his relationships with most of his mistresses: he had kept three in London and dallied with several women at court. Now Charles would have only one paramour at court and his wife. I’ll give my spouse, Anne, some joy. As his youngest boys – Catherine’s children – were companions of Prince Edward, he would have enough time alone with his wife in his estates. 

§§§

“Edward, you look well,” King Henry greeted.  His vigorous lovemaking with Philippa had reinvigorated him with vitality. “So green when everything is white outside.”

The presence chamber, draped in arrases of scarlet, was dominated by the ruler’s oversized gilded throne, its seat made too large to accommodate his frame now broader than years ago. 

The Earl of Hertford sketched a bow to his sovereign. He was clad in a doublet of green velvet worked with gold thread, and hose of the same material. According to his wife’s advice, he had begun wearing a short mantle to stress his authority and high status. Today, his mantle was of emerald velvet passmented with gold, matching the remainder of his attire perfectly. 

“My spouse chose this outfit.” Herford smiled at the memory of his wife’s lovely face. 

The monarch howled with laughter. “She has a nice taste, my friend.”

At this very moment, Edward’s usually inscrutable face exuded his affection for his countess. “Every day I thank the Almighty that I proposed to Anne Stanhope years earlier.”   

Henry did not like thinking of his courtiers’ happiness when his own marital life was a mess.  He redirected the discourse to the religious topic. “What of your report?”

The royal chief minister informed enthusiastically, “Under the guidance of Archbishop Cranmer, the clergy created the first draft of the new Book of Common Prayer. Soon we will have the first prayer book that will contain the complete forms of service for daily worship in English.  Everything – Morning Prayer, Evening Prayer, the Litany, and Holy Communion, as well as the orders for Baptism, Confirmation, Marriage, and a funeral service – will be included.”

“Excellent,” approved the ruler. “Cranmer must ensure that the propers, which as part of the liturgy vary according to the date, will be described in English. The introits, collects, and epistle, as well as gospel readings for the Sunday service of Holy Communion must be covered.”

An elated Hertford stated, “The archbishop will be most pleased to do that.”

“What about the chantries? How many of them were dissolved?”

After the break with Rome, Henry had initially remained essentially Catholic while rejecting papal supremacy. However, the king had introduced a series of revolutionary reforms in the past years. One of them was the gradual abandonment of Mass, which was still served in churches, but which would be abolished. New reformed doctrines had been made official, such as justification by faith alone and communion for laity, as well as clergy in both kinds, of bread and wine. 

The ruler’s decision to move away further from Catholic doctrines in the reformed Church of England had been caused by the grandiose revelation of Pope Paul’s crimes to the world.  While Henry had been indifferent to the damage caused by the Pope to the Valois family, the failed attempt on his daughter Elizabeth’s life was still fresh in his mind. Sir Nicholas Carew, who had once been the ruler’s favorite, had been discovered before he could have killed Elizabeth. 

Under the Earl of Hertford’s competent supervision, the Dissolution of the Monasteries had been finished. The chief minister had also offered to continue the confiscation of church property with the purpose to demolish the Catholic Church in England utterly, but he was not as ruthless as Cromwell had been. The state finances were adversely affected by the monarch’s profligacy on numerous luxuries, so the chief minister sought ways to refill the gradually emptying royal coffers. 

It had taken Cranmer and Hertford the whole year of assiduous work to create the Chantries Act of 1542, which had been welcomed by the king and passed by Parliament. According to this document, the property of the chantries was to be absorbed into the Court of Augmentations.  Their abolishment allowed the king to have their assets confiscated for the Crown, and it was planned that later, some of them would be sold or granted to nobles at the discretion of King Henry. 

The chief minister enlightened, “We have dismantled many chantries in the past two years, but more than half of them still remain intact. My commissioners are inspecting them.”

“They are corrupted!”  Henry then demanded, “I want them gone within one year.”

Hertford cleared his throat. “Your Majesty remembers the Pilgrimage of Grace in the north.  I’ve proceeded cautiously in this matter to avoid causing more discontent among Catholics.”

The royal aquamarine glare pierced Edward. “You do not decide such things.”    

The Tudor ruler did not care how many he would execute.  Thousands had been murdered, but Hertford endeavored to elude unnecessary bloodshed. “With all due respect, I advise caution.  During the previous uprising, we were scarcely able to squash it. Only your ruse when we invited Robert Aske, Robert Constable, and William Stafford to court helped us deprive the pilgrims of their leaders, which resulted in their disorganization and their loss of morale.”

“Ha! It was so great!”  Henry was fascinated with the remembrance of how he had duped the naïve Aske. “My craft is a lethal weapon, and we might use it again.”

His minister did not share his sentiments. “If a writer of history is to tell his story, it is better to tell it slowly. If the world and future generations are to feel the story’s power and be impacted by it, the writer must sit down at a table and patiently give themselves over to this art – his craft as he drafts laws and regulations, deliberates over and improves them, and at last enacts them.”

Henry shifted in his throne. “Do you imagine yourself a writer of history?”

“No! Your Majesty is the legendary King of England who has liberated his people from the evil bondage of the Catholic Church.  You are writing our English history, and my job as your councilor is to ensure that it is done in the best way possible for you and the whole country.”

Flattered, the sovereign of England commended, “That is why I like you.  You are as hard-working and competent as Cromwell, but you are less radical and less avaricious.”

The earl smiled with reserve. “I’m honored to hear this, sire. I’m trying to be more down-to-earth than my predecessor who wanted to demolish the Catholic Church once and for all.”   

“It is all very good, Hertford.  However, do not forget that even if some treacherous Catholics rebel, we will defeat them. When you play, you get an opportunity to hone your craft.”

“I’m against bloodshed unless it cannot be avoided.”

The ruler knitted his reddish brows in annoyance. “Sometimes, you are too bold.”

A shiver ran down Edward’s spine, for he feared to follow in Cromwell’s footsteps. Yet, he said with fervor, “Whatever I do – I do for you and for this great country. I’ll serve England and you with my knowledge, heart, sword, and life as long as I can walk upon this earth.”  

Pacified, Henry permitted, “Proceed steadily with the dissolution of the chantries.  However, bear in mind that their wealth must be in my coffers soon. I give you not more than three years.”

The royal chief minister bowed in obedience. “I’ll remember that, sire.”

Will the king live for another three years? Edward Seymour wondered. Everyone knew that that the monarch’s troubles with legs had aggravated considerably. Although Henry continued the life of a forever-young monarch who bedded many mistresses and purchased new palaces, he was indestructible only in his own eyes.  The dissipation and excesses were progressively eroding his health, and Henry’s inability to do elementary physical exercise added to this deterioration. 

Hertford could not shake off the memory of the king’s illness two years earlier. After the queen’s first miscarriage, an incensed Henry had gone to Wales, surprisingly to Ludlow Castle, where Prince Arthur had passed away long ago.  During his stay there, one of his ulcers had become seriously infected, and the ruler had been feverish for days. Doctor Butts had cut open the ulcer to let the gleet seep out. Henry’s fever had broken, but it had taken him weeks to recuperate. 

Back then, the Earl of Hertford and the Duke of Norfolk had concealed the gravity of the ruler’s illness.  Hertford and Norfolk had established a temporary alliance to preclude the Marquess of Exeter and the Duke of Suffolk from seizing the control over Prince Edward. Despite being a Catholic, Norfolk did not wish Exeter to become the main man in England, and he disliked Suffolk for his lack of ancient noble blood. Hertford detested Exeter for his Catholic inclinations. 

If only the king had not pretended that he was invinsible…  If only he had ceased his wanton escapades…  According to Sir Nicholas Wotton, the English ambassador at the Valois court, King François had stopped his debauchery approximately in a year after his wedding to Anne Boleyn because of his love for the woman. As a result, François remained in excellent health, while his English counterpart – older and already ailing – was losing his vitality month by month. 

Henry’s voice intruded upon Edward’s thoughts. “I shall continue supporting our complex reform. If only my son Edward had not had such odd appreciation for Latin…” 

The chief minister was aware that Prince Edward seemed to grow more a Catholic at heart than a Protestant. A boy of six summers, the child was healthy and energetic, but spoiled beyond measure and far more interested in outdoor activities than in learning. It would have been fine if Edward had not kept refusing to pray in English – the prince obeyed only due to the insistence of his tutors and his chaplain, who punished him for prayers in Latin on the monarch’s orders. 

Henry lamented, “My son with Kitty, Edmund, is so frail. I need another legitimate son.” He paused, as though conscious of the futility of his attempts to sire healthy male progeny. “Only my daughter, Elizabeth, is completely healthy and has the heart of a true Protestant.”

“All of Your Majesty’s children are a credit to you.”

The ruler sighed. “I tasked my dearest cousin, Hal Courtenay, to make Edward more inclined to the new religion. Every day I pray that Hal will succeed in his endeavors.”

That is a grievous mistake of yours, Your Majesty, Herford speculated murkily.  Lord Exeter is a Plantagenet, yet you love him so much! Your cousin is so manipulative that he has wrapped you around his finger. He pretends masterfully that he is a staunch Protestant.  Hertford’s spies reported to him about Exeter’s meetings with other Catholic lords, each of them secret and without any trace of rebellion or conspiracy, so there were no grounds to arrest Exeter as a traitor.    

In spite of his sharp and calculative intelligence, the chief minister was a worse manipulator than the Marquess of Exeter. Hertford failed to understand how the marquess had made the king appreciate him so much despite Henry’s erstwhile fear of the Plantagenet rivalry for the throne. 

The ruler’s question jerked the advisor out of his musings. “What about my meeting with the emperor in the Low Countries? Has my daughter Mary sailed from Spain to Flanders?”

“I’ve received a letter from the emperor.  Lady Mary departed from Cádiz a month ago, but her journey might take more time due to autumn storms. Chapuys is accompanying her.”

Henry was a little worried about Mary’s safety; he also craved revenge on the French. “We will postpone my voyage to Ghent only if winter storms become too bad.”

Hertford only sighed. “It shall be done as you command, sire.”

After this audience, Edward Seymour felt so very uneasy that he could not work for the rest of the day. His liege lord’s plans to start another war against France disconcerted him.    


December 15, 1544, Oatlands Palace, near Weybridge, Surrey, England

Queen Catherine Howard rested upon a mahogany bed, draped with red brocade curtains and boasting extravagant hand-carved detail. “I need to conceive again,” she said to herself.

The queen’s bedchamber was wide enough that there were rows of chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and, beyond the table with silver goblets and a decanter of wine, in front of the row of windows. The rich fabric on the walls and the vibrant cretonne on the upholstered ebony furniture were of the same pattern of flowers. On the walls hung oil paintings in gilded frames. 

My union with the ulcerated king is a living hell, Kitty whined silently. The English monarch kept reminding her of what had happened to those of her predecessors who had failed to produce his male progeny. He blamed her for the ailing health of Prince Edmund, Duke of York, as if it were her fault. Catherine deduced that it was nearly impossible to give her husband a healthy child. The reports from Hatfield were that little Edmund had a weak constitution and was often ill. 

Nevertheless, the queen’s marriage and, most importantly, the future of her beloved Edmund depended upon her success in childbearing. Thrusting aside her thoughts of her husband’s inability to sire healthy sons, Kitty resolved to try and get pregnant again.  Nonetheless, the ruler had erected a wall between them in the aftermath of her miscarriages. Last summer, she had been surprised to have received summons to Oatlands Palace, where the court now resided for months. 

After the king’s birthday, Kitty had tried to arouse in Henry the lust that she had once seen in his aquamarine eyes.  For a long time, her youth had failed to breathe interest into the heart of the aging, yet still salacious, ruler, as if the ebbing tide of his passion for her had forsaken Kitty’s listless land. Gone were also days when she had trembled in Henry’s arms like drops of wind-stirred dew just because the king was a more experienced lover than Francis Dereham. 

A month earlier, Kitty had managed to seduce the monarch back into her bed after she had danced merrily in front of him in the ancient Greek costume of the Goddess Hebe on a masque.   Since then, he demanded that she deliver his much-desired Duke of Lancaster. Nevertheless, he slept with his paramours, especially with his new favorite concubine Lady Philippa Bassett, more often than he bedded his wife, which left the queen fewer chances to get pregnant again. 

Henry had aged rather prematurely due to his continuous problems with his leg and his life of flagrant excesses in food and dissipation. At times, he could not perform his conjugal duties for some reason, and in this case, Kitty was compelled to use the indecent French and Italian tricks, which Lady Jane Boleyn had revealed to her. The queen thanked God that it happened seldom. 

The queen’s mind drifted to her cousin – Queen Anne of France.  She was aware that Henry was still obsessed with Anne, his longing for his former wife fueled by the knowledge of her being forever lost for him to his French archrival. The mystique about her cousin’s legendary life and her feats intrigued Kitty who yearned to meet with Anne Boleyn.  Ah, Lord! If only I could find as great a love as the love of King François and my cousin Anne, the English queen dreamed. 

The door opened, and the ruler slipped inside. “Your Majesty,” Kitty breathed. 

Henry stopped in the center. “I would better fuck my mistresses than you.”

The queen protested, “It is not a conversation for people of our high station.” The evening twilight added to the sense of mingled anxiety and fear gnawing at her in waves. 

“I always cast convention to the wind, my kitten.”

Henry approached his consort, and his arm snaked around her shoulders, pulling her closer, her face inches from his. With an uneasy sigh, she twisted out of his embrace.

Unutterably tired, she entreated, “Please, let go of me, Your Majesty.”

He stepped back, irritated. “What?”

“I’ll have to change into fresh clothes before I present myself for a dinner with you.”

He did not fend off the impulse to hurt her. “You will not be there, Kitty. From now on, Lady Philippa Bassett will perform a queen’s duties during my official audiences and receptions.”

Kitty stared at the king open-mouthed. “Why?”

His glare collided with his consort’s. “A brainless and undereducated queen such as yourself is worse than her husband’s mistresses. All that matters is what I need and wish.”

No! Despite my lack of affection for Henry, we are still spouses! The words reverberated through her brain like the crash of a gong.  Until she had caught the king’s eye, Kitty had believed that her story was nothing out of the ordinary. After her wedding to the ruler and especially Prince Edmund’s birth, the canvas of her life had appeared to be like a road to queenly glory until her miscarriages, just as those of his previous wives had destroyed Henry’s love for them.     

“You will be confined to your chambers, while Lady Bassett will be with me in public.”

“Thank you,” she replied with a sarcastic glint in her eyes, “for putting me into my place.”  

Stopping near the fireplace, Henry regarded her angrily. Perceiving the glint, he recalled several occasions when his spouse had dared speak to him out of turn, including the day when she had asked him to make the Duke of Suffolk more attentive to his wife, Anne Brandon.    

“By heaven!” cried an incensed Henry. “You look docile, but you have a spine, Kitty. Your uncle Norfolk helped you master the art of manipulation. Years ago, your cousin, that Boleyn courtesan, bewitched me for the sake of her family’s enrichment. You are not virtuous either: you wanted to be my mistress to spy for Norfolk, and when you got pregnant with Edmund, you used the chance to become my queen. You took my gifts after you had convinced me of your dignity.”   

Fear whitened her features as she backed away to the bed. “Your Majesty is wrong! I fell in love with you during our affair.” Lies for self-defense came easily to her.

He narrowed his eyes. “Falsehood, but it does not matter. I’ve come here on purpose.”

Henry casually shrugged off his doublet and tossed it aside. Her mouth went dry at the visual evidence of his intention. As he neared her, his countenance and glare expressed rage and beastly brutality, as though he had transformed into a red-haired dragon of Wales.  He paused and stomped to the door, then locked it and threw the key to the floor, laughing in a frightening manner. 

“Sire, what are you going to–“ Fear paralyzed the queen.

“I shall take you now!” Henry finished unlacing his hose. 

Her heart dropped into her stomach. “We can wait for the night.”

The monarch came to his wife. Terrified, meek, and too pale, Kitty was tempting – she was entirely at his mercy.  Since adolescence, Henry sought domination for himself, demanding absolute submission and obedience from all of his subjects and his wives. Only with Catherine of Aragon at the beginning of their marriage years ago, Henry had formed an alliance of co-monarchs, and she had taught him many things. Now he did not want partnership in matrimony, and he had not wished it even with Anne Boleyn; he would never share his power with any woman. 

He caressed her cheek, not tenderly. “Do my bidding.”

Henry pushed his wife onto the bed and raised her skirts to her waist.  He tore open the front of her garments, and then threw Catherine on the mattress.  Straddling her and pulling her hands behind her head with his one hand, he gripped her body with the other and crushed his lips into hers, ignoring her pleas. His rough kiss was predatory, burning through them like a torch.    

She entreated, “Henry, I do not want our son to be conceived in hate.”

In a commanding manner, as though training a dog, he barked, “Obey me!”   

“Not like this.” Her lament was like the groan of a drowning person. 

His already exasperated temper spiked, and the ruler smacked her across the cheek. “No one will deny me my right to do what I wish. I must have another son with you!” 

Spreading her legs wider, the monarch slammed into his spouse like a rutting animal. Her tight heat grasped him, sucking him with the promise that his seed would quicken inside her once more.  Her solicitations to be careful were rewarded with a slap on the queen’s forearm as he drove deeper into her. In order to make this encounter a little enjoyable for Kitty, he needed to fuel her with the same hunger as one that had once taken possession of him, but he was past caring. 

Anchoring her thighs around him, Catherine endured the intimate torture courageously. As Henry pounded into her insanely, there were no shrieks from her. The queen’s skirts of blue silk formed a ridiculous humplike circle around her on the bed. Henry groaned when his release came, spilling something warm inside her that she had not felt before – it was the seed of something evil the queen did not wish to be born. Then he slowed his thrusts and rolled off of her. 

He lay in silence for several minutes. “How are you?”

“All right.” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “I need to sleep.”

“You can, sweetheart. My mistress will replace you today on a banquet.”

The monarch left the bed and re-arranged his undergarments. “Catherine, be a clay in my hands, and it will never happen again.” He laced his hose, then donned his doublet. 

Left alone, Kitty broke into a fit of crying, as though her whole being was damaged beyond repair. The horror of their recent intercourse was imprinted upon her memory until Doomsday. 

§§§

As she entered the queen’s bedroom, Kitty’s desperate cries hit Lady Jane Rochford like a whip’s strike. Some horrendous deed must have sent the queen into such abject despondency. 

“Your Majesty!” Jane rushed to the bed. “What has happened?”

Streaks of tears were visible on Catherine’s cheeks. “My husband… he…”     

Jane Boleyn scrutinized the queen’s appearance. At the sight of Kitty with the front of her gown torn, she connected the dots. “Did he force himself upon you, Madame?”

For the briefest of moments, the queen was awash in relief that she was not alone with her grief, but then a heady dose of stinging shame seized her. “Jane, keep the truth to yourself.”

Jane’s shock was all-encompassing. “I swear that I shall say nothing.”   

They hugged each other, their tears moistening their clothes. 

King Henry! These are such filthy words! Kitty cried wordlessly.  To her, Henry now existed only as a brutal sovereign.  He had caused her so much heartache that he had morphed into a beast who threatened her with ironic cordiality one moment and the next tortured her like an inquisitor. 

As her sobs receded, the queen whispered, “If I only could take a lover, I would.”

Jane smiled in comprehension. “I understand that it is not easy to be married to King Henry.  However, you cannot risk your future and life. Think of Prince Edmund, Madame.” 

A halo of sadness enveloped Catherine. “The fear of being discovered and even more that of the consequences prevents me from throwing myself into the arms of a young, virile man.”   

The hazel eyes of Lady Rochford glistened with clandestine knowledge. “Perhaps Thomas Culpeper or Charles de Marillac, the French ambassador at the Tudor court?”

A panicking Kitty whispered, “How do you know, Jane?”

Serious again, Jane forewarned, “I’ve noticed that at times, you keep staring at them for too long. His Majesty has been so preoccupied with Philippa Bassett, and he ignores you. He has not intercepted any of your heated glances at these two men, but you must be careful.”   

“If Henry learns about my thoughts…”  Kitty’s voice cracked. “I’ll find myself in the Tower of London and will be tried as an adulteress. What will happen to Edmund, then?”

Jane clasped the queen’s hands in hers. “Your Majesty, thinking about misfortunes makes us vulnerable.  Thinking about new opportunities instills confidence into us.  You might already be carrying a child, and with God’s help, it will be a son more robust than Prince Edmund.”

The queen reclined on the bed. “Not a baby from our today’s encounter.”

“It does not matter, Madame, if the king’s seed is growing inside you.”

Catherine’s smirk was both doleful and acrid. “The damaged Tudor seed.”

“Don’t say so!”  beseeched Jane. “Think of how you will have a heathy child.” 

The queen trudged over to a looking glass in the corner. “Why do you wear black?”   

The Viscountess Rochford climbed to her feet. Infinite sadness was etched into her features as she informed, “Lady Elizabeth Boleyn, Countess of Wiltshire, passed away in Venice and was buried there. The French court is in mourning, and so is Montmorency’s court in Rome.”

Kitty did not feel pain because she had seen the woman only a few times in her life, but she crossed herself. “God bless Lady Wiltshire’s soul. How do you know such things?”   

Jane dithered for a moment. “I correspond with Anne from time to time.” She could not say that she had been the Queen of France’s spy at the English court throughout several years. 

“Pass my regards to my cousin Anne. I’m sorry for her loss.”

“I shall, Madame.” Jane prayed that there would be no more questions from the queen. 

Queen Catherine eyed her reflection in the glass and squared her shoulders. She was disturbed at the worn out and melancholic woman who stared back at her: a woman with little left to give, a very young woman who longed to be worshipped and spoiled, a girl who dreamed of an immortal affection that overcomes all obstacles, just as the love of her cousin Anne and her French husband did. I’m cursed to never have such a glorious love. King Henry has cursed me!

Catherine released a heartfelt sigh. “I do not look well, so I’ll not go to the king’s dinner.  Let his mistress – that Bassett whore – accompany him as his almost queen. I do not care.”

Jane’s soul ached for the woman who was her friend. “Your Majesty feels like you are in a lucid dream. If you open your eyes – then you hear, see, smell, taste, and feel everything.”

The queen touched her hollow cheeks. She had lost weight due to the stress caused by her husband’s alienation from her and the deaths of her two babies. “Also like a dream you will not be able to wake up from until the viewing is over. Sometimes, I fear my end will be death.”

This sounded horrible for Jane. “Please, don’t say that, I beg of you!” 

“Leave, Jane. I must calm down and rest for some time.”

Her maid curtsied. “Call me if you need something, Madame.”

The queen seated herself in an ornate walnut chair. Visions of Culpeper and Marillac’s handsome faces paraded before her mind’s eye. Her dormant passion, confined to the depths of her soul, boiled like a kettle of water over the fire she had to extinguish.  Would she be able to face her growing loneliness without the temptation to make it a little more bearable?   

§§§

The Queen of England was not alone for long.  The Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Surrey, both agitated, paid her a late night visit. Catherine Howard dismissed her ladies-in-waiting. 

“Good evening, uncle and cousin,” Kitty greeted them in an informal manner.    

Despite her initial prejudice towards her ambitious relatives, the queen had formed cordial relationships with both Norfolk and Surrey, partly because of her loneliness. When the monarch had abandoned Kitty, Surrey had often stayed at her residence, not going on progress with the rest of the Tudor court. Catherine had also befriended Frances de Vere, Surrey’s wife. 

“You also wear black,” the queen observed. 

Norfolk let out a sigh of bereavement. “My sister, Elizabeth, died in Venice from a heart attack. I’m very sad that she cannot be buried in our family chapel at St Mary’s Church at Lambeth. Wiltshire arranged for her a lavish funeral in Venice in some Catholic church, although she was a Protestant. I sent to him a letter, rebuking him for not delivering her remains to England.”

Kitty opined, “The voyage from Italy would have taken too much time.”

The duke spilled out his outrage. “Perhaps, but Wiltshire should have returned to England to have at least some of her things buried in our family chapel. Instead, he is playing diplomatic games with the Doge of the Venetian Republic on behalf of King François.”

Surrey assumed, “Wiltshire must have relocated to Venice permanently.”

“Hever Castle belongs to Princess Elizabeth,” the duke stressed. “It is the king’s decree.”

Norfolk and Surrey scrutinized Kitty, looking for bruises and other traces of violence. 

Their perusal of her amused the queen. “The king has not beaten me.”

“I don’t wish ill upon you,” avouched the duke sincerely. “How are you, Kitty?”

Surrey quizzed, “Should we fetch Doctor Butts, cousin?”

The queen stood up from her chair in a slow and regal manner. “Are you both really worried about me? Or is it a show of affection because you fear that you might lose power?”

Norfolk’s gaze hardened. “I’ve lost no offices and lands since Anne Boleyn’s downfall from the king’s good graces, although His Majesty did not favor me for some time.”

Surrey was offended as well. “And neither have I.”

With a victorious air about him, the duke emphasized, “On the contrary, I’ve been appointed  Lord Chancellor of England today. Thomas Audley passed away three weeks earlier.”

Catherine circled her uncle. “Yet, you have not ousted Lord Hertford from his position.”

It was a bitter reminder of Norfolk’s failure. “I have not. For the moment.”

Kitty glanced into his eyes with the utmost seriousness. “Uncle Thomas, you know that you will not become the royal chief minister after Henry is gone.” She stilled for a fraction of a second, relishing the thought of the monarch’s death for the first time in her life. “What I hear from Hatfield is rather disturbing. Edward Tudor, Prince of Wales, does adore the new Head of his household.  When he succeeds Henry, Edward might make the Marquess of Exeter his chief minister.”

This was Norfolk’s worst fear. “Edward might do that.”

Catherine proposed, “Take a seat – you both.”

“Thank you,” Norfolk and his son chorused. 

The three of them settled themselves in matching dark walnut chairs.

The queen studied their strained countenances. “Hal Courtenay is an ardent Catholic, while Edward Seymour is a radical Protestant. The House of Howard are Catholics, including me, but our men have always resisted sharing power with anyone, even a king’s cousin.”

Norfolk was surprised that the girl who he had chastised for her childishness was becoming more knowledgeable about life and her surroundings. “That is true.”

A baffled Surrey asked, “How do you know that, Kitty?”

“Henry,” she addressed her uncle’s son. “I’m no longer that girl who became the king’s lover because of the terror that her beauty would fade.” She slanted a censoring glance at the duke. 

Thomas Howard asserted coarsely, “Don’t accuse me of making you His Majesty’s mistress and then his wife.” His voice took on a lower octave. “I took you away from your former home at Lambeth and gave you a chance at having a better life. You yourself seized the opportunity when His Majesty became enamored of you. And you acted so because you wanted riches and power.”

“Wealth – yes. But not power,” contradicted Kitty. “You told me that none of the Howards would give me any dowry. After spending several months at court as a lady-in-waiting to Anne von Cleves, I realized that it would be rather difficult to find a suitable match for me.”

Norfolk confirmed, “Your charms could have captivated someone, niece.”

The queen felt a flash of anger. “You, Uncle Thomas, and Francis Bryan, God rest his soul,” she paused to cross herself, “brought me to court in the hope that I can become a royal paramour, which could aid you to accumulate more power. Will you deny that?”  

The duke’s laugh was humorless. “I will not.  However, I really wanted to take you away from Lambeth. You could either ensnare some low-ranking courtier or catch the monarch’s eye.”  

“And it happened.” She scrubbed her hands over her face, as if to wash it from Henry’s forceful kisses. “I did not like Henry because of our age difference – he could be my father.”

Surrey understood her actions. “No one dares say no to King Henry, or they suffer.”

Kitty thought of her other cousin in France. “Anne Boleyn dared reject him for years.”

“Anne is a special case,” Norfolk stated with absolute confidence. “First of all, she denied intimacy to His Majesty during their courtship, just as Thomas Boleyn and I advised her to do.  Nevertheless, over time, she fell for Henry, and that love eventually became her downfall. I believe that the Lord saved her from Henry’s wrath and led her to France, or she would have died in 1536.”

Surrey expressed his opinion. “Anne is the only woman among millions upon the earth who was able to ascend to the acme of power in France after her escape from England.”   

Norfolk stressed, “Anne also found love in her second marriage. That is surprising.”

“Not really, Father,” Surrey objected. “I spent enough time at the French court, so I know King François a little. He is King Henry’s opposite, and he has a lot in common with Anne.”

The young Thomas Howard had assumed the courtesy title Earl of Surrey in 1524 when his father had become Duke of Norfolk. Surrey had been raised at Windsor Castle with the late Henry FitzRoy, Duke of Richmond and Somerset, the ruler’s deceased illegitimate son. In 1532, Surrey had accompanied the English ruler, together with Anne and Richmond to France, where he had stayed for a year and had become close to King François thanks to his talents in poetry.    

Catherine swallowed her envy. “I hope Anne is happy after her horrors in England.”

Norfolk questioned, “Is there any sign of pregnancy, Kitty?”

Surrey observed, “The king has been visiting your bedroom since October.”

“It is too early to determine.” Her temper spiked at what she perceived as her relatives’ care only for themselves. “You are so afraid of losing your offices and royal favor!” 

Her uncle throttled his ire. “You are wrong, my dear niece.  We are here to see whether you need help. The rumor of the king’s intemperance in your chambers has spread like wildfire.”

“Vile gossip about my shame!” Her frazzled nerves started taking their toll. “Now everyone must know that His Majesty violated his brainless wife in the hope to sire a Duke of Lancaster!” 

“Shhh!” Surrey pressed a finger to his lips. “Someone might overhear us.”

Norfolk pointed out, “That must be the least of your concerns.”

She concurred. “Indeed, my son Edmund’s health is my primary worry.”   

“And another son.” Surrey hoped that this could pacify their liege lord. 

At this, Catherine gestured futilely. “Can someone give my husband healthy male progeny? The king’s seed must be infected with some illness, damaged, or cursed! Catherine of Aragon and my cousin Anne had many miscarriages. However, Anne birthed the King of France’s three sons.  Only Anne Bassett was lucky to have a healthy son for some odd reason.”   

Norfolk sighed. “I tend to agree with you.” Surrey, too, began to believe that it was true. 

“At times, I want to entreat Henry for an annulment.” Kitty’s distress was fueled by her grief over the loss of her two unborn children. “Maybe in this case the hurt will go away.”

The Duke of Norfolk disillusioned her. “His Majesty will not bastardize Prince Edmund.”

A deluge of tears was the answer from the wretched queen. “What should I do?”

Her uncle rose to his feet and approached her chair. Norfolk hoisted the queen to her feet and scooped her into his arms. He carried her to the bed and put her under the covers, as if he were a paternal figure to her. Such gentleness was foreign to the otherwise insentient duke, but part of his soul held himself accountable for the girl’s woes because he had introduced her to court. 

“Shhh, Kitty,” whispered her uncle. “All will be well.”

The Earl of Surrey was astounded to see his parent’s attitude to the queen. He had suspected that Norfolk could be tender only with his mistress, Bess Holland. “Father, she must rest.”

Norfolk tucked the bedcovers neatly behind her. “Sleep will help her forget.”

Kitty was surprised by the duke’s care as well.  She sobbed, “I cannot, Uncle Thomas!” 

Norfolk gazed down at her sympathetically. “You can, and you will.” He instructed, “And stop looking at Marillac and Culpeper before our sovereign sees this indiscretion.”

Surrey neared the bed. “If you commit adultery, we shall not be able to save you, cousin.”

Fright overmastered Kitty. “You have noticed, haven’t you?”

The duke sighed. “I do not blame you, given the situation, but don’t do fooling things.”

Once they were gone, Jane Boleyn and Bess Holland undressed their mistress. Yet, sleep eluded the queen as alarms and fears beleaguered her, and soon she fell into chanting it under her breath: ‘Sleep, forget, and resist the desire to succumb to your carnal passions.’ However, when the fingers of strange, dreamless trance seized her, Kitty envisaged Thomas Culpeper. 

§§§

In the semi-darkness of his room, a blonde man opened the letter he had just received from the Bishop of Rome. He unfolded it and scanned through the Pope’s handwriting that he found completely in character, both bold and controlled, expressing his authority over humans souls. 

My son,

We have been quiet for over three years. For such a long time, but it is now over. 

The Lord and I who represents Him on earth are grateful to you for the deed you perpetrated – the punishment of Louis de Perreau, Seigneur de Castillon and the former French ambassador to England. His master, the most Unchristian King François I of France, besieged the holy city of Rome for a year and tormented me, the Supreme Pontiff, just because of my desire to get rid of heretics in his kingdom. I almost died after the severe heart stroke in his army’s camp in Ostia, where I came to surrender with my son, Piero, so that the Roman people no longer starved. 

While I did not order Perreau’s death, I approve of your course of action. At the same time, I’m a little sad that you also killed Sir Francis Bryan rather mercilessly as I heard, for the man was a Catholic. However, Bryan was a friend and apologist of that Boleyn demoness who usurped the French throne. Bryan also supported the barbaric Dissolution of the Monasteries in England, which used to be the Holy See’s property, so that man deserved his gruesome end.    

It is high time to act decisively again, my son. I need you to break England’s alliance with the German Protestant States. It will be our first step on the path to have England restored to the flock of Rome.  If you have to dispose of some high-ranking heretic in England to achieve this goal, I shall not object. England must be cleansed from heresy with sword, fire, and craft. 

I bless you with my holy hand, my brave son.

Pope Paul III

The Vatican’s agent put the paper to a flame of one candle.  He then rose from his chair to drop its remnants into the hearth. Once the traces of his contacts with Rome were annihilated, he eased himself back into his chair beside a canopied bed, where the sheets were still rumpled after his lover had left his rooms. He leaned back in his seat and propped his feet on a nearby desk. 

A fervent glint entered his eyes. “I’ll put an end to the king’s heretical alliance.”

England was still allied with the Duchy of Cleves because the Duke of Suffolk had married Princess Anne, sister of Duke William von Cleves, after the annulment of her matrimony with the monarch. The agent’s mind labored to formulate a plan. Did the Pope mean that he could get rid of Suffolk’s wife? Her murder in the same brutal style in which he had taken Perreau and Bryan’s lives would enrage Duke William so much that he would definitely turn away from King Henry.    

“I need to think what to do.” His lips curved in a malignant grin. 

The castle-clock chimed the hour of midnight.  He walked to a window, opened the shutters, and looked out. Moonlight swamped the snow-blanketed gardens that stretched away beneath the winter firmament. Leafless trees bent their gnarled limbs in front of the window, like parishioners in prayer. Soon the Pope’s foes will wriggle in agony for their many sins, the man vowed.   

Notes:

Hello everyone! We hope that you are fine and sane. Take care of yourself!

We are back to the English court. Henry has a new mistress, and she is Philippa Bassett, who appeared in this story earlier as the youngest of the four Bassett girls. We deliberately made Anne Bassett and Philippa Bassett swap the places in their seniority, making Anne born in 1516 and Philippa in 1521. So, at this stage, Philippa is 23 years old, and she is not a modest girl, but it is good for Honor Grenville, Viscountess Lisle, who is back in the game.

Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, is breaking relationships with many mistresses. Now he will have one lover and his wife, so Anne von Cleves, now Anne Brandon, will be a little bit happier.

Henry is on the dark path, and what he did to Kitty Howard proves it. We remind you that he hit his head TWICE in this AU, for the plausibility of what he will be doing. Kitty and Jane Boleyn are friends, and let’s hope that Kitty will follow Jane’s advice and also Norfolk’s advice not to cast heated glances at Thomas Culpeper and Charles de Marillac. As the Duke of Norfolk told her, if Kitty commits adultery, nobody will be able to save her. Will Kitty be able to resist the temptation when she is shacked to Henry? Catherine is also portrayed as quite a clever girl.

We already started writing Norfolk as a softer version of his historical self, but he is as power-hungry just as he was in history. The Howards already know that Elizabeth Boleyn died in Italy and was buried there. Norfolk is now Lord Chancellor. Will he oust the Earl of Hertford? And what about Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter do, for he is a very important character?

In history, King Henry was the man who broke with the Vatican, but who remained mostly a Catholic. So, his Church can be called the Henrican Church, and it became truly a Protestant one during the reigns of Edward VI and Elizabeth I. We have a different reality: the Pope’s crimes make Henry become less Catholic-oriented, so he will implement some of the reforms which his son, Edward, conducted in history – the dissolution of the chantries and so on.

Finally, we see a glimpse of the Pope’s agent at the Tudor court. Yes, he is communicating with Pope Paul III, so Montmorency does not know that there is some leakage of information in Rome. Who is this man? Do you have any ideas? Be prepared for bloodshed; some people will go to heaven before the man is caught. This murderous puzzle will torment the Tudor court.

Attention! VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance (Athenais) are co-writing the story called “Entwined by a Golden Alliance.” Give it a try, please! We highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, Marina Ka-Fai, BubblyYork, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Lady Plantagenet in the White Queen fandom.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 55: Chapter 54: Phantoms of the Past

Notes:

The tough plotting against Queen Anne and King François is beginning. Emperor Charles/Carlos V and King Henry VIII have a secret meeting in the Low Countries.

For your relief: Anne von Cleves will not be killed by the Pope's agent. But there will be dramas.

This chapter is posted on a sad date. On the 31rd of March 1547, King François I died at Château de Rambouillet. In this AU, François will live until 1559/60.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 54: Phantoms of the Past

January 6, 1545, Gravensteen Castle, Ghent, Flanders, the Burgundian Netherlands

Shadows began gathering in the presence chamber with the approach of dusk, but no servants were fetched to light any candles. Emperor Carlos V and King Henry VIII, who had once been his uncle by marriage, sat in intricately carved ebony chairs, adorned with gold filigrees. Across the table from them seated their secret guest from France, her expression haughty.

“What would you answer to my offer?” asked Diane de Poitiers forthrightly.

Thoughtful stillness reigned. The King of England and the Holy Roman Emperor peered at the woman for longer than an eternity. Silence contained their doubts and alarms, yet the thought of losing the chance offered to them was prevailing over their other emotions.   

Diane de Poitiers had stealthily arrived at Gravensteen Castle several hours earlier. After her meeting with the Pope’s agent from Italy on France’s border with the Low Countries, she had journeyed in disguise of a merchant alone to Ghent. Before she had attended the birth of Dauphine Catherine’s daughter – Princess Claude – at Fontainebleau, and it was when Catherine had told Diane about her and the Pope’s new stratagem to get rid of King François and Queen Anne.

I find Catherine’s craft a source of inspiration, Diane mused with grudging admiration. Yet, at times, I’m afraid of her because she has a deep propensity to do evil things. Both women, who had long been surreptitious allies, believed that they were working hard for the best of France and her inhabitants. They were both radical Catholics whose zeal was fanatical, as well as twisted by their loathing and prejudice against Queen Anne of France who had gained too much influence over King François and now also over Dauphin Henri, much to their chagrin and alarm.  

Diane quizzed sarcastically, “So, my dearest monarchs, what would you say?”

Emperor Carlos inquired, “Why should we believe you, Madame?”

She chuckled. “I’ve taken great risks to come here.”   

After a short pause, the emperor said, “I accept your proposal.”

His voice colored with hesitation, the English king intoned, “And so do I.”

A chilly smile curved her lips. “We have made a deal, Monseigneurs.”

Carlos blurted out, “I wonder whether it is some spectacle arranged by François.”

Henry prodded, “How can we be certain that your proposal is not a trap?”

Diane laughed at them. “A trap for whom, Your Majesties?”

“For Carlos and me,” the Tudor ruler spat. “François is quite a good actor.”

The dialogue was led in Flemish, which each of them knew well.

“He is,” agreed Carlos, “when he needs to be. He is more an actor in some chivalrous play than anything else. As soon as any dark plotting is involved, he might lose the gall and back away from his decision in order not to besmirch his reputation of an honorable knight or not to go against his honor. His chivalry often prevents him from being an excellent actor in politics.”

Diane concurred. “That is an accurate description of François.”

Misgivings were gnawing at Henry. “Are you not lying to us?”

Her features were now stony. “My loyalty to France runs in my bloodstream. When I swear to do something for my country, I do not break my word. I’m committed to my promises.”

Her ebullient speech caused Carlos and Henry to scrutinize her. They had heard a great deal about Diane de Poitiers, who had ensnared the young Henri de Valois. Now she was clad in a plain traveling outfit of black and white damask, with a hood to conceal her face. Despite the simplicity of her garments, she looked stunning and far younger than her real age. No one would have given her more than thirty years old, as though she had possessed some secret of eternal youth.

Unbeknownst to each other, the same thought passed through the heads of Carlos and Henry. Such cold, flawless beauty of an ancient perfect statue! How can a woman be so chilly and yet so alluring? The walls swathed in somber drapes, and the semidarkness contrasted with Diane’s marble-white loveliness that was like that of a transcendental snowy realm.

“Why have you turned against François?” The emperor was suspicious.

The face of the infamous Madame de Poitiers was now tinged with a light of devotional zeal. “I used to be very loyal to the King of France, and my father prevented a lethal conspiracy against him years ago. However, when François married that heretical whore who now presides over our brilliant court, he besmirched the honor of France and that of the House of Valois. She will ruin our great country, and thanks to her, my liege lord is more lenient towards heretics than before.”     

Carlos nodded slowly. “Yes, she will lead France to eternal damnation.”

Henry bristled. “Am I a heretic in your eyes?”

Diane slanted a contemptuous glower at him. “If a heretic is someone who denies the classic forms of Christian doctrine, then Your English Majesty is definitely him.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed predatorily. “You have crossed a line, Madame! I am the King of England! A heretic understands a truth that contradicts the conventional wisdom of the institution. And I see everything: the Roman Catholic Church is ruled by vile and corrupt prelates.”   

“I’m not your subject, Monseigneur Tudor.” Diane’s voice was scornful.

Carlos concurred with her, but it was neither time nor place for such discussions. “Enough of your empty bickering!” he requested in a controlled voice of steel. “Madame de Poitiers, tell me only one thing. Does your lover, Dauphin Henri, know that you are here now?”

She leaned back in her seat. “Your Imperial Majesty, if you wanted to cleanse your country from heresy, would you ask to do what is necessary someone who has become tolerant of it?”

The emperor deduced, “So, Dauphin Henri – a previously staunch Catholic – was bewitched by the pagan queen into believing that the Pope and the true faith are contaminated with vices.”   

Diane concealed her disappointment with Henri of France, stemming from the unwelcome changes in him. “Not exactly. The Boleyn slattern does not worship her heresy and attends Mass together with the French royal family and the nobles. Therefore, Henri came to the conclusion that she is not dangerous for France and the Church, but I disagree with him.”

Carlos rubbed his protruding chin. “Of course, Dauphin Henri is not right. He committed a grievous error in judgment when he made this inference based on what he sees outwardly. Deep down, the Boleyn harlot remains a heretic through and through.”

She tipped her head. “That is exactly my opinion, Your Imperial Majesty.”   

Henry’s mind drifted to the news from his ambassador at the French court. “I’m told that Dauphin Henri is on exceptionally amicable terms with Anne Boleyn. Is it true?” He no longer referred to Anne as a whore, but he could not address her as a foreign queen either.

That was a bitter topic for the dauphin’s paramour. “Henri is young and not experienced enough. He befriended his stepmother thanks to the birth of his half-siblings.”

Carlos pointed at her. “He should have relied upon your wisdom, Madame.”

Although Diane disliked the hint at her age difference with the prince, she shared the opinion. It irked her that at present, Henri was not as much under her thumb as he had been before. “He will become reasonable once the whore’s detrimental influence is gone.”

The Tudor monarch hissed, “Those sons of that Valois libertine!”

The emperor inwardly leered at his counterpart’s obsession with male heirs and Anne. “That Valois miscreant is not a philanderer anymore, if we choose to believe rumors.”

Diane pronounced, “François is immensely enamored of that Boleyn witch. Many Catholics fear that she will compel him to pass a decree offering general freedom of conscience.”

At the mention of his French archrival’s feelings for his former wife, Henry was inflamed with implacable loathing for them both. “Anne seems to have wrapped him around her finger! That woman knows how to ensnare a man, but she can bring only shame on his family.”

Both Diane and Carlos looked at a jealous Henry as if he were child.

Ignoring the King of England, the Holy Roman Emperor said, “I might even start to believe in sortilege.” His expression grew serious. “Madame de Poitiers, if François grants his subjects a total religious freedom, it will lead to the downfall of France into an abyss of perpetual spiritual disfigurement. It is the path to eternal damnation for him and the whole nation.”  

Her eyes flashed with the fervency she felt towards Catholicism. “We – French Catholics – reject Protestantism with our whole hearts, despite François’ spiritual tolerance.”  

Henry interjected, “So, those whom you call vile heretics should not have equal rights with Catholics?” His disdain towards the popery leaked out of him in torrents. “The Catholic Church cares only about their own advancement and amassing as much wealth as they can, as well as the loss of their authority over the most civilized world that has moved away from Rome.”

Diane’s ire boiled over. “Like it happens in England, Your Majesty? Where is the wealth that the late Cromwell confiscated from the destroyed monastic houses? Where are the riches that Seymour is now snatching away from the chantries?” Her voice rose to a crescendo of indignation. “All these monies are in your coffers, while they must belong to the Church.”

Before Henry could continue the quarrel, Carlos put an end to their collision. “We are here not for such debates. We are discussing what to do with François and his vixen.”

“She insulted me!” Henry roared as he jumped to his feet. “I’m the sovereign of England!”

Diane snapped, “But not my king, thanks be to the Lord.”

“Enough!” Carlos raised his voice that was still calm. He glanced at Henry. “My friend,” he paused, for the word sounded too false on his tongue. “The Roman Church is not corrupt and compromised beyond all hope – it is a large part of classical Protestant mythology. Implement any reforms in your kingdom, but respect the religion of France and the Holy Roman Empire.”

Glaring at the emperor, the English ruler eased himself back in his chair. “Your lands are being torn apart by Protestants and Lutherans. Your burnings are not helping you.”

“I’ll not comment, Henry.” The emperor was fed up with the other man’s intemperance.

Diane extracted a paper from her leather pouch and handed it to the Habsburg man. “Your Imperial Majesty, it will make us allies forever. If I shake your hand, it is for life.”

“Explain,” demanded Henry. Nevertheless, they paid him no attention.

Emperor Carlos examined Pope Paul III’s stamp that was clearly authentic. He unfolded the missive and read the words that would lead him to his agreement with the Pope’s intrigues.

My son Carlos, the true child of the Catholic Church!

God bless you in all of your endeavors, which have always served the Catholic community. The Almighty and I as His representative on earth are saddened with the Protestant reform within the Holy Roman Empire. We have faith in the success of your crusade against the heretics in your vast domains. As a devout Catholic, you must regard their burnings as a necessary sacrifice to God in order to purge the lands you govern with sacred inquisitorial fire.

The Apostles of Christ are calling to us to shed the blood of those who worship the wrong religion. One of them is King François I of France – once a loyal son of the Catholic Church who was called the Most Christian Majesty. This man has morphed into a demon.

François married that Boleyn demoness who ensorcelled his previously pure soul. He has continuously practiced religious tolerance in his country instead of burning the heretics. Three years earlier, he besieged Rome and almost desecrated the holy places, and only God kept him in Ostia. That sinner with the warped soul of a pagan forced me, the descendant of St Peter, to kneel at his feet and beg for his mercy so that I can remain the Bishop of Rome. That Valois blackguard is still keeping my son Ranuccio in France in captivity, and all I know is that my boy is alive.

It is high time to punish François de Valois. I’m sending to you Madame Diane de Poitiers, my loyal servant in France with the heart of a Catholic lioness, with an offer. Let us ally against the godless King of France and have him burned as a heretic once we defeat him.

Madame de Poitiers will disclose to you the details of my plan in your conversation.

Blessing you with my holy land! It is chained by the Valois scum and his another accomplice – Anne de Montmorency. Help the Creator tear the manacles away from the city of Rome!

Pope Paul III

The Holy Roman Emperor folded the letter and kissed it fervently in an outburst of devotion to the Catholic Church. Diane grinned at him cannily, and a smile formed upon his lips.

In the meantime, Henry was in the midst of their conspiratorial silence, hearing only a faint whisper of Latin prayer from the emperor and a quiet monotonous voice of Diane’s prayers. He felt a heaviness in his breast, a sickening sense of being excluded from their mysteries.

The emperor’s smile exuded trust. “There are no classes in life for weaklings: we must deal with what is most difficult. We either write history or perish in its haze.”

She really liked this man’s practicality. “Either win all wars or cross the Styx.”

Carlos commenced to respect her. “There is no other choice.”

Henry interposed, “What is this?”

“A letter from His Holiness,” Diane apprised, laboring to keep her voice devoid of her repugnance towards the English king. “The plan I’ve offered to you both was invented by him.”

Henry ground out, “I do not recognize papal supremacy!” He was again ignored.

The emperor ventured, “And Dauphine Catherine de’ Medici.”

Their agreement was that Diane would leave Catherine out of her conversation with the two monarchs. “Her Highness is too preoccupied with the family issues and her children.”

Carlos did not believe her. “I can see the truth in your eyes.”

She dismissed, “It matters not. Are we allies or not?”

The emperor’s grin was devilish. “Yes, we are!”

“God bless our alliance.” Diane crossed herself, declaring her fealty to the Pope.

Carlos leaned back in his seat, his scrutiny glued to his Tudor counterpart. “We shall entrap Anne and François. She will find herself under siege in Boulogne in northern France. He will be surrounded by my armies in Milan, and when I capture him, he will be tried for heresy.”

At such a brilliant prospect, Henry’s exasperation morphed into glee. “Oh, damn moral considerations! I have no reservations as to how we vanquish Anne and François.” He clapped his hands. “Soon Anne will be within my grasp. She will pay for her wickedness.”

Carlos and Diane sniggered at the man whose jealousy-induced animosity towards the Queen of France they found amusing and useful. Then they grinned at each other.

She whispered, “It is time for me to leave.”

“Godspeed, Madame,” Emperor Carlos wished. “Take care of yourself.”

Diane stood up slowly, as if she were royalty, in a manner of confident sobriety and triumph. “As soon as that ungodly harlot is taken out of France, Henri will become a normal man.”

Carlos was not sure that it would happen, but it was none of his business. “François’ eldest heir must be convinced that the religious unity of France can be only of a Catholic origin.”

“That is my mission.” She and Catherine needed to drive the dauphin away from Anne.

“You are fanatics,” Henry heaped another insult upon them.

“And so are some Protestants,” parried Carlos.

After pulling on her hood, Diane de Poitiers curtsied. “Have a nice evening, Your Majesties.”

In a matter of minutes, the Dauphin of France’s paramour exited the castle into a quiet, snow-draped garden landscaped with bare trees and ice-covered ponds. A groom assisted her in climbing onto her gelding, and she rode off into the gathering dusk, intending to spend the night in a nearby inn, where she would also change her horse before continuing her journey to Fontainebleau.

§§§

Two men stood in a courtyard enclosed by the bailey. The ramparts built of stone, and twenty-four towers of the medieval castle, which had been constructed in the 12th century and had once been the residence of the Counts of Flanders, loomed above – portentous and threatening.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” addressed his sovereign Cornelius de Schepper in a voice laced with concern. “It is too late and cold for riding. Maybe you will stay home.”

 “It is fine, Cornelius. Do not worry about me. Attend to our guest’s needs.” The emperor craved to breathe the air of freedom in the solitude of the deepening evening.

Schepper wrapped his cloak around himself. “You know what I think of King Henry.”

A dark-haired man of short stature, Cornelius de Schepper wore an ermine coat, yet he still felt the cold penetrate his body. He was a Flemish councilor to the emperor and Maria of Hungary, Carlos’ sister and governor of the Netherlands. After the emperor’s brother had allied with France, Schepper was very vocal in his condemnation of what he called Ferdinand’s worst transgression.

Carlos nodded. “The whole of Europe and I share your opinion. However, despite his many misdeeds and his misconduct, we signed our secret treaty with King Henry yesterday.”

“The egocentric ruler of England loves when everyone dances to his whims and caprices.” Schepper wrinkled his nose. “That man requested that I send musicians to his whore.”

The ruler let out an acrid laugh. “Yes! You should take care of Lady Philippa Bassett. Or the mighty King of England would be hurtling the daggers of his temper towards us.”

“It is unimaginable to leave his queen home and bring his mistress to another country.”

“Our alliance is not a public one. Anyway, they will all learn everything after my betrothal.”   

“Are you certain you wish to wed the Lady Mary Tudor, Your Imperial Majesty?”

“Yes, I am.” The monarch looked away to hide his hesitation.

Lowering his voice, Schepper tactfully asked, “Is it necessary to solidify your alliance?”

Carlos looked up at the firmament. “I would never have married again if there had been a chance to avoid that, my friend. After my wife died–” He broke off as grief overpowered him.

His advisor emphasized with the emperor’s loss of Empress Isabella. He had seen how the Imperial spouses had loved each other deeply. “You can still do that.”

“No,” denied the monarch. “I must proceed with this course of action.”

“Your Imperial Majesty is too powerful to be obligated to do something.”

Carlos explained, “Henry refused to ally with us unless I wed my cousin. Now he has sons, so he uses Mary as a pawn. His dream is to extract vengeance upon François and his witch.”

They paused watching the soldiers on the battlements being replaced by others and many torches being lit. The wind gusted like a wave of water rushing down through the ravine.

A shivering Schepper stepped closer to the castle wall. “If the King of England marries his daughter off to you, it will not be enough to ensure your loyalty to him.”

Unlike his subject, the emperor, who was clad in sable, seemed unconcerned by the weather. Yet, he stepped closer to the same wall that protected them from the next blast of the wind.

Carlos speculated in a sagacious manner, “Chivalrous kings such as François believe that besides confidence, valor, and nobility of the heart, loyalty and honor are the keys to all locks.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “Ruthless monarchs such as Henry reckon that they can do everything. The more brutal they become within their kingdoms, the less they think of good things. With brutality comes their confidence of their ability to force others to do their bidding.”

Carlos burst out laughing as if the two types of rules whom he had mentioned were lunatics. “They forget or fail to comprehend that the truth is always somewhere in the middle.”

Cornelius de Schepper remarked that his liege lord had become far wiser since his wife’s demise. “Your Imperial Majesty is most loyal to your family above all things.”

“Alliances are made to be broken or adjusted in the future.”

“Nonetheless, King Henry insists that you wed Infanta Maria as the proof of your unity.”

The emperor recollected, “In the past, both Henry and I reneged on our words. We signed the Treaty of Bruges in 1521 thanks to the late Cardinal Wolsey. Then we concluded the Treaty of Windsor in 1522, which outlined our joint attack against France. I was also betrothed to Mary.” He stilled to tuck his cloak tighter around him. “Henry declared war on France. However, it lasted only until Henry and François began peace negotiations in 1524. He betrayed me and allied with France, but later, I repudiated Mary and all of our agreements – then I wed Isabella.”

His advisor was freezing. “This new alliance might be as unreliable as the previous ones.”

Carlos glanced across the empty courtyard. “Now the situation is different. Never before were Henry and I so deeply united by our endless hatred for our sworn enemy – François. After our failure in France about eight years ago, France has been too strong. At present, neither Henry nor I can defeat the House of Valois singlehandedly, but we both crave vengeance.”

“I’m still confused as to what Infanta Maria’s role in this bargain is.”

The emperor’s lips quirked in an ironic smile. “Despite his daughter’s escape from England with my help, Henry knows that Mary hates Anne Boleyn and detests everything French. His idea is that if she marries me, she will work assiduously to keep my fealty to an Anglo-Imperial alliance because of our mutual desire to take revenge upon the harlot. That is Henry’s reasoning.”

Schepper questioned, “Is it correct or not?”

“So far yes.” Carlos supplemented, “Unless something unexpected occurs.”   

The advisor noticed the slouch in his master’s shoulders. “I saw Infanta Maria in Spain: she is a genteel, well-educated, lovely woman. She is young and may give you another male heir.”

Since her arrival in Spain in 1538, Lady Mary Tudor was referred to as Infanta Maria.

The treaty of Ghent of 1545 included a marriage contract between Emperor Carlos and Infanta Maria, in spite of her illegitimacy according to the laws of England. The emperor would launch an invasion of France through Flanders, and his troops would also march to Piedmont and the Duchy of Milan, which were now ruled by the French. The English ruler would attack the port of Boulogne and send his troops from Calais to conquer the north of the Valois realm and Paris.

“I have Prince Philip.” Carlos sounded too weary for his age.

“Your Imperial Majesty has only one male heir. It would be good to have a second son.”

The emperor stepped to his advisor. “I do not care about children unless they are born by my beloved Isabella,” he supplied softly, laying a hand upon his friend’s shoulder.

Even in the semidarkness, Schepper could see his master’s excessive pallor – nervous and caused by sleepless hours spent in Carlos’ never-ending bereavement. “God bless you.”

“Have you secured the papal dispensation for my nuptials, Cornelius?”

“Yes, I did, Your Imperial Majesty. It must arrive secretly within two or three weeks.”

“Good.” Carlos let out a smile. “Now go inside, or you might catch a severe cold.”

Swiveling away from his councilor, Emperor Carlos crossed the courtyard and mounted his horse. He steered the beast towards the gatehouse, and a squad of guards, each in Habsburg livery, followed him. The portcullis inside the main gate opened, and the procession galloped away.

§§§

The small Imperial procession crossed the moat and left the fortress behind. Carlos was at the helm of his men, spurring his horse on and on, as they headed towards a contiguous forest.

“More quickly!” Carlos urged his mount forward again.

“Be careful, Your Imperial Majesty!” one of his guards forewarned.

The winter woods were covered with snow, quiet, and sparkly in the thickening darkness. As they dived deeper into the forest, the emperor rode along the road until they reached a meadow.

Carlos tightened the reins. “Stop! I’ll stroll a little.”   

The cavalcade halted, and the captain of the Imperial bodyguard cautioned, “Your Imperial Majesty, it is getting darker, and there might be unforeseen dangers around.”

His master hopped down from his horse. “We are close to Ghent. I shall not go far, and you will always see me.” He then gave the reins to one of his men and walked away.

Carlos strode across the snowy meadow at a stately pace, for even now he remained a mighty Habsburg monarch. The bare trees that flanked the meadow from east and west wobbled under the burden of snow lodged on them. The whole area was peaceful and undisturbed, apart from one quadruped, whose white fur made it nearly indistinguishable. As the others waited for their sovereign in silence, there was not a single sound, except for the scrunch of his feet.

The emperor glanced up at the wintry firmament. It was bellclear and cold, deepening from a darkening gray at its apex down to the inky blackness of night at the horizon.

“Isabella,” the grieving widower whispered in an anguished voice.

Emperor Carlos often came to this meadow, where he felt especially close to his spouse. As their liege lord had taken a particular liking of the place, the guards knew the route by heart.

Carlos had no desire to return to Spain since he had emerged from his long confinement to the Monastery of Yuste in Extremadura. The months, which he had spent prostrated on his knees before the altar and praying for Isabella’s soul, were etched upon his memory like the confessions of his love for her emblazoned on his wife’s stunning marble tomb in the Royal Chapel of Granada, the burial place of the Catholic monarchs – Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon.

For two years, he had traveled extensively within the Holy Roman Empire. He had preferred to stay in Germany or Flanders, but he had never gone to Austria because his brother, Ferdinand, lived in Vienna with his young Valois wife. Any vision of Ferdinand’s happiness, as Carlos’ spies reported, would aggravate the emperor’s own grief over the passing of his empress. His brother continued administering a large part of the continental Habsburg territories in Carlos’ name.

“Isabella!” called Carlos once more. He felt as if the vault of the sky were descending upon him. “I’ve not punished Ferdinand because you loved my brother a great deal. Moreover, his tremendous popularity after his triumph over the Turks in Italy would not allow me to do so.”

Then Carlos had come to the place of his birth – Ghent. His sister, Maria of Hungary, served as regent of the Low Countries despite the emperor’s presence in the region. She resided in Bruges and frequently visited him in Ghent. He also corresponded with his youngest sister – Catherine of Austria, Queen of Portugal. Amid these quiet, rolling hills and dusky forests in Ghent’s vicinity, the emperor had begun to perceive that life might still have compensations for his sufferings.

Carlos envisaged Isabella’s gorgeous face – his lips parted, and his eyelids drooped. “Would you be proud of me now, mi amor? I’ve restored the financial health of our realm.”     

Every day he awoke at dawn, went to his study, and worked for hours until his brain could no longer function. After Ferdinand had expelled the Ottomans from Genoa, the gold, silver, and goods from the New World had renewed flowing into the Habsburg realm. Although the ruler had never done anything before to ensure the strict economy of state funds which exigencies of his affairs required, Carlos was now firmly committed to their proper administration.

The Spanish and Imperial finances were now in a far better shape. Due to the termination of his previous campaigns, the military expenses had plummeted considerably. Carlos had ordered to cut other royal expenditures in all of his domains, including Spain and Austria, which Ferdinand had done diligently. His regent in Spain – Francisco de les Cobos – had decreased the allowances of his mother, Juana, and his cousin, Mary Tudor, and the emperor had approved of that. Carlos  often exchanged letters with Felipe of Spain and considered inviting his son to the Low Countries.

The emperor froze like a statue. His men watched him from the other side of the meadow.  

Carlos peered at the ribbons of grayness moving across the heavens, saw them grow. “Will nature weep for your gentle soul with me, mi vida? I’ll never recover from your death.”   

An avalanche of his bereavement hit the emperor with such a colossal strength that he nearly lost his footing. Searching for support, he leaned against the trunk of a nearby oak. He closed his eyes, imagining the calls of hundreds of the magical bluebirds of contentment that had once flown through his marital realm, the flapping of their many wings. Yet, now the space around him was empty – there was only a sense of throbbing and excruciating hollowness inside him.

A hidden squirrel broke out with brisk scolding, angry that Carlos interrupted its solitude. He laughed tragically. “Animal! You do not need a beloved wife to survive. But I do.”

The ruler redirected his thoughts to his brother. In spite of his lenience towards Ferdinand, the emperor had replaced many of his close advisors. Those who had been loyal to his brother in the Low Countries had been ousted from their offices. The new Royal Council had been formed, staffed by nobles and ecclesiastical men mostly from Spain. They were well versed in the absolutist traditions of the Habsburg monarchy and held an undying fealty exclusively to Carlos.

The monarch’s eyes fluttered open. A downpour of snow and hail fell onto the meadow. It seemed to Carlos that after years of clamor and battles, the fire of his life was extinguished by this moisture from the heavens. Beyond that dreary circle of his life, the dark forest, the swirling snowflakes, and the bottomless void in Carlos’ soul merged into impenetrable blackness.

A wind sighed miserably, carrying away the emperor’s apology. “Forgive me for what I did in Flanders, Isabella. Some of my subjects still have divided loyalties to me and Ferdinand. They hail my brother as a victor of the Turks. I had to replace those councilors for my safety.”  

The monarch fantasized that the phantom of Isabella, garbed in pure white, awaited him at the opposite side of the meadow. He darted to his spouse, his heart humming a hymn of hope that he would embrace her now. The snow crisped under his feet running towards a mirage. Every time Carlos approached Isabella, she darted away from him like a sparrow from the circling hawk.

“Isabella!” shrilled Emperor Carlos in the most doleful accents. Such despair colored his plea that the grand edifice of his vast empire and universe could shatter. “Isabella!”

Voices resounded, and the scream of his private guard’s captain was louder than those of the other men. “Your Imperial Majesty! Where are you? Wait! You cannot be left alone!”

Eerie darkness blanketed the skies, burrowing deep into the thicket of the forest. Carlos kept pursuing his imaginary empress, but he stumbled over broken branches. Compelling himself to stand up, he raced in the same direction, the terror to lose his spouse again propelling to move him forward. In another clearing, he tripped over logs and fell nose down, swallowing the snow.

Carlos rolled over to his back and stared up. From the dark firmament, poured a waterfall of rain so heavy that it flattened the logs and fallen braches around him. The tree limbs, silhouetted to one side of him, trembled under the onslaught of snow and hail, some of them tumbling to the ground. The emperor raised himself up, peering around in search of Isabella’s ghost.

“Isabella!” However, there was no answer. The only sound was the frenetic beating of his own heart, his perpetual wound palpitating in agony. “Don’t leave me, Bella!”

Shrieks pierced his mental chambers. “Your Imperial Majesty! We have found you!”

When the guards carried their master, Carlos still shouted his wife’s name time and time again. The strengthening snowstorm wailed vehemently. The whiteness of the landscape flickered before Carlos, as his men lifted him to his stallion and started their slow walk back home.   

The emperor’s mind cleared only when they passed over the castle’s moat and into the main courtyard. He slithered sideways out of his saddle, the reins sliding through his hands.

In the next moment, Mary Tudor walked out of the palace. Dressed in a sable cloak, she was shivering from the frost. As her gaze rested on the emperor, she trudged to him and curtsied.

“Your Imperial Majesty!” Mary studied the ruler in concern.

 Cornelius de Schepper emerged from the castle. “Infanta Maria arrived an hour earlier.”

The monarch signaled his guards, who supported him, to step aside. They complied.

“Is everything all right?” questioned Mary. “Cousin, are you sick?”

Schepper sprinted to his master. “How are you, my liege?”

The emperor did not want to see them now. Especially not Mary after his dreams of Isabella. He said between clenched teeth, “I’m fine. I’m merely exhausted and need rest.”

Without a backward glance, Carlos entered the fortress, his gait slow and his legs a bit shaky. Mary bombarded Schepper with questions, but he politely asked her to retire to her quarters. A strong blizzard blew up, and soon the entire land looked like a single sheet of snowy white paper.


January 17, 1545, Palazzo Compagni, city of Florence, Tuscany, Italy

After climbing out of bed, Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, cast a glance at his sleeping mistress. She was a sister to his friend – Andrea Corsini, from the wealthy Corsini family that owned a large banking and brokerage business. Stretching across the sheets, the young and fresh Andrea had a beautiful face with dark eyes, now closed, and peach-tinged lips, which Percy had ravaged during the entire night. Her long, raven hair was sprawled across the pillows.

“Anne,” Percy muttered the name of the only woman whom he had ever loved in his life.

Percy often dallied with Florentine female aristocrats, who were more frivolous than English women were. Most of his lovers had olive complexion, dark eyes, raven or brown hair. They all reminded him of Anne! He needed their gentle touch, the rapture of the ecstasies they experienced in sensual ardor, to feel more alive than one of the statues in his collection at home.

Hastily, the English ambassador got dressed and left the palazzo he rented for his paramour. His page gave him the reins, and Percy urged his stallion into a full gallop. Despite his admiration for the city’s flamboyant architecture, he had no time to enjoy it because he had to come home before his wife, Jane, returned from her regular morning Mass. He still felt uncomfortable referring to his countess as Lady Northumberland because once Jane had been the Tudor monarch’s wife.

§§§

A blonde woman, attired in a rich mink cloak, crossed the Piazza della Signoria. She lingered her gaze upon the fine marble copy of Michelangelo’s David statue in the square’s center. She paused, letting her scrutiny linger upon Palazzo Vecchio with its imposing crenellated tower, which had once been the Signoria of Florence, the ruling body of the Republic of Florence.

“It is such a beautiful place,” said to herself Lady Jane Percy, Countess of Northumberland. “Steeped in history and reminding of the erstwhile days of the Florentine Republic.”

Jane swiveled and stepped onto the Via Larga. Having lived in Florence for the past three years, she had gotten accustomed to very mild and rainy winters. The morning was lovely, and the sun was rising above the magnificent cupola of Duomo di Firenze, or Cathedral of Florence.   

Tears of joy moistened her eyes. “Such beauty for God’s children! Thanks to the Medici!”

Standing close to Palazzo Medici, she observed the sunrise. Jane was returning from matins in Duomo di Firenze, where she went every day. In this city, she could openly express her Catholic piety, which was a huge relief to her after she had feigned her religious beliefs in England.

The rays of sun shone benevolently down upon the largest and tallest brick dome of Filippo Brunelleschi’s famous cupola. Sunbeams made the orange bricks gleam with a reddish light. This picture instilled into her heart a sense of serenity that was deeply meaningful for Jane, because she was witnessing such a scene of beauty that she had not seen at Wulfhall and not even in London.

Jane sped down the street. She left behind the Medici Palace, where Henry Percy had weekly audiences with Duke Cosimo de’ Medici, who was the city’s absolute ruler. Born in a monarchial society, she wondered whether the populace in the Florentine Republic had enjoyed more freedom and rights than they had at present, but her insubstantial education hindered such musings.

Walking through the streets, she perused with wonder the palazzos, mansions, churches, and public buildings. Florence was a cradle of the greatest cultural revival the Christian world had ever seen after the falls of Byzantine Empire and ancient Roman Empire. Though not versed in culture, Jane adored the local architecture that fused classical Roman techniques with modern aesthetics in the fabulous façades, columns, pilasters, arches, arcades, vaults, domes, windows, and walls.

In a few minutes, she reached the Via Bufalini and Palazzo Compagni. Built in the 13th century by the Cresci family, the palazzo had passed to the House of Libri in 1529 after one of the family members had been executed for treason. Now the Percy spouses rented it at a high price.

§§§

Jane paused near the palace. The ground floor had kneeling windows with doorways topped with balconies, while circular pediments surmounted those of the upper floors.

The Tudor escutcheon hung at the façade’s center because it was the residence of the English ambassador. The small Cresci arms and the Northumberland heraldry of the same size were seen in the right and left corners of the façade, the latter having been installed on Henry Percy’s orders.

Jane entered the palazzo and strolled into the main salon. Servants assisted her in taking off her cloak. She spoke to them in Italian, which she had already learned well enough.

“Where is Lord Northumberland?” asked Jane, her English accent obvious.

A maid apprised, “Messer Northumberland is in the study.”

“Working,” surmised Jane. “As usual.” Percy always awoke at first light.   

“Do you need something, Madonna Jane?”

Jane tipped her head. “I’ll eat with my husband.”

“Yes, Madonna.” She and another servant hurried to the kitchens.

The mistress of the palazzo sighed with dejection. Her second marriage was a charade that tormented the Percy spouses worse than a torture wheel could. Since their relocation to Italy, they had not become closer, much to Jane’s vexation. Always being gallant and smiling at her in public, Percy kept her at arm’s length in other cases, as though she were a piece of unnecessary furniture.  

Will Henry Percy always be so cold to me? Jane bemoaned. He has not touched me after our wedding night. She had endeavored to befriend Percy by being a pliant, caring wife to him, but her attempts had been rebuffed, each failure scarring her heart more. She knew few people in Florence save those whom she met in churches. Her lack of social skills and cultural knowledge precluded her from immersing herself into a splendid and intellectual life at the ducal court.   

Jane was drowning in a sea of loneliness, ready to grasp at any friendly straw. The awesome luxuries all around her – stunning frescoes, statues, and costly works of art placed upon rose marble tables – irritated her. The main salon boasted sumptuous white and gold stuccowork commissioned by the mansion’s previous owners, as well as elegant gilded furniture and a large Murano ware glass vessel. A chimneypiece with details in the Florentine style decorated one of the walls.

Determined to put an end to her woes, she raced across the chamber. After sprinting through a corridor, she flung the door to the study open and almost fell into Percy’s startled arms.

“What?” Henry Percy questioned, surprised to see her.  

Jane trembled from his nearness. “We must talk urgently.”

He released her. “Why do you storm in like a tempest? Is something wrong?”

“It happened when we married.” Her voice was colored with anguish.

“Please, leave. I’m busy.” Her husband trudged to a desk loaded with parchments and books.

She crossed to the table. “You never have time for me.”

Percy glanced at her, his eyes vacant. “What can we discuss, Jane? If you need more money to run the household, just tell me how much, and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

“You know that I’m not interested in luxuries and paintings.”   

He nodded. “There is a special beauty that one can see in artworks. Even if you were taught to appreciate the arts, you would not because you need to have a subtle soul for that.”

She swallowed this insulting hint at her lack of education. “Is it why you have surrounded yourself with painters, sculptures, poets, and artists who are patronized by the Medici family?”

Percy took a sheet of paper in his hands. “I admire Duke Cosimo who is a great ruler loving all things progressive and artistic. I’m profoundly honored to be in his intellectual circles.”     

The exorbitance of their Italian life bewildered Jane. “You have purchased many expensive pieces of art. They are everywhere in the palazzo. Do you really have so much money?”

His frown signaled that this discourse was annoying for him. “My estates in England have been quite profitable. I adore the arts more than anything, and I can afford many things.”

His wife scoffed. “The English ambassador wants to show off his wealth.”

“The old and noble Percy blood courses through my veins. I have to maintain my status.”

“I’m also descended from a noble English family, although not as ancient as yours.”

Percy scowled at her. “I’ll not squander my time. I need to write a letter.”

Jane seated herself in an ornately carved chair. “To who?”

He grabbed a quill, his impatient gesture betraying his desire to be alone. “The old Messer Pietro Lando, the former Doge of Venice, died. Messer Francesco Donato was elected the new Doge, which is good for peace in Italy – he is a friend of King Ferdinand, the emperor’s brother.”

She deduced, “So, the balance of power in Italy has not shifted so far.”

He slanted an astonished glance at her. “I thought you did not care about politics.”

“You believe I do not understand many things.” Her tone censored him for his estrangement from her. “I’ve never received a stellar education such as yours, but I’m not a fool.”

“I’ve never considered you stupid, Jane. I did not mean any disrespect.”  

A long silence stretched as Percy penned his letter. Jane waited patiently.

When the Earl of Northumberland finished, he put it on the table. “Lord Wiltshire apprised me of the new Doge’s election. I must respond to him and thank him for the message.”

Percy corresponded with Anne Boleyn’s father! So, Jealousy flared in Jane. “Why?”

This time, he regarded her as if she were a lunatic. “Lord Wiltshire is a French ambassador to Venice. Although now he serves to the King of France, we are two Englishmen living in Italy. It is normal for us to keep in touch.” He stilled for a fraction of a second, his gaze turning haunted. “His wife, Lady Elizabeth Boleyn, passed away in Venice several months ago.”

“I’m sorry for him.” It was a sincere statement, although she disliked the man.

Percy lamented, “Lady Wiltshire was an extremely nice person. I remember her well.”

“Of course.” Jane glowered at her husband. “How can you forget someone related to Anne Boleyn? She is your eternal love that will transcend your death. Right, husband of mine?”

 Lord Northumberland was always eager to hear about Anne of France. Yet, Jane knew for a certainty that they did not correspond. Every time Percy heard something about Anne, his eyes lit up with a wistful and affectionate brightness, but they never glowed when he looked at Jane.

Percy’s gaze was now shooting lightning bolts. “Don’t speak of Anne in this manner!”

Jane let out a doleful laugh. “Henry, you are so intelligent. Yet, you fail to comprehend that you magnify your own misery by clinging to every word and news of Anne. It must be impossible to forget a unique woman such as your former betrothed, and it is highly likely that you will love her for the rest of your life. Nonetheless, why don’t you wish to find some peace of mind?”   

He did not reprimand her again. “You have realized many things about me.”

She threw her head back and burst out laughing once more. It was a wild sound thick with a trace of dense despair. “How could I not see such obvious facts?”

“After all, we do not speak often and live in separate rooms.”

“You interact with others,” uttered Jane, her countenance serious. “Although I share this house with a man who treats me as a stranger, we have been together for years. I’ve seen you official with Duke Cosimo, merry with your friends, strict with servants, and frustrated every time you write to someone from England because you detest communicating with them.”

“Your observation skills are impressive,” commended Percy.

Her humor vanished. “I’ve endured your unrelenting indifference to me.”

Percy rubbed his face with his hands, as if this could help him rid himself of some horrible image in his brain. “I can see that the matters have grown grave in our marriage.”

“Can it be called a normal matrimony, Henry?”

“No,” he said in a tattered voice. “I’ve withdrawn into my own world, thinking that by doing so I’ll avoid problems. But the damage I’ve caused both of us is far beyond my anticipation.”  

Jane could see her husband’s kind heart. “The question is what you will do now.”   

He lifted one thin finger and tapped his lips. “And should I do in your opinion?”

“The apparent answer,” she spoke slowly, “is to stop tormenting yourself at first. You may love Anne from afar, but you must resign to her permanent absence in your life. She has a happy family with King François, and it is Anne’s reward for her sufferings at the hands of Henry.”

Henry Percy bowed, expressing condolences to himself. For years, the loss of Anne Boleyn as his bride weighted him down as he had been sinking into a gulf of opaque despondency. His engagement to Anne had been broken after she had caught the king’s eye. At Cardinal Wolsey’s advice, in 1524 he had been married off to Lady Mary Talbot, the Earl of Shrewsbury’s daughter.   

That Boleyn girl has always been a proud, presumptuous, extravagant waster. You deserve more, Henry, because you are an heir to a premier earldom, while she is a knight’s daughter.

His long-dead father’s scolding words were ringing unpleasantly in Henry’s ears every time he thought of Anne. He regretted immeasurably that he had not fought for the love of his life, that he had not stolen Anne from Hever Castle and eloped with her. Percy had been weak: he had obeyed the monarch, Wolsey, and his overbearing relatives – damn them all – and attempted to create a family with another woman, only to fail in the end because of Mary’s cantankerous nature.

By 1528, Northumberland’s relationship with Mary Talbot had deteriorated beyond repair. Although he had hoped to find consolation in their children, their son had been stillborn. He had suspected his wife of spying for the Duke of Norfolk, while Mary’s parents had calumniated Percy as an abuser of their daughter who attempted to poison her without any proof, although Percy had been a gentleman in the way he had treated Mary until her venomousness destroyed his kindness.

Mary had labored to take revenge upon her rival by accusing her husband of a pre-contract with Anne. That was a lie because the betrothal of Anne and Percy had been dissolved properly, and they had never been intimate. Norfolk had defended his niece who had waited for King Henry to have his union with Catherine of Aragon annulled. Percy had denied the allegations on oath, and soon he had separated from Mary, who had already lived with her father at the time.

I was rather relieved when Mary died, Henry Percy told himself. Then I lived fine until the king compelled me to wed Jane Seymour. His ignorance of Jane was his way to forget that she was his wife – another woman who, like Anne, had been bedded by his nasty sovereign. His woebegone matrimony with Jane represented a stark contrast to Anne’s union with King François that was one of great affection and gayety, which made Percy envious of Anne who had found love again.

The Earl of Northumberland scrutinized Jane. He discerned in her eyes benignity, patience, and forbearance, which he had not merited. Dressed in a gown of beige velvet embroidered with pearls, Jane looked quite pretty in her mature years, her long blonde hair tumbling in waves down her shoulders. Her appearance attracted Percy enough as a man, yet simultaneously repulsing him because his spouse was not Anne. His feelings for the Queen of France were unfading.

Jane asserted, “You might choose either perpetual heartbreak or relative peace, Henry. I’m not as young as I once was, but I can still give you an heir and companionship in life.”

That was bold on her part! Percy muttered, “I’ve bequeathed my lands to His Majesty.”

“Really?” Her brow arched. “To that tyrant who deprived you of your dearest Anne and then forced you to marry me?” She grinned dismally. “Henry Tudor afflicted us both with pain.”

“He did, but I’ve hurt you too, although I’ve been courteous towards you in public.”

Depression enveloped her. “The illusion of a good marriage between the English ambassador and his countess, Madonna Jane, for the high society. Paramours in the dead of night. How familiar it sounds when I remember the king who coupled with his whores and then came to me…” 

Jane was aware of his escapades! But how could she learn about them? Yet, the answer did not matter. “Forgive me, Jane,” the earl murmured in a voice tinged with contrition.

His wife shrugged. “As a man, you are entitled to have paramours.”

The light from the sun filtering into the room glinted off the gold chain Percy wore over his burgundy silk doublet. “I should have been more discreet for your sake.”

“That is not necessary, Henry. Let’s have a breakfast together.”

As Jane exited the study, the Earl of Northumberland felt no grudge against her. His spouse was right in everything, and a shard of guilt lanced through him. As his gaze wandered to a tapestry showing the deaths of Penelope’s suitors who in Homer’s Odyssey were killed by Odysseus or his supporters, Percy was suddenly afraid that his mistakes could lead to his spiritual demise. I should patch up my relationship with Jane. I also need a heir, she is right, Percy ruminated.  

Notes:

Hello everyone! We hope that you are fine and sane. Take care of yourself!

The tough plotting against Queen Anne and King François is beginning. Emperor Charles/Carlos V and King Henry VIII invaded France in 1544-1545 in history. We will take this historical storyline, but it will be modified for fictional purposes. We will have the siege of Boulogne by the English, and perhaps Anne will be there. We will also have more Italian wars quite soon. Pope Paul III is now allied with Carlos, Henry, Diane, and Catherine aiming to get rid of François, who is a heretic in the pope’s mind. In their opinion, François and Anne deserve to be tried for heresy.

We will have a lot of struggle between Carlos, François, Henry, and Ferdinand of Austria in this AU. If you hate Catherine and Diane, you have to understand that they cannot be punished just because we want it now, or there will no story. At first intrigues, then the time for punishment.

But maybe Henry has other plans regarding Anne? Do you think they can meet, and where it can lead them? Ferdinand of Austria, King of Hungary and Bohemia, will have to face difficult moral dilemmas; don’t forget that he is married to Marguerite de Valois, he is François’ friend.

As for the plan of Catherine de’ Medici and Diane de Poitiers, they are not risking France and her sovereignty – they have their own plan, which will be discussed later. Maybe a bit naïve plan, but they are risk takers, and they crave to see Dauphin Henri on the throne. Just imagine what Henri will do and think if he learns the whole truth… Now Catherine has one son – Prince François, Duke of Brittany – and one daughter – in this AU, not Elisabeth but Claude who we need to be a bit older for marriage purposes, Elisabeth will be born a little later.

Catherine remembers what her astrologers told Catherine. She cannot kill Anne and her sons with her own hands, or it will be her downfall. So, our crafty Dauphine of France wants someone else to do the evil deed for her, so she weaves intrigues. The next 20 chapters, perhaps more I don’t remember, will be centered on her and Diane’s grand schemes, which will cost a lot for France, Anne, and François who will face terrible situations and will suffer.

Catherine is on the dark path, but Diane might eventually surprise you. It is a time of glory for Dauphin Henri – he will become a hero, we cannot say more. After all these plots, the time for repentance and punishment will come, closer to the time of Henry’s passing in 1548/9 in this AU. Be prepared for many twists and turns, as well as bloodshed.

As many correctly guessed, Lady Mary Tudor was invited to the Low Countries for a reason. Henry sailed to Flanders with his mistress, Philippa Bassett; he could do it he had a secret meeting with Carlos, who was indeed born in Ghent. Mary Tudor will marry Emperor Carlos, who is still in love with his dead wife, just as he was in history after her death. We hope that you liked the soft side to Carlos when he remembered his Isabella in the woods.

Finally, we see a glimpse of Henry Percy and Jane Percy née Seymour in Florence. We did not want to portray Percy as an ideal man, but he is a good man. Percy does love Anne Boleyn, and he always shall. However, Jane is right that they can find companionship together, and he definitely needs an heir or two in order not to bequeath his estates and lands to King Henry.

All the descriptions of Florence and her palaces, including all the information about Palazzo Compagni where the Percy spouses live, is historically correct.

Attention! VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance (Athenais) are co-writing the story called “Entwined by a Golden Alliance.” Give it a try, please! We highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, Marina Ka-Fai, BubblyYork, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Lady Plantagenet in the White Queen fandom.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 56: Chapter 55: Incarnations of Bellona

Notes:

Lady Mary Tudor marries Emperor Charles/Carlos V. What will their relationship be like? King François arranges betrothals for some of his children with Anne.

Attention! VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance (Athenais) are co-writing the story called “Entwined by a Golden Alliance.” Give it a try! We are sure you will like it.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 55: Incarnations of Bellona 

January 30, 1545, Gravensteen Castle, Ghent, Flanders, the Burgundian Netherlands

Mary Tudor opened her eyes. A dim light filtering in through the windows cast the bedroom in shadows, so it must be dawn. Memories came to her in a dizzy spin. A chapel with the small congregation, two Flemish councilors acting as witnesses, her overbearing father and his mistress, and, finally, Mary and Carlos exchanging marital vows in distant, as if hypnotic, voices.

Now I’m Holy Roman Empress! A curious sense of unreality stole over Mary. After her arrival in Ghent three weeks earlier, the demons of vehement denial of this union had first afflicted her, and she had collided with King Henry of England harshly. Eventually, she had acquiesced to do her duty to Spain and England, as well as to the Houses of Habsburg, Trastámara, and Tudor.

She stretched her hand across the bed to an empty pillow and pulled the feathered comfort to her. Then it struck her that her husband should be here because it was their wedding night.

Bolting into a sitting position, Mary looked around. The solemnity of the chamber’s interior was augmented by the massive furniture of blackwood, richly carved, but without embellishments. The dark and brown wall hangings, made of sumptuous materials, were embroidered with the arms and badges of the Habsburg family. Even the bed where Mary rested had a black silk canopy draping above it from the ceiling. I feel as if the whole world were in mourning. I hate this room.   

The door to the adjacent room was ajar. There were sounds of someone getting dressed.

In a minute or so, Emperor Carlos emerged from there. He was fully dressed in an austere tight doublet of black velvet under a padded outergown with fur collar and puffed sleeves. On his bosom, he wore the collar of the Toison d’Or. A black silk skullcap upon his head and hose of the same material and color accentuated the strictness and detachment of his countenance.

“Are you leaving?” asked Mary Tudor groggily. “Already?”

Emperor Carlos did not even look at her. “Yes, I am. I must go.”

“Why?” She stretched her body across the bed. “Could it wait?”

He strode over to a table in the corner and poured a goblet of wine. “The citizens of Ghent have rebelled against me, and the first riots started five days ago, as you are aware. I summoned soldiers from Bruges to squash this uprising. They arrived in the dead of night.”

“Will there be bloodshed?” Her thoughts were on the Pilgrimage of Grace.

The monarch drained the cup. “They will surrender without a fight because of my army.”

“Will you kill them?” Her voice was shattered like shards of glass.

He fathomed out her concerns. “I am not your father, Mary. I’ll not do what King Henry did to the Catholics who endeavored to defend their monasteries with pure hearts and courage.”

She was swooning with relief. “Your Imperial Majesty is magnanimous!”

He set the goblet on the table. “Catholics must be protected and respected, unlike heretics. Today there will be a nice performance in the central square of Ghent.”

“What do you mean?” Fear began to stalk her again.

The emperor articulated, “Some of the insurgents are Protestants. They will be burned.”   

Her heart constricted. “Please, don’t do this! Regardless of their faith, they are created in the image of God and according to His will. They are your countrymen loyal to the Netherlands!”

“What?” The incredulity and ire were blatantly obvious in his steely voice, in his furrowed brows, in the half-astonished, half-ferocious way he glanced at her. “They have denied the Catholic Church! By the gospel, the canons, civil law, and customs, heretics must be annihilated.”   

“They are human beings,” she insisted. “Although they are Protestants or Lutherans, they are as much God’s children as you and I are. Jesus preached mercy and compassion.”

Emperor Carlos beheld his new wife. With an air of fanatical zeal about him, he resembled a raven that was about to strike its claws into Mary for her ungodly speeches.

At last, he ground out, “I was told that the years you had spent at Tordesillas had a bad impact upon you. Now I’m chagrined that my insane mother infected you with dissidence.”

Mary defended her beloved aunt. “You know that Queen Juana is not mad.”   

“I’ll pretend that I did not hear that – only this time. Never say this again.”

Berserk fury boiled in her veins like lava. Forgetting that she was not even in her nightgown, Mary rose from the bed intrepidly, glaring at him. As her bare feet met the cool stone floor, she stood erect in all her naked and bellicose glory, her hair haloed around her in a red-gold fan. Mary raised her hand as if it were a sword, as though she were Bellona, the Roman goddess of war.

The empress stepped to her husband. “If I do not obey, what will you do, Carlos?” It was the first time when she addressed the Holy Roman Emperor in such a personal manner.

Carlos found it amusing. “Now you look like an incensed Bellona. You only need a sword, torch, and shield, and you will ride into battle in a golden chariot.”

“Perhaps I am her. She was the consort of Mars, the god of war, and you are him.”

His ire abated somewhat. “In the Thebaid by Statius – this Roman poet appears in Dante’s Divine Comedy – he portrayed this goddess as the most destructive creature in conflicts.”

“I know who Statius was. I’m well educated.” Her own fury lay under the surface.

“I have no doubt that you are. Aunt Catalina was an incredibly gifted person.”

“God rest her soul.” Mary crossed herself almost numbly as she held his gaze.

“Let her sleep in peace.” For the first time, his voice softened.

“Where are you going with this, Carlos?” It was easier to address him so again.

His features hardened. “Bellona is a belligerent deity. No woman should be like her.”

This sent her fury spiraling to new heights. “My late mother led an English army against the King of Scots and defeated him. I am a Tudor and a Trastámara! If I need to be fierce, I will!”

This facet to her character impressed him. “I should not be astounded to hear this from King Henry and Aunt Catalina’s daughter, yet I am. Bravo, Mary – it is difficult to surprise me.”

“Don’t forget who I am, Carlos. Never!”

The emperor tittered. “But you and I both know that Aunt Catalina was not a perfect saint. She consummated her marriage to Prince Arthur of Wales and told everyone falsehoods later.”

Mary reddened. “Aunt Juana mentioned that the letters from our grandparents to Doña Maria de Salinas and Doña Elvira Manuel de Figueroa are kept in the Imperial achieve.”

“I found them soon after I had come to Spain from Flanders years ago.”

Bafflement painted her countenance. “Then why did you try hard to prevent the annulment of my mother’s union with King Henry? Why did you marry me knowing the truth?”

The ruler explained, “I fought fiercely against Catalina’s annulment because my mission as Head of the House of Habsburg was to defend the family’s honor. It would have been besmirched if good Catholics in all corners of Christendom had learned this secret.” He sighed. “Moreover, Aunt Catalina acted so because of the commands she had received from Spain.”

“Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon needed an alliance with England.”     

“Yes.” He felt his loins tighten with a savage ache as his gaze traversed her naked form. “I married you because your father and I share our hatred for King François and the House of Valois. It would be supreme amusement for us both to obliterate those Valois once and for all.”  

“You are too full of enmity that is like deadly venom in your blood, Carlos.”

He was surprised. “Don’t you wish your former evil stepmother dead?”

“Not anymore. Let go of hatred, and it will be easier for you to find peace.”

The monarch laughed uproariously. “God’s blood, Mary! What an act of mummery on your part! You must despise that Boleyn witch as much as true Catholics and I do.”

“Not anymore,” she reiterated. “Do you still have those letters?”

“No, I destroyed them all. At times, we must lie or be silent: mysteries must be buried.”

Her hand slithered along her throat. “Ah, the requirements of politics.”

Mary is beautiful, especially in anger, Carlos thought. Her young body was slim and supple, unmarked by traces of pregnancy. Her full breasts were lush, and her curves round in all the right places. As their first encounter in the night had been brief, and the candles had been extinguished to preserve her modesty, as Mary had requested, he had not studied her body before.

The emperor did not love his second wife, but she was enticing. After Isabella’s death, he had lived in celibacy for a long time. Only a few times in Germany, his body urges had grown so strong that he had bedded a courtesan in an expensive bordello and a noblewoman.

His loins swelling with urgent need, Carlos scooped Mary into his arms and hurried to the bed. He dumped her onto the mattress, and then unlaced his hose. At first shocked, Mary spread her legs wide and let him penetrate her. In a fit of awakened lust, she captured his lips with hers.

As he froze inside her, Mary prodded, “This time, there is no pain.”

The emperor was now thrusting into her faster and deeper. She attempted to kiss him again, but he dodged her lips easily, his own landing onto her hair sprawled across white silk sheets. He pounded into her with all the finesse of an expert in the sensual art. Mary wrapped her legs around him, sliding her feet up and down his hosed legs. The waves of pleasure were so profound that she almost passed out as they both climaxed. Their moans merged into one single shriek.

“I should not have done that.” He recoiled, as if a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet.

She was not offended. “Why? I’m your wife, Carlos. It was… not bad…  despite…”  Shame was finally dissolving in her bloodstream, staining her features bright pink.”

He regretted that he had allowed his hunger unsatisfied for years to goad him into taking her again. “It is all wrong. I’m sorry, Mary.” He laced his hose, raced to the door, and was gone.

“This marriage is wrong.” Mary helplessly pounded her fists against the pillow.

§§§

In a few minutes, Doña Leonor de Mascarenhas appeared with a tray of food. She found the new empress in a state bordering on indescribable anxiety. Leonor placed a tray on a table.

Mary had already donned her nightgown of red brocade. “Life is cruel.”  

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Leonor addressed the woman whom she had grown to love while they had lived at Tordesillas. “What has happened? I saw the emperor leaving.”

Mary glanced at her with tears. “He is right. It is all wrong.”

Leonor settled on the edge of the bed. “Tell me everything.”

As the woman had long become her confidante, Mary broke into her agitated confession.

Mary said lifelessly, “I should not have married the emperor.”

“You consummated your marriage twice. You may already be pregnant.”

Mary’s hand flew to her stomach. “Two times will not be enough.”

Leonor smiled at her naïveté. “Sometimes, one night is enough, Madame.”

“I’d love to have a girl named Catalina or Catherine.” Remembering her mother’s struggles to produce male progeny, Mary refused to think of sons. Fortunately, Carlos had a male heir.

Her friend put her mind at ease. “The emperor’s sensual outburst must be explained by the fact that he did not have a mistress after his wife’s death. I’m glad he was gentle enough.”   

“He did not hurt me, Leonor. At least, not physically.” Tears brimmed in Mary’s eyes.

Leonor ventured, “I want to give Your Imperial Majesty a piece of advice.”

“Call me Mary, please. Like it was at Tordesillas.”

“I will.” Leonor had sometimes referred to Isabella by name in private, so she accepted it.

“Is it about my… husband?” The word was still foreign to Mary.

Taking her hand in his, Leonor pronounced softly, “Maria, you will understand the subtleties of marriage later. However, you need to know something now in your particular case: don’t expect a sea of affection from the emperor – have his child and find consolation in this.”

The empress blinked. “Isabella… Carlos will never love another.”

Leonor, who had been Isabella’s childhood friend from Portugal, comprehended the doleful reality better than anyone else. “I doubt that he will. Don’t have illusions, or you will suffer.”

Mary plunged into memories of her first meeting with the emperor at Alcázar of Seville. He had been reserved in her presence, wary of Mary after her arrival. His eyes had shone with boundless love whenever he had seen Isabella, who had always glanced at him with equal devotion. Always strict with his subjects, the emperor’s demeanor had evolved into one of a loving spouse with Isabella, and in such moments, Mary had heard his deep-throated chuckling laugh.

While Isabella had negotiated Ferdinand’s release in France, Mary had spent some time with Carlos. Having gotten accustomed to her, he had transformed into a respectful cousin who had empathized with Mary’s woes in England. Once during their stroll in the gardens at a late hour, Mary had seen Carlos as a well-built and strong man, handsome in an austere way. Of course, she had prohibited herself from thinking of him as a man, but part of her was attracted to him.

At present, Carlos von Habsburg was her spouse in the eyes of law and God, but he would never worship her. Yet, Mary still harbored girlish dreams of eternal love, which were locked in the deepest recesses of her soul. There is rarely contentment in arranged marriages. Mary would strangle her affection for the emperor – so far nascent like a young tree stem waiting to fill out.

Mary pushed her knees to her chest. “What am I to Carlos – a body for pleasure?”

Leonor shrugged sorrowfully. “Just as we are for most men. My husband is no better.”

There was a peculiar gratification for Mary to feel that she was not alone in such a situation. “Thank you, Leonor. I’ll do exactly what you said. Will you be my principal lady-in-waiting?”

Leonor smiled. “Gladly, Madame.”

Mary wolfed down her breakfast with as much appetite as a starved person. Then, after a ritual of dressing, she resolved to find out what was now happening in Ghent to the rebels.   

§§§

Mary found the King of England in his quarters. Lounging in an armchair, Henry sat at a table groaning under the weight of victuals. Philippa Bassett occupied the place next to her lover.

“My dearest daughter,” greeted Henry with unexpected sweetness. “How was the wedding night? Did Carlos make you happy, my pearl?” He drained a goblet of claret in one gulp.

Mary curtsied, although now her status was higher than her father’s; it was etiquette. “Your Majesty is most gracious and generous. I’m quite pleased with the husband you chose for me.” It was a joy for her to speak English again, which she did not use it often these days.

“Good morning, Lady Mary.” The royal mistress smiled at her.

However, Henry reacted immediately. “Philippa, she is Her Imperial Majesty for you!”

Mary was dumfounded that he defended her. “Such a lapse in manners, Lady Bassett. You are not accustomed to meeting high-ranking aristocrats and foreign monarchs.”

This time, the Tudor temper was exasperated. “Mary, you were Lady Mary yesterday! You remain my illegitimate daughter in England, and I’ll not include you in the line of succession.”

Loathing the Spanish bastard as she labeled Mary in her mind, Philippa grinned waspishly. She refilled the monarch’s cup and handed it to him, smiling as Henry gulped claret.   

Mary did not bristle, perhaps due to her mother’s secret. “I don’t request that you reinstate me as an English princess. I respect your will, and I’m satisfied with what I have.”

Henry licked his lips. “I’m astonished, to say the least.”

Philippa questioned as politely as she could, “How can we help you, Madame?”

Casting a contemptuous glare at the strumpet, Mary stepped to the table. Her eyes focused on her father, she inquired, “Carlos is planning to burn many Protestants. I’m aware of Hertford’s reforms in England. I assume that you detest the punishment he will met out to them.”

“The Vicar of Rome is a villain.” The monarch’s eyes exuded disdain towards the popery. “I’ll gladly crush François, but Farnese’s crimes are horrible. If I were in François’ shoes, I would have cut him into countless pieces when he came to the French camp in Ostia. Having a heart stroke was such an insignificant punishment for a prince of the blood’s murder.”

Disgusted by the sacrilegious speech, Mary contained her anger. “This has not been proved.” She clung to this belief because she was a Catholic, despite her developing tolerance of heresy.

“Really?” Henry drank wine until the goblet was empty, and Philippa poured more.

The empress sighed. “Why are you drinking so much?”

My father has gained more weight, Mary concluded after studying him closely. His doublet, of red velvet slashed and puffed with golden silk, seemed to be larger than those she remembered him wear several years ago. His girdle, ornamented with rubies and emeralds, was also big.

“Oh, this Flemish backwater.” The king craved to return to England. “I cannot go to Antwerp and sail because of winter storms, or I would have left the next day after your wedding.”

“I see.” Mary did not know what else to say.

Henry grimaced. “Everything in this ancient castle is too somber.”   

The empress examined her surroundings. The English king’s quarters were nevertheless less dark than her own suite. Pieces of ebony furniture were adorned with richly chiseled garlands of roses in gilt bronze. Arrases of saints from the Old and New Testament draped the walls.

“Our court is far better,” interposed Philippa, who also disliked Flanders.

The king brushed away his harlot’s hand as Philippa handed to him a chalice. “Enough, my pretty bird! I’m so full of wine and dishes, which are not as bad as I expected.”

Mary shuffled her feet. “I’m delighted that Your Majesty likes the food.”

“I do!” He let out a satisfied laugh. “The emperor has been hospitable.”

“He sent a band of musicians to us,” rejoined Philippa. She collected all kinds of fish onto her platter and was now eating ravenously. “I enjoyed dancing under the spirited Spanish tunes.”

The ruler eyed the interior with repugnance. “At least, the Spaniards have something merry. Their fashions and tastes in interiors are as murky as the winter sky above Ghent.”

Mary said nothing about it. “Where is your current queen?”

At this, Henry smiled broadly, a childish joy dancing in his orbs. “Queen Catherine is with child again. She could not travel because she must take care of my future Duke of Lancaster.”

Her knotted emotions hit Mary like a blow to the solar plexus. Yet, in a moment, her initially intense feelings subsided, superseded by a sense of tranquility. For the first time, Mary did not care about how many male children her father would have. And would he have them given than Kitty Howard had already miscarried twice? I’m so confused! Did my sentiments change because of my knowledge that my mother consummated her marriage to Prince Arthur?   

The empress redirected the discourse to the pressing issue. “Father,” she addressed him so for the first time in years, “Carlos will burn the Protestants who rebelled. Will you not stop him?”

“Carlos is a Catholic fanatic,” judged King Henry, striking the table with his tremendous fist, making the goblets and plates upon it rattle. “If not for our alliance against France, I would never have met with him anywhere. I can do nothing: this is not my realm to decide, Mary.”   

“Ah, sire!” Philippa feigned a terrified look. “I like drama, but not this!”   

Mary could not deny that he was right. “I understand.”

The monarch berated his paramour, “I don’t like when you are afraid of me.”

Philippa lied, “I’m not, Your Majesty.”

Henry regarded his lover condescendingly. “All women are pretentious.”   

Involuntarily, Mary muttered, “Some pretend out of necessity, others out of greed.”

“Everything inevitably grows old and dull,” promulgated the ruler. “Save my hatred for France. François will be entrapped soon. I’ll shape my own great destiny in France.”

Mary heaved a sigh. “Women also struggle to control their fates, Father.”  

“Women might govern the world,” the king’s mistress twittered.

“Enough of your foolish banter, Philippa.” He waved towards his lover dismissingly. “No woman should rule because they are weak, influenced by emotion. In England, the people will never accept a queen regnant after the anarchy of King Stephen and Empress Mathilda.”   

Mary assumed an expression of pride. “Surely, you must remember that my dearly departed grandmother, Isabella of Castile, was one of the most illustrious monarchs in the world.”

“It is possible in Spain,” answered Henry in his pragmatic aloofness.  “Besides, was Isabella really so great if she taught your mother, Catherine, to lie on the sacrament?”

“What?” The scrutiny of a nonplused Philippa flicked between them.   

“It is none of your business,” barked Henry to his paramour.

“I apologize,” Philippa mumbled under her breath and continued eating.

Mary could not look him in the eye and admit the truth. “I must go.”

Henry smirked. “You have been married for a day. It is good to miss your husband.”

“I’ll be a dutiful consort to Carlos.” Mary nevertheless was not sure of that.

The king supplied, “I’ve not forgiven you for your escape from England, Mary. Years will pass, but I’ll not forget how you disappeared in the dead of night and betrayed me.”  

With a leaden heart, the new empress swiveled and quitted the room. Jealousy, competition, bitterness, and consequent warfare for ages produced distance and separation between nations, people, and even kin. There was not a drop of contrition in Mary for her actions. Part of her still loved the monarch, but the emotional gap between them was too wide – it was impassable because of the division that he had created between them. Despite everything, I wish you well, Father.

§§§

Several hours later, Mary and Leonor, both clothed as ordinary women, were lost in a large throng in the central square of Ghent. As the emperor had predicted, the insurgents had capitulated in fright when his army had marched into the town with Carlos at the helm.  

The afternoon was chilly and cloudy. The snow was falling like tears of saints from heaven. A line of Protestants, each clad in long white cotton shirts of those condemned to death despite the frost, walked to the several huge stakes in the center of the square, as if they were strolling on a feast. Their heads held high, there was a thick aura of sacrificial resignation about them.

A taller Mary bent her head to Leonor and whispered, “An hour earlier, the leaders of this small uprising were paraded in undershirts with hangman nooses around their necks.” She paused to collect her thoughts. “Now we are watching the burnings of our people from Flanders.”

Emperor Carlos towered over them on a hastily erected dais. Clad in silver armor, his helmet festooned with black feathers, he looked like the god Mars in wrath. The air was charged with terror and awe, as though they contemplated someone immortal and dangerous.

“People of Ghent,” proclaimed the monarch. “A year ago, I came to this town of my birth to find peace here. Yet, you betrayed me and raised your arms against your liege lord.”

“The taxes are unbearable!” shouted someone.

Another lad concurred. “We cannot pay them, Your Imperial Majesty.”  

“Lower the taxes, and there will be no further riots.”

Their audacity transmitted to others, and a cacophony of screams thundered in the air.

“The invasion of France bankrupted Spain. We don’t have to pay for that!”

“The taxes you collect are used solely for wars abroad.”

“In particular for campaigns against the House of Valois.”

“We no longer wish to finance the beggared treasury of the empire.”

“Ghent has commercial ties to France, so we don’t fight against the Valois.”

At the emperor’s sign, Cornelius de Schepper stepped to his master. His expression harsh, Schepper declared, “Neither the treasury of Spain nor that of the Holy Roman Empire experiences any shortage. The Ottomans are no longer in Genoa, and there are stable flows of gold, spices, and goods between the New World, Italy, Spain, Flanders, and the rest of the Holy Roman Empire.”

The gathering chorused, “God bless King Ferdinand! He expelled the Turks!”

As Carlos frowned, Schepper bellowed, “Enough!”

“Why are taxes so high, then? Tell us, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“We know that King François lowered taxes in France.”

“The French realm was also battered by your invasion.”

“It is unfair! We must endure everything because of your wars.”

“You parade us with nooses and expect us to be grateful for that.”

Carlos was itching to have these men captured and executed right now, but it would be the worst course of action. He waited until the assemblage quietened and announced, “I’ve spared every Catholic insurgent. However, I shall not be so lenient again!”

Schepper shrilled in an in intimidating manner, “Remember this warning, you an ungrateful lot of traitors! Your sovereign has extended his benevolence to you! Treasure it!”

“We do, our lord,” said an old man. “And we beseech you to spare everyone.”

“What?” a confused Carlos asked. “The Catholic mutineers will not die!”

The man continued, “Grant clemency to the heretics.”

Schepper screeched, “He is a pagan himself!”

“Arrest him!” enjoined the emperor. “My mercy embraces only those who have not abjured the true faith. If this man is a heretic, he will be tried by the Inquisition and burned.”

The soldiers muscled their way through the horde. As they manacled the fearless merchant, the square erupted in shrieks of dread and the sound of scampering feet as many tried to flee.

“Calm down!” the emperor appealed. “Catholics have nothing to fear!”

As the commotion escalated, Mary and Leonor escaped unharmed and unrecognized. They found refuge in a nearby lane. They peered out from behind the corner of a building.

Leonor was thrilled by their little adventure. “Your idea with disguise was brilliant. We slipped from the castle through the kitchen doors and into the stables, so nobody saw us.”

“Quiet, my friend.” Mary’s eyes were concentrated on her husband’s face.

Emperor Carlos lifted his hand in an authoritative manner. “Burn those heretics!”

His soldiers went to the stakes, where the hapless Protestants were tied with chains. As they put torches to the pyres, a pitiless orange fire flared up, and a funereal hush fell over the whole area. A blast of wind howled a mournful dirge, and sobs filled the air like a tragic song about Protestants. The dying heretics were chanting their last prayers in their native Flemish.

I’m dying for my faith! God, accept me into your arms and judge me for my real sins!

In the meantime, Mary buried her head in Leonor’s shoulder. “I cannot see it.”

“We need to leave.” Leonor held her tight, also unable to watch these people’s agony.

They heard the drums and the melancholic sound of the clarinet-like instrument.

I love the Lord! The cords of death entangle me… Jesus, be good to me, your dying child!

Steeling herself against emotions, Mary disentangled herself from her lady. “It is barbarity!” Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “There is only one God, but we all call it differently.”  

“Perhaps.” Leonor was a Catholic, but she disapproved of the atrocities perpetrated by the Inquisition. “I pity these people. Empress Isabella attempted to prevent burnings in Spain.”

A grieving widow rushed to one of the pyres, but she was held back by a soldier. The flames were crackling ferociously, and soon the stakes formed by the dry wood became a halo of lurid red flames. All at once, sheets of snow commenced plummeting, blanketing the stakes.

Someone cried, “Now we are noose bearers burned because of taxes!”

Eustace Chapuys approached Mary. “Your Imperial Majesty! What are you doing here in disguise? The emperor will be shocked if he learns about your trip to the town.”

Mary scowled at him. “You will not tell him anything, Chapuys. Or you shall pay.”

The diplomat pledged, “Your secret is safe with me. I don’t want to anger the emperor.”

A corner of Mary’s mouth twitch upward. “Fearing that he will have you burned?”

Leonor tugged at her sleeve. “Please, Madame, let’s go.”

“I’m not a heretic.” Chapuys then complained, “You have avoided me since Tordesillas for months. What have I done wrong? I’m leaving for England with King Henry soon.”

Mary’s answer was biting. “You are a fanatic – but I am not.”

The emperor’s wife and Leonor ran to the horses, which waited for them at the other side of the lane. Chapuys stared after them in disbelief, his eyes full of hurt until the expression of loathing appeared in them – he began cursing Queen Juana of Castile for changing Mary so drastically.


February 15, 1545, Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, close to Paris, France

The God Hymenaeus hummed a hymn of marriage. Its words boomed within the grand hall of the Wing of the Children of France, or Aile des Enfants de France. Frescoes depicting weddings of Olympian gods and goddesses added to the celebratory atmosphere.

“Congratulations!” chorused the French courtiers. “Long live Princess Louise!”

Queen Marguerite of Navarre proclaimed, “Long live King François and Queen Anne!”

The nobles echoed Marguerite enthusiastically. Their eyes were glued to the French royal couple who were both garbed in black silk clothes without embellishments because of the court’s mourning for Lady Elizabeth Boleyn, Countess of Wiltshire. In spite of the king and queen’s initial intention to stay at Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye until November 1544, they had postponed their return to Fontainebleau for months, partly due to Anne’s mourning for her mother.  

The monarch declared, “Long Live Princess Louise and Emmanuel Philibert!”

“Long live our glorious betrothed couple!” the lords and ladies exclaimed.

Princess Louise walked mannerly and slowly behind her parents. Accoutered in a gown of tender azure silk studded with diamonds, she looked more than ever like Louise de Savoy, having adopted the style and chosen her grandmother’s favorite color that matched their eyes.

Next proceeded Duke Charles de Savoy, known as Charles the Good, who was the monarch’s maternal uncle. A man twelve years older than François, Charles had rather an aged face and a trimmed gray hair beneath a dark silk cap plumed with an ostrich feather. Adhering to his nephew’s dandyish style, his Italianate doublet was of green brocade ornamented with emeralds.

To the right from Charles walked his only surviving son – Emmanuel Philibert. While the Duke of Savoy shone with exhilaration thanks to the marriage contract that he had just signed with the Valois ruler, Emmanuel appeared to be upset. A blue-eyed and handsome brunet of seventeen with a brown stubble, Emmanuel did not wish to wait for years in order to marry the princess who was much younger than him; he was also ill-disposed towards his bride-to-be’s mother.

François paused near his daughter. “Now you have a betrothed, my dear warrior.”

Louise lowered her voice. “Father, do you I have to marry him?”

“Shhh,” Anne, who also halted, hushed her. “Someone might overhear us.”

Indeed, the procession stopped, staring at the royals in confused anticipation.

The king told Louise, “My darling, go greet Emmanuel.”

Nodding sadly, Louise glided to the Duke of Savoy’s son, her posture erect and her bearing more regal than it usual was for a girl of seven. She swept a deep, entrancing curtsey – the Boleyn trademark curtsey. The sight of such elegance elicited applause and a smile from Emmanuel.

“Bravo, Your Highness!” lauded Charles. “You are a goddess of grace!”

“Your Highness has charmed me,” Emmanuel confessed. This time, it was true.

Louise smiled at the Duke of Savoy. “Just as my beloved mama is.”

Anne beamed at her oldest daughter wit François. “My warrior of France!”  

Emmanuel wrinkled his nose at the sight of Queen Anne, also displeased with the ridiculous nickname for the princess. Yet, his voice was even as he asked, “Why do you call her so?”

“Our daughter is very special.” Anne turned a blind eye to the young man’s negative attitude to her. “We don’t need to explain anything. You know how great Louise de Savoy was.”

Duke Charles shed a tear for his sister whom he adored. “Although Louise left Savoy when I was a toddler, I corresponded with her and visited her in France later. Perhaps a smarter, more headstrong, and stronger woman than Louise has never stepped on the land of France!”

François said, “Thank you, Uncle Charles. That is all true.” His gaze veered to his female relatives. “My beloved Queen of Navarre and France can be compared to my mother.”

Philippe de Chabot hailed, “Long Live Queen Anne and Queen Marguerite!”

The aristocrats repeated the cry in earnest. In the past years, the king and his adult women – Anne and Marguerite – had become known as the Valois Holy Trinity, just as François, his mother, and his sister had been. François and Marguerite ruled France together, always relying upon each other’s counsel. The monarch gladly allowed his consort to help them govern, although Anne’s involvement was less active and less meaningful than Marguerite’s due to Anne’s religion.

The procession crossed the great hall and exited into a hallway, with marble walls and a tiled floor. The king stopped near the statue of the Roman Goddess Bellona with a sword and a torch in both of her hands, whose features had something in common with his deceased mother.

François pointed at the stunning work of art. “This statue exhibits in itself the best qualities of my beloved late mother. I commissioned it from Francesco Primaticcio, who finished it last month.” He beheld the statue in wonder as he envisaged his mother. “The strength and resilience in Bellona’s face, tinged in bellicose hues, are so palatable that you feel them when you breathe.   My mother was a remarkable female fighter: France and our family owe her a great deal.”

Marguerite contemplated the statue with tears in her eyes. “Our great mother left the legacy so very prominent that France, my brother, and I shall forever remain in debt to her. This statue is just a small token of gratitude to her memory that will transcend generations and centuries.”   

Charles entirely concurred. “I would assign to my sister the iconic status of France’s political warrior. She led international negotiations and secured important treaties for France.”

Anne admired the late woman. “Madame Louise left a monument of her genius in her many accomplishments described in our chronicles. The current efficient political structure of the French government is unequalled in the extent of its practicality and centralization.”

François and Marguerite nodded in union, and so did other councilors in attendance.

“A few words about this statue.” At his sovereign’s nod of permission, Chabot declared, “Its superlative beauty and composition illustrate the finest labors of Primaticcio’s efforts to recreate Madame Louise’s most splendid qualities of character. Most other works of Bellona I saw in Italy or anywhere else are inferior to this masterpiece. Madame Louise was so unique!”

“God rest her soul,” chorused François and Marguerite, crossing themselves.

The assemblage made the signs of a cross. Princess Louise looked especially melancholic.

Marguerite elaborated, “Il Rosso – our Florentine friend Rosso Fiorentino – passed away six years ago. He was our mother’s friend, and it was his original idea to make her statue as Bellona. However, Primaticcio, who worked with Il Rosso at Fontainebleau, created this work.”

François recalled, “Il Rosso’s health was deteriorating in 1539, but his death hit me hard. I was in Italy back then. The artist did not finish the portrait of my three sons.”  

“Someone will complete it, husband,” Anne labored to assuage his anguish.

“Indeed, wife,” the King of France responded. “Commission this work again, Anne.”

“I shall.” Anne was now patronizing many artists together with Marguerite.

Princess Louise sauntered over to the statue. An awed hush descended on the throng. At this moment, the small reincarnation of Louise de Savoy stood in front of them.

“I shall do anything for my country,” heralded Princess Louise. “Just as my distinguished grandmother did, I’ll serve our people for the rest of my life with fidelity, carrying every mission with vigor, reputation, and success. My heart, body, and soul belong to France!”

For a heartbeat, the stillness deepened, glowing with the harbinger of little Louise’s mighty role in the future of the Valois realm. Then the assemblage broke into cheers.

“Bravo, my dearest daughter!” François embraced the girl affectionately. As they parted, he kissed her on the forehead. “Your grandma would have been very proud.”

“Ah, she is like my sister,” Charles de Savoy commended.

Even Emmanuel smiled at the toddler. “She is truly a remarkable girl.”

François and Anne surrounded Louise from the right and left respectively, and then took her hands in theirs. As the three of them strolled down the hallway, the gathering followed.

Only Marguerite remained with Duke Charles and Emmanuel, who both looked baffled.

“A word of advice,” asserted Marguerite with a hint of annoyance. “If you dislike something or someone, mask it better with courtesy. If you do not know someone well – I mean Queen Anne – don’t be prejudiced against them because of nasty rumors. Get to know them!”

“My son and I meant no disrespect,” Charles blurted out sincerely.

The Queen of Navarre answered, “Not you, Uncle Charles – but Emmanuel.”

“He is young and impulsive,” Charles offered excuses. “Emmanuel adores each Valois.”

Emmanuel admitted, “Princess Louise is charming and clever. However, I have reservations as to her mother’s and her religious beliefs. She is also significantly younger than me.”

“Emmanuel!” Charles flung his arms up in frustration. “What have you done?”

“Don’t defend him, Uncle.” Marguerite leveled a censorious stare at the duke’s son. “Young man, Louise is a Catholic, just as all of my brother’s children are. Regardless of Anne’s religion, no one at our court has ever seen her with the Bible in French or English.”

“That is good news.” Emmanuel looked somewhat relieved.

The monarch’s sister closed the topic. “The House of Savoy needs this betrothal desperately. The whole of Savoy and Piedmont are governed by the French. Whether the Duchy of Savoy will be ruled by our viceroys or you, Emanuel, depends upon you and your marriage to Louise.”

Marguerite walked away with a toss of her head and a look of supreme confidence.

Charles chastened, “You are wrong about Queen Anne – she is marvelous. I’ve procured a wonderful bride for you, son. Why don’t you appreciate what I did for Savoy?”

Emmanuel considered his father a weak ruler who had surrendered their duchy to the French. Nevertheless, he said, “I’ll rectify my mistakes.” His child bride had impressed him, after all.

§§§

Dauphin Henri of France and Princess Jeanne of Navarre sat at a marble table in between two violet-brocaded couches. As they played chess, Prince Augustine watched their game, his expression concentrated, his brain trying to resolve a conundrum of how to help Jeanne win.

They usually gathered in Jeanne’s rooms, which were labeled the violet salon. All the pieces of costly furniture were swathed in violet brocade and gilded. The walls were draped in the silks and brocades of the same color that was the favorite one of the Navarrese princess.

“I’m winning, cousin.” Henri took one of Jeanne’s knights away from the chessboard.

Jeanne responded carelessly, “You have not yet triumphed.”

The dauphin advanced his two pawns two squares forward. “I shall.”

Augustine’s attention was fully on the board. “Jeanne, your good strategy would be to play each of your remaining pieces one time to its best square, developing them all in turn.”

Henri was not surprised at all. Since he had started teaching his most beloved sibling playing this game, he marveled at the precocious strategies Augustine could see despite his age. “But that would not be enough because she has too few pieces left, brother.”

Jeanne laughed. “I don’t care whether I win or not.” She winked at her relatives. “Henri is older and more skilled at playing chess, but I’ll rely upon your recommendations, Augustine.”

Augustine’s eyes glowed for a fraction of a second before the spark disappeared. “Jeanne, keep your King safe because otherwise Henri will take over it. Get the King behind your pawns.”

“Good advice,” the dauphin drawled, grinning knavishly. “Ah, but it is too late.” Indeed, his pieces limited the freedom of Jean’s King, Bishop, and her pawns too much.   

A dismayed Jeanne eyed the chessboard. “My fiasco! Again! Bravo, Henri!”

The dauphin removed her King and her Bishop from the board. “Jeanne, I’ve capitalized on a few key mistakes you have made consistently. It is easy to defeat you.”

Augustine uttered, “Henri, I cannot play as well as you can. The more I watch you, the more I learn that a number of similar winning and checkmate patterns appear over and over again.”

Henri leaned over the table and tousled her brother’s blonde hair affectionately. “You have excellent memory, Augustine. In several years, you will be able to circumspect me.”   

“Is the game of chess like war?” Augustine inquired suddenly.

The dauphin smiled. “It helps you develop strategic and tactical thinking.”

Jeanne was now bored. “Boys, please! Don’t speak about this in my presence.”

Augustine eyed Jeanne in a friendly way. “Everything for Jeanne.”

The princess stroked Augustine’s hair fondly. “Everything for you, Augustine.”

The Dauphin of France burst out laughing. “Ah, don’t be so lovely-dovely! I know that you are now betrothed, but it is too early for your pledges of affection and fidelity.”

A month ago, King François and Queen Marguerite, representing her husband, King Henri II of Navarre, had signed the betrothal agreement between Prince Augustine, Duke d’Angoulême, and Princess Jeanne of Navarre despite their seven-year age difference. The House of Valois strove to strengthen the alliance with Navarre; François had persuaded a hesitating Anne. François would procure necessary papal dispensations for both Augustine and Louise. 

Jeanne put in, “We will have a wedding as soon as Augustine turns fifteen.” She sighed. “I’ll be in my early twenties at the time, but I’ll still be young enough to give him plenty of children.”

Henri hoped that it would be so, remembering the years of his barren marriage to Catherine de’ Medici. “Jeanne, my father and your parents did the right choice.”

Augustine said matter-of-factly, “We will do our duty.”

Jeanne’s heart slumped into her stomach. “I want to see my papa again.”

Augustine consoled, “Aunt Margot promised that she would let him visit.”

Augustine’s governess – Anne de Laval, Princess of Taranto and Viscountess de Thouars – slipped into the room. She went to their couches and curtsied to them.

“Some wine, Your Highnesses?” Anne de Laval’s gaze was upon the dauphin.   

Henri studied her lustfully. “Yes for us, but not for Augustine.”

During his prolonged stay at Saint-Germain, Diane came rarely, despite her daughter’s job as Prince François’ governess. His body’s cravings made it impossible for Henri to live in celibacy. A woman a few years younger than his mistress Diane, Anne de Laval possessed a warm beauty with sparkling blue eyes and red hair – she had attracted Henri because of being Diane’s antithesis.   

The prince retorted, “Drinking is bad. Wine should be watered.”

“You will not think so when you grow up,” assured the dauphin.

Augustine’s mind flew to his historical favorite. “Did Caesar Augustus drink a lot of wine?”

Jeanne moaned with exaggeration, “Ah! Again!” Her mischievous eyes flew to Henri. “Will Augustine speak about him on the wedding night? He loves this Roman ruler too much!”

Henri burst out laughing. “No, he will not. You will both have other things to do.”

Augustine’s curiosity piqued. “Which ones?”

The dauphin brushed his question off. “In years to come, I’ll tell you.”

Anne poured out three goblets. After giving two cups to the royals, she brought her own to her lips. “Let’s drink to the future King Augustine and Queen Jeanne of Navarre!”

Henri and Jeanne emptied their cups. Privately, Augustine wished to grow up quickly.

“Everyone is searching the future,” the prince’s governess said in a philosophical undertone. “Some things are destined to happen. It just takes us a couple of tries to get there.”

Augustine’s expression changed into thoughtfulness. “I wonder what my fate is.”

Henri regarded him with a fondness he had perhaps never had for his deceased brothers. “It is in God’s hands, brother. Perhaps you will be as great as Caesar Augustus.”

Jeanne cried jocundly, “The illustrious Augustine of Navarre and France!”

Henri stared at his brother. “Augustine, maybe you and I will build the French empire.”

Suddenly, Augustine rushed to the dauphin who towered over the boy. The toddler embraced his brother’s waist, and then Henri crouched to his level, pulling Augustine into his arms.

His head buried in his brother’s doublet, Augustine vowed, “I’ll fight for France and you until my heart beats, Henri. My loyalty belongs to our father and you.”

“My dearest brother.” The dauphin pressed the toddler to himself tighter.

Anne observed, “Prince Augustine is rarely so emotional.”

Jeanne bragged, “Only with Uncle François and Henri. Not even with Queen Anne.”

Dauphin Henri refilled their goblets and handed them to Jeanne and his mistress.

He offered another toast, “For my daughter, Princess Claude! The girl is healthy and is now sleeping in the nursery with my son François and my brother Antoine.”

They drank to the health of the newborn Claude. Again, Augustine dreamed of adulthood.

Henri added, “She was named in honor of my late mother Claude.”

At least, this time that Medici merchant gave me a healthy child, Henri mused, sipping wine. His loathsome wife had birthed a healthy baby girl in January. He had not been at Fontainebleau at the time to welcome his daughter into the world. Henri had stayed at the royal children’s château for months to avoid seeing Catherine and to spend time with the little ones. Once Catherine was churched, the dauphin would return to his spouse until he impregnated his wife again.

§§§

An elated Anne de Laval hastened to her rooms. Her whole body thrummed with passion in anticipation of another night with Henri. She had never thought that she would fall so hard for the dauphin. When he had invited her to his bed, Anne had agreed because he was a prince, but under the onslaught of his caresses and kisses, the governess had yielded to his amatory tenderness.

Having passed numerous corridors in the Children’s Wing, the governess entered a hallway swathed in crimson brocade. A figure crept up out of the darkness, and Anne paused.

“Who is here?” Anne de Laval called. However, there was no answer.

She pivoted to look back. Anne saw that Diane de Poitiers standing in the shadows.

“Madame, what are you doing here?” Anne was perplexed.

Diane whispered just loud enough for her to discern the words, “You have dallied with my man.” Her daughter, Françoise de Brézé, had apprised her of the dauphin’s indiscretions.

Anne de Laval bristled, “Henri is not yours or mine. He is his own man!”

The dauphin’s favorite mistress fired, “No one takes what is mine! No one!”

The governess stepped to her rival fearlessly. “Henri is a French prince of the blood. Any woman whom he beds must know her place – I do know it. But you don’t, Madame of the icy kingdom.” She despised the overbearing, chilly, and powerful Madame de Poitiers.

Diane extended her arm with a handkerchief in her fist. “This is my gift for you. It will send you to the underworld. I shall not share Henri with anyone. Catherine is enough.”

Diane grabbed Anne with a strength unusual for her light frame. She shoved Anne against the wall and pressed a hand over her mouth. Diane then put the handkerchief, which had been poisoned with one of Montecuccoli’s venomous perfumes, to Anne’s nose. Diane imprisoned her victim with her arms and held her as the woman breathed into her nostrils the air of mortality until she noticed a vacant haze in Anne’s eyes, which was a sign that the dose was lethal.

The dauphin’s favorite mistress released her. “Burn in hell!”

Anne de Laval wobbled. Her head was spinning, as if she had embarked the ship caught in a turbulent storm. Her body convulsed like a harpooned fish for the last time, and she went still.

Diane dragged her rival’s corpse to a nearby staircase and pushed it down. The mistress had thought out this crime beforehand: to poison her victim and then threw her down the stairs so that everybody would think of Anne’s random fall and death on the impact. Anne’s limp body rolled down the stairs and stopped at the bottom of the stairs, blood pooling onto the marble steps.

At this moment, Diane looked more frightfully angry than the Goddess Bellona. Her perfect face was contorted in monstrous loathing and jealousy, and there was a sanguine air about her.

“Everyone gets their due,” ordained Diane in an arctic voice.

Swiveling gracefully, the dauphin’s paramour hurried down the corridor. She headed to the apartments, which, according to her daughter’s message, were occupied by her lover. Although she had just returned from her journey to Ghent, her fatigue would not spoil her night with Henri. She had killed Anne de Laval not because she imagined herself the absolute arbiter of human destinies, just as Catherine did – she had perpetrated the deed out of insane jealousy.

In another corridor, she skidded to a halt and turned towards the sound of the approaching agitated footsteps. She recognized the voices of François, his wife Anne, and Marguerite, then a familiar male baritone spoke. Diane hid behind a column and waited for them to leave.

François reproached, “Henri, you should have not taken Anne de Pisseleu with you.”

“What would our daughter think of you?” Marguerite snapped.

“My maîtresse-en-titre wants to see her daughter, Charlotte.” Diane recognized the voice – it was King Henri II of Navarre, who must have arrived at Saint-Germain a mere minutes ago.

François objected, “I don’t want her to see my beloved Charles’ daughter.”  

“Charlotte is her child, François,” contradicted Henri of Navarre.

Anne Boleyn interjected, “He has a point: a girl needs to see her mother.”

They disappeared into a hallway that led to the Wing of the King, or Aile du Roi. The French royals lived in this wing, overlooking the gardens; it was also Diane’s final destination.

In silence, Madame de Poitiers glided across the floor like a blood-feathered swan. She did not wish anyone to see her today – she would make her grand appearance tomorrow. It would be hilarious to see them discover the dead Anne de Laval, and to witness the collisions between the Navarrese spouses and Anne de Pisseleu. Nevertheless, tonight Diane would kiss the unblemished contours of Henri’s face with a deep-rooted, unreasoning feeling for him that she called love.

I’ll see my beloved girl Diane soon! the dauphin’s mistress enthused silently. Her daughter, Françoise, had written to her that Henri had taken their illegitimate daughter from Fontainebleau to Saint-Germain during Diane’s absence in Flanders. Princess Claude had also been moved to the other royal children, so Catherine de’ Medici was now languishing at Fontainebleau alone.

She stopped near the dauphin’s apartments. Sentinels bowed to her.

“My Henri,” an enamored Diane said. She pinched her cheeks for color and entered.

Notes:

Hello everyone! We hope that you are fine and sane. Take care of yourself!

Mary Tudor became the wife of Emperor Carlos V. Some readers feared that Carlos could decide to leave their marriage unconsummated, but it was never in our plans. Mary and Carlos will have a difficult relationship, but it is a prominent match for Mary. Mary is better to listen to the recommendations of Doña Leonor de Mascarenhas, who was a friend and a chief maid of honor to Isabella of Portugal. Our Mary changed: she is not and will not be a religious fanatic.

The revolt of Ghent happened in real history. The Revolt of Ghent of 1539 was an uprising by the citizens of Ghent against the regime of Emperor Carlos V in the reaction to high taxes, which the Flemish felt were used to fight wars abroad – wars with France and Italian wars. We took a historical storyline and modified it, delaying the revolt until 1545. In history, Carlos insulted the rebels by parading their leaders in undershirts with hangman nooses around their necks. Since then Ghent citizens informally call themselves “noose bearers”. Carlos indeed had some of the insurgents tried for heresy and burned. In this AU, the people’s displeasure in Ghent and Flanders might lead to something interesting that might happen earlier than it did in history.

Princess Louise of France is betrothed to her second cousin once removed - Emmanuel Philibert, son of Duke Charles III de Savoy and Beatrice of Portugal. Marguerite, his historical wife, is already married to Ferdinand of Austria. In history, Emmanuel despised the French for occupying Savoy and Piedmont, and considered his father a weakling. Emmanuel recovered the Savoyard state following the Battle of St Quentin of 1557, but we have a different storyline in this AU for him. Savoy can be a separate state if their marriage is successful, or if their son will be France’s ally. François is not a fool to establish the permanent occupation of Savoy, which Marguerite implied in their short exchange with Duke Charles and Emmanuel.

Prince Augustine, Duke de Poitou and d’Anjou, is betrothed to Princess Jeanne of Navarre. As they are first cousins, this marriage will produce many dead offspring. In history Jeanne of Navarre and her husband, Antoine de Bourbon, were 5 or 6th cousins, but only 2 children out of 10 survived – it’s too a low rate of survival given the distance of their relationship. Augustine is younger than Jeanne, but it is a political marriage, and in history there were examples when such marriages happened. Remember Henry II of England and Eleanor of Aquitaine, as well as Jean the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy, and Margaret of Bavaria. You cannot avoid inbreeding in royal circles. First cousin marriages were practiced by the Valois for a long time; Duke Louis d’Orléans and Valentine Visconti were first cousins. We need Henri III of Navarre from Augustine’s union with Jeanne. So, we will have the cold and calculative Augustine of France and Navarre.

The birth date of King François was changed to 1498 so that he is almost of the same age with the emperor. So, François’ sister, Marguerite of Navarre was born in 1496, so Jeanne of Navarre is 4 years younger and born in this AU in 1532. Dauphin Henri took a mistress – Anne de Laval – during his long stay at Saint-Germain-en-Laye. He is young and has male needs, but Diane de Poitiers is furiously jealous. Poor woman! Anne is not his last mistress.

All the descriptions of palaces are historically correct. Publius Papinius Statius was a Roman poet of the 1st century AD; his Latin poetry includes an epic in 12 books, the Thebaid.

Attention! VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance (Athenais) are co-writing the story called “Entwined by a Golden Alliance.” Give it a try, please! We highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, Marina Ka-Fai, BubblyYork, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Lady Plantagenet in the White Queen fandom.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 57: Chapter 56: Purified from Hatred

Notes:

We are updating more quickly this time, for we just happened to have the edited version of this chapter quickly. Isn’t it too quickly for the readers? We are worried, so please let us know. We are moving closer to the Valois-Tudor-Habsburg-Medici drama.

Attention! VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance (Athenais) are co-writing the story called “Entwined by a Golden Alliance.” Give it a try! We are sure you will like it. We also recommend "Festina Lente" by BubblyYork.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 56: Purified from Hatred

February 20, 1545, Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, close to Paris, France

His expression annoyed, King François rose from his massive gilded throne. He descended from the dais where the throne was installed, and marched across the presence chamber. Today the exorbitant guiding of furniture and decorations irritated him beyond measure, for the meeting with the man who François still considered his friend would definitely be difficult.

“Good morning, François,” greeted King Henri II of Navarre in a personal manner, but with a bow. “Do you remember that once we were comrades? We were captured together at Pavia. We are also cousins.”

The Valois ruler stepped back, as if this action had marked the ending of their friendship. “A real friend is one who walks in when the rest of the world walks out. He will never betray you.”

“Life is a complicated thing,” the Navarrese monarch.

“I could not admit a thought that you would betray me. I gave you the hand of my beloved sister in marriage, and at first, you were both in love. Then I learned that you had dallied with Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly behind my back for years. Every time you came to my court, you slept with my former mistress, betraying both me and my sister.”

Henri, who was as even-tempered as François, was now furious. “What about you, François? How many women did you sleep with throughout your marriages to Claude of France and Eleanor of Austria? Anne de Pisseleu was your maîtresse-en-titre for more than ten years, but you also had others. I bet that you don’t know how many bastards you have because of your dissipation.”   

François turned red, then white. “Why should a man be faithful to his paramour? Why should a king be faithful to a queen who he does not love?” There was no shame in his eyes – they glittered with ire. “My old life was over when I fell in love with Anne Boleyn, my wife.”

In a voice layered with wrath, Henri countered, “Why should a man be faithful to a wife who spends in her brother’s kingdom hundred more times than in her own domains? Or is he supposed to live in celibacy? I loved Marguerite for a long time, and if only she had chosen me and Navarre over you and France, everything would have been well. But Margot did not.”   

François frowned as he hurtled, “You started your affair with Madame d’Étampes at the time when Margot and you were happy. My sister lived for most part in Navarre back then, and she began spending more time with me, helping me rule, only after our mother’s death.”

Henri’s eyes were shooting daggers. “For years, I was denied the marriage bed because my wife lived in France. I’m a healthy man and have the right to have a mistress.”   

“I need Margot in France. She governs alongside me.”

His Navarrese counterpart jeered, “Margot can be even a better monarch than you.”   

“That is possible. I don’t know what I would have done without her.”

Exhaling sharply, Henri declared, “I fell in love with the Duchess d’Étampes, and we have a family in Navarre. I’ll not repudiate her despite the displeasure it causes you and Margot.”  

“Why did you choose this woman?” asked François out of curiosity.

The King of Navarre pressed his hand to his chest. “I did not choose – my heart did. You worship Anne Boleyn and know that love comes to us when we least expect it. At first, I was enticed by her beauty, but the less often I met Margot, the more I gravitated towards my Anne.”

François heaved a sigh. “As a man, I understand you. However, as a brother, I condemn you. You caused a lot of grief to Margot, although I’m not sure what she still feels for you.”

Henri repeated again and again, “I’m so sorry.”

The monarch of France put a sympathetic hand upon the other man’s shoulder. “I shall not interfere in your marital situation. Only you and Marguerite can decide what to do.”

“Thank you. François, will you permit Anne de Pisseleu and me to live here? I want to spend time with my daughter, Jeanne; Anne has missed young Charlotte.”

“You can stay here, but keep Madame d’Étampes away from my family.”

Henri nodded. “That is the best course of action. I’m grateful.”

The herald announced the arrival of Queen Marguerite of Navarre and Princess Jeanne.

With tears of joy in her eyes, Jeanne rushed to the King of Navarre, her gown’s trail leaving a silver trail behind her. “My Papa! I dreamed to see you!”

Henri embraced Jeanne affectionately and held her tight for a long time until they parted.

In an attire of white damask studded with countless pearls, Jeanne looked like a goddess of pearls from a myth. A stunning headdress of goldsmith’s work confined her long tresses and set off her countenance. Her appearance was a fine mixture of her parents.

“My dearest girl!” Henri exclaimed as he viewed Jeanne from top to toe. “My loveliest girl! How much you have grown! You have become a beautiful nymph from magical forests!”

Jeanne beamed. “I’m happy to see you, Father! You are the same handsome King of Navarre who played with me in the wilder forests of Béarn. I remember those golden days of my life.”   

The father and daughter embraced each other once more. They did not see a tear trickle down Marguerite’s cheek; François approached her, taking her hand in his.   

Henri said softly, “How have you been here?”

“Excellent!” Jeanne confirmed with a grin. “With my cousin Henri.”

Marguerite interposed, “And with Augustine and other children.”

“Augustine has the mind of a brilliant general,” François assessed. “He will be a warrior – it is obvious even now. We started some simple exercises with weapons.”

Henri arched a brow. “Already? So early?”

François tipped his head. “Yes. Augustine is an unusual child.”

The herald announced the arrival of Prince Augustine. The blonde boy, who was attired in purple brocade ornamented with diamonds, entered in all his detached glory. His intelligent amber eyes, chilly and yet too deep, brimmed with mysteries of the Capetian and Valois dynasties.

Next walked Jacqueline de Longwy, Countess de Bar-sur-Seine. Second daughter of Jeanne d’Angoulême, she was the new governesses of Anne and François’ sons. Everyone remembered how Anne de Laval had been discovered dead at the bottom of the staircase, and the physician had diagnosed that the poor woman had slipped on the steps and fallen down, having broken her neck. The next day, the monarch had invited Jacqueline, his half-niece, to Saint-Germain.

The daughter of Count Guy XVI de Laval and Charlotte of Aragon, Princess of Taranto, Anne de Laval was a French noblewoman and a claimant to Naples. Through her ancestress, Princess Yolande of France, Anne was descended from King Charles VII of France called the Victorious and his consort, Marie d’Anjou. In 1521, she had married François de la Trémoïlle, Viscount de Thouars, and had seen children with him. Her oldest son, Louis III de la Trémoille, had collected his mother’s body and then had it buried with pomp in the family chapel.

Jacqueline de Longwy elaborated, “His Highness was on his way to his tutors, but he wanted to come and greet the King of Navarre in person.”

Augustine crossed to his future father-in-law. Sweeping a bow, he stated, “Your Majesty, I’m most pleased to see you at our court. Jeanne has waited for you.”

Henri was satisfied with the prince’s bearing. The precocity in the toddler’s eyes impressed him. “I’m delighted to see Your Highness. As I’ll be staying at Saint-Germain for several months.”

After bowing to the Navarrese ruler again, Augustine was gone with his governess.

“He is unconventional,” Henri verbalized his thoughts. “Such inflexible regal demeanor!”

François smiled. “Exactly. He is both a Capetian and a Valois.”

Jeanne protested, “No, Uncle François! Augustine looks like you, but with blonde hair.”

“They have physical resemblance,” Marguerite agreed, “if not for his inflexibility and an air of cool detachment about him. Augustine is a good political match for Jeanne.”

François assumed, “Augustine could inherit his blonde hair from our ancestors – Louis de Valois, Duke d’Orléans, and Valentine Visconti. They both were blue-eyed and blonde.” He crossed himself. “God rest their souls.” He looked at his sister. “Margot and I have always had a reverent attitude to this couple who had such a tragic love story and lives.”

Marguerite nodded solemnly. “They did. The assassination of Louis d’Orléans was avenged by his nephew – King Charles the Seventh of France, the victor of the Hundred Years’ War.”

“King Charles the Seventh of France, my ancestor,” Henri commented proudly.

“May they all rest in peace,” summed up François. Everyone echoed and crossed themselves.

Henri supported the continuous alliance between Navarre and France. “My daughter will have such an impressive husband. With God’s help, we will dance on their wedding.”

“With the Almighty’s help,” echoed Marguerite.

Henri stepped to his wife. “Margot, can I have a minute of your time?”

“No!” Marguerite recoiled from him, as if she had seen a serpent in her path. “Jeanne wanted to see you, and I granted her wish. You cannot take our daughter away from Saint-Germain.”

Henri’s shoulders sagged. “You have my word.”

Marguerite instructed, “Keep Jeanne away from someone who warms your bed.”

Jeanne wrinkled her nose in repugnance. “Oh, that whore.”

François interjected, “Don’t make Jeanne hear such things.”

“My brother is right,” acquiesced Marguerite. “Jeanne and I are leaving now because Anne de Pisseleu will come with Charlotte. You will have more time for communication later.”

A sad Jeanne complied, “I’ll do whatever you want, Mother.”

Marguerite enunciated frostily, “Don’t disturb me, Henri.”

The King of Navarre nodded, resigned. “As you wish, Margot.”

Without a backward glance, the Queen of Navarre stomped out, trying not to stumble on the long trail of her auburn damask gown worked with Venetian gold thread. Casting a sorrowful look at her father, Princess Jeanne followed her mother reluctantly.

François approached a window. “You could not expect anything else, Henri.”

“I know.” Henri’s voice was flat, a dead thing.

“I’m leaving, for I don’t wish to see Anne de Pisseleu. I do not loathe her, and I’m grateful that she did not pursue me after I had dismissed her. On the other hand, I blame Anne for keeping little Charlotte away from me for several years. I’m torn between my love for my sister and my amicable attitude towards you, Henri. Your lover would make everything worse.”

“Thank you for the candor, François.”  

A moment later, François reached the door that opened only to reveal Anne de Pisseleu with her daughter, Charlotte. The duchess curtsied to the king, who did not react to her and only smiled at his granddaughter, who grinned at him. Then François exited.

“Henri!” cried Anne de Pisseleu. “Look how pretty my Charlotte is.”

The Navarrese ruled answered, “You two make a stunning picture.”

His mistress enthused, “I cannot believe that I’m here with my girl.”

Little Charlotte lisped, “Mama, I’ve missed you so!”

“My Charlotte,” said Anne through tears. “I was despondent without you.”

The monarch of Navarre smiled at the sight of his paramour hugging her daughter.

Her gown of red brocade studded with gems, Anne de Pisseleu glowed with mature beauty, her eyes greener than verdant foliage as they sparked with maternal affection. The only daughter of Prince Charles, Duke d’Orléans – Charlotte de Valois, for King François had acknowledged her – wore a delicate attire of maroon damask embroidered with gold flowers. As Anne clasped her daughter in her arms, their dazzling happiness finely blended into the gilded interior.  

The former mistress of King François eyed her daughter. “You look like your late father.”

Charlotte enquired, “Was Prince Charles a good man?”   

“Yes, he was.” Anne could hardly hear anything over the pounding of her heart. “God called him home, so now he is in heaven with his elder brother – the late Dauphin François.”

Charlotte’s face brightened. “I have so many playmates here.”

“Are you on good terms with Queen Anne’s offspring?” In reality, Anne thought of her own three children with the King of Navarre who waited for them at Pau.

“Yes! I especially love Aimée!” Charlotte’s eyes the color of brown earth twinkled.

King Henri quizzed, “Are you a little happier now, Anne?”

Anne’s scrutiny veered to her lover. “Yes, Henri. Thanks to you.”

As Anne and Henri stared at each other, they felt as though they were floating, their bosoms overflowing with feathery lightness that shone with thousands of bright colors.

§§§

Despite an early hour, the spacious nursery for the infant royals was noisy with laughter and chatter. The dauphin and his mistress were busy with their illegitimate daughter.

Henri twirled little Diane around the room, singing, “Diane! The mistress of my heart!”

The girl laughed airily. “Yes, Papa! I’m your girl!”

He hugged her affectionately. “My beloved girl!”

Little Diane kissed her father on the cheek several times. Confused, she affirmed, “I thought that Princess Aimée is France’s beloved girl. King François named her so.”

“Aimée is France’s girl,” the dauphin explained. “You are mine!”

“Yes!” The girl giggled as her father twirled her around the nursery again.

The bastard daughter of Diane de Poitiers and Dauphin Henri had turned three years old in the summer of 1544. Little Diane was her mother’s small copy with blonde hair and blue eyes. The girl’s perfect features were like a painting; her skin was white like the freshly fallen snow. With the king’s agreement, the girl was known as Diane de Valois, the dauphin’s natural daughter.

The adult Diane said, “Henri, mon amour! Your two Dianes own your heart, don’t we?”

The dauphin flashed a grin. “Of course, ma chérie.”

Diane de Poitiers and her eldest daughter, Françoise de Brézé, lounged in X-shaped chairs decorated with leaves of acanthus. They reveled in Henri’s adoration for the girl. The dauphin spent more time with little Diane than with his legitimate children with Catherine de’ Medici, and his mistress took delight in this, leering inwardly at the unwanted wife.  

Bending her head to her daughter, Diane asked in a whisper, “Françoise, does our little Diane spend time with Anne Boleyn’s children? I do not want her to be close to the witch’s brats.”   

Françoise de Brézé lowered her voice considerably as she revealed, “Princesses Aimée and Louise often come to the nursery. They are slightly older than our Diane, but they play with her.”

Diane commanded, “Prevent their personal contacts.”

“I’ll do what I can, Mother,” Françoise promised.

“Is Henri close with Augustine?” This worried Diane a lot.

Françoise nodded. “Yes. Henri devotes more time to Augustine than any other child.”

As the dauphin noticed them converse quietly, he scolded, “Enough secrets from me.”

Diane’s heart tightened in anguish and ire. At present, their relationship was strained at best, although every night Henri summoned her to his rooms. Now they coupled as madly and often as they liked and in as many ways and wherever they wished. Henri could take his mistress on a bed, on the floor, against the wall, or in a batching tub. Nonetheless, there was an emotional distance between them, which had never existed before. You cannot be missing Anne de Laval, Henri.

Henri prodded, “Do my Dianes want to see my daughter Claude?”

“Yes, Papa!” the toddler assented. “I’d love to have more brothers and sisters.”

Diane said apologetically, “Your father and I are unlikely to have more children, my dear.”

Henri was fond of this idea. “Why not?”   

His paramour looked chagrined. “Mon amour, you must remember my physician’s words. Even though I still can conceive, it may have a detrimental impact upon my health.”

The dauphin noted, “My father and Anne want to have more children.”

Diane’s blood simmered whenever the Boleyn woman was mentioned. “The queen is eight years younger than me. As for possible siblings for our dear Diane, you can give her more.”

A grimace warped his countenance. “I know that I must return to Catherine.”

His lover elegantly folded her hands in her lap. “When are we leaving for Fontainebleau?”  

The last thing the dauphin wanted was to see his wife again. “Catherine is not there now. I sent her away to Château de Saumur. We will also travel there.”

Diane sighed. “We will return to court when we can, won’t we?”

“Exactly,” assured Henri. “Catherine will be left pregnant at Saumur.”

His mistress laughed. “Excellent.”

Little Diane clapped her hands. “I want to have a brother who will play with me.”

Françoise interjected, “Prince François will be your playmate when he grows up.”

“Can he?” Henri’s brows shot up. “Given his fragile constitution.”

Françoise allayed, “His health has been more or less stable.”

“Thanks be to God!” Relief flooded Henri.

“I want Prince François to live.” The girl crossed herself.

Henri crouched at his daughter’s level. “Should we have a look at Claude?”

Little Diane furrowed her forehead. “Yes, Papa! But you are mine.”

“And Claude is my girl too.” The dauphin was amused by her childish jealousy.

Henri and little Diane approached the silver cradle of Princess Claude.   

The new Valois princess slept, her head turned to the side, her fist pressed to her cheek. Unlike Prince François, the baby girl was large and well-formed. Claude embodied a mixture of her parents: amber eyes and the long nose attested to her Valois origins, but the form of her eyes was bulging and wide-set, which was a Medici trait. A tuft of brown hair adorned her head.

“She is nice,” the girl purred. “When she becomes older, I’ll play with her.”

Henri stroked the toddler’s hair. “I know you will be a good older baby sister to her.”

The girl wondered, “Who is more beautiful: Claude or me?”

“You,” answered her father unhesitatingly.

The dauphin did not see his paramour and Françoise share victorious glances.

A curious little Diane took liking of the baby. “Can I take Claude into my arms?”

“Let her rest.” One of Henri’s hands was holding the girl’s. “It would have been better if my daughter had taken after her grandmother – Queen Claude of France.”

“My grandma too?” the girl quizzed. 

“Yes,” the dauphin confirmed. “There was a quiet grace in her.”

The dauphin was surreptitiously relieved that his infant daughter was not awake. Every time he looked into the child’s eyes, he thought of Catherine – the last creature on earth he wanted to touch. Catherine’s bulging hazel eyes glowing with a desperate plea to love her as obsessively as she felt for Henri transformed his normal dreams into nightmares. At least, that Italian woman is capable of producing healthy progeny. Now she must give me a healthy son.  

Diane de Poitiers took little Diane away and sat with her in her chair.

In the meantime, Henri approached the cradle of Prince François. The boy was sleeping as well, and his father did not want to disturb him. Henri sighed with relief that the child’s pallor had decreased somewhat, and François no longer looked as sickly as before.

Henri sent an airy kiss to the baby. “Please, get stronger, my son.”

The dauphin then strode over to the third gilded cradle where Prince Antoine rested. As the boy was awake, Henri cradled him, crooning a song his mother Claude had been singing for him years ago. Antoine’s green eyes stared into his brother’s hazel orbs – calm and wise, as though ancient, as if the boy had seen much of the wicked side of life, rise and fall of civilizations.   

“The green Savoy eyes,” Henri murmured to his brother. “They are special.”

Preoccupied with his sibling, Henri could not glimpse Diane’s fleeting grimace.  

Antoine’s hand clasped Henri’s wrist, causing his much older brother to laugh.

“Eyes of a philosopher, as our father says.” The dauphin deposited the child into the cradle.

The two Dianes welcomed the dauphin’s return with resplendent smiles.

“What will we do now, Papa?” little Diane inquired.

“You will sleep, my dear,” Henri replied, then gazed at his mistress. “Let’s go.”

A cold smile flourished upon Diane’s visage. “Gladly, my Henri.”

Françoise de Brézé stood up. “I’ll take care of Prince François and Princess Claude.”

The dauphin said, “Thank you, Françoise.”

Diane requested, “Should we take your children with Catherine to a separate nursery?”

The dauphin raised a brow. “Why? All the kids in this room are infants.”

Taking little Diane’s hand, Dauphin Henri led her away from the nursery.

The dauphin’s mistress cursed, “Damn!” Her adult daughter glanced at her sympathetically.

What is going on with you, Henri? Diane asked silently, knowing that he would not get any response. Their relationship was as passionate as before only in bed. Henri had once made Diane his confidant. After their reunion at Saint-Germain, the dauphin was as reticent in public as always, while with his paramour he talked in in a manner that implied much and revealed little.

Françoise conjectured, “Maybe it is Queen Anne’s influence. They are friends.”

Madame de Poitiers smashed her fists into a nearby wall. “I hate that whore.”

“Mother, you will wake the children,” Françoise forewarned.

“Damn them too!” Diane stormed out like a strong gust of wind.

Who is snatching my Henri away from me? Does he have another lover? Madame de Poitiers stomped down the hallway that led to her daughter’s rooms. Henri often seemed to be on the point of crying out some visceral woe that burned within him, of seeking relief in outpouring of speech. Yet, he never did this with Diane. At times, he would fling out some cryptic hint, but nothing else.


March 1, 1545, Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, close to Paris, France

The Queen of France shielded her eyes from the bright sunlight filtering inside her bedroom from the windows. Despite the first day of spring, the day falling on the Feast of St Albinus of Tincilloc was sunny. The sunlight gilded the silver and blue-gray brocaded walls, and the ceiling frescoed with scenes of the Goddess Athena’s birth from the head of her father Zeus.

Anne was reading ‘Divine Comedy’ by Dante Alighieri’s for hours. Despite her adoration of this book, now she felt as if she were going through Dante’s nine concentric and spherical circles of hell. Her thoughts were whirling and buzzing, as she endeavored to calm her mind.

Eventually, she put a leather-bound volume on a table loaded with manuscripts and books. “I cannot concentrate,” she complained on herself. She tried to read again, but failed.

Reading was her favorite pastime, for she found wisdom in books. All woes, joys, triumphs, and failures were described in writings created by intellectuals. There were many wisdoms, which providence had thinly scattered amongst mankind. Anne had bought many books in the past years.

François entered the room. “What has been gnawing at you, mon coeur?”

Anne emitted a sigh. “Something that concerns us all.”

“What?” He strode to her and hoisted his wife to her feet gently. “Tell me.”

“My father wrote to me. About strange events in Italy.”  

Anne rummaged through papers at the table until she found Thomas Boleyn’s missive. It was first letter he had sent to her in years! She handed it to François and went to a window.

My daughter Anne,

I would not have disturbed you if I did not have a serious reason.

Messer Pietro Lando, the former Doge of Venice, was ailing. Yet, his doctors confirmed the reason of his death – severe poisoning with some unknown substance. There are rumors that he was poisoned upon the orders of Pope Paul because of Lando’s friendship with France.  

Just as King François and Duke Anne de Montmorency requested, I ingratiated myself into favor with the new Doge – Messer Francesco Donato, who is well disposed towards the House of Valois. Donato is also a friend of Ferdinand von Habsburg. Although Donato is seventy-six, he is in relatively good health, but lately, there were two unsuccessful attempts to poison him.

There was an attempt on my life as well: my cooks died because they ate the soup prepared for me. Since then, I’ve used the services of three food tasters. At times, I think that your mother, Elizabeth, could have been poisoned. Elizabeth did not have problems with her heart during our estrangement. However, several doctors, who examined her body, said that she died of a severe heart stroke. Yet, something is nagging at me, an alarm of some kind, a warning instinct.

Annie, please be careful in France. Your husband is protecting you. Yet, there are always enemies in the shadows who lie low and attack at the most unexpected moment.

I wrote another letter to King François, where I reported all these things to him.

Your father – Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire  

The monarch put the letter back on the table. “That is extremely alarming.”

“My father’s letter must be in your documents.” His wife’s voice was shaking.

“I’ll look at it. I’ve not yet checked my correspondence yet.”

The queen stared out at the snow-blanketed gardens where their children and Princess Jeanne played in snowballs. “They don’t understand how happy they are at present. Childhood is the most adorable and tension free period. They do not have to bother about anything.”

Her husband approached her from the back. His arms wrapped around her waist, and he whispered into her ear, “Every child lives in their present and does not think about their future.”

Anne leaned back against her spouse. “It is the golden period of a person’s life, which never comes back even when we want to. I want to become a carefree girl again.”

François kissed his wife on the top of her head. “Me too. Especially in such moments.”

She underscored, “Moments when dangers are stalking us again from all sides.”

He turned her around to him. “We will overcome all traps.”

Her arms enveloped his slender waist. “I’m glad that the Doge Donato is a friend to you and Ferdinand. May God protect this man!” Her voice thinned, as she reached into the blackness at the edge of her mind where she was afraid to go. “I fear that my father will be poisoned.”

The king also snaked his arms around his consort. “I may recall Lord Wiltshire to France. In this case, he may live at our court; I can appoint him on some position.”

“Do you need Wiltshire to stay in Venice, François?”

“For political reasons, I’d prefer him to continue represent France as my ambassador. Our alliance with Venice is still so secure because of your father’s talents and endeavors.”

She heaved a sigh. “Then let him stay there. We need peace in Italy.”

François pulled her deeper into his arms. “I’ll do exactly as you want, mon amour.”

In his embrace, Anne felt safe and warm. “I’ll ask father to be more careful because I don’t want him dead. I’ll also write to Marie to ensure that she and her family are safe in Rome.”

François kissed cheeks. “Monty will keep your sister and their daughters safe in Rome at any cost. I’ll provide both your father and Monty with necessary guidance.”

She disentangled herself from him. “Thank you, husband.”

His eyes glowed with immense fondness. “I’ll do anything for you.”

The queen paced the room agitatedly. “What if my mother was poisoned?”

“Your mother did not have suffer from any heart decease, but everything might happen.”   

Stopping in the middle, she wrangled her hands. “What if it really happened?”

The King of France looked out: his children and Marguerite’s daughter were still involved in a lively game, their cloaks covered with snow. “What we know for a certainty is that someone is plotting against the House of Valois again. It must be the Pope and the Farnese family.”

She eased herself in a gilded armchair by the bed, her hands resting in her lap. “It is such a great pity that you did not have the Pope deposed during your last Italian campaign.”

“Nevertheless,” the monarch said as he seated himself in a matching chair beside his wife, “I believe that Monty is controlling the situation in Rome with his iron hand.”

After a tense pause, she asked, “Can we have mortal foes in France?”

“Perhaps. Anything is possible, Anne. We will be more cautious and pray.”

“Do you trust all of your councilors?”

The king’s hands were clasped beneath his chin, just as he always did when he plunged into pensiveness. “We might be in trouble due to the mess in Venice. I trust wholeheartedly only you, Marguerite, and Monty, but I’m certain that Chabot and Annebault will never betray me.”  

Silence ensued. Both Anne and François were lost in thought.   

I’m so worried about my father, the Queen of France discovered in herself. God, I beseech you to save and protect him in Venice. His personal letter re-established the filial bond between him and Anne, fragile like a flower that blooms for a short season and then is no more. Wiltshire’s mistreatment of her, Mary, and George – the past that so poignantly included many tragedies and traumas – held less and less significance in the face of the impending unknown peril.

As the dust of her previous animosity towards the Earl of Wiltshire fell from Anne, she felt herself purified. Cleansed from the taints of her once most vindictive sentiments towards Henry, her English adversaries, her father, and the world. New views of life opened to Anne: now she saw Thomas Boleyn as a man deprived of power and his relatives, yet still trying to secure peace for France that was not his native country, and still caring for his daughter.

“I’ve changed my opinion about my father,” the queen interrupted the pause. “Seek for true saints in streets, peasant houses, and in the fields. You will see good people clothed in rags because they do not admit a single thought about power. Neither Lord Wiltshire nor I are free of sin.”

“You have escaped the shackles of embittered consciousness.”

Anne went to the desk and took Dante’s book. She turned to its first pages, and read aloud in Italian canto 1 from the part ‘Purgatory,’ her voice vibrating with emotion.

O'er better waves to speed her rapid course

The light bark of my genius lifts the sail,

Well pleas'd to leave so cruel sea behind;

And of that second region will I sing,

In which the human spirit from sinful blot

Is purg'd, and for ascent to Heaven prepares.

Pressing the volume to her chest, Anne stared into space. “Wise people are not forgetful of words from the lips of pure souls. When I remember my mother and Marie, I’m reminded of them, and now when I’m free of hatred for my father, I feel so much better.”

François approached her and retrieved the book from her hands. “Dante says that the human spirit can be purged and ascend to heaven. The Lord and saints claim the same in the Bible.” The volume clasped in one hand, his other hand traced a line of her cheek. “It is good to feel almost pure, Anne. I’ve always tried not to go against my honor, but it is not always possible.”

She lifted a hand to his face, and her finger caressed his lips. “Only you, François, and our love give me the lightness to soar like a bird. I’d prefer to die before you: when my last day arrives, I’ll hear the birds singing and feel the fragrance of divine flowers only if you are at my side.”

Devotion shone in his amber eyes. “The same is fair for me. I prefer not to see your death, for it would be easier for me to die, face God’s judgment, and then wait for you in heaven.”  

An odd premonition chilled her. “It will not happen, my François!”

As her husband towered over her, Anne crushed her mouth into his. François carried her to a huge bed with its elaborately carved gilt pediment that matched its crowning glory of golden brocaded silk curtains falling from the ceiling. Their clothes were discarded, and their earthly forms became one – skin to skin, flesh to flesh, heart to heart, culminating in melodious shrieks.

§§§

The royal couple spent the whole afternoon in bed. They made love leisurely, feasting on the pleasures of flesh. When dusk shrouded the land, François reluctantly went to work in his study. A sated Anne slept until Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant, brought a letter from Princess Elizabeth Tudor, which the French spies had delivered to Saint-Germain.

Jean de Laval, Françoise’s husband, who had been estranged from her for many years, had passed away in 1543. After the King of France had set her aside, Françoise had returned to her husband’s estates in Brittany. However, she had left again when the monarch had recalled her back to court after his marriage to Anne. Due to his visceral loathing of Françoise, Jean de Laval had bequeathed his possessions to Anne de Montmorency, including Châteaubriant.

Montmorency had sent a letter from Rome in which he had refused to accept this inheritance and take the title of Countess of Châteaubriant and the family wealth away from Françoise. The king’s former mistress kept her title and inherited everything from her late husband. Laval had been succeeded as governor of Brittany by Jean IV de Brosse, the husband of Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly; Anne was also estranged from Brosse due to her affair with King Henri II of Navarre.

After getting dressed, Queen Anne kissed the precious letter. Every infrequent contact with her estranged daughter was like a deep, deep breath of live-giving air for Anne.

“My beloved Lizzy,” Anne said, as if her dearest daughter could hear her. “I love you so!”

Her hands trembling, she unfolded the letter and re-read it. Elizabeth’s handspring was firm and clear, pleasantly influenced by the prevailing cult for cursive script that Anne was accustomed to see since her daughter had learned to write, and their secret correspondence had begun.

My dearest mother,

No words can express how much I’ve missed you. Every day I pray for you and for my half-brothers and sisters twice in the English language using King Henry’s new Book of Prayers.

My father, the King of England, visits Hatfield House every three months. Yet, he did not come on Christmas, and there are rumors that he is not in England. Father has treated me well: my household is thriving, and I can afford any gowns and jewelry, although I prefer to buy books. Only books can tell us a lot about the modern world and ancient times.

In the wake of my grandfather Thomas Boleyn’s absence in England, the king confiscated Hever Castle from his possessions while allowing him to keep the Earldom of Wiltshire. Then, to my pleasant surprise, the Duke of Norfolk gave me the papers confirming my ownership of Hever. One day, I’ll relocate there because I’d like to live where you grew up, mama.

Queen Kitty Howard is pregnant again. At present, she is staying at Hatfield with her ladies, and she has no idea where the king is at the moment. My stepmother spends all her time with my half-brother Edmund – he is very frail. While I love my half-brother Edward, Anne Bassett’s son, we have never been close. I’m fond of Edmund, and I’m on good terms with the queen.

Lady Margery Horsman has been most kind to me throughout all these years. She and my Kat – Kat Ashley is my new governess – have become my world. Lady Margaret Bryan still serves as Edward’s governess, but she has been in increasingly bad health since her son’s murder.

Take care of yourself and my siblings! I always keep you in my prayers, mama.

Your daughter, Princess Elizabeth Tudor

When Françoise de Foix returned, she found Anne standing with the letter.   

“How is Her Highness?” Françoise neared her mistress.

This jerked Anne out of her trance. “Lizzy is fine and misses me, as always.”

“Of course, your princess wants to see you more than anything else, Anne.”

The queen and the monarch’s former mistress were close friends. Anne had allowed her principal lady-in-waiting to address her by name in private. Many maids had entered into Anne’s service and then left – dismissed by her or François, married and gone to live with their husbands, and some died. Anne and Françoise missed the king’s deceased relatives – Jeanne d’Angoulême, Countess de Bar-sur-Seine, and her daughter – Françoise de Longwy, Chabot’s wife.

In a despondent voice, Anne said, “My dream was to give François three healthy sons, and it came true. My other dream is to see Elizabeth again.”

Françoise fondly patted the queen upon the shoulder. “The gracious Lord heard your prayers and gave you your boys. You and the king can have even more children.”

Anne’s laugh was like bells. “I’d love to have another girl, Valentine. We would name her in honor of his Milanese ancestress, Valentine Visconti. It would also be good to have another son, who we would name Laurence or Lorenzo if François decides to make him Duke of Milan, for the boy would need an Italian name. Another possible name for a boy would be Louis.”

The countess assumed, “In honor of Louis d’Orléans, His Majesty’s murdered ancestor.”

“Yes. Now I’m using herbs to prevent conception. Annual pregnancies are tiring.”

Françoise presumed, “You can try for another baby next summer.”

Anne nodded happily. “It will be a year since Antoine’s birth, so it is possible.”

“Maybe another boy. Imagine four Valois boys together! They would make a great team!”

“Dauphin Henri would love any sibling. But Augustine is his favorite, Françoise.”

“Henri and Augustine have a lot in common – they are both reticent and outwardly cold.”

Anne looked out, her heart leaden. The firmament was gray and full of lowering clouds that were dissolving into the forbidding horizon. “Will my Elizabeth ever see her siblings?”

“God will hear your prays,” the older woman assured.   

The queen rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “How does Elizabeth look like now? She turned twelve years old in September, and she was a child of barely three when I left England. I imagine her easily: a lovely, graceful, and intelligent nymph with dark eyes and red-gold hair.”

Françoise’s heart ached for her mistress. “One day, you will meet with Elizabeth.”

A glimmer of hope flashed in the queen’s dark eyes. “Lizzy…”  Anne broke off as the deep-seated pain stemming from her estrangement from Elizabeth chilled her. “I feared that Henry would poison her mind against me, just as he promised years ago. Yet, it has not happened, or he has failed thanks to my daughter’s intelligence. She can see how quickly he changes wives.”

Françoise’s disdain for the English ruler was immense. “That tyrant changes women and wives as often as he alters outfits and far more often than he washes his body.”

The Queen of France let out a doleful sigh. “God saved me from Henry. A woman who has to deal with him is deprived of the warmth of day and sun, especially if they do not give him a son. Henry’s infamous gorge and health issues must have made him more mercurial.” Anne’s mind meandered to the letter. “Where is Henry now? He seems to have disappeared from England.”

The two women spent the evening playing the card game Primero. Finally bored with it, they resolved to play something else, and once they finished in a draw, they started a long party in the Italian Bassetta. Despite her outward joy, a dark presentiment was crawling within Anne.

§§§

The relatively calm evening was interrupted by the monarch’s late night visit. The faces of Anne and her guests were baffled as King François paced his wife’s bedroom upon entering, his hands folded behind his back. Outside, the darkness deepened and deepened in line with the darkening amber pools that were now full of black tempestuous waters fraught with anxiety.

The queen had invited Françoise d’Alençon to her suite, who had an amicable attitude to Anne. The two Françoises lounged in red-brocaded chairs. Their conversation had been light until the arrival of the gloomy monarch. Now bolts of tension were rippling through the air.

Françoise d’Alençon was Dowager Duchess de Vendôme – a widow of Charles de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, with whom she had had thirteen children. Some of them had died. Her oldest daughter, Marie de Bourbon, was still unmarried and had once been considered a bride for King James V of Scotland. Françoise’s oldest surviving son was Antoine de Bourbon, the current Duke de Vendôme. Françoise was the oldest daughter of the late René d’Alençon, a prince of the blood. 

Madame d’Alençon was the younger sister and despoiled heiress of the late Charles IV, Duke d’Alençon, Marguerite’s first husband. However, Françoise held no grudge against Margot, and these women were friends. Several years older than the Navarrese queen, Françoise d’Alençon had an oval face marred by wrinkles and traces of smallpox, her big blue eyes being her most pretty feature. She had a small mouth and a small nose. Her gown of red and black velvet and fine gold filigree stressed the slight plumpness of her body due to her many pregnancies.

“François, husband,” called Anne when she could no longer tolerate his relentless pacing.

The ruler turned to his consort. “Emperor Carlos made an official proclamation of his recent marriage to the so-called Infanta Maria, who is King Henry’s eldest daughter.”

The three women’s loud collective gasp was a breathing of bone-chilling fright.

“How is that possible?” The queen somewhat recovered from the shock.

The silver Aubusson carpet took the brunt of the king’s agitated pacing. “It is true, and now the whole of Christendom is aware of the emperor’s wedding in Ghent. I have no doubt that the marriage took place at the end of January, but they kept it secret for some time.”

Anne fidgeted with her gown’s jeweled collar. “Why didn’t our spies in Flanders warn us?”

François paused in the middle of the room. “Carlos replaced most of his Flemish councilors. All those who were loyal to both him and Ferdinand were fired. Some of them were my informers and received regular payments from our treasury for their services. At present, the Royal Council of the Netherlands consists of the Spaniards who are loyal exclusively to Carlos.” A sigh, then another one, and he supplemented, “This awful lot is adamant to burn heretics.”

“Rome is controlled by Monty,” pointed out Françoise de Foix in an allaying manner.

Françoise de Alençon uttered, “Your Majesty, I agree with Madame de Châteaubriant about Montmorency. Nothing can slip past his smart eyes. His brave heart beats for France.”

Anne regained her logical reasoning. “Carlos and Mary Tudor are first cousins. They need a papal dispensation for marriage. They would not have proceeded with the wedding unless they received the document from the Pope.” She emphasized in a higher voice, “From Rome!”

The ruler resumed pacing, his visage whiter than ivory. “Monty seemed to have established a firm control over Rome. No decision is made without his approval and knowledge. Using gold, Monty purchased the loyalties of the absolute majority of Roman cardinals. The Pope has been trapped by us for quite some time. Yet, there are those whom Monty does not control.”

The queen’s inner realm trembled. “Most cardinals have the allegiance to a pro-Francian Rome instead of a pro-Imperial Rome – they remember the Sack of Rome of 1527. Unlike Carlos and the Constable de Bourbon, the French troops did not plunder and desecrate the city.”

“Correct.” As his agitation rose, his strides got faster. “The Constable de Bourbon…”

Françoise d’Alençon glanced at the monarch with fear. “Your Majesty does not trust me and our family, do you? You banished us all from court after the Milanese conspiracy of our cousin – François de Bourbon, Count de St Pol and Duke d’Estouteville. Several years later, you allowed us to return; now my son, Antoine, is a close friend of Dauphin Henri. What is wrong again?”

The king smiled ambiguously. “I permitted you to come back, but I have to be vigilant.”

“We have served the House of Valois well, cousin,” Françoise d’Alençon assured.

Nevertheless, François supplied, “Your son, Antoine, is Head of the House of Bourbon. He is in the order of succession to the throne just behind my legitimate sons and grandsons.”

“We are loyal,” repeated the Dowager Duchess de Vendôme. “My husband was your friend.”

“He was, and I loved Charles de Vendôme.” The monarch then noted, “Yet, I can recall that you, cousin Françoise, attempted to arrange a marriage between Antoine and Jeanne de Navarre, my niece. I would never have allowed this union to proceed because Jeanne will be the wife of my son, Augustine. You may be my sister’s friend, but the past makes me alarmed.”

Françoise d’Alençon nodded solemnly. “Antoine will prove himself.”

The ruler summed up, “The Vendôme branch of the Bourbon family has never betrayed me. Yet, I prohibit from arranging Antoine’s marriage without my prior consent.” Truth be told, he did not want Antoine to Bourbon to marry at all: the man was loyal to Henri, but ambitious.

The Dowager Duchess de Vendôme tipped her head. “Of course, cousin.”

Madame de Châteaubriant and Queen Anne listened to their exchange in silence.

“Be loyal to the Valois, cousin of mine.” François resumed pacing. “The House of Farnese are ancient and powerful Roman aristocrats with connections throughout Italy.”

Anne inferred, “All the Farnese must be against us.”

Françoise de Foix rejoined, “Montmorency cannot buy the loyalty of any Farnese. However, Allessandro Farnese has a weakness: his bastard son, young Ranuccio, is our captive.”

The monarch paused near a table with a decanter of wine. “I’ll ask Claude d’Annebault to check on him soon. When I met him, Ranuccio appeared to be his savage older brother’s opposite. I feared that his imprisonment would have a detrimental influence upon his mental health.”

“He lives in comfortable conditions,” Anne underlined. “Ferdinand was also jailed for two years and read books because he had nothing else to do. Yet, he eventually became your ally and married your daughter, and since his release, Ferdinand has supported you.”

“Don’t compare Ferdinand and Ranuccio.” The king’s voice was strangled, as if chains were wrapped around his throat. “Ferdinand is a strong, intelligent, and courageous man with a code of honor. Ranuccio is a kind, gentle, and vulnerable man, one who has no instincts of a survivor.”

Françoise d’Alençon opined, “Ranuccio leads a more luxurious life in France than in Italy.”

The ruler filled a goblet and swallowed the contents in one gulp. “I meant his mental health. It is difficult to endure incarceration even if you are placed in a gilded cage.”

He transmuted his worry to Anne. “Has Claude d’Annebault seen Ranuccio as of late?”

He poured another goblet. “Yes. Ranuccio exhibited odd behavioral patterns.”

“My God,” whispered the queen, her hand flying to her mouth. “Have mercy on us!”

François drained the cup in several gulps. The wine was not giving him any confidence. His hands were shaking with the desperation of uncertainty of what this situation presented for France and his family. “If the Pope’s son becomes mad, it will have serious consequences for us.”

Anne’s mouth opened, shut again to mold into a grimace. “Do you mean that the Catholics and the Protestants will both blame the House of Valois for the man’s misfortunes?”

After placing the goblet at the table, he stabbed one finger at his spouse. “And how do you think? It will be a great scandal in Europe if the Pope’s son dies or loses his mind in captivity.”

Anne and the Françoises traded glances of disquieting comprehension.

Françoise de Foix locked her hands. “So far, we treated Ranuccio Farnese as our guest of honor. Yet, everyone knows that he is our prisoner living in some château under heavy guard.”

“Maybe everything will be well with Ranuccio.” Yet, nothing could quench Anne’s fear.

The monarch settled himself in a throne-like armchair, its armrests and the back decorated with the Valois heraldry. “Now we have England allied with the Holy Roman Empire through the marriage of Carlos and Mary Tudor. We also have Ranuccio whose mental health is questionable. We have some active enemies in Rome. The Pope and his family are against us.”  

Anne informed, “Elizabeth wrote that no one knows where Henry is – he disappeared some time ago. Most likely, he went to Ghent to sign the treaty with Carlos and attend Mary’s wedding.”

“They will launch a new invasion,” surmised King François, sliding a ring up and down his finger. “Carlos and Henry are obsessed with revenge. Henry has always dreamed of wearing the crown of France: he keeps declaring in front of his court that he will exercise the old Plantagenet claim to our country and take Paris. The emperor must want the Duchy of Milan and vengeance.”

Stark horror chilled Anne. “This is how it stands.”

“What will we do?” asked a terrified Françoise d’Alençon.

Terror squeezed the air from Françoise de Foix’s lungs. “When will they attack?”

“In summer, I think,” prophesied the King of France. “We shall cope with God’s help.”

François leaned forward and grabbed a quill from a black marble table. In silence, he penned something, and sealed it with the Valois seal. As he spent all nights in his spouse’s bed, he kept many of his personal belongings, even the Great Royal Seal, in Anne’s quarters.     

His smile was thin. “I’ll send this document to Chancellor Guillaume Poyet, Anne.”

His wife understood nothing, but she trusted the king. “Of course, mon amour.”

The king’s smile thinned further as his tumult corroded his insides. “At present, if I’m unable to make decisions, Marguerite has the right to represent me, speak in my name, and sign all state documents. Margot and I have long ruled together, and she is a better administrator than me.” He pointed at his consort. “Now you and my son, Dauphin Henri, will have the same authority, wife.”  

Anne’s heart swooped. “Why do I need it?”

François now looked like a gray thing, yet he was still grinning, but his features whispered of the world of the shadows. “If I’m incapacitated or killed, you will need this a lot, Anne.”

The two Françoises made the sign of a cross. “God bless Your Majesties!”

The king and queen stared at one another. They silently described the actors of the lethal spectacle Carlos and Henry would play, as well as the places and the people involved. Yet, they had no idea that the two women close to them would prove to be their worst adversaries.  

Notes:

Hello everyone! We hope that you are fine and sane. This is a sort of transitional chapter.

King Henri II of Navarre arrived at court with Anne de Pisseleu. We are going to have some drama between Anne, Henri, and Marguerite de Navarre. François and Henri remain friends and cousins, and Henri will play an important role in the coming drama in France. We think Anne de Pisseleu deserves to see her daughter. Dauphin Henri’s relationship with Diane de Poitiers is changing for some reason. Any ideas why? Do you like little Charlotte and Diane?

We learn what is happening in Italy. Someone tried to poison the new Doge of Venice and even Thomas Boleyn. The progress is that Anne no longer hates her father, and perhaps she will make peace with him over time. We are taking real Doges from Venetia’s history: Pietro Lando was Doge of Venice from 1538 and 1545, while Francesco Donato ruled from 1545 to 1553.

Anne and François do want to have more children, but Anne will not be pregnant every year. Now they know about the emperor’s marriage to Mary Tudor. François is still wary of the Bourbon family. Anne also communicates with Elizabeth, who will appear in chapter 58.

Attention! VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance (Athenais) are co-writing the story called “Entwined by a Golden Alliance.” Give it a try, please! We highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, Marina Ka-Fai, AnnaTaure, BubblyYork, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Lady Plantagenet in the White Queen fandom.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 58: Chapter 57: Darkness of Plotting

Notes:

Queen Anne has a candid conversation Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly. Catherine de’ Medici and her accomplices commit something bad: there is bloodshed.

We made Catherine de’ Medici in our dramatization of her historically known ruthlessness a bit more evil than she was in history. For that, we apologize to Catherine as a historical figure. Now it is time for plotting, time for punishment will come.

We recommend the works by BubblyYork, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, annethequene, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 57: Darkness of Plotting

March 20, 1545, Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, close to Paris, France

Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly entered the palatine chapel of the château. The old oratory, built by King Louis IX known as Saint Louis in the 13th century, was her spiritual sanctuary.

“Beauty may be eternal,” Anne told herself, examining her surroundings.

The building was of tall height, as if signifying God’s authority over people. The solemn interior was a true masterpiece of the radiant Gothic style. Almost all of the wall areas were filled by tall thin glass windows to let in the maximum light of day, between which there were large exterior buttresses. The magnificent ogives of the vault rested on columns between the bays.   

It is for the better that there are no frescoes here, Anne de Pisseleu remarked silently as she walked down the nave. The sensation of being close to ancient times will be lost if frescoes had been added here. Although she felt closer to the Lord, in the melancholy phantasm passing before her mind’s eye, of a period of bloodshed and savagery in France, she recalled the sin that tormented her more than the burden of her many liaisons – her connection with the Lorraine brothers.

Crossing herself, Anne knelt by the altar and bowed her head in fervent prayer.

I helped Claude, Duke de Guise, and Cardinal Jean de Lorraine escape to Spain. They blackmailed me, and in those moments, I did not think that my actions could endanger the House of Valois. God, I beseech you to have mercy on me, and to let me atone for my wrongdoings.

She lifted her scrutiny to the vaulted ceiling, and tears pooled into her eyes. Loving all things progressive and intellectual, she had deeply sympathized with the Protestants. After the siege of Rome of 1540 by King François and King Ferdinand, Anne had been horrified with the Pope’s crimes against France and the Valois family, which had her led to convert into Protestantism.

Now Anne de Pisseleu was of the same religion with Anne Boleyn. The Duchess d’Étampes had no idea whether the Queen of France believed more in Luther or Calvin’s teachings, but she herself adhered to Calvin’s doctrines. One of the few French people who still corresponded with her was Philip de Chabot, Admiral de Brion, who had also secretly repudiated Catholicism.    

Anne bowed her head once more and lost herself in another prayer.                       

Gracious Lord, I thank you with all my heart for giving me my children – Charlotte, Celeste, Arnaud, and Raphael. Before Charlotte’s birth, I never dreamed that I would have several little ones whom I love so unconditionally. Forgive me for birthing them out of wedlock.

Since the renewal of her affair with Henri d’Albert, Anne de Pisseleu had birthed him three children – two boys and a girl. Henri had acknowledged them all and loved them dearly, although he had told his mistress several times that his legitimate daughter, Princess Jeanne, would succeed him in due time. Henri and Anne had their own happy family in Navarre. He had declared her his official maîtresse-en-titre, and unlike François, Henri remained faithful to Anne.

It had seemed that nothing could annihilate her happiness. However, Marguerite of Navarre had arrived at Pau and taken away little Charlotte. Despite the affection of Henri and their offspring for her, there had been a void in her heart caused by Anne’s estrangement from Charlotte. Almost four years since she had last seen the pretty creature had elapsed before their reunion.

Anne made the sign of a cross. “My Lord, I thank you for giving Charlotte back to me.” 

It was a bitter thing to recall past mistakes, but Anne’s thoughts drifted to the ruler of France. François looked as glorious and dashing as always. She had seen François twice since her arrival because Henri kept her away from the Valois family. François had called the Duchess d’Étampes his gorgeous Venus borne out of mythological sea-foam. When once their gazes had locked, Anne had realized that her love for the French ruler had vanished like a fog in a strong breeze.

I long ceased adoring François, the duchess mused. My love for Henri is deeper. In her now far more content present, she endeavored to measure the cycles of her past with François de Valois, this time in terms of her own lifetime. Anne de Pisseleu had been only one of the many sweeteners in the luxurious life of the Valois ruler – nothing else. However, she wished François well.

Holy Father, save and protect France and King François from his enemies! Amen.

Footsteps interrupted her prayer. The duchess jerked to her feet to see the Queen of France.

Queen Anne strolled down the nave. “You have acquired such piety, Madame.” 

The Duchess d’Étampes stared at her in confusion for a long moment before curtseying.

The monarch’s wife noted, “You come here twice a day.” 

Anne de Pisseleu swallowed hard. “Your Majesty has many spies.” 

“Everyone knows that at court.” The queen stopped next to her husband’s former paramour.

“Be at ease, Your Majesty. I was ordered to leave in two months.” 

“Has Henri of Navarre spoken to François?” 

The duchess clenched her teeth: her former rival must be jeering at her. “Because of my affair with Henri, there is a rift between them. They are not as great friends as before.” 

“That I know.” The queen noticed the tremble in her lower lip. “You must understand that you have deserved such hostile attitude from François and Marguerite.” 

Anne de Pisseleu lifted her chin. “Henri of Navarre and I worship each other. People often do not feel anything for their spouses. François did not love his first two wives, yet he adores you.” 

“Your liaison with Henri had begun long before Marguerite relocated to France.” 

“It did,” admitted the mistress. “François had countless paramours, and only his feelings for you made him alter his womanizing ways. It irked me that he summoned me to his quarters after being with someone else and read to me love poems when his lips were tainted with the kisses of his other paramours. Offended, I thought that I had the right to have my own dalliances.” 

“Out of petty revenge,” the queen concluded.

“Call it so, Your Majesty. It matters not.” 

A niggle of jealousy wormed its way through the queen’s bosom. Despite her husband’s fidelity to her, she was jealous of the ruler to the past. “Did you love François?” 

“I did,” replied Anne de Pisseleu squarely. “I loved both the king and the man in François, and the power he allowed me to wield at his court.” She grinned as she envisaged the face of her current lover. “My feelings for Henri are deeper than those for François were. I have no influence at the court of Navarre: I’m not respected there because they all adore Queen Marguerite and blame me for the break-up of their sovereigns. I stay there only because of my relationship with Henri.” 

Queen Anne regarded her as if she had never seen Anne de Pisseleu before. She had never thought that this woman was capable of loving anyone but herself, status, and wealth. For the first time, the queen saw in this woman the light of a passionate soul untainted by avarice – it was beginning to show, wave its arms, and grope with tiny hands, wrapping the duchess’ whole being. Anne de Pisseleu has changed, the queen thought. Or perhaps true love has transformed her.

“I’m Marguerite’s close friend,” uttered Queen Anne.

The duchess warded off the urge to run away. “François, Marguerite, and you rule.” 

“They do,” the monarch’s spouse clarified. “I only help them.” 

The mistress glanced towards the exit. “Your Majesty, I’ll not annoy any of you.” 

The ruler’s wife shook her head. “There is no need.” 

“What do you mean?” a confused Anne de Pisseleu asked.

“I spoke to François and Marguerite,” confided the queen. “You can appear everywhere on condition that you do not behave as an enamored couple with Henri of Navarre in front of our nobles. You can also come to Saint-Germain any time to meet with your daughter.”   

The duchess opened her mouth, but no words emerged due to her bewilderment.

“Little Charlotte is innocent and loves you dearly. She needs her mother, just as any child does. I did it for her, Madame d’Étampes. I hope you will not make me regret it.” 

“Thank you,” breathed the royal paramour. “I might.” 

The queen seated herself on a pew. “What did you do?” 

Words of her transgressions with the Lorraine brothers were on the duchess’ lips. However, fear paralyzed her for what seemed an interminable amount of time, and silence ensued.

“Better tell me everything now, Madame d’Étampes, before François learns about it.” 

Garnering her courage, Anne de Pisseleu confessed, “I dallied with both Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, and Cardinal Jean de Lorraine. I’ve never had any connection with Pope Paul, and I’m a Protestant like you. However, when they escaped from Fontainebleau after the attempt on your life, they came to my estate. I aided them to flee to Spain, where they reside now.” 

As the two Annes stared at each other, the silence of shattered nerves reigned.

The queen demanded, “Does Henri d’Albert know that?” 

“No.” The duchess envisaged how she would be dragged out of the chapel in chains.

“Did they blackmail you?” It seemed to be the most obvious thing.

Anne de Pisseleu tipped a nod. “They threatened that if I don’t help them, François will sign my death warrant. I did not see any other way out, but I’ve repented since then.” 

The queen discerned her contrition in the emerald orbs. “I see.” 

The duchess placed a hand to her mouth, as if to cover her shame and fright. “I’ve never contacted them again. I swear upon my eternal soul and those of my children that I’ve never plotted against François and the House of Valois. I may give my life for France.” 

The queen studied her for a long time. “I believe you.” 

The mistress’ hands trembled. “What will you do, Madame?” 

“François is too chivalrous to execute a woman, but he does not need to know. Maybe I’ll tell him that our spies reported Emperor Carlos had given refuge to the Lorraine brothers.” 

The duchess’ jaw dropped in amazement. “Why don’t you merely get rid of me?” 

“I believe in divine mercy. You and I are those whom the Pope and his villains call heretics and have them burned. If we start destroying ourselves, the Almighty will not forgive us.” 

Anne de Pisseleu had never been so shocked and grateful in her life. “Thank you.” 

The queen’s mind drifted to the Lorraine brothers. Worms of apprehension writhed in her stomach. “I wonder whether these two fugitives are also plotting against us.” 

The ghastly assumption horrified the duchess. “Lord, what I did!” 

“Calm down and go to your daughter, Madame d’Étampes. Let me pray.” 

After curtsying to the Queen of France, Anne de Pisseleu prodded along the nave. It seemed to go on forever, her entire body shaking, her legs wobbling and teetering, and her heart pulsating with gratitude, astonishment, contrition, and yet fright. Before walking out, she glanced at the west wall adorned with a large Gothic rose window, and thanked the Lord for not being arrested.

§§§

Outside Anne de Pisseleu encountered the man whom she avoided like the plague. He was her husband – Jean de Brosse, Duke d’Étampes. Son of René de Brosse and Jeanne de Commines, Jean had first become Count de Penthièvre after his father’s death at Pavia in 1525. As the governor of Brittany, Jean had been summoned to court to discuss state affairs with the king.

Jean asked derisively, “Did you pray for the atonement of your lewd soul, Messalina?” 

“What?” Anne glared at him. “You dare insult me! Why, you arrogant bastard!”

This word reverberated through the air sharply, but Jean only laughed waspishly.

Having married on the king’s orders in 1533, they had shared a bed only one time. To Anne’s fury, and to Jean’s amusement, King François had insisted that they consummate their union so that it could not be dissolved lest Jean would later try to find a way out of their marriage. The annulment would mean that Anne would lose her ducal title, so she had unwillingly consented.

Her night with Jean had been an ordeal. She had not allowed him to see her naked, so they had coupled after he had raised her skirts and unlaced his hose. Anne had prohibited him from spilling his seed into her and kept her eyes tightly squeezed while Jean had pumped into her. Afterwards, Anne has thrown him out of her apartments with the command to never come back.

The duchess examined the man she reluctantly called her husband. Garbed in a doublet of burgundy satin, ornamented with jewels and with white slashing, his toque of black velvet, Jean de Brosse had an oval face with a deep-set hazel eyes and a strong jaw, framed with a fashionable brown stubble. Jean’s chestnut hair nearly matched the color of his eyes, and his skin was of a very light olive tone. Jean is quite a handsome man, Anne de Pisseleu remarked to herself.

Vitriol spilled out of Anne. “Why are you going to the church, Monsieur d’Étampes?   Will you beg for God’s forgiveness for having a great number of mistresses who visit your bed?” 

“I’ve complied with your request to never disturb you again. I live like a free man.” 

“Our marriage engineered by His Majesty let you become a duke.” 

Icy fury chilled his blood as Jean backed her against the church door and planted his hands beside her shoulders, trapping her. “You do not care with whom to sleep – King François or his brother-in-law, King Henri of Navarre. And the poor late Prince Charles.” 

Her hand collided with his cheek. “My private life is none of your business! You received the ducal privileges thanks to our sovereign’s arrangement of your marriage to me. You might hate me fiercely, but you will not change this fact, and you will never be free from me.” 

“How can I?”  In gesture of affection or loathing, the duke smoothed her hair down over one shoulder. He jeered, “You are a mistress of two kings! The world will always remember this shameful detail of your biography. At the French court, no one can forget that you slept with their liege lord for years, but he rejected you for the sake of his love for our queen. Everyone sees you with Henri d’Albert, cursing you for the strife between Queen Marguerite and him.” 

“You are the crudest man I’ve ever met,” she spluttered.

In a trance, Étampes removed her cap and then several hairpins until her hair tumbled down in a twisted rope about her neck. He should extricate himself from her now, but he could not. He raked his fingers through the thick mass until the blonde strands scattered over his fingers like threads of silk. So soft… How long was it since I last dreamed of touching hair like this? 

“Not half as crude as some others are, trust me. Yet, you ought to know how coarse men can be because a whore such as yourself leaves one man’s bed to throw yourself into another’s.” 

At this, Anne slapped her spouse harder than before. “You are not better than me! You have many lovers, one of them Claude de Annebault’s wife. You should not lecture me.” 

Before another cruelty could leave her lips, Jean brought his mouth down on hers. Anne was stunned into shocked immobility. His lips moved over hers with gentle persuasion, and his breath mingled with hers. Then Anne pushed her spouse away from her with all her might.

Her emerald eyes glowed with ire. “Don’t come anywhere near me!” 

“If I were Henri d’Albert, I would have sent you to Château de Saumur in order to dispose of you and be with his wife or other lovers, just as Dauphin Henri did to his unwanted spouse.” 

Jean’s grin and words infuriated her. “You were warned.”  Then she fled from him.

Anne loves Henri of Navarre, lamented the Duke d’Étampes as he slammed his fist into the church door. Jean had seen the absolute adoration in his wife’s gaze directed at the Navarrese ruler – he had never glimpsed it in her emerald pools during her long tenure as King François’ maîtresse-en-titre. Behind all the disdain towards her, Jean concealed his affection for this vixen, which he could not tear from his heart for a long time despite all his attempts to fall for someone else.

Étampes crossed himself. “God forgive and help me.” Then he entered the chapel.


March 30, 1545, Château de Saumur, the town of Saumur, the Loire Valley, France

Diane de Poitiers reclined on a bed with a canopy of white taffeta falling from the ceiling. She was naked, eyes closed, her long blond hair sprawled across the white sheets. Although she was forty-five, her body was lean, wiry, and well-preserved, as if it were sculpted by an artist.

I want to return to court and shine there, Diane lamented. She realized why Henri had sent Catherine de’ Medici and her household to this town. While King François loved the Loire Valley, he rarely visited Château de Saumur, so Henri could keep his unwanted wife away from him here. Originally constructed in the 10th century by Theobald I, Count of Blois, the château had been converted into a royal palace by King Henry II of England during the Angevin Empire.

A nude Diane ran to the window. The castle stood at the edge of a high, abrupt cliff, offering gorgeous views on the city and on the fertile Loire Valley. Even in the darkness, the scenery was spectacular: the dark river, meandering calmly through the town and the surrounding woods. She could see part of the four octagonal towers, which were capped with pepper-pot roof.

The fortress had been owned by the Plantagenet dynasty until King Philippe II of France called Augustus had seized it in 1203. Much later, in the 1370-80s, Duke Louis I d’Anjou had the castle lavishly decorated and refurnished in order to rival the mansions of his older brother, King Charles V the Wise. King René of Naples, son of Duke Louis II d’Anjou and Yolande of Aragon, had converted this chateau into an elegant Renaissance palace during the 15th century.

“Henri,” she murmured to herself, her hands cupping her own breasts. “My Henri!” 

A moment later, the door opened, and her lover entered, a goblet in his hand.

“When will we return to court?” Diane returned to the bed and lay there.

“I promise that as soon as Catherine conceives, we will leave her in Saumur and depart.” 

Dauphin Henri crossed to a walnut table. Having emptied the cup, he slammed it at the table with such force that it could have been shattered. “I cannot tolerate Catherine.” 

His mistress tensed. “What has she done wrong, mon amour?” 

He rammed his fist into the table. “That Italian merchant is begging for my love again.” 

“Ah, I see.”  She grinned malignantly to herself.

Although Catherine and I are allies, Henri must be her husband only for procreation. All his affection belongs to me! Despite being distant cousins and partners in crimes, Diane understood that she had to tread carefully around the Italian woman whose extreme viciousness and craft were like those of the most venomous serpent. Diane and Catherine would always vie for Henri.

“Did you sleep with her?” quizzed the dauphin’s paramour.

An incensed Henri cleared the table of everything. “I’m in the mood to destroy the whole palace. You want to know why I feel so? Well, you will keep asking me something until you drag the answer out of my lips. You are accustomed to getting your way with me, Diane. So, I learned to just give it sooner rather than later a while ago because I do not want to argue.” 

A shiver of alarm slithered along her spine. “Why such a brusque tone?” 

Henri still stood near the table, looking into space. “Diane, I cannot and don’t want to comply with my old promise to always be only with you, and to never be frank with anyone save you. I told you so because I was a child bereft of my father’s love – as I foolishly thought back then – and you were one of the few people who understood me. Now I’m a grown-up man with my own opinion, so I’ll have liaisons and friendships with those I like and consider worthy.” 

His tirade struck the mistress like a bolt of sharp lightning. “Why, Henri? Why are you so unfair to me? Haven’t I been a loving and loyal companion to you?” 

“Yes, Diane. However, you must understand that I am a man and an heir apparent to the French throne. I am nobody’s marionette. If you accept this, then nothing will change.” 

A silence ensued between them. Diane was taking deep breaths. Terror rattled her brain: was the dauphin suspecting that she had killed Anne de Laval, his mistress? No, I’m being paranoid. I did everything neatly, and if they had suspected me, I would already have been apprehended.

Fear spurred Diane on, and she said, “I’ll do anything for you, Henri.” 

“Good.” His footsteps got closer to the bed, but her eyes were shut. “I need you.”

Her eyes fluttered open. Henri stood inches away, his eyes reflecting desire and anger.

“I’ve been waiting for you.” She glided her hand down her hips. “I want you.” 

“Mmm,” groaned Henri. “Finding you like Eve in this white-draped bed… You are perfect.” 

His mistress lifted herself on her knees. She adroitly unlaced his hose, reached down, and put his manhood into her mouth. “I love you, Henri,” she murmured as his hands cupped her head.

After several minutes, Henri could not endure the sensual torture anymore. He shrugged off his doublet, undid his shirt, and threw them onto the floor. Capturing her mouth, he grabbed the bewitching creature without age who he lusted after. Surprisingly, his lover’s unparalleled beauty seemed only more dazzling in a thick aura of chilly perfection about Diane.

For a long time, Diane practiced the witchery of her salacious allure upon Henri. They had already tried everything in intimacies, but every time there was vehement passion between them. They rode each other like wild stallions until their bodies stilled against the swarming waves of ecstasy that drove them both to the uttermost pinnacle of the fantastical world of sensations.    

“Do you remember our first time together, Diane?”  He nuzzled her neck.

A smile warmed her relaxed countenance. “An eternity ago.” 

“Nine years earlier,” he pinpointed, kissing the curve of her shoulder, then the swell of her breast. “It was a few months before Anne’s arrival in France. I was a boy back then.” 

Her fond memories of this day were strong. “Henri, it was the best moment in my life. It was when my soul, heart, and body were reborn. I had never fantasized that I could be adored by a man before I met you.” She stifled her loathing towards her long-gone husband.

Henri kissed her hands tenderly. “Before our romance started, I had believed that if a man kisses a pretty girl, he must protect himself from being emotionally involved. I watched my father change trollops and betray his wives. So, I was afraid to fall in love.” 

Something inside her shuddered. “And what do you think now?” 

“I no longer have such concerns.” He bent his head, savoring the taste of her lips.

The burning sweetness of his kiss seemed to be a characteristic of a genuine love kiss.

“All gods, Diane! Your lips are softer than a rose’s leaf, your mouth is sweeter than honey, and your eyes are bluer than a summer sky. Don’t do anything to disappoint me.” 

Oh Henri, it hurts, his mistress mused with unforeseen contrition. You are with me… But you don’t know what I did for you with Catherine. Memories of his brothers’ deaths haunted her, sharpening her guilt and twisting her gut. She would never escape these toxic feelings.

Diane adored Henri. This, coupled with what had just happened between them, stabbed her deep. For years, she had feared that the independence of her spirit, which had not been subdued by the tyrannical Louis de Brézé, would be lost. However, eventually Diane had fallen in love with Dauphin Henri, and because of that, she experienced guilt that Catherine did not feel.     

In the next moment, Diane knew that even if the guilt would strangle her, she would go to any lengths to make Henri King of France. Visions of her lover being crowned at Reims Cathedral and of her sitting in the gilded throne next to him, being his queen in all but name inundated her mind. We did the right thing when we allied with the emperor and the Tudor heretic.

Lewd excitement illuminated Henri’s eyes. “Let me show you something.” 

“Yes, Henri…” Their mouths met in ferocious mutual hunger. “Henri…” 

Suddenly, the dauphin pulled away. “Diane, don’t forget what I had said before I took you.”  His gaze hardened like glass. “I don’t want us to have quarrels and problems.” 

His paramour feigned submission. “I’ll remember it, mon amour. Now kiss me!” 

Moans and shrieks of ecstasy every time they climaxed erupted from Diane’s bedroom long past midnight. They did not know that Catherine watched them from the adjacent room, where she had made a hole in the door in order to know how her husband made love to her hated rival.   

§§§

With her Florentine ladies, Dauphine Catherine entered one of the rooms, occupied by low-ranking nobles when the court resided at Saumur; the King of France had last come here years ago.

Illuminated dimly only by two candles that the dauphine’s ladies had lit up, this rather dark room with rose-print wallpaper was furnished modestly with couches the color of greenbeans and ebony chairs. At the other side of the chamber, there was an entrance to the bedroom.   

“I’ve prepared daggers,” apprised Maddalena Bonajusti.

“Excellent.” Catherine’s nerves were on the verge of exploding.

For some time, the dauphine paced back and forth furiously. Her mood was more foul than usual. Catherine had hoped that after Princess Claude’s birth, Henri would fall for her, for she had given him a second child, even though Claude was their first healthy baby. However, Henri had expelled her to Saumur from Fontainebleau, and his attitude to his wife had become colder.

Hours earlier, Catherine had welcomed the dauphin in her apartments. Pushing her away, Henri had announced that as soon as she found herself pregnant for a third time, he would leave for Saint-Germain with Diane, leaving his wife to rot at Saumur. While Catherine had protested, he had carried her to a bed and performed the primitive act of mating. Henri! As usual, I begged you to love me, Catherine wept inwardly, but you left me in tears after spilling your seed into me.

Lucrezia Cavalcanti inquired, “Will Dauphin Henri permit you to go to Saint-Germain?”

The dauphine stopped next to a couch. “No. Henri is angry that he still does not have a heathy son. He laments that he was too close to annulment, but lost the chance because of my pregnancy.”  She resumed pacing. “Ah, if only my little François had been stronger…”    

“Your husband does not deserve you.” Maddalena despised the dauphin.

Lucrezia shared this opinion. “You sacrifice so much for His Highness.”    

Catherine’s hand flew to her belly. “My astrologers said that my next son would be robust.” 

“God will give you several boys,” Maddalena assured.

Catherine sighed. “At least, Henri is not rude when performing his conjugal duties.” 

Her ladies-in-waiting glanced at their princess compassionately.

“Your Highness,” Maddalena addressed her mistress. “Are you certain that this plan to entrap the Boleyn harlot in Boulogne and King François in Milan will work?” 

Catherine tipped her head confidently. “Absolutely. I’ve thought out each and every detail before that Poitiers whore went to Ghent. Now we are allied with those who feel mortal hatred for François and his strumpet. Carlos and Henry will go to any lengths for vengeance.” 

The dauphine crossed to a window; the night was black, and the moon was clouded. “Henry of England might not kill the harlot after he captures Boulogne, but he will definitely take her and her damned sons out of France. If that English buffoon does not have her murdered, someone we trust will travel to England and send her to the netherworld, where her heretical soul will burn.” 

“What about King François?” quizzed Lucrezia.

Catherine swiveled away from the window and laughed like a demoness. “That pagan ruler will be unable to escape from Milan when the Imperial hordes surround the city. As François will have only a local garrison, he will not leave the city. There will be a long siege.” 

“Why a long one, Madame Caterina?” Maddalena arched a brow. “He will have nothing to eat in several months after the beginning of the siege. He will capitulate!” 

The dauphine shook her head. “François will know that Carlos will have him burned as a heretic if he surrenders, so he will hold the city as long as he can. How hard I will be laughing!” 

Maddalena’s lips lengthened into a nefarious grin. “To burn him as a heretic?” 

Catherine eased herself in a throne-like ebony chair. “Yes, my friends. His Holiness loathes François immeasurably. Only Carlos and Henry hate him with equal ferocity.”   

Maddalena leaned against the wall. “Well, King François married that heathen from England and allowed her to worship heresy in private. It matters not that she does not have heretical books and attends Masses – Anne abjured the true faith. Being married to her and continuing the religious tolerance in France makes François as much a pagan as his whorish wife is.” 

Catherine nodded. “That’s my reasoning too.” 

Laughing devilishly, Lucrezia started twirling around the room. “François burned by Carlos! Anne killed by Henry! These dreams are so marvelous for us all! God bless the Pope!” 

Maddalena added, “The Lord bless the craft and connections of Her Highness.” 

“Once Emperor Carlos wanted to subjugate France,” Maddalena commenced. “What if after he has François burned, Carlos invades France again? Won’t he try to dispose of Dauphin Henri?” 

“Carlos might try.”  The dauphine caressed her massive sapphire wedding ring on her index finger. “After the horrendous death of King François at the stake in Milan, the entirety of France will hate the Habsburgs so extremely ferociously that they will destroy any invader. Henri, their new sovereign, will lead the glorious French army and crush them once and for all. The Duchy of Milan might be lost during these wars, but I care only for the French throne.”  

Lucrezia nodded her comprehension. “Indeed, the French rallied to François’ cause in 1536 during the previous Imperial invasion. The aversion towards the Spaniards and all foreigners is still alive. If their dear Knight-King is burned by the emperor, they will support Henri as François’ eldest heir with more frantic enthusiasm to defend their country and avenge François’ demise.”

Maddalena supplemented, “There may be another bloody war, perhaps on French territory.”   

Catherine kissed her ring. “The French will expel the enemy, just as they always did in the past. The nation won the Hundred Years War, led by King Charles the Seventh of France called the Victorious and his generals. The people of France are united and still immensely loyal to the House of Valois, which many foreigners do not understand.” She smiled. “If Carlos later invades, Henri will become a national hero of France who will expel the evil dog Carlos and extract vengeance upon him for the burning of their beloved and chivalrous François.”

Maddalena was deeply impressed. “Madame, you are a genius!” 

The dauphine shut her eyes, imagining herself the Queen of France. “I must think for Henri because he has become soft in his heart. As if he had never wanted to rule!” 

Lucrezia noted, “Your husband loves his father and is his stepmother’s friend.” 

Catherine slammed her fist into the armrest. “That Boleyn slut will pay!” 

Maddalena ruminated, “François is in excellent health, and so is his Boleyn pagan. They might live for long, while Your Highness and Dauphin Henri will wait in the queue to the throne.” 

The dauphine clenched her teeth. “The king and his trollop have five children. We already have to dispose of three sons, but just imagine if they have another son or two.” 

Lucrezia reminded cautiously, “What about the prediction of your astrologers that if you destroy François and Anne, it will be your end and the end of the Medici family?”     

The dauphine leaned back in her seat. “Carlos and Henry will destroy them, not me.” 

“Bravo, Your Highness!” Her ladies applauded.  

Catherine asked, “Lucrezia, do you have news from Montecuccoli?”   

The dauphine was fully aware of Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli’s amours with Lucrezia. Every time Montecuccoli went to Italy or somewhere else on the Pope’s or Catherine’s missions, all the messages were always relied through Lucrezia. Montecuccoli was still in the Republic of Venice, where he had escorted the deceased Elizabeth Boleyn on her Italian trip months ago.

Lucrezia reported, “Sebastiano did everything Your Highness and the Pope commanded. He poisoned the two Stafford children of that elder Boleyn slut who is married to Montmorency.” 

Catherine’s eyes flashed. “No doctor could help poor children?” 

“No one!”  Lucrezia leered. “The brats suffered for two days, then passed away.” 

The dauphine smiled. “Very good. The Boleyn sisters must suffer.” 

“Why did only Elizabeth Boleyn die?” Maddalena rejoined. “Why not Thomas Boleyn?” 

Lucrezia strode over to Catherine’s chair and genuflected, as if the Dauphine of France were the Almighty. “Madame Caterina, Sebastiano and I are begging you to forgive him. By accident, only Lady Wiltshire died, while her husband did not drink any poisoned wine.” 

The dauphine dismissed her from the knees. “I’m confident of your loyalty.” 

Lucrezia continued, “Sebastiano tried to poison Lord Wiltshire several times, but he failed.” 

Catherine ground out, “At least, Montecuccoli murdered that old Doge Lando. When will the new Doge Donato breathe his last? Donato must be destroyed because he supports François.” 

Lucrezia stepped back from the armchair. Her gaze downcast, she said, “Forgive him, Your Highness! Sebastiano tried several times, but so far he could not accomplish his goal.” 

The dauphine veered her scrutiny to the window: the moon was hidden behind the clouds. “Sebastiano can make only one more attempt, and if it is thwarted, he must travel back to France.” 

Maddalena underlines, “But it is the Pope’s order!”   

Catherine ponded this. “If Montecuccoli is discovered, it will make things much worse. I myself will contact His Holiness and explain everything.”   

Lucrezia was in love with the Italian count and poisoner. “Thank you, Your Highness.” 

For some time, they deliberated over Catherine’s traps for the French royal couple.

§§§

The door flung open. Diane de Poitiers glided inside as if she were moving along the surface of a smooth pond. Her appearance – she wore a night robe of white and black silk ornamented with gold – did not leave any doubt as to what the dauphin had been doing with her before.

Henri’s paramour regarded the three Florentines with curiosity. It was unusual to see them all dressed in black, although the court was in mourning for the late Countess of Wiltshire.

“Catherine.” Diane crossed to the dauphine’s armchair. “I’ve brought what you need.” 

The Medici princess stood up and took from the hands of her husband’s mistress the Valois Great Seal. It was a copy of the authentic seal of King François, which belonged to Dauphin Henri. As Henri was actively involved in state affairs and trusted by his father, he had this seal.

Catherine lauded, “Madame Mistress, you are a resourceful woman.” 

Diane gave her a pointed look. “Just as you are, Madame Serpent.” 

“You are no less crafty than me,” jeered the dauphine. “After all, it was not me who voyaged to Ghent and established our alliance with Emperor Carlos and King Henry.” 

An irritated Diane huffed, “God’s bones! It was your idea, Catherine.”   

“Is it a praise?” Catherine’s soul palpitated with pride for herself.

“Sort of.” Her spouse’s lover knitted brows. “It is a good idea.” 

Catherine smiled. “I’ll work hard to make Henri the ruler of France.” 

For a moment, the two female competitors stared at one another with abhorrence. The Italian serpent with bulging Medici eyes and the Poitiers courtesan shining in her chilly loveliness.

The mistress hissed, “It is high time to get rid of François and his prostitute, as well as their sons. If Carlos invades France, we will use François’ burning to make people rally to Henri, who will liberate the country and rise from the ashes of the Valois family like a phoenix.” 

“These are my thoughts, too.” Catherine respected Diane only for her intelligence.

Diane enquired, “Will those heretics in Provence and Piedmont be massacred soon?” 

Catherine caressed the Valois seal in her hands. “Now I can create any document as if from the King of France. When the French generals in these provinces receive his command to eradicate the Waldensians in the village of Mérindol from the face of the earth, they will obey.” 

“Heretics must be annihilated,” hissed Diane between set teeth.

Catherine nodded: they were both against new religion and considered it necessary to purge Europe from paganism with fire and sword. “They will be killed as if on His Majesty’s orders.” 

Tilting her head back, Madame de Poitiers laughed diabolically. “The noble-minded Knight-King will become the murderer of thousands of Protestants! Ah, it is too great to be true!”   

The dauphine’s grin was spiteful. “This will destroy France’s Protestant alliance.” 

“Our nation should not be allied with the heretics,” Diane concurred.

Catherine walked to the window again. The moon appeared from behind the clouds at last, and the snow was now falling. “It will be the beginning of François’ end. As soon as this massacre occurs, he will rush to Piedmont and then to Milan so as to understand what is going on.” 

The dauphin’s paramour enjoyed their conversation despite her dislike of Catherine. “François will not leave Milan alive.” Diane dramatically flung her arms up. “Ah, it is such a pity that François will not be buried in Basilica of Saint-Denis next to his two previous wives.” 

Standing a small distance away, Maddalena and Lucrezia sniggered viperously.  

Diane shared the news from the Lorraine brothers. “I received a note from Duke Claude de Guise through the Pope’s spy at the French court. He and his brother, Cardinal Jean, have lived in Spain in one of the estates owned by Francisco de les Cobos, regent of Spain.” 

The Medici eyes reflected excitement. “Will they join the emperor’s army in Milan?” 

Diane inclined her head. “Yes. They are itching to fight against François.” 

“Pass on my regards to them.” The exiled Lorraine brothers were assets to their cause.

“I need to go in case Henri wakes up.” Diane smoothed her hair in a picturesque manner.

Catherine glared at her with jealousy. “Madame Mistress, ensure that he sleeps well.” 

“I shall, Madame Serpent.” Diane liked their verbal battles with covert sense.

The paramour glanced at the door. “Where is the English ambassador?” 

Maddalena apprised, “We are awaiting him.” 

The door creaked, and a male figure emerged in the doorway. “I’m already here.” 

Catherine stepped to their guest. “Welcome, Sir Nicholas. You are late.” 

“I beg your pardon, Your Highness,” started Sir Nicholas Wotton, who served as the English ambassador at the Valois court for years. “Because of the bad weather, it took me days to travel from Saint-Germain-en-Laye to Saumur. I bring news from King Henry of England.” 

Eagerness to participate made Diane unembarrassed. Disregarding that she was dressed in her night robe, she approached the ambassador. “Monsieur Wotton, are the English forces ready?” 

Wotton had known Diane for years. “Madame de Poitiers! Your beauty is eternal.” 

This angered Catherine. “Wotton, say what you must, finally.” 

Henri’s paramour laughed at Catherine. “Calm down, Your Highness.” 

Nicholas Wotton revealed, “My sovereign returned to England two weeks ago. He could not sail from Flanders for weeks due to the severe winter storms in the Channel. He then journeyed to the coast to inspect the English ships and ordered to start preparations for the invasion.” 

“When they will be ready?” Catherine’s fingers fidgeted with the collar of her gown.

“In the next summer,” notified Wotton. “It takes a lot of time to mobilize such armies.” 

The secret agreement between Emperor Carlos, King Henry, and Diane, who surreptitiously represented Catherine, included that Boulogne, as well as the whole of Picardy and Normandy would be ceded to England. Catherine and Diane were sure that after François’ death, Dauphin Henri would not allow that to happen, but the English monarch did not need to know that.

The dauphine cleared her throat. “I must know when the English troops will be in Boulogne. The events that will break the peace in Piedmont depend upon this date, Monsieur Wotton.” 

“In the summer,” reiterated Wotton. “We cannot do this earlier.” 

“Very well.” Catherine nodded towards Maddalena and Lucrezia.

A confused Diane glimpsed her action, raising her eyebrows, but said nothing.

Wotton requested, “Can you guarantee that Anne Boleyn will be in Boulogne?” 

The Medici eyes glimmered with a hellish light. “Trust me, the whore will be there.” 

Nicholas Wotton felt such vapors of deviltry from this Italian woman that he involuntarily retreated back. He halted besides Catherine’s two maids. “Thank you, Madame la Dauphine. King Henry will be most pleased. Should I give some message from you to him?” 

“Someone else will.” Murder was now in Catherine’s eyes. “Go to hell, Wotton.” 

At the same moment, Diane noticed how Lucrezia and Maddalena extracted daggers from the pockets of their gowns. Before the ambassador could react, the two women stabbed him into the chest simultaneously, and Maddalena’s left hand was pressed to Wotton’s mouth to muffle his screams. Maddalena and Lucrezia continued until the man’s torso became a bloody piece of meat.

A horrified Diane backed away to the wall, clutching at her own bosom. “What… what are you doing? Why do you–?”  She broke off, her expression tinged with sheer consternation.

Catherine retrieved her dagger from her undersleeve, its hilt decorated with the Medici coat-of-arms and one big ruby. “We do not need Wotton alive.” 

The Dauphine of France sauntered over to her maids of honor.

Maddalena snaked her arm around Wotton’s waist, and Lucrezia did the same to support the much bigger man on his feet. Wotton was not screaming; he had been killed with one of the first strikes directly in the heart, so they were now holding his dead body for Catherine.   

Catherine stopped next to the women and what remained of Wotton. “Sir Francis Bryan was killed by one of the Pope’s agents in a similar manner. Let King Henry be afraid again.” 

“Your Highness?” Maddalena waited for new commands.  

“Hold him like this,” the dauphine instructed.

Maddalena and Lucrezia gripped the diplomat’s shoulders. Grasping the blade with her short fingers, Catherine slit the man’s throat, then cut his whole head off with one powerful strike. The head rolled over the floor, and blood gushed everywhere, spurting onto their hands and gowns.

Diane screamed, “Have you gone mad?” 

Catherine pulled her dagger out of Wotton’s throat with a deft twist, the ruby on the hilt and the bloodied blade smooth to her palm. Wiping the dagger with her sleeve, she turned to Diane, her eyes glittering with hunger for more crimes and with satisfaction to see her husband’s mistress so frightened. Now this whore will know what might happen to her one day, Catherine mused.

The corpse tumbled to the floor in a lake of crimson blood gushing from his wounds.

The dauphine gazed at Diane with atrocious eyes. “Nicholas Wotton was a witness of our alliance against François and Anne. If something goes wrong and our traps do not work, he might divulge the truth to François about our roles in the conspiracy against him.” 

Her countenance more ashen than gravestones in a cemetery, Diane pressed her back against the wall, fearing to move, afraid of being murdered by them. “You could use poison.” 

“I have another plan.”  As if her attire was not stained by the blood she had shed, Catherine promenaded over to her throne-like armchair and eased herself in it. “Jacques de Montgomery, my staunch ally, will take Sir Nicholas Wotton to Saint-Germain. The corpse will be found there by courtiers, and everyone in England will think that he was butchered at François’ behest due to their hatred of the French. Of course, no French courtier will believe that their chivalrous Knight-King is capable of such a villainy, but it matters not – we need to enrage the English.”

“That will make King Henry profoundly incensed,” interjected Maddalena.

Lucrezia supplemented, “And more eager to land in Boulogne as soon as possible.”   

Catherine lazily flicked dust off her sleeve. “I heard that the Tudor gobbler is still mourning for his friend – Francis Bryan. Imagine how furious he will be upon getting the news of Wotton’s death in a manner similar to that of Bryan. His fat belly will be rolling with vibrations of ire!” 

Diane had never been so filled with horror. “It is such a cold-blooded assassination.” 

At the dauphine’s signal, Maddalena went, and pulled out her and Lucrezia’s daggers from Wotton’s corpse. At the same time, Lucrezia exited to fetch Montgomery.

The dauphine leered. “Isn’t what you did to Anne de Laval cruel? She was found dead at the bottom of the stairs after your arrival at Saint-Germain. I’m aware of her affair with Henri.” 

Finally, Diane fell to her knees. “It is none of your business, Catherine.”   

Her rival shook her head. “You are wrong. Everything connected with Henri is my concern. You killed Madame de Laval out of jealousy, and you did the right thing.” 

The mistress stammered, “You are…” Her voice faltered.

Her eyes glittering with obsession, Catherine asserted, “Henri is only yours and mine.” 

“You are so evil, Catherine,” Diane murmured with disgust mingled with fright, her hands wrapped around herself protectively. “Henri feels it instinctively, so he does not love you.” 

The dauphine’s laugh was Tartarean. “Madame Mistress! Remember what we did together to Henri’s brothers. Montecuccoli poisoned young François. You and I knew about the attempt on Anne’s life organized by the Pope when Charles died heroically, but we calmly watched.” 

Madame de Poitiers compelled herself to stand up. “Yes.” 

Catherine dived into speculations. “At Greenwich, the Pope’s ally chopped off the head of Louis de Perreau, who was François’ former ambassador to England. He killed Francis Bryan only because Bryan was an accidental witness. A very competent fighter, Bryan struggled most fiercely, and his murderer got so angry that he stabbed him countless time and fled.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” The pungent smell of blood hit Diane’s nostrils.

The Medici woman continued, “The style of Wotton’s murder is a combination of Perreau’s and Bryan’s deaths. This will enrage King Henry so much that he can even blame François for all these three killings, thinking that François’ agents at the Tudor court got rid of his own ambassador for some reason. When Anne is in his hands, Henry will be more likely to have her executed.” 

“That is true.” Diane could not deny the phenomenal intelligence of the Medici princess.

Catherine jeered, “Imagine the spectacle in Saint-Germain when Wotton’s body is found.” 

Diane could not stay anywhere near this woman. “Good night, Catherine.” 

Repulsed by the dauphine’s laugh, the terrified mistress darted to the door, but she bumped into Maddalena and Jacques de Montgomery. Diane fled like the breath of a whirlwind.

§§§

Although moonlight streamed into the room, Lucrezia lit up more candles.

Jacques de Montgomery stalked to Catherine and genuflected. “Madame la Dauphine.” 

“My friend,” commenced Catherine. “As you see, everything is done.” 

“The rest is my job,” replied Montgomery. “King François will face an incredible situation.” 

The dauphine nodded. “I’m certain that you will do your best.” 

Bowing to her, Montgomery muttered, “I want Dauphin Henri on the throne.” 

“Henri’s spouse assured, “Very soon, Monsieur de Montgomery.” 

Of sturdy build, Jacques de Montgomery had hazel-green eyes, and above his brows flowed curly cinnamon-colored hair. The hardness of his countenance was apparent. His gaze glittered with the same religious fanaticism as that of Catherine, her ladies, and Montecuccoli did. His black doublet, as well as his matching skullcap and hose accentuated the darkness of his personality.

He was one of Catherine’s allies in France, and in Montecuccoli’s absence, Montgomery was her right-hand man. He was son of Sir Robert de Montgomery, a Scottish nobleman who had come to France to serve King François. Jacques was often employed in various embassies.

“How will you take away Wotton’s corpse?” asked Lucrezia.

Maddalena answered, “It will be wrapped in a carpet. No one will understand anything.” 

“I’ll wash away the blood in the room,” offered Lucrezia.

Montgomery pledged, “Your Highness, we shall do everything.” 

Catherine climbed to her feet and strolled to where their victim lay. “I’ll change into clean garments and wash away the blood from my body on my own.”  Her gaze slid to her ladies. “You will need to do the same later and burn our clothes so that no traces of the deed remain.” 

“We will,” chorused Maddalena and Lucrezia.

Montgomery commented, “Your Highness, my men control this wing of the castle. No one will see us transporting the remains of Wotton to a cart in a courtyard.” 

Catherine de’ Medici announced, “By doing so, you serve France and the future King Henri. His Holiness will never forget your services and will grant us absolution.” 

Her ladies bobbled curtseys, and Montgomery dropped into a bow.

Dauphine Catherine slipped out of the room. She saw Montgomery’s men waiting for him outside, and they swept low bows to her. She disappeared into a dark corridor.

The most fiendish smile of triumph blossomed on Catherine’s face. The great show in Milan and Boulogne will be the end of François and his harlot. Henri will become King of France, I’ll be his queen, then Diane will finally go to Hades. A mounting inferno burned in her inner realm with a conflagration stronger than one described in Dante Alighieri’s famous book.

Catherine would convince Henri to take her back to court from Saumur. Her slyness would help her accomplish it. Just as ancient poets animated sensible objects with features of gods or geniuses, calling them by names and adorning them with properties of woods, mountains, lakes, rivers, cities, and nations, Catherine could be called Catherine de’ Medici, a goddess of darkness.

Notes:

Hello everyone! We hope that you are fine and sane. Take care of yourself!

Anne Pisseleu d’Heilly has a heart-to-heart conversation with Queen Anne of France. Maybe it will mean a new beginning for these two women, who are no longer enemies. We also learned about the fates of the Lorraine brothers.

We made Catherine de’ Medici in our dramatization of her historically known ruthlessness a bit more evil than she was in history. For that, we apologize to Catherine as a historical figure, although Catherine was indeed very ruthless and quite radical her Catholic believes – remember the St Bartholomew Massacre on the 24/25th of August 1572. Catherine also resorted to poisonings in history, but we cannot know for a certainty how often. Catherine was capable of many things to preserve her power and that of her sons.

Catherine explained to an extremely frightened Diane de Poitiers Sir Nicolas Wotton was murdered. They do not need an unwanted witness of their crimes. Moreover, they want to create a horrible situation for King François, and they need to enrage King Henry of England. Catherine’s other goal was to make Diane scared, for if her plan materializes, Diane will not be spared. If you remember Jacques de Montgomery and his son Gabriel, you might begin to understand why he was introduced. No, Dauphin Henri is not going to die anytime soon.

Catherine and her accomplices have the French Great Seal, and it is a key to their plans. You know what Catherine and Diane are planning for Anne and François. This seal will help them entrap Anne and François, which will coincide with the beginning of a new invasion.

Catherine also explains what will happen if Carlos and Henri try to partition France. During the Lancastrian stage of the Hundred Years’ War, England was allied with Burgundy; a treacherous vassal to France at the time. The national identities and spirits began to form in both England and France; even in the first half of this war, the English nobles still spoke French mostly and did not say goodbye to their Norman-French past (the Norman conquest of England). The last phase of this conflict helped the English become the English, and the French become the French.

Together with the formation of French national identity, the national spirit and resistance to foreign invaders formed in France between 1420 and 1453, the year of the last battle – the Battle of Castillon. Simultaneously, the immense loyalty to the Valois monarchy formed, and the people would not have supported any foreign ruler. France had few foreign queens, and they did little good for France; save Maria Theresa of Spain, the cousin-wife of Louis XIV who was harmless. The explanation why all of Henry VIII’s 3 attempts to conquer France failed is given above. Moreover, in the 16th century France was also more economically superior to England.

Now when we live in the cosmopolitan world, and all these biases should be gone; sadly, they are not, or at least not entirely. Yet, we felt that we needed to explain a few things using historical facts and without accusing anyone of anything.

The descriptions of palaces are historically correct. You may google the marvelous Château de Samur and Chapelle Saint-Louis at Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye to see their pictures.

Attention! VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance (Athenais) are co-writing the story called “Entwined by a Golden Alliance.” Give it a try, please! We highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, Marina Ka-Fai, AnnaTaure, BubblyYork, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Lady Plantagenet in the White Queen fandom.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 59: Chapter 58: The Tudor Children

Notes:

The Tudor children! Edward Tudor, Prince of Wales, is different from Elizabeth Tudor. Queen Kitty Howard meets someone special. The Marquess of Exeter is shady, as always. Worried for her mother, Princess Elizabeth arranges an important meeting.

We recommend the works by BubblyYork, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, annethequene, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 58: The Tudor Children

April 10, 1545, Hatfield House, Hatfield, Hertfordshire, England

“My beloved, kiss me!” implored Jane Boleyn, Viscountess Rochford. “Take me now!”

“Jane, my miracle!” Francis Dereham almost sang. “To me, my beloved!”

As captivated as a maiden first time in love, Jane met Dereham in the middle of the room. His mouth landed on hers, his arms sweeping her into a tight embrace. Drowning in the tantalizing sweetness they found, they pulled each other closer, the soft brush of her body against his being pure magic for them. Their kisses were everything they needed to be content, the feel of their lips drinking the nectar of joy, the expert movements of their hands caressing each other.

Fire danced in the hearth. The naked lovers returned fiery caresses, Jane’s body molding itself against his. Dereham carried Jane to a bed canopied with green satin and matching sheets. They made love for an endless time, oblivious to the raging storm outside and the sound of the opening door as a perplexed Queen Catherine Howard peeked her head inside and dashed away.

Dereham and Jane were lovers since their meeting last summer on the banquet in honor of the king’s birthday. Their immediate and overpowering attraction to one another had goaded them into wild coupling in the garden of Oaklands Palace after the afore-mentioned feast. Since then, they had clandestine rendezvous as often as possible, each like a dawn of passion, more marvelous than the sweetest dreams, as if some wizard had bewitched them into perpetual rapture.

Afterwards, Dereham pressed Jane to himself. “I’ve never loved anyone before you.”

“Me neither.” Jane kissed him on the lips briefly. “You have made me so happy, Francis.”

“You had others before me.” His hand cupped one small breast, his fingers tugging urgently at its hard nipple. “And you were married to George Boleyn for years.”

“Oh, don’t!” she cried breathlessly. “I’d prefer you to be my first and last.”

Jane Boleyn eyed her lover. In the dim candlelight, Dereham’s lean, yet muscled, body was as smooth and shapely as a statue of polished alabaster. He was blessed with charm aplenty and as attractive and manly a face and form as any woman could have wished. With his chestnut hair and twinkling emerald eyes, his broad shoulders, and his strong legs, it was no wonder that he was a great favorite among ladies at the Tudor court. Yet, his heart belonged to Jane Boleyn.

Dereham confided in Jane about his affair with the fifteen-year-old Queen Kitty at Lambeth. Jane had insisted that he keep the truth to himself. Dereham had come to court because he – son of the poor John Derham of Crimplesham in Norfolk – possessed neither fortune nor title. After he had been expelled from the household of the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, his career of a music teacher had ended, and only the career of a courtier was all that had remained for him.

His eyes were unfathomable as he asked, “Was George Boleyn a good husband?”

“George was an honest and caring man,” answered Jane without hesitation, her heart arching in a peculiar manner, just as it did every time she thought of George. “We were forced into marriage and never adored each other. Despite everything, George treated me well, although he did have mistresses. He had a tender heart that a woman like me could not understand.”

Dereham was puzzled. “What do you mean?”  

“It is complicated.” Tears brimmed in her eyes when Jane recalled how she had attended George’s execution in disguise so that no one could recognize her. “George Boleyn was a romantic idealist who sought ideals and things which do not exist in our wicked world. He was too unearthly, his soul full of fantasies and beautiful, too unconventional to be real. He liked things I could not comprehend, and he could not become more down-to-earth.” A sob escaped her.

There was an expression of warm concern upon his face. “I know this sort of people, Jane. They search for heaven on earth and can spend their whole life looking for what does not exist.”

Jane murmured, “Sometimes, George wrote poems for me.”

One of the few poems written by her late husband for Jane resurfaced in her mind.

Perhaps I’m a cruel fool who lately tried

To touch the moon, shining far in the trees,

I combed the branches with my hands.

I craned my neck to kiss what I espied.

However, I tumbled, unseemly in my pride,

And sent my dreams to the fitful breeze.

But what if I told you about them, Jane?

Would you listen and admire my words?

Yet, as day returns, and shadows on the grass

Fall from the trees, I see you cannot give me it,

And as nights and mornings amass for us,

There are joys for us this side the coffin-lid.

Dereham’s fists balled. “In this poem George Boleyn recognizes that he could not make you content. He was indeed a sentimental fool, one who did not see a precious woman in you.”   

She prohibited, “Don’t speak of George in this manner.”

Her lover’s eyes blazed. “I shall not. Unlike him, I know that you are my treasure.”

A rosy flush covered her cheeks. “Francis, I wish I had met you years ago.”

“Let me show you my love again,” he grunted, dragging her into his embrace. “I want you so much that I cannot breathe when you are near me. I ask you to marry me, Jane.”

Jane Boleyn’s eyes widened. “No, Francis. My answer is no.”

Dereham kissed Jane with a rampant intensity, his lips possessive and hungry against hers. His arms caressed her flanks, her breasts, shoulders, and throat. Then he pulled away.

“Why are you rejecting me? I must know! Is there someone else?”

She cupped his face and planted kisses onto his cheeks. “No, my beloved. I do not want to lose my independence. And you need a younger and fertile wife, while I’m barren.”

He gaped at her. “Why do you think so?”

Tears stung Jane’s eyes like dust of anguish. “For so long, I wanted to have George’s child. I visited many midwives and physicians, who gave me countless recommendations for procreation. Nevertheless, nothing helped me conceive, although there were years when George often bedded me in the hope to sire a male heir. I’m grateful to him that he did not set me aside.”   

Dereham enveloped her into his arms. “I’m so sorry, Jane.”

The next minutes were very busy as the lovers hastily dressed in neat, clean clothes. Dereham left Jane’s small room and went to his own quarters in the other wing of the palace. Jane hurried to the queen’s chambers to check on how a pregnant Catherine Howard was faring.

§§§

Lady Jane Boleyn entered the queen’s bedchamber and called, “Your Majesty!”

However, there was no immediate reply, so Jane examined her surroundings.

Like the antechamber, the spacious bedroom was a beautiful place that had been refurbished according to Kitty’s taste. It had large windows to let in plenty of light in the daytime, with the walls draped in burgundy wine brocade. A marble fireplace took up nearly one wall. Multicolored Flemish carpets depicted some mystic patters, and all pieces of mahogany furniture were of high quality. Kitty would have wanted to have frescoes in the French style, but the king had refused.

Queen Catherine sat upon a bed canopied with yellow velvet, her expression fierce.

“How are you, Madame?” Jane’s tone was careful. “Has something happened?”

Kitty rose from the bed and stepped to her principal lady-in-waiting. Her night robe of white taffeta, slashed with purple silk, accentuated her growing belly. At present, she was five months along in her pregnancy, taking every precaution possible to avoid a miscarriage.

“Dereham is your lover,” the queen fired. “How long has your affair lasted?”

Jane made a forgotten curtsey. “I predicted that sooner or later, you would learn about it.”

Kitty positioned herself before a table with no intention to take a seat. “You must know about him and me,” she stated bluntly. “He must have confessed everything to you.”

“Indeed, Madame. However, Dereham is not your enemy. He arrived at court months earlier, and he has told nobody anything. He means you no harm.”

“Except for you, Jane. Did you have a sweet pillow talk about me?”

Jane hastened to the queen and halted before the table. “I swear upon my eternal soul that I shall never betray you. Haven’t I been a close friend to you throughout all these years?”

The queen’s expression blanched to one of ashen-gray color. “That is true, Jane. You have supported me in the most difficult moments, just as my cousin Surrey has done.”

“Why don’t you trust me, then?” Jane wanted to preserve their friendship.

Kitty asked rhetorically as though in disbelief, “Would you not be afraid?”

Gazing into her eyes, Jane Boleyn supplied, “I would. However, I would be wary not of your friends, but of His Majesty. You had dallied with Dereham before you went to court. Yet, you duped the king telling him that you were a maid when he took you to his bed. He will not condone your lies if he learns anything. Once more, I assure you that your secret is safe with me.”

The angry queen swept a book, a jewel box, and several goblets off the table with the harsh motion of her hand. “Yes, I fooled that aging and ailing monarch, whose ulcers and their pungent smell disgust me. I do not regret doing that! Not after Henry forced himself upon me many times.”   

“Speak more quietly.” Jane briefly looked at the door – it was closed.

Kitty approached Jane and reached out to her as though the queen wanted to seize her by her throat to rip it out, but it did not happen. “Dereham will not speak, will he?”

“No, he won’t,” Jane said confidently. “He does not want to meet his maker on the scaffold. Moreover, we love each other madly, so I can control his actions and emotions.”

A look of surprise spread over the queen’s visage. “What?”

The Boleyn widow revealed, “For years, I did not know what love is. I was resigned that I would never know how awesome it is to be worshipped by a good man. My late husband, George Boleyn, could not give me adoration, nor could any of my other lovers, save Francis Dereham.”

Catherine’s curiosity was enormous. “Did you have many amours?”

Jane was relieved that she seemed to calm down. “After George’s execution, I had an affair with Sir Francis Bryan, God rest his soul. He taught me how to enjoy intercourse and my own body.” A tear trickled down her cheek. “I wish that his murderer could be found out.”

The queen’s sensual instincts heightened so that she felt ache in her belly. “Is it why you know those tricks to arouse a man and prolong carnal pleasure, which you taught me to use?”

Jane winked at her. “Yes, Madame.”

“Who else was your lover? Now I want to know everything, Jane.”

“I also had a liaison with Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter. While Bryan was a god in bed, Exeter satisfied me physically, but not like Bryan. Exeter seems to be in mourning for his deceased wife, Gertrude, or for the loss of some other love. He dismissed me quickly and never looked at me again. I also had two other affairs before I met Dereham.”

The queen wrinkled her nose. “I loathe Exeter so much!”

“Yet, we see him every day at Hatfield. He is Head of Prince Edward’s household.”

Catherine walked to the bed. “I do not want to talk about him.”

“You need positive emotions in your condition.” Jane followed her mistress.

As she settled herself on the bed, the queen lowered her hand to her stomach in a wave of repugnance. “Sometimes I hate this thing inside of me, Jane. This child was conceived during one of the times when the king–” Her voice faltered in distress.

Jane sat on the bed next to her. “Anyway, it is your baby. It is God’s blessing.”

“Is it?” Kitty laughed hysterically. “It is unlikely to be a healthy boy.”

“You should not say so, Madame. You need to be calm not to miscarry. Do you remember what happened to your cousin Anne Boleyn after she had seen Jane Seymour and the king?”   

Catherine pulled herself together. “You are right. Thank you for everything.”

“Think of your unborn baby and Prince Edmund.”

The queen retrieved all the strength from the deepest recesses of her being to confess, “I feel fear of pain and what is worse, fear of life at court that chills my soul. I’m afraid of Henry.”

Jane expelled a sigh from her internal realm. “You must be strong.”

“I’m delighted that Henry went somewhere and did not apprise us of anything. My life has improved in his absence. I’m glad to be staying here at Hatfield with my dear Edmund.”

“Indeed, everyone breathes easily in his absence.”

Their heart-to-heart talk smoothed the queen’s frazzled nerves, but her melancholy refused to go away. “I try to imagine what it will be like to be Henry’s queen in years to come. Like I’m sitting in a theater watching my own life playing out on the stage. I do not see any good outcome.”

“Madame,” said Jane gently. “The more negative thoughts you have, the more you suffer.”

Memories tumbled from some closet in Catherine’s mind. A long silence ensued.

In the middle of December 1544, the King of England had left somewhere, leaving the Earl of Hertford as his regent. Kitty had discovered her pregnancy after her husband’s departure, and she had contacted Hertford who was aware of the monarch’s whereabouts. Hertford had replied that he had sent a message to Henry about her condition, and later that the ruler was happy. Not caring whether Henry had been with his mistresses or not, Kitty enjoyed a short break.

Where is Culpeper?  Did he leave with His Majesty? The queen had not seen her husband’s favorite groom since the king’s disappearance, and she missed him a great deal. Here, at Hatfield, she had also seen Charles de Marillac who had recently begun to pay visits to Princess Elizabeth. Once Catherine had encountered Marillac in the corridor, and the French diplomat towered over her in all his handsomeness, having rendered her speechless by the manliness he emanated.

Kitty broke the pause. “When will the monarch return? Is he in England?”

Jane speculated, “The Lady Mary Tudor married Emperor Carlos in Flanders. I believe that His Majesty went there to attend their wedding and perhaps to make an alliance.”

Apprehension coiled in the queen’s stomach. “An alliance against France?”

“Most likely. I suspect that the emperor and our sovereign are preparing for a new invasion.” This was what Anne had written to Jane Boleyn in her latest letter.    

“My poor cousin Anne,” said Catherine with genuine sympathy.

For some time, they discussed the situation in England and the marriage of Mary Tudor to the emperor. As Jane knew a lot about Anne’s life in France, Catherine started suspecting that the two former relatives corresponded more often than Jane had told her. The queen loved Jane, so she believed her that Francis Dereham would never talk to anyone about his old escapades with Kitty. If someone learns about Dereham and me, my life will be over, the queen feared silently.

§§§

The castle clock struck nine in the evening. Spring was not hurrying to England: outside the evening was dreary, and rain pelted the windows, sliding down the glasses in sheets.

The door to the queen’s room opened. Lady Elizabeth Holland entered and bobbed a curtsey; as the Duke of Norfolk’s mistress, she served in the Howard queen’s household.

A grinning Bess reported, “We have a guest, Your Majesty.”

“At this late hour?” A fatigued Kitty wanted to retire to bed.

Bess enthused, “It is a precious guest, Madame. He wanted to see you so!”

A moment later appeared Prince Edmund Tudor, Duke of York, led by his governess Lady Catherine Parr. The boy ran to his mother, ignoring Lady Parr’s protestations that he should greet his royal mother properly. Smiling at them, Bess Holland curtsied and walked out.   

“Mama!” Edmund cried in exultation. “Mama! I could not sleep!”

Jane Boleyn stood up from the bed. “Your Highness,” she greeted and curtsied.

Kitty opened her arms. “Come to me, my sweet boy!”

The prince dived into the queen’s embrace, his face buried along her neck, breathing in her motherly scent. Catherine pressed her son to her chest, feeling how alarmingly lean and thin-boned Edmund was. His weak constitution was a profound concern to the monarchs of England. In her embrace, Kitty felt Edmund’s warm skin and his breath – her boy was alive.

As they disentwined from each other, Kitty kissed his cheek. Edmund responded in kind.

Lady Parr and Lady Boleyn watched the scene with broad smiles.

Kitty viewed Prince Edmund from head to toe. A boy of three and a half years, Edmund had delicate features and sparkling aquamarine eyes, beautiful like the warmest, smooth sea. Although he had inherited the color of his father’s eyes – the eyes of Elizabeth Woodville and Elizabeth of York, his gaze was never fierce and spoiled. His delicate features and his red-gold hair, altogether with his effeminate disposition, created an air of additional fragility about the prince.

As any mother would, the queen admired her dearest boy. The natural softness was the most interesting thing in her son. Despite having his father’s red-gold hair and Henry’s eyes, Edmund is nothing like the cruel lion-king with flaming hair that my husband is. If he reaches adulthood, he will be Henry’s opposite. As the light from the flickering flames from the candles on a bedside table caressed the boy’s features, Catherine’s weariness and depression vanished as if by magic.  

“Why are you not sleeping?” quizzed Kitty with concern.

Edmund complained, “I had an argument with Edward. He came to scold me.”   

A collective gasp followed. They all knew that Edward Tudor, Prince of Wales, did not like his brother because of Edmund’s famous eagerness to pray in English. Moreover, Edward looked at his younger frail sibling with an irritating sense of superiority and arrogance.

The queen looked at her son’s governess. “Lady Parr, what happened?”

Catherine Parr sighed. “Prince Edward did not wish to sleep. He summoned Lord Exeter.” At the mention of the marquess, her eyes sparkled for a fraction of a second. “Exeter told him many stories, but it did not calm His Highness. Instead, the Prince of Wales ordered Lord Exeter to take him to his brother’s nursery, where they found us during our evening prayer.”

The queen was fond of the gentle Catherine Parr, who had been recommended by the Earl of Surrey. Having lost her second husband in the spring of 1543, Catherine had joined the royal children’s household at Hatfield soon after Edmund’s birth in the summer of the same year as the prince’s governess. Kitty disliked the woman’s strong Protestant-oriented beliefs, for the queen herself remained secretly a Catholic. Yet, Surrey had advised to employ Lady Parr exactly because of her religion because the monarch demanded that his sons be brought up as Protestants.

It was not the first time when Kitty noticed that Catherine’s eyes gleamed whenever Exeter was mentioned. The queen surveyed Lady Parr. Despite being widowed twice, Catherine was still a young woman with hazel-green eyes and walnut-colored hair, framing her diamond-shaped face with a small nose and slim lips. Clad in an auburn silk gown, its pendant sleeves lined with red satin, Catherine was attractive. Does Lady Parr like Exeter? wondered the queen.   

Kitty’s scrutiny fixed upon her son’s governess. “Lady Parr, did Edward offend my son?”

Lady Parr lowered her gaze. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Tears appeared in Edmund’s eyes. “Mama, Edward does not love me.”

“What did he say?” The queen’s hand stroked the toddler’s hair.

Edmund mumbled, “Edward came to check whether I stopped praying in English. When he saw me and Lady Parr, he lost his temper and told me that he would deal with me later.”

Kitty raged, “I’ll speak to Exeter! Only he can control Edward.”

“Your Majesty,” began Catherine Parr defensively, “Lord Exeter told Prince Edward that they should not disturb Prince Edmund, but His Highness did not listen.”

The queen clamored, “The Prince of Wales is impossibly spoiled.”

Edmund lamented, “Yes. But he says that I’m too much pampered by you.”

Kitty hugged the boy. “Stay away from Edward. Unlike him, Elizabeth adores you.”

“Lizzy is a good sister to me.” Edmund’s eyes reflected the admiration for his sister.

“Elizabeth is amazing.” The queen genuinely liked Anne Boleyn’s daughter.  

Jane Boleyn interjected, “Is Edward still praying in Latin despite the king’s command?”  

Edmund blurted out, “Once I came to Edward and heard Lord Exeter tell him that they must pray only in English. However, Edward protested and continued praying in Latin.”

Kitty pondered this. “So, Exeter is indeed trying to change the boy’s religious views.”

“You don’t like him, Mama?” a baffled Edmund enquired.

“It matters not, my beloved son.” The queen hugged Edmund again, and he eagerly went into her arms. “Not when you are with me. Do you want to spend this night with your mama?”

The aquamarine color in the child’s eyes deepened and glowed like the brightest seawater in the midday sunlight. “Yes, Mama! I want to sleep in your arms.”

Kitty put a hand to her abdomen. “I love this idea, but you must be careful.”

Edmund placed a hand onto his mother’s swollen belly. “Is my sibling there?”

“Yes, my dearest.” The queen caressed her abdomen. “It will be born in four months.”

“How did the baby get there?” Edmund was a curious child, though not precocious.

The queen cast a doleful glance at Lady Boleyn, who gave her a sympathetic smile. Lady Parr noticed their silent exchange, thinking that Kitty feared the outcome of her pregnancy.   

Kitty glanced back at the toddler. “When you grow up, I’ll tell you.”

Jane told the prince’s governess, “Lady Parr, Prince Edmund will sleep with the queen. You may go. Come back at eight in the morning to take His Highness to matins.”   

Catherine Parr curtsied. “Goodnight, Your Majesty and Your Highness.” Then she left.

Jane Boleyn assisted Queen Kitty and Prince Edmund in taking comfortable positions in the bed. Catherine’s arm swept around the toddler, who was already yawning, and drew him as close as possible so that she felt herself comfortable with her growing baby bump. The queen’s other arm slithered to her abdomen, and she prayed fervently that the child in her womb lived.

Looking at the queen and the prince, the Viscountess of Rochford grinned. Nevertheless, on this particular evening, a kind of presentiment of something inevitable and tragic weighed upon her heavily, and Jane shivered. Thrusting these thoughts aside, Jane departed the chamber.


April 25, 1545, Hatfield House, Hatfield, Hertfordshire, England

Sunlight steamed into the study of Edward Tudor, Prince of Wales. At last, spring had come to England, and the weather improved, although it rained frequently and abundantly. The gardens bloomed, and hedges appeared, so the royal children frequently played in the park.

Edward lounged in a small-sized, yet throne-like, armchair. Across the oak table from him, which was loaded with papers and books, sat Sir Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter.

“I detest history,” whined the Prince of Wales. “Lord Exeter, I want to go outdoors.”

The Marquess of Exeter shook his head categorically. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I cannot allow you to interrupt the lesson and go run around outside.”

“Why?” Edward demanded with a hint of annoyance. “I’m your prince!”

“Exactly for this reason,” Exeter said in a firm, yet persuasive voice. “You are King Henry’s eldest son. We all pray that your father will rule in years to come, but you will succeed him in due time. How will you govern England if you do not obtain a stellar education?”

An embarrassed Edward cast his eyes down. “But what to do if I am not interested in history, mathematics, astronomy, languages, theology, and all the subjects they teach me?”

Exeter feigned chagrin. “Have I been a bad tutor for Your Highness?”

“No, not you!” answered Edward hastily, not wishing to offend his most favorite person in the royal household. “They are too strict. Only you make our history classes captivating.”

“I’m most delighted to hear that,” replied Exeter with a grin.

You are my son, my dear Edward! Hal Courtenay enthused silently with a blend of despair and adoration. If only you knew how happy these words make me! After Exeter’s appointment as Head of the Tudor children’s household at Hatfield, he had quickly befriended the prince.

Born with profound intellect, Edward nevertheless was too restless and eager to spend a lot of time outdoors. It was difficult for him to concentrate on his classes, but if his tutors managed to spark interest to some subject in the prince, they were never disappointed with the results. Wishing to get away from control, Edward was a victim of his hauteur and irritability, although he did not possess hot temper – perhaps due to him not being a Tudor – and could be easily pacified.

There were qualities that Edward had inherited from Hal Courtenay. The York father and his secret son both had cold and serpentine arrogance. It had been a trait of two of the three York boys – Richard, Duke of Gloucester and later King Richard III, and George, Duke of Clarence. In contrast to them, King Edward IV had been an easy-going and charming man, one who despite his kingly ego was quite close to the English folk. Yet, Exeter was also a light-hearted man.

Most people saw that Prince Edward was more a York than a Tudor. Even King Henry had commented on several occasions that the boy had probably taken not even after King Edward IV, but the said ruler’s father – Richard of York who had been killed in the Battle of Wakefield of 1460, or perhaps one of Edward IV’s younger brothers. When Exeter had heard that, he had been alarmed. Our York arrogance prevents my son from developing his sharp intelligence.

Exeter was controlling and possessed the ability to manipulate like a spider, while outwardly being quite a warm-hearted and sociable person. Edward exhibited the afore-mentioned traits when it came to manipulating his governess, his many tutors, and his servants so that they did his bidding in everything he wished. The only three people who Edward could not influence at Hatfield were Princess Elizabeth, surprisingly Queen Kitty Howard, and the boy’s real father – Exeter.  

Overall, Prince Edward “Tudor” was a complicated child. At times, he needed to be stopped and scolded for his pranks, his inclination to dictate, and his snobbery, whereas at other times he could be impressive and praiseworthy. Not everyone could find an approach to the boy, and at times, even the King of England wondered why he did not understand his own “son.” Exeter was one of the few people who were able to guide the boy towards the right path like a compass.

“Should we continue a lesson, Your Highness?” Exeter knew the answer in advance.

Edward sighed, then acquiesced, “Yes, Lord Exeter.”

Courtenay began, “As I told you yesterday, the destructive Wars of the Roses disrupted the stability of England. They were fought between supporters of two rival branches of the House of Plantagenet: the House of Lancaster and the York family. Eventually, the House of York went extinct in the male line after the death of Richard the Third. What happened next?”

Edward’s response was immediate. “My grandfather, King Henry the Seventh, defeated the Usurper at Bosworth Field, married my grandmother Elizabeth of York, and established peace.”

“Excellent.” It pained Exeter to teach his son the wrong story of his true lineage, for the boy had no Tudor blood in his veins. However, there was no other option to make Edward the future ruler of England. “Why do the Tudors have the emblem of red and white rose?”

“Henry the Seventh united the Lancasters and Yorks, whose symbols were these roses.”   

“Yes. Why did the York family make the white rose their emblem?”

“The white rose is a symbol of Yorkshire.” The boy had a remarkable memory.

A direct descendant of the York lineage on maternal side, Exeter reveled in teaching the prince about the House of York. “Your Highness is right that white is the color of York, and the white rose is its emblem. How did they come to be associated with the city and later duchy?”

Edward rubbed his forehead. “Did we cover this on our last lessons?”

“We did.” Exeter tipped a nod. “Try to remember.”

“A small hint, Lord Exeter.” The child added something he rarely said to others, “Please!”

“Edmund of Langley, the first Duke of York, chose this color to stress something important.”

“Ah, I know the answer!” The prince then twittered enthusiastically, “White is the color of purity. It has a religious meaning. Langley wanted the York family to be seen as pure.”

A smile blossomed upon Exeter’s features. “That is correct, Your Highness.”

The Prince of Wales gushed, “My father, King Henry, says that my late mother was pure.”

Exeter smirked half-sarcastically, half-dolefully. Anne Bassett was not pure, but his son did not need to know anything. “Queen Anne Bassett gave King Henry you – the golden prince whose birth secured the English succession and ensured that there would be no future civil wars.”

Hal Courtenay eyed the prince attentively. Edward’s features were a mixture of York and Bassett. Unlike Elizabeth and Edmund, he did not possess Tudor red-gold hair. King Henry had no doubt that the boy was his son because of the deep blue Woodville eyes, which, as the monarch believed, his son had inherited from Elizabeth of York. It could not occur to the ruler that Edward had such eyes from the common ancestress of Exeter and the king – Elizabeth Woodville. The Marquess of Exeter himself possessed the eyes identical to those of Prince Edward.

Edward’s imperial bearing was impressive. At the sight of Edward’s prominent cheekbones and the boy’s lush mouth, Exeter’s heart tightened in his chest. These were Bassett’s features! The prince’s splendid attire of golden brocade matched his golden hair the color of his mother’s. Exeter had an older legitimate son – Edward or Eddie Courtenay, son of his wife Gertrude Blount, but he loved Prince Edward more. Anne Bassett... She has been dead for years, but I cannot forget her.

Edward missed his mother. “Did you know my mama?”

Exeter’s soul swooped down like a bird over a lake. “I did.” His expression was blank, but a hurricane of emotions was unleashed inside him. “Queen Anne was a noble-minded woman. I attended her wedding to your father, and she looked very beautiful in her white gown.”

“My grandmother, Honor, wants to have me painted with my mama.”

“That is a brilliant idea.” Exeter hoped that the monarch would not be added to this portrait.  

Edward drummed his fingers at the table. “Hal, do you think I’ll be a glorious king?”

“Your Highness has many talents. Nevertheless, you need to be less lazy and to study more. You have to be more friendly towards others – at least make it appear as if you like them.”

The Marquess of Exeter was the only man who could say such things to the Prince of Wales. If his governess, the old Lady Margaret Bryan, had pronounced something like that, Edward would have snapped at her that she was nothing whereas he was her future sovereign.   

Edward’s eyes flashed with what could be craft. “To pretend that you feel and do something when you do not really feel it? Just as we are doing when praying in English?”

“Yes. It is necessary to survive in the world of royals, Edward.”

The boy blurted out, “I’m trying to pray in English now. I agreed to do that only because His Majesty was angry with me, and because you asked me to do that.”  

“Hide your true feelings,” whispered Hal Courtenay.

The prince’s enthusiasm waned at the memory of King Henry’s criticism of his admiration for the Latin language. “I shall, or His Majesty will berate me.”  

As their lesson continued, the Marquess of Exeter asked the prince more questions about the English royal dynasties and the Wars of the Roses. The boy remembered many things, but there was a room for improvement. I am so pleased that Edward is more interested in history of the York family than history of the Tudor family, Exeter remarked to himself with delight.     

§§§

The Suffolk spouses entered the presence chamber of Princess Elizabeth Tudor. The walls of the room were swathed in auburn brocade that almost matched the trademark Tudor hair. The furniture was of walnut wood, handsomely carved in the fashion prevalent in Tudor period.

The herald announced, “The Duke and Duchess of Suffolk!”

Princess Elizabeth welcomed the visitors with a smile. “Good day, Your Graces.”

Charles and Anne looked ahead, and their eyes were full of admiration.

Her bearing regal in the extreme, Elizabeth sat in a high-back armchair, the tall back of its seat and armrests adorned with Tudor heraldry. At twelve, Anne Boleyn’s daughter was an arrestingly captivating nymph with high cheekbones, thin but well-formed lips, and brown-lashed black eyes – dangerous, fathomless, and fraught with tendrils of enigma. Now it was more obvious than ever before that Elizabeth’s exotic features were more delicately sculpted than her mother’s.

Just as her mother did, Elizabeth favored French fashions. The princess’ lithe body was clad in a fashionable gown of crimson and white brocade, wrought with threads of both gold and silver, her stomacher of black damask studded with rubies and pearls. A cascade of long, glossy, red-gold hair tumbled down her shoulders from beneath a magnificent French diamond headdress.

Princess Elizabeth is a true Tudor, Charles noted to himself. Unlike Prince Edward who is a York through and through. He did not pay much attention to Prince Edmund, not believing that the boy would survive into adulthood. Suffolk had accompanied his wife to Hatfield, where Anne went every three or four months, because he was itching to see Anne’s daughter out of curiosity that was fueled by the confession letters of Maria de Salinas, which he still kept in secret.

As they approached Elizabeth, Anne curtsied, while Charles dropped into a bow.

Anne began, “Your Highness, I’m most delighted to see you.”

Charles joined, “And so am I, Your Highness. You have grown so much.”   

Elizabeth’s lips compressed. “You have not seen me only for three years, Your Grace, since I last went to court. Your wife has been my regular visitor, in contrast to you.”

Charles was confused as to whether the princess rebuked him, or it was her Boleyn wit. “I’ve been preoccupied with state affairs and court life, as well as my family deals.”  

The princess let out a reserved smile. “East or west, home is best.”

“Indeed.” Elizabeth’s words puzzled Charles.

Bess glanced at Anne with warmth. “Your Grace, you look so nice! Motherhood suits you. You are as radiant as a blooming flower. How is your baby girl faring?”

A resplendent grin bloomed upon Anne’s countenance. “Sybille is a healthy and happy girl. Her appearance in my life has transformed it into countless sleepless nights, for the girl is feisty even in infanthood. I fear to imagine how rambunctious she will be when she gets older.”   

The new addition to the Brandon family had been born in December 1544. The daughter of Anne and Charles had been named Sybille in honor of Anne’s elder sister – Sibylle of Cleves, Electress Consort of Saxony. The baby girl’s christening had been very lavish and organized by the English monarch; Henry stood as Sybille’s godfather; Queen Catherine was her godmother. It was the ruler’s way to officially express his highest favor for the Suffolk spouses.

Charles affirmed, “I’ve been through this many times, although I’m a man. When children cry, their father feels his responsibility to take the baby into his arms and calm it down.”

Anne returned his smile. “Charles is an affectionate parent.”

Elizabeth’s blank gaze enveloped the whole room before focusing on the duke. “One thing that most stands out in good families is that husbands and fathers always do what they believe to be the right thing to do. However, sometimes they forget that it is right only for them.”

The Duke of Suffolk frowned at the princess, but then he schooled his features into calmness. There was a conundrum of conflicting thoughts playing out in his brain. Had it been a hint at King Henry’s flaws as a father?  Or had it been an allusion to Brandon’s own mistakes as a father and a husband? This Elizabeth reminds me of the mysterious and nimble-minded Anne Boleyn, although she looks more composed in a detached way than Anne did in her adolescence.

“We should always do the right thing,” Anne Brandon claimed.

Elizabeth’s black eyes darkened a shade. “What would you say to that, Your Grace?”

Charles was at a loss for words for a long moment. “A manor is not a home unless it contains food and fire for the mind, as well as the wife and a brood of children.”

A sliver of melancholy shadowed the princess’ before vanishing like a wisp of vapor. “That is a conventional view on a woman’s role in the society. I’ve never believed that a boy is more important than a girl. I am of the Tudor blood – a strong woman who builds her own world.”

“Life will change your views,” opined Anne indulgently.   

Elizabeth put her hands on the armrests of her chair. “I’m growing up around lots of men – my father, brothers, my Howard relatives. I’ve discovered that I’m not intimidated by them.”

The spouses traded perplexed glances. It was the effect of Henry VIII’s attitude to his wives and his obsession with boys. Both people of traditional upbringing, they considered the princess’ words self-convincing bravado of a girl who wanted to change the existing order of things.

What is wrong?  Anne Brandon wondered. Elizabeth is tense, as if preparing for a possible battle. Today the princess was particularly mysterious, like a puzzle to be figured out. Although Bess had always been imperial in her behavior during their meetings, a breeze of affability had flown between them. Now Anne could see the alternations of storm and sunshine in Elizabeth.

Lady Margery Horsman opened the door and paused on the threshold. After curtseying, she quizzed, “Your Highness, Monsieur Charles de Marillac has come. Will you see him?”

“I shall,” Elizabeth permitted. “Let him in.”

After a short non-verbal exchange with the princess, Margery Horsman left.   

“Your Highness, it is the French ambassador!” Brandon grouched.

Elizabeth shot him a glower. “And what?”

The Duke of Suffolk murmured urgently, “My princess! Do you know what happened to Sir Nicholas Wotton? He was slaughtered in his apartments at Saint-Germain-en-Laye.”

“God rest Sir Wotton’s soul.” Elizabeth crossed herself, feeling sorry for the man.

Charles insisted, “Your Majesty, it is better not to accept this man.”

“Who said that?” Elizabeth tilted her head to the right. “The king?”   

“No,” answered the duke. “His Majesty returned to London. When he received the news of his diplomat’s barbaric murder in France, he was furious and accused King François of this crime.”

The princess was inflexible. “True knights – especially the Knight-King – do not butcher.”

“My husband has a point,” Anne concurred. “King François is unlikely to be guilty.”

Instead of answering, Princess Elizabeth smiled in the direction of the Valois diplomat. His hazel eyes twinkling with mirth, Charles de Marillac approached Lizzy’s chair.

Marillac swept a gallant bow. “Your Highness, you are an orange sunrise that is like a raging fire, the color of your hair and that of the flame burning in your noble heart.”

The princess was on excellent terms with the diplomat. “Your Excellency, I’m always festive to see you. The French are a poetical and cultured nation, and I like this about you all.”

“You should not appear here, Monsieur de Marillac,” growled Charles.

The ambassador was not fond of the duke. “It is a simple friendly visit.”

Anne took his hand in hers. “Husband, please.”

Not a muscle trembled in Elizabeth’s countenance. “Stay.”

“Why? Is it a spectacle, Your Highness?” Suffolk endeavored to keep his tone respectful.

Ignoring him, the princess gestured towards couches. “Take a seat – all of you.”

The Suffolk spouses and Marillac settled themselves onto emerald-brocaded couches.

“Monsieur de Marillac,” commenced Elizabeth, her voice more animated. “Tell me how my mother, Queen Anne of France, is doing. Are she, my brothers, and my sisters safe?”

Brandon put in, “I kindly remind that His Majesty prohibited Your Highness from having any communication with France. If you do not dismiss this man, we will all have problems.”

Anne implored, “Charles, please! Let them speak.”

“Suffolk,” Elizabeth drawled in a steely voice. “We will have more problems soon if King Henry, my father, proceeds with his course of action. Will you always be his lapdog?”

The way the teenaged girl handled the much older man impressed Marillac. He informed, “King François opened an investigation into the case of Sir Nicholas Wotton. After King Henry’s return to London, I voiced to him my sovereign’s deepest condolences.”

Grinning sadly at the ambassador, the princess said, “I can imagine my father’s expression during your visit to him, but it matters not. What about my mother and my siblings?”

The ambassador emphasized with the girl. “Be at ease. Queen Anne and all her offspring are unharmed, and nobody attempted to take their lives, God forbid it ever happens.”

A hint of color surged inexplicably into Elizabeth’s cheeks, but her voice was determinedly casual as she affirmed, “It is the Lord’s will that my mama is alive. She has been through many trials and tribulations, but the Creator has safeguarded her, and for that I thank Him every day.”

Marillac nodded. “The House of Valois and the whole of France thank the Almighty that we have your mother as our queen. We pray for King François and her every day.” He did not add that one of the reasons why the French loved Anne was that she was perceived as a victim of Henry VIII and the English, who were hated in France since the end of the long war in the 15th century.

Elizabeth read aloud by heart in French one of the poems François had composed for Anne.

Never since Aphrodite, at a God’s decree,

Rose from ocean, has there lived on earth

A face so fine, a form of so much worth;

And nowhere has the moon-obeying sea

Known such perfection, down from head to knee,

And knee to foot, since that Olympian birth.

My Queen Anne of France, a dear wife to me.

Marillac’s smile widened. “Your Highness, did you hear other verses?”

Bess’ grin was whimsical. “I read many such poems. I speak French very well.” A romantic note in her voice, she supplemented, “They are amazing and full of eternal devotion.”

Brandon’s patience was wearing thin. “Where are you going with this?”

Elizabeth’s scrutiny – now blacker with emotion than a moonless night – veered to the Duke of Suffolk. “Only a man who is madly in love can write such poems. Does Your Grace understand what my father is going to destroy and the consequences for himself and for our country?”

Charles blinked at the princess, attempting to gather his thoughts. “Only His Majesty can decide what to do, Your Highness. You ought not to meddle into political things.”

In contrast to her husband, Anne Brandon only listened.  

The princess’ mouth twisted. “If the king launches an invasion of France together with the emperor, they will eventually be expelled. Certain lessons of history cannot be ignored. Remember that in 1453, the English were ejected from the last city they held on the continent save Calais – Bordeaux. The English failed to subjugate France despite their attempts to conquer it for over a century with interruptions for peace. Is it not a lesson of history, Your Grace?”

Elizabeth’s voice took on a higher octave. “Do we want to be humiliated and expelled again? Doesn’t my father understand it, or he is so blinded by his obsession to conquer what is not his? No one wishes to see him in France. According to their laws, especially the Salic law, the House of Plantagenet and their descendants, including the Tudors, have never had any claim to France.”

“Your Highness, the king–” Charles was interrupted.

The princess continued, her eyes glinting with the anger she felt with the monarch. “Even if my father manages to take my mother to England, do you think that King François will not invade England later in order to get his wife back after he chases away the English and Imperial hordes?”

“Politics is not for women,” muttered a bemused Suffolk.

Elizabeth lifted her chin in a picturesque manner. “Your Grace’s confused look answers my question.” Her gaze turned more penetrating. “The worst case scenario for England is a French invasion after my father’s utter defeat in France. Do you comprehend the costs?”

Marillac’s admiration for the princess magnified. “It must be heartrending for Your Highness to be separated from Queen Anne for so many years, and to know how your father is trying to break her life again and again. King Henry’s perfidious actions are detrimental to his own country, his treasury, England’s relations with France, and, most importantly, his daughter.”

Anne Brandon emitted a sigh. “That is true.”

“Yes.” Elizabeth only sighed heavily; all of her grievances belonged only to her.

“God bless Your Highness,” Marillac pronounced in the gentlest accents.

Elizabeth stood up, her gaze fixated upon the diplomat. “Merci, Monsieur de Marillac. Send my greetings to my mother and my siblings, as well as King François.”

“I shall,” guaranteed Charles de Marillac.

“Your Grace of Suffolk,” Princess Elizabeth addressed in the voice of someone who ruled empires and deployed armies. “You are my mother’s foe, but you love England. Given the price we might pay for a new Anglo-Imperial invasion of France, I ask you to try and dissuade the king from the deleterious course of action he has selected, or at least to mitigate the damage.”

Without a backward glance, Elizabeth glided across the room. All at once, the door opened, and the Marquess of Exeter stormed in like a hailstorm, his eyes castigating her.

“Your Highness,” Exeter’s cold voice pierced everyone’s ears. “You cannot continue talking to anyone from France. I permitted you to meet with Monsieur Marillac only a few times out of sympathy to your situation. I assume that it is not easy to be estranged from your mother.”

The princess avouched, “For that I’m grateful, Lord Exeter.”

Exeter bowed to her with a delay. “After the murder of Sir Nicholas Wotton in France, there can be no audiences. Or I’ll have to inform our liege lord of what has transpired here.”

Marillac, Anne, and Charles stood up, but they did not interfere.

Elizabeth arched a brow nonchalantly. “Is it a threat?  I criticize by creation – not by finding fault. I’m not creating any problems for England.” That was a hint at her father’s plans.

“A warning,” Exeter pinpointed. “For your own sake, my princess.”

With a patrician air about her, the princess of England promulgated, “I’m Elizabeth Tudor! I obey only His Majesty – not you or any of your cronies who are spying upon me at Hatfield.” Her voice rose to a crescendo of defiance. “And I, too, can command the wind!”

Elizabeth swept out of the presence chamber. She strolled like a queen – her face composed in both a monarchial and transcendental way, her posture splendorous, her gait a bit dramatic.

“I admire Princess Elizabeth,” asserted Anne Brandon.

Charles de Marillac tipped a nod. “A true daughter of her great mother and England.”

Without any other word, the Marquess of Exeter spun on his heels and left.

Can the blows of fate fall upon England if Henry invades France? The Duke of Suffolk had no answer. He felt the impact of some unique powers weighing him down. The blast of Elizabeth’s bravery had blown Suffolk away despite her young age. The girl’s heart was the abode of pure love for Queen Anne. Princess Elizabeth is truly majestic, Suffolk acknowledged to himself.

§§§

As Elizabeth strolled through the corridor, she met Edward, her brother. His governess, Lady Margaret Bryan, followed the Prince of Wales. To Bess’ chagrin, the woman, who had once been her governess, now looked in her mid-seventies and walked slowly with a cane. Her health was deteriorating quickly due to the sufferings caused by the murder of her son, Francis Bryan. Her face wrinkled, Margaret was dressed in a plain black brocade gown without any ornamentation.

Elizabeth curtsied to her royal brother. “Good afternoon, Your Highness.”

“I’ve long wanted to see you, Lizzy,” said Edward with a bow. “You rarely come.”

Bess smiled at her brother. “I’m not certain that you want to see me, brother.”

The prince’s brows furrowed. “I detest your lectures, but I care for you, sister.”

“You are important to me as well, Ned.” The princess’ heart was melting.

A thought occurred to Edward. “Bess, you can visit me tomorrow. Together with the Dudley boys. We may play with a ball in the gardens in the morning.”

Elizabeth remembered the dark-haired Robert Dudley. “I’ll come, with Robin.”

The Dudley boys had joined Hatfield House two years ago, and Bess was great friends with Robert Dudley, who was only a year older. She did not have a close contact with Edward because of his off-putting arrogance and love for Latin, so she often played and conversed with Robert and Ambrose Dudley, whom she both liked. She, Ambrose, and Robert shared one teacher – Roger Ascham, one of the ablest Greek and Latin scholars in England, a notable scholar and writer.

“Take Ambrose,” requested Ned. “My friends, the Suffolk boys, will also be there.”

She graciously consented, “I shall. I want to spend some time with you, Ned.”

The prince’s countenance transformed into that of superior York haughtier, which she could only see on the face of their royal father, although it was usually far fiercer. “You should be my left hand, Bess, because you are a mere girl. My right hand will always be a man, for example Lord Exeter.” He lifted his chin. “Our father, His Majesty, loves me more because I’m a boy.”

Lady Margaret Bryan interposed, “Your Highness, do not offend the princess.”

“I hate lectures, Lady Bryan.” Edward looked like the naughtiest boy.

Elizabeth loathed him in such moments. “I’m all right, Your Highness.”

“No longer brother?” Ned did not even understand that he had hurt his sister.

Bess confessed, “I dislike when you are so presumptuous.”

An annoyed Edward grumbled, “I’m your future king! I can do whatever I want!”

Lady Bryan intervened, “Your Highnesses! Let’s go continue your studies.”  

The blonde Ambrose and the raven-haired Robert Dudley appeared at the end of the corridor. As they had overheard the conversation, their eyes glittered with wrath. However, as their gazes landed on the princess, they were full of admiration. Elizabeth Tudor was an untamed wind!

The Duke of Suffolk’s sons with his third wife, the late Catherine Willoughby – Henry and Charles Brandon – passed through the corridor. They briefly bowed to the princess and walked to find Prince Edward. Suffolk had placed his sons into the Prince of Wales’ household in 1543.

The Marquess of Exeter appeared from a nearby hallway. “Indeed, studies are waiting.”

Elizabeth and the Dudley boys went to their tutors, while Exeter led Edward away. During their lessons, Exeter stayed in the classroom and watched: Edward listened to his tutor reluctantly, not interested in the subject of their discussion – the ancient Roman literature. How different Ned was from Elizabeth who was thirsty for knowledge! Despite his love for Edward, Exeter knew that the girl was the wind of freedom, independence, strength, and resilience at such a young age.

Notes:

Hello everyone! We hope that you are fine and sane. Take care of yourself!

Jane Boleyn, Viscountess Rochford, deserves some happiness after she lost her husband, George Boleyn, and then Sir Francis Bryan, her lover who made her happy. Do you like the pairing Francis Dereham/Jane Boleyn? Do you feel any potential danger? Now Queen Catherine Howard is aware that Jane was told about her clandestine affair with Dereham at Lambeth.

Queen Catherine Howard is now five months along in her pregnancy. We hope you liked the scene with her son – little Prince Edmund, Duke of York, whose health is rather fragile. Will Kitty have a healthy son or child this time? Will Edmund survive? There are many mysteries! Finally, Lady Catherine Parr entered the stage as the governess of Prince Edmund; she is already a widow as her second husband died and lives at Hatfield. We hope you like her introduction.

Edward Tudor, Prince of Wales! Finally, we see the boy and can assess his personality. We deliberately wrote a scene between Prince Edward Tudor and Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter to let you compare them. Exeter plays an extremely important role in this epic, and he is not going to disappear anytime soon. Actually, Exeter is one of our favorite characters, and he has a complex, shady character arc. Of course, Exeter tries to control his secret son and guide Ned to the right path, but it is not easy even for Exeter, who endeavors to help Edward grow a capable king.

Princess Elizabeth Tudor! We are sure that many readers missed her in the story, but from now on she will appear more often. Elizabeth sees her friend, Anne Brandon, and Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk. Bess arranged this meeting with the participation of the French ambassador Charles de Marillac on purpose because there were important things she needed to warn Charles about. Elisabeth is very intelligent, isn’t she? The phrase “I, too can command the wind!” is taken from the movie “Elizabeth: The Golden Age” of 2007 with Cate Blanchett in the title role.

There is a short scene between Edward and Elizabeth. You can compare them. We would be interested to know your thoughts. Answering your question in advance: we will have Edwardian era that will start a bit later than in history, but Elizabeth will become Queen of England. Henry is already back to England, and he knows that Sir Nicholas Wotton was butchered…

All the poems and chansons are written by me. I write both poems and prose.

Attention! VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance (Athenais) are co-writing the story called “Entwined by a Golden Alliance.” Give it a try, please! We highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, Marina Ka-Fai, AnnaTaure, BubblyYork, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Lady Plantagenet in the White Queen fandom.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 60: Chapter 59: France’s Austrian Alliance

Notes:

Ferdinand of Austria meets with Emperor Carlos. Whom will Ferdinand support: his brother or France? King François makes an important alliance and signs a betrothal contract for one of his children, which might have far-reaching consequences.

We recommend the works by BubblyYork, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, annethequene, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 59: France’s Austrian Alliance

May 1, 1545, Havré Castle, Hainaut, the Burgundian Netherlands

“How symbolic it is that we are meeting here, Carlos,” began Ferdinand, King of Bohemia, Croatia, and Hungary. His voice was rueful. 

The Burgundian Netherlands were a collection of fiefdoms, which had once been ruled in personal union by the Valois-Burgundy dukes, ancestors of Emperor Carlos V and his siblings. They included Flanders, Artois, Mechelen, Namur, Holland, Zeeland, Hainaut, Brabant, Limburg, Luxembourg, and so on. The Low Countries were held by the House of Habsburg since 1482.

The Holy Roman Emperor glowered at his younger brother. “What do you mean, Ferdinand? I did not permit you to come to the place of my residence, but you disobeyed me.”

“Explain your behavior,” demanded Maria von Habsburg, Dowager Queen of Hungary and governor of the Netherlands. “You appeared here out of the blue.”

King Ferdinand paced the presence chamber, decorated with rich tapestries. They depicted the history of the Croÿ family, which had years ago been powerful councilors to the Valois Dukes of Burgundy. It had been before the Burgundian Wars of 1474-77 between Charles the Bold, third Valois Duke of Burgundy, and King Louis XI of France. These conflicts had led to the dissolution of the vast domains owned by the Valois Burgundian magnates. It was when the Netherlands had been formed, while France had obtained the old Burgundy with the capital in Dijon.

Ferdinand paused near Philip II de Croÿ, who was Seigneur de Croÿ, Count of Porcéan, and Duke of Aarschot. Now in his late forties, Aarschot was a sturdy man with broad cheeks, a sharp chin, and black eyes. His smooth shaved beard had streaks of gray in it, but his head was full of brown hair without a hint of gray. Aarschot’s attire consisted of a black damask doublet and matching hose, unadorned and plain, save his high lace collar studded with precious stones.

“How can I help Your Majesty?” asked Philip de Croÿ tonelessly.

Ferdinand sighed. “Such a coincidence! Brother, I searched for you at Mechelen, where I found your new wife and our cousin Mary. I also went to Brussels thinking that you could be with our sister. It was where I was told that you both went to Havré.”

Carlos was impatient. “We are visiting our friend and vassal. What do you need?”

Ferdinand turned to Philip. “Your Grace of Aarschot! Your ancestor, Antoine the First de Croÿ, was implicated in the assassination of Prince Louis, Duke d’Orléans, in 1407. The Orléanists captured and tortured him at Blois, but he later fled after having spent a year in their prison.”

“Yes, it is so.” A bewildered Aarschot had never liked Ferdinand. “And what?”

Ferdinand gazed between Carlos and his subject. “Brother of mine, I find it symbolic because you might transmute into Jean the Fearless, second Valois Duke of Burgundy and our ancestor. Your visceral hatred of France and the House of Valois has blinded you. You married Mary Tudor to ally with Henry of England so as to invade France and partition it.”  

The emperor was not surprised by his astuteness. “It is none of your business, little brother. Be grateful that I allowed you to continue administering my lands in Austria.”

Your domains, certainly,” Ferdinand huffed. “Your sense of self-entitlement to everything is tremendous. I always complied with your orders, except for the time when I gave up Milan.”

A bolt of fury surged through Carlos. “You gifted Milan to the French! Bloody shame!”

Ferdinand parried, “To regain my freedom because you abandoned me in captivity.”

The two brothers glared at each other as though they were adversaries. The hazel eyes of Carlos, identical to the orbs of their late father Philip von Habsburg the Handsome, and the pale blue Trastámara pools of Ferdinand, which he had inherited from their mother, Queen Juana.

Carlos studied his male sibling. At forty-two, Ferdinand still looked full of life, vitality, and energy. Younger than his real age. Slender and athletic, the King of Hungary was handsome in a doublet of red and gold damask, his matching hose stressing his muscular legs. His face, illuminated by a pair of honest and yet now fiery eyes, had almost no wrinkles. Ferdinand has not changed since we last met in France before his capture, the emperor noted to himself.

At first glance, there were no alterations in the emperor’s appearance. An attractive man of athletic build and average height, Carlos had a few wrinkles under his hazel eyes, which were now more hawkish. A thick air of fatality, absolute supremacy, and mightiness enveloped the emperor. His austere, tight-fitting, high-collared doublet of somber velvet and his black silk trunk hose accentuated his gloominess. Carlos looks like a predator, Ferdinand inferred.

The King of Hungary launched a tirade. “Are you going to become a new Jean the Fearless? Perhaps you are planning to capture François and have him killed, just as the monster Jean did to Louis d’Orléans, who is François’ direct ancestor. What are your intentions?”  

Maria glowered at him. “How dare you disrespect our ancestor?”

The emperor barked, “Watch your tongue, Ferdinand.”

§§§

Ferdinand perused his sister. Attired in a high-necked gown of gray silk, Archduchess Maria had a long and oval face, a protruding jaw, and dark brown eyes like the emperor’s. Her thin nose sat snugly between her high cheekbones. Of short stature, Maria was not pretty, but intelligence was fetched into her features. She had proved to be a capable governor of the Netherlands.

Their paternal aunt, Archduchess Margaret of Austria, had raised Carlos, Maria, and their sisters – Eleanor and Isabella, by now both dead. I used to regret that I grew up in Spain, separately from my other siblings. Until now. In 1515, Archduchess Maria of Austria had married Louis II, King of Hungary, Croatia, and Bohemia. Her union had been childless, and Louis had fallen in the Battle of Mohács of 1526 against the Turks. Thanks to his death, Anna of Bohemia and Hungary, Ferdinand’s first spouse, had inherited his domains, which were now owned by Ferdinand.

Ferdinand however persevered, “Jean was our great-great-great-grandfather. Louis was a great-grandfather to François. Actually, François is our distant cousin.” His voice took on a higher octave. “The murderous Jean was butchered by the followers of Louis and on the orders of Charles the Seventh of France in more than ten years after Louis’ assassination. His fate was well deserved: Jean was the first to spill his first cousin’s blood and then destroyed countless people.”

Ferdinand approached Carlos who leaned against the walnut cabinet. Stabbing a finger at his brother, Ferdinand continued, “The first lesson from this story is that any murder can be avenged.”

The brothers’ glares intersected like swords. The emperor hissed, “Shut up.”

Nevertheless, Ferdinand faced his brother intrepidly. “Another lesson. Jean the Fearless and his son, Philippe the Good, were allied with the English after the Battle of Agincourt of 1415. They were obsessed with the idea to build their empire on the ruins of France, which caused a lot of trouble to the French Valois. Later, Burgundy made peace with France when it became clear that the Hundred Years’ War would be won by the French. In three decades after this, Burgundy lost its southern and eastern territories to France. Good that we at least got the Netherlands.”

“Ferdinand, your speech makes little sense.” Maria’s eyes flashed with ire.

The younger Habsburg brother stepped to their sister. “We have to learn lessons of history. The English and Burgundians tried to subjugate France, but they failed. Burgundy was built on our own wealth and on the funds that Phillippe the Bold, first Valois Duke of Burgundy, drained from their treasury during the reign of Charles the Sixth called the Mad. Nonetheless, everything, save the northern Netherlands, was eventually lost. Does it teach you something?”

“Our ancestors should have been harsher towards the French,” the emperor opined.

“But were the French in the wrong?” quizzed Ferdinand. “They did not attack, but out of all this war rose a national spirit of the French people and their aim to preserve the country’s independence, as well as their immense loyalty to the Valois dynasty. Foreigners do not understand this. That is why we failed to vanquish France in 1536.”

“You have become too French, brother,” criticized Maria.

Carlos fired, “Your Valois wife drove the Habsburg spirit out of you.”

“No,” Ferdinand countered. “Margot just explained to me things which I did not understand before. Respect my spouse, for I love her and will not let anyone harm her.”

Maria and Carlos shared glances of fury and incredulity. Maria then sighed.

The King of Hungary neared Carlos. “Are these examples not enough for you not to repeat the mistakes of our ancestors? Fate is a bizarre and unpredictable thing, but it has the tendency to punish those who perpetrate evil deeds and those who do not learn lessons of history.”

Carlos assumed a glacial expression. “The House of Valois must fall.”

Maria was tired of this conversation. “Ferdinand, the past does not matter.”

“It does!” shouted Ferdinand. “You are dragging us into new confrontations, which might lead to potentially bad outcomes, and which will bankrupt the Imperial and Habsburg treasuries.”

The emperor walked to a walnut chair and eased himself there. “I worked hard to refill our coffers. At present, the Imperial treasury is not empty.”

The King of Hungary noted, “However, the debts to the German bankers, the Fuggers, and to the Genoese bankers need to be repaid according to the existing schedule. If you engage in new campaigns, we will be unable to service our debts. Our family will have to borrow more.”

A smirk twisted the emperor’s lips. “If I have to do so to take my revenge on the Valois, I shall borrow as much as I need. Later, I’ll redeem my debts using the money from the treasury of France once this damned country is conquered by me and Henry.”

Ferdinand studied his brother again, whose face was ferocious. “Now I see only a cold-blooded and cynical politician in you. A monarch who is extremely rapacious for power. Have you always been like this, Carlos? Or did your ambitions and hatred move you to a point of no return? I cannot recognize an affectionate brother in you, one whom I often saw in you despite being mistreated when you exiled me from Spain and then from Flanders to Austria.”

The emperor’s gaze veered to a tapestry portraying the victorious Charles the Bold, third Valois Duke of Burgundy, as he conquered the Duchy of Lorraine. “Charles the Bold was a brave and illustrious warrior. My friend, the Duke of Alba, and I are the best generals of our time.”

Maria seated herself in a chair beside the emperor. “The French can do nothing to us.”

Ferdinand bristled. “Charles the Bold was a competent warrior, but his ambitions resulted in his death in the Battle of Nancy in 1477. His corpse was disfigured and barely recognizable.”

“I had him properly buried.” The emperor admired the last Valois Duke of Burgundy.

“Let Charles the Bold’s soul rest in peace,” Maria echoed. Her brothers followed suit.

After the Battle of Nancy of 1477, Charles the Bold’s mutilated body had been buried in the ducal church in Nancy in Lorraine. In the 1530s, his great-grandson, Emperor Carlos V, had his remains moved to the Church of Our Lady in Bruges, where Charles had been interred next to the tomb of his only daughter – Marie the Rich, a grandmother of the Habsburg siblings.

“At least, I know your intentions,” Ferdinand snapped in a tone layered with condemnation and disappointment. “I shall not allow you to harm my friend and father-in-law. I shall not let you cause the bankruptcy of the Holy Roman Empire. I’ll have to warn the electors.”

“Will you betray me again?” Carlos spat in abhorrence. “You are threatening me.”

A chagrined Ferdinand paced the room. “We are already divided.” He let out a tragic laugh. “Poor Felipe! You and later your son will have to repay all these huge debts.”  

Maria fidgeted with her necklace. “France’s treasury will help us redeem everything.”

Ferdinand wondered, “Will you ever try to confiscate my own domains?”

An incensed Carlos steepled his fingers. “Your French wife put a lot of nonsense into your head. Maybe something is wrong with your mind, like with our mother’s?”

Ferdinand fumed, “Don’t you dare touch my Marguerite! You are far worse: you are using poor Mary Tudor for destructive alliances.”

The emperor shot to his feet. “I made Mary the Holy Roman Empress!”

“Status does not give contentment,” riposted Ferdinand. “I thank God that both of my arranged marriages turned out to be ones based on love. Our cousin will be miserable with you.”

“Don’t pry into my life,” Carlos grouched.

The King of Hungary switched to another topic. “Word of advice. You have transformed the Netherlands into a conglomeration of inquisitorial pyres. You are burning too many people, and this policy will certainly backfire – they will start losing their loyalty to the House of Habsburg.”

The emperor’s eyes glinted fanatically. “I shall finish my crusade against heresy.”

“Go back to Vienna, Ferdinand,” Maria half-recommended, half-commanded.

“I shall. The air is too fanatical here. I’ve always been for religious settlement in the empire.” Ferdinand stabbed his finger at the emperor. “Our mother might be sick, but you must respect her.”

His expression pained, Ferdinand pivoted and strode to the door. Yet, he stopped.

Turning around, the husband of Princess Marguerite summed up, “Carlos! Your late wife, Isabella, would have been so horrified that it would have killed her devotion to you.”

At this, Carlos purpled in rage. “Get out! I do not wish to ever see you again.”

“I’ve warned you, Carlos,” repeated Ferdinand. Then he was gone.

The Duke of Aarschot questioned, “What are your orders for me, Your Imperial Majesty?”

Carlos enjoined, “You will fight for me.” He then stormed out of the room.

§§§

Meanwhile, King Ferdinand sat stride his horse. His cortege waited in a large courtyard.

He surveyed the imposing Château d’Havré, whose fortifications had been constructed in the 12th century. The four corner towers, with the guard tower covered with a spherical dome, as if symbolized the imprisonment of his once reverent attitude to Carlos in one of these towers. I love my brother, but I’ve long stopped idealizing him. I shall not let him destroy everything.

Ferdinand spurred on his horse. His cortege with Habsburg and Bohemian standards floating in the air crossed over a moat. The monarch prepared for a journey through Hainaut, the Burgundian Netherlands, and Germany back to Vienna. He feared to imagine what the emperor would do next; perhaps even to him. A sliver of apprehension slithered down Ferdinand’s spine.


May 6, 1545, Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, close to Paris, France

The spacious chamber in the so-called Wing of the King of the château was thronged with royals, courtiers, and ambassadors from various countries. The walls were frescoed with scenes from the life of the Roman God Jupiter and his wife Juno, the goddess called Regina.

“To the happy marriage of Archduke Maximilian and Princess Aimée!” 

This was the cry of Philip von Wittelsbach, Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg – a special envoy of Ferdinand von Habsburg, one who also was a German royal councilor with the most fervent allegiance to Ferdinand. His bearing dignified, Philip was tall and of athletic build, and he had rare violet eyes. German fashions were less sumptuous: his attire consisted of a buttoned brown velvet doublet with a black lace collar, as well as matching hose and skullcap of the same material.

The French nobles echoed Palatinate-Neuburg’s words in ebullient accents.  

An hour ago, King François and Palatinate-Neuburg, representing Ferdinand von Habsburg, had signed the betrothal agreement between Archduke Maximilian and Princess Aimée.

The courtiers broke into acclamations of approval.

King François and Queen Anne sat in massive gilded thrones under a canopy of cloth of gold embroidered with fleurs-de-lis and Valois escutcheons. Due to the continuing mourning at the French court for the late Lady Elizabeth Boleyn and now also for the murdered Nicholas Wotton, the sovereigns of France were dressed in black, their attire set off only by their two golden crowns of pearls, sapphires, and rubies, from which in the center suspended a gigantic ruby.

“I adore our crowns, husband,” Anne whispered to her spouse.

François winked at her. “The fact that they are identical means a lot, wife.”  

As the concourse quietened, everyone stared at the royal couple.

The monarch proclaimed, “To the House of Valois’s alliance with our friend Ferdinand, the Habsburg ruler of Austrian lands and King of Hungary, Bohemia, and so on!” 

The applause and cheers boomed like a salvo from an artillery battery. Only the Imperial ambassador and a few others were taciturn, their expressions apparently upset.

Queen Anne affirmed, “To the happiness of Archduke Maximilian and Princess Aimée!” 

Again, the assemblage let out cheers in favor of this betrothal.  

The thrones of the Navarrese rulers were installed to the right from the French ones. King Henri and his spouse, Marguerite, sat in similar gilded thrones under a canopy of crimson brocade embroidered with the Albert coat-of-arms. They wore rich black clothes, their golden crowns the only shining things in their appearance. There was a palatable tension between them: the usually vivacious Marguerite was now exceedingly cold, and a halo of sadness enveloped Henri.  

“To peace in Europe!” Queen Marguerite cried out with a deliberate hint.

Palatinate-Neuburg intoned, “Peace in France and my master’s lands are our aim.”  

Then followed a round of exorbitant cheers. The ambassador of Carlos V walked out.

§§§

From a room adjacent to the grand chamber, a band of musicians played chansons composed by Claudin de Sermisy, musical head of the Royal Chapel. The quick repeated notes, which were part of Sermisy’s chansons, added to the chordal and syllabic nature of all his works.

Sitting in their thrones, Anne and François listened to the music with pleasure.

The king praised, “Monsieur de Sermisy’s chansons are full of lightness and grace.”    

Anne adored Sermisy’s music from her time at the Valois court years ago. “I’ve always loved Sermisy. But my impression is that Monsieur de Sermisy’s interest in the sacred genres has increased steadily throughout his life, while his interest in secular music has declined.”  

Their conversation was interrupted by the sight of the quitting Imperial ambassador.

“Have you seen it?” There was a sliver of worry in Anne’s voice.

François tipped a nod. “This reaction is natural. Before the invasion of France, Carlos and Ferdinand were united in their goals. Nevertheless, Ferdinand’s release from our captivity, our alliance, his marriage to my dearest Margot, his victory over the Turks in Genoa, and our triumph over the Pope – all these things drove a wedge between him and Carlos.”  

“Ferdinand has remained loyal to his older brother, but their relationship is chilly.”    

“This coldness stems from Carlos’ anger.” His bejeweled fingers reached out his consort’s hand. “Unlike Carlos, Ferdinand is a man of honor who endured struggles, made others respect him, and keeps his promises. Carlos told him lies about me before the invasion. But if Carlos ever tries to reinvigorate their filial affection, Ferdinand will respond with eagerness.”  

A frisson of unease slithered down the queen’s spine. “Can Ferdinand betray us?” 

“No.” The ruler was convinced of this. “The betrothal proves that. Ferdinand wants peace! If I find myself in some Imperial trap, Ferdinand may be the one to rescue me.”  

Anne squeezed his fingers tightly with hers. “God forbid that, François.”  

The king gestured towards a series of frescoes depicting the Capitoline Triad, which included Jupiter, Juno and Minerva, and which held a central place in the religion of ancient Rome. The late Rosso Fiorentino, who had worked on these frescoes, had recreated their portrayals in fashion similar to those found in elaborate temples, known as Capitolia, on Rome’s Capitoline Hill.

Jest after jest fell from his lips as François pointed at the frescoes. “Who are you, wife? My goddess Minerva? My Hera or Juno? Maybe one half of Minerva and the other half of Juno.”  

A smile flowered across Anne’s visage. “I’m your personal goddess Anne.”  

“My Minerva-and-Juno will save me from Carlos,” her spouse joked.

Apprehensive, the Valois spouses eyed one another, battling against the vicissitudes of life and the riot of their minds. They could not imagine how much time they would spend apart.

“I’ll give my life for you and France, François.”  

“Whatever happens, you must live, Anne. Our children will need you.”  

The queen’s world was a turbulence of fears and alarms. “Maybe there will be no invasion.”  

“It will happen,” the king disillusioned her. “After Isabella’s death, Carlos has no one who can try to curb his lust for power. He will focus upon vengeance against France and me.”  

Not caring that many glances were glued to them, the queen brought his hand to her lips and kissed it. “I’ll not survive if you fall on the battlefield or die in some trap. You must be with me!” 

The monarch took her hands and kissed both of them. “My Anne! My wife, my beloved!” he drawled in a voice layered with ardor. “I’ll be with you as long as I breathe.”  

Her dark eyes reflected her devotion to him. “Even longer, my king and husband. We shall be together in all eternity. However, before that, we will live many happy years on earth.”  

“We shall.” François’ amber eyes shone with his boundless love for her.

Claudin de Sermisy approached the royals and sketched a bow. “Is everything to Your Majesties' liking?” He glanced between the French and the Navarrese couples.

Anne assured, “Everything is excellent, Monsieur de Sermisy.”  

Marguerite exclaimed, “Perfection, Claudin!” 

“As always,” added François with a smile.

“I’m glad; thank you,” uttered Sermisy as he bowed once more and walked away.

Henri of Navarre’s declaration interrupted their discourse. “For those rulers who safeguard peace in their kingdoms! For François of France, Ferdinand of Austria, and some others!” 

François added in a high voice, “For Henri of Navarre, France’s friend and ally!” 

This received a clatter of goblets and glasses, which the courtiers and diplomats collected from the trays with decanters brought by servants in Valois lively.

§§§

King François approached Duke Philip of Palatinate-Neuburg. As he saw the monarch, Palatinate-Neuburg followed François to the part of the chamber that was less overcrowded.

François addressed the diplomat. “I’m most grateful to Ferdinand for this betrothal.”  

“My master is most glad too,” Palatinate-Neuburg assured with a bow. “Princess Aimée is an excellent match for his eldest son and heir – Archduke Maximilian. The ten-year age difference does not worry King Ferdinand – Maximilian will just have to wait for some time.”  

“The wedding should happen not before Aimée reaches sixteen.”  The king leaned closer to him. “Early consummation might have an adverse effect on a woman’s health.”    

The envoy nodded. “I understand your concern, and so does my master.”  

François was awash in relief. “I’ll never do anything to endanger my daughter’s life.”  

Many gazes slid to them from time to time, a combination of curiosity and delight in the air. Neither courtiers not servants with trays, full of refreshments, dared interrupt their solitude.

“Sure, Your Majesty. Archduke Maximilian is a clever, good-looking teenager, committed to having a good home. He is being raised in the best humanistic traditions of the time.”  

The monarch nodded. “During our Italian campaign, Ferdinand told me a lot about his late wife and children, especially Maximillian.”  

The diplomat smiled. “Speaking about marriages, Your Majesty’s great daughter – Queen Marguerite – is much loved by the German and Austrian aristocracy. We are happy to have her as our queen and even more impressed by her cultural background.”  

“My Margot was raised at my splendid court,” boasted the ruler.

Palatinate-Neuburg scanned the chamber with the eye of an amateur connoisseur admiring the beauty around him. The frescoes dedicated to Juno’s life with Jupiter impressed him the most.  

Without any trace of flattery, the diplomat asserted, “Your Majesty, I heard a lot about the Valois court, and now I’m most pleased to witness its magnificence and enlightenment.”  

François grinned cocksurely. “I’ve worked hard to achieve that.”  

The envoy said, “Queen Marguerite of Bohemia and Hungary has a deep passion for cutting-edge excellence in the arts. She is actively financing education in Austria and is patronizing Austrian and German artists. The Viennese court is shining  brilliantly.”  

Palatinate-Neuburg continued, “Queen Marguerite is my master’s Juno. They have an idyllic family, God bless and give them many years of their reign. The queen is a good friend to each of my master’s children and assumed the role of a mother for the youngest ones.”  

“Margot is feisty, but she has a gentle heart. And how are my grandchildren faring?” 

After the Italian war, Ferdinand and Marguerite had arrived in Vienna when she was heavily pregnant. Charles, Archduke of Austria, had been born in 1541, followed by little Ursula in 1542 and Helena in 1543. The sickly Ursula had died in infancy.

Palatinate-Neuburg informed, “Little Archduke Charles and Archduchess Helena are bonny and healthy. God let the soul of our little Archduchess Ursula rest in peace…” 

Grief squeezed François. “God bless her soul.”  

The duke extracted two letters from his doublet’s pocket. “These are for Your Majesty.”  

The ruler grasped the documents like a lifeline. “Thank Ferdinand for this betrothal.”  

“The emperor will be furious about his brother’s decision to marry his eldest son not to one of the Habsburg nieces. However, my master will not dance to his brother’s whims.”  

“I respect Ferdinand for his code of honor. This betrothal will confuse Carlos slightly.”  

“King Ferdinand will attempt to resolve all conflicts by means of diplomacy. He also says that in the critical situation, he might interfere not only with words.”  

“Hopefully, it will not be necessary.”

A moment later, Queen Anne neared them, her expression quizzical.

Philip bowed to Anne. “Madame, you look gorgeous!” 

Her smile was alluring. “Thank you, Your Grace of Palatinate-Neuburg.”  

Palatinate-Neuburg, who was a devout Lutheran, respected Anne to a substantial degree. “Is it possible to see Princess Aimée play on some musical instrument? Her talent is famous.”  

“Of course.” Anne would never miss the chance to show off her daughter’s musical genius.    

The French sovereigns and the Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg left the room together. A long line of guards followed them, for after the murder of Wotton the royals were heavily guarded.   

§§§

The monarch and his consort, as well as the Austrian envoy halted in the chamber filled with other diplomats, who had come here from the great hall to speak with the Valois ruler. The soldiers from the Scots guard lined up along the perimeter of the whole area.  

The foreigners dropped into bows, tinged with respect, subservience, and anticipation.

With an air of imperial confidence about him, King François announced, “Dear all! We are happy to announce that Ferdinand von Habsburg and I have confirmed our alliance and solidified it with the betrothal contract of my daughter, Aimée, and his son, Maximilian.”  

Their response was nods, cheers, and congratulations with a new diplomatic feat.

A moment later, Queen Marguerite and King Henri of Navarre entered. They were followed by the royal entourage – Philippe de Chabot, Claude d’Annebault, Chancellor Guillaume Poyet, Bishop Jean du Bellay, and, surprisingly, Jean IV de Brosse, Duke d’Étampes – he had become favored by the French king despite being the husband of Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly.

Among them, there was Jacques d’Albon, Seigneur de Saint-André. François had recently appointed him Marshal of France, for he needed more competent military men in the absence of Montmorency. The position of Constable of France was still occupied by Montmorency.

“Your Majesty!” shouted Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle, who was a Burgundian politician and the Imperial ambassador to France. “You attempt to alienate Emperor Carlos from his brother, Archduke Ferdinand. Do you realize the consequences?” 

François sniggered at his indecorous bluntness. “Monsieur de Granvelle, you have been here for years, but I can see that you have not mastered the art of French gallantry.”  

Henri of Navarre barked, “Are you threatening the King of France?” 

Claude d’Annebault hissed, “Where are your manners, you Burgundian man?” 

“Granville is our enemy,” hissed Philippe de Chabot.

“Evil soul corrupts good manners,” Marguerite spat disdainfully.

Granville’s mouth twitched in a mockery of a smile. “Manners do not help when hordes of your foes encircle you.” He was already aware of the traps prepared for François and Anne.     

“Ah, so menacing!” François was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

The Imperial diplomat’s outbursts irked Anne. “That is such a horrible lapse of manner again, Monsieur de Granvelle. I remember our first meeting in Paris soon after your arrival. Views alter, creeds rise and fall, but the moral laws and etiquette are written on the table of eternity.”  

Granville glared at the French queen. “Spare me your preaching, Madame.” He addressed her husband. “Your Majesty is working to alienate Archduke Ferdinand from Emperor Carlos.”  

King Ferdinand,” corrected François. “The emperor’s brother is also a sovereign of several countries, and it is impolite of you to lower his status. Ferdinand himself wants our alliance.”    

The ambassador launched a new attack. “You make adversaries for yourself easily, Your Most Enmity-Creating Majesty. The House of Habsburg will defend its unity!” 

A twist of François’ lips looked like a contorted grimace of his deep-seated abhorrence for Carlos. “Ferdinand is not a boy. As an experienced monarch, only he decides with whom to ally and against whom to wage wars. It is Carlos who is planning to destroy the peace and prosperity of my country once more just because of the emperor’s petty obsession with revenge.”  

Everyone observed: their sovereign’s countenance counseled the wisdom of silence.

The Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg’s patience was exhausted. “Neither King Ferdinand nor King François wants any conflicts. Instead of following their example, Emperor Carlos married King Henry’s daughter and made a secret alliance to launch a new invasion of France.”   

Granville glared at the other man. “Palatinate-Neuburg! A member of the ancient German nobility, you converted into Lutheranism and by doing so, besmirched the honor of your family and your master. At least, King Ferdinand is not a Protestant, although he has become too tolerant towards heretics and has many of them in employment instead of having them burned.”  

All pairs of eyes were directed at Ferdinand’s special envoy.

Palatinate-Neuburg commented with undisguised animosity, “Unlike Emperor Carlos, my master is not a fanatic and endeavors to resolve all matters without bloodshed.”  

Taking his wife’s hand in his left hand, François waved his other hand for silence. “Enough! France has followed and will follow the policy of religious tolerance. It matters not who you are – we are all God’s children. I respect Ferdinand’s policy of tolerance a great deal.”  

Marguerite rejoined, “Monsieur de Granvelle, you have been treated well here, despite our hostility towards the Imperial men. However, you are as warmongering as the emperor is.”  

Her husband, Henri d’Albert, requested, “Tell your master, Granvelle, that if he invades France, he will fight against François and me. Navarre has always been France’s staunch ally.”  

“Your small Navarre,” Granville jeered. “Ah, such a strong ally!” 

Marguerite gazed at her husband with gratitude; it was the first lukewarm glance she had given him since the discovery of his long-term dalliance with Anne de Pisseleu. “Even a minuscule force or nation may outwit a much stronger enemy. Truth and the Lord are on our side!” 

François and Anne echoed, “On the side of France.”  

Hermann of Cologne, the ambassador from Hesse, appeared from the crowd. “I’ve lived at this court since 1536. I’ve always been of the high opinion of the Valois family. My sovereign, Landgrave Philip of Hesse, will support the King of France in all his endeavors to preserve peace. In case of a new invasion, we will send our forces to help.”  

Granville hissed, “Another heretic.”  

François turned with a sweeping gesture towards the crowd. “Most of those who gathered in this room have progressive ideas. Will you have us all burned, Monsieur de Granvelle?”

“Heretics must be annihilated,” reiterated the Imperial diplomat.

The King of France was disgusted. “You are so fanatical and cruel!” 

“Maybe,” admitted Granville. “At least I don’t murder foreigners like animals.”    

A hush settled like a shroud of hostility. The wall frescoes of scenes portraying Jupiter and Minerva involved in various mythological battles added to the growing tension.   

This was the allusion to the barbaric murder of Sir Nicholas Wotton, the English ambassador at the Valois court. Several weeks earlier, the poor man’s body had been discovered by terrified servants in his apartments. Wotton’s corpse had lain in a pool of blood on his bed, and his severed head had been on a silver platter, like a dish on a bedside table. Jacques de Montgomery, Catherine de’ Medici’s servant, had done his job well. Everyone was still in shock from the crime.

Anne promulgated fiercely, “My husband is not responsible for this atrocity.” 

Marguerite’s eyes were shooting daggers. “Don’t you dare accuse François of villainies he is incapable of perpetrating. He is far nobler than Emperor Carlos can ever be.”  

The King of Navarre exploded, “I would have ejected you from court!” 

The Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg said, “King Ferdinand does not believe that King François could order such an awful thing. It must be someone who wishes to anger the King of England.”  

Anne concurred with Palatinate-Neuburg. “Indeed.”

The King of France articulated, “I do not care what Carlos or Henry think about me. I swear upon my eternal soul – you all know I’m a true Catholic – that I would never have enjoined to kill a man in his sleep and to desecrate his corpse by butchering it.”  He paused and eyed the concourse. “I’ve asked Philippe de Chabot and Jean de Brosse to find the culprit.”   

Chabot stepped forward. “Your Majesty, we are investigating, but we need more time.”  

“You have it, my friend,” the French monarch said. Chabot nodded at him gratefully.

Étampes emerged from the assemblage. “Your Majesty, the crime was perpetrated in the fashion similar to that in which Monsieur Louis de Perreau and Sir Francis Bryan were murdered several years ago at Greenwich. The assassin might be the Pope’s agent.”  

François nodded. “That is possible. Farnese is a cunning man.”  

Nicolas de Granvelle rebuked, “You have kept the Pope almost a captive in Rome. This is against the Lord! His Holiness, not Anne de Montmorency, must govern the Papal States.”  

Marguerite ground out, “The Roman affairs are none of your business.”  

The Valois monarch stepped closer to the Imperial envoy. “Write to your master that neither I nor any Valois will ever surrender to him. We shall not bow to that devil!” 

The cheers were louder than before. The diplomats nodded in frenzied agreement.

Pivoting with his back to Granvelle, the King and Queen of France swept out of the chamber. The Navarrese rulers and the royal entourage trailed after them, as well as the guards.   

§§§

Only a small amount of sunlight filtered into the study through the narrow spaces between the shutters. The mood of the royals was foul, so they did not want to see light.

François tumbled into a walnut chair decorated with salamanders. Feeling not enough air in his lungs from the emotions choking him, he unfastened the upper part of his doublet.

Marguerite knelt by his chair. “Brother, are you all right?” 

Anne followed her suit. “Husband, should we fetch a physician?” 

“He is merely being too nervous.” Henri of Navarre stood next to them.

The King of France managed a smile. “I’m fine. Take a seat.”  

They settled themselves comfortably in matching chairs next to him.

François unfolded the letter stamped with the seal of Ferdinand von Habsburg. Ferdinand wrote the letter in German, not in his native Spanish, but François understood it well enough.

François,

Words are often like water. Actions speak volumes.

I shall not break the betrothal of Maximillian to Aimée – do not listen to those who strive to make us enemies again. Our children’s marriage will be our another step to eliminate the enmity between the Houses of Habsburg and Valois, just as my marriage to Marguerite was.   

Carlos will attack you once more, and some treaty was signed in Ghent. I’ll do my best to stop him with the aid of negotiations. Carlos is still my blood brother.

I give you my word that in some extreme scenario, I’ll try to stop him by force without harming him. Now my alliance with France is secured by my deep love for Margot, my dearest wife. Perhaps you made me wed her so that she could entrance me to fall madly in love with her. Marguerite will not forgive me if I allow something bad to happen to you.

Every day, I pray that Carlos will not do something that will lead to a point when I have to wage war against him. We must be patient, brave, and strong to win.

Your friend and ally, Ferdinand

François grasped the parchment in his hands. A smile wandered around his lips.   

“What does Ferdinand say?” questioned Anne impatiently.

“Ferdinand is our friend,” pinpointed the French ruler. “Honorable, strong, passionate, true to himself and his moral code, and loving my daughter. The latter is the most important to me.”    

Then François handed the parchment to his wife, who after reading it gave it to the Navarrese couple. Silence reigned as they read the letter in turns, slowly and attentively.

Marguerite opined, “Carlos may eventually deprive Ferdinand of his Austrian lands.”

“Especially if he helps France,” Henri noted.

Anne was slightly relieved. “At least, we can trust Ferdinand.”   

François smiled sadly. “The emperor’s brother is somewhat idealistic. He still believes that he might negotiate with Carlos. But only an enormous army can stop him.”  

Anne’s shoulders slumped. “The emperor’s animosity towards the House of Valois is fueled by his lingering taste of defeat years ago, and his brother’s friendship with you, François.”  

Marguerite spoke with passion. “No Frenchman will bow to anyone from Flanders, Spain, and the emperor’s domains. Even our alliance with Ferdinand has been perceived cautiously.”  

“Count on me, François,” pledged Henri. “I’ll fight alongside you.”  

The King of France smiled at Marguerite’s spouse. Regardless of any personal grudges, he still considered Henri d’Albert his comrade. “I’ll be most honored, cousin.”  

The Navarrese monarch breathed out a sigh of relief. “And so will I, cousin.”  

Marguerite eyed her husband suspiciously. “Are you telling us the truth?” 

Henri could not keep the disappointment from his tone. “What?”

“Our marital situation,” the French monarch’s sister murmured with a mixture of resignation and discontent. “We will never be husband and wife again. And you will fight for us?” 

Henri’s shoulders rose and fell. “You view me as your adversary. It is your right, Margot, but I consider François my friend and France my ally. I do not abandon friends.”  

“Good God, sister,” grouched François. “Please, don’t mix personal with political.”  

“No!” Marguerite persevered. “It is wholly possible, brother. After all, there is a traitor among us. Who killed Nicholas Wotton to drive a wedge between England and France?”  

A shocked Henri jumped to his feet. “Margot, how could you accuse me of treason?” 

Anne’s scrutiny oscillated between the Albert spouses. She recollected the confession of the Duchess d’Étampes about her help to the Lorraine brothers to escape to Spain. Had Anne de Pisseleu said the truth that Henri knew nothing of this? Had the queen done the right thing by keeping the truth from François out of pity to the duchess? Henri of Navarre cannot be a traitor.  

François measured his sister a glance of disbelief. “Marguerite, your offences speak for you.”  

The anger in Marguerite’s voice intensified. “You always see goodness in people, brother. Henri was deceiving us for years while having an affair with that Pisseleu slut.”  Her gaze slid to her husband. “It would take Henri a week or so to get to Valladolid from Pau, where he could meet with Francisco de les Cobos, the emperor’s regent in Spain, and establish an alliance.”  

“I do not deserve this, Marguerite.” A dumfounded Henri remained calm.

Anne interposed, “Margot, you have formed rash opinions without proof.”  

François advised, “Don’t be so dramatic.”

Marguerite leaned forward. “Regardless of my accusations, we have a traitor in our ranks.”  

Henri’s forehead creased with ire that he could no longer contain. “My dearest wife, do you want our relationship to be completely shattered? Think of our daughter Jeanne, the future Queen of Navarre! I signed the betrothal treaty with France. How could I betray François?” 

Jealous rage blinded the French king’s sister. “Maybe it is a ruse.”    

“Margot,” Henri said with odd tenderness. “Will you stand over my coffin with a smile?” 

Then the King of Navarre stormed out, as if the study was on fire.

“My clever sister,” François started with devotion. “You are a better administrator of state affairs than me, but you are wrong on this occasion. You need to calm down.”  

The Queen of Navarre gazed uncomfortably at her brother. “With the presence of that whore at our court, my life has become complicated. The tension has weighed heavily upon me.”  

“Or jealousy,” the monarch hypothesized. “I think you still feel something for Henri.”  

Marguerite considered this. “No. My love for him died when I learned of his hypocrisy.”

François opined, “As you wish. I don’t think he has gotten over you, or not entirely.”  

“It matters not,” snapped the Navarrese queen. She then walked out of the study.

To distract himself, the ruler unfolded his daughter’s letter and scanned through it.

My most beloved Father, my most chivalrous Knight-King,

I’d love to see my siblings! I was happy to learn about the birth of my brother Antoine.

Ferdinand and I live happily in Vienna. I had misgivings as to marrying our “enemy,” who later turned out to be our good friend, yet I found a true soulmate in my husband. Ferdinand loved his first wife, but we both grew to love each other. My spouse respects me and asks for my counsel.

Our two children – Charles and Helena – are healthy and merry, and I often tell them about France. We are still mourning for our little Ursula, but we want to try for another child soon to fill the void from the loss of our baby girl. I’m teaching Charles and Helena to speak French.

Only one thing distresses us – the emperor’s thirst for revenge and conquests. My husband has continuously begged Carlos to preserve peace in Christendom and aid him in our fight against the Ottoman Empire in Hungary, for our resources are limited. However, Carlos sent neither men nor funds to finance our quest for the complete liberation of Hungary and our defense from the Turks. Carlos responds only to letters covering state affairs in the Habsburg domains.   

Father, I do not believe that Ferdinand will betray us. And it would be better if the Habsburg vast domains were divided between the Spanish Habsburgs and the Austrian ones.

As for my sister Aimée’s betrothal to Maximilian, it is the right choice. I worked very hard to make this betrothal happen. My stepson is a good and responsible prince.

Your loving daughter and a true Valois, Marguerite

“My Margots are both correct,” François pronounced. “One of those who is close to me has betrayed us. By the way, if Carlos’ possessions were divided between him and Ferdinand, there would have been peace, and Carlos would not be so warmongering.”  

Anne nodded her concurrence. They sat in silence for long quivering, intense moments.


May 12, 1545, Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, close to Paris, France

King François met Philippe de Chabot, Admiral de Brion, in the corridor as he walked out of the presence chamber where he had met with Protestant ambassadors.

The monarch quizzed, “What has happened, Philippe?” 

Admiral de Brion began, “Your Majesty, our spies noticed the movements of the Imperial forces under the command of the Duke of Alba in Flanders towards our northern border.”  

At present, Philippe de Chabot was in charge of international affairs and local network of spies. Claude d’Annebault was playing the main military role in Montmorency’s absence.

Chabot vocalized their fears. “It must be the preparation for invasion.”

“Something else?”  The ruler’s heart was drumming fast. The air seemed very hot as torrents of mortal hatred, perpetual like humanity, pelted him, stinging him like a marble-sized hail.

Chabot’s fists balled in his animosity towards the Habsburgs. “The emperor must be enraged by Princess Aimée’s betrothal to Archduke Maximilian, but they will attack later.”  

François contemplated this. “Carlos will coordinate his actions with Henry.”  

“We have not heard anything about the English vessels in the Channel.”  

“They are assembling their forces,” deduced the king. “In the summer we will have guests.”  

“Then we have some time. Annebault says that our armies are well equipped.”  

François instructed, “Philippe, contact our trusted spies at continental courts and gather as much intelligence as possible. I shall convene Military Council and Privy Council.”  

Queen Anne appeared. “Why are the two of you gloomy?” 

The king was very still for a brief time. “It has started.”  

His consort’s sigh was like a gust of wind. “God curse Henry and Carlos!” 

“There is something else.”  Chabot’s voice faltered for a moment. “The emperor is spreading the rumor that we killed the Pope’s son Ranuccio Farnese. I visited him a few weeks earlier, and although he seemed too melancholic, Ranuccio did not do strange things at the time.”  

The monarch’s countenance contorted into a ghastly grimace. “Carlos is again calumniating me. Before he accused me of murdering Eleanor. Now my victim is that Satan of Rome’s son.”  

Chabot released a sigh. “In Flanders it is working. What will the Italians say?” 

Anne pulled herself together with effort. “Let’s move the court to the palace where Ranuccio is jailed. We will show him to the courtiers and diplomats to prove that the emperor is a liar.”  

François had the same opinion. “We will start our progress to Château de Cognac in a week.”  His gaze drifted to Chabot. “Keep it secret so far to avoid panic, Philippe.”  

Chabot bowed. “It will all be done, Your Majesties.” He hurried away.

Anne and François took each other’s hands and squeezed them.

The monarch compelled a smile. “We will win.”  

There was a quiver in Anne’s fingers clasped in his. “Never leave me, mon amour!” 

“I promise, mon coeur.”  The monarch’s two pools were full of agitated brown liquid. His voice dropped to a whisper tinged with the despair of someone who had built a civilization only to see it crumble. “My strength is in you, Anne! You are my dawn caressing my life.”    

His vulnerability was transmitted to her. “Certain days are for consolation, some hours are for silence, while others are for action. I’ll always be at your side, François.”  

The door of the presence chamber opened. Nicholas de Valois-Estouteville walked out.

Nicholas sketched a bow. “Your Majesties, I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you.”  

A boy of small stature and the dour Valois complexion, Nicholas had the trademark Valois long nose and amber intelligent eyes. Nonetheless, this was all that made him resemble his royal father. Though being a bastard, Nicholas wore sumptuous garments of green brocade. An air of awkwardness about him indicated to his confusion regarding his place in the king’s life.  

The monarch’s lips proposed, “I think we can spend some time together now.”  

Nicholas flashed a smile. “Is that possible for Your Majesty and me?” 

François stroked the boy’s brown hair. “I acknowledged you as my son, Nicholas. Don’t be afraid of me. I love all my children regardless of their status.”  

Anne advised, “Nicholas, you need to bond with your siblings. They are of your age.”  Her husband’s glance at her was grateful. “They need another loving brother.”  

“I adore them a lot.” The boy’s eyes shone with elation.

François extended his hand to the child. “Should we go talk?” 

Nicholas was elated. “Yes, Your Majesty! I’d like that very much!” 

As the French queen watched them leave, the verses of tragic medieval romances crooned in the ear of her memory. Why am I feeling this? Anne agonized, loneliness chilling her.

§§§

In another chamber, King Henri of Navarre observed his mistress and her child converse. He adored Anne de Pisseleu’s daughter with the late Prince Charles as much as he loved their own offspring, who waited for them in Navarre and whom the parents missed greatly.

Charlotte twittered, “Mama, Aimée is so wonderful!” 

Anne smiled. “I’m glad that you are friends with your cousin.”  

“Aimée is like these flowers!” The girl pointed at the tapestries.  

The room’s walls were draped in original hangings, made from silk cloth and hand-painted with garlands of roses tied together with ribbons and executed in shades of red and green.

“You are my flower too, Lotte.” Anne’s eyes conveyed her love for her child.

Charlotte glanced between Henri and Anne with a grin. She did not understand her mother’s relationship with this man, but she liked Henri because he was kind to her and gave her gifts.  

“My love, go to your governess,” permitted Anne as she kissed her daughter.

Charlotte de Valois kissed her mother back. “Mama, hug me!” 

The Duchess d’Étampes enfolded her daughter into a tight embrace.

Henri commented, “Charlotte, you are so much like your father.”   

Anne parted from her daughter and straightened. “The resemblance is uncanny.”  

Charlotte, for whom the deceased Prince Charles was a mystical figure that intrigued her, wanted to know more about her father. “Tell me about him, please.”  

An instant later, the door opened. King François walked in together with Nicholas.

The girl curtsied. “Your Majesty, I’m happy to see you again.”  

Anne curtsied, her eyes downcast. Henri stood silent, feeling uncomfortable.

François approached his granddaughter. “Lotte, your father was young, handsome, brave, and noble. His life was short, but his death was heroic. I loved him wholeheartedly.”  

The girl admitted, “I’d like to see him. I pray for my father.”  

“You are a marvel.” Unshed tears pooled in François’ eyes. “The last thing left of my son.”  

The King of France squatted and enveloped his granddaughter into his arms.

François parted from her. “I adore you, my girl. Always remember that.”  

“I love Your Majesty, too.” Charlotte was beaming at the monarch.

Nicholas offered, “Do you want to stroll in the gardens with us, Lotte?” 

Charlotte glanced at her mother. “Can I, Mama?” 

Anne told her daughter, “Charlotte, you must obey His Majesty.”  

After the children and the ruler had left, the Duchess d’Étampes dissolved into tears. King Henri gathered her into his arms and let her cry until her sobs subsided.

Henri was making soothing circles across his mistress’ back. “Calm down, Anne.”  

She scrubbed the tears away. “This situation is not easy, Henri.”  

He led her to a tawny-brocaded couch; they seated themselves on it.

Henri pressed his paramour to himself. “I love you, Anne. I need you.”  

Suddenly, the duchess asked, “What about Queen Marguerite?” 

He did not wish to confess that his heart was divided, and he could not forget his wife despite being with the duchess. Thus, he dodged her question. “Your nearness is too tempting.”  

The heat from his body was overpowering. “I want you inside of me, Henri.”  

His hands swept down to her waist. “I cannot wait, mon amour.”  

“And neither can I, mon amour,” Anne rasped against his ear.

Hiking her skirts up, Henri pushed her down onto the couch and rolled her stockings down. Meanwhile, she unlaced his hose. He fell on her and entered Anne with the desperation of a staring man. They made love frantically, lips tantalizing and bruising. Afterwards, they rearranged their clothes and rushed to the Navarrese monarch’s bedroom to continue their carnal feasts.

Notes:

Hello everyone! We hope that you are fine and sane. Take care of yourself!

The Ferdinand of Austria/Emperor Carlos V/Maria of Hungary scene was written because one of our polls showed that this scene was wanted by the readers. We chose a special place for their meeting – Havré Castle in Hainaut, owned by the Croÿ family. The members of this family served Carlos well and fought against the French in the Italian wars. Before the Burgundians wars between Charles the Bold, 4th Valois Duke of Burgundy, and King Louis XI of France known as the Spider-King, the Croÿ family served to the Valois Dukes of Burgundy. One of their members was indeed involved in the murder of Louis I de Valois, Duke d’Orléans.

Ferdinand stated important lessons of history, which Carlos ignored in his blind assurance that he would conquer France with Henry VIII of England. As Carlos is planning to have François burned and sees him as a heretic, we used the comparison of Carlos V with Jean the Fearless, 2nd Valois Duke of Burgundy. Jean should be called Jean the Murderous: he killed his first cousin, Louis d’Orléans, in 1407, to control the whole of France and continue stealing from the country’s treasury, which was possible during the sad and theatrical reign of Charles VI of France known as the Mad, or the Glass-King as he claimed that he was made of glass or was St George.

One of the most important lessons is that any murder can be avenged – Jean the Fearless was murdered, in fact butchered, on the orders of Dauphin Charles (future Charles VII of France known as the Victorious) by the same men who served Louis d’Orléans. By the way, according to contemporary chronicles, Emperor Carlos V admired his ancestor – Charles the Bold, who was a capable military commander, but not a good ruler (read history!) and whose ambitions to make him King of Burgundy led to his death on the battlefield of Nancy in 1477.

François, Carlos, and Ferdinand are all cousins, though distant ones. Their first common ancestor is Philippe the Bold, 1st Valois Duke of Burgundy. They are 5th cousins. They are all descended from King Jean II of France known as the Good (I would give him the nickname the Troublesome as he and Charles VI were the worst monarchs of France in our history).

Maybe something bad expects Ferdinand of Austria. Will Carlos let his brother continue living in Vienna? Especially after Ferdinand obviously repudiated the marriage between one of Carlos’ daughters and his oldest son, Maximilian. This wedding will happen in years to come as a way to heal the enmity between the Houses of Valois and of Habsburg. This betrothal is also the result of Marguerite de Valois’ influence on Ferdinand who loves her.

Marguerite and Ferdinand are happy together. We are taking all children of Anna of Bohemia and Ferdinand born after 1538 and have them born in Ferdinand’s second marriage. In this AU, we deliberately put Ferdinand in the position when he had to make difficult moral decisions. If not for his captivity in France, the situation would have been different. We wished to explore a reality in which Carlos and Ferdinand would have frictions. In history, their relationship worsened by the end of the 1540s due to their tensions about religious tolerance and Carlos’ initial desire to make Felipe of Spain the Holy Roman Emperor. Ferdinand was distant from his older brother and did not send to Carlos letters after Carlos’ abdication in the mid-1550s and his departure to Spain.

The murder of Sir Nicholas Wotton remains unresolved. Henri II de Navarre remains loyal to France and committed to the marriage of his only legitimate daughter to Augustine de Valois. Hopefully, you liked the collision between Marguerite de Navarre and her husband, whose heart is secretly divided, but Henri will abandon Anne de Pisseleu who makes him very happy.

Nicholas de Valois-Estouteville is the bastard of King François with his dead former mistress – Adrienne d’Estouteville, Duchess d’Estouteville, Countess de Saint-Pol and de Chaumont.

Attention! VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance (Athenais) are co-writing the story called “Entwined by a Golden Alliance.” Give it a try, please! We highly recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, Marina Ka-Fai, AnnaTaure, BubblyYork, FieryMaze at AO3, as well as Lady Plantagenet in the White Queen fandom.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 61: Chapter 60: A Duel of Tudor Wills

Notes:

King François arranges another betrothal. Something mysterious begins happening to Queen Catherine Howard. Princess Elizabeth has a confrontation with her father. King Henry is preparing to invade France. The Marquess of Exeter has many secrets.

Attention! VioletRoseLily and Lady Perseverance (Athenais) are co-writing the story called “Entwined by a Golden Alliance.” Give it a try! We are certain that you will like it. We also recommend the works by BubblyYork, VioletRoseLily, and AnnaTaure.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 60: A Duel of Tudor Wills

May 17, 1545, Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, close to Paris, France

Joyful spirits reigned in the Wing of the Children of France, or Aile des Enfants de France. The French sovereigns walked through a hallway adorned with fine marble busts.

Pausing in the center of the corridor, the sovereign of France addressed the crowd of courtiers and diplomats. “My friends! Today Landgrave Philip of Hesse and I have signed the betrothal agreement of his daughter, Christine of Hesse, to my son – Prince Jean, Duke de Guyenne. This solidifies our country’s alliance with the German Protestant states that we created during the last invasion of our kingdom eight years ago. Let’s pray for our continuous friendship!”

The clapping and cheers were deafening. By now, most of Catholic nobles who had initially doubted the Protestant alliance appreciated it, for this coalition together with France’s treaty with the Ottoman Empire seemed to be the best guarantees for the country’s safety.

Christine of Hesse had been born in Kassel in the summer of 1541, being a year younger than Jean. She was one of the daughters of Landgrave Philip and Christine of Saxony. In 1540, her father had shocked the world when he married morganatically Margarethe von der Saale, while keeping his first wife. King François would never have betrothed any of his offspring to any child born by Margarethe, but the issue from the first marriage were legitimate beyond doubt.

Hermann of Cologne, the diplomat from Hesse, stepped forward and dropped into a bow. “Your Majesty, my master is most happy to give the hand of his daughter, Princess Christine, to Prince Jean. He confirms the alliance with François the Victorious against Emperor Carlos.”

The monarch replied in a low voice, “Soon the nicknames given to me after the invasion will be tested when Carlos and Henry attack my kingdom together.”

In a hushed voice, Cologne promised, “You will have the support from Landgrave Philip.”

“I’m most grateful for that,” said François sincerely.

Anne told the ambassador, “We will gladly welcome Christine in France in due time.”

Cologne smiled at the queen. “She will thrive at your magnificent court.”

François answered, “My kind and exceedingly pious Jean is a good match for her.”

The diplomat would want the boy to be raised as a Protestant, but he understood that it was impossible for a Valois prince. “Princess Christine is being brought up in the humanistic traditions that our religion allows us. At her tender age, she is also a very pious and genteel girl.”

“Excellent,” Anne rejoined. “Then she and Jean will find common ground. Our son revels in reading theological books and scripture more than anything else.”

The king noted, “However, Jean is a Catholic, and it will not change.”

In response, the aristocrats nodded vigorously, once more reassured of the prince’s faith.

Cologne tipped his head. “My master comprehends that, Your Majesties.”

François was relieved. “Very well, then. Follow us.”

Anne gestured towards Ferdinand’s envoy. “Monsieur Palatinate-Neuburg, you too!”

“Most gladly,” replied Philip von Wittelsbach, Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg.

The French royals and the others headed to the children’s presence chamber, as Elizabeth Boleyn had called it. A line of guards, including harquebusiers, trailed after them.

§§§

Sounds of music came out of the presence chamber as they entered.

Princess Aimée sat on a couch with the Grecian lyre in her hand – Anne’s gift. As she often did, she was playing and singing one of the romantic songs her father had composed for her mother. Her richly patterned gown of purple silk was a combination of Italianate and Greek styles, with its upper part secured with ornamental clasps and a diamond girdle around her waist.

Prince Jean sat on a nearby couch with a dreamy expression. Next to him lay the illuminated manuscript that the king had gifted him. Jean loved it so much that he could spend hours engrossed into reading it and contemplating pictures of saints, although he did not understand many things yet. His attire of white damask, ornamented with crosses, suited his God-fearing personality.

On another couch lounged a relaxed Charlotte de Valois; Anne de Pisseleu sat beside her and hugging her daughter. Nicholas de Valois-Estouteville, the bastard son of King François with the deceased Adrienne d’Estouteville, was on the same couch. They were all smiling.

The couches draped in multicolored silks stressed the festive environment.

As their guests strode across the room, Aimée paused and blinked.

As soon as the Duchess d’Étampes saw the monarch, she bounced to her feet, curtsied, and almost ran to the door. Her former lover’s voice, soft and devoid of enmity, halted her.

“You may stay, Madame,” permitted François as they approached.  

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Anne de Pisseleu returned to her seat.

Aimée and Charlotte both curtsied to the king and queen. Jean bowed to his father.

“Sit down,” François said. “All of you.” He gestured towards the couches.

Anne reminded, “Monsieur Palatinate-Neuburg is King Ferdinand’s envoy.”

The princess tipped a nod. “I remember. We have seen each other.”   

Palatinate-Neuburg enthused, “Your Highness, I’m charmed, and so will be King Ferdinand and Archduke Maximilian. You are like a Grecian nymph playing on the lyre.”

Aimée performed the trademark Boleyn curtsey. “Your praise is most generous, Monsieur.”

“And most fair,” underscored Palatinate-Neuburg.

François glanced at Prince Jean. “Son, let me introduce Monsieur Hermann of Cologne.”

Jean stood up and swept a gallant bow. “It is nice to meet you, Monsieur.”

Cologne assessed the boy: the prince appeared to be exactly as he had been described. “My master’s daughter, Princess Christine of Hesse, will be lucky to marry you.”

“I’ll try to be a good husband to her.” Jean eased himself onto the couch.

François looked at his illegitimate son. “I’m glad to see you here, Nicholas.”

“Your Majesty is most kind.” Nicholas both loved and feared the king.

Anne explained quietly to the confused diplomats who the boy was.

The ruler encouraged, “Continue please, our most beloved girl of France.”

“For you and my mama,” the girl twittered with a grin.

As Aimée’s fingers plucked over the strings, she purred the song ‘Lilies in the Fire.’

Ah, Anne! The lilies in your hands, all white and gold,

I’m adrift as a bright sunbeam, and without form

Or any shape, save I light upon your face to warm

Your pallor into radiant happiness of gold.

The princess’ performance was so enchanting that the souls of spectators hammered with gaiety. Aimée felt the throbbing heartbeats of music, as though she had already experienced – fully and intimately – the most intense rhythms of joys, pains, and sorrows.

White beauty symbolizes your perfection: you

Are not a stack of white lilies for me, but a bright

And clustered star shining from the sky for me,

Lighting my world with brilliance anew and anew.

Palatinate-Neuburg whispered, “Such unique musical talent!”

Cologne concurred, “Such talent can come only from the Lord.” He indeed thought so. Yet, the princess was being raised in the traditions of courtly love, which Protestantism did not approve of. Jean listened to his sister open-mouthed, but at least he was obviously pious.

The queen murmured, “I taught Aimée to play on a Grecian lyre.”

Palatinate-Neuburg gushed quietly, “Princess Aimée is the lovely incarnation of the glorious nymph Euterpe, who was presided over music in Greek mythology.”

The slender green arms of the branches, your tire me

Because you lift swart arms to fend me off; but I come

Like a wind of loving fire upon you, like to some

Magical whitebeam who breathes his fire on you.

“I’m the sunlight in this song,” elucidated François.

The ambassadors nodded their comprehension. The same inferences hung over their lips: ‘A man must be head over heels in love with a woman to write so many songs in her honor.’ Anne and François’ story was transforming into one of French popular romances.

The king was pleased with the Austrian diplomat’s reaction. “In singing, a beginner needs a model to imitate, like a painter or a sculptor. My wife was a model for Aimée.”

Palatinate-Neuburg nodded. “I heard the queen play on the lyre as she taught the princess.”

François entwined his fingers with his consort’s. “My two black-eyed Euterpes!”

My Anne is a glistening ray of delight here

Among the greenery of all these leaves and trees

The white lilies in your hands burning under me,

The sunbeam falling right upon your face.

Palatinate-Neuburg noted, “In order to fully interpret the emotions of a song, it is necessary to have knowledge outside of the singing lesson. The princess is precocious.”

“She is,” confirmed Anne. “She sings about her parents.”   

François caressed his wife’s fingers. “Aimée heard me perform these songs.”

“I see.” Palatinate-Neuburg watched the emotions playing across the spouses’ faces.

With the swiftest fire of my light, you are warmed.

Ah, my Anne! Your face is now so bright,

Yet, I can see a tempestuous storm in it –

These are your emotions as you see your knight.     

“Such songs for a small girl.” Cologne regretted his words immediately.

François growled, “There is nothing bad in courtly love.”

His comment irritated the queen as well. “It is an art.” Although she was a Lutheran despite trying not to attract attention to this, she disapproved of such strict Protestantism dogmas.

The diplomat from Hesse nevertheless remarked, “You will not enforce religious uniformity – a Catholic one. One day, the policy of tolerance might clash with the fierce demands of those who follow my religion.” He gazed at Anne meaningfully. “Just as Her Majesty does.”

Anne reprimanded, “I’ll not speak of that. I attend Masses and other Catholic rituals.”

“I’ll think about it in the future.” François stared at Aimée.     

Palatinate-Neuburg concurred with Cologne, but he did not want to anger the monarchs.

Aimée proceeded to the last couplet, her fingers moving along the string like feathers.

Soul’s whitest lightning rips through you, Anne!

God stepping down to earth in one white stride,

To earth like lilies blossoming in your hands,

Now the sunbeam and you are in embrace.  

“Bravo, Your Highness!” the diplomats chorused.

As the princess finished, the spectators applauded her.

Jean enthused, “Aimée, you are an angel of singing.”

“I can listen to you for hours,” Nicholas exclaimed.

Charlotte lauded, “Your Highness is most amazing!”

Anne de Pisseleu commented, “Your Highness has one of the finest voices I’ve ever heard. A voice of great power and fine pronunciation – a voice tinged in all colors of drama.”

Queen Anne glanced at her husband’s former paramour. “You are right, Madame d’Étampes. Emotion is the flesh and blood of music, and our daughter conveys it perfectly.”

The duchess directed her scrutiny at Charlotte. “Certainly.” She shuddered under the queen’s penetrating gaze, fearing that the other Anne would divulge her secret to their sovereign.  

François assessed, “You sing and play splendidly too, Madame d’Étampes.”

Anne de Pisseleu was astonished to see his lukewarm gaze. “Your Majesty is flattering me.”

“No, I am not,” objected the ruler. “You may play something now.”

Charlotte warded off the urge to run to her beloved grandfather because of the royal protocol, which she had studied very well. “Mama is skilled at this. She taught me to play and sing.” 

Seeing their curiosity, Queen Anne revealed to the ambassadors Charlotte’s identity. It all felt quite incredible because François looked younger than his real age.

As her husband spoke to the children, Anne addressed the Austrian ambassador. “Aimée is talented and brilliant. She looks like me, but she is a gentle flower and needs to be taken care of.”

Palatinate-Neuburg grasped the meaning. “She will be treasured by Archduke Maximilian. He is a romantic young man, one who will become her knight, just as your husband is yours.”

The queen felt at peace, as if a balm flowed over her. “I’m glad, then.” 


June 2, 1545, St James’s Palace, the city of London, England

The shadows of dusk were starting to stretch across the city of London. The royal cortege reached Westminster on the Feast of St Erasmus and moved along the Thames. The evening was warm, and the air was delightfully serene, although a breeze from the river was cool and damp.

People lined at both sides of the streets to watch. The most attractive feature of the procession in their eyes was Princess Elizabeth Tudor, who rode on a snow-white palfrey caparisoned in purple damask. Attired in a splendid gown of raised cloth of gold, and with a coronet of diamonds on her head, the girl looked like a sun shining down on the earth with its purifying light.

“Princess Elizabeth! God bless you!” cried someone from the crowd.

“Her Highness is now in London! She is so lovely!”

“The sun is rising in the darkness when she rides!’ 

“Princess Elizabeth is England’s golden sun!”

“Anne Boleyn’s daughter has grown up so!”

Cries and greetings boomed through the whole street leading to St James’s Palace.

Although Elizabeth was the center of attention, she rode behind the litter of Queen Catherine Howard, where inside sat the monarch’s wife and their son – Prince Edmund, Duke of York. Four white palfreys draped in crimson damask drew the litter, covered with cloth of silver.

Behind the princess traveled Sir Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, who was mounted on a stallion draped in tawny satin. Next proceeded a chariot swathed in yellow silk, which contained Lady Jane Boleyn and Lady Catherine Parr. Then rode a chariot draped in green damask, and drawn by horses in rich housings – it belonged to the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk. The pages of honor and members of the princess and queen’s households followed the retinue.

At the helm of the procession, and at its end, came both archers and harquebusiers.

As the party neared the palace, the strains proceeded from sackbut and psaltery, echoed by blasts from the trumpets. They entered the castle’s territory through the four-story gatehouse on its north side.  The gatehouse was decorated with a crown, a Tudor rose, and the initials “H. A.” for King Henry and Anne Boleyn, for the palace had been constructed in the 1530s.

“Mama,” tumbled from Elizabeth’s lips, and her heart sped. No one heard her.

§§§

Soon the procession stopped in a large courtyard, where the courtiers had assembled. Mainly built in red brick, the palace was a grand building, surrounded by four courtyards. Nevertheless, St James’s Palace was a smaller residence than Whitehall and Hampton Court, where the monarch could escape from a formal court life. The ruler lived here since his return from Flanders.

“Your Highness,” said Exeter as he helped the princess dismount.

Elizabeth stepped onto the ground. “Thank you, Lord Exeter.”

Exeter told her, “I had to warn the king about your meetings with Charles de Marillac.”

She nodded coldly. “You did your duty to your sovereign.”

“I had no choice.” Exeter admired the girl who was too mature for her age.

The King of England exited the castle and lumbered towards his daughter.

Princess Elizabeth swept a graceful curtsey. “Good afternoon, Your Majesty.”

Exeter dropped into a bow. “I’ve delivered Her Highness at Your Majesty’s request.”

The ruler smiled at the marquess. “I can always trust you, cousin.”

“Of course, sire.” Bowing again, Exeter stepped aside.

For a long time, Henry and Elizabeth beheld each other with chilly gazes. No puff of wind, no breath. It was the silent battle of wills and Tudor tempers, for they both were as intemperate as the Greek Lyssa, the spirit of blind rage. The aquamarine glare exuded berserk anger, while the black stare of the princess was smooth and cold, like the surface of a frozen pond.

At last, the king broke the pause. “Do you know why you are here, Elizabeth?”

The princess tipped her head in a slow, regal motion. “Yes, I do.”

His features whitened in wrath. “So you say, my dear. Indeed, few things can slip away from your attention. Yet, are you aware how to act in accordance with the law?”  

She parried, “I’ve always been your good and loving daughter.”

“Nay!” he ground out, stepping closer to her. “I prohibited you from contacting anyone from France. Nonetheless, you dared disobey me and met with that French buffoon at Hatfield.”

Elizabeth challenged politely, “I’ve been denied communication with my mother for years. The only thing I wanted to do was to learn more about Anne’s life in France.”

Particles of ire were in the air. No one dared interfere; not even the Duke of Suffolk.

Henry roared, “You have nothing to discuss with your whore of a mother! She is a traitor who married that Valois miscreant without my permission despite being an English subject.”  

The courtiers and the newly arrived people from Hatfield gasped, their gazes shifting from their liege lord to his daughter. Lady Margery Horseman and Lady Kat Champernowne, who had raised Elizabeth, shook their heads, signaling that the princess ought to ignore the insult.

A flare of outrage ran through Elizabeth as she eyed her father. Clad in a doublet of crimson velvet fastened with massive buttons of diamonds and rubies, Henry scowled at her like a snarling animal. He was still handsome in a ferocious way, although his girdle had turned broader since Elizabeth had last seen him. However, he dared accuse her mother of wrongdoings when he intended to attack France. Do you want to destroy my mother’s life again, father?  

“Can a woman who has children only in wedlock be called a whore?” Elizabeth asked in a low voice so that few could hear them. She understood that her audacity bordered on recklessness, but fury overmastered her. “Your Majesty cleared my mother’s name years ago.”

“Watch your tongue, Lizzy.” Henry’s voice was deceptively quiet. “You do not understand politics. You do not comprehend how much harm François and Anne caused to England.”

“Which one?” Her voice was almost a whisper. “I’m clueless as to what you mean, sire. Or the tutors who taught me many things about international affairs lied to me.”

His countenance screwed into a mask of derision. “For the love of Christ, you have no right to judge anyone because you are my subject, and you are too young.”

A hush of anticipation settled over the entire courtyard.

“But not a fool,” remarked the princess. “Don’t invade France. Think of England.”

Henry watched the shadows playing over her blank face dominated by the fierce opaque fire in her dark pools. A teenaged Elizabeth resembled Anne especially in her character and manners, even though her appearance was mostly a Tudor one. Anne’s eyes will always torment me. Lizzy, you are so smart, which reminds me of Anne. Everything in his life came back to Anne Boleyn! He felt the urge to pummel the imaginary Anne who grinned acrimoniously at him, with his fists.

“You have inherited your intelligence from both of your parents.”

“Father,” Elizabeth approached the matter from a personal angle. “Don’t do that.”

The monarch neared his face to hers. “I’m the King of England, the Lord’s representative on earth chosen by Him to govern this country. Everyone must obey me without questions.”

She insisted, “Not at the cost of an invasion of England that might follow your escapades in France. I respect Your Majesty, but some of your councilors gave you wrong recommendations.” Elizabeth knew that it was her father’s decision, but she could not say otherwise.

“I’ll defeat the French,” the ruler snapped harshly. Then he gentled his voice. “And bring your mother to you, my dearest daughter. Your dream to see Anne will come true soon.”

Her pale visage was sad. “It will do no good to me and England. My mother has a family in France, and I prefer to be estranged from her forever rather than deprive them of her.”  

King Henry caressed his daughter’s cheek. In his touch, cruelty and tenderness were oddly entwined. “Sacrifices must be made, my dear. Your father will subjugate France, will take the city of Paris, and will be crowned with the Crown of Charlemagne at Notre-Dame de Reims.”

Two black caverns seethed with emotion. “The throne of France belongs to the House of Valois, appointed by God to rule French lands, and no human being can change that.”

He bellowed, “Leave my sight, Elizabeth! Let God serve as my arbiter: in my future battles in France, I’ll emerge victorious, and the world will see the trueness of my words.”

Queen Kitty approached them. “Your Majesty, Princess Elizabeth and Prince Edmund are tired. If you do not mind, can we be lodged comfortably in our rooms as soon as possible?”

Henry shrieked, “Edmund must be in safety from infection at Hatfield.”  

Uncontrollable tremors radiated from his consort, and she laced her fingers together. “I could not be separated from our son. I beg your pardon if I displeased Your Majesty.”

“Take the boy and go to the palace,” her husband commanded. “Now!”

Elizabeth and Henry watched Kitty and Edmund, surrounded by the queen’s ladies, enter the castle. Some courtiers also went inside, tired of waiting for their sovereign.

“You have gone too far, daughter,” the king barked. “Don’t try to see Marillac again.”

“I will not.” The princess was biting her bottom lip, her thoughts whirling.

The Duke of Suffolk neared them and bowed. “Can I somehow serve Your Majesty and Your Highness?” His wife, Anne Brandon, stood behind him with a worried expression.

“Take care of Elizabeth,” instructed Henry. Then he walked away.

The Brandons bombarded the princess with questions. Most of their conversation had been conducted quietly, save when Henry’s temper spiked. Elizabeth then retired to the palace.

§§§

At sundown, King Henry visited Queen Kitty. As he entered her quarters, the queen’s maids dropped curtseys in union. Not sparing them a glance, he lumbered over to the bedroom.

The queen lounged in an armchair in the corner, her feet resting on a bed with a canopy of rich spectacular blue and white velvet. Her hand lay on her enlarged stomach, as if protectively. The walls, swathed in blue and white brocade, matched the covers perfectly, and so did turquoise and ivory inlays on massive light oak furniture and heavy azure draperies on the windows.   

Catherine twittered jocundly, “It is good to be back to London. And I love this place.”

Jane answered, “It was remodeled a year earlier. Master Holbein painted the ceiling in a way that the English style reflects a considerable continental influence.”

“Yes! It is amazing!” The queen looked at the elaborate coffered ceiling.

The king’s voice intruded upon their conversation. “St James is a pleasant royal house.”

“Leave us,” the queen dismissed her principal lady-in-waiting.

Lady Rochford curtsied and strode to the door, her alarmed gaze at her mistress.

Catherine stood up and curtsied as low as her enlarged stomach allowed her.

“It is not necessary in your condition.” The ruler looked around again and wrinkled his nose, for he disliked the interior that reminded him of the Valois colors.

“Is Your Majesty leaving again?” The queen prayed that she would spend a few months in peace, even though she did not want Henry to invade France. “When will you be back?”

The monarch’s aquamarine eyes narrowed. “Why did you come from Hatfield?”

She took a step back, her hand upon her belly. “I wanted to see my husband.”

His face rippled with anger. “Let me guess: because of Elizabeth.”

A touch of her boldness resurfaced. “Elizabeth is worried about Queen Anne. My God, she has been separated from her mother for nine years, missing her greatly! Elizabeth has five siblings! Please, do not deprive her of the chance to learn more about her French family.”

An incensed Henry breached the gap between them and towered over her like a lion over a small gazelle. “Never, you hear me, never meddle into my affairs and oppose my decisions. Or you will find yourself in exile to the most remote manor in England under heavy guard.”

Nevertheless, Catherine countered, “Why are you cruel to your own flesh and blood?” Her voice rose to a crescendo of indignation. “Let Elizabeth communicate with Anne Boleyn, and the princess will be grateful to you immeasurably. Elizabeth is such a clever and lovely girl.”

His fury intensified. “I have no doubt as to Elizabeth’s intelligence. I’ll not allow a woman – an inferior creature to a man and especially me, your sovereign – to dictate to me anything.”   

The queen could see that he did not want to discuss it further, but she could not stop. “Lizzy has suffered enough at your hands! Why are you so hell bent on causing her more pain?”

The monarch warded off the urge to shake her. “This matter is closed.”

The queen felt as if dancing on the edge of a dangerous precipice, where a wrong word or move might spell immediate retribution from the merciless King of England. Nonetheless, her rage overwhelmed her, a hideous antagonism bloomed in her heart in a way that frightened her.   

“A woman gives birth to a man, even if he is a monarch. How can he be superior?” Her voice shook with ire. “Did King Henry the Seventh of England consider his formidable mother, Lady Margaret Beaufort, or his beloved wife, Elizabeth of York, a low creature?”

Henry’s fierceness, his face contorted in savage rage, charged the air with peril. Catherine shrank away from him as a knot of agitation in her heart turned to a block of icy terror, but it was too late. The back of his hand collided with her cheek, sending her off balance. Her knees gave way, and she hit the floor, her ears ringing and her hand flying to her abdomen.

As his mind cleared, the monarch looked at his pregnant wife on the floor. “Kitty! Are you all right?” He stepped forward and extended his hand to her. “Let me assist you.”

The queen touched the stinging flesh, wincing. She let him aid her to stand up.

His expression concerned, Henry led his consort to the bed. Kitty climbed under the sheets and snuggled into the warmth, compelling herself not to show her repugnance at his touch.

“Why, wife? Why do you test my patience? Dancing and merrymaking are over.”

She would not let her pent-up negative sentiments towards her spouse resurface once more from the deepest recesses of her being. “They ended a long time ago, sire.”

“Should we fetch Doctor Butts?” Henry was concerned about his unborn child.

“No.” There was no pain in her body. “I do not think anything bad will happen.”

He sighed with huge relief, then moved their discourse to her initial question. “I’ll leave for France in about two months, perhaps later. Our baby will be born in my absence.”

A bubble of elation was going to explode within her at any moment. Yet, her expression was blank. “Then I wish Your Majesty best of luck in your endeavors.”

“I’m taking Lady Philippa Bassett with me.”

What? Is the king going to fight or to entertain? The queen had long accepted his liaisons, but she had never anticipated that Henry would offend her in such a public manner, just as he had done to Catherine of Aragon when Anne Boleyn had been a queen in all but name. Catherine Howard craved to fight for her rights, but his harshness prevented her from saying anything.

“As you wish, sire,” conceded Kitty in an even voice.

The door opened. Lady Catherine Parr brought Prince Edmund to his mother. As they saw the monarch, the prince bowed to his father, while Lady Parr bobbed a curtsey.

“Your Majesties,” Lady Parr began. “His Highness wanted to say good night.”

“Papa!” Edmund cried with a smile. “Mama never allows nightmares to torment me.”

Henry neared his son. “I’ll chase them all away by the will of my kingly power.”

The ruler embraced his son heartily, and the boy giggled. Lady Parr smiled at the picture, while Queen Catherine remained stony and silent, as cold as an apparition of herself could be.

He pulled the boy into his arms. “Edmund will spend this night with me.”

His consort nodded. “As you command, sire.”

The monarch glanced lustfully at his son’s governess. “Have a good night, Lady Parr.”

Having deciphered his gaze, Catherine Parr blushed. “Your Majesty is too kind.”

Without a backward glance, the king swiveled and carried the prince away from the room.

“Leave!” With a half-grin, half-grimace, Kitty jeered, “And have a sweet night!”

Her son’s governess avouched, “I’m not the king’s mistress. I would never betray you so.”

“You can become her,” the queen fired. “A ruler can have as many lovers as he wants.”

Catherine Parr did not envy the queen. She hazarded a glance at her mistress, who looked deceptively composed. “I’ll fetch Lady Jane Boleyn to you, Madame. Take care of yourself.”

Peering into the woman’s eyes, Kitty believed Lady Parr’s assurances, for there were more stunning and younger women at court, after whom the king lusted. However, she did not doubt that her son’s governess would acquiesce to warm the royal bed if the monarch requested that. The more lovers Henry has, the better – the less he will remember about me, the queen thought.

After curtsying, Lady Parr walked out of Kitty’s quarters, her heart aching for the queen.   

When she remained alone, the queen extracted a letter, which she had found in the room upon their arrival, from under the pillow. Her heart drumming against her ribcage, she read it.

Queen Kitty, the only star of my heart,

Ardor of senses, ardor of hearts, ardor of souls…  This is what I wish you and me to feel for each other. I do not want you to be with those who speak vain words and diminish love. Sun does not distinguish among its flames those of evening, of dawn, or of noon, and for me you are always beautiful. I dream to walk with you, blinded by your light, under the great arched skies.

Love is an act of ceaseless exaltation, and I would show you how happy lovers may be from one kiss, if only I could. Your gentleness bathes me, and I adore you with my whole being.

Yours forever

Catherine pressed the paper to her chest, and a grin flourished on her countenance. The golden ships of summer sailed into her soul, weary from the bloodstained horizons of her marriage to the king. Vivacious visions of a stroll in the woods, on the seaside, or in some romantic place flashed in her head. Who had sent this letter to her? The queen envisaged Thomas Culpepper and Charles de Marillac, but she could hardly imagine the calculative Marillac doing such a thing.

As she heard her maid’s voice, the queen brought the paper to a candle burning on a bedside table. Only when the ashes remained, Kitty looked at Jane Boleyn, who tactfully asked nothing.

§§§

Sir Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, entered the apartments allocated to him in the palace. The darkness was pierced by the light from the Ottoman tapered six-sided and gilded lantern, which the French ambassador had gifted to him, and which Exeter held in his hand.

“Damn those servants,” growled Exeter as he crossed the antechamber.

Surprisingly, there was light in his bedroom. As Exeter opened the door, his jaw dropped: Lady Honor Grenville, Viscountess Lisle, sat at the marble table with her right elbow resting on it and staring into space. As soon as she saw him, Honor rose to her feet with a wicked grin. The expensive furniture was adorned with precious inlays made out of dark woods.

“You are late, Lord Exeter. Have you chased after female butterflies upon your arrival?”

“I’ve not expected to see you, Lady Lisle. I had a long audience with His Majesty.”  

Honor began lighting candles. “Is the king angry with Princess Elizabeth?”

“Absolutely furious.” He crossed to a walnut table with two drawers. He placed the lantern there and seated himself in a chair. “His Majesty wants to put his daughter into place.”

“Did you write our sovereign about Elizabeth’s meeting with Charles de Marillac?”

“Yes, I did. I permitted the princess to meet with him out of pity several times. However, the last time they had an audience Elizabeth invited the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk to attend. Only God knows what they discussed, but I suppose that she asked some questions about Anne Boleyn and the planned invasion. The girl is too clever: she figured out the king’s plans as soon as the marriage of the emperor to Lady Mary Tudor was announced in Christendom.”

Honor settled herself in a chair beside him. “I do not like that half-Boleyn, half-Tudor brat.”

Exeter sucked in his breath, as though she had dangled a snake in his face. “Elizabeth was extraordinarily precocious in childhood. At present, she is a teenager, and her sharp intelligence that rivals a man’s makes her formidable. She has a will of iron and inner strength.”    

The corner of her lip edged up. “She might become perilous for my grandson.”

He recalled the lukewarm relationship between Edward and Elizabeth. “The girl was close to the Prince of Wales only when he was in his crib. Afterwards, she became distant.”

“Because of Ned’s arrogance and presumptuousness from such a young age?”   

“Partly. Another reason is Edward’s adoration for Latin. I barely persuaded him to pray in English using the new Book of Prayers. Elizabeth is a staunch Protestant, and when she learned about Edward’s inclinations, she endeavored to make him realize how bad and corrupt the Catholic Church is – they clashed and have since then become wary of each other.”

Honor emitted a gurgling laugh. “You must be happy that Edward is a Catholic at heart.”

“The prince will turn seven the next winter. It is too early to make such conclusions.”

Her smirk widened. “You are a Catholic. Your spectacle of converting into Protestantism was dramatic and convincing. Most people believed in it, except for the Pole family, the Count and Countess of Hertford, and me. I know that you still pray in Latin alone.”

Exeter smiled at the woman’s astuteness. “I also know your secret. After the king launched the reform, your views changed into evangelical ones, but for a brief time.” He leaned across the table and pointed a finger at his guest. “You are as much a Catholic as I am.”

“I would not deny that,” Honor acknowledged. “The Pilgrimage of Grace helped me realize the cost of all these religious novelties. I dislike the current Pope, Allesandro Farnese, for he is a vile man, but one day, he will die, and another pope will be elected.”

He would not discuss the Bishop of Rome. “I understand you.”

“You must feel wonderful when Edward demonstrates his love for Latin.”

“I do.” A grin blossomed on Exeter’s countenance. “Maybe when he succeeds King Henry he will reinstate England to the flock of Rome. Then the souls of our countrymen will be saved.”

Honor made the sign of a cross. “God help us accomplish that, Lord Exeter.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “So, we have the same dream.”

“We have quite many common secrets,” she stressed.

“Indeed, Lady Lisle. There is a rocky road before we can be reunited with Rome.”

Honor looked as concentrated as an alchemist creating some concoction. “We must ensure the smooth transition of power upon Edward’s succession, which might happen anytime.”

Exeter revealed, “His Majesty is going to designate sixteen executors to serve on Council of Regency during Prince Edward’s minority. I shall be one of them.”

She was thoughtful for a handful of moments. “You must become Lord Protector of England, Hal Courtenay. Who will make our plans come to fruition better than you?”

He concurred. “That would be wonderful.”

At the remembrance of the king’s spouse, Honor’s expression contorted in distaste. “Queen Kitty – such a disgusting nickname – dislikes our Ned too much. When I last visited Hatfield two months ago, she could not stand being more than several minutes in his presence.”

Exeter’s grin was craftier than that of the Lucifer. “Soon she will not be a problem.”

Honor’s eyes flashed. “Are you plotting against her?”

He directed his cunning gaze at her. “Catherine Howard is a sourse of danger. I’ve persuaded someone who desires her to woo her with letters. I can watch this hilarious performance from afar.”

She smiled in admiration. “You are so guileful, Lord Exeter. I applaud you!”

His pale blue eyes shimmered like ice in the sunlight. “Adultery, and then little Kitty-kitten will be executed. Not even Prince Edmund will save her from the axe. Given the horrible way the king is treating her, she is highly likely to be inclined to start an affair after her pregnancy.”

“If she does not miscarry, as it happened to her before.”

Exeter absently rubbed his finger across his lip. “Prince Edmund will not be a problem. He is so frail that he can breathe his last any day. I must think how to control Elizabeth.”

“Matrimony,” she offered dryly. “Have her married off to some foreign prince.”

“I shall tell His Majesty that it is time to find a husband for her. If Elizabeth is shipped away from England, she can be a queen of another country, while we will have Ned here.”

Honor eyed Exeter. “If my Anne had been alive, she would have been proud of you.”

The Marquess of Exeter emitted a sigh at the remembrance of Queen Anne Bassett. Visions of him holding the newborn Edward in his arms, their short-lived happiness at the birth of their son, their quarrel with Lady Honor Grenville, and the tragic accident that had resulted in Anne’s demise – they resurfaced in his mind. Outrageous pain seized Exeter’s whole being, the profound veils of spiritual cold spreading from the plain to plain of his life canvas. I cannot forget Anne.

“I cannot forgive myself.” Honor sounded breathless and bereft. “Even though I did not do that deliberately. I often have dreams of Anne and of that accident.”

Exeter snapped his doleful gaze to her. “We can change nothing.”

Her face was tinctured with grief mingled with resignation. “We can only help Ned.”

“Edward is my son – he is a York! I swear that he will rule England, and we will reestablish the York family on the throne, even though officially it will be the House of Tudor.”

The fervency in his voice elicited a smile from her. “I trust you completely.”

“What are you saying, my lord?” One of the servant girls, Mathilda, stood at the doorway.

“Oh God!” Honor Grenville put a hand to her mouth in horror.

The Marquess of Exeter sprinted to Mathilda. He gripped her elbow when she attempted to get away from him and staggered back a few steps until her back was pressed against the wall.   

“What have you heard?” hissed Exeter, gazing into her terrified eyes.

After a strained pause, Mathilda answered, “Prince Edward of Wales is your son.”

He regretted what he was forced to do. “This knowledge has condemned you.”

Wrapping his hand around her throat, Exeter squeezed it until her face turned purple. Her eyes – pleading for mercy – bulged from their sockets. Then Mathilda tumbled to the floor dead.

“There was no other choice,” the marquess said firmly.

Honor emerged from behind him and put a consoling hand upon his shoulder. “Just as I did not have a choice when your late wife, Gertrude, attempted to stab you.”

Exeter felt chilled to the soul. “Just as I was obligated to get rid of all those who could know about your daughter Anne’s liaison with me. I do all this for Edward and his future.” He sighed. “Nevertheless, I hate bloodshed.” In the middle of his speech, his voice broke like a glass.  

“Hal,” she called gently. “Unlike many ambitious nobles, you have a conscience, but don’t allow it to torment you. You always control your emotions even in extreme situations.”

Courtenay inhaled sharply. “It is too difficult to survive at the Tudor court. Nobody can keep their conscience clear, especially not people with our number of secrets.”

Her voice was uneasy. “We must be very careful. It should not happen again.”

He tipped his head. “I’ll dispose of the body surreptitiously.”

After slanting an encouraging glance at him, Honor Grenville exited into the antechamber. Exeter shuddered, sparkling inside of him a fire of disbelief as much as that of relief because the source of danger had been eliminated, but his hands were now tainted with more innocent blood.


June 20, 1545, St James’s Palace, the city of London, England

The royal councilors all stood up and bowed to King Henry as he walked in the vast chamber where the meeting of Privy Council was held. As proud as a peacock, the monarch strutted over to his chair of state at the helm of the table and settled himself there comfortably.

The walls were swathed in tapestries of battles. The ceiling, adorned with mosaics depicting chivalry and the initials ‘HR,’ meaning Henricus Rex, emphasized the ruler’s absolute supremacy.

“Let us begin,” the monarch said as he eyed his advisors.

Eustace Chapuys, the recently returned Imperial ambassador, commenced, “Your Majesty, I have important news from Flanders about Empress Mary and the Imperial armies.” Despite being a foreigner, he had been invited to this assemblage because of its military agenda.

The ruler nodded. “Go on, Chapuys. I’m intrigued.”

“Empress Mary is with child,” informed the ambassador. In spite of Mary’s bad attitude to him in Ghent, he was glad on her behalf. “Their Imperial Majesties did not announce her condition for several months. Finally, they officially confirmed it two weeks ago.”

Henry was pleased that his alliance with the emperor would be cemented by his daughter’s child, provided that Mary could carry the baby to term. “Send my congratulations to them.”

“I shall,” Chapuys pledged. “Now Their Imperial Majesties reside at Mechelen.”

The king demanded, “What about the emperor’s troops?”

Chapuys was impatient to see the invasion of France start. “His Grace of Alba, my master’s chief general, has overseen the movement of the large Imperial army consisting of thirty thousand men from Germany to the Low Countries. They will arrive at Mechelen in several weeks, where they will soon be joined by the Flemish army of twenty thousand men.”   

The monarch asked, “When can the emperor launch the invasion from Flanders?”

“In about two months,” responded the diplomat. “More than one hundred thousand men will gather in southern Germany for the future attack on Milan. They will be soldiers from both the Holy Roman Empire and Spain. More than half of them are Swiss and Italian mercenaries.”

Henry howled with nefarious laughter. “Excellent! The Imperial army will be so enormous that the Valois parvenu will be unable to repel the attacks from many fronts.”   

Despite their sovereign’s exhilaration, his councilors’ demeanor was reserved.

Nobody wished to invade France again. The English monarch had had military adventures in France at the beginning of his reign, but without any notable success. They were also wary of their sovereign’s arrangement with the emperor, for Carlos von Habsburg was known to renege on his word in order to serve his interests. Finally, the Imperial invasion of France of 1536 had failed miserably, having reasserted the country’s international prestige and her military prowess.  

The ruler addressed his best friend. “Charles, you and I will sail to Calais together. We sent about thirty thousand men there, but I’ve decided to hire mercenaries, too.” He pointed at Suffolk. “You will split the army in two equal parts, leading one half to the coastal town of Boulogne. You will lay siege to the city and make them surrender with the help of our artillery.”   

I do not want to do that, Charles Brandon thought. He believed that England was not strong enough to engage in an all-out confrontation against France, especially given the ruler’s worsening health. The King of France must now be devising a trap for them: François had gained a significant experience in repelling  invaders. Elizabeth’s words about the possible subsequent invasion of England rang in Suffolk’s ears like an ominous prophecy, and now he acquiesced with her.

The Duke of Suffolk inclined his head, too slowly and reluctantly. “It shall be done as Your Majesty commands. What will happen to the second part of the army?”   

Henry’s eyes flashed with a triumphal light. “The second part of my troops from Calais will march on Paris. We will hire more Flemish mercenaries to strengthen the army. Fifteen thousand of Englishmen and twenty thousand of mercenaries will be enough to capture Paris.”

The Duke of Norfolk barely warded off the impulse to punch the king’s broad face until it was completely bruised. He was the most unwilling person to launch this invasion. “Your Majesty, who will command the second half of the army?” His voice was devoid of anger.

“You are my Lord Chancellor, Norfolk,” Henry uttered with a mystical smile.

Norfolk nodded, expecting some trap. “Yes, sire.”

“You will lead it.” The monarch studied Anne’s uncle with a vinegary grin. “You will depart for Calais with Suffolk. From there, you will led my men to Paris and besiege it. Just imagine: you will earn the glory of snatching Paris away from the kingdom of your own niece.”

All eyes were glued to the Duke of Norfolk, whose expression remained impenetrable.

Before the duke could respond, Henry informed, “You love England and have always served me well. However, given your filial bonds with the Queen of France, I’ve decided to take your son – Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey – hostage for the duration of my campaign – he is already in the Tower. You are one of my most competent generals, and I need your talent, Norfolk.”

All the advisors stared at the duke who blanched to the color of gravestone.

For a fraction of a second, Norfolk wore a troubled look, his jaw and neck rigid, before he schooled his features into blankness. Biting his lip, he considered his options. With his eldest son jailed, his hands were largely tied because Surrey’s life was now in peril, and he would not risk his son’s head. Norfolk’s arms were crossed like bands of steel over his chest. I must contact Queen Anne through French spies. Princess Elizabeth must know their channels of communication.

The Duke of Norfolk inquired, “Will my son be released after the war?”

Henry’s smirk was like a twist of a serpent’s tongue. “If someone may have divided loyalties, have him corned, and he will make the right choice. A son or your niece Anne?”

Not a muscle twitched in Norfolk’s face. “I serve England, not France.”

The king’s expression tightened. “I’ll release Surrey only if you conquer Paris.”

The poignant simplicity of this statement made Norfolk seethe with rage. He simply nodded.

King Henry scrutinized everyone with a savage, yet imperial gaze. He pontificated, “I’m the rightful King of France! The House of Valois are descendants of Philippe the Third of France, called the Bold, through this monarch’s son – Count Charles de Valois and his oldest son, Philippe the Sixth of France. I’m a descendant of the blessed Edward the Third of England, who was a son of Isabella of France and Edward the Second of England.” His voice rose an octave. “Isabella was a daughter of Philippe the Forth known as the Fair, Charles de Valois’ older brother.”

The ruler almost roared, “My claim has always been superior to that of the Valois damned family. Catherine of Valois is my ancestress, which strengthens my right to rule France.”

Suffolk pointed out, “The succession in France is established by the ancient Salic that that excludes French princesses and even their male or female descendants from inheriting the throne of France. From this standpoint, Philippe the Sixth ascended to the throne after all the three sons of Philippe the Fair had produced no male heirs. The French will never cancel this law.”

“I do not care for their laws,” Henry bellowed. “Be careful with what you say, Suffolk.”

A scared Suffolk muttered, “I’m sorry, Your Majesty.”

The king declared, “The Treaty of Troyes of 1420 made the great Henry the Fifth of England, the victor of Agincourt, an heir of the Valois dynasty and King Charles the Sixth of France.”

Contrary to Suffolk’s expectations, the Marquess of Exeter dared voice his opinion. “Your Majesty! Cousin of mine! Forgive me, but I have to bring one issue to your attention. King Charles the Sixth of France was insane, so he is rightfully called the Mad or the Glass-King.”

“Cousin, do not ever oppose me,” warned Henry. “France is mine!”

Suffolk and Exeter shared glances of comprehension. Everybody nodded, frightened.

Drumming his fingers on the table, the monarch veered his gaze to Edward Seymour. “In my absence, I appoint you to serve as my regent, Hertford. You will govern all state affairs in my name and continue our reforms. I want all the chantries to be dissolved by my return.”

Everyone eyed Hertford. The Marquess of Exeter balled his fists under the table.

The royal chief minister smiled with his traditional caution. He had served as his sovereign’s regent during the monarch’s journey to the Netherlands, so it was a reconfirmation of his position. “I’ll work assiduously for the Tudor realm, Your Majesty. However, I’m not sure that I’ll be able to dissolve all the chantries so soon. Acting precipitately might result in a new rebellion.”

All of the councilors expressed their concurrence with Hertford by nodding.   

The king’s aquamarine glare pierced Hertford like an arrow. “Do as I say.”

“As you command,” conceded Hertford, inwardly sighing.  

The Earl of Hertford sucked in his breath against the terror of uncertainty that left him feeling exposed and vulnerable. The monarch’s actions towards Surrey hinted at his readiness to imprison or execute any relative of those who disobeyed him. At present, Hertford had a large family and a lot to lose. We do not need this invasion at all. God, I’ll have to dissolve all the chantries ruthlessly.  

The ruler turned to the Marquess of Exeter. “Cousin, you will ensure the safety of my whole family. I give you my most precious possessions – my Edward, Elizabeth, and Edmund. Soon we will discuss the Third Succession Act and how Regency Council will be formed.”

Exeter inclined his head. “Your Majesty, I’ll safeguard your two princes, your princess, and your queen with my life. Are there any other instructions for me?”

Henry enlightened, “Apart from your position of head of my children’s household, you are administering most of western England in my name. You will help Hertford dissolve the chantries in this area, as well as squeeze as many monies from this region as possible.”

“We have enough funds in our treasury,” interjected the Earl of Hertford.

“The more the better, Edward.” The king’s countenance hardened as he enjoined, “Settle this problem with the chantries without delay. More money must start flowing into my coffers.”

Hertford nodded numbly. “I shall, sire.”  

“All will be done as Your Majesty wishes.” Dropping his hands to his sides, Exeter clenched them at the thought of working with Herford whom he considered England’s worst pestilence.

Exeter smiled while biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. He was opposed to any invasion, but supported his liege lord. Exeter had long gained royal favor, but he craved more to aid Prince Edward in all ways. He had become a gentleman of the Privy Chamber and member of the Privy Council in the 1520. Now his goal was a place on the Regency Council and perhaps even that of Lord Protector. We will deprive Hertford of his power during the king’s absence.

The monarch proceeded to close the meeting. “We will discuss the Next Succession Act and the regency issues, as well as my son Ned’s possible betrothal before my departure to Calais.”

As the Tudor ruler rose to his feet, the advisors followed suit and bowed. King Henry strode away, favoring his left leg because the ulcer on his right one troubled him again.

Notes:

Hello everyone! We hope that you are fine and sane. Take care of yourself!

We learn about betrothals for the children of King François and Queen Anne – Prince Jean, Duke de Guyenne. We made Christine of Hesse 2 years older than she was in history for fictional purposes. The rest of the provided information about Landgrave Philip of Hesse and his marriages is historically correct. We hope that many fans of Philip of Bavaria like his presence in these two chapters; he was indeed a friend of Ferdinand von Habsburg in history.

The son performed by Princess Aimée was composed by my cousin, Athenais. Yes, François and Anne do love each other very deeply, but soon their love will be tested by unpredictable and dangerous twists and turns during the upcoming wars. These wars will last for several years.

We are back to England. We hope you liked the scene of Princess Elizabeth’s confrontation with Henry, who begins to understand that his daughter is growing into quite a woman. Before accusing the Marquess of Exeter who informed Henry about Lizzy’s meetings with the French ambassador, put yourself into his shoes: it would have become known without him anyway, and if he kept silent, Exeter and others would probably have been in danger. Elizabeth is simply worried about her mother and will continue to try to defend Anne, perhaps at some cost for her…

Exeter’s magnificence as a character is in his complexity: he is rather shady, but has limits and some moral principles. He has sympathy for Elizabeth who is estranged from her mother, but she is might also become a problem in the future for Ned “Tudor.” We think that the twists between Exeter and Elizabeth will surprise you as this long epic will progress. Lady Honor Grenville is a staunch Catholic: King Henry’s barbaric Dissolution of the Monasteries must have influenced everyone’s mind. So far, Exeter is a Catholic as well. But who knows how it will all end…

Queen Catherine Howard meets with her husband again. Kitty begins to receive some letters. How is sending them? Henry can be violent and is on the dark path. He hit his head twice in this AU to make things he will commit more plausible. Empress Mary Tudor is pregnant, so perhaps Henry will have a grandchild soon… Do you want Mary to have a boy or a girl?

We share the opinion of European continental historians: no, England’s claim to France was very, very weak for many compelling reasons. However, we have Henry voice the thoughts of a traditional English monarch who ruled England back then. Henry could not have said anything else. Few of Henry’s councilors want this invasion, but what can they do? The poor Earl of Surrey is jailed in the Tower to keep the Duke of Norfolk loyal. What will Norfolk do now?

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 62: Chapter 61: Prayers and Acquaintances

Notes:

Princess Elizabeth is frightened of her father’s plans. The Marquess of Exeter is at a crossroads. King François and Queen Anne introduce someone to their court. Dauphin Henri meets with someone, while his mistress and wife’s plot begins to unfold…

We recommend the works by BubblyYork, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, annethequene, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 61: Prayers and Acquaintances

June 30, 1545, St James’s Palace, the city of London, England

Lugubrious silence reigned in the Chapel Royal, located in the palace’s main block. Dressed in a gown of white brocade like a broken and virtuous lily, Princess Elizabeth Tudor lay prostrated before the altar with her face down upon the stone floor, her arms outstretched.

Our gracious Holy Father, I’m loyal to England and shall be for the rest of my life, but my mother and my siblings are in France. Show me how to rest right in the middle of the storm that is about to break out because of my father’s obsessions with conquests and vengeance.   

At present, Elizabeth was suffering emotionally to such a degree that she could not think of the time spent on the floor and especially not of the king without a shudder. During the days that had followed her verbal clash with the monarch, she had hoped to see him again to try and persuade King Henry not to proceed to a war that might have disastrous consequences for all of them.

She had not been dispatched back to Hatfield, but his negligence towards her signaled that Elizabeth was out of favor. The Duke of Norfolk had asked her not to provoke the monarch for her own safety. The possibility of sending her to a remote palace had been considered, but Norfolk had convinced their sovereign not to apply such drastic measures to his own daughter.

God in heaven, fill me afresh with the wonder of Your love and power. Help me understand when to rest, when to feast, when to cry… May all the future days of my life display Your will.    

Remembrances of her beloved mother paraded before her mind’s eye. The girl’s raven-haired exotic mama whose locks little Lizzy had loved to wrap around her finger, marveling at their softness. Anne’s visits to Hatfield with gifts when the princess found herself in a whirl of smiles, laughs, and embraces. The princess’ last meeting with Anne in the vast gardens of Hampton Court when a terrified Elizabeth was in her mother’s arms as Anne had chased after King Henry.

Henry please! For the love you bear our child, for the love of Elizabeth, have mercy!

Anne’s pleas echoed through Elizabeth’s head like a never-ending dirge. Frantic entreaties of the woman who had feared for herself and her daughter, so painful to her ear and so exasperating to the king’s. The scene, which the princess could recollect despite the passage of time, seemed so out of place in the tempest of the ruler’s bloodlust that could have been quenched only with death. Elizabeth’s uncle George, whom she vaguely remembered, had been murdered on phony charges.   

No! I loved you, I loved you, and I love you still. Please, after all we have been to each other, after everything we were, please. One more chance, one more. Henry, please!

The stone floor was rather cold, but the girl was unconcerned by the discomfort. This sad episode in her life haunted Bess with a vulturine persistence. Even though her mother had escaped her tragedy in England, Anne – the princess was certain of that – would never forget this scene.

I’ve never seen King François, but he made my dear mama happy and gave her children. He does not change queens, unlike my cruel father, so she should stay with him. Throughout all these years, she and Anne had secretly exchanged letters every three months. In them, Anne had rarely spoken of her new husband, but the girl had learned a lot about the King of France on her own.

Your Majesty! Your Majesty! I beseech you!

These were the last words her mother had said before the monarch had walked away. During the years that had followed, the princess had been mostly in favor even before the proclamation of Anne’s innocence. However, every time the ruler had endeavored to bridge the emotional distance between him and his daughter, Elizabeth had been polite, yet taking a step back. She wondered why her father had not bastardized her after her mother’s exile, just as he had done to Mary Tudor.  

Elizabeth lifted her head and looked at the statue of the Virgin Mary. Despite the Dissolution of the Monasteries, this chapel had remained untouched, just as most other royal oratories did.

Gracious God, now I am broken because my mother is in danger. Forgive me if I displeased You by quarreling with the king. I implore you to save my mama from my father.   

Elizabeth’s scrutiny soared to the ceiling, as if she could see the sky where the Almighty was enthroned. Painted by Hans Holbein, the ceiling was sumptuously decorated with royal initials of the Tudor dynasty and the Tudor coats-of-arms, but its beauty did not interest the princess.

“God, I beg you to help me and my mama,” she uttered with fervency.

At the sound of quick footsteps, the princess stood up from the floor. She swiveled and saw the Suffolk spouses, their expressions gloomy as they strode down the nave.

Charles and Anne Brandon stopped a few respectful paces from Elizabeth. Anne bobbed a curtsey, while her husband swept a bow; then the spouses crossed themselves.

“Have you come alone?” Elizabeth asked in a low rasp.

“Yes,” Suffolk whispered. “The invasion is a bad idea, but I can do nothing.”

The princess demanded, “Why? You are the king’s best friend.”

“Your Highness,” Anne interposed in a voice as gentle as a summer breeze. “It is impossible to make His Majesty understand anything. He is convinced that he must conquer France.”

Suffolk fisted his hands. “Henry is intransigent when it comes to Queen Anne. He will go to any lengths to see her at his feet, forced to her knees, without thinking of the consequences.”

Elizabeth opined, “My mother will never bow to my father.”

Charles nodded. “I doubt she will, and neither will you, Your Highness.”   

The princess nodded, but her courage was beginning to fade. “Please,” she blurted out with the desperation of someone diagnosed with a lethal illness. “You will command armies. Do not allow the king to take my mother and my siblings to England and to harm them.”

“Hush, Your Highness,” the Duke of Suffolk murmured. “I’ll not let that happen.”

“Do not be so fearful,” the Duchess of Suffolk continued. “Charles comprehends everything, and he will do his duty to his liege lord, but he will not hurt them.”

“And neither will I,” the Duke of Norfolk pledged. Involved in their heated conversation, they had not heard his footsteps along the nave. “I just need to somehow rescue my son.”

Elizabeth blinked at the memory of how she had seen the Earl of Surrey arrested ten days ago. “I saw Lord Surrey being apprehended by the guards. Though shocked, he did not resist.”

Norfolk sighed grievously. “His Majesty needs leverage against me.”

Suffolk laced his fingers with Anne’s. “That is why I’m afraid of opposing the king.”

Disappointment flared in her black eyes, but then the princess tipped her head.

Norfolk bent down and whispered into Elizabeth’s ear. “Can I relay a message to Anne?”

“I can do this,” the princess said in a whisper. “But I need time.”

The Brandon spouses did not hear them as they spoke very quietly.

Then the Duke of Norfolk prostrated himself on the floor before the altar, just as the princess had done. Anne and Charles took their seats in the pews close to the altar. Crushed by uncertainty, they all spent a long time in prayer, as though the hour of God’s judgement were approaching. The silence in the chapel vibrated with their fears and sorrows, the blaze of candles heightening them.

§§§

“I’ll dispose of Anne von Cleves as soon as His Majesty departs for France.”

“Will you butcher her?” Turning slowly to face the Pope’s bloodthirsty agent in the shadows of a deserted hallway, Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, grimaced. “She is a woman.”

The blonde man smirked like the devil. “I slaughtered Francis Bryan and Louis de Perreau like animals. It was a sheer pleasure to watch him convulse in agony in a pool of blood.”  

A wave of nausea hit Exeter. “I killed as a soldier, but it is different from murdering in cold blood.” He recalled the strangulation of the servant Mathilda. Those few others who could have suspected about his liaison with the late Anne Bassett had been killed by his most trusted men, but their blood was on Exeter’s hands. His conscience tormented him in the dead of night.    

The other man’s eyes flashed with bloodlust. “There is enormous pleasure in killing as part of my hunt to annihilate His Holiness’ enemies. I’ll do the Pope’s bidding.”

“Did His Holiness command to dispose of Lady Anne Brandon? He wishes England to break alliance with the German Protestant States. However, is it necessary to eliminate her?”

“Yes.” The man’s eyes flashed with fanatical zeal. “If she is destroyed in the same way as I butchered those men, the outraged Duke William of Cleves will break his alliance with England.”

Such bloodthirstiness horrified Exeter. “I do not want another innocent dead.”

The man eyed Exeter as if he were a lunatic. “Are you a weakling who has no stomach to do the sacred deeds that His Holiness orders us to perpetrate? You must be strong!”  

The marquess parried, “There has been too much bloodshed in England.” 

Hellish calculation manifested on the other man’s countenance. “At present, they are all at court, and I shall do the deed. Anne Brandon is a heretic and must burn in hell! Nobody has the right to disobey the Supreme Pontiff who is the master of all human souls and our shepherd.”  

This discomfited the marquess further. “The latest letters from Rome are horrible.”

“I must do that! His Holiness is relying upon me! I do the Lord’s work for him!”

“It would be a cold-blooded, abhorrent murder.” Exeter shuddered inwardly.

The man’s hand flew to his poniard that glittered at his belt. “I’m fed up with this, Exeter.”   

Though terrified internally, Exeter maintained a cool façade. “I can collect the information for the Pope. If I had ever received such an order, I would not have obeyed. I’m not a butcher.”

The blonde man smirked. “I annihilated Louis de Perreau in revenge on the King of France for the siege of Rome several years ago. I then killed Francis Bryan as a random witness, but as he supported the barbaric Dissolution of the Monasteries, Bryan paid for his sins.”

“I was shocked beyond measure when you murdered them. I did not know you would do it.”

The other agent drew his poniard and pointed it at Exeter as a warning. Then he sheathed the blade again. “Or you would have stopped me, wouldn’t you? Ah, the heretical king’s York cousin tries to avoid bloodshed! You are cunning, but you have grown shamefully soft.”

Exeter backed away: he understood what the manipulations with the poniard meant. The marquess discerned contempt in his menacing voice. “I would never have allowed you to proceed.”

“Be careful, my devious Lord Exeter. Work for the Holy Father, but not betray Pope Paul.” The threat in the agent implied that Exeter would become his victim one day.

Nevertheless, the marquess continued, “Think again. Do not do that. Charles Brandon means a lot to me! I grew up with him and with King Henry. Anne Brandon is the wife of my best friend!”  

The man tumbled to his knees and crossed himself. “For my master, Allesandro Farnese. For our holy Pope! For him I shall destroy anyone, even your lordship, if I receive such a command.” He rose to his feet and hissed, “Be careful, Hal Courtenay. Your head might be severed from your shoulders if you do not stop whining. All the orders must be complied with.”

The Marquess of Exeter nearly ran away from the corridor. No one could have seen them at this part of the palace, which was still under renovation. Exeter and the other man were the Pope’s agents in England, but they were very different. His blonde colleague possessed utterly egregious bloodlust concealed behind his handsomeness. Anne Brandon must live, Exeter concluded.  


July 10, 1545, Château de Cognac, Cognac, the province of Saintonge, Aquitaine, France

The sun blazed down like liquid gold. The summer day was hot and humid. The sky was a sapphire blanket studded with light, arrow-shaped clouds, which was a glorious picture of beauty. The picturesque landscape of the Charente River was not available from the park.

The place of the Knight-King’s birth had a rich history. Around 1200, the castle had been rebuilt in stone; at the time, it had belonged to Philippe de Falcombridge, the illegitimate son of King Richard I of England the Lionheart, through his marriage to Amélie de Cognac. During the Hundred years’ War, the château had been one of the favorite residences of Edward, Prince of Wales called the Black Prince, in Aquitaine. The castle had been a hive of cultural activity during the marriage of Count Charles d’Angoulême and Louise de Savoy – the parents of King François.

On a large green lawn, covered with short-cropped grass, in front of the main entrance to the château, the tables were served in the utmost abundance. There were all sorts of dishes, such as pheasants, wild geese, patridges, bustards, cranes, brawn, roast tongue, legs of pork, beef, rabbit – most of them spiced with herbs. All sorts of wine were supplied in great qualities as well.

“King François and Queen Anne!” announced the herald in the gardens.

The courtiers lapsed into stunned and awe-inspired hush.

The entrance of the French royal couple was grand, with all due majesty and ceremony. As the mourning period had ended, François and Anne wore matching and sumptuous attire of cloth of gold, which shimmered in the sunlight. The spouses both looked a decade younger than their real age, their appearance untouched by time, as though they contained evergreen spirits.

The fabulous crown upon the monarch’s head was formed from an openwork gold frame mounted with three large rubies, and set with more than three thousand diamonds in silver mounts and precious stones in golden mounts, including dozens of sapphires and emeralds. Her dark hair cascading down her shoulders, the queen’s head was adorned with a golden crown encrusted with hundreds of diamonds, as well as dozens of other jewels and a huge cabochon red spinel.

The orchestra played chansons by Clément Janequin, a famous composer of the time and a favored court artist. Another composer, Claudin de Sermisy, had recently composed polyphonic settings of the Passion in French; Dauphin Henri with Antoine de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, spoke with him now. Both of these composers sat at one of the tables and enjoyed dishes of meat.

“My queen looks gorgeous today,” François complimented as they crossed the lawn.

Anne’s cheeks flushed. “Well, this crown is heavy.”

He directed at her a penetrating stare. “The burden of ruling is heavy.”

As they passed women who yearned to be noticed by the ruler, Anne felt their heated gazes on her husband, following them as the monarchs reached the main table upon a dais.

“King Henri and Queen Marguerite of Navarre!” the herald declared.

A dead silence ensued, putting a stop to all merriment for a few heartbeats.

The Navarrese rulers walked hand-in-hand. The air between them was charged with palpable hostility coming from the queen. Marguerite and Henri were attired in matching superb garments of cloth of silver, symbolizing the perpetual union of France and Navarre – the sun and the moon were both organic parts of people’s everyday lives. Their identical, luxurious golden crows were made of diamonds, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, topazes, and numerous other gemstones.

François and Anne sat at the main table under a canopy of cloth of estate of crimson cloth of tissue, embroidered with fleurs-de-lys. Marguerite and Henri occupied their places next to them. Soon Dauphin Henri and Dauphine Catherine joined them; Henri had reluctantly taken his wife with him from Saumur because of his father’s request to honor Catherine’s new pregnancy.

With a wide grin, King François eyed the assemblage. “We have gathered here to celebrate two important events.” He paused for a moment to let it sink in. “First of all, today we have signed the Ordinance of Cognac. We worked on this edict for several years together with my beloved wife and sister, Anne and Margot, as well as my competent chancellor, Guillaume Poyet.”

Guillaume Poyet sat on the main table due to his high rank. “Your Majesties,” he addressed the French royal couple and Queen Marguerite. “France and we all have to thank the Holy Trinity for their assiduous, diligent work on the many drafts of this edict, which were created, improved, checked, and finally approved after rounds of negotiations with our lawyers.”

Sipping wine, Anne promulgated proudly, “Now all government, judicial, and ecclesiastical matters can be resolved only in French, not in Latin. We have made the French language the only one to use in all legal acts, notarized contracts, and official legislation.”

Dauphin Henri smiled. “My role was a small one, but I’m delighted that we have enforced the linguistic unity in all provinces, duchies, counties, and cities across our kingdom.”

François told his oldest heir in a hushed voice, “You know what I expect of you, Henri.”

The dauphin treasured his father’s trust. “We will make France an absolute monarchy.”

“I believe in you, son,” the ruler uttered. Dauphin Henri smiled gratefully at him.  

King Henri of Navarre took a hearty swig of claret. “My realm is small, so I have almost nothing to centralize, but I admire what all of you have accomplished in France.”

“Thank you, my friend,” answered François jocundly.

“I’d love to go to Navarre,” Anne admitted.

The Navarrese monarch smiled. “Our Jeanne and your Augustine will be Queen and King of Navarre one day. When Augustine grows up a little, he can visit this place with you, Anne.”

Marguerite shot him a glare. “Jeanne will remain in France until she succeeds you.”

Henri d’Albert displayed tremendous patience. “Margot, we shall discuss it later.”

“It is not a matter for debate,” Marguerite’s cold voice resonated.

The Valois family observed the discord between the Albert spouses with sadness. Catherine de’ Medici, who had been ignored by them as if she were not there, inwardly smirked.

Marguerite raised a goblet to her mouth. “It is an important step to the centralization of the state, but there are still many things we ought to do. To our successful work!”

“To the further centralization of France!” King François echoed as he lifted his cup.

The courtiers cheered half-heartedly. The ongoing reforms had transformed them all into a household of nobles who now depended upon the most supreme source of power in France – King François. Their sovereign had taken the firm course of centralizing the state immediately after his ascension years ago. All the further reforms, including a significant reform of the tax collecting and accounting system in 1523, were aimed at investing the royal center with more power.   

The Ordnance of Cognac was another step in the policy towards absolutism. Now when all the legal documents had to be in French, no province would be able to issue their own laws in a language specific for a certain area. They could no longer have trials in Latin or local dialects. Church benefices would have to make records such as baptism and burials in local parishes.

Moreover, according to the same document, all royal courts were declared superior to those of the Church. This extension of the Crown’s authority at the expense of the Church was perceived well on the back of the existing hostility among many French Catholics exclusively towards Pope Paul III, who was still considered the Supreme Pontiff despite Montmorency’s governorship of Rome. Clearly, other reforms and codification of the law would continue in years to come.

Glasses were refilled, and the atmosphere became more festive.

Holding her goblet near her lips, Queen Anne pronounced an ebullient speech. “I want to drink for François, my husband! The Knight-King has brought the light of knowledge to France and transformed it into the most magnificent and most cultured country in Christendom.”

“To King François!” Dauphin Henri intoned enthusiastically.

“To our illustrious sovereign!” chorused Philippe de Chabot and Claude d’Annebault.

Fireworks and exorbitant cheers boomed through the stuffy air.

His goblet clasped in his hand, King François glanced at his consort with absolute adoration. “To my most beloved wife, Queen Anne of France! We have the bravest, most intelligent, and most gorgeous Queen Anne on the throne, the savior of her husband and France.”

“To Queen Anne of France!” Marguerite and Henri of Navarre cried.

“To the savior of our nation!” Chabot and Annebault exclaimed in unison.

“To Queen Anne and her children!” Dauphin Catherine forced the words to come out. Her smile looked as natural as those of the others in attendance, but internally she seethed in rage.

The dauphin offered, “To the sovereigns of France!”

Anne gazed at her stepson affably. “To the future of France – to Dauphin Henri! And to his children with Dauphine Catherine!” This earned her a warm glance from her husband’s son.

Dauphin Henri stood up and held his own goblet aloft. “I give my affection and praise to all of you, my friends!” His scrutiny then fixed on his father and stepmother. “To the long and glorious reign of King François and Queen Anne! To my own offspring and to my siblings!”

Cheers and toasts continued. The noise of festivities on the lawn was deafening.

§§§

The lawn was soon overcrowded.  The sun froze at its midday peak like a gigantic gold coin. Feathery white clouds crept over the firmament, at times blocking the sun’s earthly gaze.

A band of musicians began playing the chansons of Claudin de Sermisy. The composer was himself among the musicians who stood holding instruments at the other side of a lawn, green and smooth like fields of grass in summer. In 1533, in addition to his post at the Royal Chapel, Sermisy had become a canon of the Sainte-Chapelle, which required him to live in Paris. Yet, Claudin, who was the King of France’s friend, frequently came to where the Valois court stayed.

On a nearby lawn, Diane de Poitiers and Dauphin Henri were dancing a five-step tourdion; their hands were linked likes leaves connected with branches of trees. They began the tourdion in a posture when the right foot of each of them was in front of the other, and the weight was evenly divided between the feet. The dauphin was dressed in asparagus silk decorated with diamonds.

“This sequence of steps,” started Diane. They made the posture gauche with the left foot of each of them being in front. “It is an elementary and common galliard sequence.”

Her lover smiled. “A galliard will follow.”

She licked her lips. “I would rather do something else with you, Henri.”

He flashed a wicked grin. “At night, ma chérie.”

Their posture gauche alternated with the posture droit, their graceful movements tinged with salacious hues. Other couples were doing the same: Antoine de Bourbon with his sister Marie; his younger brother François de Bourbon, Count d’Enghien, with Catherine de Silly; François I, Duke de Nevers, with his spouse, Marguerite de Bourbon-La Marche. François d’Orléans, Marquis de Rothelin, laughed with his wife, Jacqueline de Rohan, as they changed postures.

When they were again in the posture droit, Diane observed, “Claude d’Annebault is finally with his wife, Françoise de Tournemine. That rich daughter and heiress of George, Seigneur de la Hunaudaye.” They took steps to the left. “She is a paramour of the Duke d’Étampes.”

“I’m not interested in the amours of Madame and Monsieur d’Étampes.”

The dauphin’s irritated voice hit a surprised Diane, chilling her to the bones. Why was her lover’s attitude to her changing? Diane and Henri had spent many passionate nights at Cognac. Their feet were so close to each other, separated by no more than a finger’s breadth or two, and their hands were entwined, but Henri’s expression was as distant as stars were from the earth.

After the tourdion, the galliard started. This time the Dauphin of France found himself paired with Marie de Bourbon, while Diane de Poitiers was with their mutual friend, Antoine de Bourbon. Like the previous dance, it included five steps, but more postures and hops. Marie and Henri were adroitly making traditional sequences of steps: right, left, right, left, cadence.

Marie commented, “The galliard radiates immeasurable zest.”

As they danced forward, Henri noted, “It includes leg thrusts and leaps.”

Now they were taking steps sideways. “Do you like it, Your Highness?”

Unexpectedly, the prince directed a sultry gaze at Marie. “It is nice and spirited, not dull like a pavane, but I find La Volta more amusing.” Henri grinned at her as she blushed.

Marie and Henri performed the cadence, which was preceded by quick hops with alternating feet. Diane and Antoine moved no less gracefully than the dauphin with his current partner. Yet, Diane’s motions were strained because all this time, she observed Henri laugh with another woman – a princess of the blood, also their cousin, one who was years younger than Diane. King François, Queen Marguerite, and their cousin, Françoise d’Alençon, watched these two couples closely.

Marie and Henri stood in an intimate proximity. It was the lavolta step in the galliard when the closest possible hold was formed between the couple. Having eyed Marie’s gown of green brocade, her stomacher of silver taffeta, the dauphin lifted her in the air, and then they performed a ¾ turn. As he put Marie on her feet, Henri felt as if an invisible force were drawing him to her. To his surprise, the prince was completely lost in the blue-gray pools of his Bourbon cousin.

Diane and Antoine, as well as all the other couples were making the same hops and turns.

Marie admitted, “My mother thinks some elements of the galliard are a bit indecent.”

He spelled out, “Madame Françoise d’Alençon, Dowager Duchess de Vendôme.”

Marie could predict how her mother would scold her. She saw that many noticed the prince’s peculiar glances at her. Heady glances, for Marie was not having hallucinations. “Yes, cousin.”

“Ah.” Henri aided his partner to jump again. “There are many cousins here.”

His gaze was apparently undressing her, and Marie’s hand trembled in his. “Many of French nobles, especially princes and princesses of the blood, are descended from Saint Louis.”

“Your father, the late Duke Charles de Vendôme, was my father’s close friend.”

“Indeed, and he was always loyal to his sovereign,” Marie stressed.

Marie de Bourbon was one of the many daughters of Françoise d’Alençon and Charles de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme. The late duke had died in 1537, and in spite of the vile treachery of the deceased Constable Charles de Bourbon who had sacked Rome in 1527, King François had never deprived the late Vendôme of his favor. The Milanese conspiracy of the executed François de Bourbon, Count de Saint-Pol and Duke d’Estouteville, had placed the remaining Bourbons in a precarious position again. The Valois should not perceive us as traitors, Marie ruminated.

“Your Highness! The House of Vendôme has never betrayed you.”

“To my utmost pleasure, so I trust you, Mademoiselle Marie.”

Their eyes remained locked as the dauphin lifted her in the air again. Her pulse was beating like a drum in the base of her throat when she landed on her feet. In his brown eyes, she discerned something that – she was confident of this – was akin to carnal desire. All Henri could think about was how wonderfully petite and slender Marie’s figure was, how silky her long and dark brown hair, which streamed down her back from beneath a French hood studded with gems, were.

A basse danse followed the galliard. Marie expected Dauphin Henri to return to his mistress, whose glares she had already intercepted many times. Now the partners moved across the lawn gracefully in slow and gliding motions. Slanting hostile glowers at Marie, Diane was led in the dance by René I de Rohan, Viscount de Rohan, Prince de Léon, and Marquis de Blain.

“Are you furious, Madame de Poitiers?” inquired René I de Rohan.

Diane managed a faux smile. “Why should I be? I have the world at my feet.”

Rohan smirked. “Because the Dauphin of France invites you to his bed.”

“You are being too brusque, Monsieur.”

The viscount neared his face to Diane’s. “I would gladly have done the same.”

Diane felt his hot breathing on her shoulders, for the décolletage of her black and white gown was low. Now in his late twenties, the Viscount de Rohan was quite attractive, with chiseled features, a strong jaw, and lustful hazel-green eyes. As they danced, he pressed himself as close to her body as possible, and the smooth burgundy silk of his outfit adorned with rubies caused an ache in her private parts. Given Henri’s odd behavior, I can take a lover, Diane mused.

“I’ll permit this,” she promised quietly, opening her lips to tempt him.

“I can come to you after my wife falls asleep,” Rohan blurted out.

Her good humor vanished in a heartbeat. “I’ll not be badgered by any man’s whim.”

“My Goddess Diane,” he purred sensually, “I’m not annoying you with platitudes. It would be below my honor to jest so with such a beautiful woman. I desire you madly.”

She pivoted with the grace of a swan. “We shall have our little amusements.”

Diane and Rohan danced a pavane together, her long skirts swishing across the lawn. Few enjoyed the pavane’s decorous sweep, which suited more the somber Spanish and Imperial courts.

At present, Dauphin Henri was next to Rohan’s wife – Princess Isabelle of Navarre, daughter of Queen Catherine and King Jean III of Navarre. Born in 1512, Isabelle was four years older than her husband was. Isabelle was a good-looking and blue-eyed fair-haired woman, whose face had a charming angularity in the cheeks, but otherwise it was delicate with a lush mouth and a small, straight nose. Isabelle’s gown was of tawny and mulberry damask, her stomacher of black silk.

Rohan whispered, “My wife is a princess. I’m satisfied with my marriage.”

“I heard that she is very pious.” Diane cast a gaze at Henri who conversed with Isabelle.

The viscount slid his hand down his partner’s gown. “She knows that I have paramours. Her brother, Henri of Navarre, attempted to make me be faithful to his younger sister.”

This elicited a venomous laugh from the mistress. “He should look at himself at first.”

“Ah, his scandalous affair with Anne de Pisseleu and their three children!”

Diane and Rohan passed the dauphin and the Navarrese princess, who had overheard part of their discourse. Isabelle sent her husband a fulminating look, Rohan signed to himself. Meanwhile, Diane noticed the curious looks of King François, Queen Anne, Queen Marguerite, and King Henri of Navarre – they darted between Dauphin Henri, her, and Marie de Bourbon.

Festive spirits inundated the air as the couples began dancing a courante with its fast running and jumping steps. René de Rohan went to his sullen wife, and as they were moving backwards, Isabelle’s face was contorted in ire. Diane, who was now with Philippe de Chabot, laughed at her openly; looking into Chabot’s orbs, Diane recalled how she and Dauphine Catherine had poisoned his spouse and mother-in-law – Françoise de Longwy and Jeanne d’Angoulême, Countess de Bar-sur-Seine. They believe that they died of the plague! Diane smiled in her mind. Idiots!

Diane’s mood plummeted like stones thrown into a pond when she spotted Dauphin Henri again dancing with Marie de Bourbon. The feet of Marie and Henri were producing measured and back-and-forth springing steps before their movements transformed into stately glides.

Henri exuded hunger. “There is something heartfelt in this dance.”

Marie warned candidly, “Your Highness, I could marry the late King James the Fifth of Scotland, but he rejected me. Since then, I’ve treasured my freedom.” Quietly, she ended with, “If I ever lose my maidenhood, it will happen either with a husband or with someone I truly love.”

“I’ve learned on my father’s example that it is difficult to find true love.”

Marie and Henri, as well as other couples held hands to move forward and then backwards. Something akin to a longing for incredible romance pulsated through Marie and the dauphin. In these moments, Catherine de’ Medici and Diane de Poitiers were both shooting glares towards the man with whom they were obsessed; Françoise d’Alençon had an odd facial expression.

§§§

After the dancing had ended, Queen Anne took the lute. Neither she nor her husband had danced today, having talked with the Navarrese monarchs and Dauphine Catherine about literature. Closing her eyes, she let fingers pluck lightly at the strings of the instrument that she liked a lot. Years ago, Anne had played more frequently for Henry of England, usually melodies from her old French songbook, than for François, but now she wanted to entertain the audience.

Vivrai-je toujours en souci

pour vous ma très loyale amie,

si vous n’avez de moi merci,

je languirai toute ma vie,

Everyone listened, admiring Anne’s musical talents. She seldom played in public.

Anne selected the plangent chanson ‘Vivrai-je toujours en souci’ by Claudin de Sermisy. The king observed her with melancholy etched into his countenance, while Marguerite sighed.

Votre beauté

M’a arrêté

Pour son servant,

de très bon coeur,

son serviteur

me vois nommant.

A wave of applause blasted. “Bravo!” Dauphin Henri and others commended.   

“Amazing, Your Majesty!” complemented Sermisy, the author of this chanson.

After she had finished, Anne handed the lute to a passing servant. Apprehensive thoughts battered her from all sides. Why terror inside of her was so intense and so very pungent that she could almost smell it?  Her husband smiled at her, and she grinned back, but a sense of hollowness lanced through her. She the chanson translated to English, and words fell from her lips.

Will I still live in worry

for you my very loyal friend,

if you don’t have me thank you,

I shall languish all my life,

Your beauty

stopped me

for his servant,

very kindly,

his servant

see me naming.

François kissed her hand. “I’m my wife’s eternal servant. By the way, I was born at Cognac.”  

Marguerite had a mixture of venison, salmon, and meat on her platter. “I was a child of two at the time, but I was told a lot about this day well. The moon came betwixt the sun and the world, so it was dark on the earth for a while, and in those moments, François emerged from our mother’s womb and breathed for the first time. Our father feared that it was a bad omen.”

Dauphin Henri collected patridges, bustards, and cranes onto his plate. “But my grandfather was mistaken. Grandmother Louise went to some astrologer here in Cognac, and this old woman said that the solar eclipse at the moment of my father’s birth meant exactly the opposite. According to her, the unique child was destined to rule France and bring a lot of light to her people.”

“She must have meant general enlightenment,” assumed Dauphine Catherine. She disliked this conversation, perceiving it as the last tribute to the Valois ruler before his death.

François shrugged. “Strangely, this old woman claimed that I would become King of France even when Charles the Eighth the Affable and his poor son, Charles Orland, were still alive. My cousin, Louis the Twelfth, was not king at the time, and he could still have a son.”

Marguerite looked up at the sky. “Most astrologers are charlatans. This woman had some clairvoyance talents, and she recommended that you be named François like a father of France.”

François veered his gaze to his sister. “Is it the only reason why I received this lovely name?”

“Our parents loved this name, brother,” Marguerite confirmed.

Anne put a morsel of venison into her mouth. Like her sister-in-law, she believed that only a few possessed talents of fortune telling. “Did this sorceress say something else?”

“Yes.” Marguerite smiled at her while sipping her wine. “She mentioned that my mother’s children would always be together, giving strength and wisdom from each other.”

Henri of Navarre finished eating his partridge with vegetables. “It is most certainly true: François and Margot have always been inseparable like water and foliage.”

A cloud shifted from in front of the sun, and the full force of its blaze forced Anne to squint. “If she could see such things so soon after the birth of François and when Margot was two, then it means that she did not lie. Perhaps some prophets may be seen as messengers of God.”

“Even if some of their predictions are not good,” Marguerite murmured, almost to herself.

“Aye,” Anne answered. “What else did that clairvoyant say?”

François supplemented, “She was both an astrologer and a healer who was famous in Cognac and Aquitaine for her knowledge in the art of healing. She saved many lives when no physician and no prayer could help them. Due to her fame, my mother learned about her.”

“That is all true.” Marguerite took a morsel of rabbit onto her platter. “She spoke about wars and bloodshed – perhaps she meant the endless Italian campaigns, the past invasion of France by Spain, and the invasion that will happen soon. She also mentioned that one of François’ sons would rule for a long time, and that his reign would extend to the next century.”

All pairs of eyes at the main table were glued to the King of France’s eldest son.

“Interesting,” Dauphin Henri drawled. “It cannot be me because I’ll be very old in 1600.”

Catherine shook her head. “Eighty one, husband. The Almighty will send you a long and prosperous reign. Of course, I wish our most beloved King François all the best.”

Anne, François, and Marguerite shared glances of disquietude, for Catherine’s intonation seemed as smooth as a serpent’s skin and as unnatural as some artificial laugh could be.

Henri verbalized his opinion. “It matters not as long as the House of Valois continues ruling. Maybe it is my brother Augustine who would make a great monarch.”

“That Augustine would,” asserted François unhesitatingly. “The Lord decides everything.”

It must be my Henri, Catherine de’ Medici thought with insane fervency. My husband will govern France for years. I’ll be his queen in everything after I deal with Diane. With mounting impatience, as violent as a tempest, she counted moments before Anne would go to Boulogne and François would be entrapped in Milan. Then Henri would become King of France.

Anne gasped. The English astrologer had predicted her unhappy marriage to Henry Tudor and her joyful union with François, and that Elizabeth Tudor would usher England into a Golden Age. Although Henry had two sons, Anne still believed that her eldest daughter would ascend to the throne. Another prophesy rang through Anne’s ears like thunder: ‘One queen in England and one king in France. Tied by filial bonds, they will create a solid alliance.’ Could it be Augustine? 

Diving out of her reveries, Anne heard them discuss human qualities. “Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through trials and sufferings the soul is strengthened.”

François finished eating. “Nothing shows a man’s character more than what he laughs at. I despise stupidity, cowardice, all kinds of obsessions, and extreme arrogance in people that prevents them from seeing the harsh reality. Most of all I detest effeminate boys.”

Among the qualities Marguerite adored in both Anne and François were their progressive and poetical mindsets. “How I love impulsive people! They are more genuine than those who hum about romance and yet kill their spouse’s love with their own hands. Henry of England is one of them. Such people resemble spiders who, after singing about their immortal feelings, creep out of their hide holes when you least expect it, and strangle you until you perish.”

Anne’s lips curled in a grin. “I need to become a worshiper of impulsiveness.”

The Navarrese queen commented, “You already are, and so is my brother.” After a pause, she noted, “nonetheless, it is not good for rulers. You, François, are impulsive. Over time, you have become more down-to-earth and calculating, but you are not like that dog Carlos.”

The King of France emptied his goblet. “I’ll never be like Carlos. He is as much obsessed with revenge as Henry is obsessed with male heirs. These things are hilarious!”

“Laughs and jokes distract people from their goals,” Catherine opined.

Dauphin Henri challenged, “What is your purpose, Madame de’ Medici?”

The Medici eyed darkened with the frantic love for her husband. “To make you happy.”

Ignoring her, the dauphin turned to the ruler. “Shouldn’t we summon him now, Father?”

The total negligence of Catherine on her spouse’s part caused both Anne and Marguerite to slant compassionate glances at the young Medici princess, who forced herself to nod her thanks.

“Indeed.” Pivoting his head to Chabot who sat at the other side of the main table, François addressed. “Philippe, fetch the Pope’s son. He must be dressed for the occasion.”

Bowing to his sovereign, Admiral de Brion stood up and headed to the château.

§§§

“Monsieur Ranuccio Farnese,” declared the herald, and the concourse fell silent.  

Accompanied by Philippe de Chabot and Bishop Jean du Bellay, the young Italian man walked out of the palace. His expression timid at the sight of the big gathering, Ranuccio kept his scrutiny downcast. As they strode across the lawn towards the royal table, hundreds of astonished glances were upon the man who had been held captive in France since the siege of Rome.

“Good day, Monsieur Farnese,” began François in the most affable accents.

Ranuccio Farnese sketched a bow without looking at the monarch. “Thank you so much for your invitation, Your Majesty. Neither I nor any of my relatives deserve your generosity.”

The king said gently, “Children are not responsible for their parents’ misdeeds.”

At last, Ranuccio leveled a stare at the Valois ruler. Immediately, his expression transmuted from shyness into raptured incredulity, for the majesty of his captor was overpowering. “How can I serve Your Majesty?” His voice was shaking like that of a man who imagined the worst.

Ranuccio had a lean complexion, long slender legs, skin paler than that of most Italians. His oval face, dominated by a hooked nose and mild, gentle, sparkling hazel-green eyes, was neither ugly nor attractive. His whole appearance was shaded with the colorings of an almost effeminate gentleness, accentuated by his doublet and hose of beige silk ornamented with pearls.

The monarch rose to his feet. As he eyed his subjects, he stated in a high voice, “Emperor Carlos has endeavored to asperse me again, just as he did nine years ago. Now that Habsburg thug is calling me the murderer of Ranuccio Farnese. As you see, he is spreading wretched lies!”

 The lords and ladies shook their heads vigorously.

“Your Majesty is not guilty! That Flemish animal is a liar!”

“Those Imperial barbarians are going to invade our country again!”

“Emperor Carlos is the worst and godless scoundrel on earth!”  

“God bless and protect our chivalrous and beloved King François!”

“Though Catholics, we shall not allow the Pope to kill any of the Valois!”

As they quietened down, the monarch affirmed, “We have been preparing for the war in the past several months. We have a new alliance with King Ferdinand. Together we will win!”

“We will win!” the courtiers chorused ebulliently.

François looked at Ranuccio. “Monsieur Farnese, tell them all about your stay in France.”

Ranuccio supplied in good French, “I’ve been allowed to enjoy luxury in France. I’ve spent several years in this château, and although I was guarded, I was permitted to have strolls in the garden. Monsieur de Chabot and His Eminence du Bellay visited me often.”

“You have learned our language well,” commended the king. “Your accent is not thick.”

Ranuccio let out a smile. “I’ve had a lot of free time and read many books. At my request, Monsieur de Chabot hired for me a French tutor, who helped me master this language well.”

Chabot lauded, “Monsieur Farnese is talented in languages and is also fond of poetry.”

François quizzed, “Have you ever been mistreated or threatened while in captivity?”

Ranuccio shook his head. “Never. None of my initial fears have materialized.”

Dauphin Henri articulated, “My Father is not your father, Pope Paul, or Emperor Carlos.”

Ranuccio’s eyes flew to the dauphin. “I understand.”

This exchange was greeted by a burst of cheers from the nobility and the ambassadors, who attended this feast. Although Catherine cheered François like others, her cries were quieter.  

The ruler lifted from his neck the gold chain that secured a jeweled cross. Clasping the cross in his hands, he decreed, “I, François de Valois, by the grace of God King of France and Duke of Milan, hereby announce that Ranuccio Farnese is a free man from now on. He may return to Rome and be reunited with his family; we will finance his voyage back home.”

“God bless our sovereign for his generosity,” shouted Bishop Jean du Bellay.

This utterance was followed by shouts of approval, amazement, and admiration.

The monarch waved for silence. “God and truth are on the side of those who do not wreak havoc because of their lust for power and riches. Monsieur Ranuccio has paid a high price for the Pope’s sins – he has been our captive for years. Now it is high time for us to let him go.”

“I’ve made my choice,” apprised Ranuccio Farnese. “I shall not return to my family.”   

The king measured him with a deliberately baffled glance. “What are your plans, then?”  

Ranuccio spoke a sensational speech. “My father, Pope Paul the Third, has perpetrated dreadful things. He must be immensely grateful to Your Majesty that you did not convene the Conclave to have him deposed. I’ve never had a good relationship with my eldest brother – Pier Luigi Farnese, Duke of Castro. I’ll only miss my sisters – Lucrezia and Constanza.”

Burgeoning respect manifested upon François’ countenance. “What will you do?”

Ranuccio genuflected before the royal table. “Your Majesty, permit me to stay in France and become your subject. I shall never keep any contact with my father and my eldest brother.”

Claps of applause were heard from the astonished and pleased gathering.

A smile curved the ruler’s lips. “I accept your oath of fealty.” He glanced towards the table where foreign diplomats were seated. “Our new subject, Monsieur Ranuccio Farnese, has been granted the Marquisate of Campigny in Normandy. It will let him maintain high status in France.”

The dauphin addressed the Pope’s son. “Monsieur Farnese, your patent of nobility is ready for collection, and Admiral de Brion will bring it to you tomorrow.”

“Thank you so much!” Ranuccio was now beaming.  

Philip, Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg assessed, “Your Majesty is fair and generous.” He was still at the French court, planning to return to Austria and then to Bavaria soon.

“Ah,” huffed Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle, who the Imperial ambassador to France.

Everyone considered the king’s strategy clever. Ranuccio was granted estates in Normandy that was quite far from Piedmont and Italy so that the king could control his life.

The monarch addressed Granvelle. “Tell your master, Carlos, that we keep all of our captives – if we have them – in excellent conditions and may even reward them with titles.”

This elicited loud shrieks of concurrence and delight from the spectators. Granville growled something unclear under his breath, his gaze intersecting with Catherine’s cold one.

François enjoined, “Give a seat to Monsieur Farnese at our table!”

Ranuccio settled himself at the main table next to Chabot. More dishes were served.  

Anne bent her head to her husband. “Ranuccio’s conduct will enrage the Pope.”

François whispered into his wife’s ear, “We released Ranuccio because he began to exhibit patterns of alarming behavior due to his imprisonment. He rambled incoherent things.”

She shuddered. “Did Chabot and Bellay persuade him to stay in France?”

The king nodded. “They tried hard, but they were not sure of the success until Ranuccio’s announcement. Unlike his male relatives, Ranuccio is kind, tractable, and not strong-willed.”   

Marguerite interjected in the same hushed voice, “Ranuccio might be a clay in the hands of someone who strives to manipulate him. That is why he must be continuously observed.”  

The French royals then enjoyed the performance of acrobats from Venice.

§§§

Dauphine Catherine awaited her secret ally in the château’s arched cellars. Although the rest of the court remained outdoors celebrating, she failed to withstand the elation of the French royals, which was caused by Ranuccio’s decision to repudiate the Pope and Rome.  

The spacious cellars, located below the ground, remained dark even in the daytime. With thick walls of three meters, medium moisture, and average temperature of a mild autumn, there were exceptional conditions for the conservation and ageing of the local cognacs.

Diane de Poitiers descended the stairs, holding an oil lamp in her hand. “Care to explain why you wanted us to meet here?” Her voice sounded deceptively calm.

Catherine could read her rival’s mind well. “Diane, there is your usual cool intrepidity? Are you so afraid that I can order to have you butchered like a vermin in the king’s cellars?”

Diane clenched her fingers tighter together. That was her primary terror when Catherine’s lady-in-waiting, Maddalena Bonajusti, had delivered the invitation for the meeting in this place.  She would love to see Catherine suffer for her sins, knowing that the dauphine was intimidating her intentionally. The liquidation of François and Anne is the reason why I need Catherine.

Sighing, the dauphin’s mistress unclenched her hands and pressed her palms flat to her skirt. “I’m not afraid of you, Catherine. If I fall, we will both tumble into a dark abyss.”

Catherine studied the older women. “Why are you not attending the festivities? Are you feeling a bit under the weather? I’m pregnant, so it would look normal for me, but not you.”

Diane wished to stay away from the dauphine. Their encounters jabbed a splinter of fear into Diane’s heart. “The court’s progress from Saint-Germain to Cognac was too quick for me.”

This amused Catherine. “We have been at Cognac for two weeks. Aren’t you getting older?”

“Now you make mischief,” fired Diane. “But I must counter that it took you ten years to get pregnant. I had given Henry a child several years before you did. So, who is healthier?”

The dauphine’s hand slid to her flat abdomen. “I’ll give Henri the healthiest son this time. His heart is already beating in my womb, and I feel that he will rule France for long.”

At present, the Dauphine of France was about three months alone in her pregnancy. She had conceived soon after her spouse’s return to her bed while in Saumur. As soon as her condition had been confirmed, Henri had started spending all nights with Diane, just as he always did. I must have a son this time. A healthy baby boy – the finest miniature copy of his father, Catherine prayed.

“You cannot know this, Catherine. Most of the male Medici in your line were rather sickly and did not live for long. Any of your children might inherit their hereditary bad blood.”

The cellars were illuminated by Diane’s lamp and Catherine’s torch. In the light from them, Diane’s face was jeering. The dauphine warded off the urge to hurtle her torch at the slut.

“I’m carrying a baby boy,” Catherine declared with conviction.

Diane shrugged. “Nonsense. Anne Boleyn had had three girls and two miscarriages before Prince Augustine was born. I never knew the gender of my three daughters before their births.”

Catherine’s ferocious look suggested that she craved to punch the strumpet. This provided Diane with satisfaction to know that in their battle for Henri, the mistress was winning.

The dauphine reined in her temper. “I have news. The royal decree with the King of France’s seal was dispatched in the morning. As soon as it arrives, the French generals will perpetrate the massacres of heretics in the village of Mérindol, as well as in Provence, Piedmont, and Milan.”

Diane’s visage lit up with smile. “Well done. Now I must go.”

“What are you two doing here?” Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly emerged up the stairs, holding a torch in her hand and peering down at the two women with a surprised expression.

Diane de Poitiers plastered a smile. “Madame d’Étampes, what a meeting!”

Catherine managed a grin. “Why are you not with others, Madame la Duchesse?”

Anne said, “Although the king permitted me to be at court, I don’t want to create problems.”

Vitriol flowed out of Diane’s mouth like a river. “You are the very reason for the heightening frictions between the King and Queen of Navarre. Yet, you dare stay at the Valois court and go to King Henri’s bedroom every night, knowing that his wife is under the same roof.”

Sniggering erupted from Anne. “Ah, my dearest Madame de Poitiers! Do I hear this from the very woman who slides under Dauphin Henri’s sheets every night?  From the woman to whose bed His Highness goes after working hard to impregnate his Medici wife?”  

“Fair enough,” averred Catherine de’ Medici with spiteful gratification.

Anne de Pisseleu had arrived to collect a bottle of cognac for her today’s dinner with Henri d’Albert. Nevertheless, she had changed her mind, for her best instincts told her not to go further down. “I did not expect to see the two competitors for Dauphin Henri so friendly.”

The Duchess d’Étampes climbed the stairs, then exited into the kitchens.

“Damn,” Diane cursed. “We must be more cautious, Catherine. “I’ll be the first to leave.”  

Madame de Poitiers mounted the stairs two at a time to get away from the Medici demoness.

“One day, I’ll eradicate you like a weed, Diane,” pledged the Medici princess. After waiting for another minute, her heart racing, she pivoted and virtually ran out of the cellars.

Notes:

Hello everyone! We hope that you are fine and sane. Take care of yourself!

Elizabeth Tudor is frightened of her father’s plan to invade France and ruin Anne’s life again. We hope you like the flashback of the dramatic scene from the Tudors show where Anne was pursuing Henry in the gardens begging him to spare her. We rarely take any scenes from shows and movies, but this scene was so dramatic and so poignant… Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, might dislike the idea of invading France, but he and other royal councilors can do nothing.

Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, has many secrets; he is a very complex character. There are those who dislike him, that’s fine. He did not know about the murders of Louis de Perreau and Francis Bryan in advance. Exeter’s weapons are intrigues, and he resorts to extreme measures only if he has no other choice. Exeter does not like the recent commands from Rome. Exeter finally realizes that he is himself in peril from the second Pope’s agent; he does not want Anne von Cleves dead. Who is this dangerous man? Any ideas? Hal Courtenay will have to deal with him.

The Valois court moved to Château de Cognac located in Cognac, France. François I of France was born in this palace, which his parents made an artistic center during their marriage. You may google this castle and find pictures. It is not as beautiful as châteaux in the Loire Valley and Château de Fontainebleau are, but it is worth visiting it if you ever travel to France.

The Ordinance of Cognac is a prototype of the historical Ordinance Villers-Cotterêts of 1539. This extensive legislation reform was signed into law by François in 1539, in the city of Villers-Cotterêts; the oldest French legislation still used partly by French courts. The document was mostly the work of Chancellor Guillaume Poyet and Marguerite of Navarre. This document was one of François’ many reforms to centralize the Crown’s power, but we will not touch upon all of his reforms here. His strategic policy aimed at centralization was the main reason why the Duchy of Bourbon reverted to the Crown after the death of Suzanne de Bourbon, Duchess de Bourbon and wife of the treacherous Constable de Bourbon, in 1521; given the history of France, François could not allow the Duchy of Bourbon to become another Burgundy within his realm.

The described Renaissance dances are historically correct. Translating from French, ‘the posture droit’ means ‘the right posture’, while ‘the posture gauche’ means ‘the left posture,’ something like ‘to the left, to the right’ in a dance.

We can see some new characters including Marie de Bourbon, as well as Isabelle of Navarre, Viscountess de Rohan, and René I de Rohan, Viscount de Rohan. René’s flirt with Diane de Poitiers is a fictional event. Isabelle of Navarre was King Henri II of Navarre’s youngest sister; his parents did not have many surviving children. Marie was first offered to James V of Scotland who repudiated her in favor of the fragile and sickly Madeleine of France (François did not want this marriage, but he eventually gave in to James and Madeleine’s persuasions). In history, Marie de Bourbon died in 1538 unmarried, but we are keeping her alive.

The talk about someone who predicted that François would become King of France is more or less correct. One of the healers whom Louise de Savoy visited before and after François’ birth in Aquitaine predicted that her son would rule France. Maybe Louise invented this story, but it can be found in French chronicles of the time. We embellished these prophesies with our own detail.

We hope you liked the twist with the Pope’s son Ranuccio Farnese. Pope Paul III (born Alessandro Farnese) had several illegitimate children: Pier Luigi II Farnese, Duke of Castro; Paolo Farnese; Ranuccio Farnese; Costanza Farnese; Lucrezia Farnese.

Dauphine Catherine de’ Medici is again pregnant. The worst is that she and Diane de Poitiers did something very bad – some order not really signed by François was dispatched to his generals. We are very close to a huge Tudor-Valois-Habsburg-Medici drama. Say goodbye to François: you will see him in the next chapter, but then he will be absent for quite some time – he will not die.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 63: Chapter 62: Bells of Foreboding

Summary:

The French are preparing for wars. King Henry is planning betrothals for his children. The love of King François and Queen Anne is about to be tested after François receives horrible news. King Henri II of Navarre has nice family moments.

We recommend the works by BubblyYork, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, annethequene, and Esme24.

Notes:

News! We are now mapping out a sequel to CWL, but it is a long, long way to go. 30-35 +/- chapters depending on the number of religious wars in France - this matter is under consideration at present. Any sequel to the Anne/François I saga is like an epilogue, but it will be interesting, with a prominent Flemish storyline featuring the Houses of Valois and of Habsburg’s relationships with the House of Orange (much like prominent Imperial and Italian storylines in this AU). The main characters will be Anne Boleyn (until her death), Elizabeth I of England, Augustine de France with Henri III de Navarre with their French enemies, Felipe of Spain, and Emperor Maximilian II with many other characters. It will be written very slowly.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 62: Bells of Foreboding

July 20, 1545, Château de Cognac, Cognac, the province of Saintonge, Aquitaine, France

The evening was hot; the windows in the Council Room were ajar. A breeze drifted inside, carrying with it the sounds of bird chirping and the fragrance of blossoms in the gardens.  

King François eyed the assemblage. “What is happening on our borders now?”

Philippe de Chabot began his report. “Your Majesty, our spies noticed the gathering of the Imperial troops in southern Germany and southern Flanders.”

The French royals, as well as their advisers sat at a table piled with maps, parchments, scrolls, inkwells, and quills. The chamber’s walls was decorated with tapestries of battles and tournaments. The floors were covered with Aubusson carpets, depicting various saints.

“How many?” The flickering candlelight added to a fatalistic aura about the ruler.   

“About forty thousand men in the Netherlands,” answered Chabot. “Half of them are cavalry, ten thousand are artillery. The rest are foreign mercenaries, including Italian and Swiss ones.”

Queen Anne released a sigh. “What about Germany?”  

Claude d’Annebault informed, “Your Majesties, the Imperial forces include fifty thousand soldiers in this region. The emperor intends to march on either Provence or Piedmont.”

The monarch’s fingers drummed along the gold-plated arm of his chair. “They will attack Milan. As long as I remember myself, Carlos and I have competed for Milan. Six years ago, we took Milan without a drop of blood thanks to Ferdinand. Now Carlos will try to take it back.”

Queen Marguerite noted, “The Imperial armies will attack not only Milan, but also the whole of Piedmont, which has been occupied by our forces since 1536. Nevertheless, to launch such a massive attack, he needs more divisions. He will hire more Swiss and Italian mercenaries, or make his younger brother’s armies stationed in Austria, Bohemia, and Hungary join him.”

François stated confidently, “Ferdinand will not betray us.”

Anne conjectured, “Doubtless that if Carlos orders his brother to fight against us, Ferdinand will refuse. The emperor might use this refusal as a reason for Ferdinand’s disinheritance.”

Annebault arched a brow. “In this case, Ferdinand will have his own troops in Hungary and Bohemia. But he cannot lead them away from there because of the Turks.”

François assumed, “Ferdinand can act like France did. If he allies with the Ottoman Empire, the war in Hungary will be stopped. Then he will be able to relocate his forces to Austria and defend his birthright to these lands, as well as assist us in defeating his brother.”

“What about the English armies?” Anne wanted to know.

Chabot elaborated, “Thirty thousand men are stationed in Calais, and the Duke of Suffolk is expected to arrive. They may invade from the north together with the Imperial hordes.”

Dauphin Henri joined, “We face the threat of eighty thousand men swarming the country from the north and roughly fifty thousand men attacking Piedmont. What about our forces?”

They recalled the morose state of French affairs during the previous invasion when they were all feared facing the seemingly impending doom. Their hearts ached for the losses.   

 “We have enough men,” the monarch uttered firmly. “Our troops of ninety thousand men have assembled near our northern borders to give a bloody welcome to anyone.”

Chabot asserted, “I’ll journey to Picardy and the south of Artois to our armies.”

François compressed his lips. “Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alba, is the emperor’s chief commander. Alba has supervised the relocation of German forces to Flanders, and he will lead their invasion.” He directed a glance at Chabot. “We felt Alba’s military genius on our own experience, but I have no doubt that you, Philippe, have all the knowledge to resist him.”

“I shall not disappoint you, my liege,” pledged Chabot with a bow.

Jacques d’Albon, Seigneur de Saint-André and a recently appointed Marshal of France, entered the conversation. “As Your Majesty requested, I’ve gathered fifty thousand Frenchmen in Turin, half of them being cavalry and the other being artillery. Ten thousand horse archers are due to arrive there. We can also hire more Swiss mercenaries if necessary.”

François steepled his fingers beneath his chin, his gaze focused on Albon. “In addition, we have the forces of Duke Charles de Savoy. About fifteen thousand men.”

There was a bleakness in Marguerite’s gaze. “Are you sure that our uncle and his son will not betray us? I do not trust young Emmanuel despite his betrothal to Louise.”

François vowed, “If he betrays us, I’ll take away the ducal throne from their dynasty.”  

Anne chimed in, “Charles de Savoy is not bold to ally with the emperor. He was quite happy with his son’s betrothal to Louise. However, I do not trust his son Emmanuel Philibert.”

The monarch fidgeted with a parchment that was a report about the situation in the north of France. “You are right, Anne. At the same time, Emmanuel is young and brash, although he is a wily thing, too. He has no power to make decisions; his father is a coward to go against me.”

Marguerite surmised, “Emmanuel will become dangerous in years to come.”

“After he becomes the Duke de Savoy,” pointed out Anne.

François nodded. “So far, we can count Savoy and Piedmont as our allies.”

Henri interposed, “Isn’t the situation in Italy perilous? Isn’t someone trying to poison the Doge of Venice so that the fragile equilibrium on the Apennine Peninsula will be destroyed?”

The ruler speculated, “First of all, we have Lord Wiltshire in the Republic of Venice, and he has secured the alliance with the new Doge Francesco Donato. Let’s pray that the criminal who has attempted to dispose of Messer Donato will not succeed. Second, we have solid treaties with Duke Cosimo de’ Medici and Duke Ercole of Ferrara, who will both side with us.”

The dauphin snarled, “Duke Cosimo resisted my divorce from Catherine.”  

“Your wife is his distant cousin.” The king stilled for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “In Italy, Cosimo de’ Medici will support France, not the Holy Roman Empire.”

In a bemused tone, Henri quizzed, “Why are you so sure, Father?”

The monarch’s lips stretched in a grin. “I’m aware of Cosimo’s ambitious plans to capture Siena and other territories in Tuscany – Cosimo himself apprised me of them. Cosimo’s dream is to create Grand Duchy of Tuscany that will be more powerful and richer than Duchy of Florence. He understands that this can be achieved only if the state resources are centralized and used for this purpose specifically. Therefore, Cosimo needs peace and will be France’s ally.”

The dauphin looked at his father. “Father, you know the intricacies of Italian politics, while for me it is still a maze.” He glanced at Anne. “Your Majesty signed a treaty with Florence.”  

The ruler glanced between his wife and sister, whom he saw as his best advisors. “In our enlightened kingdom, the most educated women are making history.”

“Except for my wife,” Henri muttered.

A thread of foreboding snaked through François. “Who knows…Time will show.”

Jacques d’Albon maneuvered to the topic at hand. “Your Majesty, who will command our armies in Piedmont and Milan? Will Anne de Montmorency be recalled home?”

“Monty will be in Rome,” decreed the monarch. “When the war breaks out, Monty will jail Allesandro Farnese in Castel Sant’Angelo. Monty discovered the cardinal who stealthily delivered the papal dispensation for Mary Tudor and Carlos to Flanders. The man was done away with.”

An air of melancholy encompassed Marguerite. “Monty is such a competent, loyal general!  We would need him during this invasion.” Anne and Henri nodded at her.

François recalled Montmorency’s recent reports from Rome. “No, he must be in the Papal States.” He gazed at Annebault. “Claude, you will be with me in Piedmont. We will defend Milan together with the Milanese governor Pier de’ Rossi, Count di San Secondo.”  

Annebault’s smile was scintillating. “With pleasure.”

Henri broached another issue. “Who will protect the south of France?”

“Monsieur d’Albon,” resolved the king. “Together with our cousin and friend – King Henri of Navarre. It is reasonable to expect an invasion from Spain as well.”

Marguerite arched a brow. “Do you trust my husband?”

“I do, Margot.” The ruler’s voice was uncompromising. “The topic is closed.”

Albon said, “I’ll gladly serve with King Henri. How many men do we have in the south?”

François assessed, “About forty thousand soldiers are stationed near Toulouse. Henri’s army counts about fifteen thousand men. That should be enough to repel them from the south.”

“We can hire more mercenaries,” proposed Albon.

Marguerite notified, “We will discuss all the financial matters on the next meeting.”

“What about me?” Dauphin Henri inquired.

King François regarded the congregation with seriousness. “Marguerite will be regent in my absence, as always. From now on Anne and my son Henri can represent me and make decisions in my name. The relevant documents were given to Chancellor Poyet.”

The councilors were not surprised that these two people were so honored.

Annebault exclaimed, “It seems that the Holy Quartette has been formed.”

A rich peal of laughter resonated from the gathering.

A deluge of joy took the dauphin’s breath away. “Thank you, Father!”

“You deserve my trust, Henri.” François sent his son a paternal smile of pride. “As for your service in our army, you can choose where to go. I’d prefer you to join Philippe de Chabot in the north. Despite the current peace in Italy, everything might happen there anytime.”

Chabot offered, “I’ll gladly have Dauphin Henri with me in Picardy.”

“I’ll go there!” Henri was overjoyed that his father’s faith in him was enormous.

The ruler measured Admiral de Brion with an authoritative glance. “Philippe, you will be responsible for Henri. Do not allow my son to do reckless things.”

Anne, Marguerite, and the others all nodded their concurrence.

Chabot walked to the dauphin’s chair. He genuflected and spoke with devotion. “I swear on all that I hold dear to serve King François, Dauphin Henri, and France until my last breath.”

Henri promised, “Philippe, I’ll rely upon your competent advice.”

“We have the Protestant alliance too,” emphasized Anne. “Philip of Hesse pledged that they would send us troops. Other German Protestant States will help us as well, except for the Duchy of Cleves that is likely to remain neutral because they are allied with England.”

While Chabot returned to his place, a short silence stretched between them.

“What about the Duke of Norfolk’s request?” Marguerite enquired.

A few days earlier, Queen Anne had received an urgent message from Thomas Howard. The codified letter had been delivered by a French agent. Norfolk had asked to dispatch someone French to London for a surreptitious meeting to tell her something vitally important.

Anne leaned back in her seat. “My uncle will speak about the invasion. Most of the English councilors don’t approve of Henry’s intentions, but they fear to lose their lives.”

“What to do, then?” Henri questioned.

The ruler’s response left the advisors flabbergasted. “Anne offered an interesting option. I’ve resolved to send someone who will never be suspected as our spy.”

It was too early to plan any strategies because the Imperial troops only stood, as if waiting for something. Leaden clouds, apprehensive of a possible catastrophe, were scattering to the north towards the Low Countries and to the southeast towards Piedmont.

§§§

The first streaks of dawn penetrated the windows of the bedchamber of Princess Isabelle de Navarre, Viscountess de Rohan. Isabelle lay on a bed canopied with purplish-red velvet. She clasped in her hands her splendidly illustrated Book of Hours, written in French because it had been produced in Geneva. She had received it in secret from John Calvin himself; no one, not even her brother, King Henri II of Navarre, was aware that she possessed Calvinistic literature.

The steps in the antechamber caused Isabelle to stare at the door. She closed the volume and hastily put it on the floor from her side of the bed. Her husband – René I, Viscount de Rohan – entered the bedroom. He was a Catholic, so she concealed her true religion from him. René tiptoed towards the bed; in the semidarkness, he noticed that his spouse was not sleeping.

Rohan landed on the bed’s edge. “Why are you awake, Isabelle?”

“How was your night with Diane de Poitiers?” she asked forthrightly.

He was undressing. “If you want to lecture me, I recommend that you start from your brother. Yesterday, I saw Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly entering his quarters long before midnight.”

“Henri is a king and can have mistresses.”

Rohan glanced at her with annoyance. “And I’m a man who is allowed to have as many lovers as I want. Don’t say that just because I’m married to a princess, I must be faithful to you.”

Torrents of ire surged through the princess. “I would have accepted any paramour, but not that whorish Diane de Poitiers. She is a strumpet!”

A lascivious grin manifested on his visage. “She is a marvelous woman who satisfies me well.” At the sight of disgust on her face, René ended with, “Endure, ma chérie.”

“You are so cynical!” she accused. “And once I loved you.”

René remembered the passionate hours with Diane de Poitiers, who had permitted him to visit her rooms in secret. Diane invited him only when Dauphin Henri did not summon her. Their couplings, including today’s encounter, had been a masterpiece of vehemence and immodesty – something that he had never had with his spouse. My wife is lovely, but too modest unlike Diane.

“Does Dauphin Henri know that his chief mistress betrays him with another man?”

He dived under the bedcovers. “It is none of your business, wife.”

Isabelle felt his body next to hers. “Diane is sixteen years older than you.”

The viscount huffed, “Stop it, please.”

“I want to return to our estates and see our children.” He nodded before closing his eyes.

After Rohan had fallen asleep, Isabelle looked towards the windows, watching sunrise outside. In her youth, there had been attempts to arrange a marriage between her and the Hungarian King John Zápolya, a once ally of King François. However, in 1532, Isabelle had wed Viscount René de Rohan and a cousin to the Valois family; Rohan had been a royal ward.

Isabelle had given her husband three offspring: Henri born in 1535, Françoise in 1540, and Jean in 1541. I’m still young enough to bear more children if only René pays me more attention. For the most part, Isabelle lived in countryside and sometimes visited her brother in Navarre, but she rarely came to the French court these days. She had become especially close with Henri d’Albert after the death of their older sister in 1532 – Infanta Anne of Navarre.

The Viscount de Rohan slept late into the day and then quickly left. He had a meeting with his friends to play a game of dice or cards. Isabelle was in her presence chamber, where the walls were swathed in tapestries depicting Adonis’ liaison with the Goddess Aphrodite, as if to remind her about René’s adulteries. Soon her brother came; her maids rose to their feet and curtsied.

“You are dismissed, ladies,” Isabelle instructed. They all curtsied again and exited.

King Henri of Navarre approached his sister and enveloped her into a hug.

As they parted, Henri quizzed, “What are you concerned about, nire laztana?”

They spoke in the Basque language, which was the second official language in Navarre.

“My husband’s debts are growing. He loses a lot at the card table.”

He promised, “I’ll ask our cousin François to order him not to gamble.”

“Only this will help, Henri.” Isabelle began pacing the room. “Thank you.”

“Does something else worry you, Isabelle?” He knew his sister well.

She halted and pivoted to him. “Diane de Poitiers is René’s paramour.”

A look of shock passed over the monarch’s face. “I’ll inform my nephew Henri.”

“Yes. It is not because I want to harm René. I do not want this woman to use Dauphin Henri; he is obsessed with her, although he has showed interest in Marie de Bourbon.”

They seated themselves in two matching ebony armchairs.

“Unusual choice for young Henri,” he speculated. “She is a princess of the blood.”

The Albert siblings spoke about Isabelle’s family life and children, as well as René’s affair with Madame de Poitiers. The monarch discerned a sour expression in his sister’s eyes when he mentioned his offspring with Anne de Pisseleu, but she would not make him feel guilty.  

On the same day, King Henri II of Navarre paid a formal homage to King François for his French possessions. From his ancestors, Henri d’Albert had inherited the counties of Foix and Bigorre, as well as viscounties of Marsan, Tursan, Gabardan, and Nébouzan. Henri also possessed the principalities of Béarn, Donezan, and a few others, which formed the part of Navarre not conquered by the Spaniards. Henri was also a sovereign of Andorre.


July 10, 1545, St James’s Palace, the city of London, England

“I want the little Queen of Scots for my Edward!” thundered King Henry.

At this late hour, there were two people in the presence chamber – Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford and the king’s chief minister, and Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter.

The monarch was seated in a throne-like chair. “It has been over three years since I defeated my nephew James of Scotland. Yet, his little baby girl is still not in England.”

Hertford inquired, “Does Your Majesty prefer to have the Scottish queen raised in England?”

The king recollected, “You raided south-west Scotland and crushed James and his badly equipped troops like ants. Later you persuaded the Scottish regent, the Earl of Arran, and Marie de Guise, their dowager queen, to consent to the marriage of Prince Edward to Queen Mary. But the Treaty of Greenwich was rejected by Parliament of Scotland.”   

King James V of Scotland had refused to break with Rome. In 1542, the English at the Battle of Solway Moss had crushed the Scotts. James had died soon thereafter and been succeeded by his infant daughter Mary. Then another war had broken out in 1543 when England attacked Scotland to destroy the Auld Alliance and to weaken the northern neighbor.

Hertford’s countenance evolved into one of apology. “Our commanders – Lord Wharton and Sir William Musgrave – are still waging war in Scotland. However, we have not defeated the Scots completely so far because the French keep sending gold and soldiers to them.”

“Damn François!” blustered Henry, slamming his fists into the armrests. “I want the Scots to be vanquished, and Mary Queen of Scots to be raised at Hatfield with my children.”

The earl nodded. “I’ll relay the message to our generals that they must capture the girl and deliver her to England. The state treasury is full enough to finance both the invasion of France and the invasion of Scotland, so Your Majesty does not need to worry.”   

The king dreamed, “I’ll have Mary Stuart marry my Ned. As she is only a girl, Mary will be more interested in jewels, clothes, and dances, making her husband the effective ruler of Scotland. In the future, their son will unite the two countries without bloodshed, and the Tudors will prevail.”

“What about the old Auld alliance?” reminded the royal chief minister.

Hertford sighed. “King François arranged good marriages. Princess Aimée is betrothed to Archduke Maximillian, King Ferdinand’s eldest son. Princess Louise is engaged to Emmanuel Philibert, the heir to the Duchy of Savoy. Prince Jean has a notable Protestant bride. The son of Dauphin Henri – Prince François, Duke de Brittany – might be betrothed to Mary Queen of Scots.”

“No,” Henry ground out. “Mary Stuart is for my son, not for that frail Valois little cur.”

The chief minister promised, “I’ll do my best to accomplish it.”

“That damned Valois satyr!” the ruler spat. “He snatched away Maximilian for Aimée and Emmanuel for Louise. But the engagement of Jean to his Hesse bride might be broken soon.”

Exeter interjected, “Why does Your Majesty think so?”

The king’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t pry into my affairs, cousin.”   

Exeter’s limpid glance met his. “I beg your pardon, sire.”

The monarch smiled cordially. “My dearest Hal, how can I be angry with you for long?  You are not only my competent councilor and soldier, but also the brother of my heart.”

Exeter’s smile was wide. “I’m most honored, Your Majesty.”

What an outstanding manipulator Exeter is, the Earl of Hertford ruminated with grudging respect. Now the ruler was more sympathetic to Exeter than ever. Henry had grown to absolutely admire Exeter much due to the pomp with which his York cousin had converted to Protestantism three years earlier, as well as Exeter’s vocal harsh critique of the popery.  

Henry noticed Exeter’s thoughtfulness. “What is on your mind, cousin?”

The Marquess of Exeter stepped forward. “Don’t we need to find a husband for Princess Elizabeth? Prince Eric of Sweden is an heir apparent to Sweden, a Protestant country.”    

“What a brilliant idea!” the monarch returned hotly. “Yes, I should have started searching for candidates for my daughter years ago. Tell me more about this Eric.”

Exeter reveled in his liege lord’s reaction. “Prince Eric is a coeval of Princess Elizabeth. He is the oldest son of King Gustav the First and Catherine of Saxe-Lauenburg. According to reports of our ambassador to the Swedish court, Eric is an intelligent young man.”

“That sounds interesting,” the king surmised. “Is he a perfect gentleman?”

Exeter’s mouth twisted wryly. “Eric possesses gallantry and refined manners because his main teacher and governor is the French Calvinist Dionysius Beurraeus.”

Henry eyed a tapestry depicting the battle of Agincourt. His heart thrummed with excitement and anticipation for his triumph in France. “Ah, again French manners.”

“I did not mean to upset you,” Exeter said. “Eric is successful in foreign languages and mathematics. He is also an informed historian and writer; he is familiar with astrology.”

At this, the ruler’s face split into a grin. “My Lizzy is extremely smart. If she were not a princess, she could become a female scholar. This Eric might suit her well.”

Exeter supported, “The betrothal of Princess Elizabeth to Prince Eric would make her Queen of Sweden when Eric succeeds his father in due time. It would also strengthen our ties with another Protestant country where the corrupt Catholic Church is despised as much as it is in England.”

That affected Henry in the way Exeter had predicted. “Cousin, send one of our painters to Sweden to paint Prince Eric’s portrait and garner more information about him.”

The marquess inclined his head. “I’ll do it within a week.”

Hertford figured out why Exeter had broached this subject. The marquess wanted her out of the country to pave way for Exeter’s Catholic ambitions, and the chief minister could not allow it to happen. “Your Majesty, Her Highness is very young, and so is Prince Eric.”

Exeter objected, “King François arranged betrothals for his children at a younger age.”

This worked again. The ruler enjoined, “Proceed, cousin.”

Seething inwardly, the royal chief minister asked in the most concerned accents, “Doesn’t Your Majesty want to rest? You are leaving for Calais tomorrow in the morning.”

Henry stifled a yawn. “Yes, I do. You are both dismissed.”

After bowing to their sovereign, Exeter and Hertford walked out and parted their ways.   

On the way to his quarters, the Marquess of Exeter was occupied with thoughts of Elizabeth’s matrimony. Eric of Sweden was a suitable candidate. He also had another idea: the princess could be married off to his legitimate son with the late Gertrude Blount – Edward Courtenay, who was only five years older than Elizabeth was. If my son, Prince Edward, does not produce any progeny, my descendants may still rule England if Elizabeth marries my firstborn son with Gertrude.

§§§

The Suffolk quarters were spacious. A row of large square-paned windows, broken in the middle by a pair of doors to a balcony, took up nearly the entire length of one wall. The remaining walls showed tapestries of feats of King Arthur Pendragon in Camelot. The timbered ceiling was emblazoned with the initials of King Henry. The ebony furniture was scattered around elegantly.

The Duke of Suffolk apprised, “I’m leaving with His Majesty and Norfolk in the morning.”

“Will it be dangerous, Charles?” Anne settled herself on a bed with a red silk canopy.

Her husband eased himself next to her. “The war in France will be deadly. Especially when you want to subjugate someone who was invaded many times throughout the past centuries. The more often enemies attack France, the fiercer the resistance of the French will be.”

“Everyone in France will rally to King François, just as it happened years ago.”

“His Majesty sent me to Boulogne.” Confusion tinctured his visage.

“Why do you find it strange, husband?”

Charles shrugged. “The best military tactic would be to join our forces with the Duke of Alba’s armies stationed in Flanders, and then launch a massive invasion from the north.” He grimaced. “Even if the state treasury of France goes bankrupt, the whole country – people of every age and rank – will rise against the enemy. Eventually, they will expel us. Given that France’s coffers are full, they generously pay to their trained and well-equipped armies.”

Anne took his hand in hers. “Will you stay true to your word given to Princess Elizabeth? 

He met her troubled gaze, his own equally disturbed. “I do not know how I’ll do this, but I’ll not let Henry bring Anne Boleyn here. Princess Elizabeth is correct that King François will invade England if we take Anne prisoner, after he expels us from his realm. In this case, he will not be a knight towards Englishmen – his armies will plunder and pillage far and wide.”  

Suffolk glanced towards an ebony bookcase filled with illustrated military literature. “I fear to imagine what will happen if one of his children is captured or harmed. François will cease being the quintessence of chivalry, then. Remembering the Affair of the Placards, he might be cruel.”

“At times, a monarch has to be ruthless to defend his throne and family.”   

“Enough about it.” His hand flew to her belly. “Do you think you might be pregnant, wife?”

“Not yet,” Anne returned with a grin. “We need more nights.”

He pressed a kiss against her palm. “Do you like being with me?”

His wife blushed. “I do, Charles. Very much.”

“Is it better than Henry’s awkward attempts to consummate your marriage?”

A shadow passed across her countenance. “Don’t remind me of them.”

Charles stroked her hair tenderly. “I’m sorry, Anne. At times, I forget how briefly we knew each other before we married. It was a whirlwind time for us, wasn’t it?”

Drowning in his lewd gaze, Anne Brandon tipped her head, a lump forming in her throat. Her hope to have an honorable and happy life with a man who would be faithful only to her… That hope was dead, for Charles would always have mistresses because he would never love her as much as he had felt for Catherine Willoughby. As now Charles spent more time and shared a bed with his duchess, Anne sometimes heard him mumble his late wife’s name in his sleep.

There were few instances of monogamous men. Henry VII of England had been faithful to Elizabeth of York; King François was famously in love with and loyal to Anne Boleyn. For Charles Brandon, Mary Tudor and Catherine Willoughby were the only two women for whom he could have done almost anything, although he had dallied with others. Years ago, Charles had married Mary without the monarch’s permission. However, Anne von Cleves did not own Suffolk’s heart. 

Anne had concluded that the Duke of Suffolk viewed polygamy as a divine institution. As a husband, he had the right to keep many mistresses, and she knew the names of his paramours at court. In spite of her intense dislike of it, she had accepted her husband’s promiscuous nature. Just as Charles would not allow himself the luxury of romance with the Protestant wife whom he did not quite understand, Anne would never permit herself to fall for him.

Charles is slightly older than Henry, Anne speculated as she scrutinized her husband’s face, noticing new wrinkles around his eyes. But he is healthier and does not have ulcers. Charles did not ask her to do indecent things, which her strict Protestant dignity disapproved of.   

Her intimacies with Suffolk were never too hot, but they were pleasant. He always took his wife when she rested on her back on the mattress and then rolled off of her after spilling his seed into her. Charles did not experiment with Anne in various positions and poses, but she would not want to do something against the teachings of the Church because marriage was for procreation.

They had their daughter, Sybille Brandon, who was now in their estates. She craved to have another child, this time a boy, although her son would not inherit the title of Duke of Suffolk. Motherhood was the highest fulfillment of Anne’s entire life. Her union with Charles had given birth to true companionship, as well as affection for their daughter – that was enough for Anne.

As Anne did not reply straight away, her spouse’s hand tightened on hers. “You don’t regret our marriage, do you? I’ve tried to be more attentive to you in the past months.”

“I appreciate your efforts, and that you put your daughter Frances into place.”

He pulled her into his arms. “Tell me the truth.”

She nodded. “I’m content. And I want to have another baby.”

“Well,” he drawled, brushing his mouth against hers, “this can be easily arranged.”

Anne breathed into his mouth. “Now?”

A laughter quirked the corner of his mouth. “I’m a soldier who is leaving for war, so I want to be kissed, embraced, and satisfied as someone who might die for my country.”   

The teasing quality of his words heightened the leaden sensation in her heart. “I fear that we will never see each other again, Charles. That our Sybille might remain an orphan if some French arrow or sword cause you to fall on a foreign battlefield. I’ll languish alone while praying for you.”

Charles kissed her with an escalating urgency. “Anne!” He ceased the kiss and whispered, “When I hold you in my arms, thoughts of death are the last thing on my mind.”

“However, you don’t love me, do you?” An air of melancholic resignation enveloped her.

“I cannot give more, for God’s sake,” he implored.

Anne slipped her arms around his neck. “I’m not asking you for adoration.”

Suffolk’s mouth took fierce possession of his wife’s, sweeping away all musings. Charles undressed them. His hands pushed her thighs apart, making room for his body between her legs. He slid into his wife and settled his weight against her, then maintained a moderate rhythm as he moved inside of Anne. Her fingers tangled into his hair, Anne surrendered to a sensual revelry.

Later, Anne snuggled into his embrace. “I’ll miss you in your absence.”

“Sleep, Anne,” Charles murmured as he yawned.

As her eyes fluttered shut, odd and mournful bells of foreboding were ringing through her head. Visions of Charles lying dead with a blade plunged deep into his chest swarmed her brain. Would she and Charles see the bloom of their red roses in the gardens at Westhorpe Hall again?


August 10, 1545, Château de Cognac, Cognac, the province of Saintonge, Aquitaine, France

The room of pageantry of the 13th century was filled with richly dressed courtiers. Each of the four walls, tapestried with scenes of tournaments, was adorned with the Valois’ blazon, which witnessed the nobles laugh, chatter, and gossip. Despite the upcoming invasion, the court bloomed like the most sumptuous flower in Europe thanks to the French and Navarrese monarchs.

As soon as King François entered with Queen Anne, a hush settled over the chamber.

The ruler requested in an elated voice, “Play La Volta. My wife and I will dance.”

All pairs of eyes were riveted on the French royals as François extended his hand to Anne. With a flamboyant grin, Anne swept a curtsey and accepted it. They had watched them dance the La Volta in the past: every time their performance was familiar and yet different, as if the nature of their movements contained a countless number of elements in color and form.

The strains of exquisite music proceeded from a band of musicians.  

As the dance commenced like a traditional galliard, François and Anne were the center of attention. They took four steps forward, their feet sliding across the floor with the grace of fawns. The spirited and a bit frivolous La Volta was for artistic people such as François and Anne. With every step, the sunflowers of love glowed in their eyes brighter than one hundred suns could, their bodies surrounded by petals of flames, burning their souls with an ardent, mutual longing.

“They look awesome,” Queen Marguerite of Navarre whispered to Françoise de Foix.

“Two soulmates,” opined Anne’s principal lady-in-waiting. “They embody the immensity and fullness of amorous summer. Their love has enfolded them like the dearest embrace.”

Marguerite observed the monarchial couple implement a 3/4 turn. “Their hearts burn and beat beautifully. God, preserve their tremendous affection! Now when my eyes follow the years that have elapsed since their wedding, I can see what a precious gift the Lord granted to my brother when Anne was exiled from England. Everything is golden as long as they are together.”

King Henri of Navarre stood behind them. “Once it could be said about us, Margot. Now the past is awakening again with so great a desire to be repeated in full swing.”

Marguerite shot him a fulminating look. “You love Anne de Pisseleu.”

“I’ll not deny it.” Henri put his hands onto her shoulders from behind and massaged them. “Yet, part of me regrets that nothing can be as good between us as it once was. The evening of our lives is descending with age, but we are not friends. At least, I have some sweet memories.”

Marguerite did not brush his hands away. “It is only your fault.”

François and Anne halted in the center. Her arm snaked adroitly across his shoulders, and he clasped his wife around her waist. Then a 3/4 spin of ethereal daintiness followed, as though the deities of elegance had been reborn in them. Placing his hand onto her shoulder, François locked his consort into place, and they completed several similar turns, every time beginning with a small step, then springing onto the outside foot, and then lifting the inside foot forward.

“As much as it is yours,” corrected Henri of Navarre. “You left me alone in Béarn for years.”

Grinning for form’s sake, Marguerite stepped away from her spouse, closer to Françoise, who did not interfere. “Stay away from me, Henri,” enjoined Marguerite.

The King of France swung his queen around, as if Anne were weightless. His hand slithered to Anne’s waist, and François bounced her up as she took a leap into the air, her bronze silk skirts flying high. As Anne landed on her feet, the ruler faced his wife who stood with her profile to him. As their gazes locked, an amatory conflagration flared in their pools, growing with every step.

As Anne again jumped in the air, François caught her and pressed her to him for longer than appropriate. Then they broke into a series of steps, their hands touching, sparkles of primordial hunger lighting up between them. Everyone peered at them with somewhat dreamy expressions.

“Margot, I–” Henri d’Albert abruptly broke off.

In the voice of a tired poet, Marguerite stated, “Beautiful fruits in the autumn shadows, and jewels once gifted – they have long fallen from the necklace of a russet summer for us.”

“Forgive me for the pain I’ve caused you,” muttered Henri.

“I already have.” That was true, for she had let her husband go. She advised, “Madame d’Étampes should be your ruddy and jovial awakening that stirs up a new youth in you.”

Henri admitted, “Indeed, she is like summer pouring out its gladness onto me.”

Marguerite groused, “Pray that she does not fail us in England.”

The monarchial spouses pivoted rapidly, their hands entwined in a lock, as if to tie them to each other for all eternity. Anne sprang up as François propelled her into the air, and their gazes  intersected, the amber flame licking against the black fire in their orbs and mingling their yearnings for togetherness. They swiveled again, and in the candlelight quivering upon their flushed faces, they looked like the God Apollo and a nubile nymph courted by him in a magical forest.

Caught in a vertigo of music and sensuality, François and Anne repeated enchanting turns many times. Then the classic galliard resumed in an open position, and the couple completed the dance like a living wildfire of steps forward. Their masterful performance was an art in itself.

As the spouses halted, the music lapsed into silence, and applause boomed.

Anne purred hoarsely, “I wish to be alone with you, husband.”    

“I want you, wife,” François whispered into her ear. “I cannot endure it anymore.”

The rulers glided across the chamber to the exit with their hands entangled like inseparable couplets of a troubadour’s song. Their feverish feelings were gilded among the yellow primroses in their amatory palace. Dauphin Henri smiled at the sight of the leaving couple, and so did Diane de Poitiers and Catherine de’ Medici as they both anticipated the end of the Knight-King’s era.

§§§

King Henri of Navarre approached Dauphin Henri of France. The prince stood with Antoine and Marie de Bourbon, who bowed and curtsied, respectively. The monarch noticed heady glances the dauphin threw upon Marie, who with her innocent face and her dark hair cascading down her back looked younger than her thirty years old. What are his intentions? Henri d’Albert wondered.

“We shall come to your rooms for a card game soon,” Antoine stated.

The dauphin looked at his friend, then at Marie. “I hope you will attend, Mademoiselle.”

“I shall,” she promised, a twinkle in her eyes.

Suddenly, the prince added, “Diane will also join us.”

A shadow crossed Marie’s face, but then she smiled. “As Your Highness wishes.”

After Antoine and Marie’s departure, Henri of Navarre declared quietly so that others could not overhear them, “Nephew, do you know that Diane de Poitiers is a mistress of René de Rohan?”

The dauphin frowned in disbelief. “Your sister’s husband with my Diane? It is a bad joke.”

“No, it is not. I felt that you must be apprised of their affair, Henri.”

“Uncle Henri, I love you dearly, but I cannot believe in this absurd rumor.”

Much to the Navarrese ruler’s frustration, the dauphin began speaking about other topics.

§§§

“You are all dismissed!” Queen Anne and her husband entered her bedroom.

Surrendering to the fiery hunger stimulated by their dance, François captured Anne’s mouth even before all of the ladies-in-waiting exited. He deepened the kiss, and Anne moaned, while his hands were dexterously unlacing her gown from the back. Some maids saw this indiscretion and giggled before running out of the room and shutting the door of the bedchamber.   

Lost in her feminine scent, the ruler marauded her mouth as thoroughly as he ached to ravage her body. Her hands quickly unlaced his hose as he removed the upper part of her gown, exposing her perky, ample breasts. He bent his head and flicked his tongue against the sweetness of their apricot aureoles and nipples, his hands closing around her hips, pulling her forward. An aroused Anne entangled her fingers into his chestnut hair and arched her back, urging him to take more.  

“I love you, my queen.” François was fondling her breasts. “So much!”

Her hands found the laces of his doublet and loosened them. “I’ve never thought that I’m capable of such a desperate, deep, and all-encompassing love until I fell for you, my knight.”

François murmured, “You are my goddess of love, Anne.”

She aided him to remove his doublet. “And you are my god of love, François.”

The monarch carried his consort to a bed with a canopy of white and blue brocade. The walls, tapestried with scenes from the marital life of Charles d’Angoulême and Louise de Savoy, watched Anne and François. Candlelight slightly gilded the oak furniture that dated back to the past century.

As he set her onto the mattress, his naked broad chest crushed against her bosom. His hand traveled downward across her belly to the tangle of curls at the junction of her thighs, where inside his fingers found the plump flesh hidden there. As his finger imitated the motions of his tongue in her mouth in her sheath, Anne writhed up against his tantalizing caresses with sheer abandon.

Mon amour, it is only the beginning,” he breathed against her mouth.

“Delicious as it is,” she said in between her moans, “I need more.”  

Yet, the ruler explored her there for a long time. “I burn for you. I want you. I need you.”

The black eyes, smoky with desire, stared into the smoldering amber eyes. “Take me.”

At last, François pulled up her skirts, his hose already unlaced. He penetrated his wife with a groan as Anne wrapped her legs around his waist. For a long moment, he did not move, although it was hell for him to hold himself so, buried within the sanctum of her womanhood, feeling its tight and welcoming warmth squeezing him so seductively. Her thoughts jumbled, an astonished Anne blinked, not understanding why he did not proceed further, her entire essence on fire.

Anne kissed him on the mouth. “What?”

Fighting against the urgent demands of his own body, François affirmed, “So much softness, so much temptation, so much love and beauty… just in one creature – in you, Anne.”

“What is wrong?” Her heart raced with a blend of lust and concern.

With a chuckle, the monarch nibbled her earlobe, then ran his tongue inside the enclave of her ear. “I want to have these moments imprinted upon my memory forever, my Minerva.”

Anne chortled merrily. “You should do that because I may conceive tonight.”

“And the herbs which Doctor Fernel prescribed and we usually use?”

“More than a year has passed since Antoine’s birth. We can try for a new baby.”

He enfolded his arms around her. “A daughter – Valentine. In honor of Valentine Visconti.”

She inquired breathlessly, “What if it is a boy again?”

Her husband laughed, an exultant joy billowing through him at the thought of having another child with her. “Then our boy should be named Laurent or Lorenzo if we use Italian spelling of this name, in honor of Il Magnifico, whom we both admire. Or Louis to honor my poor murdered ancestor, God rest his soul – Prince Louis de Valois, Duke d’Orléans.”

“Today is the Feast of St Laurent. It will be a good omen if I conceive tonight.”

Capturing her lips with his, François moved inside of her with a slow, languid pace that was driving her to the brink of sanity in the most magnificent manner. He had kissed her before in infinitely different ways, but this time the touch of his firm, yearning lips against hers produced the most celestial sensations, as if Olympian Gods had allowed them to drink the mythological ambrosia, and by doing so, conferred immortality upon the sovereigns of France.

Their minds were floating in all directions in a haze of kisses and embraces, in cadence with the rhythms of his motions as François’ motions grew more frantic. Her husband was atop of her, but she leaned into him for more, twining her arms about his neck, sending jewels from her bosom to the carpeted floor, where their clothes lay. She dug her nails into his back, leaving a pattern of half-moon marks, and François started pounding into her as if their lives had depended on it.

Anne caused him to flip over. Straddling him, she moved with an increasing urgency. “My happiness keeps warm only in your arms.” She paused as a groan escaped her. “Your artful words of love sing with as great a charm to my ears as in the days of the white lilac.”

“Remembering one of my poems, wife?” François drew himself up and kissed her, stabbing his tongue deep and hard into her mouth. “What is better: romance or fight at my side?”  

She gasped he cupped her breasts. “Anything. Just to be with you.”

They rolled over again, and François now lay atop of her. His hands roaming over her, the king drove into her with more powerful, shuddering strokes. “Our shining cheerfulness triumphs day by day over the sorrow of years, Anne. We shall smile at each other forever, even at the silver threads that will one day slip their tendrils into our hair, even in the afterlife.”  

Anne and François reached the pinnacle, sharing the earthshaking emotion of completeness. While they soared in exhilaration, Gaea, the Greek goddess of the earth, having tried her hand at many ordinary persons, had culled and compacted the best of them into Anne and François to create new people. Each of them could love wholeheartedly, had a talent of ruling cleverly, and possessed a penchant for loftiness of thought, but only Anne and François were chosen.

The king stripped his spouse of her gown. The amatory rituals, vehement and often indecent, progressed as the night went by. They made love twice more, one time slowly and the other with insane fervency, as if they could lose each other the next morning, reaching spellbinding ecstasies.

§§§

At dawn, Marguerite of Navarre peeked her head into Anne’s bedchamber. “Get up!”

An inordinately displeased expression crossed the king’s face. “How dare you, Margot?”

“Something has happened!” apprised the monarch’s sister. “Quickly!”

The monarch shifted lazily on the bed. “Better come to us later.” But she was gone.

A sleepy Anne stretched her body across the sheets. “What?”

François climbed out of bed. “My sister needs us.”

Anne sat up and asked anxiously, “Should I get dressed?”

He shrugged into an elaborately embroidered blue silk robe. He then handed a red brocade robe to his spouse. “She would not have interrupted our sleep without a serious reason.”

She left the bed as well. “Maybe she has received news.”

In a matter of minutes, Anne and François accepted a pallid Marguerite. While the Queen of Navarre paced to and fro agitatedly, the French spouses sat in matching high-back oak chairs, their tops encrusted with the Valois heraldry. They were all dressed in night garments.   

“Sister, what is wrong?” demanded the ruler.

Marguerite halted near a window where the golden orb of the sun was rising. “Two weeks ago, the French soldiers invaded the villages of Mérindol and Cabrières in southern Provence, close to Piedmont. They plundered and pillaged these two places and the neighboring Waldensian village. Thousands of people, including women and children, were slaughtered.”

A shaken François bounced to his feet. “Why did they commit such an atrocity?”

His sister shrugged helplessly. “They as if received an order from you to execute them.”

“I did not issue such a decree!” bellowed the monarch, his skin whitening to the more ashen color than that of a grave in a cemetery. “I would not have perpetrated such a deed!”

“I know that, brother.” Marguerite resumed pacing. “Nevertheless, Jean Maynier d’Oppède, First President of the Estates General of Provence, wrote to you a letter in which he boasts how they complied with “your” command to destroy these villages of heretics. They also went to Piedmont and many other places in Provence, where they captured those who were suspected to be heretics – they tortured them, raped women, and then had them all executed. Only the governor of Milan, who also received such a command as if from “you,” did nothing and sent you another letter, asking whether you really want him to implement such massacres in the duchy.”

“Give everything to me.” François grabbed letters from his sister and scanned through them.

Consternation painted Anne’s countenance as she recalled, “The people in Mérindol and Cabrières worshipped Protestantism in a carefully concealed manner. However, as the Lutherans began to relocate to the area, their activities came under scrutiny of the Provençal government.”

“You are right, Anne.” In several strides, Marguerite crossed the room. “Four years earlier, the Waldensians constructed fortified areas, just as they had done in Cabrières before, and they attacked a local Catholic abbey several times; we did not intend to punish them. I fail to understand why the generals perpetrated massacres in Piedmont and in other towns and villages too.” 

“Did the Protestants live in them?” questioned Anne.

Marguerite stopped. “Yes. These were deliberate actions against them.”

“But not our attack,” the Queen of France stated. Everyone nodded in shock.

The monarch threw away the letter from Maynier d’Oppède. “I respected Maynier until this moment. He is so happy that he punished those villagers for their dissident religious activities that it was almost impossible to read everything. He has forgotten about our religious tolerance.”

His sister stressed, “The order came as if from “you,” but you didn’t issue it.”

Anne concluded, “There is a traitor in our ranks.”

“Who?” roared François. “Who can have such a perverted soul that they killed thousands of men, women, and children just because there are religious differences between us?”    

Anne assumed, “They want to destroy France’s alliance with the Protestant nations.”

Marguerite dithered before she pronounced, “Can you imagine what they will say as soon as they learn of the massacre? The non-Catholic ambassadors will accuse us of this villainy.”

François observed the clouds tinted by sunrise. “It is a horrible morning, but it is clear that I must leave for Provence immediately, where I’ll investigate the case. If they received the royal papers containing my order, I must see them because it did not come from me.”

The enormity of his decision dawned upon Anne. “François, will you leave today?”

The ruler cast an apologetic glance at his wife. “I must, mon coeur. You and Margot will concentrate on finding the accursed traitor who has created so many troubles for us.”

Terror peeked out of Anne’s eyes. “I’m afraid for you.”

François enveloped her into his arms. “Wife, I’ll journey to Provence, Piedmont, and Milan.”

“Promise me that you will return, mon amour,” Anne beseeched.  

The King of France tenderly fanned her skin with his fingertips. “To you.”

Anne lifted her hand to his cheek. “I’ll not survive without you.”

“We will always be together.” François kissed his consort briefly on the lips.

As the monarch embraced his spouse, the moments ticked by in silence, punctured only by the sounds of birds chirping facetiously in the gardens, for the windows were ajar. Their clasped each other’s hands, and there was strength in them, just as some reinvigorating power entered their beings like a weapon of resilience and loveliness in the golden grasp of an honored life.

Marguerite cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, but when are you leaving, brother?”

François disentangled himself from his consort. “Within an hour with Claude d’Annebault.”

“Come back to us.” Marguerite also hugged her beloved brother.

They parted, and he smiled. “I shall, my dearest sister.”

Standing near a window in the queen’s bedroom, Anne and Marguerite both saw the King of France and Annebault depart with a squad of armed men from the Scots Guard.

Anne closed her eyes and fought off the bone-chilling terror that paralyzed her whole frame. “I’m struck by a presentiment that a dark abyss of despair yawns beneath our feet.”

“Don’t say that, Anne!” Marguerite pulled her into her arms.

As the cortege vanished into the distance, the king’s beloved women could not unlock their embrace. Their sense of foreboding grew stronger, encircling them like tentacles of mortal dread.

Notes:

Hello everyone! We hope that you are fine and safe. Take care of yourself!

You need to know that François will disappear for a while. In history, Henry VIII tried to invade France 3 times: at the beginning of his reign, in the 1520s when he and Carlos V conspired with the treacherous Constable de Bourbon to partition France, and in the 1540 with the famous siege of Boulogne. Every time he failed, although he won the Battle of the Spurs of 1513. We are only adapting historical storylines to our own alternate universe.

Mary Queen of Scots will appear in this long epic at the end. However, the events in Scotland are mentioned: Henry wants her for her son Ned, Prince of Wales. As we are planning a sequel, and Mary will play an important role in France and England, especially France. The Marquess of Exeter has other plans for Elizabeth: Eric of Sweden or his own legitimate son, Edward Courtenay? What would you prefer? Or do you have any other ideas?

Before we say goodbye to François and have many chapters with Henry and others without François, Anne and François are given one romantic moment. The described La Volta, which Anne and François dance, are more or less historically correct, with poetical epithets and metaphors used to avoid repetitions of verbs such as stepped, moved, danced, and so on. Anne and François even want to have more children despite the upcoming invasion… Two people in love… In the Tudors series, the scene where Anne and Henry dance La Volta is over-sensualized for movie drama.

Anne de Pisseleu and Henri II of Navarre are indeed in love, but it does not mean that part of Henri does not regret that he and his wife, Marguerite de Valois, are not even friends. People often have regrets. I hope you liked the sentimental scene between Margot and Henri. It was also high time to show Henri of Navarre’s only surviving sister – Isabelle of Navarre, whose husband – René II de Rohan, Viscount de Rohan – became a clandestine lover of Diane de Poitiers.

In the Basque language ‘nire laztana’ means ‘my darling.’ René I, Viscount de Rohan, was a cousin to the Valois-Orléans-Angoulême line of the House of Valois. The paternal grandmother of King François and Marguerite d’Angoulême was Marguerite de Rohan from the House of Rohan. How are Henri II and Isabelle of Navarre related to Marguerite and François? The maternal grandmother of the Navarrese siblings was Magdalene de Valois, daughter of Charles VII of France known as the Victorious (le Victorieux) – he won the Hundred Years’ War. The first common ancestor for Marguerite, François, and Henri d’Albert, as well as Isabelle of Navarre was Charles V of France known as the Wise (le Sage). Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, was a grandson of King Edward IV of England, and Henry VIII’s maternal cousin as his mother was Catherine of York. Basically, most nobles were related in some way.

The fans of Anne von Cleves should be happy: she will not be butchered. The Pope’s agent will cause trouble; Exeter is not in danger. Hope you liked Charles Brandon and Anne. Maybe Suffolk will help Anne Boleyn if he happens to meet with her… And the Duke of Norfolk sent a message to Anne. The worst is that the massacres of Protestants happened, and François left…

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 64: Chapter 63: Trapped in Boulogne

Summary:

Too much spam even in this fandom, sadly. For those who read and review. We are sorry if you see the spammers’ “reviews”. They have nothing to do. I suspect that deleting their “masterpieces” will lead to more spam. So, let’s simply ignore them.

Notes:

Anne Boleyn makes an impulsive decision. She and a few others are entrapped. The Duke of Norfolk meets with the secret French messenger. Anne discovers something that makes her situation more dramatic, and she sees Henry VIII for the first time in years.

We recommend the works by BubblyYork, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, annethequene, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 63: Trapped in Boulogne

August 11, 1545, Château de Cognac, Cognac, the province of Saintonge, Aquitaine, France

Queen Anne stood near a window overlooking the Charente River. Built many centuries ago on the river, the castle faced the docks. Cognac stretched in the distance with a multitude of medieval buildings with their tiled roofs, and tiny expanses of greenery within the town. The Saint-Jacques gateway flanked by twin machicolated, round towers were visible too.

“There is no fog,” noticed Anne. “We will travel quickly.”

Françoise de Foix affirmed, “Are you really going to travel to Boulogne today?”

“Yet, Sir Robert Stuart, Chevalier d’Aubigny and Captain of the Scots Guard, handed the letter to me from François with his seal. It happened while my husband was preparing to leave.”

“Why didn’t our sovereign give this letter to you himself, then?”

The queen observed boats sail from the quay. “Have you seen how stressed out François was when leaving? I suppose that he asked his captain of the guard to do so.”

“Perhaps.” Doubt colored her lady-in-waiting’s voice.

Anne veered her scrutiny to her maid. “Are you going with me, Françoise?”

“Of course. We should tell the king’s sister about the matter at first.”

Her hands on her hips, the queen strode over to Françoise. “Since early morning, Marguerite has been besieged by Protestant diplomats. They all demand to know why François commanded to kill countless Protestants. They are threatening to break our alliance.”

The Countess de Châteaubriant commented sadly, “It is an exceedingly difficult time for all of us. I wish Queen Marguerite best of luck so that she can convince them not to send angry letters to their masters in which they will accuse our liege lord of the evil deed.”

Anne tumbled in a nearby chair. “I pray that Marguerite’s diplomatic talents will bide us time until François returns to Cognac and shares the results of his investigation.”

Françoise emitted a sigh. “We do not know who betrayed us.”

The queen burst out, “At least, I’ll see Uncle Norfolk in Boulogne and make reconnaissance regarding the English plans. It will be easier to defeat Henry, then.”

“Boulogne! Why won’t he come to Cognac?”

Anne sent her a reproachful glance. “I may gather important intelligence.”

“I know your loyalty to France, Your Majesty,” said the other woman. As a suspicion stirred in her again, faint but disturbing, Françoise stated, “I do not think we should go to Boulogne.”

“What would you have me do, Françoise?” Anne jumped to her feet. “Prove myself as a queen totally without honor? Forget that I can learn about Henry’s plans?”

Françoise sighed. “I cannot rid myself of an odd presentiment.”

“The letter is apparently written by François,” the queen emphasized. “It is stamped with his seal. The traitor has stolen the Valois seal, but I can recognize his handwriting. I cannot ignore my husband’s request to meet with Norfolk when he himself is on a serious mission.”  

Françoise blanched. “Please show me his letter again.”

Anne walked over to a whimsically carved cabinet with painted drawers. She retrieved the document and returned to her lady-in-waiting, who took it with trembling hands. As Françoise unfolded it, the two women scanned it again, concurring that it was the monarch’s handwriting.

My Anne! Mon amour!  

Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly, whom we sent to England, was admitted to Thomas Howard. The Duke of Norfolk said that the information he needs to relay to us is vitally important for the future of both France and England. He told her that the fates of your daughter Elizabeth and those of our children are at stake, so Norfolk asks you for a personal audience.   

His Grace of Norfolk proposes that you meet at Château de Boulogne-sur-Mer. He is going to sail from Dover to Boulogne across the English Channel together with Madame d’Étampes. As he cannot disappear from London for a long time, he requests that the meeting happen in ten days in this place. After he gives you the papers containing information about Henry’s invasion, Norfolk will sail back to England, while the duchess will return with you to Cognac.

Forgive me for not telling you everything in person. The latest events occupied all my time and already exhausted me, although I have a long voyage ahead.

Your Knight-King

A sigh of frustration and confusion erupted from Françoise. “It is written in the king’s style, and the handwriting is his. I would have recognized it among thousands of letters.”

Anne noted, “But he has never signed a letter as ‘the Knight-King.’ It is something new.”

Françoise was apprehensive. “We should wait, Anne,” she uttered in a personal tone.

The queen was now a picture of wrath. “Do you think that I’ll stand by and watch as France, the homeland of my children, will be destroyed by filthy enemies? In England, they often called me a Frenchwoman, and I do love France that became my second home.”

“I’ve packed our things.” Françoise’s eyes were still full of alarm.

“Now I’m thinking of François, our offspring, and France!”

“I’ll go with you, Anne, for you cannot travel such vast distances alone.”

In an hour, the two women set off towards the coastal city of Boulogne. Queen Marguerite and Dauphin Henri were having audiences with diplomats, so Queen Anne left a note for them. As miles passed by, forests and a picturesque landscape of towns, churches, and vineyards surrounded them in its historical and beautiful cocoon. A sense of unease encompassed them both.

§§§

The air in the Dauphin of France’s private chamber was charged with unprecedented tension. The splendid Venetian candelabra, placed upon ebony tables, shone like a conflagration of Henri’s depression and terror as the dauphin was striding back and forth. The Aubusson carpet, portraying scenes from chivalrous romances, took the brunt of his extraordinarily nervous pacing.

“Why did Anne leave?” Henri kept asking himself over and over again. “Why?”

Diane de Poitiers said, “Mon amour, the queen went to meet with the Duke of Norfolk.”

Henri crossed to a table. He poured a goblet of cognac and gulped it. “At first, my father left for Provence and Piedmont. In several hours, Anne departed for Boulogne only with Françoise de Foix, not taking any guards with them. I sent a contingent to stop my stepmother.”

Diane stared at him openmouthed. “Henri, your stepmother does not need a shepherd. Her actions are guided by her loyalty to France and her love for the king.”  

“Don’t meddle. I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to Anne.”

Once more, his mistress opened her mouth to talk sense into him, but she dithered. Looking at his coarse expression, she guessed that he would not be her sympathetic listener. The instant she would say something against Anne, her lover would throw her out of the room. It was getting more and more impossible to control Henri, and now Diane’s hold over him was purely physical. Why did you erect the emotional barrier between us, Henri? Is it Anne’s fault?

The silence seemed deafening to Diane, and just when she was about to scream if someone did not say something, Dauphine Catherine and Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli entered.

“Husband!” Catherine curtsied to him lower than necessary.  

Montecuccoli sketched a bow. “Your Highness, it is a great pleasure to see you again hale and hearty. It is so much better to be in France than in Italy, although I’m Italian.”

The count irritated Henri. “Monsieur de Montecuccoli, you should have stayed in Italy in your estates. Although my father accepted your oath of fealty, and my late brother François favored you, I do not share their good sentiments towards you in the slightest.”

“Have I wronged Your Highness?” questioned Montecuccoli.

“No, but I dislike you,” barked the dauphin, his gaze shifting to his spouse. “Catherine, you and Count Sebastiano are too close, as though he were your lover.”

Catherine assured, “Husband, I’ve always been faithful to you.”

Henri eyed her with distaste. “That I do not doubt, Madame de’ Medici.” He glanced at his paramour. “I have a meeting with the Norwegian ambassador. Then I’ll summon you, Diane.”

As the dauphin walked out, Diane struggled to conceal her disappointment.

Diane asked bluntly, “Why did the Boleyn whore receive a note from King François written in his handwriting? Who gave her this thing, and who are your accomplices?”

Catherine eased herself onto a white-brocaded couch. “Robert Stuart, Chevalier d’Aubigny and Captain of the Scots Guard, is a staunch Catholic who is displeased with religious tolerance in France. He wants Dauphin Henri on the throne, so he consented to help us get rid of the heretical queen in Boulogne.”

That was not enough for Madame de Poitiers. “Who feigned the king’s handwriting?”

“Aubigny did. He is skilled at doing this.” A nefarious grin on her lips, Catherine leaned forward and patted her rival’s hand, saying softly, “Be happy. François is now on his way to Milan, while his wife is traveling to Boulogne. They both will meet their makers soon.”

“Sadly, I did not participate in this grand stratagem,” chimed in Montecuccoli. “I spent a long time in Venice, but I still failed to poison Messer Francesco Donato.”

The dauphine allayed, “The Pope wrote to me that he forgives you.”

Montecuccoli tumbled to his knees before Catherine, kissing her hand. “Madonna Caterina, you are the best mistress I could ever wish for. I shall always serve you well!”

Diane unceasingly creased, folded, and smoothed the hem of her gown before uttering, “I’ll retire to take some rest before Henri fetches me.” She then left without curtseying.

Montecuccoli rose to his feet. “Just say, Madonna, and I’ll kill the blonde whore.”

“Not with our hands.” An odious smile warped the dauphine’s countenance. “After Anne and François die, Henri will investigate who entrapped them in Boulogne and Milan. He will not stop until he finds the culprit, and there are not many people who could steal his seal.”

A frantic glint entered his eyes. “Will we shift the blame onto the Poitiers slut?”

Catherine’s grin turned monstrous. “By helping me, Diane is digging her own grave.”

The Dauphine of France laughed diabolically. Montecuccoli joined in her laughter, his heart singing a hymn of his unwavering loyalty to Catherine de’ Medici and Pope Paul III.

§§§

At midnight, when the hallways were deserted, Catherine and Diane met in empty rooms for low-ranked courtiers. The lack of luxury, to which they were accustomed to, did not bother them. They stood in front of each other, eyes blazing with a blend of fervency and darkness.

“Don’t be afraid, Madame Mistress,” jeered Catherine. “Our traps will work.”

Diane was not so optimistic. “What if King François or Queen Anne survive?”

At this, the Medici woman pondered for a moment. “It will be bad if François does not perish in Milan. If he returns, the repercussions towards those who might have conspired against him and his family will be horrible. Pray that François dies in Italy.”

Diane was apprehensive. “I pray that you, Madame Serpent, did not miscalculate anything.”

Catherine smiled with a sadistic amusement flowing through her at the thought of how she would perhaps be able to destroy Diane in the process. “All will be well, fear not.”  

Both Catherine and Diane prayed that they would never see François and Anne again. Unlike Catherine, Diane could not get rid of the feeling that something could go wrong, and fear seized her so completely that she could barely find her way back to her quarters.


August 28, 1545, Château de Calais, the city of Calais, English territory

A woman dismounted in a square courtyard adorned with statues. The hood of her black cloak and the darkness that had blanketed the earth hours earlier concealed her identity. A stable boy took the reins and led her horse to the stables, and then a servant approached her.

“I must see His Grace of Norfolk urgently,” she demanded.

The man frowned. “It is almost midnight, Madame. Who are you?”

“I’m his wife’s chief lady-in-waiting,” the woman replied with slight French accent. “I lived in France for some time before I returned home and began serving Her Grace of Norfolk.”

“The Duke and Duchess of Norfolk have been estranged for years.”

The woman ground out intimidatingly, “Are you aware of what led to their separation? His Grace might be in a very bad temper, and the duchess was unfortunate on that day when he beat her severely. Do you want the same happen to you if you do not admit me to him?”

The servant capitulated. “Follow me, Madame.”  

They crossed the courtyard surrounded by six towers with a donjon. The woman was Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly, Duchess d’Étampes, whom the monarchs of France had sent on a mission to England to stealthily meet with the Duke of Norfolk. They entered the château, built by Philippe I, Count de Boulogne, in the 13th century to defend the once French port of Calais.

Calais must belong to France, Anne de Pisseleu thought patriotically. During the Hundred Years’ war, King Edward III of England had captured the city in 1347. Calais remained in the hands of the English after the invaders had all been expelled from the continent. King François and King Henry had organized the Field of the Cloth of Gold there in 1520.

After wandering through the maze of corridors, the servant instructed Anne to wait near the massive doors. As the man returned, he opened the door and let her in. 

Anne de Pisseleu paused on the threshold and curtsied. “Your Grace, I have a message from your spouse.” She heard footsteps approach her, not rising from her curtsey.  

“Leave us,” the Duke of Norfolk dismissed. 

As she straightened and took a few steps forward, the door behind her closed.

§§§

Silence percolated between Norfolk and his guest, punctured by barking dogs in the corridor.

“What does my wife want?” The duke’s voice was colored with exasperation.

Anne answered, “You might be upset to see someone from the Duchess of Norfolk. Yet, you must be happy to meet with a messenger from King François and Queen Anne.”

Therewith, the Duke of Norfolk rushed to the door and locked it with a key.

He then pivoted to his guest. “I’ve waited for you in England, but I had to sail to Calais with King Henry and lost my hope that my niece Anne would send someone to me.”

“It was a very long way for me. I departed from Cognac many weeks ago and went to Calais. I crossed the Channel and traveled to London from Dover. At St James’s Palace I met with Lady Rochford, just as Queen Anne told me, but I was informed that Your Grace departed for Calais together with the king’s retinue. Thus, I had to return to Calais and spent another week in the city until one of the local French nobles notified me about your whereabouts.”

Norfolk was impressed with her good English. “Madame, you have been through so much that even the Lord’s fire and brimstone must not intimidate you.”

At this, she hissed, “God’s fire and brimstone should be directed at King Henry and Emperor Carlos for invading my country again. It is our land, and no English boots should step there.”

Her vehemence impressed Norfolk. “Like most of my sovereign’s councilors, I’ve opposed to any wars with England’s participation. That is why I contacted Anne.”

“Now I’m here, Monsieur Howard.”

Anne de Pisseleu removed her hood, her blonde hair tousled and falling down her back and over her shoulders. Norfolk aided her to take off her cloak and studied her appearance. Clad in a gown of brown and auburn damask, cut low in the French fashion, Anne did not wear any jewels. Despite the simplicity of her outfit and her paleness, the guest was a true beauty.

Looking around, she realized that they were in the duke’s private chamber. The walls were swathed with shields, trophies, and various weaponry. The massive ebony furniture dated back to the 14th century, most likely to the reign of Edward III of England.

“I remember you, Madame. You are the Duchess d’Étampes.”

She dipped a nod. “Yes, I am. We saw each other when King François met with King Henry in Calais several months before his wedding to Anne Boleyn, who is now my queen.”

“Is she?” Norfolk’s lips quirked in either a grin or a grimace. “Madame d’Étampes is the former mistress of King François and the current paramour of King Henri of Navarre.”

An annoyed Anne snapped, “Your Grace, I know who I am. Regardless of my personal life, I’ve been and will always be a subject of the Valois family.”  

He gestured to the right. “Let’s take a seat.”

The duchess seated herself in front of him in two matching armchairs decorated with designs inspired by the spirit of classic antiquity. She folded her hands in her lap.

The Duke of Norfolk began, “My son, the Earl of Surrey, is kept hostage in the Tower of London. King Henry threatened to take his life if I do not conquer Paris for him.”

This came as a shock to her. “That is horrible!”

“I’ve tarried at this castle for long, sending fake explanations. King Henry and the Duke of Suffolk led their troops to Boulogne weeks ago. At first, I had no idea why His Majesty was hell bent on attacking Boulogne when Henry dreams of capturing Paris, but I have a suspicion.”

“Which one?” A shiver of presentiment ran down her spine.  

The Duke of Norfolk sighed. “My niece might be in Boulogne.”

Her scrutiny briefly detoured to the collection of English broadswords adorning the opposite wall. “What can my queen be doing in Boulogne? She must be at court in Cognac.”

“It is only an inference based on my observations of Henry’s behavior.”   

“François will skewer his liver if Henry harms Anne.”

“That I doubt not, Madame d’Étampes, but there are alarming news from Piedmont.”

Anne instinctively leaned forward. “Tell me, please.”

Norfolk sensed her growing agitation. “Several massacres of Protestants were perpetrated in Provence. Thousands were mercilessly killed by the French soldiers in the villages of Mérindol and Cabrières. Soon thereafter, many Protestants were massacred in Piedmont as well.”

A look of consternation crossed her features. “Oh my Lord!”

He shared other news. “My sovereign’s spies reported that King François hastily left Cognac and hurried to Provence. From there, he rushed to Turin in a company of only one squad of guards. Your monarch headed to Milan after his brief stay in Turin. I know nothing else.”

The Protestant heart of Anne de Pisseleu was bleeding like a fatal wound. “No!” she moaned, burying her head in her hands. “François burned heretics only after the Affair of the Placards.”

Norfolk stood up and strolled over to a table in the corner. He poured a cup of water for her and returned to where Anne de Pisseleu was weeping, rocking back and forth.

“Given your reaction, you must be a Protestant yourself.”

Anne glared at him from beneath her knitted brows, fat tears brimming in her emerald eyes. “Both King François and King Henri of Navarre know about it. We agreed that I would keep my beliefs to myself and attend a Mass. François and Henri are both quite tolerant.”

Norfolk said reasonably, “The more people are burned, the more will think that the Catholic Church is corrupt, and the more will abjure what we call the true faith.”

She sniffed, “Will you convert?”

He handed to her the goblet. “Never. Until my dying day. But I understand that the Catholic Church must be purged from vices and criminals such as Allesandro Farnese.”

Anne gradually drained the cup. Then Norfolk took it and set it on a nearby table.

The duke seated himself back into his armchair. “I do not believe that François ordered any of these massacres, for it would be too unlike him. He didn’t even convene the Conclave after the Pope’s incident in his camp in Ostia, which I think was your monarch’s mistake.”

She was slowly calming down. “I don’t believe François did that.”

“François’ hasty departure from Cognac to Provence prove his shock upon the receipt of the tidbits. His hasty movements to other locations serve as the evidence of the same.”

Anne fidgeted with her sleeve. “Many bad things happened during my absence.”  

Leaning back in his seat, Norfolk speculated, “Since Henry’s departure to the Low Countries last December, the thought that he has contacts with someone from your king’s entourage has been nagging at me. Clearly, you have a traitor in your ranks. As I’m not indifferent to the fates of my nieces Anne and Marie, I hope that you will discover the little dog soon.”

“I curse that person!” she cried indignantly.

“So temperamental,” the duke jeered. “Kings love such women.”

The duchess narrowed her eyes at him. “Why did Your Grace want to talk with someone whom Anne trusts in person? Speak, and then I shall take my leave.”     

The Duke of Norfolk stood up and strode over to a walnut chest of drawers at the opposite side of the room. He opened each drawer and rummaged through his things until he found a pile of parchments. He then returned to the duchess’ chair and gave the papers to her.

“What is this, Your Grace?”

“Madame, these are copies of the important protocols of our Privy Council’s meetings. They contain the description of my king and the Duke of Suffolk’s plans for the siege of Boulogne.”

Anne’s eyes widened in amazement. “Are you betraying your country?”

Norfolk’s gaze raked over shields, which hung on a nearby wall. “Contrariwise. My actions are like a shield for England’s security and prosperity.”

“How so?” She arched a brow.

“The invasion of France in the way King Henry is going to implement it will make the Tudor treasury bankrupt. In this case, we will have to declare England insolvent. Moreover, the sooner the siege of Boulogne is lifted, the fewer Englishmen will die.”

Anne surmised, “The sooner Henry’s campaign in France is over, the less aggravating the effect on the state finances will be. Besides, you think that your niece might be there.”

The duke landed in his armchair. “Yes, Anne might now be besieged in Boulogne, or Henry would have marched on Paris. If he captures Anne, he will force her to come to England. Then, in response, the French will invade my country, which will cost lives of a great many Englishmen.”

She grasped his reasoning. “What about your attack on Paris?”    

His cold blue eyes conveyed a sort of mischief. “It is end of summer now. I’m planning to march on Paris in a month; so far, I’ve sent to my liege messages that I need to train the soldiers more. After all, the Imperial troops are still waiting for something near the French border, so I can delay the siege of Paris. When my troops reach the city, it will be mid-October, and the weather will be dreary with frequent rains. I’m intending to besiege the capital of France half-heartedly, and the rains will make it difficult for the army to accomplish any feats. That is my strategy.”

“You want the invasion over as soon as possible, don’t you?”

Norfolk confirmed, “Yes. For everyone’s sake.”

Anne de Pisseleu deduced, “You want the French to help you release your son.”

Norfolk felt the stirrings of unease for the future of the Howards. King Henry always blamed others for his own mistakes and transgressions. The duke had no doubt that the invasion of France was a waste of time, expecting the emperor to break his alliance with England any time. Whether Norfolk subjugated Paris or not, Surrey would be executed, for the king would blame Norfolk for their failure in France. My son must live at any cost, Norfolk decided.

“Exactly. Can you do that?” he almost demanded.

Anne pondered this. “Something can be arranged. I cannot make such decisions.”

His countenance was calculating and stony, but his heart palpitated with the fear for Surrey’s life. “In Cognac, you will be able to plead my case with those who have power in France now – I suppose Queen Marguerite. Your ambassador, Charles de Marillac, is a resourceful man, and I’m certain that he may contrive a plan of my son’s escape from the Tower to France. If my son Henry remains in England, he will be killed regardless of what I do.”

Anne understood his paternal feelings. “I’ll tell the Queen of Navarre everything.”

“The documents I gave you,” Norfolk emphasized. “Tell Queen Marguerite that the French generals should use the information in them with caution. Henry and Suffolk are not idiots, and they might realize that the French knew something about the siege of Boulogne. Any maneuver that will help them lift a siege should be done with careful brilliance.”

The duchess concluded, “So, we have a deal. You are a practical man.”

“These documents in exchange for my son’s life,” he ended with a special emphasis on his last words. “A Valois is less likely to renege on their word than a Habsburg or a Tudor.”

“That is true, Your Grace. I’ve noticed it as well, despite being a woman.”

Norfolk huffed, “François trusts women a lot.”

At this, Anne de Pisseleu stood up abruptly. “France is an enlightened country ruled by an enlightened monarch, for whom female intelligence means a great deal.”

“Godspeed, Madame d’Étampes.”

She put on her cloak quickly. “I’ll arrive in Cognac in about ten days.”

Very soon, Anne de Pisseleu exited the château. The same groom led her horse. She adroitly jumped into the saddle and disappeared into the darkness, interrupted by beams of moonlight.


September 30, 1545, Château de Boulogne-sur-Mer, Boulogne, France

Warm midday sun filtered into the great hall inside the main fortress in Boulogne. As the city was under siege for the past several weeks, everyone’s mood was foul. Uncertainty weighted the castle’s inhabitants down heavily, like dead albatrosses. All that remained to them was to pray, and the rich wall hangings of biblical scenes reminded them of this every moment.

“Mama, how long will the siege last?” Prince Jean was sulking. “When will papa save us?”  

Prince Augustine stated, “Papa and our brother Henri will rescue us.”

Queen Anne came to them, her expression artificially cheerful. “Your father has never let me down. Now he must be gathering an army to defeat the Englishmen.”

Augustine and Jean stood up from a red-brocaded couch and ran to their mother. The queen hugged them both tightly, holding them close, as if they were her only treasures in the world. 

As the three of them parted, there were tears in Jean’s eyes. “Mama, I’m terrified.”

Anne squatted at Jean’s level. “Don’t be afraid, my dear Jean. God is on our side: it is not the French, but the English yearn to conquer what does not belong to them. The Lord will bless our countrymen and lead them to victory. The siege of Boulogne is another test among many other trials and tribulations which François and I have experienced since our marriage.”

Jean buried his tearful face into the queen’s chest. “Mama, I’ve prayed for France since the first day when the enemy appeared near Boulogne. Why doesn’t the Lord hear us?”

His countenance calm, Augustine interjected, “Do not panic.”

Jean disentwined from Anne. “Do I have to pray harder?”

Anne eyed her both sons fondly. “We all have to pray as fervently as possible.”

Not a muscle twitched in Augustine’s face as the prince said, “I’m not afraid at all. Fears are nothing more than a state of mind. If you do not learn to control them, you will never win.”

Anne marveled at her eldest son because the extraordinarily precocious boy showed potential for greatness. “Augustine, fear is a human emotion. It is not shameful to be terrified of something even if you are a grown-up man. The strongest fright is fear of the unknown.”

“We are facing it now,” Jean surmised.

Augustine quoted, “True nobility is exempt from fear, as Marcus Tullius Cicero said.”

Anne commended, “Ah, the lectures about the Roman Empire, which Anne de Laval – God rest her soul – gave you! What would Emperor Augustus Caesar do in such a situation?”

Augustine was pensive for a handful of moments. “Augustus would have been intrepid and patient. He managed to crush his adversaries because of his patience and cunning.”

The queen tipped her head. “Correct. That is why we will behave so.”

“Mama,” began Augustine emphatically. “I’ll protect my brothers and you with my life.”

Queen Anne glanced into the intelligent eyes of Augustine with proud interest. The amber liquid in them was as smooth as the surface of sea on a windless summer day. As always, Augustine maintained an aura of supreme confidence and kept any trace of unease and doubt hidden, while a cauldron of emotions was boiling inside of him. Is Augustine really not afraid at all? Anne asked herself. She had to admit that she understood Augustine less than François and Henri did.

The queen stroked Augustine’s hair. “Then I trust you to take care of Jean and Antoine.”

The boys embraced tightly. Augustine expressed his protectiveness of Jean in the way that his hand wrapped around Jean’s back, and he pressed his younger brother to him.  

Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant, entered with the one-year-old Prince Antoine in her arms. The curious child was looking around with green eyes full of questions, for they had been in this unfamiliar place for weeks. As Antoine’s gaze rested on Anne, the child giggled.

Cradling the child, Françoise eyed the queen. Due to the stress, Anne had lost some weight, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Anne’s expensive outfit of red and black damask – one of the few gowns that they had brought from Cognac – accentuated her slenderness.

The queen strode over to Françoise, who handed the prince to her.

Anne bounced Antoine in the air, and the boy smiled at her. “Perhaps Antoine is not afraid of any sieges and wars because he is a philosopher. Anyway, I’m glad he has been calm.”

Françoise lauded, “Prince Antoine is the calmest child I’ve ever seen.”

The queen instructed, “Please take care of the children, Françoise.”

The queen walked to a window. She stared out at columns of soldiers standing at either side of the gatehouse. Their helmets reflected the sun off. Walls and towers with flying standards of the House of Valois and those of Jacques de Coucy, Seigneur de Vervins and governor of Boulogne who resided in the fortress, spread out like a gigantic hand balancing the sky. To the left and right from the garden the local officials assembled to give their speech to the knights.

Anne assumed, “The Governor de Vervins is sending more men to repel one of the many English attacks on the lower part of the city. They have gathered in the courtyard.”

“They still need the king’s armies,” Françoise noted gloomily.

Augustine uttered optimistically, “Father or Henri will come.”

“Let it be so, my son.” The queen prayed for salvation, just as the others did.

§§§

From the window, the Queen of France watched the assemblage half-heartedly. Her mind drifted to the day of her arrival in Boulogne together with Françoise de Foix. They had headed directly to Château de Boulogne-sur-Mer. To their profound astonishment, they had found Princes Augustine, Jean, and Antoine together with their governess – Jacqueline de Longwy, Countess de Bar-sur-Seine. A shocked Governor de Vervins housed the queen and her offspring well.   

Of course, Uncle Norfolk did not come, Anne told herself. He must not know anything about this fake meeting in Boulogne. Now it was as obvious as that day follows night that the note from François, which the captain of the Scots Guard had handed to her, was a forgery. The governess of the three princess had received a similar note stamped with the Valois seal, in which Jaqueline had been ordered to take the princes to the city of Boulogne and wait for the queen there.

The next day the queen’s personal guard, headed by Count Jean de Dammartin, had arrived in Boulogne. Dammartin had explained that Dauphin Henri had sent him to pursue the queen and have her returned back to Cognac, but Françoise and Anne had journeyed too fast. When a litter containing Anne and the princes had been near the city gates, the Governor of Boulogne had urged them against leaving because the large English army had been spotted on the horizon.

Unable to escape, the queen and her male children had been trapped in the city since then. The English armies under Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, had surrounded the city in two thick circles, like stone rings. According to the Governor de Vervins, the official reason for this war was the French giving aid to England’s enemies in Scotland and “the usurpation” of the French throne by the Valois family who had “stolen” it from the Plantagenet and Tudor dynasties. The governor had reported that King Henry of England had arrived to take command of the siege himself.

“It was all a trap,” Queen Anne pronounced irately. “The letter, which Robert Aubigny gave me, was not written by François – the captain of the Scots Guard must be a traitor. The note that Jaqueline received was a forgery too. Someone has planned everything through very well.”

Jacqueline de Longwy entered and curtsied to her mistress, even though Anne stood with her back to the woman. “Your Majesty, I received the letter as if from His Majesty from a royal page. It was stamped with King François’ personal seal. If I could guess that it was a fake one, I would never have taken our three princes from Saint-Germain-en-Laye here. I swear!”

Her pleas caused Anne to pivot to her sons’ governess. “Jacqueline, I know that.” She strode to the young woman. “You do not need to defend yourself because I trust you.”

Jacqueline dissolved into tears. “The princes… They are all my nephews, and I love them.”

A woman of average height in her mid-twenties, Jacqueline de Longwy had an oval face, with rosy cheeks and lustrous skin. Her gown of blue velvet matched the color of her blue eyes. Her long black hair was woven into a thick plait reaching down to her waist. As she was the late Jeanne d’Angoulême’s second daughter, she was a relative to the Valois family. Jacqueline was the wife of Louis III de Bourbon, Duke de Montpensier, and the mother of his several children.

The queen touched her cheek. “François or Henri will vanquish them.”

“I hope to see their troops near the city soon,” Jacqueline sobbed.  

Anne chided gently, “Jacqueline, calm down. Jean is already terrified.”

“I’m sorry, Madame,” sniffed the governess.

Wiping her tears with the back of her hand, Jacqueline de Longwy went to the children who sat on the couch with Françoise. Anne turned to the window once more.

“The traitor is a wily and nasty thing,” Françoise assessed. “However, not many people have the access to the Valois seal and can steal it. It is someone very close to King François.”

Augustine mused, “They sent the queen and us, three crown princes, to the same trap.

Anne swiveled to her eldest son and peered at him as if the truth had just dawned upon her. “Indeed. It is someone who hates us and wants to get rid of your father’s male children.”

“You might be right, son,” the queen said quietly, then swiveled to the window again.

The queen’s thoughts tumbled in all directions, flying to Dauphin Henri against her will. However, it was total absurd: Henri loved François and his brothers, and, most importantly, he was straightforward and not skilled at pretense. I need to know what is happening to François. Yet, the communication channels with the world are not available during the siege.  

§§§

The afternoon was dawning, but Queen Anne was already fatigued. Had she slept well since the beginning of the siege? Or had she merely closed her eyes and then opened them again? When she had plunged into night trance, her reveries were tinged with visions of mortality stalking her.

Sensing someone’s presence, Anne pivoted to Count Jean de Dammartin standing next to her, his head bowed in deference. “Can we travel to the city’s walls now?” she inquired.

Dammartin adjusted his leather scabbard at his waist. “Yes, we can, Your Majesty.”

Anne felt a surge of strength coursing through her. “Let’s go.”

“We will be escorted by a squad of guards,” supplemented Dammartin.

Nodding, the queen addressed her principal lady, “Françoise, will you accompany us?”

“Gladly.” Françoise left the princes to the care of their governess.

Anne, Françoise, and Dammartin exited the great hall into a parlor. The servants assisted Anne and Françoise in donning mantles of blue velvet, not ornamented with any precious stones and not expensive, with hoods for disguise. Then the three of them left the castle.

§§§

Now the courtyard was empty. The afternoon sun was quite warm, so the trees and foliage in the garden were all shining in the sunlight. A breeze from the sea was enough to cool the air.

“I’ll escort you.” The Governor of Boulogne stepped into the view.

His countenance unperturbed, Jacques de Coucy, Seigneur de Vervins, was a short and heavyset man in his late forties. His round face, marred by wrinkles on the forehead and around his eyes, had a sort of stubby nose. Although he was only approximately François’ coeval, he looked a decade older than France’s sovereign. Clad in silver chainmail, Vervins did not wear a helmet, although a long broadsword hung in the golden scabbard at his belt.

“Of course, Monsieur de Vervins,” accented Anne, while Françoise nodded.

Vervins eyed the two women. “Please, Your Majesty and Madame, put on your hoods.”   

Anne and Françoise complied, and their group crossed the courtyard. A contingent of guards trailed behind them. They passed the arsenal and the barracks, then halted near the main gatehouse.

The queen threw a glance over her shoulder. “The fortress looks unassailable.”

Vervins sighed. “It will not save us if no French forces come in several months.”

The fortress loomed above like a bird of prey for foes, as evening enveloped its parapets. The castle had been constructed in the 13th century by Philippe Hurepel, who was Count de Boulogne and son of King Philippe II of France Augustus. It was a classical medieval, rectangular fortress with circular towers, its keep not large. Under François I, the château had been adapted to the advancements in artillery, and a casemate had been erected as well.

They exited through the gatehouse into the heart of Boulogne. The fortress lay in the city’s center and was surrounded by mazes of cobbled streets with medieval buildings scattered here and there. Townspeople were hastening to and fro uneasily, their faces grim as if facing the doom.

Dammartin and Vervins aided Anne and Françoise to climb into saddles. Then the two men mounted, and Vervins urged his mount into a canter. The whole cavalcade followed him at the same pace, with Anne and Françoise being in the center in the midst of knights.

§§§

The procession rode for a short time before the city’s outer walls came into view. Soldiers gathered near the walls and formed columns that stretched to the lower section of the city. Horses snorted and stiffened their legs, scuffing their hooves against the dirt.

Anne felt a surge of bellicose excitement. If she were a man, she would have jumped on a stallion and join the fight. Despite being English by birth, now Anne wished to be part of the attack against those who had besieged Boulogne to pillage the land of her beloved husband and children. Frigid torrents of her animosity towards Henry Tudor – the main culprit for their current torments – pelted her mental landscape like hail. Did you come here to destroy my life, Henry?

Vervins informed, “The lower part of Boulogne is under bombardment from the foe artillery. They have tried to breach our defenses many times, but so far they have not succeeded.”

Dammartin pointed to a tower looming over the walls. “We are going there.”  

“We use it as a vantage point to observe the enemy,” clarified Vervins.

They strode past the columns, soldiers looking in bewilderment at the hooded women. No one had learned yet that Queen Anne of France was in Boulogne at present. The group approached an assemblage of knights, where the local generals briefly saluted to the governor.  

A Valois standard floated proudly along the top of the wall. Anne and the others entered the tower and slowly ascended a steep staircase that led them to the high watchtower. They emerged in the round room, with bare stone walls and sparsely furnished with makeshift beds.   

The Governor de Vervins gestured towards a series of small windows in the outer wall. “Our sentinels spend there every night to watch the foe camped outside of the city.”

Queen Anne strode to one of the windows and peered out. The sky hinted at dusk, tints of orange and blue hues intermingled. Corpses were strewn on the ground near the walls, although they looked like vague bumps from such altitude, as if they had been buried and their remains were only traces of some general’s ill-fated tactic. Many tents were pitched around Boulogne.

Vervins enlightened, “A week ago, the English endeavored to break through the main gates. I sent my soldiers to stop their offensive. They succeeded, but they were all killed.”

Anne crossed herself. “God bless the brave souls of those Frenchmen.”

“Let them sleep in peace in heaven.” Françoise’s heart ached for her countrymen.   

Dammartin stood near another window. “Look into the distance, Your Majesty.”

Anne saw a seemingly endless mass of soldiers around the city. Tudor standards floated in the air above tents in the adversary camp. Human shapes moved closer to the walls, and the sun’s rays illuminated them enough to see these English warriors, the visors of their helmets lifted.

Anne asked, “Are they going to attack right now?”

“A battle before our eyes…” Françoise blanched and crossed herself.

The governor allayed, “They are examining the walls to determine how to breach them.”

There was a shout from the English. Afterwards, a huge warrior, encumbered in impressive armor, arrived on his large destrier. The armor’s breastplate and backplate were made of horizontal overlapping plates connected and made flexible by rivets and internal leather straps. It looked like Italian armor because of its decoration, consisting of foliage, putti, candelabra, and even some grotesque ornaments. This man and the design of his armor reminded Anne of someone.

“Who is he?” questioned Françoise, looking at Anne.

Dammartin presumed, “Maybe Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk.”

The governor had the same idea. “Yes, he is the English king’s chief commander.”

A bile rose in Anne’s throat like an ill omen. “No. Suffolk is slenderer.”  

A moment later, a roar went up, and all the Englishmen dropped into bows.

Françoise walked to her mistress. “Your Majesty, are you all right?”

The queen viewed the man from top to toe. The warrior’s horse was of the largest size, able to sustain his substantial weight; it was caparisoned in red velvet ornamented with Tudor heraldry.

“Is everything all right?” asked the Count de Dammartin as he neared them.

Anne’s cheeks were drained of all color. “I know who he is.”

“Who?” the Governor of Boulogne wanted to know.

“My former husband,” the Queen of France rasped. “King Henry of England.”

“Let’s go.” Dammartin looked at the queen as if to make sure she breathed.

Anne eyed the merlons of the walls. “As Henry is here, they will not risk his life.”

“He might make some speech,” Françoise presumed.

The queen’s scrutiny fixed on the Tudor ruler. “Henry has always been English in all ways, but he has a penchant for extravagance. His armor is of Italian origin, and it must be supplied by Master Francis Albert, who was licensed by Henry to import luxury goods, including armor, to England for sale.” She laughed dramatically. “It took me some time to recognize him because I’ve not seen him for more than nine years. Henry has put on a lot of weight.”

Françoise tipped her head. “The King of England is obese compared to King François.”

The Countess de Châteaubriant put a hand to her mouth in embarrassment. Dammartin and Vervins grinned waspishly, and the tension somewhat dissolved. Queen Anne laughed.

“It is fine, Françoise,” Anne answered. “Before and during my marriage to him, Henry was athletic and slim – a king who loved all kinds of energetic activities. Nevertheless, he has been plagued by the chronic illness with his legs. He cannot do even elementary physical exercise.”

The governor inquired, “Then why did that Tudor demon arrive in Boulogne?”

The queen hypothesized, “To personally command his troops perhaps because he knew in advance that I’m here with my sons. The conspiracy against François and me is so diabolical that I would not be surprised if the traitor among our ranks is secretly allied with Henry.”

Françoise and the two men nodded morosely.   

A blast of wind carried King Henry’s booming voice to the tower.

“The crown of France is rightfully mine!” the Tudor ruler’s high voice pierced the whole area with the fierce zeal of someone absolutely certain of this. “I pledged that one day, I’ll lead my troops into battle and conquer France. I speak no false promises: I’ll take Boulogne. My men will defeat that Valois mischief-maker in a spectacular way that will cripple France forever. I’m the only rightful French king! The Valois family are usurpers of my crown!”

Françoise whispered frighteningly, “He knows that you are here, Anne.”

Anne’s fists balled. “It proves that our traitor contacted Henry.”            

The rest of Henry’s speech interrupted them. “I’ll receive, in Paris, the fealty of the French nobility and the throne that will be vacant after that buffoon François is dead. Just as the illustrious King Henry the Fifth of England, I’ll succeed! I’ll be crowned in Notre-Dame de Reims by the Archbishop of Reims. I’ll rule from England, and France will be just my empire’s province.”

His tone subdued, the governor of Boulogne opined, “Whatever he says, deep down he must know that it is not possible. But dreams give our lives breath, air, and motion.”  

Dammartin nodded vigorously. “King François will never allow that to happen.”

“He said that François would die,” stressed Françoise.   

The governor and the captain of the queen’s guard shuffled their feet nervously. 

Dammartin’s brows wrinkled together. “It is bravado.”

In a voice layered with presentiment, Anne blurted out, “It is the bravado of a dreamer unless Henry and Carlos have also entrapped François somewhere in Provence, Piedmont, or Milan.”

The others inclined their heads in concurrence. A murky silence reigned.

Françoise’s nostrils flared. “That traitor must meet the worst end when it is all over.”

Vervins attempted to put their minds at ease. “There is Dauphin Henri and King Henri the Second of Navarre, as well as many French generals who will not betray not even the House of Valois, but France. Our compatriots have a long memory and shall never forget the occupation of our country by the English, and how King Charles the Seventh finally freed us.”

“Indeed,” the queen said, and the others nodded.  

§§§

Near the walls, another scream went up. Mangonel catapults, as if appearing out of the blue, flung stones and boulders at the walls. A volley of arrows were fired, and shrieks of those French sentries who were on top of the wall at the moment resounded. Their bodies fell from the wall.

“We must leave,” the governor urged. “Quickly, Your Majesty!”

They all descended the same steep staircase rapidly, as if a hurricane were sweeping down the stairs. Outside, commotion escalated, and soldiers rushed to the governor as they saw him.

The fresh air was overwhelming for the Queen of France. She had not realized how stifling the watchtower had been, how the terror and anguish stemming from seeing Henry Tudor again and from the attack of the catapult upon the walls of Boulogne made the air upstairs difficult to breathe. The change affected Françoise too, and some color returned to her cheeks as well.

A bout of nausea overwhelmed Anne. “Oh God, no!”

Her hand pressed to her mouth, the queen tried to escape from the area. She did not want any of these knights to see how she would retch the contents of her stomach. However, as another wave of nausea rolled through her, Anne rushed to the corner of a nearby building and vomited.   

Françoise appeared behind the queen. “You cannot ignore the apparent anymore, Anne.”

Anne took a handkerchief from her maid’s hands. “I’ve suspected my condition for a week.”

“You must be exceedingly careful to avoid miscarriage.” Françoise’s expression was deeply concerned. “All the stress of the siege is having its toll upon you.”

Anne reminisced, “One night was enough for me to conceive after I had stopped taking the herbs.” She looked up at the firmament. “The Lord must wish for this baby to live.”

Jean de Dammartin emerged next to them. “Your Majesty, do I need to fetch a doctor?”

“I’m expecting another Valois child,” declared Anne proudly.

Dammartin’s expression brightened, then darkened. “I’m more worried about you now.”

We will be fine.” Yet, Anne’s voice lacked conviction.  

They returned to where the Governor of Boulogne was talking to his commanders. By this time, the English catapults had ceased throwing anything, but the soldiers were alert.

The Governor de Vervins questioned, “Your Majesty, is everything all right?”

“Yes.” Anne put on her hood. “Take us back to the castle, please.”

“It is getting dark.” Françoise also pulled on her hood.

For some time, the Governor of Boulogne discussed the situation with his assistants.  

One of the generals spoke up. “The northern route to the city is difficult for the English because of a nearby forest. Therefore, the lower section of Boulogne is in relative safety so far, despite their continuous bombardment. The wells in this part of the city are our source of life. If they take this area, it will be only a short time until we run out of water and food.”

“That must be their plan,” agreed the Governor de Vervins. “Since the direct assault on the city did not work, they are laboring to breach one of the walls in the lower part of the city and swarm Boulogne. I pray that King François or one of his marshals will lead their armies here.”

On the way back, Queen Anne requested that they ride slowly. Dizziness and nausea were relentless, as if her new baby were as anxious as its mother and the others in Boulogne. Anne blinked hard when they stopped near the fortress in the city’s center. Dammartin aided the queen to climb down her hose. My offspring and I will survive, Anne persuaded herself.

Notes:

Hello everyone! We hope that you are fine and safe. Take care of yourself!

Just as we warned, François disappeared for a while – you will soon learn what will happen to him. Impulsive and wishing to help France and her husband, Anne made an irrational decision to go to Boulogne, only to later understand that the letter she was given as if from François is a forgery. Using the same trick, Anne’s sons with their governess were lured to Boulogne.

Anne cannot leave because the city is besieged by the English forces. Well, we still have Dauphin Henri and King Henri II of Navarre, as well as French generals who will fight for their country. As the governor of Boulogne rightly said, they are loyal not even to the House of Valois, but to France and the cause of her independence. Any ideas what will happen next?

Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly went to England to meet with the pragmatic Norfolk who also has a soft side in this AU. We did want to make Norfolk less ruthless and cynical in this AU. So, he has his own plans how to help his nieces and prevent England from getting bankrupt.

Anne and François want to have more children despite the invasion, and she is pregnant. We saw many requesting that they have 5-6 more children, which would be implausible, but they can have a few as Anne will follow in the footsteps of many queens who had their last child at 42/43.

Jacques de Coucy, Seigneur de Vervins, was the governor of Boulogne during the siege of the city of 1544-45 in history. The descriptions of châteaux are more or less historically correct.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 65: Chapter 64: Human Brokenness

Summary:

King Henry laid siege to Boulogne. Queen Kitty Howard is beset by afflictions and temptations. Some drama happens to Anne Brandon, Duchess of Suffolk. In Rome, Marie de Montmorency (née Boleyn) has to deal with a shocking drama.

We are sorry for our absence. We have survived trough a lot

Notes:

We recommend the works by BubblyYork, VioletRoseLily, FieryMaze, AnnaTaure, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, annethequene, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 64: Human Brokenness

September 9, 1545, the English camp outside of Boulogne, France

The spacious royal tent was illuminated by a profusion of torches.

King Henry paced back and forth, the yellow rugs taking the brunt of his agitation. In the center stood an oak table piled with maps, books, and parchments, and cushioned banquettes were scattered around it. Along two walls, there were trestle tables covered with white tablecloth. It was the main part of the tent, which served as the reception area for the monarch’s subjects.

“What of your report, Charles?” inquired King Henry impatiently.  

The Duke of Suffolk informed, “There was a change of sentries in their watchtowers, as the moving light from torches suggests. Otherwise everything has been quiet, Your Majesty.”

The ruler cursed, “Damn that Boulogne garrison! They are better trained and armed than we initially assessed. How many months will they be able to sustain the siege?”   

Brandon shrugged. “According to our estimate, they will run out of food by the beginning of winter. But if the bombarding of our artillery is effective, we might be able to soon capture the lower section of the city where the wells of water are located.”

Henry concluded, “Then they will capitulate more quickly.”

“Yes, sire.” Charles did not like this conversation in the slightest. He wanted to return home to his children and his wife Anne, who had written to him of her new pregnancy.

The aquamarine eyes blazed with the fire of the king’s life-long obsession. “Charles, tell me. Has there been any sign of that Boleyn sorceress in Boulogne? She must be there!”  

Charles was as strained as an arrow in the bowstring. “Why are you so sure?”

An insanely malicious grin formed on Henry’s lips. “I was promised that.” His subject did not need to know about his and the emperor’s contacts with Diane de Poitiers.

The flap of the tent opened, and a head emerged. It was Sir Henry Seymour, the youngest of all the Seymour brothers. “A missive for Your Majesty from the emperor.”

The ruler lumbered over to the exit, for he could not walk rapidly. “Give it to me.”

Seymour bowed to his liege lord. “Have a good evening, sire.” Then he was gone.

Impatient to read the letter, Henry dismissed, “Leave, Charles.”

The Duke of Suffolk was almost swooning in relief as he exited.

Henry seated himself in a massive gilded armchair at the head of the table. The letter was in Spanish, for the Habsburg monarch’s knowledge of English were limited.

Enrique,

At present, the Valois bird is in Milan. For a strange reason, the Duke de Montmorency hastily departed from Rome and arrived in Milan – this might be the work of Madame de Poitiers.

I’ve taken my rebellious younger brother Ferdinand hostage. On my orders, he was arrested in Vienna and then transported under heavy guard to his new residence in northern Germany. The betrothal of his eldest son Maximillian to Aimée of France, which he made without my consent, proclaimed his solid friendship with François. If I did not resort to these measures, Ferdinand would have foiled our plans. After my brother’s arrest, his wife Marguerite de Valois rushed to Milan, knowing that her father is there, most likely to ask François to rescue Ferdinand.

Ferdinand’s armies from Germany and Austria are now under my command. The huge joint army of one hundred thousand armed men is under the leadership of my general Pedro Álvarez de Toledo y Zúñiga, Marquess of Villafranca del Bierzo and my viceroy of Naples. The peace in Italy was broken because Villafranca is supporting me, but there has been no reaction from Duke Cosimo de’ Medici, who is married to Villafranca’s daughter Leonor. I also permitted Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise and his brother, Cardinal Jean de Lorraine, to assist Villafranca in all ways.

We have François, his best military man Montmorency, and the king’s daughter Marguerite in Milan. While he is trying to understand who really ordered the massacres in Provence and Piedmont, François does not know that my troops are advancing on Milan, and they could have already besieged the city. François will be as entrapped as a fish in a fisherman’s net.

Protestant leaders have been very vocal about the slaughter of the pagans at the hands of the “chivalrous” François de Valois. I’m astonished that France’s Protestant alliance has not yet been terminated. In any case, the Knight-King will be burned as a heretic after the siege.  

My divisions under the leadership of my chief commander – Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alba – will invade France from the north. I dispatched a page with this order today.

I’m staying with my wife, Maria, in Mechelen. She is due to give birth at the end of autumn. As the siege of Milan will last for long, I shall stay in Flanders for some time.

Carlos V, Holy Roman Emperor

The Tudor ruler grinned spitefully, marveling at the effectiveness of the emperor’s actions. The aggressiveness of Carlos towards Ferdinand did not astonish him; unless Ferdinand somehow escaped from his captivity, his troops would continue serving the emperor. Henry was deeply touched that he would soon have his first grandchild with Mary Tudor, provided that his daughter would not deliver a stillborn babe, just as Catherine of Aragon had done many times.

Henry envied his Flemish and Spanish ally who lived not in a tent, but in a luxurious palace at Mechelen. His stomach rumbled, and he enjoined, “Serve my dinner!”

The flap of the tent was lifted, and Lady Philippa Bassett appeared. Attired in an expensive gown of rose and white brocade, its square neckline cut indecently low, she exuded temptation.

“Philippa!” Henry’s spirits soared, but so did his desire to eat.

Philippa crossed the tent and swept a curtsey. “Your Most powerful Majesty!”

Within the next hour, servants hurried to bring many victuals for their rapacious sovereign. After the king and his mistress had finished their splendid meal, they went to the second part of the tent that was separated from the first one with red brocade hangings. Philippa ran to a large and comfortable bed with a canopy of purple damask. After discarding her clothes, she sat in the middle of the bed, the sheets of white silk draped across her lower body.

Henry tumbled on the bed. “We have been together for months. Why are you not pregnant?”

“I do not know, Your Majesty.” Philippa’s scrutiny was downcast.

“Are you taking precautions? Do you dislike the idea of having my child?”

Philippa shuddered under his steely gaze. The arrow of the monarch’s guess landed in the center of its mark – he was correct. Nonetheless, Henry did not need to know that she had applied herbs to avoid pregnancy. Having a baby out of wedlock was not in her plans. Even if I decide to conceive, the probability of having the king’s healthy child is too low, his mistress mused.  

“Of course not,” his paramour replied with a smile, her voice innocent. “God has not blessed me with a baby yet. I believe that we just need to keep trying, sire.”

Henry cocked an eyebrow. “Indeed. I’ll take you now.”

The mistress felt highly uncomfortable when the ruler’s broad frame pinned her to the fur mattress. At her complaint, Henry shifted on the bed, and then discarded his garments, regretting that he had left Thomas Culpeper in England because of his groom’s illness. The king did not see as his paramour wrinkled her nose when he pulled off his hose from the leg with a large ulcer. Then Henry ravaged Philippa’s body for hours until they both lay sated and exhausted.


September 28, 1545, St James’s Palace, the city of London, England

“My Edmund is dead,” repeated a heavily pregnant Queen Kitty Howard again and again.

Clad in a gown of black satin, the Queen of England trudged through the corridor. Behind her walked Lady Jane Boleyn and Lady Elizabeth Holland, each clothed in black. The courtiers, who did not like Catherine, bowed and curtsied to her, expressing their condolences.

As they met the Count and Countess of Hertford in the corridor, the queen stopped.

Edward Seymour said, “Our deepest sympathies, Your Majesty.”

“Let Prince Edmund rest in peace.” Anne Seymour crossed herself.

Kitty eyed the royal chief minister and his wife. “Are you both being sincere?”

“I’ve never been your foe, Madame,” replied Hertford in a voice of unusual softness.

Anne recalled, “We lost a baby girl a while ago. It is difficult, but you will cope.”

The queen could not deny that there had never been enmity between them. “I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m grateful for your empathy.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “My Edmund… He was always frail, and he could not survive a lethal illness such as sweating sickness.”  

Three weeks ago, on the Feast of St William of Roskilde, the axe of fate had cruelly severed the thread of Prince Edmund’s life. Before his departure to France, the monarch had sent the Duke of York back to Hatfield, where he had hoped to safeguard his son from infections, having allowed Princess Elizabeth to stay in London. The outbreak of sweating sickness in Hertfordshire had been unforeseen, and it had annihilated many inhabitants of Hatfield House, including Edmund.

The Marquess of Exeter had rushed to Hatfield to evacuate Edward, Prince of Wales. Upon his arrival, Exeter had found Prince Edmund dead and half of the staff of the Tudor children’s household lifeless or sick. Edmund had been hastily buried in St Etheldreda’s Church, where Kitty and King Henry had married. Exeter had moved the Prince of Wales and his grandmother, Lady Honor Grenville, to the safety of Okehampton Castle, owned by Exeter in Devon.

The marquess had returned to London with the news of Edmund’s untimely demise. Since then, Catherine was disconsolate, weeping day and night. Fevered with anguish, the queen cried in the arms of Jane and Bess, who both persuaded their mistress to calm down because of the child in her womb. Almost everyone emphasized with her loss, save the Marquess of Exeter.

“You will have more children,” Anne Seymour labored to assuage her anguish.

Kitty laughed bitterly. “Lady Hertford, I’ve been out of the king’s favor for a long time. With Edmund gone, Henry will hate me more than he loathes your sister Jane, Lord Hertford.”

Hertford silently concurred, but he soothed, “Your Majesty, all will be well.”

At this, the queen laughed uproariously. “Oh!”

The courtiers, who stood nearby in the hallway, turned to her in shocked bewilderment.

The Earl of Hertford sighed, but chided, “Madame, please…”

Jane Boleyn stepped to the queen. “You can give birth any day, so you must be calm.”

“Heed her advice, Your Majesty,” Anne Seymour pronounced gently.

Kitty’s hand flew to her enlarged stomach. “Have you dispatched a messenger to Boulogne?”

“It is my duty,” nearly apologized the Earl of Hertford.

The queen’s eyes flashed in terror. “I understand.”

Bess Holland intervened, “Your Majesty, let’s return to your quarters.”

“No,” said Kitty. “I want to see Lady Suffolk. She has been a source of great consolation for me. For some reason, she has ignored my summons, so I’ll come to her myself.”

The queen walked away from the Hertford spouses, who bowed and curtsied.

In another hallway, the queen and her ladies encountered the Marquess of Exeter.

“Your Majesty,” commenced Hal Courtenay as he bowed, “Are you not in confinement?”

The queen pursed her lips. “Now you must be overwhelmed with joy, Lord Exeter. My poor Edmund is dead, and your dearest Edward remains the only Prince of England.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Exeter uttered with faux sympathy.

“You are a liar, Exeter!” Kitty breached the gap between them and hissed into his face, “At Hatfield, I saw how dearly you love Prince Edward, as if he were your own son. You are dreaming of Edward’s ascension so that you can rule England during his minority.”

Exeter stifled the impulse to throw some rudeness. “These are all your fantasies.”

In the next moment, Kitty noticed Francis Dereham standing behind the marquess. Despite Jane Boleyn’s promise that Dereham would be silent about their affair, his very presence at court continued to fuel Kitty’s deeply-ingrained terror. Dereham was clad in Exeter livery, and a coil of alarm twisted in her chest. Does Exeter suspect something about Dereham and me? 

Nonetheless, the queen thrust this thought aside when Jane Boleyn squeezed her forearm for reassurance. “Why is Francis Dereham so often in your company, Lord Exeter?”

Exeter’s voice hit the queen and the others like a blast of arctic wind. “I made him my page, and I’ve been most satisfied with him. Do you like working for me, Dereham?”

Dereham did not sense danger. “I’ve been very happy, Lord Exeter.”   

“Excellent.” Something lurked in Exeter’s eyes.

Jane Boleyn spelled out, “We bid you a good day.”

Exeter’s gaze traversed the queen’s body. “Your Majesty should be bedridden.”

Kitty ground out, “You will not dictate to your queen what to do.”

Her hand on her belly, she prodded away, Bess and Jane trailing behind her.

§§§

Baleful stillness reigned in the Suffolk quarters as Queen Kitty and her two ladies entered the antechamber. There were no maids hastening to and fro to serve the Duchess of Suffolk, who had become fastidious due to her pregnancy. The silence contained demons of premonition.

“Anne!” The queen crossed to a window. “Where are you?”

Bess muttered, “Where is everyone? Did Her Grace send them all away?”

“How could she?” Jane objected. “Lady Suffolk was so nauseous due to her condition.”

The queen stared out. The setting sun was a blood red ball in the peach-colored firmament, reminding Kitty of what lay ahead on the battlefield of her existence. Her collision with the King of England over their son’s passing might be too awful for her to endure it bravely. The sunset also roused in the queen a sense of something most awful that could occur in her life.

“The sun,” Kitty drawled apprehensively. “It is so red – the color of blood.”

The queen crossed the antechamber and entered the bedroom. All her senses cringed as the coppery odor of blood hit her nostrils. Her heart thumping like the beating of kettledrums heralding death of someone, Kitty veered her scrutiny to a bed in the corner, and horror seized her.

“God, no!” the queen howled, her hand on her belly. “No! Anne!”

Jane and Bess darted to the bedroom and gasped in consternation. “God in heaven!”

Anne Brandon’s young maid lay on the bed in a pool of blood. Her torso resembled a lamb cut open by a butcher. The woman had apparently been stabbed countless times in the chest, and a dagger was sticking out of her flesh. Blood gushed from her many wounds, soaking into the white silk sheets and flowing down from the bed onto the floor. The nearest wall, tapestried with scenes of King Arthur holding his sword Excalibur, was also smeared with blood.

“Oh Lord!” Kitty wailed, her legs wobbling. “She cannot be dead! No!”

Bess could not tear her gaze away from the corpse. “Butchered like Francis Bryan.”

Jane was the first one to recover her wits. She raced to a pair of doors surrounded by square-paned windows and opened them to let in some fresh air. Then she darted to the queen.

“Where is the Duchess of Suffolk?” muttered the queen.

Their shrieks attracted the attention of Lady Suffolk’s servants, who slid into the room and broke into screams. Then the Earl of Hertford and the Marquess of Exeter appeared.

“Oh my Lord,” murmured Hertford while crossing himself.

A wave of agony surged through Kitty. “My baby…” Her waters broke.

Jane could barely support the weight of the queen. “Bess, help me! Now!”   

This galvanized Bess Holland into action. Wrapping her arm around Kitty’s back, she said, “Let me walk Your Majesty to your apartments. The labor is starting.”

Another tide of pain surged through Kitty. “I cannot stand.”

Hertford sped to the queen. “I’ll carry Her Majesty. Fetch a midwife and Doctor Butts.”    

The chief minister sprinted out of the room with a whimpering Catherine in his arms. Her eyes half blinded by tears, Kitty felt a trickle of blood flowing down her leg. Jane and Bess raced behind them. The whole palace itself seemed to be holding its breath.

At the same time, Exeter kept staring at the slaughtered maid. “God, what did he do?”

The marquess looked back and forth, terrified that he had said that aloud. To his luck, the bedroom was empty because the scared servants had fled. Exeter was alone with the Vatican’s another victim, which was necessary, as the Bishop of Rome believed, to make Duke William of Cleves break the alliance with England. I’m against such appalling carnage. Will I ever become like the murderer of this poor woman? Shaking off his consternation, Exeter stormed out.

The Earl of Hertford with Queen Catherine in his arms, as well as the maids all halted at the sight of Anne Brandon, Duchess of Suffolk, who appeared at the other end of the corridor.

“Anne!” shouted Kitty with a huge relief.

The Duchess of Suffolk darted to them. “What is happening?”

Hertford supplied, “Thanks be to God, Your Grace is alive!”

“Anne, you were not butchered!” exclaimed the queen.

Anne stood next to Hertford. “I’m confused. I paid a visit to the Countess of Surrey.”

At this moment, Kitty whimpered as a new wave of pain crushed her. Hertford immediately ran towards the queen’s chambers, leaving an open-mouthed Anne.

The Marquess of Exeter appeared from her rooms. “I’m relieved that you are alive, Madame. I shall order to have you lodged in new quarters. It will be better to leave court for you.”

As Exeter explained everything to Anne, her face paled to the color of snow.

§§§

Queen Kitty Howard lay curled in a ball on her wide bed. The light of dawn filtered through an opening in the shutters inside the royal bedroom. There were no more tears left in her, for she had cried for hours. Tides of monstrous heartache were twisting, tearing, and disfiguring her.

I’m so sorry, Your Majesty! Your son was born dead. There was nothing we could do.

My condolences, Madame. The baby did not breathe when he emerged from your womb.

These words were ringing in the queen’s ears like funereal bells, further lacerating her entire being. After the labor had started at sundown, Catherine had endured seven hours of the birthing ordeal. However, the umbilical cord had wrapped itself around the baby’s neck when the child had been in her womb, so there had been no chance to save the king’s son. Despite the shock the queen had experienced upon finding Anne’s murdered maid, her labor had not been difficult.

“Your Majesty,” Jane Boleyn called. “Do you want something?”

“To die together with my sons.” Kitty’s voice was as fractured as a broken glass.   

“You are young. The midwife and Doctor Butts said that you can have more children.”

“We both know that it was my last chance.” Her tone was colored with resignation.

“His Majesty will be angry, but he may let you try again.”

Kitty laughed tragically. “Henry is obsessed with male heirs. I gave him our sickly Edmund, but the boy died. I miscarried twice, and finally, I birthed a stillborn son.” She paused for a fraction of a second. “I have no value for him now. He will blame me for all these losses.”  

Jane seated herself by the bed. “That His Majesty will.”

The queen’s vacant eyes met her lady’s sorrowful gaze. “The king will gladly strangle me.”

To distract her mistress, the Viscountess Rochford declared, “Lord Exeter sent the Duchess of Suffolk away from court. Imagine: to one of his castles, as Exeter said for her safety. Her Grace is guarded by a great many soldiers. Madame Anne was willing to stay with Your Majesty to console you, but Lord Exeter protested vehemently that she had to leave today.”

Kitty nodded numbly. “It is for Anne’s protection. Exeter did the right thing.”

Jane Boleyn again redirected the conversation to another topic. “Madame, I know about the letters you have been receiving, although you burned each of them.”

“What will you do?” The queen’s voice was indifferent to her fate.

“I have something for you.” Jane produced a folded sheet of paper.

As if reinvigorated, Kitty gasped. “Ah!”

“I found it in your bedroom on a bedside table after you briefly fell asleep.”

This surprised Kitty. “How could he come to my apartments?”

“I have no idea, Your Majesty. Do you suspect who could send you these notes?”

“Thomas Culpeper, not Charles de Marillac. Dismiss everyone and fetch Culpeper now.”

“Would it be prudent, Madame?”

“Do as I say.” Tears shone in the queen’s eyes. “I need him now.”

After her principal lady-in-waiting left, Catherine busied herself with reading the letter.

Queen Catherine,

The sky has unfolded into night. The moon is watching over the despondent silence and over Your Majesty, grieving for your son. All is pure about you, so dazzling white, like bright moonlight of a full moon, and now your virtuous soul is palpitating with pain. This night, there is anguish in even the fall of a drop of water. My soul is silent too, as it wordlessly weeps for your loss.

If only I could hold your hands between mine and look into your eyes, I would take away some of your pain. If I embrace you, you will feel at peace. I adore you more than life itself.

Always yours

Kitty felt as if she were no longer tethered to Henry Tudor. Her soul, still youthful though battered by her misfortunes, appealed to her for healing necessary for the spiritual survival.

In the next moment, the door opened. Jane Boleyn and Thomas Culpeper slipped inside.

Jane uttered, “The ladies are gone, Madame. I beg of you, do not stay together for long.” She then closed the door and remained on the watch outside, like a sentinel.

Culpeper dropped into a bow. “My condolences, Your Majesty.”

Kitty showed him the letter. “Is it yours, Culpeper?”

His eyes gleamed with amorous light. “Yes! I wrote all of them to you.”

“How did you manage to deliver them to my room?”

“Lady Joan Bulmer. For a few years, she served in the household of Lady Agnes Tilney, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, at Lambeth. She became acquainted with you there.”

Terror petrified Kitty. The mentioned woman was aware of her liaison with Dereham before her wedding to the king. Three months ago, Joan Bulmer had come to Kitty and insisted that she is appointed the queen’s maid of honor because Joan had no other opportunity for a career at court. Blackmailed by her, the queen had acquiesced. Now at least three people know about my liaison at Lambeth. Dereham, Jane Boleyn, Joan Bulmer, and perhaps Culpeper, Kitty bemoaned.

The queen interrogated, “Did Joan tell you something about me?”

“No, she did not. What do you mean, Madame?”

Indeed, Culpeper had no idea of Kitty’s erstwhile ties to Dereham. However, he would not tell the queen that Joan Bulmer and he stealthily worked for the Marquess of Exeter, who paid them significant allowances for being his spies. Culpeper had been enamored of Catherine since the day when she had been introduced at court as King Henry’s consort. Exeter is right that I must fight for Kitty’s love, for I can make her happy. I started sending her letters at Exeter’s advice.

The queen beckoned him to her. “Come here, Culpeper.”

The royal groom raced to the bed. “What can I do for Your Majesty?”

She pointed at the Bible on a bedside table. “Swear that you know nothing.”

He genuflected and put his hand on the Bible. “I swear that I’ll never harm you.”

“Will you serve me as a knight?” Kitty’s heartbeat sped because of his nearness.

Culpeper rose to his feet. “I’ll do anything for Your Majesty. I love you so!”

The queen looked sullenly down at the floor, and then from the floor to the windows. The sun was rising like a flaming arrow. “It would certainly be within my rights to have you arrested on the charges of pushing me to commit adultery, but I shall not do this.”

“So I see,” Culpeper returned. “Do you like me?”

She had long been attracted to Culpeper. Now Catherine felt that her affection for this man was something deeper than a blend of physical and amatory sentiments. Her brokenness caused by the king’s mistreatment of her and the deaths of her children ought to be healed, and only a man’s love could do so. I need Culpeper to worship me so that I keep living as best as I can.

“Soon we shall meet again.” The color stained her cheeks.

The royal groom burst out, “When and where, the lady of my heart?”

Her decision solidified. “As man and woman. Somewhere.”

Culpeper figured out the message. “The Holy Father has blessed me today!”

Tears brimmed in her eyes. “Now let me grieve for my son.”

A stab of pain rushed through him. “Madame!”

In the next moment, Kitty found herself in Culpeper’s arms. His lips captured hers, wet and hot, and her arms slid around his neck. Culpeper made love to her mouth with a kiss, making the queen ache inside, wanting and longing, desperate to have him inside of her right now. No man – not even young Dereham – had even had such a mind-blowing effect on Kitty.

Abruptly, the queen pulled away. “Go away, Thomas. I’ll mourn.”

Culpeper rose. “It is the day of a new life for you, Catherine.”  

Bowing to her, Thomas Culpeper backed away to the door, all the time holding her gaze. He almost bumped into Jane Boleyn who returned to the bedroom. Then Culpeper left.

“Your Majesty looks better now,” observed Jane.

Queen Kitty glanced at the wall with a tapestry depicting Jesus Christ enthroned with saints. Perhaps the Lord sent her Culpeper to cure her from the brokenness. However, as she recalled the deaths of Edmund and her stillborn son, Jane took the distraught woman into her arms. 


October 1, 1545, St James’s Palace, the city of London, England

Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, lay upon a wide bed with a canopy of lavender silk, its headboard carved with the lavish forest scene of a deer drinking from a pond. His secret paramour – Lady Catherine Parr – snuggled deeper into his embrace and rested her head upon his chest. As the shutters were open during their frantic lovemaking, now they watched the sunrise and admired the sky tinged in orange and red hues, with mauve clouds riding a strong wind.

“I pity Queen Kitty so much,” murmured Catherine with a sigh.

Exeter did not share her sentiments. “She has long begun descending from the king’s favor.”

She frowned at him. “You detest her, don’t you? Why?”

“I don’t,” he assured with a fake grin. “I dislike her nickname – Kitty.”

Catherine believed him. “His Majesty called her so even before their wedding.”

The marquess kissed his mistress on the nose. “Doesn’t Her Majesty need you tonight?”

“I was Prince Edmund’s governess. Every time Catherine looks at me, I see the silent blame in her eyes for not protecting Edmund from the sweating sickness.” She stilled for a moment before sobbing out, “Nonetheless, I’m not guilty that Edmund caught infection, and that I did not.”

He kissed away her tears. “Calm down, Cathy. Half of the prince’s household died of the sweat. It is nobody’s fault, but the Lord’s will that those people passed away.”

“I know, Hal, but that does not make things easier. I did not protect the prince.”

This discourse was tiring for him. “From what? God’s will?”

Catherine propped herself on an elbow. “You can be so harsh sometimes.”

Exeter’s smile chilled her to the bone. “I’m the king’s cousin and a seasoned courtier.”

“Can’t it be easier for us?” She peered into his pale blue eyes, which softened at the touch of her hand to his cheek. “You are a widower, and I’m a widow. We have been together since your appointment as Head of the royal children’s household and your relocation to Hatfield. The court has become such a dangerous place due to these horrible murders.” 

“Where are you going with this?” He did not want to speak about marriage.

She twittered like a merry bird, “I’ve always preferred the quiet of countryside. I entered into royal service only because the Earl of Surrey recommended me to the king as Prince Edmund’s governess. Otherwise, I would have stayed in my estates after Lord Latimer’s death.”

Exeter stroked her hair that was still bound in a braided chignon despite their vigorous night. “At times, I also dream of retiring to my castles, where my son Eddie is being raised.”

Catherine Parr is a treasure, Exeter decided with a grin. The loveliness, education, and high spirit of Catherine, as well as the nobility of her heart, made so deep an impression on Exeter that he had taken an immediate linking of her when they met at Hatfield. In spite of being a stanch Protestant with the strict religious dogmas about matrimony, she was a passionate woman with the zest and energy required to live her life to the fullest after the deaths of her two husbands.

At Hatfield, the marquess had often thought of Catherine’s lovely face and charming smile. While inwardly contemplating her beauties, Exeter spent most of his time with Prince Edward, as always. Once Exeter and Catherine had encountered each other in the corridor after midnight. A sparkle of tremendous passion had resulted in their salacious night when they became one.

Catherine Parr and Hal Courtenay were lovers for over a year. In the attempt to preserve her reputation, she had implored him to be as discreet as possible, not like he had acted with his other paramours. She rejoiced that they both were Protestants, having no idea that it was all pretense on Exeter’s part. Their religious differences mattered little to him because Anne Bassett had kept her evangelical views until her demise, having known that Exeter was a Catholic.

As she sat in bed, Catherine leaned into him and cupped his face. “Hal, I’ve long learned to conceal my emotions, just as a proper lady should, and what is happening in my heart does not alter my features. You are an experienced man – you know what I feel for you.”

Exeter did not wish to discuss it. “It is all your imagination.”

To her shame, tears pooled into her eyes. “You are not married.”

He loosened his grip. “A man might encounter the bonniest and most brilliant women. Yet, he remains heart-whole and indifferent to them. Then unexpectedly a face – not always the most gorgeous one – may awaken in him a sudden fervor, even against his better judgment.” He released a sigh. “You have caused the springtide of my once dead heart, Cathy.”

It saddened Catherine to see the pain in his countenance. “You do not love me.”

His thumb grazed over her wrist. “Forgive me.”

“Dear Lord, it is strange,” she lamented, and fresh tears stung her eyes. “You have always been a womanizer, Exeter. You are not the type of a nobleman whom a well-bred woman should look at and not to dally with. Nevertheless, I fell in love with you like a girl.”

“You will forget me. This thing between us must end.”

Catherine’s heart swooped. “You want to abandon me, don’t you?”

A bob of his head indicated confirmation. “It would be better for us both.”

She bit her lip. “Are you in mourning for your late wife? Is it why your heart is closed?”

At the memory of Gertrude Blount, Exeter grimaced. “Of course not.”

“Then there is someone else,” she surmised.

“No.” His funereal emotions showed on his face. “Not in this world.”

Catherine murmured benevolently, “She is dead, isn’t she? I’m so sorry, Hal.”

“Don’t be, Cathy. We need to get dressed and part our ways.”

“Forever?” She climbed out of bed and grabbed her garments.

Exeter followed suit. “I do not want you to suffer.” He then went to the dressing room.

Soon the Marquess of Exeter returned fully dressed. Catherine Parr was lacing her gown of orange brocade from the back, and he aided her to finish it. However, as his face neared hers, her instincts surged to life, and she tiptoed to kiss him, which he welcomed. Exeter enfolded her into his arms, and they kissed ardently until he stepped back and shook his head sadly.

“It is over?” Catherine’s soul was breaking.

His orbs conveyed the shadowy expression of some inner conflict. “It is necessary.”

Exeter shut his eyes and envisaged himself with Anne Bassett. His heart drummed against his ribs, just as it had always done when he and Anne touched each other. Catherine was the best antidote to his loneliness that had afflicted him after Anne’s demise, but she was not Anne. He opened his eyes, and all that Catherine could see in them was intelligence, strength, indomitability, and, to some extent, his calculating nature, but there was no bereavement in them anymore.

“You mask your emotions so well,” Catherine observed.

“Like all nobles do, Cathy. Life is hard at court despite my riches and titles.”

A devastated Catherine sprinted across the bedroom. “You are cruel to me!”

“Wait!” Exeter pursued her. “Or you will be seen!”

The marquess led his paramour back to his bedchamber. Then he talked with Joan Bulmer, the queen’s maid, in the antechamber; in a minute, Joan walked out and did not see Catherine.    

Exeter opened the door to his bedroom. “The palace is awakening.”

“Are you sure your decision is correct, Hal?” She wanted to hear his last rejection.

“Go, Cathy.” His whole being was bleeding. Why did he feel so? “Leave, please.”

For a moment, Catherine Parr glowered at him, as if he were a usual philanderer. Then she spun on her heels and surreptitiously left his quarters, leaving a despondent Exeter.

§§§

Queen Kitty spent two horrendous days. If Jane or Bess offered her something, she shook her head, dismissing them. She could not thrust herself out of the pitch-darkness in her life.

Lady Joan Bulmer approached the queen’s bed. “Your Majesty, Princess Elizabeth is here.”

Turning to the creature whom she abhorred since Lambeth, Kitty studied her from top to toe. A short woman of slight built with a pale complexion, Joan Bulmer was almost of the queen’s age. Although her features were irregular with closely placed, restless hazel eyes, Joan, with her blonde hair falling down her back from beneath her gable hood, was pretty in her own petite way. Joan’s gown was of beige and black brocade, cut modestly and ornamented with gems.

“At least, you are better dressed now,” commented the queen with distaste.

Joan swallowed her ire. “Your Majesty knows that I could not support myself before I came to you. I’ll be forever grateful to you for taking me into your household.”

Kitty hissed, “Do you remember the terms of our bargain?”

Joan looked at her fixedly. “Of course. It is my silence.”

“Good. Now I want to see my dearest stepdaughter.”

Bulmer dropped a curtsey and walked out. Then Elizabeth entered.

The princess curtsied to her stepmother. “My condolences on my brother’s death.”

The most genuine sorrow in the girl’s voice brought tears to the queen’s eyes. “Elizabeth, I’m so delighted to see you. My cousin Surrey is jailed in the Tower, while my uncle Norfolk is in France. Anne Brandon is away. Now I have only you and Jane Boleyn as my friends.”

Elizabeth rushed to her like a wind and settled herself on the edge of the bed at the queen’s sign. Kitty then pulled the girl into her arms, and they wept together.

At last, the queen disentangled herself from her. “Your brothers are now in heaven.”

The princess adored the deceased Edmund. “I’ll keep them and you in my prayers. Edmund will always live in my heart, and I’m sad that the Lord gave him such a short life.”

“Edmund had a weak constitution and health.” The queen’s voice was shaking.

“Ah,” Elizabeth breathed. “Why don’t my father’s sons, save Ned, live for long?”

At the memory of her husband, Kitty cursed wordlessly. “God does not want that.”

The girl nodded ruefully. “It must be His will.”

All at once, the queen quizzed, “Lizzy, do you want to see your mother?”

“Of course! I’ve missed my mama!” Elizabeth’s voice rose exultantly on the last two words. Then her visage darkened. “I fear that she might now be in Boulogne, where our sovereign is.”

Catherine gazed into her stepdaughter’s eyes full of fear for Anne. “Some Londoners exhibit symptoms of the malady, which is why we must escape. We will move to Dover very soon, for we cannot wait for my recovery to risk being infected. Then we will sail to Boulogne.”

The girl’s black eyes shone with hope. “Is it possible, Madame?”

The queen smiled wanly. “Why not? It is dangerous to be here; Exeter took Prince Edward to his estates. The king will be angry, but he will understand why we left England.”  

Catherine Howard was not certain of her ability to deal with her spouse’s rage upon their appearance in Boulogne. However, she saw a broken soul in Elizabeth – a soul that implored the Creator for healing as much as her own did. Kitty was weary of nursing that sense of impending calamity, of her brain being ceaselessly active upon the forecast of a future in which she would be castigated, set aside, or murdered by Henry. I no longer care what Henry will do to me.

“Isn’t Your Majesty afraid of my father’s wrath?”

“No.” The queen’s outward calmness was the result of effort.

The princess said firmly, “Me neither.”

Most of all, Elizabeth yearned to feel Anne’s arms around her again. The monarch’s actions were a fresh assault upon the tranquility Elizabeth had attained in the past years. The quiet days at Hatfield with her siblings and tutors were over, and at present, a shroud of portentous uncertainty was hanging over them all like an autumn cloud. Despite her estrangement from her mother, part of Elizabeth had always loved her father. Yet, now animosity towards him superseded it.

Elizabeth’s brain teemed with harrowing images of war, of King Henry holding a bloodied sword, of Anne being manacled and compelled to her knees before her father. They did not cause her to lose sight of her goal to try and avoid the consequences of the English invasion of France. If we journey to Boulogne, I’ll prevent the calamity of my mama being kidnapped to England.


October 15, 1545, Palazzo Montmorency, Rome, the Papal States, Italy

Tonight, Duchess Marie de Montmorency threw a sumptuous feast for Roman aristocracy. To distract herself from a nagging feeling that something could be wrong with her husband, she had invited her friends and members of the so-called Montmorency club to the palace.

“Dear guests,” Mary greeted in flawless Italian. “I hope you are enjoying this evening.”   

Vittoria Colonna smiled at Mary cordially. “We surely do, Marie. Let’s celebrate!”

An illustrious Italian poet, Vittoria Colonna, Marchioness of Pescara, was a well-bred and superbly educated woman. She had saturnine complexion and dark hair arranged in an elaborate chignon. Her irregular features were truly nice, and her bronze eyes, gleaming with fire of ancient mysteries, fully redeemed the slight imperfections of her face. Her flowing and revealing gown of white, yellow, and red silk in the Grecian style showcased her exotic tastes and love for antiquity.

A profusion of Venetian candelabra illuminated the great hall. The light from them burnished the gilded pieces of massive furniture scattered around the chamber in an elegant manner, creating a romantic environment. As the guests seated themselves upon couches along tables groaning with a multitude of dishes, they admired the stunning frescoes with Michelangelo Buonarroti’s angels and saints, as well as those of Giulio Romano’s nude sirens and landscapes.

The ample wealth of the Montmorency family had long become proverbial in Rome. Marie dedicated her life to her two daughters and running their household, the construction of which had been finished months earlier. Marie also immersed herself into the cultural life in Italy, for Rome was the cradle of modern civilization attracting many painters, engravers, and sculptors.

Clad in an emerald brocade attire worked with threads of silver, a tall young man of muscular build entered. A long, hawked nose dominated his swarthy countenance attractive in an austere way. His smart, hazel eyes pierced others like sharp-tipped daggers with their penetrating stare. He was the fifteen-year-old François de Montmorency, the duke’s eldest son and heir.

Mary saluted to her stepson. “François! Come to us!”

“Ah, the God Mars!” Vittoria exclaimed. “This lad looks so much like his father.”

Vittoria’s relative, Pirro Colonna, objected, “No, his father is the earthly incarnation of Mars. Despite their resemblance, young François is a son of Mars, perhaps either Romulus or Remus.”

A massive man of tall height in his mid-forties, Pirro had a round countenance with a round nose at the center, between large cheeks. His hazel eyes were merry as he enjoyed the evening. His brown hair and bushy beard matched the color of his doublet and hose ornamented with gold. Pirro had once been in service to Emperor Carlos V, but he had switched his allegiance to France.

François de Montmorency strode towards them. “I would not want to be any of them. The murder of Remus by his brother, Romulus, has inspired artists throughout the ages. I have several brothers in France, who are growing up in our estates, but I’ll never harm them.”

The eyes of many women were glued to François, for he was a dashing figure.

Pirro grabbed several pieces of venison onto his platter. “Don’t be offended.”

“I’m not, Messer Pirro.” François approached their table.

“Where is your father?” Pirro emptied his goblet.

François made a gallant bow. “King François urgently summoned my father to Milan. State affairs, I think.” He eased himself next to his stepmother, and they exchanged smiles.

Marie supplemented, “We expect His Grace to return in a couple of weeks.”

Pirro’s brows furrowed. “To Milan?” He was thoughtful for while chewing a morsel of meat one after another. “As a military man, I gather intelligence from various reliable sources across the continent. I’ve heard about the amassment of Imperial soldiers near Como and Bergamo.”

Marie disclosed with both fear and apprehension, “The letter from François was brought by an Italian page, not a French one. But the missive was stamped with the Valois royal seal, so we considered it an authentic one, and Monty hastily departed for Milan.”

Vittoria enjoyed crane and pheasant spiced with cloves and ginger. “Doesn’t His French Majesty have Italian nobles in his service? Dauphine Catherine de’ Medici is Italian.”

“Yes.” Marie was now eating a delicious blend of pigeons, sparrows, and cranes, all of them spiced with coriander. “Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli, for example.”

Pirro nodded. “I know him. Quite an unpleasant man.”

François did not have any appetite. “I do not like Montecuccoli: there is something sinister in him. He escorted the late Lady Wiltshire to Rome and then to Venice a year ago.”

Pirro’s mouth was stuffed, but he muttered, “Exactly.”

Marie did not concur. “Montecuccoli was gallant enough to take care of my late mother, God rest her soul.” She crossed herself. “What about the Imperial troops?”

His mouth was now empty, so Pirro could speak freely. “Soldiers from Germany, Austria, Flanders, and Naples spent a lot of time exercising at first on the border with Switzerland and then on the border with Piedmont. However, then they marched on Bergamo and Como.”

Dragging a tantalizing breath, Marie inquired, “Could His Majesty summon my husband to defend the Duchy of Milan from the Imperial barbarians? Monty is his best general.”

Pirro leaned across the table to collect the dish of blackbird cooked in leaves of salad. “My sentiments precisely. We all need to be vigilant because the war might start anytime.”

“Bergamo and Cosmo,” repeated François. “They are too close to Milan.”

Vittoria sipped wine. “Be at ease, Messer de Montmorency. Your illustrious sovereign and your bellicose father are deities of chivalry and war. They will wriggle out of anything.”  

François was conscious of a knot of apprehension solidifying in his chest. “Chivalry and the knowledge of military art are sometimes not enough for victory and even survival.”

“Oh!” Vittoria gasped in agitated tones. “Don’t speak about war anymore! I can almost hear the clatter of swords, and I cannot bear it. Please, let’s do something else.”

Giulio Romano – he occupied the place to the right from Pirro – yawned, his countenance bored. “I’m a painter, and the spirit of beauty has cloaked me at the moment of my birth. To me, the beauty of the world is something we create, not destroy. I hate bloodshed!”

Everyone studied Giulio Romano. A lean man of average build and height, Romano had a dour complexion, with straight and thin nose like a bird of prey above his black eyes. However, his face was unusually pale for an Italian person, framed with dark, bushy beard. Always wearing black garments, he looked like a demon hovering over frescoes and statues, which he had created in abundance inside Palazzo Montmorency. He was a pupil of Raphael.

Marie popped a morsel of pheasant in her mouth. “You are the creator of this palace.”

“Tell us, Messer Romano,” prodded Vittoria.

Romano drank some wine, his sips slow and elegant. “In painting and architecture, there is enough soul to characterize the beauty of the body and the mind, as well as to give due respect of wisdom to Athena, to distinguish the swiftness of Hermes from the strength of Heracles, or to contrast the virginal grace of Artemis with the abundance of Aphrodite’s charms.”

François poured amaretto for himself. “We can see them in your works.”

Romano admired the older Montmorency for martial talents and the handsome commissions he had been paid. “The Duke de Montmorency has proved that the God Mars can also be a great patron of the arts. He knows that we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities and powers, which is why Monty has never forgotten about gorgeous beauty in life.”

Marie responded idly, “My spouse says that action gives power, but that entire harmony pervades the universe of God only if we can contemplate beauty of the arts.”

Pirro tipped a nod. “That is all about Monty.”

Romano finished off the cup. “Life blossoms when it is in a state of harmony.”

Having relaxed a little bit, François became hungry. A passing servant put onto his plate a mixture of salads with venison. “Harmony is a beautiful balance between the mind, the body, and the soul. To me, it is linked with peaceful moments I spend with my relatives.”

“Listen, please.” Vittoria clapped her hands.

A hush fell over the chamber as Madonna Colona began reading one of her sonnets.

When by the light, whose living ray both peace

And joy to faithful bosoms doth impart,

The indurated ice, around the heart

So often gathered, is dissolved through grace,

Beneath that blessed radiance from above

Falls from me the dark mantle of my sin,

Sudden I stand forth pure and radiant in

The garb of primal innocence and love.

And though I strive with look and trusty key

To keep that ray, so subtle it is and coy,

By one low thought its scared and put to flight,

So flies it from me. I am in sorrowing plight

Remain, and pray, that he from base alloy

May purge me, so the light come sooner back to me.

Marie whispered to her stepson, “This poem would not be approved by the Roman Church.”

“What is her religion?” asked François as he started eating his salad.

Marie lowered her voice. “Neither Catholic nor Protestant. She simply believes in God.”

As Vittoria continued her poems, the room exploded with applause.

On the opposite side of the chamber there was a trestle table covered with bowls overflowing with fruits. Beside it stood attendants who gave guests fruits according to their choice. In a gallery at the other end was stationed a band of minstrels, who played sweet music.

Confiding in His just and gentle sway

We should not dare, like Adam and his Eve,

On other’s backs our proper blame to lay;

But with new-kindled hope and unfeigned grief,

Passing by priestly robes, lay bare within

To him alone the secret of our sin.

“Bravo!” chorused Marie, François, and the others.

Suddenly, the doors of the great hall flung open. Attired in rich pontifical robes, Pope Paul III entered, and his profoundly wrinkled face was haughtier than the Lucifer’s. His oldest son – Pier Luigi Farnese, Duke of Castro – walked with his head high, looking all too arrogant in his doublet of crimson and brown velvet ornamented with the Farnese arms.

As they stepped deeper into the room, the music stopped, and silence ensued.

The Bishop of Rome strode forward. “To him alone the secret of our sin,” he repeated, drawling the words in a nasty way. “Be careful! The Roman Inquisition does not approve of such poems. Those who continue living in heretical merriment will be burned at my behest.”   

An incensed Mary jumped to her feet. “You have forgotten who you are, Farnese,” she cried menacingly. “You still have this post only thanks to the benevolence of King François.”

All of the guests stood up and nodded in agreement. Most of those who visited the Palazzo Montmorency loathed the Supreme Pontiff and wished him deposed or dead.

The Pope promulgated, “Madame de Montmorency, I have special news.”

François spat, “Say it and be gone!”

The Duke of Castro questioned, “Your Holiness, should I arrest the Montmorency family?”

Shouts of consternation and protestations rose from the assemblage.

“No, they can stay in Rome,” said the Pontiff. “Only as ordinary Catholic citizens.”

Pirro Colona was losing his temper. “Anne de Montmorency is governor of Rome.”  

“Not anymore,” barked Castro with a spiteful grin.

François’ anger reared its head again. “How dare you?”

“François,” groaned Marie, nervous dizziness weakening her. Her stepson supported her.

Allessandro Farnese waived his hand for silence. “King François the First of France, together with his Constable Duke de Montmorency, are now under siege in Milan by an enormous Imperial army. Rome has gotten rid of the oppression and tyranny of the French. We are free!”

This utterance had a colossal effect on the gathering that was stunned speechless.

With an imperial air of iron-hearted hardness about him, the Pope promulgated, “I, Pope Paul the Third, hereby declare that I've removed Anne de Montmorency from the position of governor of Rome and from all his other local offices.” His gaze slid to his son. “I appoint Pier Luigi Farnese, Duke of Parma and captain general of the Church, governor of Rome.”

The concourse let out shrieks of shock, all gazes focused on Mary and François.

Another man in red robes walked in. Marie recognized him at first glance: he was Reginald Pole, son of Sir Richard Pole and Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury. Due to his open harsh critique of King Henry’s divorce from Catherine of Aragon, he lived in self-imposed exile in Italy. A man of muscular complexion, the brown-haired Pole had eyes that were of that peculiar shade of hazel – neither light nor dark, and his round face was framed with a long beard at the bottom.

“Come, my friends,” began Reginald Pole in Italian, with thick English accent. “Let’s drink for the liberation of the eternal city and the Roman populace.” He stumbled to a table and grabbed someone’s chalice. “French dogs must not rule Rome and the Papal States.”

As Pole emptied the cup to the last drop, the guests glared at him with loathing.

“I’m sad it is not poison,” Marie switched to English so that Pole comprehended her.

Pole threw the cup away. “You, Boleyn heretic and prostitute!”

As Pole cussed in English and complained about heresy spreading through Europe, only Marie and François understood him. Her stepson had learned some English from her.

François instinctively stepped before his stepmother. “Apologize now.”

The Bishop of Rome neared Pole. “My son, you are happy, but control your emotions.”

Castro led Pole away to the door, castigating, “What are you doing, Reginald?”

The Pope fixed his callous eyes on Marie. “When François surrenders, I’ll have that Valois pagan and your husband, the most loyal servant of the French king, burned at the stake.”

The unwelcome visitors exited, their malignant laugh echoing throughout the palazzo.

There was a dead silence, and then a loud crack as several women fainted.

“Monty,” gasped Mary, her visage fading to a chalky white. “No!” She passed out.

Her stepson held Marie’s limp frame cautiously. Everybody ‘ahed’ and ‘ohed.’ Marie’s mind went blank, save the vision of Montmorency enfolding their daughters Marie and Christine into his arms. Then came the image of the girls and their parents embracing. The prospect of Montmorency’s demise hurt Mary far more than the passing of William Stafford had done.

Notes:

Hello everyone! We hope that you are fine and safe. Take care of yourself!

Henry VIII of England laid siege to Boulogne. He knows that Anne must be in the city. The Duke of Suffolk is not happy, but he can do nothing so far. Suffolk has a very interesting character arc… At last, we learned what happened to François, who will be absent for quite some time.

Queen Catherine Howard losses her son – Prince Edmund, Duke of York. The boy who was born frail and sickly, was always destined to die. Just as we promised, we spared Anne von Cleves or Anne Brandon, Duchess of Suffolk, but she will have some more dramas. Anne is not the main character, and she will not appear in the story often. After seeing Anne’s murdered maid, Kitty gave birth to a stillborn son, and perhaps she lost her savior, as in history Eustace Chapuys said about Anne Boleyn’s last miscarriage. None of Kitty’s children were destined to live.

We have a new character – Joan Bulmer. Joan married William Bulmer at a young age. The marriage was short, and then she entered into the service of Agnes Tilney, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk where she met Catherine Howard at Lambeth. When Kitty married Henry, Joan requested that the queen take her into her household due to their previous association. Francis Dereham now serves the Marquess of Exeter, together with Joan. Any ideas what will happen next?

The Marquess of Exeter has a secret affair with Catherine Parr, who loves him. Exeter knows about the assassination of Anne’s servant, and he sent Anne away to save her; the secret murderer needs to be dealt with. Kitty meets with the person who sent her letters. She is a broken woman, whose sole is battered by her marital troubles and tragedies. Her human brokenness leads her to impulsive decisions. Who knows what will happen next…

Vittoria Colonna, Marchioness of Pescara, was an Italian noblewoman, as well as a famed Renaissance poet. Vittoria developed strong relationships within the intellectual circles of Ischia and Naples, as well as those of Florence, Urbino, and Rome, where she spent many years. In this story, she is a friend of Mary Boleyn or Marie de Montmorency. Pirro Colonna was an Italian military leader in the service of Emperor Charles V during the Italian War of 1542, but in this fiction he switched sides and allied with the Montmorency clan in Rome. The poems given in this chapter were written by Vittoria Colonna.

François de Montmorency was the eldest son of Constable Anne de Montmorency, who had four surviving sons in history; only François is in Rome with his father.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 66: Chapter 65: Amours in Dover

Summary:

Princess Elizabeth Tudor and Queen Kitty Howard are traveling to Boulogne. The queen tries to heal from her heartbreaks with Thomas Culpeper. The Marquess of Exeter is plotting against Kitty. King Henry is still in Boulogne that is not going to capitulate.

We recommend the works by BubblyYork, VioletRoseLily, FieryMaze, AnnaTaure, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, annethequene, and Esme24.

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 65: Amours in Dover

October 28, 1545, Dover Castle, the county of Kent, England

A squad of halberdiers rode at the helm of the royal cortege. Next succeeded a chariot draped in crimson cloth of gold, and drawn by four richly caparisoned palfreys, which contained Queen Catherine Howard and Princess Elizabeth Tudor. Behind them came a company of henchmen of the queen and the princess’ households, armed with gilt partisans, and then more guards.  

The procession entered the outer bailey through the King’s Gate, flanked by the flat-topped towers. From their chariot, Elizabeth and Catherine saw the inner curtain wall gateway opening into the keep yard, their gazes lingering on King Henry II’s Great Tower, above which the Tudor standard floated in the wind. They crossed the large courtyard and stopped near the tower.

Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, hopped down from his stallion. He strode over to the royal litter and watched the pages aid Catherine and Bess to disembark.

Kitty lifted her eyes to the darkening firmament. “It is going to rain soon.”

Elizabeth’s gaze was directed at the vault of the sky. “I wonder what the weather will be like in Boulogne. It is a coastal city, so autumns and winters must be mild but rainy there.”

Exeter bowed. “Your Majesty and Your Highness, do you really intend to go to France?”

“Don’t cross us, Lord Exeter,” the queen hissed. “We have made up our minds.”

“With all due respect,” Exeter began, his scrutiny oscillating between the princess and the queen, “but I was informed that this absurd trip was Your Majesty’s idea.”

Lady Jane Boleyn and Lady Elizabeth Holland, who had climbed out of their chariots, stood nearby. Exchanging alarmed glances, they steeled themselves for whatever would occur.

“Lord Exeter!” rang out Princess Elizabeth’s voice, powerful and loud. “I’m a princess of the blood, and I can make decisions. Do not tell me about my age and gender – I shall not listen.” She cast an affectionate glance at her stepmother. “Her Majesty offered me to travel to Boulogne. After careful consideration, without any pressure I resolved to take this opportunity.”

The marquess approached the princess and flourished a bow again. He spoke in such a quiet voice to let only Elizabeth hear him. “Your Highness, grief has clouded Her Majesty’s mind, and she does not understand the possible consequences of this journey. You do not like me, but I’ve always respected you as the king’s daughter, and I know how clever you are.”

The princess smiled. “I understand the risks we are taking.”

Exeter endeavored to appeal to Anne Boleyn’s daughter for the last time. “Can you imagine how furious His Majesty will be when you appear in the military camp? You will not be lodged in a castle in Boulogne: the city has not surrendered yet. How will you live in a tent?” 

Elizabeth did not answer straight away. She had not thought of the inconveniences of their voyage to France before. Her main motivation in this outlandish adventure was to try and meet with her mother and to persuade King Henry so that Anne should not be delivered to England as a prisoner of war. Carried away by her alarm and love for Anne, Lizzy had not considered any bad outcomes. No, I’ll not stay in England. I feel, with all my bones, that I shall see my mama soon.

The princess affirmed decisively, “I’m not a child anymore. I’m almost a woman, and I have the heart of a warrior princess. Living in a camp with my father’s soldiers will be a test for me, but I welcome challenge. Let everyone see how strong and courageous an English princess is.”

Catherine neared them. Looking at her stepdaughter, she said, “Regardless of her age, everyone will see that Elizabeth is a true Tudor capable of overcoming any difficulties.”

Ignoring the queen completely, the Marquess of Exeter took a step to the princess, too close, but Elizabeth would not back down. Their gazes collided in a silent battle.

Exeter assumed, “It’s all because of your mother.”

“Perhaps,” Bess admitted, her gaze holding his.

He sighed. “We do not even know whether Queen Anne is in Boulogne.”

“She must be there,” assumed the princess. “Or my father would not have besieged it.”

Finally, Exeter stepped back; his smile did not reach his eyes. “You do not comprehend what you are dragging yourself into. As a punishment, His Majesty might exile Your Highness.”

Elizabeth arched her brows like a cat toying with a mouse. “But isn’t it what you would like to happen, Lord Exeter? To separate me from Edward? You took my brother and his grandmother, Lady Honor Grenville, to your castle in Devon. However, I was not invited to join them.” 

The queen laughed at Exeter; Jane Boleyn and Bess Holland stood rigid.

Lady Joan Bulmer and Lady Catherine Parr had already disembarked from their litter. The two of them stood a small distance away from Jane and Bess, listening attentively.

“So strong-willed,” Exeter told the princess. “As for the Prince of Wales, I sent him to Devon with his grandmother because it is safe there, and at the time you were already in London.”

Elizabeth uttered, “I’ll not join Edward in Devon.”

Something flashed in Exeter’s orbs, and the princess detested the expression in them – half-vexed, half-petulant, and even somewhat hostile. Did they become sworn adversaries after this conversation? Why does Exeter love my brother Ned so much? He treats me with respect, but he adores Edward absolutely. Well, I am a girl, while my brother is a boy. Her mindset was not traditional, so Elizabeth was determined to prove that she was as strong as any man was.

Kitty eyed her stepdaughter fondly. “Lizzy will be with me.”

“Very well,” Exeter conceded. “The ship will be ready soon.”

The queen’s brows shot up. “You will be traveling with us, Lord Exeter? Why will you not stay in England? If the sweating weakness reaches Devon, you will have to urgently come there in time to evacuate Prince Edward? Or is your affection for the Prince of Wales not as enormous as you profess? Furthermore, your own son, Edward Courtenay, also lives in Devon.”

Exeter’s pale blue eyes blazed with something akin to irritation. “I’ll never allow two royal women to travel abroad without escort. Who will defend you if something happens, God forbid?” He sighed. “Your brother will be fine with Lady Honor and the Earl of Southampton.”

Kitty jeered, “Indeed, if something occurs to Elizabeth or me, His Majesty might have you arrested and your entire line attained, just as it happened to some of your York cousins.”

The queen regretted this insult as soon as they left her mouth. Due to her growing animosity towards Exeter, she had crossed a line when she had mentioned acridly the tragic fates of his York relatives. It was cruel of her to act so, and she saw the grief in Exeter’s usually impenetrable eyes. There was also a trace of the pent-up anger in his slender frigid frame, but something else too – something she could not discern. Have I made him my mortal foe? Kitty wondered frighteningly.

At this moment, Elizabeth took the queen’s hand and squeezed it. In the girl’s orbs, Kitty saw support and yet slight condemnation for her reckless ramblings aloud.

Exeter stifled his rage. “Your apartments must be ready. I sent Francis Dereham and Thomas Culpeper ahead to Dover to ensure that everything would be prepared for our arrival.”

A moment later, Francis Dereham exited the Great Tower and headed to the small gathering. He dropped into a bow. “We have awaited Your Majesty and Your Highness.”

“Well met, Master Dereham.” Exeter smiled only with his lips.

All of a sudden, both a thunder and a lightning came simultaneously. Rain began dropping from the sky with the force of a rampant waterfall. Everyone ran inside the tower, which was built in the 12th century as a symbol of King Henry II’s power and was a strategic defense fortress.

§§§

Francis Dereham knocked on the door of the Marquess of Exeter’s quarters. His master’s chilly baritone wrapped itself coldly about him as Exeter permitted entrance. Since their acquaintance, Dereham was amazed by Exeter’s dispassionateness that appeared to be almost an integral part of his character. In his antechamber swathed in Plantagenet-related expensive tapestries, the marquess sat in an ebony chair with his legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles, a cup of ale in one hand and an expression that told Dereham nothing, as always.

“Lord Exeter, I bring interesting news,” began Dereham as he sketched a bow.

“Good or bad?” Exeter’s countenance was a mask of impassiveness.

Dereham proceeded, “The sweating sickness killed thousands of civilians in London. Many nobles who were at court at the time became victims of this malady. The survivors hurried to their estates in countryside in the hope that it would save them from the infection.”

“What about the city of Devon? Were there any registered cases?” 

“No, thanks be to God. His Highness Prince Edward is safe so far.”

Exeter released a deep sigh that revealed his immense relief and his worry about the prince. “Lord Southampton and Lady Grenville will move His Highness to another place if the illness reaches Devon, God forbid, or if there is such a possibility. I would have stayed in England, but I cannot allow the queen and the princess to travel alone to France.”

Dereham nodded. “Lord Hertford, the king’s appointed regent, attempted to pacify the anger of Duke William von Cleves by sending him rich gifts. Yet, His Grace of Cleves is furious that there was an attempt on his sister’s life, so he broke the alliance with England.”

“That was expected.” Behind his façade, Exeter was overjoyed that Hertford, his rival, had received another blow to the shield of his power. “Has the murderer been found?” 

“Not yet.” Disgust and shock apparent in his features, Dereham informed, “Lord Hertford searched each and every corner of St James’s Palace, but he discovered no clues as to the identity of a criminal. How could someone butcher a woman in the same way as they had done to the late Sir Francis Bryan years ago? I cannot wrap my head around how someone can be so brutal.” 

“That person is the most cunning devil who has covered up his tracks very well.”

“He certainly does. I pray that Lord Hertford will eventually find them.”

There was a strange silence pulsating with tension for a minute. Slowly, Exeter emptied the cup and was now toying with it between his hands. “Something else?” 

Dereham tipped his head. “The discontent of the English people is rapidly growing. Too many are dying of the sweat and will succumb to it in the near future. They say that it is their punishment for the invasion of France, and that they are paying for their sovereign’s sins.” He lowered his voice. “They say that His Majesty destroyed most of the monasteries, but the Lord has expressed His righteous wrath by making the innocent populace suffer.”

Exeter leaned forward across an ebony table, where two decanters of wine and ale stood. He refilled his goblet and sipped some. “The folk often grumble about something.”  

The marquess’ loathing towards the commoners inwardly exasperated Dereham, but he concealed his feelings well. “They are all God’s children! They are suffering so much! Hertford has allocated some funds from the state treasury to help them, but that is not enough.”

Interest sparkled in Exeter’s eyes. “Hertford is squandering His Majesty’s money, isn’t he?”  He drained his cup. “He ought to accelerate the dissolution of chantries, just as I did.”

Two months ago, the Marquess of Exeter had sent his commissioners to the west of England, where he administered all the affairs in the monarch’s name. He had ordered to have all the chantries in the region dissolved within six months. The Earl of Hertford was now overseeing the dismantlement of the other chantries in England. Hertford and Exeter’s commissaries were acting ruthlessly to comply with the king’s wishes, for no one wanted to rot in the Tower of London. I do not like what I have to do, but otherwise, my head will roll on the scaffold, Exeter mused.

Dereham predicted, “A new rebellion is brewing, this time in Wales.”

That would be too good to be true for Exeter, for Hertford was responsible for the closure of the chantries in Wales. “Are they protesting against the whole religious reform?” 

“There have been no riots so far, but the populace of Wales are extremely outraged.”

Exeter said tightly, ‘Those who rebel are traitors to the Crown and must be executed.”

Blood froze in Dereham’s veins. “But surely not like Robert Aske’s pilgrims.”

“Neither you nor I decide such matters – His Majesty does, and we have to obey. We have no choice.” Exeter’s sigh signaled that the marquess was not as unfeeling as it could seem.

Dereham swallowed painfully. “Of course, your lordship.” He recalled what else he needed to report. “The Earl of Surrey escaped from the Tower, and now Hertford is looking for him.”

The marquess jeered, “So, our capable regent cannot even guard a prisoner.”

“Nobody knows where Lord Surrey is at this point. He could flee to France.”

“Is Sir Thomas Culpeper already in Dover? Is he planning to go to Boulogne?” 

“Yes, he is, my lord. His Majesty gave Culpeper a leave due to his health issues. The king’s favorite groom recovered and is now most eager to join His Majesty in Boulogne.”

“You are dismissed, Dereham. I’ll not need your anymore tonight.”

After bowing, Francis Dereham exited from the marquess’ chambers.

With a twinkle in his orbs, Exeter whistled in joy. “Hertford, you will lose everything! The attempt on the life  of Anne von Cleves and Surrey’s escape demonstrate that you cannot be trusted. If an uprising starts in Wales, I shall not envy your fate at all.” He sniggered.

My ascension to power is only beginning, the Marquess of Exeter told himself. It was as if Lady Fortune were smiling upon him by making such events as murders and escapes of notable people happen during the monarch’s absence while Edward Seymour was England’s regent.


November 9, 1545, Dover Castle, Kent, England

It was raining heavily, and the firmament was leaden with clouds appearing to be so heavy with water they could not hold it. The sunset was spectacular, spreading mauve and crimson shades across the gray fleece. The weather was so bad that the courtyards in the fortress were flooded with the abundant downpour. Everyone stayed inside the castle.

“I shall guard the door,” Jane Boleyn, Viscountess Rochford, promised in a whisper.

Queen Kitty smiled gratefully. “Jane, you are my best friend.” 

As the queen’s principal lady closed the door, Kitty and Thomas Culpeper remained alone.

The would-be-lovers froze in the middle of the spacious bedchamber illuminated only by a fire dancing in the ancient fireplace. The walls were draped in Flemish arrases depicting scenes from the life of King Henry II of England, the first Plantagenet monarch. Despite relatively modern and elaborately carved oak furniture, some pieces painted and some covered in gold leaves, the whole room looked like an old fortress: the stone floors were  not covered with carpets, and the shutters were closed tightly because of the storm outside and the descending night.

Culpeper’s gaze drifted to a tapestry portraying young Henry Plantagenet and King Stephen of England announcing the Treaty of Winchester in Winchester Cathedral, which signified the end of the Anarchy of 1135-1153 in medieval England. “It is quite a nice room.”

“Look there!” Catherine pointed at the wall hangings showing the wedding of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine. “The environment is both bellicose and romantic.”

“I would love to marry you if I could, my kitten.” His tone was tinged with regret.

She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t call me so! I hate the nickname my husband gave me.”

“I shall not. What do you feel for me?” He had confessed his love for Kitty many times in his letters, but the queen wanted to hear it again before she would surrender to the royal groom.

“I like you a lot.” Yet, the queen knew for a certainty that she did not love Culpeper.

Culpeper’s sapphire-blue eyes seemed too blue. “Every hour I think about your goodness, so great in its depth and so overpowering in its charm that I lose myself in worshiping you.”

“Prelates would condemn you for these words.”

“I love only you,” he whispered with a bone-shattering fondness etched into his countenance. “I came too late towards the gentleness of your eyes and the kindness of your heart because you were already married. Every time I saw you at feasts with my sovereign – so beautiful and yet so unattainable, my two imaginary hands stretched out quietly over the wide space between us. I envisaged myself embracing you, Catherine, and bedding you every night with vehement passion.”

Memories of her matrimony with the Tudor ruler flowed out of Kitty in words. “At first, I represented a breath of youth for the aging monarch. However, Henry has never been faithful to me. He has always kept mistresses, and after our late son’s birth, he distanced himself from me.”

Culpeper’s mouth twisted. “That ulcerated man is a fool! You are such a beauty!” 

The queen folded her arms over her breast, as though protecting herself from being touched by her abhorrent and now absent husband. “I disappointed Henry utterly: I lost his two unborn children, while Edmund was sickly. After my second miscarriage, he began to despise me.” She crossed herself at the remembrance of her dearly departed son, Prince Edmund.

The lust Culpeper felt for the queen gnawed at his entire being with its ravenous teeth. “My beloved! If you had been my spouse, I would have been a good husband to you.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Perhaps, when my last day comes, maybe if only for a moment, I might see a bleak and quavering sun from my cell’s window, and in its rays I’ll recognize your face.”

She was bewildered. “Why are you speaking of imprisonment and death?” 

His pallor was nervous, for he had just admitted too much. “Forget that, my dear.”

“Am I your sun?” A grin graced the queen’s radiant visage.

Culpeper glanced into her eyes warmly. “If I do not see you on some day, darkness encompasses my universe. Oh, the sweet affection of all my days are my meetings with you!”

Kitty was enamored of all the romantic things this man was saying. “We celebrate doubtful joys on festivities. We count and recount our treasures while forgetting about simple good things.”   

With something between a groan and a laugh, Thomas swept Catherine into his arms and carried her across the room to a bed with canopy of multicolored damask. Together they sank into the softness of the feather-filled mattress, and all the hesitations Kitty had felt before had vanished.   

“Thomas!” Catherine cupped his face. “I yearn to be healed from the pain of the past.”

“I’ll cure all the wounds of your heart that is so dear to me.”

As he stripped the queen of her blue silk nightgown, Culpeper admired her, as if Kitty were the Goddess Aphrodite. Her body was slim and perfect, with alabaster skin, full and firm breasts, and pink nipples growing hard under his palms. As she unlaced his doublet and hose of azure velvet, the queen took the time to marvel at Culpeper’s slender body with a broad chest furred with some brown hair, and well-defined muscles rippling down his torso and arms.

Kitty’s hand slid from his jaw down his neck and to his bosom. “You are very handsome.” Her hand slithered down his frame to his muscled abdomen. “So unlike the king.”

Culpeper fondled her breasts. “Henry is too old to sleep with you and is also gaining weight, so I pity his paramours.” His mouth went down to one nipple while teasing the other with his fingers. “So delicate and wonderful, longing for my attention. So deserving to have it.”

He caressed her with the softest kisses she had ever experienced. When Kitty had been the monarch’s mistress, she had admired Henry’s gentleness comparted to her brief encounters with Dereham. Nevertheless, the kisses and endearments Culpeper feasted upon her body were tenderer than petals of a rare flower, as intoxicating as the best wine in the universe. Each of his actions made her push aside all the doubts and fears further and further away.

Kitty was on the way to the healing of her fractured soul, with Culpeper aiding her to gather the pieces of her broken life. His kisses were the most effective remedy against her deep-seated terror to see Henry in the aftermath of Edmund’s death and the recent stillbirth of her son. The queen wanted Culpeper physically, she needed his warmth and his adoration of her, craving the endearing sense of belonging to a young, healthy man.  

Culpeper paused. “Am I not too quick, sweetheart?” 

She enjoyed the feeling of his hands on her belly. “No, my dearest.”

Enveloping the queen into his arms, the ruler’s groom kissed her hungrily, their tongues combated with his in a sultry ritual. Waves of pale candlelight falling at them from the fire in the hearth danced across their sweaty skin, gilding their silhouettes somewhat. Kitty let out a groan when his hands thrust her legs apart and then caressed the center of her feminity.

Her fingers dug into his back at the explosion of feeling ripping through her at this intimate caress. Neither Henry nor Dereham had touched her there, and the intimacy of this contact was so mind-blowing that her head was swimming in a vertigo of salacious dizziness. When his head appeared between her thighs, Kitty found herself in a whirlpool of awesome sensations.

“Thomas!” Her hands cupped her own breasts. “Ah! More!”

He muttered against her flesh, “Forget about that horrible king.”

It is a captivating madness to lie in Culpeper’s arms, the queen speculated between moans. To have his expert mouth wreak its rapture upon me. To feel his hard body pushing me deeper into the soft mattress. How much I’ve dreamed of with a young man throughout all these years! As Culpeper lay atop of Kitty and kissed her on the mouth and then her cheeks, her arms snaked around his neck, her fingers tangling into his thick blonde hair.

Kitty beseeched, “Thomas, I want you inside of me. Right now!” 

Culpeper was too aroused to wait for longer. “Be at ease: I’ll pull out.”

His lips sliding to her throat, he penetrated her with a practiced thrust. She wriggled beneath him as Culpeper drove into her with long strokes, rhythmically and yet slowly pounding down into her repeatedly. The rampant heat was rising within Catherine, the hot blood clamoring in her veins, and now she felt more alive than ever, merrier than during her liaison with Dereham. His movements grew fiercer as they were gradually climbing to the heavens of sensual delight.

“Kitty!” Culpeper was about to reach his peak.

The queen held his dazzled stare. “I can still be healed!” 

Before he could withdraw from her body, her legs clamped around his hips all too tightly, precluding him from doing so. Something vital and marvelous coiled up inside her just when he released his seed into her. Strong waves of pleasure passed through the queen like the most prurient tempest, toppling her whole being with its force over and over again until she could not breathe.

“Oh, my!” Kitty whispered against his lips. “I’ve never felt so.”

Panting, Culpeper questioned, “Why didn’t you allow me to–” 

“I’ll not deprive us of the enjoyment to feel so very close to each other.” In truth, she did not know why she had done that. She was not thinking of the possibility to conceive her lover’s child.

Dropping a kiss on her jaw, he pronounced huskily, “To me, you are the keen air, the wind of the fields and forests, and the finest scents of evening and dawn. You are my Catherine!” 

The queen’s smile was scintillating. “I do not regret it, Thomas. We will meet again.”

In the space of heartbeats, Lady Jane Boleyn knocked on the door. As she opened it a little, she reminded, “Two hours have passed. You must part your ways. Please, quickly!”

Within minutes, Thomas Culpeper was dressed. After casting a glance of hungry at the queen, he followed Jane who helped him leave the queen’s apartments unnoticed, as they believed. However, Joan Bulmer peeked her head from beneath the corner in one of the hallways.

After donning her nightgown, the queen snuggled into her bed. She was both excited and frightened by the wanton certainty that she would continue her liaison with Culpeper. She would not be able to resist the temptation of being with him anymore. After tonight, she would never be the same again. When we will be on the ship, I’ll live with Culpeper in my cabin. 

§§§

Long after the castle clock tolled the hour of midnight, Lady Joan Bulmer knocked on the door of the Marquess of Exeter’s apartments. They never met earlier because his servants or pages, including Dereham, could notice Joan, and Exeter did not want any of the queen’s handmaidens to suspect about her espionage for him. The door opened, and she slipped inside.

Hal Courtenay appeared with a candle in his hand. His red satin doublet was half-unfastened, revealing his black taffeta shirt. “You are too late, Lady Joan. We had to meet at midnight.”

“I was busy in the queen’s household.” Joan blushed, for she was attracted to the marquess. She had long had thoughts of becoming his mistress, for Exeter was a well-known philanderer.

“It is about two in the morning.” He lit more candles.

Joan looked around with distaste. “Everything is so medieval, and I dislike this place.”

A fire cracked in the massive stone hearth in the center of the antechamber. Two of the walls were bare, while the other walls were hung with tapestries depicting King Richard I of England called the Lionheart and his Third Crusade of 1189-1192 to the Holy Land. As the door to the bedroom was open, Joan saw that inside the ebony furniture, together with a bed canopied with was old and belonged to the middle of the 15th century.

Joan observed, “The queen’s apartments are better furnished.”

Exeter snarled, “Of course, Her Majesty and Her Highness are lodged in the best rooms in the castle.” Narrowing his eyes at her, he demanded, “Now tell me everything.”

She shivered under his icy gaze. “Thomas Culpeper came to the queen’s rooms at midnight – one hour later than they planned. That is why I’m late for our meeting, my lord.”

“Is Lady Rochford keeping watch near the queen’s door like a sentinel?” 

“That is exactly what I overheard. Lady Rochford dismissed all of Her Majesty’s ladies-in-waiting, but she remained in the antechamber. After the queen’s rendezvous with Culpeper, she put Her Adulterous Majesty to bed and then went to her own tryst with Francis Dereham.”

“That is a useful turn of events,” the marquess drawled.

“Jane Boleyn and Dereham are head over heels in love.”

Exeter settled himself in a high-back chair by the hearth. “Ah, there are too many love birds around! Kitty-kitten with Culpeper, Dereham, and Lady Rochford. Maybe someone else.”

Joan neared him, her hands gripping the neckline of her orange damask gown, as if to display the exposed skin of her bosom. “If you wish, I may help you relax tonight, Lord Exeter.”

He laughed so hard that he could barely breathe. “You have made quite an impression on me, but only as my spy. You have already been and will be well rewarded.”

“You are most generous.” Her cough masked her chagrin at his rejection.

Exeter extracted a pouch of black velvet from his belt. “For you.”

Joan’s eyes gleamed with avarice. “Thank you! I’m your most loyal servant.”

“Take it,” he emboldened, amused by her greed. “Gold coins.”

Rushing to the marquess, Lady Joan Bulmer grabbed the heavy pouch and put it into a pocket of her gown. If she were smarter and more attentive, Joan would have noticed that the pouch was embroidered with the small coat-of-arms of Queen Catherine Howard on Exeter’s orders.

“Did Kitty burn the letters she exchanged with Culpeper?” 

Joan smiled knavishly. She produced several folded sheets of paper from a pocket of her gown and handed them to Exeter. “These are her three last letters.”

The marquess was most pleased. “Excellent.”

Within the next several minutes, Exeter checked the letters, smiling craftily. He climbed to his feet and went to a chest of drawers at the other side of the chamber. He opened the upper drawer and retrieved another pouch with the same amount of gold; then he returned to Joan.   

Lady Bulmer beamed as she took the pouch. “I do not deserve it, my lord.”

Her absentmindedness was rather surprising: she did not notice that the second pouch was also ornamented with the queen’s heraldry. “You do.” He dismissed, “Go now. It is too late.”

After curtseying, Joan backed away to the door, never breaking their eye contact. Her heart thumped like a drum, accelerating and accelerating, for she desired Exeter as a man.

When the door was closed, the Marquess of Exeter settled back in his chair. Staring into the flames, he thought through his plan to have Queen Catherine annihilated as an adulteress. The queen’s letters to Culpeper lay on a nearby table. Joan Bulmer was a witness, but as she had the pouches with the queen’s heraldry, the truth could be twisted to provide King Henry with the “proof” that Kitty had paid to Joan for silence, not that Exeter had paid to Joan for espionage.

I’ll watch your execution, Kitty-kitten-cat, vowed Exeter. The bereavement had made Kitty desperate: she had taken a lover after four years of being faithful to the monarch. Intoxicated by the thrill of danger and by her affection for Culpeper, she was not cautious to hide her indiscretions. If Lady Jane Boleyn was threatened with torture, she would reveal her mistress’ secrets. Lady Joan Bulmer would also be coerced into disclosing the truth about Kitty’s amours.

The marquess had long masterminded the plan of Kitty’s elimination. His antipathy to the Howard queen was caused by her dislike of Prince Edward. Having long grasped the art of weaving intrigues, Exeter planned, waited, gathered intelligence, watched, and finally attacked at an unexpected moment. Like a spider, he was aware of everything through the network of his spies.

Staring into the flames as if he could see prophecies of a future in them, Exeter spoke to himself. “I shall reveal the truth to His Majesty upon our arrival in Boulogne. My cousin will be furious at seeing both Elizabeth and Kitty in the camp, and it will serve my purpose well. Henry will have Kitty and her accomplices apprehended, together with Dereham and Joan Bulmer.”

With such thoughts, the Marquess of Exeter stood up and walked to the bedroom.

He discarded his garments and threw them on a bedside table. His mind drifted to his fellow Pope’s agent whose monstrous cruelty had been demonstrated in the awful murders of Francis Bryan, Louis de Perreau, and the unfortunate handmaiden of Anne von Cleves. Exeter would also apprise his liege lord of the identity of the Pope’s agent, while hiding that he himself was Farnese’s spy. I shall dispose of this beast, and he will fall together with Queen Catherine, he resolved. I cannot work for the Vatican anymore because I shall never be able to kill for that Farnese Lucifer.  

Exeter rested on the bed and shut his eyes. He envisaged the gorgeous Catherine Parr in his embrace, dreaming to taste the sweetness of her lips again. What did he feel for Catherine Parr? He was so very fond of her! He admired her intelligence, dignity, wisdom, and appearance, but most of all, Exeter was charmed by her qualities. I was such a buffoon thinking that I would forget Cathy easily. Romance is never quite devoid of sentimentality.

His heart constricted at the memory of why he had broken up with his former mistress. He addressed her as if she could hear him. “It is better for you not to be with me, Cathy. You are too good for me. I’m not the sort of man that women can be happy with.” Yet, Lady Parr was still present in his dreams, and his soul palpitated with a yearning to see Madame Parr again.

§§§

“What are you hiding from me, Jane?” Francis Dereham asked his mistress.   

“Nonsense!” she replied, her expression vexed. “Nothing!” 

Jane Boleyn and Francis Dereham lay, their forms entwined after their fiery lovemaking, on a wide bed made of mahogany. A heavy canopy of black and asparagus brocade fell from the ceiling, making the lovers ensconced in their amorous abode. Today, their much-desired tryst had been delayed for two hours because of Queen Catherine’s meeting with Culpeper.

He stretched his body along the sheets. “Kitty has always wanted to be noticed by men.”  

She propelled herself on the elbows. “What do you mean?” 

“I’ve seen how the queen looks at Culpeper. It would not be reasonable for her to take a lover now. She ought to wait for several years, and when His Majesty dies, she will regain her freedom. As a wealthy Queen Dowager, she will be able to do whatever she wants quite soon.”

Jane would not confirm that Catherine and Culpeper had sinned together. “Perhaps, but the king will be incensed after Prince Edmund’s demise and the birth of a dead son.”

“She might ask him for an annulment,” he advised.

It had never occurred to Kitty or Jane before. “On what grounds?” 

Dereham kissed her on the top of her head. “Bareness, for example. Talk to Her Majesty about it. It must be hard for her to live in this sham of a marriage to His tyrannical Majesty.”

“Do you think Henry will agree?” She sounded skeptical.

“Yes,” he answered confidently. “Our sovereign would want to remarry so as to father more heirs. Nonetheless, it is difficult for him to produce any robust progeny.”

Jane knew better than anyone else how Kitty had struggled to give the ruler a healthy child. “The monarch is seek or cursed, or his seed is weak. Yet, he will always blame women.”

“After his death, Kitty will be able to look in all directions.”

She traced the contours of Dereham’s face. “Enough about the queen.”

His hazy green eyes were like a green forest blanketed by fog. “I love you, Jane.” 

She kissed his cheeks. “Your eyes are forming my entire world.”

Dereham pulled her effortlessly into his arms and kissed her, as if he were starving for her. “God, Jane! I cannot imagine my life without you. Marry me, for we are not old yet.”

Jane chortled. “Maybe I’ll say yes soon, despite my love for freedom.”

He sent her a bone-melting smile. “We have gotten off to the wrong start.”

“Why?” She moaned as his lips slid to her ear and then her throat, igniting a concupiscent fire everywhere they touched. “Do you want to make me change my decision?” 

His hands slid to her hips. “If we marry, we will be able to lie abed all the time and to make love endlessly. No kings and queens. No court. No danger to make enemies. Just you and me.”

Her grin was infectious. “I begin to think so.”

Dereham requested, “Then marry me here, in Dover.” 

Jane stipulated, “Not unless you cease working for the Marquess of Exeter.”

He was confused. “Lord Exeter has been very generous to me, and he is a good man.”

“You are mistaken,” assured Jane, feeling a shiver of unease at the mere thought of Exeter. “Hal Courtenay is a consummate actor. I fear that he hired you for some vile reason.”

“What?” Dereham looked into the flames flickering in the hearth in the corner.

Her mind was now made up. “If you abandon Lord Exeter’s service, I’ll become your wife. I have my portion of the Boleyn inheritance that His Majesty was kind enough to give me thanks to the kindness of Lady Jane Percy. We will retire to my estates to countryside.”  

His eyes widened. “Do you think that I’ll live on a woman’s money?” 

She did not want to lose him. “Francis, listen. You can–”

“Am I not a man?” He was now annoyed. “Do you respect me?” 

“I do – a lot.” She was torn between her detestation of Exeter and Dereham’s dependence upon the salary paid to him by the man. “Can we discuss it later, my beloved?” 

“Yes!” His smile was wicked. “You will scream in rapture now.”

Her eyes glinted with mischief. “Contrariwise. We should be quiet.”

Like the woodland deity haunting ancient forests, Jane straddled Dereham, and he entered her with a swift, hard stroke. The movements of their hips were too chaotic due to their impatience, his tongue surging lewdly into her mouth. For a short time, the matter of their marriage disappeared from their thoughts. Outside, the rain pelted the windows, the lightning flashing across the sky like the sharp claws of the Marquess of Exeter who stealthily planned their demise.

§§§

Princess Elizabeth seated herself on the windowsill. Because of her insomnia, she observed the dark firmament being torn apart by bolts of lightning, flashing like inferno. The tempest outside was so harsh that the wind threw rain into the window from all sides. Gray clouds gathered in billows over the moon, turning everything opaque, like a coffin for a corpse.

From time to time, the girl looked around. Accustomed to Hatfield and the luxurious palaces, she found her surroundings quite a novelty. A wide bed with a canopy of green silk dominated the room. One wall was bare, while the three other walls were covered with tapestries with scenes of Eleanor of Aquitaine and Richard the Lionheart, her favorite son. Pieces of ebony furniture were decorated with elements from the classical world such as columns, pediments, and cornices.

When the door in her bedroom opened, Elizabeth swiveled her head to see Lady Catherine Parr. The queen’s maid-of-honor swept a curtsey to the princess and came to her.

“Why is Your Highness not sleeping?” asked Catherine in the most polite accents.

“I cannot.” The princess was wary of any questions.

“It is difficult to sleep on such a stormy night. Do you want some milk?” 

The girl’s mouth tightened. “If you wish to chide me, I’ll dismiss you.”

Catherine emitted a sigh of frustration. “Your Highness! There was light in your chambers, and the purpose of my visit was to ensure that you do not need anything.”

Her head cocked to one side, Elizabeth regarded her thoughtfully. “You have always been attentive to me at Hatfield. You were also a good governess to little Edmund.”

A shadow crossed over Catherine’s face. “I still blame myself for his demise.”

The princess’ heart arched for her deceased sibling and also for this woman whom she liked. “It is nobody’s fault, Lady Parr. The Almighty calls home people for a reason.”

“I would have done anything to save Prince Edmund if I could.”

In a short silence, they crossed themselves and gave silent tribute to the dead prince.

“Don’t blame yourself.” Bess glanced out again.

Catherine also stared out. “Are you thinking of your mother, Queen Anne?” 

Elizabeth turned to her abruptly. “How do you know?”  

“At nights like this, people often think of those whom they love and miss.” Catherine’s heart constricted as her mind drifted back to the Marquess of Exeter, the only man she had ever loved.

The princess let out a grin. “Indeed.” She looked out again.

A crackle of lightning rumbled in the sky, and then another. As the loud sounds spread out, it seemed as if countless people were roaring outside, and they could hear them despite being inside the fortress. The lightning rumbled unceasingly, and the downpour of rain was accelerating.

“I’m afraid,” Elizabeth muttered, half-dismayed, half-exasperated, “that these severe storms will delay our departure. I would not want to spend weeks at Dover Castle.”

Catherine noted, “It would be dangerous to cross the Channel in such weather.”

The princess snorted grimly. “Not as bad as it would be not to travel to Boulogne.”

The older woman figured out her fears. “Your Highness strives to prevent His Majesty from taking your mother prisoner and dragging her in chains to England, don’t you?” 

“Would you not do the same for your parents, Madame?” 

After a moment of dithering, Lady Parr responded, “I would, without a shadow of a doubt, even though it might have bad consequences for you. The king’s wrath will fall upon you.”

“I’m not afraid of this,” the princess affirmed moodily.

Catherine admired Anne Boleyn’s daughter almost since the first day of her appearance at Hatfield three years ago. “You have the bravest heart of a warrior despite our gender.”

Elizabeth huffed, “I’ve never believed that a woman’s role is just to give birth to a child after child, to take care of her family, and to run the household.” The light of affection for her mother brightened her black eyes. “It is wonderful to have a family only if you find true love, just as my mama did with King François. I have five siblings, and one day, I hope to meet them.”

Catherine was quite astonished that the girl was not jealous of Anne to her French siblings. “I’m sure it will happen, Your Highness. Perhaps even in Boulogne.”

“In Boulogne,” repeated Elizabeth. She strode to the hearth. “Leave me, please.”

Lady Parr curtsied and walked out, hoping that the princess would retire to bed soon.

This night, sleep evaded Elizabeth Tudor in her confused and frustrated frame of mind. When she finally dozed off, her sleep was rather fitful, with her mother’s tearful face flickering before her mind’s eye. The princess dreamed of her last meeting with Anne when the former Queen of England had begged the monarch to give her another chance. When Elizabeth awoke, she was overwhelmed with the assurance of her mother needing her now, and she lay trembling for hours.  


November 20, 1545, the English camp, outside of Boulogne, France

The late autumn day was crisp, dull, and rather cold, but at least it was not raining. Clad in his fancy armor, King Henry stood near the outer walls of Boulogne with guards. Despite being for several months under siege, the city did not capitulate yet.   

The soldiers, their leather vests covering their chain males, bent over the opposite ends of a huge crank. Their groans of strain matched the creaking of wooden beams, which were connected together to form a massive spoon, in which they were lifting stones. Within a few moments, they loaded a mangonel catapult with the stones. Then, slowly, a light grew at the base of the wall, and black smoke rose like a bad omen – then Henry heard a loud crack and an ear-splitting rumble.

“Load more!” the Duke of Suffolk commanded.

Focusing his scrutiny upon the city’s wall looming above him, the monarch shrieked in joy. The structure buckled and slid down towards the ground as the wall in that section crumbled and left a gaping, dusty void where an impenetrable barrier had once been.

“The wall has been breached!” one of the knights cried, and others echoed.

“Continue!” enjoined Suffolk. “We need another breach to enter!” 

The same mangonel was repositioned for the next attempt and was re-loaded with stones. Two carts moved towards the gathering of workers, delivering more large rocks and stones, which were then put to three ballistas. Several catapults – mangonel and ballistas – had been installed yesterday in this place. After the unsuccessful direct assaults, Henry and Suffolk had decided to use siege machines to destroy some of the outer walls in the lower part of the city.

As the catapults pummeled the walls with stones and rocks, the noise was deafening. From the distance, the ruler only saw flames and then a cloud of dust, immediately followed by a crack that echoed through the whole area. Another part of the wall collapsed, and a roar went up, as a group of men dashed to the breach surrounded by the rubble, and looked inside.

The Duke of Suffolk approached his sovereign and bowed. “We may enter the lower section of the city. I suggest that our catapults continue bombarding the walls here.”

“Well done, Charles,” lauded the monarch. “I trust you completely.”

“Thank you, sire. I think we will be able to infiltrate into the city tomorrow.”

Henry flashed a smile. “That would be excellent.”

For a moment, Suffolk was silent, observing more carts drive towards the wall. He did not comprehend why he was in Boulogne, why he was fulfilling his duty to the king who had lost the vision of everything except for his hatred of King François and Queen Anne. Doing his duty to the monarch who had seduced his late wife, Catherine Willoughby, and who had long ceased being his friend. I wish to return to England and to be with my wife who, thanks be to God, is not dead.

The ruler closed the gap between them. He put his gloved hand onto his subject’s shoulder, covered with armor, just as the rest of Suffolk’s body was. “We will find the murderer.”

“Really?” asked Charles with a note of doubt. “It is obvious Anne’s maid was killed by the same criminal who slaughtered both Francis Bryan and the French ambassador Louis de Perreau. Hertford and Norfolk endeavored to discover the man for several years, but they have failed.”

Henry balled his fists. “That monster does not leave traces.”

Brandon spoke with relief. “Anne is alive at least.” 

The monarch’s grief resurfaced, encompassing him in a web of despair. “How could God allow my precious son, my Edmund, to die? Why did He then take away my unborn son when Kitty went into labor on the day of your wife’s death?” 

Suffolk emphasized with the king, but as a subject who was sad about the loss of a prince – not as a friend. “My deepest sympathies, Your Majesty. The whole of England is mourning for Prince Edmund and your unborn male child. You still have two more offspring.”

Henry crossed himself. “My Ned and Lizzy are all that is left of all my children. Every day I pray for them. My cousin, Hal, wrote that he delivered them to safety, and that they did not show any symptoms of the sweat. At least it was so a few weeks ago…” 

“I’m certain that Hal Courtenay knows how to protect the royal children from all perils.” The Duke of Suffolk trusted his friend, Exeter, and was his ally against the Earl of Hertford.

“It is not Hal’s fault that Edmund got sickened.”

“Indeed. Your daughter and son are alive, so the Tudor dynasty will continue.”

The monarch grumbled, “I need another Duke of York to secure the succession.”

The metallic taste of his pain in Suffolk’s mouth evolved into the bile of disgust. The king cared only about male heirs! However, Charles uttered evenly, “Of course, Your Majesty.”

They peered into each other’s eyes, discerning anguish in them. Visions of the battles they had fought together, of the feasts they had celebrated together, of the adventures they had enjoyed in their youth, of the losses they had suffered – all these things flashed through their brains. These speaking ghosts brought back the old memories torturously – they were no longer young.   

There is no friendship left between us, Charles said to himself. Currently, all that we have in common is our sorrows over our losses. He could clearly see that now! Brandon would never pronounce that aloud out of fear that he would be imprisoned, but he knew the truth. They were both sure that the Pope’s bloodthirsty agent had perpetrated the murders at the Tudor court.

Another shout resonated, and several catapults flung stones and boulders at the other sections of the wall in a coordinated maneuver. In response, from the opening in the wall, a volley of arrows was fired and spears were thrown at the Englishmen by the defenders of Boulogne.

“Hold back!” ordered Suffolk, and the knights complied.

Henry demanded, “What are the news of Dauphin Henri? Although that Valois parvenu has been under siege in Milan for two months, his son and marshals might create problems for us.”

Charles informed, “The troops of the French dauphin and those of Admiral Chabot de Brion have had ferocious confrontations in Picardy for months against the Duke of Alba’s armies.”

The king laughed. “Henri is a mere boy. He is not dangerous for us.”

Brandon had an opposite opinion. “Henri is his father’s son, but he is more a son of France. He is a fierce lad! The battles in Picardy all ended in draw for the French and the Imperial forces.”

“Just a boy,” reiterated the ruler, sniggering at the dauphin.

His subject sighed at his overconfidence. “According to our spies, soon the French and the Imperial armies will clash in Soissons in Picardy. If the dauphin and Chabot win and push the emperor’s men back into Artois, the dauphin might march on Boulogne then.”

“With His Grace of Norfolk besieging Paris, Dauphin Henri will be quite preoccupied.”

“The Earl of Surrey escaped,” Suffolk reminded.

Henry’s countenance contorted in rage. “Hertford will pay for all of his mistakes!” 

Although Charles would be pleased to see the Earl of Hertford ousted from power, the ruler’s increasingly mercurial tendencies frightened him more and more. “As you wish, sire.”

For the rest of the day, the English soldiers were patrolling the area they had secured inside the lower section of Boulogne. As the French artillery renewed their bombardment of those who labored to penetrate the city through the gap, the Duke of Suffolk commanded to keep a careful distance from the walls. Perhaps they would have to wait for several more weeks before the strong garrison of Boulogne would capitulate because of their dwindling stock of food.

Notes:

Hello everyone! We hope that you are fine and safe. Take care of yourself!

King Henry laid siege to Boulogne. He knows that Anne is now in the city. The Duke of Suffolk has a very interesting character arc and will have to experience some dramas. The French and Imperial forces are fighting in Picardy, and soon we will have scenes with these battles.

Catherine Howard is a tragic queen in this AU; perhaps more tragic than Anne Boleyn. She is a brokenhearted woman who lost her two sons and her unborn children after two miscarriages. We wanted to make her a more interesting character than she was portrayed in the show and in history. Catherine does not love Culpeper, but she wants to be with a young and handsome because she erroneously thinks it will help her somewhat heal from her heartbreaks.

Joan Bulmer and Francis Dereham both work for the Marquess of Exeter. Now Exeter has made another step towards the realization of his conspiracy against Kitty. Exeter is one of our favorite characters due to his complexity, and he will have a difficult and dramatic fate. Elizabeth Tudor is going to Boulogne with Kitty, and perhaps she will see her mother and her brothers there. Maybe Exeter has some feelings for Catherine Parr who does love him.

The descriptions of Dover Castle are more or less historically correct.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 67: Chapter 66: A Kingdom without Monarchs

Notes:

France is left without her monarchs. Queen Marguerite of Navarre rules as regent, she has to deal with political setbacks. The lives of King Henri II of Navarre and his consort are in peril. Dauphin Henri fights for his country and accomplishes something good.

We recommend the works by BubblyYork, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, annethequene, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 66: A Kingdom without Monarchs

December 5, 1545, Château d’Angers, the city of Angers, France

Queen Marguerite of Navarre stumbled into the spacious chamber. The court now resided in Angers. Among the many royal palaces in central France, she had selected Château d’Angers – one of the oldest castles, having been constructed in the 9th century by the Counts d’Anjou.

As a wave of nervous weakness washed over her, Marguerite staggered across the room to a dark walnut desk. She tumbled in an armchair adorned with the Valois heraldry.

“Forgive me, François,” sobbed Marguerite. “I’ve failed the country and you.”

At her behest, this chamber served as her study. All of the walls were swathed in the so-called Apocalypse tapestries, commissioned by Louis I, Duke of Anjou, in the late 14th century. As the fates of Queen Anne and King François were uncertain, the frightening images of the Apocalypse reminded Marguerite of what might happen to France if they did not save the couple.

For months, Marguerite had worked assiduously to preserve the alliance with the Protestant nations. Having meetings with non-Catholic diplomats every day, she had channeled all her energy into convincing the German Protestant States and other non-Catholic rulers that France was not responsible for the massacres in Provence, Piedmont, Milan, and several other places.

She had argued against their confidence of François’ alleged guilt, claiming that if the king had ordered the slaughter, he would not have been entrapped in Milan at present. Nevertheless, as things in politics changed as fast as the weather does, some had begun to view an alliance with France as a burden for them, seeing François’ current predicament – Milan was surrounded by the Imperial troops of over one hundred thousand men – as the final agony of the Knight-King.

The deposition of Montmorency as the governor of Rome and the new Imperial invasion of France had fueled the desire of such rulers to break their ties with the kingdom. Few believed in France’s another triumph over the Holy Roman Empire, for the Valois realm had lost its king and queen for an indefinite time, if not forever. Neither the Navarrese queen’s diplomatic talents nor her sumptuous gifts had helped, and today the Protestant alliance was officially broken.

Another discomforting factor was the imprisonment of Ferdinand von Habsburg. Out of all the former non-Catholic allies, only Landgrave Philip of Hesse and King Gustav I of Sweden had not switched their allegiances. At least, the members of the Schmalkaldic League and Norway had announced their neutrality in France’s current confrontation against the House of Habsburg.

Marguerite pounded her fists on the desk. “I’m an embarrassment to the Valois family.”   

Tears blinded her vision, and she dragged a deep, steadying breath. She could not stop tears, exhausted by her ever-increasing worry about Anne, François, and their sons.

The door was ajar, so Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly had unintentionally eavesdropped upon her lover’s wife. At first, she had not wanted to make her presence known, but then she slipped into the study and said, “Your tears do not make you a bad sister, Madame.”

Marguerite glowered at the intruder. “What are you doing here?” 

Anne strode to the desk, but then she paused. “Strong and brilliant women such as yourself hate to be seen in the moments of vulnerability. I do not want to cause you any discomfort.”

The Queen of Navarre asserted, “You are doing that now.”

“No! Your Majesty is one of the most remarkable women who were born and will ever be born in Christendom. You have the body of a woman, but the mind of a competent ruler.”

A baffled Marguerite scrubbed the salty liquid away. “Why do you say that?” 

“You have the compelling reason to dislike me, but I’ve always admired you.”

Marguerite was befuddled. “Is it a spectacle, Madame d’Étampes?” 

Her husband’s mistress smiled. “Just the gospel truth, Your Majesty.”

Marguerite contemplated a tapestry showing the eagle of doom, while Anne heaved a sigh.

“Your Majesty, do not think of death and doom looking at these rich tapestries. Our beloved France, though battered by our enemies, will regain her monarchs.”

The king’s sister perused another tapestry symbolizing mortality that was represented as a decaying corpse. “I know nothing of my dearest brother and very little of Anne.”

“God will protect them both. They will return in glory.”

Marguerite scrutinized the duchess from head to toe. At present, Anne de Pisseleu was seven months along in her pregnancy, and her gown of azure satin, lavishly ornamented with diamonds, stressed her enlarged stomach. In her maturity, Anne’s loveliness was tinctured in hues of dignity and feminity, which had both come with motherhood. Another fruit of my husband’s adultery is growing inside of his slut, Marguerite half-bemoaned, half-fumed in her mind.

Anne resumed her speech. “The old anti-Habsburg coalition has been dissolved. Then let it be so! Do not blame yourself for that because it is not your fault. Nowadays the situation is as bad as it was back in 1536 when the invaders almost conquered half of France.”

Marguerite casually lifted the small map of the Valois kingdom where only two provinces those where the battles were now unfolding – were encircled in black. “Indeed, at present we have only an invasion of Picardy and an invasion of Languedoc, thanks be to the Lord. The enemies have so far been unable to trample our land with their dirty boots. We may avoid a very massive invasion if my husband and my nephew succeed in repelling them from Picardy and Languedoc.”

“Henri of Navarre, Dauphin Henri, and François’ marshals will rescue the nation.”

The queen was ashamed at the remembrance of how she had berated her spouse for his non-existent betrayal. “My spouse has been effective in battling against the Spaniards who attempt to invade into the heart of France from the south. He has kept them in Languedoc and Navarre.”

“Henri would never have betrayed France,” assured Anne de Pisseleu.

The queen’s eyes narrowed. “He told you about our quarrel, didn’t he?”

“No. However, Henri was crestfallen after you had hurtled those accusations at him.”

Marguerite divulged, “François and I have long known that you helped the Lorraine brothers escape. Queen Anne did not inform us about it, but we were already aware of that.”

“Why wasn’t I… arrested, then?” Anne stammered.

The queen burst out laughing. “Oh, come now, Madame d’Étampes. Do you really believe that François would have executed you? He is a noble-minded man to do such a thing to a woman. My brother pardoned you without recalling you back to court and castigating you for your aid to our enemies to flee to Spain. We also guessed that the Lorraine brothers are highly likely to have pressured you, and later, we learned that you were their mistress, too.”

A shaken Anne fumbled for support and gripped the back of a nearby chair. “I was such a fool, and I regret my actions with all my heart. If only I could have changed that…” 

“You cannot. Now the Lorraine siblings are in the Imperial army in Milan.”

“Perhaps I’ll do something after the labor.” Anne’s hand flew to her abdomen.

The queen looked away to evade the picture of her husband’s paramour caressing her belly. “You are courageous, Madame. When Queen Anne sent you on a mission to England, she gave you a chance – so did François and I.” She stilled for a split second. “You embarked on a dangerous adventure in England while knowing of your condition. If one of us, especially my husband, had been aware of your pregnancy at the time, you would not have journeyed anywhere.”

Anne gathered her wits. “I did that for France.”

“That is commendable.” Marguerite was now sincere.

“Where is the Earl of Surrey at present?” 

Marguerite apprised, “Charles de Marillac and Lady Rochford arranged his escape. Surrey crossed the Channel on our ship and arrived at La Rochelle in Brittany.”

“I’m glad that Lord Surrey is alive. Do you have any news from Boulogne?” 

“Yes.” The queen dipped her head. “We use pigeons that carry most secret messages across France. The governor of Boulogne set me several notes that they are under siege.”

“Have you received anything from King François?” 

Marguerite sighed with anguish. “No. We use pigeons for exchange of messages only within France. We have no information whether my brother, my niece Margot, and Montmorency are alive or not. God in heaven, the three of them are all trapped in Milan!” 

An agitated silence ensued as they prayed for the besieged captives from Milan.

“Are Queen Anne’s sons alive, Your Majesty?”

“Yes, they are. Augustine, Antoine, and Jean are all unscratched so far. Dauphin Henri has been unable so far to lead his troops to Boulogne because of the constant attacks of the Flemish. The Imperial armies have built a living wall along the northern border of Picardy.”

“God bless His Highness for victories so that he can march on Boulogne.”

“The Almighty bless my nephew.” The king’s sister crossed herself.

Marguerite has aged well, Anne de Pisseleu remarked to herself wordlessly. Just as François, she looks a decade younger than her real age. It is their family trait. There was almost no gray strands of hair on the head of the king’s sister. Marguerite had wrinkles around her eyes, and her previously smooth neck now had lines of age. Her gown of black and golden brocade was not revealing. The air of strength and intelligence about the queen formed her charm.

The Duchess d’Étampes advised, “Your Majesty, have faith in yourself, and in the return of our monarchs. The country has only you, your husband, and Dauphin Henri. If you and His Highness falter in a time of trouble, there will be no France. When our ordeals are over, those Protestant rats, which have abandoned you, will run back to you.”

After curtseying, Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly strolled out.

Marguerite sat in grave silence, her thoughts jumbling in her tired head. Staring into the fire leaping in the fireplace, she prayed for their homeland, her brother, her sister-in-law, and her nephews. The queen was discomfited by the conversation with her spouse’s mistress, but in the ocean of her frustration, a sense of grudging respect to her rival was gradually forming. That did not lessen Marguerite’s outrage caused by Henri d’Albert’s affair with Anne de Pisseleu.

§§§

“Congratulations, Madame la Dauphine!” exclaimed everyone who approached the wide bed where Catherine de’ Medici rested under a canopy of magenta rose damask.

After the relatively easy labor that had lasted for seven hours, Catherine had birthed healthy male twins. Joy blossomed in the château that had been an abode of gloom for a long time. Tonight, many nobles – most of them female courtiers as men had gone to war – paid visits to the Dauphine of France. She smiled, and they responded in kind, but Catherine sensed their reticence.

Catherine watched Queen Marguerite of Navarre and her friend, Françoise d’Alençon.

Margot cradled the first baby. “The oldest twin looks like my nephew – Prince Charles, Duke d’Orleans. Nevertheless, his complexion is lighter than that of his parents. Otherwise, he is a Valois.” A sigh fled her lips. “Let’s name him Charles after his dearly departed, heroic uncle.”

Françoise dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “The dauphin would name him so.”

Catherine’s gaze traversed her vicinity with annoyance. She considered her apartments at this palace not luxurious enough. She had given birth to two princes, now feeling as if she were the winner of the Panhellenic Games in ancient Greece, which were closely linked to the religious festivals of the ancients. The walls were draped in lemon-colored fabric, as were the table in the corner and all of the high-back armchairs scattered around the area. She missed the luxuries of Château de Fontainebleau and other more modern royal châteaux.

“Precisely.” Marguerite kissed the baby’s cheeks.

Catherine’s loyal handmaidens – Maddalena and Lucrezia – were angry as well. They were aware that their mistress dreamed of naming her son Henri after her husband.

When the midwife handed the newborn to her, Catherine had been dismayed to discover the resemblance between Prince Charles de Valois, murdered by Madeleine de Montmorency, and her son. However, this feeling was superseded by an overmastering sense of triumph. I’ve provided France with two healthy male heirs. Later, I’ll have more sons! the dauphine enthused.

“Without a shadow of a doubt.” The Queen of Navarre could not tear herself away from the infant. “I’ll dispatch a messenger to Henri tomorrow first thing in the morning.”

Françoise d’Alençon held the second baby boy. “This boy looks like Dauphin Henri.” She sighed. “Oh, our dauphin is a poor thing! He must learn the military art in the absence of King François and Anne de Montmorency. Admiral de Chabot will certainly look after him.”

Marguerite admitted, “Henri has struggled not to crumble under a burden of responsibility.”

A nearly lachrymose Françoise nodded. “At present, France is a large kingdom without her king and queen.” Her scrutiny slid to her friend. “Your Majesty, I pray for King François, Queen Anne, and their sons every day. You, your spouse, and Dauphin Henri are our only hope!”

“I pray for them constantly as well.” Marguerite was dejected.

Wings of immense pride and jubilation elevated Catherine in her mental universe where she was already the Queen of France. Tortured by the throes of anxiety and impatience overriding her other emotions, she was cloaked in a cocoon of hopes for the glorious future of Henri, her, and their offspring. A golden future without Anne, François, their brats, and Diane. No one can imagine that I’ve entrapped the whore and her pagan husband in Boulogne and Milan. Idiots!

Marguerite’s voice intruded into the dauphine’s reveries. “Catherine, do you like the name Henri for your first son? He told me to call his son Charles.”

The Medici eyes sparkled with faux gladness. “I’ll never object to his wishes.”

“Very well,” said Marguerite with a slowness that alarmed Catherine.  

Catherine avouched, “I’ll produce a larger progeny for the House of Valois.”

“With God’s blessing.” For some reason, the troubling sensation of supreme sharpness was gnawing at the monarch’s sister every time Marguerite spoke to Catherine.

Françoise twittered, “Their Majesties may have another son or daughter once they return.”

Catherine smiled whimsically. “No one can resist providence.”

The Navarrese queen passed the infant on to his mother. For a handful of heartbeats, their gazes intersected, and the inner voice wailed in Marguerite’s head, as though the claws of iron were mangling her soul. The gentleness in the dauphine’s eyes and in her features seemed to be the surface of something that at its core was as pitch-black as smoke of inferno. Oh God! Forgive me for such thoughts! I’m not myself due to all our woes, Marguerite agonized in her mind.

The queen commented, “Doctor Fernel told me that you are fine, but you need to rest.”

The dauphine answered, “Our Creator has safeguarded me and the children.”

Marguerite glanced at the sleeping infant in his mother’s arms. “Prince Charles Maximilien de Valois, Duke d’Orléans,” she declared. When her gaze concentrated on the baby in the arms of Françoise d’Alençon, she supplemented, “Alexandre Édouard, Duke d’Ajou.”

“So amazing!” Catherine’s face fell at the memory of her two other children who both lived separately from her. “I’d like to see my other offspring after I recover from the birth.”

Marguerite was torn between her loyalty to Henri, and her sympathy to Catherine’s maternal instincts. She relented, “That can be arranged, Catherine. They are at Amboise.”

After the invasion of France had started, Marguerite and Henri had had the royal children transported from Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye to Château d’Amboise for their safety.

The regent of France spun on her heels and swept out of the room in her usual regal fashion. Françoise d’Alençon bobbed a curtsey, and then hurried to follow her friend.

§§§

As they remained alone, Maddalena Bonajusti ground out, “Finally, they are gone.”

“It is a pity that they will return,” Lucrezia Cavalcanti complained.

Catherine emitted a sigh. “One day, I’ll rule in this country.” 

“Soon, Your Highness,” breathed Maddalena with the impatience of a snake to bite.

The princess invited, “Come sit with me and… Prince Charles.”

Laughing, Maddalena and Lucrezia settled themselves on both sides of the bed.

Maddalena was holding Prince Charles, Lucrezia – Prince Alexandre Édouard.

Unlike Prince François, his younger brothers were not fragile, or at least not visibly. Prince Charles was a small, well-formed infant with chubby cheeks and milky white skin. When the baby opened his hazel eyes, his mother stared into the Medici pools full of dark liquid – smart, just as Catherine’s, but nevertheless, more innocent than her own.

Catherine grinned. “And my second twin looks like Henri!”

Indeed, Prince Alexandre was a bonny child, with pallid skin and a tuft of brown hair on his head. The long Valois nose and high cheekbones dominated his countenance. His eyes were brown like those of Dauphin Henri. God above, the second boy is a mixture of my husband and me. He looks more like my spouse. I would name him Henri, not Alexandre Édouard, the dauphine mused.

Catherine muttered, “Why is little Charles like that dead man? Will I love this baby?” 

Lucrezia stated, “Of course, Madonna Caterina. Prince Charles signifies your victory.”

“He is your flesh and blood,” emphasized Maddalena. “A heathy child fathered by the man whom Your Highness has loved since your wedding in Marseilles all those years ago.”  

The dauphine eyed the infant. Little Charles extended his hand, curious to explore his mother, and Catherine let him touch her cheek. However, as the infant grinned sheepishly in the way similar to the easy-going smiles of the deceased Prince Charles, the princess turned appalled.

Catherine handed the baby to Maddalena. “Put him in the crib.”

“Yes, Madame.” Maddalena stood up with Prince Charles.

Maddalena recommended, “Forget those who will never come back from the shadows.”

The dauphine’s face softened. “I feel guilty before my own son. He is innocent.”

“It will pass, Your Highness.” Lucrezia deposited the baby in a gilded crib.

Lucrezia gave Prince Alexandre to his mother. Catherine de’ Medici smiled widely at the boy who, she knew, would be her favorite child; she would gladly have renamed him as Henri.

“My Duke d’Anjou,” Catherine crooned as she kissed her third son.

Maddalena returned to the bed, her hands empty. “Three sons, two of them healthy!”

Lucrezia still sat on the bed. “Madonna Caterina, what an achievement!”

The dauphine sighed. “So far, they are healthy. I pray that it will not change.”

Maddalena eased herself on the other side of the bed. “Only those who look forward, not back, are capable of attaining greatness. You must have your emotions untethered from the past.”

Catherine nodded. “That is why I’ve allied with foreign monarchs.”

Lucrezia returned to the bed. “The Ruggeri brothers promised that your next son would be more robust, and now you have even two sons, Madame Caterina.”

The French dauphine shifted her gaze from the crib, where Prince Charles peacefully slept, to the baby boy in her arms. “However, Cosimo and Lorenzo Ruggeri also said that my three sons would be kings. Why three of them? What does it mean? During my last meeting with my astrologers, I was inclined to dismiss them, but they know too much about us.”

The three women all looked disturbed by the remembrance of Catherine’s sad visit to Cosimo and Lorenzo Ruggeri in Paris before the invasion of France. Their odd and unclear visions about the three princes being monarchs, each in turn, caused shock and puzzlement on their part.

Lucrezia voiced her fears. “Did they imply that they would not have any male progeny?”

“Ah, Salic law!” Maddalena cried. “France has strict succession rules.”

“Sometimes,” huffed Catherine, “I think that the Ruggeri brothers are incompetent.”

“Madame, do not think about them,” Maddalena put in.

Tears glittered in the Medici eyes. “I treasure you both.”

Maddalena took Prince Alexandre away and put the boy in the crib that stood beside that of Prince Charles. The conspirators then sang a Florentine song from their childhood.

§§§

At midnight, Diane de Poitiers barged into the quarters occupied by Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli. The area was illumined by several candles, throwing shadows across the walls and the entwined forms of two lovers on a walnut bed with a canopy of black and pink damask.

“You two are having an affair,” Diane deduced.

Montecuccoli and Lucrezia tugged the blanket up to their chins; they did not blush.

Laughing slightly, Sebastiano lifted a hand. “What?”

“How can we serve you, Madame?” questioned Lucrezia tersely.

After shutting the door, Diane advanced towards the bed and burst out, “You received a letter from His Holiness – the same as I did. Do not proceed with his plan.”

“Madonna Caterina said,” Montecuccoli supplied, “that now we cannot poison Marguerite of Navarre because only she can rule France until the invaders are expelled. It would also be foolish to dispose of King Henri of Navarre as he is defending the south of France.”

“No!” Diane’s message was uncompromising. “Marguerite and Henri d’Albert must live! The losses of his father, stepmother, and three brothers would be a colossal blow to Henri. He will barely bear these tragedies, if they occur. Do not take away his aunt and uncle from him.”

“It is His Holiness’ wish,” underscored Lucrezia.

Diane commanded, “Never! Remember that!” 

Madame de Poitiers pivoted. She then exited and slammed the door behind her.

Montecuccoli spat, “I cannot wait for a moment when that strumpet will go to Hades. The poison I’ve recently tested on ten people is so effective that it might easily kill the whole court.”

Lucrezia brushed a kiss across his chest. “These hands work with poisons, and I love them.”

“And I like fucking you.” The count started ravaging his paramour’s body again.

In the meantime, Diane jogged through the hallways, the Pope’s letter replaying in her mind.

My daughter Diane,

It is no secret that both King Henri of Navarre and his queen, Marguerite de Valois, are interested in the pagan religion. The Valois court is thronged with evangelical philosophers, poets, humanists, and other heretics. The annihilation of the heathen François and his Boleyn demoness would not be enough to cleanse French land. It is high time to purge France from heretics – you or Montecuccoli should send the Navarrese heartens to the underworld.

Blessing you with my hand, my devout Catholic daughter.

Pope Paul III

Madame de Poitiers halted in the corridor to contemplate a tapestry of the Last Judgment. Her very soul vibrated with the mortal dread cascading down upon her at the remembrance of all the crimes that she had perpetrated with Catherine de’ Medici. A scared Diane darted away.

Diane was running. Those few courtiers, whom she encountered at this late hour, blinked at her. Having donned her ermine cloak, she rushed out of the château and crossed the lawn, which was covered with a layer of snow. Her scrutiny toured to drawbridges and turreted towers, which had been taller at the time when the castle had been the seat of power for the Angevin kings in the 12th century. She stopped in a Renaissance garden, now barren and snowy, inside the ramparts.

Diane dropped to her knees in a heap of snow and dissolved into tears. “I fear hell! Am I the worst sinner on earth?” She stared at the dark firmament. “If only my Henri was with me now…”  

On this night, Diane de Poitiers flung herself into the arms of Viscount René I de Rohan, in the hope to forget her terrors. Their vigorous lovemaking nevertheless magnified her horror. For the first time, she was afraid of what Dauphin Henri would say if he learned about her new affair. Diane had been faithful to her royal lover, except for her liaison with the Viscount de Rohan, which she had started when Henri hag begun interested in Marie de Bourbon.

Lying in the arms of her lover who rapidly fell asleep, Diane wondered whether Henri was now having new affairs in between battles. She had noticed that Mademoiselle de Bourbon had disappeared from court, and this worried Diane. Antoine de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, fought alongside the dauphin in Picardy. If Henri has a mistress, I need to know about her, she mused.


December 20, 1545, the town of Soissons, north of Picardy, France

“They are about to attack us!” cried Philippe de Chabot upon entering the dauphin’s tent.

“We must push them back,” said the Dauphin of France as he stood up from his chair.

Chabot offered, “I’ll lead the attack, with Your Highness’ permission.”

“We will do it together,” pronounced Dauphin Henri. He glanced around, searching for his servants, and called, “Groom! Bring my father’s burgonet for me.”   

“Your Highness, we must keep you safe.” Henri’s intrepidity reminded Chabot of François’ far-famed foolhardiness, which sometimes bordered on recklessness. “Stay in the camp, please.”

“Never!”  Henri struggled into his garments in haste. “Groom! Where are you?” 

Charles de Cossé, Count de Brissac, walked in. Although he was fourteen years older than the dauphin was, the two of them had become friends a while ago. In 1540, King François had granted Brissac his father’s prestigious former post of Grand Falconer of France – this person was responsible for organizing the royal falcon hunt and for caring about the king’s birds.

Brissac brought the prince’s armor and the same helmet that François usually wore.

Chabot would not convince the prince otherwise. “We must protect you at any cost.”

Henri smiled at him. “That you can do, Philippe.”  

Brissac handed the burgonet to Henri. In silence, the dauphin looked at it wistfully.

“It once belonged to my late grandfather.” The ruler’s eldest son admired the crowned helmet studded with carbuncles and François’ emblem – a salamander. “My father wore it in his battles. It guaranteed him luck during the previous invasion of France, so it is my talisman.”

Brissac and another servant assisted the dauphin in pulling on Henri’s fanciful armor. It was covered by foliate scrolls adorned with human figures and a variety of fabulous creatures from the Italian grotesques. The dauphin would have worn François’ gold armor, but the monarch was taller, so they had commissioned another set of armor for the prince months earlier.

Chabot uttered, “His Majesty would be impressed with your sangfroid.”

Henri donned the helmet. “I shall make France and her sovereign proud.”

“No doubt.” Admiral de Brion drew on his own helmet.

The dauphin slipped on his gauntlets. “Fortune favors the boldest and the truest.”

“Just like your father,” remarked Chabot, and Brissac inclined his head.

The Count de Brissac commented, “In this burgonet, the Duke of Alba will recognize you if he encounters Your Highness in battle. Alba saw His Majesty in this helmet.”

Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, 3rd Duke of Alba, was the commander of Imperial sources.

Henri closed the visor. “Excellent. Let them all know who I am.”

Jean du Bellay lifted the flap of the tent lifted and appeared. His countenance uneasy, the Bishop of Paris and of Bayonne strode across the tent to Dauphin Henri while stroking his beard.

Henri knelt in front of the bishop. “Please bless me, Your Grace.”

Bellay held his hands in benediction over the dauphin. “The Almighty bless and save Your Highness from all perils.” He then made the sign of a cross.

“Thank you.” Henri climbed to his feet, now feeling more confident.

Cries of alarm resounded outside, and Chabot walked out after bowing.  

Henri eyed his rather Spartan tent. It was furnished with a table, borrowed from the palace owned by one of the Picardian lords, several oak chairs, and a bed with a canopy of white, blue, and golden silk ornamented with the Valois arms. Terror that he would never return here seized him, and with a mammoth effort, the dauphin pulled himself together. We must be strong, he told himself. Yet, the terror of dying in battle was like a thick liquid in his bloodstream.   

“Your Highness?” enquired Brissac who also put on his helmet.

“Let’s go,” Henri replied in the most decisive accents.  

His heart full of dormant fear, the Dauphin of France spun on his heels and exited, followed by his subjects. The young Henri was strong-willed and audacious, and after several months spent on the battlefield, he got accustomed to bloodshed and death. Yet, part of him was thick with the fright that he would commit a mistake that might lead to the demise of his dynasty.

§§§

Outside, Dauphin Henri assessed the situation. The dawn was just breaking, and from here, the valley and the hills, silvered by yesterday’s snow, looked like mountains of whiteness. The air was crisp, but it was not frosty. Armed to the teeth, the knights were preparing for battle.

“Move into the position!” enjoined Philippe de Chabot.

Henri came to Chabot. “You will lead our cavalry. I’ll coordinate our archers.”

Brissac joined them. “I’ll ensure that the artillery will bombard them heavily.”

Henri’s orbs met those of his friends. “Soissons is a lucky place for the French. During the Hundred Years’ War, the French perpetrated a massacre of English archers stationed at the town’s garrison. If necessary, today we will do the same – they do not deserve our pity.”

“By the devil’s black beard!” cursed Chabot. “They do not!” 

Brissac ground out, “I’ll cut any Spaniard or Flemish man into pieces.”

Jean de Brosse approached them. “The infantry is ready. They must be punished.”

The dauphin grinned. “My father’s chivalry has long become illustrious. However, a king surrounded by Habsburg enemies ought to be far more ruthless to survive and defend his country. After we will save His Majesty from Milan, I hope that he will understand that.”

Chabot tugged at his beard. “If we had killed the Pope, all would have been different now.”

The prince nodded solemnly. “Though a Catholic, I agree.”

Brissac concurred. “At least, a new Pope should have been elected.”

A sergeant informed that the men were impatient to attack the adversary. Chabot ran to the rear of the troops where the cavalrymen assembled, awaiting their general. In the matter of minutes, the men mounted, and their long lines galloped out of the camp with Chabot at the helm.

 The Count de Brissac went to command the French artillery. Now the dauphin’s protection was the mission of the Bourbon brothers – Antoine de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, and François de Bourbon, Count d’Enghien. King François had allowed them to serve Dauphin Henri.

Situated along the Aisne River just as Soissons stretched, the French military camp was protected from one side by the river. From other sides, it was surrounded by the vast agricultural valley and wooded hills, and the town was located approximately a mile away from the camp.

Dauphin Henri and the Bourbon siblings headed to the riverbank, followed by five divisions of archers. The temperature was falling, the ground was snowy and slick with ice, but there were no trees, which made it easier prepare for the attack. The Aisne River was frozen, but the ice was not thick because of the mild and rainy winter, so no foe would risk crossing it.

“I can see them in the distance,” apprised Antoine de Bourbon. “Look there!” 

François de Bourbon spat, “Damn Alba and his men!” 

Henri hissed, “Eventually, they will all be burning for their sins in the underworld.”

The front ranks of the foe army were visible in the sunlight. The Imperial cavalry had gathered to the south of Soissons, while the French cavalry was moving towards them. Part of the Frankish territory of Neustria, the Soissons region had played a huge political role during the rule of the Merovingian kings. Now once again, the town was an immensely important one.

“Attack the enemy!” the Duke of Alba bellowed in Flemish, then repeated in German.

The massive waves of both French and Imperial mounted knights collided like two forces of nature – good and evil. The clang of swords and shields, and groans of the wounded and the dying, and the guttural commands of the generals – Chabot and Alba… All these sounds mingled in a cacophony of lethal pandemonium that was unfolding in the valley. Horses nickered at the pungent smell of blood; many of them were injured and bolted, tossing off the riders.  

Twenty thousand of the French cavalry battled against the similar number of the foe. The rearguard of the Imperial cavalry was composed of native Flemish soldiers who had arrived in Picardy from Ghent and the emperor’s other domains in the Low Countries. Some of the German cavalry soldiers had once served under the command of Ferdinand von Habsburg.

Henri unshouldered his bow. “If only King Ferdinand was not taken prisoner…”

Antoine tried to lift the dauphin’s spirits. “Maybe he will escape.”

François added, “King Ferdinand is held in the north of Germany.”

The dauphin grabbed an arrow from his groom. “At the same time, my sister, Margot, and my father have been trapped in Milan since September. And it is Carlos’ entire fault!” 

“That vermin!” Antoine prepared his bow as well. “He is a native of Ghent.”

François had a bow in his hands, too. “There was a revolt against the emperor in Ghent over a year ago. The local populace were not happy with his warmongering policies and taxes.”

Henri sighed. “Another series of riots in Flanders would have helped our cause.”

At the prince’s sign, the divisions of archers advanced towards the battlefield. As they halted at a medium distance from the mass of fighting men, the Dauphin of France nocked an arrow and aimed high, shooting towards the Duke of Alba who sat astride his black destrier caparisoned in white and blue colors of his noble house. Dozens of arrows flew towards the adversary.

“I’ve missed.” A chagrined Henri demanded another arrow. “I’ll try again.”

“I’ve been targeting that man, too.” Antoine was equally disappointed.

The dauphin released another arrow. “Shoot!” he ordered.

A volley of the French arrows was launched again. Many Flemish and German soldiers in the enemy front ranks tumbled from the saddles with arrows in guts, chests, flanks, torsos, legs, and skulls. The French horses trampled some of them to death. In a handful of moments, a barrage of Flemish arrows assailed the French, fired most likely from nearby woods, compelling Henri and the others to duck, although a few of them were wounded and killed.

“Retreat!” Henri now lay on the snow-drenched ground. “To the river!” 

Once more, clouds of Flemish arrows were hurtled at the dauphin and his men. Dodging and pressing themselves to the ground, they crawled away over the snow, slowly but steadily. A trail of bodies remained behind them, the blood of the dead pooling into the snow.

Henri estimated, “We will be safer near the river. They cannot come there.”

François remarked, “Yet, it will be more difficult to shoot from there.”

“We will still fire at them,” avouched Antoine.

The next group of missiles was apparently meant for Dauphin Henri. It landed almost on top of his helmet, scarcely missing the target. Commotion escalated between the archers.

“Protect His Highness!” shouted Antoine. “At any cost!” 

Antoine and François flanked Henri as they continued crawling on the ground. A new shower of missiles whizzed through the air, past them, and slammed into the ground next to the dauphin’s feet. Another arrow appeared in close proximity to the prince, and at Antoine’s shriek of alarm, François threw himself upon Henri just a mere moments before it hit him in the back.

“Brother!” A desperate Antoine turned the man’s body to him. “Brother!” 

Henri looked at the lifeless François, an arrow sticking out of his back. “He died for me.”

Tears filled Antoine’s eyes. “My beloved brother! My heroic François!” 

“François will be avenged,” vowed the dauphin. “He will never be forgotten.”

One of the archers prodded, “Your Highness, we must retreat. We cannot wait.”

Nodding, Henri swallowed a lump in his throat that felt as though it had sharp edges. Casting a sorrowful glance at his deceased comrade, the dauphin moving, now urged by Antoine who labored to be stoic in the aftermath of his younger sibling’s death. From time to time, they paused as more arrows were showered upon them, the dauphin being their target.

As they reached the coast of the river, a collective gasp of relief swished around them.

“We will bury him with honor,” promised Henri. Antoine tipped his head numbly.

Duke Antoine de Vendôme still had three male siblings. His younger brother was the twenty-two-year-old Charles de Bourbon, Archbishop of Rouen. After François’ demise, his next brother, who had not entered the Catholic Church – was Jean de Bourbon, Count de Soissons. Antoine would also become Count d’Enghien in addition to his ducal title. His youngest brother – Louis de Bourbon, Prince de Condé – was only fifteen years old and was kept away from wars.

§§§

From the bank, the prince’s archers commenced an offensive on the adversary. Nevertheless, they were located too far from the battlefield, so many of their aims were not deadly. Yet, after François de Bourbon’s passing, Dauphin Henri did not come closer to the enemy.  

Releasing arrows periodically, they watched the two hostile cavalries still combating against one another. The Valois infantry, led by Jean de Brosse, Duke d’Étampes, and the Flemish one under the young Lamoral, Count of Egmont and Prince of Gavere, raced towards them closer and closer, eventually slamming together like two furious thunderclouds. By now, most cavalrymen were unhorsed or left their animals deliberately to participate in the swordfight.

“Fire!” hollered Count de Brissac. “Kill as many Flemish as you can!” Unfortunately, due to the diversion of the Flemish, it had taken him more time to mobilize the artillery.  

The artillery fire was constantly increasing, concentrating on the center of the crowd where the Imperial generals were at the moment. It was difficult to make out who now had the upper hand in the fierce fighting. Weapons flashed in the light of the rising sun, cutting lives with ease, and blood gushed everywhere like a geyser, soaking into the snow and the dirt. Pitiful shrieks of the dying were bad for morale of the invaders and an exquisite symphony for the French.

The Flemish archers and their infantry launched a ferocious offensive against the French simultaneously. Nonetheless, the Dauphin of France’s archers moved a little forward towards the battlefield and again initiated the volley of arrows towards the adversary. Men fell on both sides like grass cut by the scythe, slashing and hacking at each other. Morta, the Roman goddess of death, laughed at the picture of gruesome carnage, instigating everyone to spill more blood.

Dauphin Henri spotted the Habsburg flag in the midst of the knights’ standards, all flapping in the wind blowing from the river. “Comrades! Attack the villains!” 

Drawing his sword from the scabbard, Henri threw away his bow and his quiver of arrows to archers. With an ululating cry of inhuman rage, he sprinted towards the battlefield, his blade colliding with human bodies and tearing apart the flesh of the enemies most savagely.

“Your Highness! Wait!” Antoine bellowed. “Wait for me, please!” 

A piercing horn resounded. New lines of the Valois infantrymen, arriving from the reserve, surged forward, thousands of men shouting, “For France! For King François!” 

“Crush them!” Philippe de Chabot swung his weapon in all directions.

“For Emperor Carlos!” the Duke of Alba exclaimed. He was also in the throng, his sword an extension of his arm used to killing in the most effective ways. “For His Holiness!” 

Joining the fight, Antoine shrilled, “For Dauphin Henri!”

The French intoned, “For France! For King François! For Dauphin Henri!” 

Wherever Dauphin Henri appeared, his opponents were all slaughtered. Wielding his sword like fire of his implacable hatred for the emperor, Henri was gripped by the most colossal bloodlust he had imagined a warrior could feel. The murder of his friend, François, had enflamed him with even stronger animosity towards the foe than one he had first felt before.

“Massacre them!” appealed the dauphin. “As many of them as possible!” 

His men repeated, “Massacre them!”  

A horse whinnied to the right from the dauphin, and a standard-bearer in Habsburg livery fell. Grabbing the Habsburg flag from the ground, Henri lifted it in the air to showcase it to his compatriots. “I shall tear it apart! Do the same with the barbarians!” 

Amazed by the prince’s brutality, Chabot felt the same rage bubbling in him. “Kill as many as possible! Do not take prisoners! They did not pity our sovereign when they lured him to Milan!” He dispatched two opponents. “Avenge our liege lord’s woes!”   

With a shout of fury, Henri cut the standard into pieces. The wind blew them away across the valley. “Any Spaniard is our adversary, save those who serve King Ferdinand.” 

Dancing among his rivals, the dauphin started beheading the Flemish knights one after another. He was spinning around repeatedly, his blade slashing through the air. As he halted for a moment to catch his breath, a spray of blood filled the air when Antoine decapitated his opponent.

“Careful, Your Highness,” admonished Antoine. “You could have been injured.”

Henri let out a grateful smile. “Thank you, my friend.”

Turning his head to the left, the dauphin looked at the Imperial soldiers locked in combat with his men. Their faces – slightly red from the exertion of the battle and their animosity – were grimly determined. Among them, Henri recognized the Duke of Alba, and a cauldron of mortal loathing boiled over in his veins. Pushing through the masses, Henri butchered everyone who stood on his way to Alba. The archers loosed more arrows, and he dodged.

The Duke of Alba raised his shield and crouched behind someone’s horse just a moment before the arrows could reach him. An instant later, Alba veered his scrutiny to Dauphin Henri.

As Henri slashed at him, Alba said in accented French, “Ah, a Valois boy!” 

“Look around, Alba,” Henri offered in Spanish that he knew well since childhood. He wielded his weapon in a flurry of cuts and strokes. “Your men are being massacred.”

Alba lunged at his rival. “As so are yours by my soldiers.”

The dauphin blocked and sidestepped. “You have invaded our country.”

“For Emperor Carlos!” Alba directed a strong diagonal blow at the younger man. “For His Holiness! Now Rome is finally free from the French insects thanks to my master.”

Henri barely blocked it in time. “Allessandro Farnese is the worst scum.”

“He is the Bishop of Rome,” panted the Duke of Alba, “regardless of what he did. The Papal States must be ruled by the Supreme Pontiff.” He wielded his weapon in long, powerful arcs.

Nonetheless, the dauphin evaded his assaults. “Only if the Pope is someone else.”

“The Valois family are not gods to decide that.” Alba finished off one Frenchmen and then refocused on the prince. “Your father has assumed the role he has no right to perform.”

Henri cut a nearby soldier in half from left hip to right shoulder. “Carlos will suffer!” 

“Damn, you Valois boy!” Their parley re-ignited a fire of loathing in the heart of the Imperial commander. “Your father will be burned after we conquer Milan. The city is well fortified, and they have a great deal of food in stock. We shall wait patiently, and then we will watch François writhe in agony in the flames.” Alba stabbed forward, but Henri adroitly twisted away.

The prince’s blade was granting fair retribution. “That will never happen.”

Alba’s roar of wrath was drowned out by another louder scream of hostility from the French, who were rushing forward again, just as the invaders were doing. Arrows rained in waves, people moaned, and the massacre continued with a more monstrous ferocity. The Greek goddess of war, Enyo, who was responsible for destroying cities, blessed the opposing parties to commit the worst slaughter Europe had seen since the battles of Arles and Tours of 1536.

Still locked in the duel with Alba, Dauphin Henri was tiring. Yet, his survival instinct and his revulsion towards the man and his nation goaded him into pressing forward. He launched another fierce assault, this time using the defensive tricks which Montmorency and his father had taught him. Henri leaped backwards, away from the tip of the blade, and Alba’s thrust fell short, but then the prince feigned a blow to the right and caught Alba on the left shoulder.

A confused Alba tumbled into the snow. “How?” 

Henri himself could not believe his luck. “I’m a grown-up man.”

As the dauphin lifted his weapon for the fatal blow, Alba muttered frighteningly, “François would not have killed the fallen.” He could see murder in his rival’s eyes.

“I’m not my father,” spat the dauphin as his sword went down.

However, before Henri could chop off the man’s head or stab him in the gut, three soldiers in Alba livery attacked the dauphin. Distracted, Henri parried their blows at the very last moment and sidestepped. That was enough for the Flemish sergeants loyal to their chief commander so as to have the wounded Duke of Alba evacuated. Howling with anger, Henri was pivoting in search of Alba, but his opponent was nowhere to be found, and only corpses lay around him.

§§§

“Enough!” Philippe de Chabot sheathed his sword. “We have finished in a draw.” 

Antoine emerged near his master. “Are you all right, Your Highness?” 

“I injured Alba,” Henri notified, disappointed. “Sadly, he will live.”

Antoine was relieved that the dauphin was unscratched. “What a great achievement!”   

The dauphin’s brain was working constantly. “We have not defeated the foe, but Alba will need time to recover, so they will not attack us during the next weeks, and it is winter now. We will split our forces and march on Boulogne to release Queen Anne and my brothers.”

His friend dipped a nod. “We shall rescue them.” 

Within the next half an hour, both the Imperial forces and the French troops retreated from the battlefield. Each side had lost thousands of men, who had been butchered in the fight. Driven by the dauphin’s call to massacring the adversary, today the French had been far more merciless towards the foe than François had been during the invasion of 1536. At present, the whole valley, blanketed with snow, resembled a cemetery of mutilated, unburied corpses.

Chabot neared Henri. “We have lost at least twenty thousand, perhaps more.”

“So did the invaders.” The dauphin opened his visor. “And Alba is not fine.”

Antoine chattered about Henri’s duel with the Duke of Alba in the most enthusiastic tones.

“Your Highness,” addressed Chabot half-proudly, half-chidingly, “His Grace of Alba is one of the best swordsmen in Christendom. He could easily have harmed you.”

“But he did not.” Henri was reluctant to admit that his father’s friend was right.

Admiral de Brion reasserted, “Your Highness, France is without her monarchs. Thanks be to the Lord that we have a competent regent such as Queen Marguerite of Navarre. Thanks be to God that we have King Henri of Navarre who has so far precluded the invaders from conquering Languedoc.” His voice rose an octave. “But what will we do if Your Highness is harmed?” 

The Count de Brissac neared them. “King François would not want you to be reckless and risk your life, Your Highness. He would wish to see you alive once he comes back.”

“I shall be more careful,” the dauphin conceded.

Chabot berated, “I’ll watch over you more closely. I shall keep my word to our sovereign.”  

Henri took a deep breath and exhaled through clenched teeth. He stared up at the sky where the winter sun shone bleakly. “I pray that the Duke of Norfolk’s documents will aid us to crush that Tudor beast in Boulogne. Start the preparations for our quick and surreptitious march there.”

Chabot approved of this strategy. “I’ll accompany Your Highness.”

“No,” the dauphin denied. “Brosse and you will remain here. As soon as Alba recovers, he will attack again. We will have maximum two months of silence thanks to his wound and winter. Antoine and Brissac will be with me when teaching a lesson to that Tudor cormorant.”

The Dauphin of France began slogging through an ocean of corpses. When he reached the bank of the Aisne River, he took off his helmet. He breathed deeply with his mouth open to keep himself from retching, for his today’s cruelty, which he had not anticipated from himself, sickened him somewhat. Nonetheless, I do not regret initiating a massacre of Soissons. Today, the Flemish and the Germans were slaughtered, just as those English archers were centuries ago.

“It was my bloody christening in battle,” Henri told himself, licking his dry lips.

In silence, the prince peered into the woods on the other side of the river. Quiet and drowning in snow, the forest was as barren as his soul was without the knowledge what the fates of his father, his sister Marguerite, Anne, and his brothers would be. Like a sorely tempest-tossed dreamer, Henri was haunted by the thought that the traitor who had lured Anne and François to Boulogne and Milan was someone close them. When I find the traitor, I might even destroy them myself.

Notes:

Hello everyone! We hope that you are fine and safe. Take care of yourself!

This chapter’s title reflects the current situation in France. The King and Queen of France are both entrapped in Boulogne and Milan, respectively. France is lucky to have Queen Marguerite of Navarre, King Henri II of Navarre, and Dauphin Henri of France who can rule and fight for freedom. The invasion is not massive this time: it transformed into the invasion of Languedoc and the invasion of Picardy. Soon we will learn who will gain the upper hand in the war.

Queen Marguerite tried very hard to preserve France’s alliance with the Protestant nations. Unfortunately, it was not meant to be as most of them blame François for the massacre of the non-Catholics in Piedmont, Provence, and Lombardy. Maybe Anne de Pisseleu is right that they will rush back to France when the conflict is over if France wins. We hope you like the conversation between Anne and Marguerite, for they needed to come to an understanding.

Dauphine Catherine de’ Medici gave birth to a twin male children. Yes, two sons! We know that this twist is a bit implausible because twins rarely survived back then. In history, she had two twin daughters who both died in infancy, so the Valois family had such genes in their gene pool. We would not have had Catherine have twin sons if not for our plans for her in later chapters. There is some foreshadowing of what to expect. The boys’ names are like in history.

Dauphin Henri has his bloody christening in battle – he is gaining military experience. We did not think that Henri can kill or cause a substantial harm to the Duke of Alba, who was one of the best commanders of the time. Yet, an incensed Henri could wound him, which gives the French a short break from the attacks of the Imperial forces. Dauphin Henri will play an important role in the rest of this story; he seems to have turned out to be better than he was in history.

François de Bourbon, Count d’Enghien, was a French prince of the blood from the House of Bourbon-Vendôme. He was the third son of Charles de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, and Françoise d’Alençon. He died at 26 by accident: he fell off a heavy chest in the castle La Roche-Guyon, which somewhat reminds us of the bizarre end of Charles VIII of France. Here we give him a more honorable death in battle. In history, Enghien won the battle of Ceresole of 1544 in Italy.

The intrigue around Henri II of Navarre is starting. Do you think he will be murdered or not? Perhaps someone noticed the changes in the character of Diane de Poitiers. A reminder: Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli became Lucrezia’s lover many chapters ago; villains also need lovers.

The information about Château d’Angers and the town of Soissons is historically correct.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 68: Chapter 67: Afflictions of Queens

Notes:

In Boulogne, Queen Catherine Howard faces King Henry. Queen Anne of France and the governor of Boulogne surrender the city to the English. At last Henry faces Anne, his main obsession in life, and he meets with her sons. Dauphin Henri is marching on Boulogne.

We recommend the works by BubblyYork, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, annethequene, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 67: Afflictions of Queens

December 27, 1545, the English camp outside of Boulogne, France

“Your Majesty, forgive me,” beseeched Queen Kitty Howard. “Our son, Prince Edmund, was called to heaven by the Lord. Sadly, the male child I carried was stillborn.”

Lady Jane Boleyn added, “Nothing could be done to save them.”

They had arrived at the English camp in Boulogne on the Feast of St John. Portentous silence reigned in the spacious tent where the Queen of England was lodged. An array of candles illumined the tent, furnished with yellow brocade-covered couches and a bed draped in red silk. A thick beige carpet flowed throughout the area, and a fire cracked in the small hearth.

The Tudor ruler remained silent, his reddish brows knitted forbiddingly. When his consort lifted her orbs to her husband, she shrank away. A monstrous fierceness was etched into his every sinew, every breath, and every pore of his skin, and Kitty trembled like a leaf in the arctic wind.

The queen muttered, “It is not my fault that our sons died.”

The ruler spat, “It is always a wife’s fault when a child dies.”

An insulted Kitty huffed, “What about your transgressions, Your Majesty?”

“Your tongue is venomous,” Henry rasped like metal over rock. “I was grievously mistaken that you were my nymph of youth, one who could produce a brood of sons.”

Kitty snapped audaciously, “I was pregnant four times.”

The monarch strode over to his consort and loomed over her like a shroud of mortality. Catherine Howard eyed the man she did not want to call her husband. Richly habited in a doublet of purple velvet, the placard of which was wrought with threads of gold, Henry looked every inch the majestic king. The diamond girdle around his waist was now larger than four years ago.

“You promised me sons!” yelled the ruler. “I wed you to have male heirs.”

A sense of odd calmness overmastered the queen. “I know that, sire. I’m sorry that I could not give you healthy male progeny. Your other wives failed to do so as well.”

Henry said softly, “Queen Anne Bassett birthed my Edward, and he thrives, God bless him.” His voice transformed into a hissing whisper. “She was free of sin, so our boy was not punished for her misconduct. Anne Bassett was and will remain my favorite wife.”

His wife could not suppress a smirk. “Lady Bassett was your mistress, just as I was before our marriage. Yet, she was luckier: she had Edward and passed away on the same day before she could disappoint you. By the way, it was such a strange death, I must say.” 

“Madame, be silent,” appealed Jane Boleyn.

An incensed Henry grabbed his spouse, the fury emanating from him scotching Kitty like flames of inferno. His large palm collided with her cheek and sent her sprawling on the floor.

The ruler snarled, “My cousin, Hal, revealed to me your affair with Thomas Culpeper on the way to Boulogne. Your liaison began in Dover, and you summoned him to your apartments every night while you waited for the ship to be prepared and for the storms to subside.”

“Oh my Lord,” gasped Jane as she tumbled onto a couch.

Kitty remained silent on the ground, looking at her husband fearlessly.

The king ground out with infinite hostility, “Exeter handed to me three of your love letters to Culpeper, which Lady Joan Bulmer gave him. There were more letters, but what I have is enough.” His eyes narrowed like those of a wolf. “I myself interrogated that Bulmer shrew, who blackmailed you threatening to tell me about your erstwhile liaison with Francis Dereham.”   

“Ah, you are aware of everything.” The queen’s voice sounded oddly composed.  

Henry’s glare pierced his fallen consort like thousands of daggers. “Scared out of her wits, Joan disclosed the information about your amours with Dereham at Lambeth. Perhaps Norfolk knows about it. You feigned your virginity to make me more interested in you, you whore.”   

The queen’s previous fear evaporated like dew on a summer morning. In his fierce eyes, the monarch’s wife read her future: Henry would have her murdered for adultery and high treason. As she touched her cheek stinging from the slap, the resignation to her fate, as perfect as any Christian could desire to have, made her soul roar in tumultuous rebellion against Henry.

A sardonic cry escaped the queen’s lips. “Oh, I can die for just one night with Culpeper! I would gladly exchange all the nights I spent with him for one time with him.”

“No, Your Majesty…” stuttered Jane.

Henry bent down and grabbed his consort’s hair. He yanked her head back, glaring into her eyes. “You have the allure of the most vicious creature on earth.”

Catherine articulated, “Culpeper is one hundred times more a man in bed than you, Henry Tudor. You are aging! Life of excesses has taken its toll on your health and body. No one would wish to have you as a lover if you do not lavish them with gifts.”

“You are an accursed whore!” Henry slapped his consort hard against the cheek, then again. “The worst harlot who has ever been born in England! You shall die, and I shall remarry!”

Perverted jubilation rising from the depths of her being, Kitty laughed wildly. “I pity your future wife. Like others, she will be married to an ailing beast, but I doubt that she will give birth to your son.” Her voice rose to a crescendo of indignation. “Your mistreatment of me threw me into Culpeper’s arms, Henry. But I’m delighted that God allowed me to feel what it is to be adored by a young man again, for my romance with Dereham had ended before I met you.”

These tirades whipped Henry into a frenzy of white-hot rage. He pummeled Kitty with his fists and also struck her with his boots, but his wife laughed into his face, as if she were not in pain. Hell-bent on destroying the woman who had humiliated him so badly, the monarch drew his sword from the scabbard, and Jane, not even Catherine, howled with terror.

The screams in the queen’s tent attracted the attention of a few others. The Duke of Suffolk and the Marquess of Exeter ran inside moments before Henry could behead his spouse.

“Your Majesty, do not do that!” implored Suffolk. “Let the queen stand trial.”

Exeter did not rejoice in seeing a beaten Kitty. “We are not in England, sire.”

When his anger abated somewhat, Henry sheathed his weapon. He spat down on the queen’s recumbent form and decreed, “That brazen and infertile Howard adulteress will be executed soon, together with Lady Rochford who knew about her escapades with Culpeper and Dereham.”

“No, please, no!” begged Jane, but no one listened to her.

Exeter interjected, “Lady Jane Boleyn is also guilty of espionage. She has been a French spy for years, and she must have relayed a lot to the enemy. Why did she come to Boulogne? I showed you, sire, some of her messages to Queen Anne, which my agents intercepted.”

“Oh God.” Catherine lay on her back, her hands cupping her bloodied face. She had long suspected Jane of having contacts with the French, but she had ignored it. “Henry, spare her.”

“She will die with you.” The monarch approached a terrified Jane. His hands encircled her throat. “There will be no mercy to traitors and spies, as well as murderers.”

Exeter assumed, “Perhaps Lady Rochford helped the Earl of Surrey escape.”

Her expression scared, Jane pleaded, “Forgive me, sire.”  

Henry tightened his grip on her throat. “A treacherous widow of George Boleyn!”

Suffolk emerged beside them. “Your Majesty, please do not kill her!”

The king released Jane. “I’ll not taint myself with your dirty blood.”

Weeping hysterically, Jane Boleyn dropped from her chair to the ground.

The monarch snarled, “Culpeper has been the Pope’s agent throughout all these years. He slaughtered Francis Bryan, Louis de Perreau, and the maid of Anne von Cleves, but he covered his tracks well.” His voice rose to a shrill. “Culpeper has been arrested. He will be hanged, drawn, and quartered for these villainies, for his association with the villainous Bishop of Rome, and for adultery with you, Catherine.” He laughed cynically. “You made the worst choice of a lover.”

A horrified Catherine muttered, “No, Thomas could not do so.”

“He did,” assured the Marquess of Exeter. He was relieved that this sordid affair was nearing its end. “We discovered the Pope’s two letters, in which Allesandro Farnese commanded ‘his son Thomas’ to dispose of Monsieur de Perreau and Lady Suffolk, in Culpeper’s things. We are lucky that now Her Grace of Suffolk is in my estates protected by my men.”

“How is Anne?” the queen enquired worriedly.

Exeter responded, “The Duchess of Suffolk miscarried her baby. Otherwise, she is fine.”

“I’m glad my sister Anne is alive.” The sovereign of England balled his fists as anger reared in him. “We lost an alliance with Cleves.” A halo of melancholy enveloped him. “Francis Bryan was a random witness, so he was butchered as well. Finally, all traitors will pay!”

Jane muttered, “Please, let Francis Dereham live. He has done nothing wrong.”

The ruler slanted a disdainful glance at her. “Dereham and Culpeper will both die. They will have bloody public executions, and they are now being tortured.” His scrutiny shifted to Kitty. “That adulteress and her ladies will have a special private execution used in the Ottoman Empire.”

The monarch stormed out with Exeter. A flabbergasted Suffolk gazed at the queen who lay prostrate on the ground and at a terrified Jane; then he left. The sentries were guarding the tent.  

Jane staggered to the place where Kitty lay. “He will destroy us all.”

“Let Henry do so.” The queen had tears in her orbs.

“Your Majesty, I’ll help you,” Jane beseeched.

The ruler’s consort still lay on the ground. “If only I had known what Culpeper did…”

Catherine was so shocked with the revelation of Culpeper’s true face that she could not think of her own impending doom. Her heart was a bleeding wound because of her comprehension that Culpeper had deceived her so awfully. Why had Thomas committed such atrocities? How could she give herself to such a soulless assassin? Thomas, why did you betray me so? Did you ever love me? Did you lie to me in all those letters? There was a huge gaping hole in Kitty’s soul.

The queen had never worshipped Thomas Culpeper, and she wanted to be with him to forget the horrors of her union with the monarch. Kitty had been attracted to Culpeper, just as she had once lusted after the French ambassador Charles de Marillac. She had never found her true love, and her fantasies of being worshiped by a knight in shining armor would remain unfulfilled.

§§§

The fanfares of trumpets heralded the arrival of guests at the military camp.

“Your Majesty!” the Duke of Suffolk rushed inside his sovereign’s tent. Bowing, he added, “The governor of Boulogne and Queen Anne of France with her son are here.”

His heart drumming an insane rhythm of victory, the monarch immediately raced out, as though he were a hurricane of lethal devastation. Outside soldiers were getting out of their tents hastily, and men who gathered around campfires were full of curious anticipation.

“Where is she?” the ruler demanded. “Where is Anne?”

Charles Brandon appeared beside his liege lord. “There!” He gestured to the left.

Clad in an ermine cloak, Queen Anne rode into the camp on her stallion caparisoned in white, blue, and golden – the Valois colors. On the same horse, Prince Augustine sat in front of his mother, dressed in a small sable cloak, his blonde head a contrast to Anne’s dark one. Next to them, Françoise de Foix sat astride her horse, habited in the same fashion. Next proceeded Jacques de Coucy, Seigneur de Vervins and governor of Boulogne, carrying a Valois standard.

Henry jeered, “It is a show of Valois faux supremacy.”  

“Who is the woman behind the queen?” inquired the Marquess of Exeter.

Suffolk recognized her. “Françoise de Foix, the King of France’s first maîtresse-en-titre before Anne de Pisseleu replaced her. She has been inseparable from Anne Boleyn for years.”

Exeter’s brows arched. “And the boy? Are King François’ sons in Boulogne?”

“Anne’s three brats must be in the city,” the ruler informed. Diane de Poitiers had promised that all of Anne’s three male children would be there, and he believed her. “I see only one of them, most likely Augustine. He looks much like François, except for his blonde hair.”

After hopping down from his saddle, Vervins aided Augustine to climb down from the beast. Then the governor gently assisted the queen in easing herself on her feet. Françoise then exchanged a few words with her mistress, but Anne shook her head.

Anne and Augustine sauntered through the mass of English soldiers. Many darted to the center of the camp to see the legendary Queen Anne for whom their sovereign had moved heaven and earth. They parted the way for Anne and the prince, enchanted by their imperial bearing.

In these moments, King Henry was petrified by colossal shock. At last, Anne was so close to him! He had loathed her at first for the alleged betrayal of their love, before learning about the conspiracy of Thomas Cromwell and several others against her. Then he hated Anne for marrying his archrival and giving François sons. Anne had been an elusive shadow of happiness for too long.

At present, Anne Boleyn was real. Henry saw her strolling towards him, holding her son’s hand. Their similar crowns of diamonds, though of various sizes, upon their heads glittered in the rays of the winter sun that now shone more brightly than ever before during this winter. It began snowing, and, after swirling in the air, flakes landed onto Anne’s raven hair that cascaded down her back, and onto the prince’s blonde locks that framed his stony countenance.

Henry looked at them both as if he were mesmerized. At first, it was as if his whole being were manacled – he could not move a muscle, could not breathe or speak because of the pressure in his chest. These were the chains of the past, which had once linked him to the Boleyn siren, and which would always connect him with their first meeting at the Château Vert so long ago.

Anne will always be my dream, the monarch told himself. Even when she is real, she is still unassailable. When he had been miles away from her, changing wives and mistresses, Anne had been hanging over him with her slender and well-curved figure, black like her hair and bewitching like the most enchanting mythological mermaid. Anne’s ghost was with him when Henry made love to others, whereas her union with François separated them forever.

“You are real!” Henry’s mind was dazzled by the brilliance of his guests’ grandeur.

Anne approached him with Augustine. Vervins and Françoise stood behind her.

“More real than anything,” the former Queen of England started in English.

The city’s governor notified, “We surrender and will give you keys from the city.”

The king’s mouth moulded into an acrimonious snarl. “So, the famine has compelled you to become cleverer, my friends? It has taken you months to make this decision.”

Prince Augustine interjected, “Not every victory glitters like gold.”

The Tudor ruler and everyone in Augustine’s vicinity stared at the boy in astonishment. At six, having inherited his height from François, Augustine was taller than an average boy of his age. The most striking feature in him was his absolute intrepidity in spite of the city’s capitulation, his amber gaze as smooth as the grottos of brown water on a windless day.  

The monarch regarded the prince with repugnance. “This brat must be the product of that strumpet’s fornication with that Valois miscreant, who will die from starvation in Milan.”   

Augustine beckoned Françoise to him, demanding explanations what fornication meant.

Anne moved to her former spouse, her temper exacerbated. “You know perfectly well that I was a virgin when you took me to bed for the first time years ago.” Her scrutiny focused on Suffolk and Exeter, and she taunted, “How wonderful it is to see you, two rakes!”   

Exeter and Suffolk felt pierced by the envenomed glare of Anne’s black pools.

The ruler compressed his lips, his ire simmering beneath the surface. “Your witty tongue has always been too sharp, Anne. It has not changed during the past nine years.”

The Valois queen stepped away. As she eyed the English concourse, she proclaimed, “Your king calls me a wanton woman, which he denied after he had cleared my name and those of the men other unjustly condemned.” Her voice, dripping with indignation, rose several octaves. “Can a woman who has known carnally only her two husbands be called a harlot? I was a wife to your sovereign, and now I’m married to King François. Make obvious conclusions!”

Henry blustered, “You bitch, enough of your spectacles!”

Suffolk and Exeter were rendered speechless. More men peeked their heads from their tents and sprinted over to the center of the camp. Princess Elizabeth emerged from her tent, and as she spotted on her mother, her heart raced with joy, as if she herself were a winged creature.

Anne put more distance between her and Henry. Twirling around, she continued in a high voice, “I’m an Englishwoman by birth, and I’ll always love my homeland. Nonetheless, God made me the Queen of France after your sovereign had exiled me, and it is where my allegiances lie now.” Her voice rose an octave. “You have invaded France – the land where the House of Valois has been ordained by the Almighty to rule. You shall not subjugate this nation!”

The king sneered, “You have capitulated. It is only the beginning of my victories.”

Augustine emerged next to his mother. “Englishmen! Hear now! Boulogne will be the first and the last city that has surrendered to you. This pyrrhic victory is more like your defeat.” He knew the meaning of the word ‘pyrrhic’ from his lessons about ancient Rome with his governess.

Exeter walked over to them. “The prince does not understand what he is saying.”

The queen peered at Henry and declared with enormous pride, “My eldest son with François is far more intelligent and strong-willed than any son Your Majesty can ever have.” She laughed. “Just as our daughter Elizabeth is, for your sons were all too weak to live into adulthood.”

At this moment, Elizabeth was looking at her mother, but Anne beheld the ruler.  

Henry approached Anne, but she and the prince twisted out of his reach. His savage face communicated his insane desire to strike her, but he could not do so in front of his men.

Seizing the opportunity, Augustine affirmed, “Do not be surprised that I speak English well, for my mother is English.” The queen took his hand in hers. “My name is Augustine de Valois, Duke d’Angoulême. I swear that the French will fight fiercely for their freedom until the last drop of their blood. When I grow up, I’ll be like my father and my brother, Henri.”

The queen glowered at the ruler with irony as she riposted, “So, Henry, what do you think about my son? He is an impressive prince! He and I are both Valois!”

The monarch neared Anne and breathed at her like a dragon. “You are my prisoners now.”

The queen chuckled haughtily. “Such a pyrrhic victory, Monsieur Tudor.”

Standing so close to her, Henry viewed his former wife from top to toe. Although nine years had passed, Anne remained an exotic and alluring siren who had lured him with the beguiling music of her voice, singing promises to give him a son. Only that Anne had birthed sons for his archrival, and Henry would never forgive her for that. Dressed in her flowing cloak, she seemed not as slender as before. Anne looks like on the day when we last met in the Tower.

The governor of Boulogne trudged over to them and handed the keys to the king. He cast a worried glance at the queen and then a proud gaze at Augustine, whom he admired.

Françoise de Foix hurried to her mistress. “Your Majesty, should we return?”

Henry hissed, “You will, but only under heavy guard.”

“Monsieur Tudor strives to humiliate us,” assumed Augustine.

The king addressed the boy’s mother. “That little scum is as bad as a peasant.”

The queen flung back, “Neither I nor my son came to England – you invaded our country.” Her eyes narrowed substantially. “I remind you that I’m the Queen of France, and my son is a prince of the blood. You must treat us in the way befitting our high station.”

Augustine’s glower could cut anyone in two parts. “I’m a Valois!” he cried in French, then switched to English. “My mother and I are both Valois! Do not forget it!”

In these moments, the veil finally tumbled from Henry’s inner world. For too long, he had seen Anne as part of his past life, as if a mist had blanketed his vision. Anne and her son had shattered the wall dividing his dreams from the harsh reality – Anne had long ceased being his. Anne is my adversary, and she will pay for all the pain she caused me, Henry thought.  

“Everything will be well, Your Highness,” Françoise soothed.

Henry snickered. “A Valois must be treated as blackguards deserve.”

“Cousin Anne!” cried Queen Kitty. “Don’t let him kill you!”

Queen Anne turned her head to the tent where on the threshold Queen Catherine Howard was being restrained by guards. They subdued her and dragged her back inside.

The king’s spleenful laugh boomed through the frosty air. “I shall have my adulterous wife executed. Then there will be a wedding in Boulogne, for I’ve picked up my bride.”

The Boleyn black pools conveyed disbelief. “You must be joking, sire.”

The aquamarine glare exuded supreme authority. “I can do whatever I want because I’m the King of England.” He then commanded, “My men, have Queen Anne, her son, her lady, and the governor escorted back to Boulogne. Secure the city so that I can travel there in the evening.”

Queen Anne and the others mounted and slowly rode out of the camp. The English escort, led by the Duke of Suffolk and consisting of at least a hundred guards, accompanied them.

Princess Elizabeth returned to her tent, tears brimming in her eyes.

Glowering after them, Henry vowed, “Anne, you will suffer so much that you will regret the births of your brats with François.” Then he entered his own tent and summoned his mistress.


January 9, 1546, the town of Noyon, northern Picardy, France

Dauphin Henri smiled as he finished reading his aunt Marguerite’s letter. The messenger had delivered the news about the birth of his male twin, and it was one of the very few good things.

“I have two healthy sons,” informed Henri his friends.

Antoine de Bourbon and Charles de Brissac chorused, “Congratulations, Your Highness.”

Having sent away Chabot’s envoy, Henri’s thoughts returned to the present day. The dauphin strode over to his soldiers and promulgated, “We will take Noyon today! It must not belong to the Flemish! Centuries ago, Charlemagne and Hugh Capet, the first Capetian monarch, were crowned in the Cathedral at Noyon. How can we allow our flagrant enemies to occupy it?”

“It belongs to France!” screamed the soldiers in unison.

Five thousand men, whom the dauphin allocated to capture the town, assembled around the perimeter of the well-fortified Noyon, like admirers gawking at a troubadour.

Adrenaline was pumping through Henri’s veins. Now, when Admiral de Brion was not here to chastise Henri for his recklessness, he could try the tricks that Montmorency had taught him. The dauphin’s army had begun marching on Boulogne soon after the battle of Soissons. However, since learning that the Flemish still occupied Noyon, Henri and his men rushed to free it. I’ll expel all invaders from my country, the dauphin vowed. I’ll save my stepmother and my brothers.

The bleak sun’s rays, cold and yellow, illuminated the whole area surrounding the outer walls of the town. The spires of the ancient Noyon Cathedral rose high into the sky.

Henri examined siege machines. “Will they be used?”

“Perhaps not,” said the Duke de Vendôme, “if everything goes well.”   

The dauphin tipped his head. “I’m certain that the battle should not take long. According to our spies, the Duke of Alba did not leave a large contingent at Noyon.”

Vendôme nodded. “A surge would overwhelm their defenses.”

Henri sighed. “Provided that they are not plotting something.”

In silence, Henri and Vendôme stood on a small hill and regarded their target once more. The weather was frosty and crisp, but to their luck, it was not snowing this morning.

Henri ordered, “Antoine, leave enough men around the town. Nobody should escape.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Bowing, Antoine dashed off.

Brissac approached the dauphin. “Your Highness, I’ll lead the initial charge.”

“We will be together.” The prince’s voice brook no room for argument.

Henri donned on his burgonet after holding it in his hands for a moment, as if touching his father’s helmet could bless him. Then a groom and Brissac helped him adjust his armor.

The dauphin knelt, his scrutiny directed at the steel-gray sky. “God bless me.”

The others followed suit. “The Lord protect His Highness and France!”

Dauphin Henri went to the rear of the army. Soldiers assembled to the east of Noyon, where a massive wooden gate, covered with iron, blocked one of the entrances into the town.

“The first rank,” began Henri, “will take shields because there will be an aerial attack.”

Brissac asserted, “Once we will breach the gate, our men will climb up the walls by the gate. The remainder of our forces will break into the town.”

Henri remarked, “Let’s work audaciously and quickly.”

The prince grabbed a shield from his page and slipped his left arm through the loops. The battering ram, a huge set of hewn logs lashed together, was at the ready. His burliest soldiers, broad and muscular, supported it easily. At Henri’s signal, they charged forward with the ram, followed by a number of guards hoisting shields aloft to protect themselves against the defenders’ arrows.

“For France!” the dauphin hollered. “For King François!”

“For King François!” echoed many knights altogether.

Vendôme shouted, “For Dauphin Henri!” Everyone echoed.

Henri watched his men’s endeavors to break the gates. For a second, the memory of his first charge at Laon, also the town connected with Hugh Capet, penetrated his consciousness. With it came the feeling of an arrow piercing his thigh. The dauphin swallowed convulsively at the sight of the arrow sticking out of his warrior’s back as the dead soldier tumbled to the ground.

Questions circled Henri’s mind. Would his mind ever be at peace after all the killings he had perpetrated during the invasion? François had not allowed his heir to fight in the Italian wars or during the previous invasion out of fear to lose Henri. Nevertheless, now many things depended upon the dauphin and his military talent. God, protect me from any injuries, prayed Henri.

Arrows flew from the top of the gates, snapping Henri out of his reveries. Some shafts struck or glanced off the shields, while others thudded into the ground. Men fell dead. In front of Henri, an arrow split into the forehead of one of the carriers of the ram, and this soldier careened off to the side. Henri stumbled as his feet hit something slippery, but Brissac aided him to his feet.

“Careful, Your Highness,” cautioned Brissac. “You might be trampled if panic starts.”

The dauphin displayed his confidence of their success. “It will not happen!” To encourage his knights, he affirmed ebulliently, “Continue with the charge! Use more shields!”

More soldiers arrived. They held their shields aloft for the protection of their comrades who were pummeling the gates with the ram. All at once, rocks pelted them from the upper part of the gates. Some of them were small and glanced off the shields, the others collapsed onto the French.

Henri encouraged, “Do not give up!”

Each of the soldiers gathered all their strength for another push. The ram slammed into wood with a colossal strength, pealing a dreadful crash and splitting screech. The burly men pulled back the ram and then performed another charge. A horrendous crash was followed by the orders for another more powerful charge. Five more successive attempts buckled the gate.

Missiles were flying in the air, some of them harming the French. The shields protected only their upper bodies, so the foe cleverly targeted feet and legs. Brissac and Henri stood close to one another, holding the shields to cover as much of their bodies as possible. At last, the chargers slammed into the wood with an earsplitting snap, and the gates opened for a moment only.

“Do not allow them to break through!” enjoined René of Chalon, Prince of Orange.

Dauphin Henri knew about this man’s presence in Noyon. “No, we shall!”

Inside, the Flemish attempted to keep the gates closed. Another charge of the ram pierced the opening. Then the French sprinted through the arched gateway with their swords drawn.

Dauphin Henri swung his sword with all his might. His weapon reached opponents in his vicinity, striking them into flanks, chests, legs, necks, and heads. His fierce swordsmanship was to the credit of his main teachers – Montmorency and King François, with whom Henri had sparred even when their relationship had been strained. Now those lessons were saving Henri’s life.

“My men! The walls!” commanded Henri. “Secure the area!”

His reaction was quick: the dauphin raised his shield just in time as a blade crashed into it. Henri lunged forward and thrust the blade deep into the attacker’s body. He bisected the chest of his next assailant, and then the tip of his blade entered another man’s ribcage.

“Your Highness is ferocious,” the Count de Brissac commended. He dispatched one of the foes who stalked towards the prince. “Yet, I must defend you.”

“I’m not a boy.” Henri plunged his blade into someone’s side.

Recognizable in François’ burgonet, the French monarch’s son did not see a German sergeant approach him from the back. Just as the dauphin beheaded his rival, Brissac stabbed the man into the gut – the invisible enemy dropped his bloodied weapon and then collapsed.

Brissac commented, “I watch over you for France and King François.”

Henri looked at the dead man over his shoulder. “France is more important than me.”

Brissac signed. The dauphin was as stubborn as his chivalrous father was, so he tried another approach. “The lives of three Valois princes besieged in Boulogne depend on your victory.”

At this, the dauphin nodded. “Stay close to me.”

Brissac continued to fight beside Henri. On the way to the central square, they blocked, parried, and sliced, as if cutting a tunnel through the dense forest. There were more Flemish men inside the town than anticipated, all of them eager to resist until death. However, the masses of furious Frenchmen swarmed Noyon and massacred the adversaries with the same hatred as they had revealed in the recent battle of Soissons. Soon the Flemish began a chaotic retreat.

“For France!” Henri sent another rival to the underworld.

Someone caught the dauphin on the shoulder. Henri slanted a swift glance to the area, expecting to see a gaping wound and red flesh, only to realize that his armor had done its job. Brissac remained next to him, and the two of them were slowly approaching Noyon Cathedral.

The din of fighting was gradually dying out. Hundreds of corpses littered the central square and the streets of the town, where the whiteness of the snow was now stained with blood. Those Flemish who survived the slaughter capitulated: they clustered together in the central square, their hands raised, their eyes terrified. A line of French archers encircled the perimeter of the square.

Henri passed one captive and heard him say in French with German accent, “Your Highness, I served King Ferdinand. I did not want to come to France, but Emperor Carlos ordered it.”

The dauphin spoke German a little, so he came to the man. “How can you prove that?”

The man supplied, “I have a suspicion where King Ferdinand might be held.”

Henri addressed Brissac in French, “Interrogate him. Maybe he is saying the truth.”

Nodding, the Count de Brissac had the soldier manacled and led him away.

The dauphin ordered, “Don’t kill those who surrendered. If they served King Ferdinand, they will be with us until their real master is released. Have the other prisoners ransomed.”

Exhaustion was catching up with Dauphin Henri, but he could think clearly. The massacre perpetrated in Soissons frightened the Imperial commanders, including the Duke of Alba, who had been evacuated to Flanders according to French spies due to his wound. The world was aware of Henri’s fierceness, and now his magnanimity must become known.

Furthermore, the dauphin feared to disappoint his royal father. He could imagine François’ reprimanding stare upon getting the news that Henri had massacred every adversary in Picardy. It was also necessary to try and separate those who had once served Ferdinand, whose liberation was the secret mission of Claude d’Annebault, from those who were fanatically loyal to the emperor. My father is the Knight-King, and I cannot be worse than him. Lord, help me win!

§§§

The sun was still high in the firmament when Dauphin Henri entered the Noyon Cathedral. Charles de Cossé, Count de Brissac, and a contingent of guards accompanied him.

Reverential silence reigned in the ancient basilica. Henri and the others strolled along the nave that consisted of eleven bays, forming a transept. His scrutiny briefly detoured to the windows of the aisles and the triforium gallery, which had round-headed Gothic arches.

Stopping near the front pews close to the altar, Henri recollected, “The cathedral was burned down in the 1130s. The choir and everything else were rebuilt much later. The current basilica is a fine example of the transition from the Romanesque style to Gothic architecture.”

Still in his armor, Dauphin Henri lay prostrate before the altar and prayed most fervently. His heart hammered like a drumbeat inside the imaginary confines of one’s armor.

Holy Father! I’ve retaken Noyon, where Charlemagne and Hugh Capet were crowned kings. I’m ready to give my life for the freedom of my country and our subjects. Bless me to rescue my father François and my stepmother Anne. Protect my brothers Augustine, Antoine, and Jean. Help me in freeing them from the clutches of the tyrannical English king.

During these months, Henri avoided the hallowing thoughts about the possible deaths of his father, Anne, and his half-brothers. He had joined the army with Philippe de Chabot and fought like a man possessed. He raced towards the goal of ejecting the enemy from the Valois realm, breathed and moved forward, suppressing the rampart storm in his soul. However, every moment the terror of losing one of his relatives was gnawing at him with increasing persistence.

The dauphin lay on the floor for several minutes. His mind was on his besieged relatives.

Touch me, O Lord, and fill me with Your light and hope. Give me strength when I’m weak, courage when I’m afraid, wisdom when I need it the most, and comfort me when I’m alone. Amen.

The prince climbed to his feet. Brissac and the guards, who had also prayed, followed suit.

Henri instructed, “We should go. Three thousands of my soldiers will stay here in Noyon. The rest thirty thousand shall renew our marsh on Boulogne tomorrow early in the morning.”

They retraced the path back along the nave, briefly stopping in the lower gallery. Henri lifted his orbs to the vault of the cathedral, which had been constructed again after a fire in 1293 in the quadripartite style. They passed several side chapels, radiant and splendid, and exited.

§§§

The purple shadows of dusk blanketed the town. Dauphin Henri was escorted to one of the local mansions, where an injured René of Chalon, an Imperial general, was lodged. René, also known as Renatus of Chalon, was a high-ranking Flemish nobleman: a Prince of Orange and stadtholder of Holland, Zeeland, Utrecht, and Gelre. The dauphin wanted to see him because they were distant cousins, both descended from the murdered Prince Louis de Valois, Duke d’Orléans.

As pallid as the white silk sheets covering him, René lay on an enormous bed canopied with red velvet. As red as the bloodstained bandages wrapped around his chest and his right side from the wound that was fatal because his lungs had been severely damaged. The wall hangings depicted the lives of Saints Peter and Paul; the furniture was made of oak and ebony.

At twenty-six, René was the Dauphin of France’s coeval. His appearance attractive enough, René had a narrow face with a long nose, blue eyes, and chestnut hair. He was of lithe build, but tall. In service to Emperor Carlos, he had been made a knight of the Golden Fleece in 1530.

“Who are you?” René muttered under his breath, his gaze feverish.

Dauphin Henri moved towards the bed. “You will not guess.”

“Your Flemish is flawless, and you look like a rich nobleman.” René’s voice was weak.

“Your Highness of Orange is injured and should rest, but I wanted to see you.”

“I shall die, and all the Frenchmen will dance on my grave.”

Henri grimaced. “On the contrary, I’ll order many Masses for your soul and send your body to the Burgundian Netherlands to be buried at Grote Kerk in Breda, Brabant.”

The Prince of Orange was confused by the man’s behavior. “Who are you?”

“I’m the Dauphin of France, cousin,” Henri de Valois introduced himself.

René snarled, “I should have known. You have the Valois features.”

An odd silence ensued. Henri broke it. “We should not have fought on different sides.”

“My allegiance is to the emperor,” the dying man claimed.

The dauphin noted, “My physician examined you and did what he could.”

“Thank you.” It was a sincere statement on René’s part. “It hurts like hell, but it is only a matter of time before I breathe my last. My cousin, William of Nassau, will become a new Prince of Orange. The only condition I placed for his inheritance is that William should be a Catholic.”

“A teenager of twelve,” the dauphin recalled. “I care not for him, for he is not my cousin.” 

René laughed, but he coughed with blood. “We are enemies.”

“I’ll call the doctor.” Before Henri could leave, René’s voice stopped him.

“Your Highness, do not execute my soldiers, I beg of you.” He paused and coughed again, this time with more crimson liquid. “Many of them are good men who complied with orders.”

“I shall not,” the dauphin pledged. “Where is King Ferdinand imprisoned?”

After a moment of dithering, the Prince of Orange told the story of Ferdinand’s arrest and incarceration. By the end of his long speech, Henri was pleased with the information until strings of blood flowed from René’s nose and mouth before René of Chalon shut his eyes forever.

Henri crossed himself. “God rest your soul, cousin.” He exited with a leaden heart.


January 18, 1546, Château de Boulogne-sur-Mer, Boulogne, France

After the sentinels opened the door to the queen’s chambers, Catherine Parr slipped inside. Catherine found the captive queen sitting by the hearth with a book open in her lap.

Anne began, “It is Dante Alighieri’s ‘Divine Comedy.’ I love this book.”

Catherine curtsied and then put a tray with food on a nearby table. “It comprises sections representing purgatory, heaven, and hell. However, I prefer to read about them in the Bible.”

The queen fanned through the book. “Dante depicts hell as nine concentric circles of torment located within the earth. I wonder in which Henry will be enduring God’s punishments.”

The other woman blanched. “Madame, I cannot speak about such things. I was appointed as your lady after Madame de Foix had been confined to your former chambers with your sons.”

The queen sauntered to the bed and seated herself on the edge. After Boulogne’s surrender, Henry wanted to ensure that she could not escape, so her new room, sparsely furnished with a bed with the canopy of old, dusty red velvet, a desk, and several ebony chairs, was located in the highest tower in the fortress, where she had been moved from her former comfortable and large apartments. Her sons were separated from their mother with Françoise.

Anne sighed. “At least, my boys are not imprisoned alone.”

Catherine loathed the king. “Your Majesty’s children have been treated well.”

The queen placed her hand on her enlarged stomach. “Henry must be planning the worst for us: yesterday, he threatened to make me his mistress after I’ll give birth to this child.”

Catherine gaped at her. “It is impossible!”

Anne’s laugh was outlandish. “Henry can do anything because he is the King of England. He speaks often, so these words have become such an old drivel.”

Catherine admonished, “Madame, you must stay calm for the baby’s sake.”

Anne grinned as the baby moved inside her. “Amazingly, this child is alive. Given the stress I’ve been under, I could have miscarried. We were besieged for months. When illnesses and famine started, I enjoined to surrender because I could not jeopardize my children’s health.”  

As the queen gestured towards an armchair, Catherine seated herself in it. Then Lady Parr said, “The king is preoccupied with his upcoming nuptials.”

Anne blinked hard. “Is my cousin Catherine Howard dead?”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Lady Parr then disclosed, “Thomas Culpeper and Francis Dereham were hanged, drawn, and quartered today in the morning in the city’s central square.”

“The king rarely visits me. He said that Culpeper was the Pope’s agent, who killed my cousin Francis Bryan and our ambassador Louis de Perreau. He also slaughtered someone else.”

“Culpeper is a murderer.” Catherine was as horrified with the revelation as the others.

“One of the Pope’s agents at the French court must have murdered the English ambassador Sir Nicholas Wotton, although Henry blames my husband for the poor man’s death.”

Catherine tipped her head. “I, too, think that the Pope’s agent murdered him.”

Anne let out an acrid laugh. “So, Henry is again without a queen.”

“Exactly, Your Majesty. He declared that he would remarry in Boulogne soon.”

“It must be someone from Kitty’s ladies, perhaps even you, Lady Parr.”

Catherine Parr felt as though the winds muttered curses and the stormy waves of the Channel growled in her inner realm. She could hear them with the ears of her soul, as a blend of universal sadness and fear flooded her world. My heart belongs to Hal Courtenay. I’ll not be able to bear the marriage to that ulcerated monster. The monarch had thrown lascivious glances at her from time to time.

Catherine’s mouth twisted. “I do not think so, Your Majesty.”

“I would not wish such a grievous fate upon anyone, Lady Parr.”

Thrusting her guesses about the ruler aside, Catherine notified, “His Majesty announced that Queen Kitty Howard was executed for adultery. Lady Jane Rochford and Lady Joan Bulmer were also executed as her accomplices.” She released a sigh. “No one knows how they died. I saw them last week, and they all seemed resigned, but then they disappeared.”   

Anne’s heart contracted. “Could it have been a private execution?”

“Yes.” A look of dismay spread across Catherine’s visage. “Upon learning of Queen Kitty’s affair with Culpeper, His Majesty was so furious that he had her beaten harshly in the camp. I helped Lady Rochford tend to her wounds, so any public beheading was out of question.”

“Of course not,” the queen uttered in the most rueful tones. “If my poor cousin had died in front of French crowds, they would have felt sympathy to her. They hate the English! How could Henry let them see the wife whom he harmed, even if she dallied with someone?”

“Your Majesty is right. He does not wish the tales of his cruelty spread across Europe.”

Anne’s grief for her cousin was bottomless, and so was her antagonism towards Henry. “We all know that Henry is a tyrant since he murdered my brother and several innocent men.”

They succumbed to a lamentable silence. Anne closed her eyes while resting upon the bed. Catherine beheld her, considering Anne a wonderful creature. This picture was so bittersweet to see, so strange for anyone who knew all that was brewing in the heads and hearts. Anne Boleyn and Catherine Parr had seen each other only a few times in the past when Catherine had come to the Tudor court in 1534 and 1535 with her late husband – John Neville, Baron Latimer.

Grief stamped itself upon their countenances. They crossed themselves and mourned for the deaths of Kitty and Jane, less for Joan because neither Catherine nor Anne knew her well.

Catherine leapt to her feet. “Madame, I shall do something that the king will interpret as treason, but it is my heart’s desire.” She retrieved a letter from a pocket of her gown.

Anne opened her eyes and saw Catherine near the bed. She bolted into a sitting position and questioned, “What it is?” She took the sheet of paper from the other woman.

Catherine explained in a hushed voice, “When I saw the governor of Boulogne, he implored me to take the best care of you; he speaks English well. He shared with me his fears that His Majesty might try to bring you to England with the princes or to ravish you brutally.”

Anne tensed. “Henry can do pretty much anything to me and my boys.”

“I know.” Catherine’s lips set in grim lines. “That is why I’ve given you this letter.”

Hope glimmering in her pools, Anne unfolded the note and read it.

Your Majesty Queen Anne,

My heart is tearing apart in pain for you. However, there is good news: today when I was in my room, locked by our captors, a pigeon that I usually use for secret correspondence appeared on my windowsill. It brought the message from Dauphin Henri. Now he is marching on Boulogne through the least populated places to prevent their discovery.

Jacques de Coucy, Seigneur de Vervins and governor of Boulogne

An exhilarated Anne exclaimed, “My stepson will rescue us!”

Catherine smiled with relief. “That is the least I can do for you.”

Anne rose from the bed. “Thank you, Lady Parr. You are taking such risks.”

Lady Parr confessed, “It is difficult to watch what King Henry is doing to you.” She then bobbed a curtsey with an air of the most refined etiquette. “Now I must go.”

“Thank you,” repeated the queen.

Near the door, Catherine pivoted. “The late Queen Catherine arrived in Boulogne with Princess Elizabeth. She is in the fortress, but I’m afraid I cannot help you see her.”

Anne’s heart soared and then plummeted. “I understand.”

“Please eat.” Lady Parr closed the door, and the guards locked it.

Her heart now a little lighter, the Queen of France strode to a table, where candelabra burned. She put the letter to a candle and watched it burn.  Forgetting about the food, Anne returned to the bed and snuggled under the bedcovers. She prayed for the dauphin’s success in Boulogne.

§§§

The antechamber, which was part of Queen Anne’s former apartments, was thronged with people. King Henry and the Marquess of Exeter stood a few steps away from the princes.

“Leave us, you dragon!” sobbed a distressed Prince Jean, Duke de Guyenne. 

Prince Augustine, Duke d’Angoulême, glared murderously at the King of England. “Does Your Majesty really think that your behavior makes you look well?”

The Tudor ruler hated these boys because they were his archrival’s offspring. These sons who should have been mine, but Anne betrayed me when she married that accursed François. During his visits, Henry found Jean to be a sweet and quiet boy, well behaved and even boring in his eyes. Henry enjoyed the sight of Jean’s tears and terror, while Augustine’s stony calmness, which was not typical for a boy of such a tender age, puzzled him to an extreme degree.

Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant, traipsed to them. “Respect them.”

“You are my prisoners!” bellowed Henry Tudor. “I can do to you whatever I want.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “I might compel you all to become my pages or my fools. After all, what else can the little Valois buffoons do if not to entertain the mightiest monarch in Europe?”

Augustine hugged Jean tightly. “You have no shame.”

The conversation was led in the French language, for Françoise did not speak English.

The monarch stepped to the princes. “You all are nothing! Just the dirt beneath my boots, even worse. I can have you flogged like peasants, just as you both deserve.”

Augustine asked, “Madame de Châteaubriant, please take care of him.”

“Brother, make the dragon go away,” entreated Jean.

“He shall leave soon.” Augustine’s chilly orbs were fixed on their tormentor.

The countess led Jean away to a green-brocaded couch. Prince Antoine, Duke de Provence, slept in an adjacent room; Henry had already seen Antoine and disparaged the infant.

The king sniggered. “François’ sons are such weaklings.”

Exeter interposed, “Your Majesty, they are foreign princes, so we have to treat them well.”

Henry glowered at the marquess. “Cousin, choose your words more carefully.”

Augustine flickered his scrutiny to Exeter. “Thank you, Monsieur.”

The marquess dropped into a bow. “Your Highness, it is an honor for me to meet you.”

Henry blustered, “What are you doing, Hal? Don’t quarrel with me.”

“Your Majesty, I insist that we respect them,” persevered Exeter.

Augustine stepped forward. His expression chilly, he faced the huge man intrepidly. “When my brother Henri comes here, he will not show you any kindness. You are our enemy!”

The king was nonplussed by the boy’s audacity. “How dare you!”

“I dare!” Augustine raised his voice that was like an arctic wind. “You are an invader! You are the mightiest warrior? You do not look like a knight due to your body’s size.”

A surge of bloody wrath rippled through the monarch. The Duke d’Angoulême was truly a fearless and unusually clever boy. I’ve never met a unique child such as Augustine, and I loathe Anne that this boy is not our son. He hated Augustine for his resemblance to François de Valois. The frosty ice in the prince’s amber pools pierced Henry with their coldness like a dart.

The insult irked him. “France will be mine, and you will be licking my boots like slaves.”

“Never! Better kill me!” stated Augustine. “But we will be rescued.”

Henry shrilled, “You are a Valois brat!”

“Your Majesty, we should go,” Exeter tried to convince his liege lord.

Jean had calmed down. “Your red hair make you look like an evil dragon.”

“Get out,” decreed Augustine with such hostility that Henry recoiled. “Out!”

“Your mother shall pay,” pledged Henry before he and Exeter exited.

Françoise said, “We are all proud of you, but it was dangerous.”

Augustine stomped over to the couch where his brother was seated with the countess. He averred, “He will not dare harm us, but I’m worried about our mama.”

Jean looked scared. “Me too. I hate that obese dragon.”

“I shall protect you all,” Françoise pledged.

The three of them were enveloped by a cloud of trepidation, hoping for the better. Thoughts of Anne Boleyn tumbled through their minds like water over a cascade in a frantic rush. A curious form of presentiment expanded in their souls, making them restless and anxious. 

Notes:

Hello everyone! We hope that you are fine and safe. Take care of yourself!

This chapter’s title reflects on what happened to Queen Anne Boleyn and Queen Catherine Howard. Catherine/Kitty was executed upon Henry’s orders; later you will learn what happened to her. Joan Bulmer, Jane Boleyn, Francis Dereham, and Thomas Culpeper were executed as well. Anne was captured when she surrendered to the English because of famine. The chapter is focused on the afflictions of Kitty and Anne, but at least they met each other briefly.

Catherine’s execution could be expected in advance. Now you know that Thomas Culpeper is a murderer, and many readers guessed that he is a murderer when we had polls. The Marquess of Exeter entrapped many people and got rid of his enemies and witnesses of his crafty plots, which is not a good thing to do. At the same time, Exeter disposed of Culpeper who threatened his own life and who murdered several people. Exeter stopped Culpeper who could have butchered more people, and Exeter managed to extricate himself from all suspicions.

We hope you liked the scene of Kitty’s confrontation with Henry. He deserved to be told what he has done and who he is. We hope you liked the appearance of Anne, her son Augustine, and the governor of Boulogne in the English camp. There will be another meeting between Henry and Anne who is now held captive by her former husband. Of course, Henry visited Anne’s sons, and you may notice Augustine’s reaction to their tormentor and his behavior – Augustine will always be like this – frigid, cunning, unusual, and strong, like Philippe IV the Fair of France.

Dauphin Henri won another battle, and he will continue his march on the city of Boulogne. Maybe they will be able to help Ferdinand of Austria. You are warned: Anne and Henry will meet in the next chapter face to face. We hope that you like how we write Catherine Parr.

The information about the town of Noyon is historically correct. René of Chalon, Prince of Orange, was indeed a cousin to the Valois family, and an Imperial general who participated in the Italian wars. René did not have any legitimate children, so his titles and wealth were inherited by his cousin – William of Nassau called the Silent, also known as William the Taciturn.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 69: Chapter 68: Tainted, yet Not Broken

Summary:

The Marquess of Exeter has a rendezvous with Catherine Parr. Queen Anne meets with King Henry face to face under very bad circumstances. They have a candid conversation about their past and her marriage to King François. Henry commits the most unforgiveable thing…

Notes:

WARNING: there is a short scene of violence and rape in this chapter. You might want to miss it. Remember that Henry VIII hit his head twice, and it was mentioned that it was done to make his further actions possible.

We recommend the works by BubblyYork, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 68: Tainted, yet Not Broken

January 23, 1546, Saint Nicholas Church, Boulogne, France

After matins, St Nicholas Church was empty because all of the parishioners had left to attend to their everyday business. Perfect silence reigned in this large, cruciform church located in the heart of the lower part of Boulogne. The church had first been mentioned in 1208 as a foundation of the Abbey of Notre-Dame, which was a popular place for pilgrimages. Lady Catherine Parr sat in the pew near the altar and prayed, not caring that it was a Catholic church.

Holy Father, today I ask forgiveness of all the negative and harmful words and things I’ve done and spoken in my life. Which horrible sin have I committed that Your wish for me is to tie my life to King Henry of England who kills and captures queens and who oppresses innocents?

Footsteps interrupted her prayers. Catherine turned her head to see Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, enter the church. At the sight of his former mistress, Exeter strode to her.

Catherine did not stand up from the pew. “We need to talk, Hal.”    

“Why, Cathy?” In the candlelight, Exeter’s pallor became more profound.

“Why did you plot against the late Queen Catherine Howard? Tell me the truth.”    

He answered, “Her executed Majesty betrayed the king with another man, which is high treason. It was my duty as our liege lord’s loyal subject to ensure that she was punished.”

Catherine countered, “You could warn the poor Queen Kitty against continuing her trysts with Culpeper. I did not know anything about her affair with that groom, and so you must have had spies in her household who provided you with credible evidence against her. Moreover, you revealed her liaison with Francis Dereham, which means that Joan Bulmer was your spy.”

Exeter eased himself on the pew in the same row. “She was my enemy.”  

She swallowed convulsively. Catherine had given Queen Anne the letter from Governor de Vervins of Boulogne, having betrayed England because she could see in the eyes of King Henry the burning desire to hurt his former wife. Neither Hal nor anyone else should know what I did, Lady Parr mused. She feared to imagine what would happen to her if it had become known.   

“Many people died,” whispered Catherine. “Catherine Howard, Jane Boleyn, Joan Bulmer, Francis Dereham… They were all guilty of something, but they could live if not for your deeds, Hal.” Her voice was tinged with condemnation. “You killed them as much as Henry the Tyrant did.” Her expression hardened. “Only that butcher Culpeper was the Pope’s agent.”    

Exeter was swooning in relief that Culpeper was dead. “Culpeper was a savage beast.”  

“He must be burning in hell. God cannot forgive him for such atrocities.”  

The Marquess of Exeter nodded wordlessly. He had never liked Culpeper in the slightest, having worked with the man only because of the command to do so from Rome. Unlike Culpeper, Exeter had never murdered on the Bishop of Rome’s orders, all his killing experience being restricted by soldiers during wars and the servant maid whom he had strangled out of necessity. I do not feel guilty for Culpeper’s death, but I do pity that Kitty and the three others.

Nonetheless, Exeter would never acknowledge that aloud, not even to Catherine Parr. The marquess had been afraid of meeting with the dead man, always bringing a poniard with him lest Culpeper had attempted to take his life. While weaving a plot against the late Queen Kitty, Exeter had seized the opportunity to have Culpeper brought down and buried together with her, so that no dark shadow would ever loom over him and anyone at the Tudor court.

Exeter had found the Pope’s letters among Culpeper’s things. The murder of Perreau had been perpetrated by Culpeper in revenge for the siege of Rome of 1540 by the French. The agent had not burned all his communication with the Vatican, where Allessandro Farnese had sanctioned the murder of Anne von Cleves, which was enough for the Tudor monarch to sentence Culpeper to death. I’m indifferent to what His Holiness thinks of my role in this plot, Exeter noted to himself.

The marquess verbalized only some of his thoughts. “King Henry, Charles Brandon, and I witnessed the executions of Culpeper and Dereham. He made a speech in French and condemned Culpeper for butchering innocents on the Pope’s orders. The French are Catholics, but they do not approve of the Vatican’s crimes against the House of Valois, so they rejoiced in Culpeper’s death.” He sighed. “They also demanded the release of Queen Anne and her sons.”

“The French love their queen. Now they are terrified to lose her and the princes.”  

Shifting closer to his former paramour, he covered Catherine’s hand with his. “I advised that His Majesty does not invade France. Nonetheless, he is so obsessed with vengeance he craves to extract on the French monarchs that no one could persuade him otherwise.”

She enjoyed the feel of his warm flesh on hers. “Recommend that the king treat her well.”  

“Suffolk and I spent days trying to convince that irrational Henry Tudor to contact the regent of France – Queen Marguerite of Navarre – in order to have Queen Anne and the three Valois princes ransomed by the French. However, he is hell bent on forcibly taking them to England.”  

A shiver ran down her spine. “It will lead to an invasion of England in response. I’m aware of Princess Elizabeth’s conversation about it with His Grace of Suffolk and the king.”  

He was silent for a space of a few heartbeats. “I’ll speak to our sovereign again, but I’m not sure I can do anything else. I want our troops to return to England so that we can live in peace.”  

Although they had the same attitude to England’s campaign against France, Catherine did not mention anything about the approach of the French dauphin’s army. “I want home, too.”  

Exeter let out a smile and squeezed her fingers. “Our desires coincide.”  

A suddenly depressed Catherine bowed her head, lacing their fingers tighter. “Hal, His Majesty summoned me yesterday. He decided to make me his next wife.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You know about the ongoing preparations for his nuptials next week.”

A shaken Courtenay blanched to the color of ash. “That cannot be real!”

She hiccupped out a sob. “That is true! We cannot resist his will.” Her head dropped lower to her chest. “Not that you cared a lot, Hal. You ended our relationship months earlier.”  

He was appalled at the very idea of the ruler touching this woman. “No!” He felt the air thinning out, as if he were running out of breath. “Because…” He dragged an agonizing breath. “I regret that I pushed you away and caused you pain. You have always been in my thoughts.”

Catherine veered her eyes, full of disbelief, to her former lover. “Is that not a lie?”    

Exeter kissed her hands ardently. “Deep down, my soul idealizes true love and considers the beauty of this wonderful feeling something akin to all the beauties of the world, although I do not show this to others. Once I loved one woman madly, and part of me remembers her still, but she died young in the most bizarre way. Without her, it seemed to me that I had lost the very sense of my life. I thought that I would always be the most unfortunate creature on earth.”  

“Cathy!” He gazed into her eyes affectionately. “One day, providence brought back to my door the most miraculous gift – you when I met you at Hatfield. Fate granted me a new chance, but I foolishly abandoned you. I do not understand myself, but I yearn to be with you.”  

Tears were leaking like rivers from her brown pools. “Do you love me, Hal?” 

“You are here and here!” Exeter released her hands and showed on his head, then pressed his hand to his chest where his heart hammered wildly. “Always, Cathy! It must be love.”  

Catherine Parr flushed and blanched alternately, parted her lips, and closed them once more. What could she reply to the words that she had longed to hear for long? Her two previous marriages had been loveless. Ignoring Courtenay’s reputation of an out and out philanderer, Catherine had entered into her clandestine relationship with Exeter because of her passionate feelings for him.

Despite being a staunch Protestant, she did not repent of what she had done, although it had been a carnal sin. Her break-up with Exeter weighed upon her, as if her soul had been fettered to an instrument of torture. Feeling Exeter so close to her, hearing his amorous statements, which reminded her of the ramblings of a romantic lost in a thick forest, Catherine soared in euphoria.

Nevertheless, the distasteful memory of her upcoming marriage to the monarch shattered her happiness into countless pieces. My dreams of being with Hal will never come true… Probably never… She could barely force herself to think that she could be with Henry of England as a wife, to endure his caresses and the weight of his huge and ulcerated body pressing her to the mattress. Such thoughts disgusted Lady Parr absolutely, more than anything else could.

Catherine removed her hand from his. “I’ll marry the king. I’ll do my duty.”  

Exeter was panic-stricken. “I cannot let that happen.”

“You can do nothing, Hal.” A wave of sobs overcame her. “Resign yourself to that.”

Reaching up, he pulled her into his embrace. “Oh my Cathy…” Her tears were too hot, like particles of fire, as they sank into Exeter’s doublet. “Shhh… it will be all right.”

Catherine pushed him away. “There is no way out.”

Lady Parr jumped to her feet, and Lord Exeter followed suit. For a short while, they stood silent as she wept looking into his bereft eyes. The mournful stillness percolated into the vaulted roofs above the nave and the transepts in the church. The marble statues of saints observed their grief wordlessly, as if not wishing to separate the two star-crossed lovers until Doomsday.   

Her puffy eyes felt heavy. “Tell me how Kitty, Jane, and Joan died.”   

“You do not need to know that.” Exeter’s voice trembled.

“Tell me,” she demanded. “I cared about Queen Kitty a great deal.”  

Despite being Kitty’s gravedigger, Exeter was shocked by the method of her execution. “In the harems of Ottoman Sultans in Constantinople, the guilty odalisques are placed alive into sacks and drowned in the Bosphorus. Suffolk and I objected most vehemently, but Henry was adamant.”  

“No! Alive?!” Despair mingled with consternation manifested on Catherine’s expression.

“Yes, and I’m sorry… They were put alive into sacks and thrown into the English Channel.” 

She blotted at the tears with her sleeve. “That is too cruel…” 

Impulsively, Exeter clasped her hand again. “You cannot marry that beast.”   

Her lips trembled like dew on leaves. “I ought to do so, or I might pay the highest price for my rejection.” A tide of terror ripped through her. “I do not want to end my life at the bottom of the sea. The king’s health is not good, and maybe, just maybe I’ll outlive him.”  

Catherine looked at the wooden cross and the statue of the Virgin Mary. She begged them for atonement for her thoughts of their liege lord’s demise, but she could not behave otherwise. As fears of death at King Henry’s behest – it was too perilous to be the spouse of the brutal English ruler – plagued her mind, Catherine found strength only in her faith in the Almighty.

“You cannot wed that obese tyrant,” reiterated the marquess in a broken voice.

She shook her head before stating, “I shall.”

Casting a wistful glance at her former lover, Catherine prodded away down the nave. There were few new parishioners, but they were French and did not understand their native tongue. Near the entrance, she halted and spun around to face Exeter once more, her eyes seeming to scorch with gray droplets of her eternal sorrow. Then a weeping Catherine ran out of the church.

The Marquess of Exeter stood there, immobile and petrified, as though the news of her wedding to the monarch had sucked the life out of him. Now he was being battered by two tides of bereavement – the grief over the loss of Anne Bassett and the horrible anguish over the loss of Catherine who was alive and whose touch was still warm upon his hand. The pain was so sharp that Exeter could barely breathe. I do love Catherine… How could I not realize that before?

He glanced at the statue of St Nicholas, who was the patron saint of merchants, travelers, and sailors. “I shall forever be a wayfarer in the world of personal misery.” A fat tear trickled from his orbs for the first time since Lady Bassett’s passing. “Cathy…” He spoke to her as if his beloved could hear him. Then Exeter tumbled onto a nearby pew and buried his head in his hands.


January 27, 1546, Château de Boulogne-sur-Mer, Boulogne, France

The lock screeched loudly as the key turned outside the quarters of the captive queen. Anne’s heart swooped as a dart of terror ripped through her, worms of presentiment devouring her.     

“Anne Boleyn,” hissed King Henry of England, as if it were the worst pestilence on earth.

As the monarch entered, the sentries immediately locked the door behind him.

At the sound of the sanguine steel in this most hateful voice on earth, Queen Anne of France craved to be swallowed by some invisible world so as not see Henry again. She remained seated upon her bed, a wave of visceral terror petrifying her, stilling her lips as if she were dead. Questions circled Anne’s mind. It is rather late. Has Henry come to torment me again?

A profusion of candles blazed in massive candelabra, scattered upon ebony tables across the small chamber. Henry disliked this room, for even the stone walls were bare, and only one tapestry of the Virgin Mary adorned the wall adjacent to a bed canopied with dusty, threadbare red velvet. He had chosen this place for her imprisonment to give her maximum discomfort possible.

Henry viewed Anne from head to toe. She was clad in an elaborate gown of black and red silk, cut low in the French fashion and showing her alabaster skin. Her long stomacher of light crimson brocade, set with precious stones, glittered like the flame of passion in its glory, reflecting the reigniting lust for her in the ruler’s loins. As the king’s gaze shifted to her enlarged stomach, anger speared through him. Anne is carrying François’ child, damn them both!

As Henry lumbered over to her bed, Anne did not even stand up to curtsey to him.

He barked, “Why are you not paying any deference to me?” 

Her brow arched. “Why should I? I’m not your subject.”  

“You are my prisoner. I can do whatever I wish to you.”  

Anne lifted her chin defiantly. “I remain an anointed Queen of France; you cannot alter it.”   

The monarch stomped forward and loomed over the bed, over her petite figure, too close and being more pernicious than incurable leprosy. His breathing was coming in quick gasps, wisps of fury and mortal animosity in the air, scorching Anne’s skin and leaving invisible scars upon it.

Still, the queen did not look at him. “What do you want?”   

“Oh Anne,” murmured Henry in an uncharacteristically soft voice, almost pitifully. “Every time I see you, I’m torn between the past and the present. I think of how happy we once were together, of all the awesome years we spent together, of your vows to love me and only me for the rest of your life, of the wonderful nights we spent together, of our daughter Lizzy.”  

She uttered eagerly, as if relieved to talk of some personal matters, “The past is buried in the heartbreak that one must endure to be reborn later. Our story – romantic, but very tragic – perished in the haze of Lethe, and it will be either abhorred or admired by the next generations.”

He reached out and traced the line of her cheek. “I’ve remembered you during all these years. I’ve endeavored to eradicate you from my memory, but I’ve failed. At times, I cannot look into Elizabeth’s black eyes because I imagine that you glare at me through our daughter.”  

His touch appalled her, but she did not brush his hand away. “I’m grateful to you for clearing my name and those of George and the others unjustly condemned by your sociopaths.” A sigh fled her lips. “As for Elizabeth, you should not blame her for anything. She is the best that came out of our tumultuous and destructive relationship. Lizzy is England’s future.”

It irritated the monarch that the queen did not look at him. “My son, Edward, will succeed me. I’ll find a foreign match for our daughter. Ned will usher England into a Golden Age.”

“Do not presume to know God’s will, Henry. The twists of providence are mysterious.”

Her sardonic tone grated on his nerves. “It was the Lord’s will for us to meet in Boulogne.”   

Anne throttled the urge to retch from this semblance of a caress. “The woes and humiliations I endured at your hands have already dimmed. They floated to the deepest recesses of my memory, yet they are still indubitable facts. At present, I do not wish to look into the past of the dead man.”  

His finger lingered on her jaw. “What?” 

The queen surveyed him with scorn. “You are dead to me.”  

Their gazes locked in the truculent combat of tempers and wills, far more savage than the collision between Zeus and other Olympians against Cronus and primordial deities. Henry’s frame shuddered in a toxic mix of berserk rage, perpetual enmity, and obsessive longing for this fierce and enigmatic creature that had never surrendered to Henry, not even at the bottom of her life.   

Anne perused her former husband. Habited in a doublet of red damask wrought with gold, the Tudor monarch embodied an aging and somewhat attractive despot with graying, but still red, hair, despite his substantial weight. His bearing was as imperial as always, yet the air about him was more ferocious than ever. In his small aquamarine eyes, she discerned a sense of total selfishness and impunity. Henry is capable of anything, for he considers himself almost God.

The ruler squeezed her shoulder painfully. “How dare you?” 

She jumped to her feet from the bed. “Do not touch me.”  

“You are my captive,” roared Henry, his orbs shooting the sharpest daggers at her.

His rival’s wife dashed away from him. “Only for now.”  

He clamored, “You capitulated to me. The city of Boulogne is mine. You are mine, just as I dreamed of having you in my grasp for so long. I’ll not let you go!”

His fanatical obsession with her both amused and exasperated Anne. “You remind me of an offended and intemperate child deprived of their favorite toy. It is such an idle talk, Henry.”  

The king began advancing towards Anne, and she backed away from him.

A belligent Henry bellowed, “I was your toy for years! That damned Wiltshire and the Duke of Norfolk placed you in my way so that you could prostitute yourself for my lavish gifts and their privileges. Then I promised you the crown, and soon you bewitched me completely.”  

The queen stopped in the center of the room when he ceased moving.

“You have never known the real me,” the queen stated with certainty. “You placed me upon the pedestal constructed in your head. When I fell short of your expectations, you began to loathe me, mostly because I did not give birth to your son. You have never loved me with a real love.”  

He felt a lump in his throat. “I did love you a lot, Anne. Part of me wants you still.”  

She insisted, “You coveted to have me because I was unreachable for you for years. I swore to you that only my husband would have my maidenhood. I kept my word… almost… because we succumbed to our desires while in Calais in 1532, but we got married soon thereafter.”  

The king led the vanguard of his personal offenses against his former consort. “You promised me heaven in marriage and male heirs. You tortured me with your rejections for years to continuously reignite my passion for you, while you enjoyed my affections and my gifts.”  

Her mind drifted back to the days of her adolescence, which had followed her return from France. “You are right: I was indifferent to you at first.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I grieved the loss of the prospect of marrying Harry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, at sixteen. Wolsey dissolved our betrothal, obeying his lewd sovereign who hankered another pretty doll.”  

He jeered, “Now Percy is the husband of that barren Seymour vixen.”  

“You forced them to marry, and that was disgusting of you to do so.”   

He huffed, “Do not question my decisions.”  

She purred ironically, “Ah, no one can contradict the mighty Henry Tudor!”

“I’m the King of England!” His shout was like that of an enraged and spoiled boy.

“Always the same.” The Boleyn smirk communicated her boredom.   

The ruler was intoxicated with her against his will. “Your edges have always been too exotic and too sharp, dangerous and tempestuous, like an ocean separating us from the New World.”

“Why don’t you go to one of your mistresses, Henry? Philippa Bassett, for instance.”  

“Catherine Parr seems to be too talkative.” He would berate Lady Parr later.

For some reason, the King of England did not leave his prisoner for a long time. His presence in her room was synonymous with the primal fright of him, which crystallized in Anne’s soul.

§§§

Queen Anne tossed several logs into the hearth. Henry observed her from beneath his knitted reddish brows. She had a spine-chilling premonition that he would deform her world tonight.

Anne eased herself in a nearby chair. “My sentiments towards Harry Percy were my first romantic reveries, and they were not very strong. During our long courtship, Henry, you were too obsessed with me, as if I were a goddess – it is a pity that I could not predict my future at the time.” She chortled melancholically. “You battled for me against Catherine of Aragon, Emperor Carlos, Rome, and the whole of Christendom. I fantasized that you were my knight in shining armor.”   

He settled in a chair next to her. She did not put a distance between them.

The monarch recollected, “You drove me mad with your refusals to be mine.”  

“I was a maid. I could not lose my virginity before my marriage. My sister’s example taught me a great deal, and in spite of my relatives’ pressure to ensnare you even before you vowed to have your matrimony with Catherine annulled, I was not going to become your slut.”

“I intended to make you my paramour only for a short while, Anne. I loved you so deeply that I resolved to move heaven and earth in order to be with you. And I broke with Rome.”    

“For absolute power,” she corrected. “Its taste is too exhilarating.”  

He shook his head. “For you!”

“No! For yourself, and for your egotistical desire for dominance and victory.”  

Her impassioned utterance was starting to foment his temper again. “For you!”

Having decided not to convince him otherwise, Anne let out a satirical laugh. “I was such a naïve girl, inexperienced in matters of the heart. Your long fight for me charmed me.”  

The ruler reminisced, “I loved you insanely, Anne. You have always been too different from others. Everything about you has denoted strength of purpose, will, passion, and even hate. When you appeared at my court in 1525, your exotic appearance and your sophisticated personality both demanded rigorous study. I was immensely captivated by you and contemplated you again and again – I was ready to come through great battles against fate to have you.”  

The telltale lines about her mouth signaled her unease. “Henry! You swore to me that we would always be equals, free of meanness, dissension, jealousy, and falsehood. I believed that such a beautiful relationship between us was possible. Yet, back then I saw the façade of a handsome and gallant monarch who fought for me, confessing his “everlasting” adoration for me every day.”

The English sovereign was roused to a curiosity to know more of her feelings for him at the time. “Did I ever invoke in you love as strong as mine was? Tell me the truth.”  

The dark orbs, softened by something like tears, smiled at him. “I did fall for you very hard, Henry. It happened against my better judgment and against the advice of my relatives. Eventually, you won my devotion in about two years after you had noticed me.”  

His heart soared at this confession. “So, it was not all a lie.”  

“Unfortunately for me, it was not.” Her laughter sounded too distant.

He was suddenly beaming at her. “Your sincerity is plain to see all over your face.”  

“At last, you have learned to understand that. It is quite a step forward, Henry.”  

Therewith, his demeanor evolved into barely suppressed fury. “Your tongue is too sardonic.”

“Sarcasm is an effective weapon against your enemies,” she emphasized.

The reminder of them now being mortal foes rubbed him the wrong way. “Damn you, Anne! You can spoil any good moment. Why are you so poisonous?” 

The queen stared at the closed shutters of the only window in the chamber. “It is all the result of your own misdeeds. My dreams of our happiness were more marvelous than those in chivalrous legends. Nonetheless, you ceased respecting me after Elizabeth’s birth. You rapidly transformed my life into a living hell until the moment when you resolved to kill me.”

Her chest was heavy with her erstwhile bitterness, so she let it spill out. “I adored the king who cheated upon me countless times, who humiliated me by reminding me of my failure to give you a son, who threatened to drag my down as quickly as you raised me. Yet, I was very fond of that blackguard who disposed of me when Cromwell masterminded the plot against me.”    

The leader of England repelled her attack with his own. “You would have been a good wife to me and a great mother to our children if you had accepted the rules. As a king I can have many mistresses; your duty was to obey me and provide me with a male heir.”  

She flung back, “I was destined to be neither your wife nor mother of your sons. All you have ever wanted from a queen is male heirs!” Her acrimonious laugh was sharper than a knife. “Your wife-hunting has made you a laughingstock in the eyes of Europe. Nonetheless, it is also the lonely tragedy of a ruler who has never loved any woman more than he adores himself.”  

At this, Henry bristled. “How dare you insult me!”

Anne could not prevent herself from jeering, “You are one of the world’s unknown martyrs, and your fate merits tears rather than laughter. You are not capable of true love, Henry.”  

His fists balled tightly at his sides. “I’ll not listen to this absurd from a whore who married my archrival in three months after I had spared her worthless life in England.”    

Although she sensed danger, the queen failed to ward off the impulse to maneuver the conversation into a less perilous territory. “What a poor, brainless, and pitiful creature I was when I believed in the possibility of being content with you. When you hurt me awfully every day, I was still holding onto you as if you were my lifeline, hoping to salvage our dying marriage and give you a son that I would never have had because you rarely sire healthy progeny.”

Her castigations scraped over his nerves like a white-hot blade. “My heir, Prince Edward of Wales, is the proof of my tremendous virility. Anne Bassett saved England from civil wars.”  

She sniggered at him. “Poor lass died on the day of his birth. I do pity her so much!”  

Henry blurted out, “Anne Bassett is my most favorite wife!”

“Anyone will be your favorite queen if she gives you a son. It is as simple as that.”  

“Stop arguing with me.” Ire reared in his chest as he grinded her jaw.

The Queen of France started fiddling with the rings on her hands. “My love for you! It was such a naïve and lachrymose feeling, yet pathetic beyond the scope of tears. At the last stage of our marriage, one could look into my eyes and catch the play of dimples around my mouth only when someone pronounced your name. I was obsessed with you for too long.” Her voice rose an octave. “Obsessed! Nothing else! And obsession is different from true love!”  

A long silence ensued, filling the room with melodies of the past, which somewhat lessened the king’s rage. The notes fluted through the still air, mingling with Anne’s sighs – ones of terror and ones of exhaustion. The musical sounds of her erstwhile confessions were like ambrosia to his ears as they replayed in Henry’s mind like a hymn of long-forgotten amorous odes.

She broke the long pause. “Nonetheless, you destroyed the old Anne Boleyn: she died in the Tower of London while watching her poor brother George’s execution.”  

“It was Cromwell’s fault!” the ruler shrilled. “He deceived me terribly!”

“Never yours – of course.” She could not laugh now, and her smile was sadder than tears. “When you got rid of me, the pitch-black darkness ruled in my world. Your atrocities towards me made me a shell of my former self, annihilating all my hope and joy. For a long time, I could not see any light, drowning in the darkness of heartache and misery, being nearly strangled by them.”  

The ruler hissed, “Falsehoods! You married that Valois son of a bitch so quickly!”  

“François,” Anne drawled with sheer pleasure. The sound of his name from her mouth was like the musical splashing of a fountain. “We wed for political reasons, but he fell in love with me. His patience, benevolence, sincerity, and care towards me were present in our relationship even when he did not adore me at first. When he realized the depth of his feelings for me, his traumatized queen, François committed himself to winning my heart and dismissed all his mistresses.”  

A shadow of bewilderment passed over Henry’s visage. “What?” 

The Valois queen tittered. “Not capable to comprehend how a man can be faithful to his wife, Henry?” She sighed. “Yet, François has been devoted and faithful to me for many years, and his eye has never wandered to younger women. My spouse is not you.”  

A hissing sound erupted from the King of England. “Do not compare me to him.”    

“How can I not do so if you two are complete opposites?” 

Demons of jaundice stirred in his gut. “Do not you dare–”  

Anne interrupted him. “For several years, you stood between François and me like a giant shadow besmirching our marital landscape. I already did not love you, but I was so shattered on the inside that all that I could permit François to do was to love me without having his feelings reciprocated. I performed my conjugal duty to him and carried his children, whom I’ve adored all regardless of their gender. I did not allow myself to consider François more than a friend.”    

“Why?” Henry did not even know why he asked that.

She explained, “Out of my fear that François would trample my heart, just as you did. Yet, my husband’s amorous sentiments towards me were so pure, so selfless, and so deep that he fought against demons of my past, and against his own impatience to have me love him back.”  

He issued a jeering comment. “The Knight-King waged the war for your heart.”  

A grin flourished on Anne’s face. “He did that masterfully and became my beacon in the darkness where I was locked in. I shall forever be grateful to the Lord for a second chance in love.”

“So cheap!” This idea was too rarefied for Henry, who did not possess an artistic soul.

Scintillating with the devotion to her husband, Anne supplied, “François loves the real Anne Boleyn: with all my strengths and flaws. Unlike you, he has always viewed me as his equal, and he has treated me both as his wife and as his councilor. François has proved that even the royal marriage may be like a garden in paradise. For him, I’m not a womb for carrying sons!”

He spat, “He has often kept you pregnant. You are an inferior creature to him.”    

The Queen of France gushed, “François earned my love with his best lifeblood and honor. Just as Chronos was dethroned by Zeus in mythology, my husband ousted the demons from my life. François is a bright light in my soul! My love for him is a deep, unconditional, and immortal feeling, the purest and truest devotion woman may have for man.” Her voice rose to a crescendo of vehemence and defiance. “François became my knight, my second half, my kindred spirit, and my true love. There is no other greatness in my life save my feelings for him and for our offspring. François is like the everlasting arch of the heavens’ azure spanning over my own universe.”  

The Tudor ruler jumped to his feet. “That Valois buffoon is your God, damn him.”  

Anne’s orbs blazed with truth. “I never knew what true love is before falling for François. What I felt for you and Percy was nothing compared to my sentiments towards my husband.”  

Henry darted to her chair and rudely hoisted the queen to her feet. “You are lying!”

Like a traveler weary of the road choosing, she said, “You do not know what pure love is.”

He remained absorbed in his own reflections before roaring, “That cannot be true!”

“You love only yourself,” she hissed while his glare scalded her.

§§§

Clasped in his arms, Anne made no comment. Henry glowered into her black caverns – those pools of beguiling mystery that haunted him for years. Next to her, he felt more blessed, and his big ego was so inflated that it could explode from the sensation of his illusive victory over her. Anne’s nearness was enveloping Henry into an emotion-colored cobweb of her feminine allure. His hunger for her was like a raging river roaring out of its banks, impossible to contain.

“Let go off me,” demanded the queen, but he did not comply.

The King of England continued staring into the eyes of his former wife. The feel of Anne’s breath, furious and hot, upon his skin overpowered his senses. For years, there was a chaos inside of Henry, opaque like the netherworld. Right now, he felt as if his life had morphed into a green flowery park because Anne was close to him. I covet to be with Anne, Henry groaned in his mind. 

He stroked her hair in a gesture of almost fondness. “Anne, you are both a ghost and a spirit. You are heralding the dawn of a new life for me. Leave François and be with me.”  

“Are you a lunatic, Henry?” Anne was trying to pull away. “I’m the Queen of France! I love François with all my heart and soul! I shall never betray France and my spouse!”

Despite her baby bump, the monarch pressed her to him. “I need you so…”

“I despise you utterly!” She glowered into his eyes with all the repugnance towards him that had accumulated inside of her. “By God and all His saints, François is innumerable times a nobler and better man and husband than you could ever be. You are a scandalous king, pretending to be forever young and murdering his wives if they do not birth your male brats.”  

He tightened his grasp, and she squirmed. “That was a horrible mistake of yours, Anne.”  

His fingers caressed the queen’s cheek, but she wrinkled her nose. Yet, Henry’s thoughts were decidedly erotic, his wrath because of her refusal to be his beating out of the confines of his essence. Visions of a naked Anne sprawled on silk sheets under his body swarmed his mind, his loins growing desperate, too constricted within his hose. The Lucifer’s spear of his desire for her fueled Henry’s zeal to possess her again, to subjugate Anne at last and pillage her insides.

The queen masked her disquietude well. “Release me,” she repeated.

Silence on the monarch’s part was a response. Her dire and sarcastic outbursts, her serpentine and cunning verbal retorts, her candor about her personal life – all these things sent the darning sword of Anne’s rejection in Henry’s chest. It waved high in the air, illuminating the horizon of his being with acrid hues of the humiliation she had just caused him. Demons of discord, anger, and barbarity were awakening in Henry Tudor. Anne will be mine against her will.

Gnashing his teeth, the Tudor ruler ground out, “You are right, sweetheart. None of the old epics is possible between us. Your life has become the epic of your French hymn which your heart is singing for that accursed Valois parvenu, but it will be a comparatively short song.” His eyes narrowed to slits. “Carlos will not allow your precious François to escape from Milan.”  

Anne scented brutality even in the air. “Henry, please go to your rooms.”  

Henry held his former consort in his embrace. His glare shifted to her enlarged stomach pressed to his torso. As though being under the spell of a magician, he blamed Anne for the birth of her three sons and for being pregnant again. Throughout all these years, his world had always looked enviously at the marital happiness of others, and it had always been and would always be full of his jealousy of Anne towards François, of his loathing for her and the Valois ruler.  

This child inside of Anne should have been mine, Henry blustered silently as his hand went to her belly. All of her children must have been mine. She betrayed me! His unrealized dreams to be with Anne were pushing his brutish ego to do some sordid deed. Anne’s attempts to wrench out of his grip produced in Henry a feeling of forlornness and more animosity towards her. He would take what belonged to François: his seed would taint Anne and his rival’s love forever.

“Henry,” she begged. “Leave me alone, please.”  

Her former husband grinned malignantly. “Only after I enjoy your loveliness, sweetheart.”

Suddenly, Henry hoisted Anne over his shoulder and carried her to the bed. He was all hard and aching, and out of his freaking mind with need. He would write the last chapter in the story of his romance with Anne, burning her marriage to his French archrival to cinders.

He placed a perplexed Anne onto the bed and pulled her skirts up above her waist.

“No!” The Boleyn dark eyes radiated shocked horror. “You cannot do this!”

“I can, and I shall.” She held her tight in place, while the other unlaced his hose.

“Henry, listen to me,” Anne attempted to talk sense into him. “I’m another man’s wife. I’m carrying his child. You cannot sin against the Almighty by forcing yourself upon me.”  

There were no doubts in the king’s mind. “These are reasons why I shall do so, Anne.”  

Tears brimming in her eyes, the queen beseeched, “For the love of heaven! Do not do this thing to me! You hate me and François, but you cannot wish ill upon my innocent babe.”  

“I do,” he muttered. “I wish ill upon this child because it is not mine, my pretty captive.”  

The Valois queen struggled against the Tudor monarch, but he held her easily, his arms about her body, bruising her skin through the thin material of her clothes. Somehow, she released her hand from his grasp, and then Anne slapped him across his broad face several times.

“Get away from me, you bastard!” clamored the Valois queen, scared and overflowing with immeasurable abhorrence towards the scum. “Do not touch me, you brute!”

He struck her across her face so hard that her ears was ringing. “Shut up!”

Her head falling down on the bed, Queen Anne went still. Under the cascading rain of his all-absorbing lust for her, King Henry entered his victim with one hard stroke. His blood racing and his heart thudding, he pounded into her wildly, his eyes admiring the way her raven hair fell thickly around her pallid face. To him, it was the much-cherished pageantry of his ultimate triumph over his sworn enemies – Anne and François, as well as France and the House of Valois.

Anne regained her consciousness. “No, God… No…” 

“I’ve broken you,” grunted Henry as he drove into her deeper than before. “My seed is not growing inside of you, but François and you will always remember how I bedded you.”  

At this moment, Anne hated Henry and herself. However, the fear for her unborn child was enormous, eclipsing everything else. “God! My baby…” Her hands slithered to her abdomen.

The monarch growled spitefully, “I hope that you will have a miscarriage.”   

Lifting her head from the bed, she spat into his face. “Immoral rascal!”

After hitting her again, King Henry rolled off of his former wife. Helpless and palsied by the merciless ropes of Henry’s sin, she felt disgusted with herself, her body, and the whole world. Her whole being was being tortured by a maddening frenzy of infamy that her oath of faithfulness to her beloved François had been exterminated by the Tudor vermin. Then a stream of fire rushed through her: her child was the fruit of her love for François, perhaps her husband’s last gift.

Gracious Lord, please help me survive, Anne prayed fervently. Do not take this child away from me. She hugged her stomach protectively, and tears of relief deluged her eyes at the feeling of the baby’s movement. This little creature was clinging to life, and so would she! Perhaps now the ship of her existence was sinking, and she was drowning in lakes of shame, but she would rise from this odium like a victorious phoenix. After all, Dauphin Henri was somewhere close.

The villain glared down at her. “My triumph over you is absolute.”  

“No,” she said firmly, although she was crying. “It is a pyrrhic victory.”  

His hard-clenched mouth spat, “François will no longer want you.”  

“You are mistaken,” stated Anne with conviction. “He is not you. He loves me so! When François learns about what you did to me, he will retaliate in the worst possible way.”   

“Your dratted husband must be dead in Milan,” claimed Henry, fury rising in him.

She put a hand to her breast where her heart was beating. “No! François is alive! I feel it!” She then hissed in the voice of a serpent, “We will retaliate, I swear!”

Again, Henry’s hand collided with her cheek. He labored to imprison her within his arms, yet she struggled against his strength. She was breathing hard, her eyes bright with tears, but her fine dignity did not vanish, and a conflagration of hostility towards Henry blazed in her orbs.  

The lock creaked, and the door opened. Lady Catherine Parr, Princess Elizabeth, and Lady Margery Horsman entered with the aim to let Anne and her daughter have a secret rendezvous. They halted for a moment, and their countenances turned perplexed and then distraught at the sight of King Henry lacing his hose and a devastated Queen Anne on the bed.

§§§

“Oh, my Lord!” cried Margery Horsman. “What have you done to her?” 

Anne recognized the voice of her dear friend. “Madge! I’m alive.”  

“Oh, Madame!” Margery whimpered, as if she were the one who had sustained the assault.

“Mama!” Prince Elizabeth was old enough to understand what had transpired between her parents. However, her mother was another man’s wife, and she carried a child!  

“Gosh…” Catherine Parr blanched profusely. “She is a foreign queen! How…?”   

“How dare you intrude?” Their unexpected appearance incited the king’s rage.   

Margery rushed to her former mistress’ bed, as though to attack the Tudor beast, her face conveying her eagerness to punch him. “You are the worst blackguard on earth, sire.”

“I’m your sovereign!” blustered Henry as the woman knelt by the bed.

Margery slanted a worried glance at an embarrassed Anne, who rearranged her skirts for decorum. As she was about to examine Anne, the ruler grasped Margery’s forearms and dragged her away. Margery labored to struggle, but Henry shook her like a helpless rabbit, and when she stepped back, he shoved the woman away from him, sending her reeling to the floor.

Elizabeth sat on the bed’s edge, her eyes wide in horror. “Mama! Mama!”   

“Your Majesty, the baby?” Catherine feared to hear the answer.

Anne garnered her strength to respond, “The child and I are both alive. We have survived this assault. The gracious Lord will heal my wounds and reinvigorate me.”    

The king stepped away from them, his hose now laced, his hands jiggling in the pockets of his doublet. “Do not play a martyr in our daughter’s presence, Anne.”  

Elizabeth stood up. Her eyes lit up with the inferno of her aversion towards her parent as she vowed, “I shall never forgive you. God punishes the wicked and rewards the righteous.”  

Henry bellowed, “Watch your tongue, Elizabeth! I’m not only your father, but also your lord and master! I’ve not punished you yet for your arbitrary arrival in Boulogne.”

“Queen Kitty offered me, and I agreed.” The princess cast a depressed glance at her mother, who was now taken care of by Catherine. “But I’ve failed to save my Mama from you.”  

Anne was afraid that Henry’s wrath might fall on her girl. “Lizzy, do not worry about me.”

The king’s narrowed eyes signaled his desire to punch his daughter. “You have been running wild for too long. Your governesses have spoiled you too much, but this time is over.”   

The princess’ scrutiny flittered between her mother and father. “What worse can you do to me?” Sobs were tearing out of her. “What can be worse than what you did to my Mother?” 

“Do not wrangle with him,” implored Anne.

Yet, Elizabeth contended, “The Lord will judge Your Majesty for your sins.” Her sangfroid broke, and her emotions spiraled out of control. “You have long become only a king for me.”  

The queen pleaded, “Bess! He is your father despite everything.”    

“Your Highness, please be careful,” admonished Catherine Parr.

Henry smirked. “Exile from court is the least that you have merited, daughter of mine.”  

“Margery,” called Anne, her mind drifting to her friend.

An overwrought Catherine staggered towards where Lady Margery Horsman lay silent. Her mind faltered from its rational state because of the horror Catherine had experienced after walking in the captive queen’s quarters and seeing the consequences of the ruler’s evil actions.

“Lady Horseman?” addressed Catherine, a wild fear trembling in her breast.

A panic-stricken Princess Elizabeth stepped to the nice woman who had been her constant companion during the years of her estrangement from her mother. “Margery!”

“What is wrong with her?” A pang of apprehension stabbed at Anne.

Henry taunted, “She does not wish to see her old mistress, so she lies on the floor.”  

Catherine and Elizabeth both gawked at the sight of blood pooling onto the carpet beneath the woman’s head. Margery’s eyes were tightly shut, her features sickeningly white, and a shadow of mortality hovered over her. Catherine checked her pulse, but there was none.

“She is dead!” Catherine’s voice quivered like a wilted leaf.

Anne forced herself to sit up: at the heartbreaking scene, she sank into despair. “You killed my brother George on phony charges, Henry! You disposed of my cousin Catherine Howard!  You tried to break me! You murdered my friend Madge! How much more harm will you cause me?”

Henry pronounced gravely, “It was an accident.”  

“It matters not,” the Queen of France parried. “Madge was murdered!”

Anne, Elizabeth, and Catherine crossed themselves, their expressions bereft.

Catherine hypothesized, “She must have hit her head and died on the impact.”  

“Elizabeth, leave!” commanded the monarch. “Out!”

The princess hesitated, frightened for her mother. “I cannot.”  

“Go, Lizzy,” asked Anne gently. “He shall not touch me again.”  

“Out!” yelled the enraged ruler. “Out, you wayward girl!”

The queen nodded at her daughter. “Please, my dear: do as he says.”  

Elizabeth was flinching as though a physical weight was against her whole body. At Anne’s another nod, she trudged over to the door and knocked – the sentinels opened it. Her gaze flickering between the deceased Margery and her mother, she compelled herself to exit. Then the princess ran away through the corridor, sobbing loudly and hysterically.

“You bring only death.” The queen’s orbs were still fixed upon the corpse. “Only death.”

The king defended himself. “I did not mean to do anything bad to Lady Horseman.”  

Anne’s bosom rose and fell rapidly with stormy breaths. “Your tyrannical hands befoul all they touch. You have the soul of an unholy vandal. You will be burning in hell!”  

It surprised the ruler that even now Anne argued with him. “You are–”

“Before heaven,” commenced Anne, moved out of her previous stiffness, “you mistake me for someone who will crumble! That is what you wish for me – to be broken, bereft, and alone. But it shall always be your illusion, Henry – you shall never defeat me.”

At this, King Henry drew back, clutched his own hair with a desperate gesture, and slowly, very slowly backed away to the door. Then he stormed out, and the room was locked again.

Catherine was awash in relief that he was gone. “I’ll fetch someone to take away the body.”

Anne assumed morbidly, “Henry will make up some tale about how Madge died.”  

Nodding, Catherine scurried to the bed. “Madame, I’ll summon a doctor to you.”  

The queen’s hand slid to her abdomen. “Right now, the baby is alive.”  

Catherine made the sign of a cross. “God bless you.”  

After helping Anne recline on the pillows, Catherine Parr hastened out.

The Queen of France plunged into a trance – she was breathing, her systems functioning, but her mind was paralyzed with horrendous terror. She had not known that one could suffer like this – now her mental discomfort was too great, and her universe smashed into smithereens. Burning through the mists of her tears, her gaze wandered to Margery’s corpse, and Anne averted her scrutiny, biting her lips until they bled. My goodness, why have all these tragedies happened?

Notes:

Hello everyone! We hope that you are fine and safe. Take care of yourself!

St Nicholas Church is indeed located in Boulogne-sur-Mer in the Pas-de-Calais; information about it is historically correct. The Marquess of Exeter realized that he loves Catherine Parr, whom Henry chose to be his next and probably final wife, and it will have remarkable consequences.

Henry VIII hit his head twice, and it was mentioned that it was done to make his further actions possible. Kitty is his enemy and she betrayed him, he hayes her, and no one will know what was done to her, so Henry chose the barbaric execution method on purpose. King Henry was pitiless to his late wife Queen Kitty Howard, Jane Boleyn, and Joan Bulmer. Actually, the guilty odalisques were cruelly placed ALIVE into sacks and drowned in the Bosphorus – you can this in the great Turkish series ‘Magnificent Century.’

This chapter’s title reflects on what happened to Queen Anne of France when she met King Henry VIII of England face to face. You were warned in advance that it would happen under bad circumstances. Anne is nearly broken and humiliated, but she will not have a miscarriage. Henry’s misdeed will have serious consequences for Anne, François, and him in later chapters. We can give a hint – Anne and François will retaliate, just as she promised. We are sorry for the stress you might have experienced, but the plot required that we write Anne’s disgrace.

Henry is immensely obsessed with Anne. He hates her for being married to François and for giving his archrival three sons. Henry also loathes François and wishes all the worst to Anne and François. When she is Henry’s captive in Boulogne, Henry did his best to make her life and the lives of her sons miserable. Having Anne in his grasp, Henry is gripped by uncontrollable lust, and he craves to take Anne away from his French counterpart and to extract vengeance on both Anne and François. It is entirely plausible for Henry to resort to such horrible things with the goal to break Anne’s spirit and her marriage, although Anne is right that François will not blame her.

Anne and Henry needed to have a personal conversation. She was very frank with him, but it was her candor that provoked his anger and his lust at the same time – they also pushed Henry to commit the most horrible deed to his former wife. Elizabeth will suffer consequences for her “bad” behavior and for her arrival in Boulogne, but she will not be imprisoned in the Tower of London. Interesting things will happen in Boulogne in the next chapter.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 70: Chapter 69: A Trap for the English

Notes:

Princess Elizabeth meets with her French half-brothers. In a bizarre twist of fate, King Henry remarries, not knowing that his 7th wife is in mutual love with his cousin, the Marquess of Exeter. Henry and his armies are entrapped. The Duke of Suffolk does something very heroic.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 69: A Trap for the English

January 31, 1546, Château de Boulogne-sur-Mer, Boulogne, France

Princess Elizabeth glided into the Suffolk quarters and found him in the antechamber.

Charles Brandon stood up and performed a bow. “How can I help Your Highness?”   

She surveyed his two pages in turn. “Dismiss them, Your Grace.”

After he had granted her request, Elizabeth crossed the length of the room a couple of times. Her gaze lingered on Flemish wall arrases depicting verdures with animals against a landscape.

“Your apartments are better furnished than the Queen of France’s quarters.”

He heaved a sigh. “I cannot make your father improve her living conditions.”

Stopping in the center, the princess looked him in the eye. “Do you know what the King of England – I can no longer call him my father – did to my mother several days ago?”

Brandon went to a marble table in the corner and poured out a snifter of cognac for himself. “I guessed that His Majesty had physically assaulted Queen Anne when King Henry’s physician, Thomas Wendy, was urgently fetched to your mother. Later, I spoke to the man in private.”

“He violated my mother!” Her voice dropped to a lament, her heart aching for Anne terribly. “The King of England desecrated the holy matrimony of two foreign monarchs!”

He took a swig of cognac. “It came to me as a total shock. His obsession with your mother is infamous. However, I did not think that Henry would stoop so low as to do such a thing.”

The princess trudged over to a window; the sun was rising over the city. “I’m young, but I’ve already reached a marriageable age. I was informed by my governesses what happens between husband and wife.” The dim gray winter sky conveyed her foul mood. “If King François ever learns anything, his vengeance might be far worse than a French invasion of England.”

Suffolk was not astonished that the girl spoke about it. “Your Highness is very mature for your age. It is a pity that you had to grow up so quickly without your mother.”

Her back was turned to him. “Isn’t it your fault, Your Grace? I know everything about the condemnation of my mother. You plotted with Cromwell against her.”

“I’m sorry.” His throat was dry as his guilt sharpened. “Now I would not have acted so.”

Pivoting to him, Elizabeth revealed, “I spoke to Sir Thomas Wendy. I demanded that he hide the recent happenings to protect my mother’s good reputation. Nevertheless, I’m worried that something might slip from Wendy’s tongue. After all, he confessed the truth to you.”

Suffolk refilled his cup and sipped some. “Wendy is an honorable, God-fearing man. I noticed that yesterday he tended to the king’s ulcers reluctantly, most likely because of his evil deed towards Queen Anne. I’ll talk to him to ensure that there will be no gossip.”   

“But Wendy said to everyone that Lady Margery Horsman died of fever. He lied!”

“What choice did the king’s physician have, Your Highness? Death or saying lies!”

“Yes.” She was furious at her parent. “Keep the king away from my mother.”

“His Majesty has not visited Queen Anne again since… that horrendous day.”

“Promise me to protect my mama.” Her tone was commanding.

Suffolk put the cup at the table and vowed, “I shall. If necessary, with my life.”

Elizabeth discerned his sincerity, nodding. “Thank you.”

“Something else, Your Highness?”

“I want to see my siblings. Lady Parr is no longer admitted to them and my mama.”

Brandon tipped his head. “We can do this now. His Majesty is not in the citadel.”

Bowing deeply, the Duke of Suffolk opened the door for the princess, letting her exit first. They walked through medieval corridors, where the stone walls were almost entirely devoid of ornamentation. Soon they approached the rooms where the French princes were kept.

His expression deliberately fierce, Charles Brandon instructed the sentinels, “Her Highness will spend some time here. You will not tell anyone about it, or I’ll break your necks.”

The three men tipped their heads, intimidated. They opened the lock, and Elizabeth walked in.

§§§

“I’ve come to see my brothers,” declared the Princess of England in flawless French.

Prince Augustine and Prince Jean stood up from a red-brocaded couch, near which a marble table with a chessboard stood. Augustine had unsuccessfully tried to teach his sibling to play chess. Françoise de Foix, who was holding a slumbering Prince Antoine, glanced at her with a smile.

After examining her surroundings, Elizabeth was awash in relief. These chambers were far more comfortable than Anne’s tower room. The antechamber, where she found her siblings, was furnished with couches draped in red silk. The rich Flemish wall hangings portrayed scenes of worship, humility, and sanctification. A fire cracked in the large hearth.

“Welcome, Your Highness,” began Françoise. “Is it not dangerous for you to be here?”

Elizabeth’s scrutiny oscillated between Jean and Augustine. “The king went to the city.”

“That invader!” snapped Jean, momentarily overcoming his shyness. “I hate him!”

Augustine could not tear his gaze from the red-haired and black-eyed teenaged girl. “Jean, I have the same attitude to that obese tyrant. Do you understand that she is our sister?”

The princess grinned. “Yes, I am. I’ve long wanted to see my French siblings.”

“Elizabeth Tudor,” Augustine drawled with a sense of wonder. “I can speak English.”

Bess responded in the same manner, “Augustine de Valois. I know your native tongue.”

The awkwardness between them was palpable. The others watched them curiously.

Augustine stepped forward. “Our mama spoke a lot about you and how clever you are.”

Elizabeth approached Augustine. “Our mother mentioned your interest in ancient Rome.”   

Their discourse continued in French. All were surprised how well Bess knew the language.

Augustine surmised, “We know a lot about each other, although it is our first meeting.”

“It is,” answered Bess dejectedly. “I regret that we are not growing up together.”

Augustine released a sigh of frustration. “England wants to conquer my homeland, and your father imprisoned us, so we cannot be friends. Blood ties mean little in politics.”

A surprised Elizabeth nodded. Her elder half-brother was exactly like Anne had described him: extraordinarily precocious, brave, and extremely level-headed. She had first seen Augustine in the camp when the Queen of France and the prince had surrendered the city to the English. The boy’s regal, unflappable behavior had impressed Elizabeth profoundly. Augustine does not look like our mama. He must have taken after the Valois and the Capets, Bess inferred.

Elizabeth concurred. “Indeed. I’ve been estranged from our mother because of politics.”

Now Augustine exuded only cold. “Not due to your father’s personal revenge?”

Bess emitted a sigh. This prince comprehended too much despite his youth, just as she herself had done at Augustine’s age. “That is true. However, does that cancel our filial bonds?”

“France has only one ruler.” Augustine then stated emphatically, “King François, my father.”

Elizabeth felt the chilliness from this unemotional boy with every fibre of her being. “I do not deny it. If I could make England and France allies, I would have done so, but I cannot.”

For a while, Elizabeth and Augustine beheld each other. The amber pools full of distrust and the black eyes overflowing with the girl’s silent plea for friendship. As moments ticked away, a wan light of something lukewarm inundated the prince’s orbs, melting the cold in them.

There was a halo of sadness about Augustine. “If only everything had been simple… But it is not, Elizabeth, and it is not your fault. Truth be told, I wanted to meet you for a long time.”

“Me too.” Elizabeth was pleased that the boy was less inflexible than he had seemed at first. “Emperor Augustus Caesar said that, ‘If you want rainbow, you must deal with the rain.’ If we want our countries to ally in the future, perhaps we have to go through this war now.”

Augustine quoted Augustus, “You cheer my heart, who build as if Rome would be eternal.”

Bess was euphoric: the boy addressed her as his sister. “Can a war be endless?”

“No,” answered the prince softly. “Nothing can be.”

I’d like to get to know Elizabeth better, thought Augustine, his façade blank. Only his gaze was now a little more affable, though tinged with caution. His sister’s red-gold hair attracted his attention, and he did not like this color because King Henry – the object of the boy’s infinite loathing – had the same flaming hair. Yet, his sister had Anne’s eyes, which endeared her to him, and in them, he could see his beloved mama, whom he had not met for several weeks.

“How is our mother?” interjected Jean. He sat on the couch next to Françoise and Antoine.

Elizabeth neared them. “It was difficult for me to meet with her, but I did. She is sending her regards, but right now she cannot come to you.” She could not say the truth.

Jean whimpered, “That fat evil dragon is so cruel! He took our mama away!”

Bess lowered her scrutiny. “Just as he deprived me of her years ago.”  

His heart was so traumatized by their captivity that Jean let his emotions spill out. “The red-haired villain visited us many times. He studied us closely and called us Valois brats. Augustine defended us with courage, and that dragon hissed at us and uttered the worst things I’ve ever heard. I feared that the dragon would beat us, but Augustine was not afraid at all.”

Elizabeth’s sigh of grief was like a fluting moan. “The red dragon against a green and white background is a symbol of Wales, where the Tudor dynasty originated.”

Françoise whispered, “The captivity is an awful experience for such young children. I’ve done everything I could to make their lives bearable, but they need their mother.”

Bess responded, “His Majesty will not permit her to relocate back to you.”

Jean needed to pour out his distress. “That vile man has red hair, so I call him a dragon. He promised to make us his pages. I told him that the Lord would punish him.”

“That dragon,” commenced Augustine, for he liked this nickname for the Tudor ruler which had been invented by his sibling, “will never make us – Valois princes – his servants. Neither our father nor our brother Henri will allow that to happen. We are Valois – never forget this, Jean.”

Jean whined, “I cannot be like you, Augustine. I’m afraid of the dragon!”

Augustine asserted, “Fear is not real: it is a product of your thoughts.”

Françoise glanced at Elizabeth. “Prince Augustine is always like that. He is unusual.”

Bess grinned. “Like Dauphin Henri, as my mama wrote in her letters; I burned them.”  

Françoise was aware of the correspondence between the mother and her estranged daughter. “Augustine is unconventional, but he is very much like our dauphin – they are both inflexible.”

Augustine sauntered over to them. “Do not discuss me as if I were not here.”

“Yes, we are in the same room,” noted Jean.

Augustine halted beside Bess, who was a head and a half taller. Her expression convened her surprise, for despite their six-year age difference, his height was quite imposing.

Françoise explained, “King François is very tall. Some of his children inherited his height.”

Nodding, Elizabeth smiled. “I’ve always wanted to be taller.”

“You will grow up, Bess,” Jean answered in a personal manner. “And you are a girl.”

Elizabeth seated herself on the couch next to Jean. She took the boy’s hand in hers and said, “Your brother is right. You belong to an ancient royal dynasty, so you should be proud of it.”

“We must always be regal.” Augustine eased himself on the couch beside them.

Jean is a far less complex child than Augustine is, Elizabeth remarked to herself. Augustine intrigues me immensely. Is King François like him? Thanks to her efforts, their discourse moved to a comfortable zone: they discussed the boys’ lives in France. Bess intentionally did not mention England and the Tudor dynasty, for she wanted to become closer to her siblings. She observed that Jean was manifestly pious, while Augustine’s dispassionateness puzzled her.

Antoine, who had peacefully slept in Françoise’s arms, awakened. Françoise placed him on a nearby emerald-brocaded couch to give him more space. Jean giggled as Antoine crawled across the couch until he stopped and looked up, his baffled green eyes fixed on Elizabeth.

“Who?” lisped Antoine. He was too small for any conversation.

“Bess,” said Elizabeth, her heart beating faster. “Your sister.”  

Françoise elaborated, “Children begin to babble from around the age of six months, at times earlier. They say their first words between ten and fifteen months. Augustine’s first word was ‘sword,’ Jean’s was ‘God,’ Louise’s was ‘papa,’ while Antoine and Aimée’s ‘mama.’ Nice!”

Elizabeth laughed. “Oh, this might describe their personalities.”

“Maybe.” Augustine started relaxing in her presence, but only a little.

The door swung open to reveal Charles Brandon. “The king is in the courtyard.”

Elizabeth jumped to her feet. “I must go, or I’ll land in trouble.”

Jean’s expression transformed into gloom. “That iron-hearted dragon…”

“Yes, he is not a good man.” Bess was rather unwilling to leave them.

Augustine uttered more warmly than before, “Take care of yourself, sister.”

The princess shot him an affectionate look. “I’ll try, brother.”

In a handful of moments, Elizabeth was gone. On the way to her apartments, her heart careened in her chest, bouncing from side to side, making drumrolls and tearing apart in pain. Having seen her siblings for the first time, she did not want to be separated from them again. 


February 2, 1546, Basilica of Notre-Dame de Boulogne, Boulogne, France

On a frosty morning, a procession moved from the main citadel along the streets. Despite their loathing for the invaders, some civilians assembled to witness how the notorious English king would marry again after his previous queen’s private execution. The monarch’s actions rendered the population into shock, for their own liege lord had never changed his queens so often.

The Tudor ruler scheduled his seventh nuptials on the Feast of the Presentation of the Lord. Superstitious due to his infelicitous marital experiences, Henry was confident of it being a good omen for his new matrimony and in particular for his new bride’s future childbearing history.

The wedding had to happen in the Basilica of Notre-Dame de Boulogne, or the Basilica of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception. The English had already pillaged the churches and local monasteries, robbed their wealth, and even peeled away the gold ornaments from the altars and walls. Inside monastic cells, they had torn all tapestries and stolen everything else of value.  

Escorted by a squad of arquebusiers in Tudor livery, a sumptuous litter draped in purple silk halted near the basilica. Next rode those English lords who fought in France and enquires. Two pages aided their overweight sovereign to climb down from the litter onto the ground.

“Give me your hand, my future queen!” demanded King Henry.

Lady Catherine Parr let the ruler grasp her trembling hand. “Of course, sire,” she muttered.

“It is such a happy day,” he articulated jocundly. “My new life is dawning.”

“Yes, sire,” his fiancée pronounced absently.

The grinning king helped his wife-to-be disembark, as though he were a gallant knight. The snow was swirling in the air, stabbing at their skin like a handful of tossed quills.

Henry pivoted to the Duke of Suffolk and the Marquess of Exeter, who had just dismounted. He addressed them in most cheerful tones, “We will celebrate both the surrender of Boulogne and my wedding to the lovely Lady Parr. The Almighty has been generous to me in His blessings.”

“Let it be so, Your Majesty.” Suffolk feigned a smile, disgusted with the situation.

The monarch studied his cousin. “Hal, why are you so sullen, as if in mourning?”

Exeter let out a sigh. “I’ve been suffering from stomach aches, my liege.”

Henry regarded him with concern. “Cousin, you will retire to your rooms after the ceremony. I do not want you to overexert yourself, and I’ll ask my physician to examine you.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Exeter forced the words to come out.

Usually a master of pretense, Exeter was like a tottering edifice today. Every step, every minute, every thought were a torture for him. The flame of life barely flickered in him, but the power of his terror of the ruler’s wrath – fear not for himself, but for Catherine if Henry had learned about her and Exeter’s amorous feelings for each other – was far greater.

I’m about to lose my Cathy to that monster, Exeter’s heart wept. Hal had channeled all his energy into finding a way for Catherine out of this marriage. A few days earlier, there had been commotion in the fortress, and nobody knew anything. However, Catherine had confided in Exeter that the king had forced himself upon the pregnant French queen. Upon learning of that, Exeter had realized that if it was too perilous for Catherine to reject the monarch, or for him to interfere.     

Another chariot, swathed in green brocade, stopped near the cathedral. The servants assisted Queen Anne of France and Françoise de Foix in disembarking. Her enlarged stomach hidden by a cloak of ermine, Anne looked pale; she had circles under her eyes, and a haunted look in them was in place. Anne held her lady’s hand as if it were her anchor, whereas Françoise was strained.

Henry jested, “Ah, Your miserable Valois Majesty! Welcome to my wedding!”

“Ah, it is such a good day,” commenced Anne sarcastically. “There will be so many solemn blessings and processions of candles today across the city. Will you join them, sire?”

His demeanor evolved into one of an exasperated bull. “While I’m marrying my fair bride, the corpse of that Valois miscreant is being eaten by worms and the starving Milanese men.”

Anne’s heart swooped in cosmic grief at the thought of her husband’s possible demise. Then a surge of hope rushed through her from the depths of her being, allowing her to replenish her strength somewhat. Yet, at night, visions of François’ disfigured body blazed through her head, but she thrust them aside. My child survived Henry’s assault. Its father must be alive too.

Her head held high, the Queen of France promulgated defiantly, “You are wrong, Monsieur Tudor. I would have felt it immediately if François had died – he is alive. He will wriggle out of all the traps you and Carlos set for him, for François is on the right side of history.”

The English concourse, not knowing what Henry had done to her, admired Anne’s stamina. Suffolk and Exeter admired her even more, fully aware of her recent afflictions.

Anne’s eyes met Henry’s, another silent combat of wills. The creature of light, oppressed by the demons from Hades. Once legendary lovers, who had changed England and the course of her history forever, but who had morphed into the worst mortal enemies the history had ever known.

Henry’s glare pierced everyone but her. Why is she so indomitable and so unbending? Or is it all pretense while she is utterly shattered on the inside? He craved to see a devastated Anne on her knees before him, yet she antagonized him with insentient persistence. Her strength seemed to be sufficiently restored to have contests with him; Anne had not miscarried, to Henry’s chagrin.

The ruler’s malignant laugh boomed through the air. “François has been under siege in Milan for six months. Carlos has not captured the city yet because it is too well fortified, but the winter must have brought famine and illnesses. François is doomed: he surrenders to the emperor and will be burned as a heretic, or he will starve himself and the whole city to death.”

As if she were the mythological Cassandra, the Valois queen predicted, “François will return alive, but he will be a changed man. Every king, even a chivalrous soul such as my husband, has streaks of ruthlessness and vengefulness in him. His inner beast might be awakened.”

The eyes of the entire square were glued to Anne in expectation of some catastrophe. Most of them agreed with her in case the King of France survived against all odds.

Henry sniggered. “Ah, what a passionate bravado!”

They stopped the squabble when Princess Elizabeth arrived with her governess, Kat Ashley. Elizabeth stepped onto the ground from her chariot that was covered with red cloth of gold. Then the princess strode to her mother, her stoic countenance unwavering under her father’s irate gaze.

“Let’s proceed!” Henry commanded as he grabbed Catherine Parr’s hand.

The congregation entered the basilica, feeling the tension pulse between them.

Suffolk told Exeter, “At least, the king left his mistress, Philippa Bassett, in the citadel.”

Exeter nodded. “Good that no other women are present at this sham of a ceremony.”

“You look unhealthy, Hal.” Suffolk had no idea of Exeter’s romance with Lady Parr.  

“It is just a stomach pain,” Exeter lied convincingly. “It will pass soon.”   

§§§

In a matter of minutes, lines of Frenchmen, dressed as merchants but armed with swords and poniards, encircled the whole perimeter around the square where the cathedral was situated.

In a street adjacent to the square, a man clad in a coarse winter cloak, his head hooded, was issuing orders in a quiet, authoritative voice. “Act very quietly and extremely quickly!”

The English arquebusiers prepared to fight. The massive attack of the French, noiseless and effective like shadows, overpowered them. The pages who resisted were killed or taken prisoner.

As the people cheered, the hooded man told his friend, “Go calm them down. Or they will spoil our trap. Nothing should go wrong, or everything we have done will be in vain.”

His comrade, also hooded and disguised as a merchant, crossed the square twice. Putting his finger to his lips, he shushed those who had figured out that these newcomers were the saviors of Boulogne. Several other similar-looking merchants walked across the square, doing the same. Although the folks were overexcited to see them, they lapsed into silence and waited.

An English knight exited the cathedral to see what was going on outside. Immediately, the merchants gagged him and dragged him away from the church, then one of them slammed a fist into his head to render him unconscious. Then a hush of anticipation fell over the area.

The hooded man spoke. “How is Queen Anne? Is she sick? Her pallor seems profound.”

“Her Majesty is pregnant,” responded Count Jean de Dammartin, who headed the queen’s personal guard. “The siege has taken its toll upon her, but she has been courageous, just as Jeanne d’Arc was. For a long time, we awaited you, but eventually, we had to capitulate.”

The man revealed, “We could not come earlier. The Flemish occupied the whole north of Picardy, forming a living wall of soldiers on our way. We were engaged in bloodthirsty battles for months before it became possible to march on Boulogne. The invasion of Picardy is not over yet.”

Dammartin asked, “Did we do the right thing when we surrendered?”

“Yes,” the hooded man confirmed. “If you had not done that, Anne and her sons, as well as her unborn child, could already have died. We shall retake the city today.”

“Has the Count de Brissac gone to oversee the destruction of the English camp?”

“Yes,” the answer followed. “We came to the fortress soon after that tyrant had departed. They moved slowly, so we had enough time to infiltrate the château and liberate you all.”

Dammartin was soaring on the wings of freedom. “You have rescued us!”

“Not yet. The main performance is ahead.” The man adjusted his hood.

The hooded man went still, blowing wisps of cold air out of his nostrils. Dammartin could not see his features, but he discerned the barely contained agitation and fatigue in the other man’s voice. It was not the voice of a careless youth, but that of a soldier who had seen slaughter.

§§§

Having been destroyed by a bad fire in the 12th century, the Notre-Dame basilica had been reconstructed and consecrated by Pope Lucius III in 1184. The solemn interior was a fine example of the Romanesque and early Gothic styles, giving the interior an air of majesty and grandeur. Although the English occupation lasted for a month, the cathedral had already been desecrated. The gold from crosses and statues had been peeled away by many greedy men.

The cycle of frescoes by the Ferrarese painters Francesco del Cossa and Ercole de’ Roberti remained untouched. The frescoes depicted angels and saints, concentrating on the lives of Christ and the ancient legend that in the 7th century, an unmanned boat carrying a statue of the Virgin Mary had been sighted in the estuary at Boulogne, and then the statue had been carried to the church. Among the artworks, only a Romanesque crucifixion in cedarwood remained intact.

“I’m remarrying!” The monarch’s voice boomed through the vastness of the cathedral.

King Henry knelt on red velvet cushions near the altar. Lady Parr stood like a statue.

“What is wrong?” a suspicious Henry demanded. “Kneel, Catherine.”

Therewith, Lady Parr sank to her knees. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty.”

He scolded, “I know that you are tired because of the hasty preparations for our nuptials, but be attentive, sweetheart.” He joined her hand with his under the bridal canopy of purple silk.

Catherine tipped her head. “I’m a bit fatigued, but otherwise normal.”

Richard Thornden, Bishop of Dover, commenced, “Let’s begin.” He had arrived in France together with the late Queen Kitty, whose execution had shocked him.

Hundreds of candles blazed like an odd benediction, but only for the monarch. The Marquess of Exeter and the Duke of Suffolk acted as witnesses. Queen Anne and Princess Elizabeth, flanked by Françoise de Foix and Lady Kat Ashley, remained at a distance from them.

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today, in the presence of God, to witness the joining together of King Henry and Lady Catherine Parr in holy matrimony, which is an honorable estate, that is not to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly, but reverently and soberly.

The doors in the basilica were shut not to let the chilly air penetrate from the outside. A heavy mantle of stillness hung about this place, as though wrapping a forsaken land.   

“Cathy,” Henry called. “Make sure that my choice was the right one.”

A mist came across her vision, and Catherine feared to pass out. “I’ll try hard to be a worthy wife to you, and a good stepmother to Prince Edward and Princess Elizabeth.”

The prelate droned on about the holy estate of matrimony for some time.

Catherine did not listen at all. Her hand, covered with Henry’s, was cold despite the warmth of his skin. Her head bowed, she was still, so lonely, and her frantic mind, quick to form images, likened this ceremony to a crypt, in which all her bright hopes laid interred.

Truth be told, after the Marquess of Exeter’s love confession, she had been very tempted to reject the Tudor ruler. Exeter had sought meetings with Catherine, and he had even proposed to her to elope. Yet, the monarch’s atrocity towards the pregnant Queen Anne had proved the depths of Henry’s barbaric brutishness. Catherine was all too confident that the ruler would have her and Courtenay captured and then torn into countless pieces if they had escaped together.

Catherine itched to look at Courtenay, but she was afraid that their sovereign could glimpse their random glances at each other. It was a funeral liturgy for the former lovers, as if they both had been placed in coffins. Never before had Catherine felt so astutely that sense of the futility of life, of love, of hope, of everything... My heart is already dead, for it cannot beat without Hal. How will I endure the torture of being bedded by the king? Will he force himself on me?

In the meantime, the Marquess of Exeter stood nearby, staring into space. Now he perceived with remarkable clarity that the unhappiness and loneliness he had suffered before were nothing compared to numberless lackluster years of anguish that lay ahead. How will I live without Cathy?   

The exchange of marital vows and rings followed. The monarch’s voice was cheerful and tinctured with exhilaration, while his bride’s tone was distant, as if her vocal cords were damaged.

“I declare you husband and wife,” proclaimed the Bishop of Dover.

King Henry laughed. “Your Grace, England will never forget your service.”

The bishop was relieved that the ceremony was over. “I’m honored, Your Majesty.”

The ruler turned his scrutiny to his new spouse. “Cathy, we are married now.”

“Yes, sire,” she said in a lifeless voice.

Henry furrowed his brows. “Why are you not joyful?”

The queen plastered a smile on her face. “I’m a little overwhelmed.”

Her husband whispered, “You will be more emotional when I bed you.”

A shudder of repugnance ran through the former Lady Parr. “As you wish, sire.”

“You will like it, my own sweetheart,” Henry murmured as he kissed her hand.

The priest enquired, “Does Your Majesties wish to listen to liturgy in English?”

Henry dipped a nod. “Only in our language. We have long repudiated the Pope.”

The priest monotonous voice chanted psalms, but Henry did not listen to them.

The King of England viewed Queen Catherine Parr with a critical eye. Her raiment was made of white and beige brocade worked with threads of gold, her skirts having several ample layers and her neckline cut low in the French style. This gown had been purchased several days before the ceremony from one of the local merchants, for Catherine had nothing white in her wardrobe. Her stomacher was studded with gems, and the girdle of rubies encircled her waist.

Upon her head, Catherine wore the exquisite golden headdress that the ruler had gifted to Queen Kitty Howard three years earlier. The dead woman had taken it to France; the item was part of the Crown jewels, which now belonged to the former Lady Parr. Catherine’s hair tumbled loose from the bun, spilling long locks of her brown hair around her face, now profoundly pale.

Why is Catherine Parr so nervous? Henry half-wondered, half-fumed. I’ve extended such a great honor to her by making her my consort. It alarmed him slightly that Catherine had no issue from her first two marriages. Henry had asked her about it, and, blushing like a maid, Catherine had confided in him that both of her husbands had seldom performed their conjugal duties.

Perhaps that was why Catherine had never been pregnant. However, the possibility of her bareness was taking shape in the monarch’s mind like a gaping black maw. He would bed her every night, and if she had not conceived within several months, Henry would bully Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, into granting him an annulment of this union. Nevertheless, overconfident of his virility, the ruler craved to ravish carnally this pretty, yet modest, creature.    

The king had wanted to remarry as soon as possible. During her voyage to Boulogne, several handmaidens had accompanied Queen Kitty: three unmarried women – Lady Elizabeth Holland, Lady Catherine Parr, and Lady Ursula Stourton, as well as two married ones – Lady Mary Arundell, Countess of Sussex, and Lady Margaret Gamage, Baroness Howard of Effingham. Henry did not find Lady Stourton attractive; Bess Holland was the Duke of Norfolk’s mistress.

Henry had seen Catherine at Hatfield many times, for she had been the late Prince Edmund’s governess, and the king found her alluring. Twice a widow, Lady Parr was not an immature girl, one who would betray him with some groom, like Kitty had done. Moreover, she was a smart and well-educated woman, one who was not as intemperate as Anne Boleyn. I’ll have everything: the beautiful woman in bed to bear my sons, and a caring stepmother to my children, the king mused.

His gaze drifted to the Queen of France again: Elizabeth and Anne held each other’s hands. He had prohibited their daughter from seeing her mother. One evening when Elizabeth, Catherine, and the late Lady Margery Horsman had walked in on him and Anne, Catherine had intended to let the princess secretly see her mother, and the ruler had harshly berated her for that later.

Anne’s gaze intercepted his glare, and Henry deciphered her chilly disdain in it. As her hand slithered to her stomach, a red-hot barrel of fury exploded in his brain. Her confessions of loving François were engraved upon Henry’s memory forever. At present, I know that you would rather die than be with me, Anne. I would prefer to see you dead rather than being happy with François. His hatred for his Valois archrival was as black and infinite as a moonless night in the north.

The ceremony was over. After crossing themselves, the congregation promenaded down the nave. Despite the pain in his leg, Henry was almost running, while Catherine’s footsteps were lagging. Servants helped them don their winter garments, and then they walked out.

§§§

The English royal couple emerged from the cathedral, with Exeter and Suffolk trailing after them. Next proceeded Queen Anne and Princess Elizabeth, followed by Lady Catherine Ashley. The Bishop of Dover remained inside the church, while the other lords exited.

A cloud of snowflakes blew into their faces on the back of an icy blast of wind.

Henry eyed Catherine. “I’m most impatient for our wedding night.”

His wife swallowed bile in her throat. “I’ll welcome Your Majesty whenever you wish.”

Suffolk interjected, “At first there will be festivities.”

“Excuse me,” started Exeter, “but I feel so bad that I want to retire as soon as possible.”

The monarch nodded. “Of course, cousin.”

Charles Brandon was alarmed. “Where are our arquebusiers?”

The Tudor ruler concentrated his full attention upon the scene on the square. “What on earth is going on? Who are you? Are you French paupers? Have you stolen my litter?”

Suffolk hypothesized, “They might not understand English.”

“Where are my men?” Henry’s head swiveled back and forth.

The Marquess of Exeter was the first one to guess the truth. His spies had received the tidbits of Dauphin Henri’s surreptitious approach to the city. The French had been exceedingly careful, and the populace in Boulogne’s vicinity had assisted them in all possible ways. The Tudor spies had not spotted them, while Exeter had not warned anyone for personal reasons. If only they had come a few hours ago, the wedding would have been prevented, lamented Exeter silently.

The square in front of the Basilica of Notre-Dame de Boulogne was packed with a multitude of people disguised as merchants, who held their weapons at the ready. Across the whole perimeter of the area stood lines of archers in Valois livery, arrows strung in their bows and crossbows. The folk had already left the place, having been chased away by the French soldiers.

“It is our city!” cried Jacques de Coucy, Seigneur de Vervins and the governor of Boulogne, as he parted from the assemblage. “Now it belongs to the French again.”   

Queen Anne and Françoise de Foix almost squealed in joy. Beside them, Princess Elizabeth struggled not to smile, while Lady Ashley elbowed her, signaling to keep her façade neutral.

Anne lifted her scrutiny to the Gothic spires of the basilica. “Thanks be to God!”

Françoise looked up at the leaden firmament. “The Lord be praised!”

Anne told Elizabeth, “Don’t interfere, Lizzy, or Henry will punish you later.”

“I shall not, Mama,” consented the princess grudgingly.

The Queen of France and the others stepped away from the English party. Exeter and Suffolk saw that, but they did not stop them. Other lords put their hands on the hilts of their weapons.

The Tudor ruler pushed Catherine towards Suffolk and Exeter. She stepped to Exeter.

King Henry gawked at Vervins, as though the man were a lunatic. “This is my city! You surrendered to me, and I’ll make it part of my domains. How dare you insult your sovereign?”

The Governor de Vervins spat, “I have only one liege lord. You are not him.”

Count Jean de Dammartin appeared from the crowd. “Our sovereign is King François.”

Abashed, Henry stepped back. “François is the emperor’s captive!”

“That does not make you our monarch,” Dammartin ground out.

A strong male baritone, thirsting for vengeance and authoritative, spoke from the gathering. “The only rightful sovereign of France, Piedmont, and Milan is François de Valois. Regardless of his current whereabouts, his status has not changed. You all are nothing more than invaders.”

The French congregation parted the way for a young hooded man. The unknown man strolled forward with a measured gait, his bearing imperial despite his ordinary clothes; he held a crossbow in his right hand, an arrow clasped in the other one, and a quiver of arrows hung at his belt.

“Henri,” Queen Anne whispered to herself, and Françoise nodded festively.

Henry Tudor bellowed, “You are a wretched merchant! How dare you challenge me?”

The newcomer took off his hood. His brown eyes blazed with an incinerating fire of aversion towards the English from beneath his dark furrowed brows. His handsome and still youthful countenance was ferocious than that of the bellicose God Mars riding in his chariot into battle.

“I’m Henri de Valois,” the Dauphin of France introduced himself arrogantly, looking the main invader in the eye. “I have a marvelous gift for your wedding: we have recaptured Boulogne. Our disguise as merchants allowed us to infiltrate into the city in the past few days.”

All of the French men swept deep bows to the elder son of King François.

Henry assaulted verbally, “Do not intimidate me! My troops will easily overpower you!”

Dauphin Henri supplied, “The English camp has rapidly been overrun by my men under the leadership of my general, Count Charles de Brissac. My orders were to kill those who would not capitulate, just as we did at Soissons. The rest will be jailed and later ransomed.”

The monarch of England’s world careened and then crashed. However, he persevered, “My soldiers are brave! They will fight as long as they can in order to preserve their honor.”

“Then they will be slaughtered,” parried the prince in a nonchalant manner. “I’ll not spare anyone – regardless of gender – who will resist me, even if I have to spill rivers of blood.”

At last, the Tudor ruler comprehended that it was the end of his unsuccessful military epic in Boulogne. He studied his rival’s elder son whom he had never seen before. In the young dauphin, the old king saw a fierce and courageous warrior, one whose code of honor was less chivalrous than his father’s. Damn those Valois! I should have listened when Charles Brandon warned me about this lad. The dauphin was not like the Knight-King; at least not during this war.

The monarch took a step forward, but Suffolk held him back. Exeter stood at a distance from them with Catherine. Now they spoke French, but the foreign lords understood them.

More French contingents arrived at the square, each armed to the teeth. The lines of them were replete with Valois standards of blue and white silk with golden fleurs-de-lis. The Valois coat-of-arms was also emblazoned upon their chain mails and helmets.

Dauphin Henri continued in a half-satirical, half-hostile tone, “Happy with your wedding and sadistically satisfied with the execution of your late queen, Your Majesty has grown too lax. Absence of discipline in the army makes you vulnerable: your fleet was destroyed, whereas your army will be vanquished, and we left only one vessel intact so that you can return to England.”

A tense hush fell over the square. The snowflakes were forming into ghost-like shapes, as if symbolizing the complete fiasco of the Tudor ruler’s dream to subjugate France.

This speech was like a spear into the monarch’s egotistical heart. “No!”

The dauphin continued, “You are our captive, together with your wife and nobles.”  

Henry Tudor shook his head in despair. “I’ll not be a prisoner!”

His rival’s son snarled, “I have neither time nor desire to talk with Your Majesty. You, your wife, and your nobles shall be incarcerated until we contact the Earl of Hertford, regent of England, to negotiate the treaty of your release. After the ransom is fully paid, you will sail from the harbor of Boulogne in disgrace. You will all be treated better than you treated my stepmother.”

The king fired back, “You are the Dauphin of France, so you cannot make such decisions.”

The prince’s patience was running thin. “It matters not. Besides, my father gave his spouse, Queen Anne, and me the right to solve all matters in his name, which I’ve exercised many times. My decree is to send you back to England, and you must be prostrate with gratitude for that.”

Impotent rage gripped the monarch. “How did you do that?”

The prince smirked. “You have almost no archers in your local army; we have a lot.”

Was there a French spy in the English camp? The king demanded, “How do you know?”

Dauphin Henri smirked: the information from the Duke of Norfolk had helped the French a lot. Henri then slanted a gaze towards his stepmother. “Anne, Françoise – to me.” He targeted Henry Tudor from his bow. “One step towards her, and I’ll kill you.”

Casting a wistful look at Elizabeth, Anne briefly hugged her and smiled at her governess. Then Anne and Françoise scurried to the dauphin and stood behind his back.

While still aiming at the Tudor sovereign, Dauphin Henri whispered, “I’m relieved to see you, Anne. Do not worry about my brothers – they are with Duke Antoine de Vendôme.”

Queen Anne murmured, “Henri, we have waiting for you so long.”

Françoise interjected, “We have prayed for you every day.”

Henri tightened his grip on the weapon. “I’m sorry. I was stuck in Picardy for months.”

The ruler of England’s shrilling speech interrupted them. “François will die anyway!”

The dauphin released two missiles, each whizzing barely past the monarch’s ears. “Your dreams will never come true, you Tudor Gargantua. Next time, my aim will be more deadly.”

The prince’s prowess with bow both surprised and terrified Henry. “You are a French bastard whose mistresses might have been your mothers. Diane de Poitiers is indeed lovely!”

“At least, I do not murder queens.” François’ son then threw over his shoulder, “Let’s go.”

The French walked over to the English lords, who dropped their weapons. At the dauphin’s sign, he, Anne, and Françoise commenced their short stroll towards the horses.

§§§

King Henry stared after the retreating form of Anne Boleyn. In the midst the steel-gray, armed mob, she personified a perfect mirage. That slender hand of hers that Anne had extended to him during a dance at the Château de Vert pageant was no longer in his grasp. Their story was truly over, yet his obsession with her was as feverish as ever, like his dreams of making love to Anne, which he had held in the parts of his mind occupied by the old romantic days.

He was cognizant of himself as a creature of abject misery. Was this failure the culmination of all his mammoth sweat and effort to ally with the emperor so as to conquer France and Anne? The shattered plans, the checkmate in Boulogne, his failure to break Anne after having claimed her as his again… Anne rejected me! She loves François! Now I’m losing her even as my captive!

Within the space of a few heartbeats, the Tudor ruler ran to a nearby slender French archer. Using his far larger size as advantage, Henry tripped the man over, sending him flying, and grabbed the man’s bow. Talented in archery, Henry fired an arrow at Anne, who was not that far from him.

Time slowed as Henry watched the arrow fly straight into his potential victim’s back. 

Determined to warn her, the Duke of Suffolk rushed forward with a cry, “Queen Anne!”

An agitated Anne, together with Henri and Françoise, pivoted to face Suffolk who staggered backwards. Charles tumbled to the ground as Henry’s arrow embedded itself in his chest.

“Charles!” roared the King of England in despair. “No! Not you! My friend!”

Everything else unfolded in a blur. The dauphin instinctively shielded Anne, and his men formed a circle around them. The French warriors sprinted towards Henry Tudor, yanked the bow out of his hands, and twisted his arms behind his back, his curses falling on deaf ears.

Anne peeked her head from behind her stepson’s back and noticed a wounded Brandon.

Françoise was next to her mistress. “Suffolk rescued Your Majesty.”

The Queen of France blinked. “That accursed Henry attempted to murder me!”  

Dauphin Henri said stringently, “We must go.”

Anne’s heart drummed against her ribcage. “Yes, Your Highness. Lead us.”

Soon they dived into one of the contiguous lanes. A grand litter, draped in cloth of gold and adorned with the Valois heraldic ornaments, awaited the queen and her principal handmaiden.

“I’ve secured it for you, Anne,” apprised Henri as he helped her climb into it.

His stepmother smiled at him. “Thank you, Henri. You are my savior!”

“Thank you.” One of the dauphin’s pages assisted Françoise jump into the litter.

The prince muttered, “At least, none of you is harmed.”

Anne flashed a faux smile. “Indeed.” She silently signaled Françoise that none of the French ought to know, at least for now, about her ignominy at the hands of the Tudor ruler.   

Henri hopped onto his destrier. “To our camp!”

The procession departed, with the dauphin at the helm and the queen’s litter being guarded by his men-at-arms. Everyone chanted King François’ motto in Latin ‘Nutrisco et extinguo,’ which meant ‘I nourish the good and extinguish the bad.’ Anne and Françoise sang with them.

The streets of Boulogne flickered before her eyes as the French queen stared out the litter’s window. Her sense of security was somewhat restored, in spite of the crumbling walls of her soul in the aftermath of her forced adultery with Henry. An abyss of uncertainty opened underneath her feet: a pool of nothingness where she would submerge if François ever learned the truth.

§§§

Lady Kat Ashley steered a shaken Elizabeth towards the cathedral; they slipped inside.

A heavy snowfall poured out of the foreign skies, under which the Duke of Suffolk lay dying. A lethal haze blurred his peripheral vision, and he could barely see the King Henry who knelt by his recumbent form. His orbs distinguished the shaft imbedded slightly below his heart.

“My goodness, Charles,” a bereft Henry exclaimed. “The doctor is coming!”

A strange dizziness was clouding Suffolk’s head. “My time on earth is over.”   

“Why did you take that arrow?” Henry’s hands splayed as if to hold Suffolk’s head, but they remained suspended in midair, both of them trembling. “Why, my friend?”

“You are my liege lord and my murderer.” Spittle foamed at the corners of Brandon’s mouth. “I stopped being your friend when you took my wife, my Catherine, as your mistress. I loved her madly, but you ruined our marriage and impregnated her. Your baby killed her.”

This elicited gasps of astonishment from the Marquess of Exeter and Queen Catherine Parr, who stood several steps away from them. They were surrounded by a profusion of Valois warriors, who held each of them almost at the sword point after the attempt on the queen’s life.   

The monarch’s eyes were wide in disbelief. “You cannot mean it, Charles.”

Charles was growing weaker and weaker. “I took the arrow meant for Anne Boleyn because she must live. She suffered too much at your hands, Henry. For too long, I thought that she was England’s, your, and my sworn enemy, but I was mistaken.” He coughed up with blood.  

Henry clenched his fists. “It would have been better if she had died.”

“No. I plotted against her with Cromwell, but I regret it. I saved her to pay my debt to her.”

The ruler offered a grin. “I pardoned you for that betrayal, Charles.”  

Brandon murmured, “I do not need your forgiveness, Henry. I needed hers, but Anne is not here. Yet, my conscience is at peace because she is with her family. I hope that Dauphin Henri will rescue King François.” His breath was now coming in short gasps. “A week ago, you crossed the line separating good and evil, Henry. I predict the worst. At least, I’ll not see this.”

“Do not say that, Charles,” implored a shamefaced Henry.

Suffolk’s heart throbbed in his throat. “I’ll see all of my wives soon. I hope that Mary, your sister, and Catherine, my greatest love, will forgive me for the pain I caused them. I pray that the German Anne, my current and last wife, will survive for longer and find peace.”

The monarch cupped his former friend’s head. “Do not leave me, please!”

“God is calling me home, Henry,” slurred Charles. “I feel the rhythms of mortality.”

Henry looked around. “Where is a physician?”

“Hal Courtenay,” called the dying man.

As Exeter knelt by Suffolk and squeezed his hand. There were tears in Exeter’s eyes as he murmured, “My dearest friend, I shall always remember you and our old days…”    

Charles advised, “Hal, find love and settle down. It will give you peace.”

“If only I could…” Exeter smiled sadly, while Catherine wept in the background.

Unexpectedly, the Duke of Suffolk requested, “I need a minute with the queen.”  

A bewildered Henry and Exeter, both equally surprised, stepped aside.

Catherine knelt by him. “Lord Suffolk, how can I serve you?”

Gathering all of his fading strength, Charles told her about the letters of Maria de Salinas, Isabella of Castile, and Ferdinand of Aragon, which he kept. “You are a Protestant and Princess Elizabeth’s friend. Retrieve all of them from where I explained and give them to Elizabeth.”

“I’ll do everything, Your Grace,” she avouched.

“Do not tell anyone about them.” Blood trickled down the corner of his mouth.

She dipped her head. “I’ll not read them. I’ll pass them on to the princess.”

Suffolk smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Your Majesty. Be… careful with Henry…” 

Torrents of tears suffused her cheeks. “God bless Your Grace.”

“The Bishop of Dover!” The scream wafted from the king.   

The priest scampered down the front steps of the basilica, holding his robes above his knees.

Suffolk saw a familiar silhouette wave over him. “Your Eminence!”

The bishop, out of breath, panted, “My son, bless you! Is your soul in need of absolution?”

Brandon’s vision was blurry. “Numerous adulteries, killings as a soldier, a plot against Anne Boleyn, executions of the men after the Pilgrimage of Grace, jealousy… I do not know what else.”

The churchman questioned, “Do you repent?”

“I do. Most heartily,” Suffolk revealed sincerely.

The Bishop of Dover pronounced prayers of benediction over the duke.

“A physician is here!” informed the Governor of Boulogne.

“Catherine,” murmured Charles Brandon as he envisaged his dead wife.

The Duke of Suffolk directed his scrutiny at the firmament, praying that he would not spend all eternity in purgatory. A thick, lethal haze encompassed him, his heart collapsed. The skies opened up in a downpour of hail, as if nature were angry with King Henry for Suffolk’s accidental murder. Catherine Parr and the Marquess of Exeter led the brokenhearted ruler to the basilica, where they would await until the hail ceased. The duke’s body was also taken to the church. 

Notes:

Hello everyone! We hope that you are fine and safe. Take care of yourself!

We hope you like this chapter, whose title reflects what happens in it – Anne Boleyn and her sons are released, while Henry and the English are defeated and taken captive. The documents, which the Duke of Norfolk gave Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly helped the French a great deal, and once the battles in Picardy allowed Dauphin Henri to march on Boulogne, he appeared there and entrapped Henry. Those who wanted Henry to be captured may celebrate now – it happened.

In a bizarre chain of events, Henry killed one queen in Boulogne and remarried. Choosing among the ladies-in-waiting who accompanied Kitty to Boulogne, his eyes fell on Catherine Parr. Henry has many plans, but he has no idea so far that his new wife – his 7th wife – loves his cousin, who adores her as well. This is a turning point for Exeter, and there will be drama for Henry, Catherine, and Exeter in later chapters. Anne’s disgrace at Henry’s hands will be avenged.

We hope you like Dauphin Henri: we warned you that he would be an important character, and that he would surprise you. King Henry is immensely obsessed with Anne, which prompted him to try to kill her after he had been taken prisoner. The Duke of Suffolk took the arrow that was meant for Anne. Suffolk died as a hero and paid for all his sins – his accidental murder at the hands of Henry was planned in advance. Remember that Henry hit his head twice, so in later chapters he will continue being nasty – he will die a bit later than he did in history.

Richard Thornden, Bishop of Dover, and Thomas Wendy, King Henry’s physician, were real historical personalities. You may have a look at Basilica of Notre-Dame de Boulogne. It seems to be a nice place. The information about this church is historically correct. Moreover, the English did not behave like gallant nights when they took Boulogne in the 1540: their actions described in this chapter are historically correct, but the outcome of Henry’s adventures in France is slightly different.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 71: Chapter 70: A Ray of Light in the Darkness

Notes:

Anne von Cleves meets with the Earl of Hertford. Queen Anne of France is now free and sailed to Italy. She and Dauphin Henri have plans to assemble allies against Emperor Carlos in Italy. The Duke of Norfolk surrenders to the French. King Henri of Navarre lands in trouble.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 70: A Ray of Light in the Darkness

February 20, 1546, Colcombe Castle, the village of Colyton, near Devon, England

“One more day here, but soon I’ll depart,” said a woman as she stared out.

She could see the narrow windows with pointed Gothic arches of the fortress. These several sculptured stone arches were adorned with heraldic shields, but they irritated her, just as everything connected with the Tudors did. She watched soldiers on the battlements and in the park patrolling the area. Covered with thawing snow, the gardens stretched towards the River Coly.

Anne Brandon, Duchess of Suffolk, closed the shutters and pivoted away from the windows. She peered at the familiar tapestries in her bedroom, where she had lived since her departure from London months ago. Their blue-green hunting and forest sequences were so familiar to her that Anne sometimes hated her comfortable quarters. They were furnished with expensive mahogany furniture and couches upholstered in emerald brocade, as well as paintings in gilded frames.

She busied herself with folding and refolding her garments, packing them in trunks. She had taken many gowns with her during her hasty escape upon the Marquess of Exeter’s orders. Back then, she had not understood how important her urgent departure had been for her own safety. If not for Lord Exeter, Thomas Culpeper could have found me in the palace and killed me. 

“Charles! God bless you! Rest in peace…” Anne whispered as tears moistened her eyes.

The Dowager Duchess of Suffolk had lost her unborn child, and the miscarriage had hit her as hard as a blow to her soul could. Nevertheless, the tragedy in Boulogne was far worse for Anne than crucifixion. She also mourned for Catherine Howard. There was no healing from the wounds on her heart, her bereavement tearing her apart like a wolf ripping one’s flesh. The Brandon spouses had not loved one another, but Anne had grown fond of the late Duke of Suffolk.

At the knock on the door, one of Anne’s maids asked, “Who is it?”  

“The Earl of Hertford,” the reply came. “I’m here at Her Grace’s request.”

“Let him in,” Anne told her maid.

Since her arrival in this castle owned by the Marquess of Exeter, they were extremely careful with the selection of those who were admitted to the duchess. Although the murderer – Thomas Culpeper – had been executed in France, the fortress was still heavily guarded.

Anne Brandon exited into the antechamber. In front of her stood Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, who swept a gallant bow to her. His traveling outfit of the brown color of the earth was dusty because of his swift journey from London. There were dark circles under his eyes.

At her sign, the duchess’ maid of honor curtsied and then hastened out.

“My lord,” said Anne at last. “You must be tired, but thank you for coming.”

Hertford answered, “During His Majesty’s absence, I’m the regent of England and must be present in London. Given the circumstances, I deemed it necessary to arrive here.”

“Where are the remains of my spouse now?” There were unshed tears in her orbs.

The earl explained at length. “King Henry ordered that His Grace of Suffolk be buried in St George’s Chapel at Windsor Castle. The body of your esteemed husband is now in London. It is being prepared for funeral, and it is good that I’m here now, for I’ll be able to escort you to the capital. I’m certain that you want to attend his funeral that will be paid for by the Crown.”

Anne tipped her head. “Yes, we will travel together.”

Nodding at her, the Earl of Hertford studied the Dowager Duchess of Suffolk. A thin Anne was clad in a black silk gown with a cone-shaped stomacher, for she was in mourning for Charles Brandon. She was pale and depressed, with a dense aura of melancholy about her. Poor woman! At least she has a daughter to find consolation in her dear girl. Exeter sent Anne Brandon away from court in tremendous haste, which perhaps saved her life, Hertford speculated.

“Your Grace can stay at court later. It is now safe for you.”

Anne said nothing. Her arms were pulled forward, and Edward fancied that she must be looking down at something clasped in them. He stepped to her and noticed a jeweled crucifix clasped in them. Hertford had seen it on Charles Brandon during Masses at court.

“It belonged to my husband,” she pronounced in a tattered voice. “I’ll always keep it with me. Charles was a Catholic at heart, one who signed the Oath. I’m a Protestant. Lord Exeter wrote to me about his murder at the hands of King Henry, once his best friend.”

Hertford did not even defend his sovereign. “My most sincere condolences.”

“I’m grateful to you and Lord Exeter.” Her scrutiny was fixed on the object in her hand. “I’ll accompany Charles in his last journey on earth. He deserves to be buried in an elaborate ceremony at Windsor Castle. Afterwards, I shall leave London and the Tudor court permanently. Given that the obese and evil beast killed my husband, I have absolutely no desire to ever see King Henry again. I’ve received letters from both Frances and Eleanor Brandon, Charles’ daughters: they are waiting for me at Westhorpe Hall, where they came with their families.”

Hertford nodded. “I respect your decision. You should act in the way that is more convenient for you, Madame. I shall not recite our conversation to anyone.”

“Thank you, Lord Hertford. My daughter, Sybille, is with Frances now, and I’m yearning to be reunited with her. From now on, I shall live in countryside as a wealthy widow.”

“You can always count on me, Madame,” promised the earl.

“Lord Hertford,” she addressed in the softest tones. “You are highly likely to fall from the king’s good graces. I wish you to escape with your life. Better banishment than death.”

Edward Seymour swallowed convulsively. “I know not what will happen to me.” Privately, he and his wife feared the worst and even prepared to flee England lest it was necessary.

A sarcastic chortle choked her. “The mighty Henry Tudor is a captive in Boulogne! Serves him right after the invasion of France, his other crimes, and the assassination of Charles.”

He silently agreed with her. “We can depart on the morrow.”

“I’ve started packing my things. I shall be ready, my lord.”

“Take care of yourself, Your Grace.” Hertford then bowed and left.

Immediately, the duchess’ maids scurried back into the antechamber.

“Does Your Grace need something?” they chorused.

Anne nodded. “Help me pack the rest of my things while I’ll pray.”

After curtseying, the women went to her bedchamber and the dressing room.

The dowager duchess trudged to a small chapel that was part of her living quarters. Upon entering it, a wave of such colossal weakness swept over her that Anne tumbled to her knees. Her shoulders shook as sobs wracked through her frame, her scrutiny concentrated on the crucifix in her hand. She perceived all of the marble statues of saints and other objects of Catholic worship in the oratory as idolatry, but she could not remove them, for this castle was not hers.

In the torchlight, the crucifix flashed like lightning in the moonlight. “My brother, William, offered me to return to Cleves, but I shall not. God will be my beacon in the darkness of life.”

Anne spent on her knees for an hour. She wept, prayed, and wept, her chest heavy with life’s burdens, her lungs starving for air. Her fervent faith was her salvation now! Anne prayed for her deceased husband’s soul every day, beseeching the Almighty to forgive Charles for his Catholic inclinations. My husband sacrificed himself for Anne Boleyn, and I’m immensely proud of him.


March 3, 1546, Château de Nice, Nice, Provence, France

From one of the château’s towers, Dauphin Henri contemplated the stunning views around. The citadel was situated on top of Castle Hill, overlooking the bay of Nice. To the right from him, the great expanse of blue-green sea stretched south as far as the eye could see, fringed with white foam along the shore and the long strip of beaches. To the left, there were stunning pictures of the old town and the port, which were protected by fortifications and high walls.

At the sound of someone clearing their throat, Henri pivoted. “Madame de Foix.”

Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant, curtsied. “The queen is awake.”

“I’ll pay her a visit tonight.” There was some important stuff to debate over.

“Of course, Your Highness.” Smiling at him, Françoise walked out. Never before had she experienced such admiration for the frigid dauphin, whom many courtiers did not like.

Dusk was blanketing the city. Henri approached another window, from where he saw the Provençal hills, which extended all the way to the Alps. His thoughts briefly went to King Henri of Navarre, who now defended Languedoc from the Spanish hordes just to the northwest from Provence. Then his musings detoured to Philippe de Chabot and Jean de Brosse, who continued the resistance to the Flemish in Picardy that had been a place of bloody drama for months.

We must finish the fight in Picardy, the dauphin mused. They needed most of the troops from the region for the impending battle for Milan. Unfortunately, Emperor Carlos V, who still lived at Mechelen, continued sending more and more soldiers to the north of France.

Henri glanced at the sentinels on the battlements and at the sentries before the drawbridge. The citadel, used for military purposes since the 11th century, was relatively safe, although it had been besieged several times in the past. During the invasion of France of 1536, pestilence and famine had raged in Nice, and the Imperial troops had caused a great damage to the fortress, but it had been restored and refortified with a strong encircling wall and several gates.

The prince beheld the calm and smooth sea. “At least the weather is good.”

Staying here for several days, without skirmishes and the necessity to be on the move, was a welcome respite. Yet, the chaos of life pummeled at the dauphin with its fists, reminding him of his duties to the House of Valois. The perverse circumstances had compelled him to be a killer of thousands of invaders so as to protect France. With such thoughts, Henri trudged to the exit.

§§§

Dauphin Henri arrived at the Queen of France’s quarters after passing through a complicated maze of medieval hallways, lit up by torchers, with bare walls and narrow staircases. Upon his entrance, the ladies-in-waiting dropped their embroideries, their gazes licking the famed dauphin who was now hailed as a hero of France. They lowered themselves into curtseys.

At Anne’s request, Queen Marguerite of Navarre had sent a group of new maids to Nice. One of them was Marie de Bourbon, who had once been a prospective bride to King James V of Scotland in 1536 until James’ marriage to the late Princess Madeleine de Valois. An elder sister to Henri’s friend and general Antoine, Duke de Vendôme, Marie still remained unmarried.

I shall invite Marie to my bed again, the prince thought as he studied her. Dressed in a gown of red brocade, ornamented with flowers of gold and silver, Marie de Bourbon was pretty and had a petite, small-breasted frame. She had a compassionate heart that warmed Henri’s soul, chilled by the savageries he had perpetrated, during the nights in Nice as they made love in his rooms.

Henri had taken Marie as a mistress because of his body urges. Moreover, as his inner realm was scarred by bloodshed, he simply needed a female touch to assuage his anguish. This woman, who was only four years older than him, breathed life into him, and her arms were his refuge as if he were a doomed, shipwrecked voyager. Her warm heart had a peculiar appeal to him, and he was interested in Marie more than in any other girls whom he had ever encountered at court.

This morning, Henri had left Marie sleeping. He remembered Diane, blaming himself for being fixated too much upon his new paramour. Yet, it proved a fruitless exercise: he was afraid of his ghastly future – bloodshed and death, so Henri needed Marie not to lose himself in darkness.

Confusion settled in him. The feverish need for Diane that had once burned in Henri, like lava inside the mouth of a smoldering volcano, was no longer present in him. Where had it gone, as if something had eroded it like a sandbank before the wind? Diane seems distant. However, when I’m with Marie, I’m content, feeling like I can face anything as long as she is with me.

“Madame de Bourbon,” addressed Dauphin Henri. “It is nice to see you.”

Rising from her curtsey, Marie beamed at him. “Sun shines brightly when a hero comes.”

He released a sigh. “It will shine only when our sovereign is rescued.”   

Marie exclaimed, “We have faith in Your Highness.”   

“With God’s help.” Henri crossed the antechamber and entered the queen’s bedroom.   

§§§

Queen Anne rested on a feathered bed under a canopy of magenta rose damask. Propped on pillows, her raven hair cascading down her shoulders, she conversed quietly with Françoise. The wall hangings of the finest silks were of the same color, as was the luxurious Aubusson carpet.

Françoise bobbed a curtsey to the prince and then exited to the antechamber.  

“Henri!” his stepmother greeted. “I’ve been waiting for you.”   

The dauphin bowed. “Good evening, Anne.” They had dropped formalities, now addressing each other by their first names in private. “How are you feeling?”    

He settled himself by the bed in an X-shaped oak armchair with abundant carvings.

She smiled at him cordially. “I’ve slept for the whole day, so I’m well rested.”

Henri’s gaze shifted from her face to her stomach. The brown silk blanket, covering Anne’s form up to her chest, accentuated her increasingly prominent stomach.

“And the child?” Anne’s health was a source for the dauphin’s worries.   

Her stepson’s care flattered the queen. “We both feel very well.”

A month had elapsed since the rescue of the French queen and her three sons from Boulogne. King Henry of England and his wife Queen Catherine Parr, as well as his lords, were all imprisoned in Boulogne until the regent of England paid a substantial ransom for them all. Dauphin Henri had spared only Princess Elizabeth Tudor thanks to her filial bonds with Anne, having allowed the girl to reside at a nearby comfortable castle together with her governess Lady Kat Ashley.

Princes Augustine, Antoine, and Jean had been taken to Château d’Amboise, where all the royal children lived. In the meantime, Queen Anne and Dauphin Henri journeyed south.

The dauphin regarded her suspiciously. “Is that so? Or are you hiding something?”   

“Henri, if you don’t believe me, talk to Amboise Paré, who examined me thrice.”   

“I spoke to Doctor Paré several times. He assured me that neither you nor the baby are in danger.” Yet, despite the physician’s assurances, something was gnawing at Henri.

“Margot would not have hired someone incompetent to watch over my health.”

His concern was tremendous. “In your condition, you spent months under the siege.”

She clasped her hands over her knees, bending forward a little, looking at him with an affable serenity. “Henri, you saved me and your brothers, and for that I shall be forever grateful to you. Everything is well now, and in about three months, you will have another sibling.”  

Leaning forward slightly, Henri took both of her hands in his. “After the murder of my dear brother Charles, I vowed that none of my siblings would die as long as I live. I would have moved heaven and earth to have you and my half-brothers released from the English captivity.”

Anne squeezed her stepson’s hands. “We are safe thanks to you.”

His gaze conveyed apology. “I beg your pardon that I could not come earlier.”

“Don’t! I’m well aware of the bloodthirsty battles in Picardy.”

The dauphin let go off her hands. “They were not easy.”

She saw how Henri had grown up mentally since the previous summer. “Henri, what does not kill us makes us stronger. The whole of France is hailing you, their future liege lord.”

Nonetheless, the monarch’s son was not proud of himself. “Why should they be? The King of France is still trapped in Milan together with his daughter and his best military man.”

“We shall liberate them,” supplied the queen confidently. “God is on our side.”

“The Almighty sends us trials and afflictions for our spiritual development.”

Anne tipped her head. “And perhaps to teach us some lessons.”

“The Lord has protected you and the baby! It is sheer miracle that you both are all right.” 

Henri, brave Henri who saved us all! Anne cried mentally. You do not need to know what my former husband did to me in Boulogne. She had convinced Françoise de Foix that it would be better to keep secret the truth of Anne’s disgrace at the hands of the Tudor monster. The dauphin had too much on his plate: the continuing invasions of Picardy and Languedoc, the siege of Milan, and many other things. The queen was deeply ashamed of her plight, wishing only to forget it.  

“Anne, you look as if Hades had sucked all the blood out of you. Rest more.”   

Her pallor was nervous. “Visit me later.”

“Take care of yourself.” The dauphin then vacated the room.  

The Queen of France scarcely stifled the urge to weep. Again, she was drinking from a cup of cruel memories as her brain reproduced images of her abhorrent encounter with Henry Tudor. A burning blush of shame, humiliation, and rage stained her cheeks, her whole being filled with guilt for her forced betrayal of her marital vows. Forgive me, François, mon amour…    

§§§

The sky over the city of Nice was a dark blue canopy, spattered with twinkling stars. A full moon glowed, illuminating the château in a pale silver luminescence. The window to the queen’s bedroom was ajar, and the cool air of the night brought in a salty scent of the distant sea.

The dauphin returned to his stepmother long after dusk; he seated himself by her bed.   

A frowning Henri quizzed, “Are you sure about your journey to Florence, Anne?”   

His stepmother nodded. “Yes, I am. It is my duty to France and our family.”

He tried another approach. “Is it not your duty to our king to deliver his child in safety?”   

She nevertheless parried, “Will I be in peril in Florence? Or are you not certain of Duke Cosimo de’ Medici’s honor? According to your own words, Cosimo is waiting for me.”

Henri elaborated, “My conclusions about Cosimo are based on my father’s, Aunt Margot’s, and your characteristics of him. You all say that Cosimo is an authoritarian and fierce man, but that he has a high code of honor.” He emitted a sigh. “I might dislike him for personal reasons, for my union with Catherine was not annulled due to his interference. But I trust all of you.”

The queen’s mind drifted to the days she had spent at Palazzo Medici in 1540. “I admire and respect Cosimo a lot. When I signed the treaty with him years ago, I stayed in Florence for months, and Jean was born there. Cosimo and I built rapport and cultivated a friendly relationship, and, of course, we found common ground on the back of our immense love for the arts.”

Her brain was now working in the direction of Italian politics. “Cosimo has been most vocal in condemning the emperor for the siege of Milan. He does not have a huge army, but he is a powerful ruler with great connections. His offer to gather all of our Italian allies in Florence, form the ‘Anti-Carlos’ League, and then join our armies is the most reasonable thing.”   

He tapped on the armrest of his seat. “That would be our best course of action.”

“But there are many risks, both known and potential.”

Henri nodded pensively. A little pause of breathless silence stretched between them.

Although Milan was still besieged, there was a ray of light in the pitch-black darkness that had encompassed them for so long. After the capture of Noyon by the French, the soldier, who had claimed to know the place of Ferdinand’s incarceration, had turned out to be one of those who had escorted the archduke there under convoy. Since last September, Ferdinand von Habsburg had been held in Schwerin Castle in Schwerin in the custody of John Albert I, Duke of Mecklenburg.  

Claude d’Annebault had spent months wandering across Germany. Ferdinand would not have been discovered if not for several man whom the dauphin had met in Noyon. Having been informed of Ferdinand’s whereabouts, Annebault had successfully organized the escape of the emperor’s brother. Following this, Emperor Carlos had officially disinherited his sibling and made Infant Juan of Austria, his infant son with his second wife Mary Tudor, the nominal ruler of all the Austrian lands, which had been diligently governed by Ferdinand since the 1520s.

However, Ferdinand did not remain landless: Hungary, Croatia, and Bohemia were still his domains since he had inherited them from his first wife. All of Ferdinand’s many children by his wives – Anne of Bohemia and Marguerite de Valois – had found refuge in Bohemia. Then Ferdinand had hastily journeyed in disguise to the Ottoman Empire in Annebault’s company.

Cosimo de’ Medici, Duke of Florence, had invented a plan of King François’ salvation. He proposed to form the Holy ‘Anti-Carlos’ League consisting of the French and Ferdinand’s forces, as well as those Italian duchies, republics, and city-states which had allied with France during the Italian campaign of 1539-1540. An urgent summit was planned in Florence.

Dauphin Henri broke the pause. “Ferdinand, who once was our captive, is now our key ally against Emperor Carlos. We must pray that he will succeed in Constantinople.”

A flicker of hope surged through Queen Anne. “When did Ferdinand leave?”     

He recollected, “Claude d’Annebault and King Ferdinand departed a few weeks ago. Before we recaptured Boulogne, I received missives from both Claude and Ferdinand. They were on their way from Germany to Constantinople, so now they must be there.”

She fidgeted with a golden chain that dangled from her neck. “Sultan Suleiman understands our critical situation, so he will not delay Ferdinand and Claude in Constantinople.”

“They will need several weeks to sign a treaty,” estimated the prince.

“Then our friends will depart.” A stirring of joy rippled through her.

“To Hungary and Bohemia,” he pronounced in more optimistic tones. “If they make peace with the Turks, the skirmishes in Hungary will cease. In this case, Ferdinand will be able to lead his armies of thirty or forty thousand away from Hungary and Bohemia. Given that Suleiman has expressed his outrage against the emperor’s actions and renewed the attacks of the Turkish fleet on the Spanish ships in the Mediterranean Sea, Ferdinand will accomplish peace.”

She had the same opinion. “The Ottoman Empire has been France’s ally since 1536. I predict that Sultan Suleiman will not only establish an alliance with Ferdinand, but also provide him with gold so that we can recruit mercenaries for the attack on Milan.”

“That would be the best thing, but I would not keep our expectations too high.”

Anne speculated, “The House of Habsburg has long been a thorn in the side of the Turks. The Franco-Ottoman alliance keeps the balance of power in Europe. During the previous invasion of France, the Ottomans helped us: without them, we would not have triumphed over Carlos.”

The dauphin gazed towards the window. The full moon shone brightly, as though heralding a successful resolution in Constantinople. “Years ago, I condemned my father for his relations with the Muslims. Now I understand how right his decision to cooperate with Suleiman was.”

“That is true, Henri. Nonetheless, the Ottoman Empire is extremely powerful. Their armies – especially the Janissaries – are the most disciplined and most feared military force of the time. The Turks need France only as a window to Europe and as a trade partner, while we desperately crave their financial and military help. A practical and intelligent ruler, Suleiman knows this very well: he will do his best to avert catastrophe from François, but it might have a price.”

His stepmother’s knowledge about the situation in the East astonished and impressed Henri. “What could it be? Hopefully, not some lands in Europe because that would be too bad.”

The queen’s heart sank into a pit of forlornness as she envisaged her husband’s death. “Now everything will be acceptable for us as long as they aid us to dispose of Carlos.”

“Yes.” The dauphin’s universe trembled at the thought of his father’s possible demise.   

“We should act just as François did in 1536. After Genoa’s capitulation, the Turks controlled the republic and some Italian ports, until Ferdinand expelled them from Italy. Back then, François covertly supported Ferdinand, but officially, he remained Suleiman’s ally.”  

“Yes. But Suleiman must know that my father played a game with him at the time.”

“He surely does,” concurred Anne. “Yet, now the situation is different. Ferdinand is coming to him with the plea to establish peace and help him deal with his brother. Therefore, the sultan must comprehend that Ferdinand will not work against him later. Don’t you think that the smart Suleiman will try to capitalize on the current enmity between the two Habsburg brothers?”   

“That he will do, just as my father did that when he allied with Ferdinand.”

The queen ruminated, “Suleiman will be most eager to have the French House of Valois and the Austrian branch of the Habsburgs as his friends.” She grinned knavishly. “Even if the price for his assistance is some territories in Italy, they are highly likely to be lands in the Imperial domains, perhaps the kingdom of Naples. In this case, it will be not the task of François and Ferdinand, but that of Carlos to eject the Turks from Naples after the siege of Milan is lifted.”

The prince silently applauded Anne’s cunning. “If it happens, the Turks will be ejected by our enemies while we will preserve our alliance. The heathens might be more reliable allies than the Protestant rats, which abandoned France in the hour of need.”  

Her murky sentiments towards the dismantlement of France’s Protestant alliance resurfaced. “I’m glad that at least Landgrave Philippe of Hesse – perhaps due to his daughter’s betrothal to my son Jean – hasn’t deserted us. King Gustav of Sweden is also a good ally.”

He sneered. “They will rush back to us when we win.”

The queen summed up, “To win, we ought to form a coalition. Someone who has the right to represent François must be present at the summit in Florence. It can be only me.”

Anne is right, the Dauphin of France thought with a sigh. I’m too reluctant to let her travel to Florence in her condition, but we have no choice. The flickering candlelight danced across her dainty features. Henri was cognizant of a thickness in his chest as he discerned such anxiety about his father and his sister’s fates in her eyes that he felt as though they were both being flayed.

A sullen Henri meditated, “Most of my men re-joined Philippe de Chabot in Picardy. I must lead those five thousand men who escorted us to Nice, back to Paris.”

“Henri, I’m not even seasick while at sea. The weather is good, and it will take me two weeks to get from Nice to Porto Pisano, where Cosimo will meet me. Another ten days on the duke’s ship as we will sail from Pisano down the Arno River and arrive in Florence.”

He calculated, “You will be seven months pregnant by the time.”

“Do we have any other choice? We cannot wait! We must make these alliances and assemble enough forces to launch an offensive on Milan before it is too late… before–” She broke off.

“My God,” the prince rasped dispiritedly. “I cannot say that.”

She choked out between sobs, “Before François and your sister… die…” 

The dauphin eased himself on the edge of the bed and pulled her into a soothing embrace.

“Shhh,” hushed Henri, biting back tears of his own. “They will survive.”

Her arms went around her husband’s son. “We must save them, Henri. We must.”

He assured, “We shall save them. We shall.”

The damn of all her repressed depression, which had accumulated inside of Anne, broke. Her weeping would not cease, her tears flowing like rivers and soaking through the rich fabric of her stepson’s doublet. Henri rubbed her back in circles with all the comfort he could create.

The prince whispered, “We are united in our terrors and sorrows, Anne.”

Fresh tears gushed forth. “François must live! I’ll not survive without him…” 

He said softly, “Calm down. For my father’s baby, my sibling.”  

Finally, the queen pulled herself together. “Yes. It is so difficult.”

“I know,” he uttered in a gentler tone. “But you must be strong.”

Her face was red, her eyes puffy. “You will not oppose, will you?”   

He released her and relocated to his armchair. “How can I? We have no other option.”

Anne assumed a calm demeanor. “Then I’ll sail tomorrow.” 

Relieved, Henri admired his stepmother’s fortitude. “I’ll pray for you and the child.”

“God will guide and protect me. He wants us to rescue François.” 

After his departure, the queen quickly fell asleep and rested well for the whole night.

§§§

In the morning, Dauphin Henri watched a squadron of heavily armed galleons and frigates sail from the harbor, the Valois standards floating in the air above them. The weather was good, and the sea lay like a mirror, reflecting the heavens on its smooth and polished surface.

Henri and Duke Antoine de Vendôme stood on the wharf. The guards waited at a distance.

The dauphin made the sign of a cross. “God bless and protect Anne.”

Antoine opined, “Her Majesty is a strong woman. She will accomplish what we seek.”

“She will; I feel it.” Henri smiled, remarking to himself how affectionate his attitude to his stepmother had become. “My new sibling will be born at the Palazzo Medici again.”

“It is heroic,” Antoine began, “to survive the siege in her condition, and then to rush to Italy in order to rescue King François. Her Majesty is as brave as Jeanne d’Arc.”

Henri thought of the monarch and Anne’s great love, wishing that he could ever experience such feelings. “She is acting not as a queen, but as a woman desperate to save her beloved.”

“The queen is the Goddess Minerva in love,” jested Antoine.

The dauphin laughed. “Yes, she is.”

The Duke de Vendôme enquired, “What about your affair with my sister?”   

“Are you angry with me, Antoine? I did not force Marie to become my mistress.”

“I’m just concerned that Diane de Poitiers will make Marie’s life impossible.”

At this, the prince warranted, “It will not happen, that I promise you, my friend.”

Antoine did not wish his sister to be heartbroken. “Will Your Highness break up with Marie? She will be in Italy with the queen for a long time, and maybe she will forget you.”

“Yet, will I forget her?” Henri was torn between his feelings for Diane and his new affection for Marie. “Don’t ask me anything, my friend. I do not understand my own heart yet.”

After the ships had vanished in the distance, the two men went away from the wharf. They mounted and urged their steeds to full speed, heading back to the citadel through the old city.


April 10, 1546, Saint-Denis, outside Paris, France

Spring was in full bloom. The weather was balmy, and there was a slight warm breeze.

“It is almost over,” Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, said to himself.

Having left his military headquarters, Norfolk strode to the French camp. He climbed the hill and saw tents where the dauphin’s soldiers lived. Cathedral Basilica of Saint-Denis was located just outside the city of Paris. Although he had spent months here and visited Paris years ago, never before had this monument of Gothic architecture had such a profound impression on him.

I feel as though I were a newcomer on this earth, Norfolk mused, baffled. People feel so if they want to start afresh or if their life is over. What did these sentiments mean for him? He was aware that King Henry was jailed in Boulogne, and that the Earl of Hertford would pay the ransom. Norfolk’s troops, which had initially counted thirty thousand, now consisted of fifteen thousand due to considerable desertions during winter; it was the last English force on French soil.

Thomas Howard was rather exhausted. He had led the English army from Calais to Paris in October 1546, where he had laid siege, just as he had been enjoined to do. Most of his soldiers were Flemish mercenaries; the Englishmen had gone to Boulogne with King Henry. After the monarch’s capture, no funds had been received from England, so Norfolk could not pay his men.   

The siege of Paris could better be described as that of Saint-Denis. Just as he had promised, Norfolk’s actions had been flaccid. In Paris, trade had collapsed, while the population could freely leave the city in search for food. Norfolk had not wanted to work hard for capturing the city that would be undoubtedly retaken by the French later. Most importantly, his allegiance to King Henry was wavering because of Surrey’s situation, like a candle lit during a stiff breeze.

The duke stopped near the French camp, open-mouthed. The massive columns stood to either side of the entrance, as if they were waiting for an attack. Three hours earlier, Norfolk had sent his page to Dauphin Henri of France in order to warn him about his upcoming visit with the intention to capitulate. The knights’ polished weapons reflected the sun off with a brilliant lustre.

An auburn-haired young knight parted from the assembly and approached the guest. “Your Grace of Norfolk, welcome. I’m Antoine de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme.”

Norfolk responded in French with thick English accent, “It’s nice to meet you, Your Grace. Why does Dauphin Henri need this parade of force if I’m surrendering?”   

“Our soldiers are preparing for the entrée into Paris. His Highness is a son of the Knight-King and a hero of France, so he deserves to have his own triumph.”

Norfolk swallowed bile. “A triumph over someone who surrenders?” 

“His Highness wishes so. That way, please.”

As Antoine gestured towards the entrance, Thomas Howard stomped forward, his head held high. As he walked through the camp, numerous spectators gaped at the Englishman.

§§§

Antoine accompanied the guest to the prince’s tent, above which the Valois standard floated. Before entering, Norfolk gave his sword to the guards; then he was admitted inside.  

The interior of the spacious tent was Spartan and neat, filled with a few pieces of ebony and oak furniture. Only a wide luxurious bed with a canopy of purple velvet, embroidered with fleurs-de-lis and edged in tiny arabesques, attested to the royal station of the tent’s occupant.

Dauphin Henri sat at a table, scribing something on a parchment. Lifting his scrutiny to the guest, he commenced, “Your Grace of Norfolk! I’ve received the news from Italy about Anne. She is already in Florence: her journey was uneventful, and Duke Cosimo is taking care of her.”

So young, so fierce, so tired, Norfolk observed to himself. The dauphin had circles under his eyes. His lightweight chainmail beneath his brown leather vest looked loose around his bosom. The march across France had taken its toll on the prince. Henri’s countenance was austere.

The duke neared the dauphin, bowing. “Are you using pigeons for messages?”   

Henri smiled, but he did not confirm anything. “Take a seat there.”

Nodding his thanks, Norfolk eased himself in a chair in front of the other man’s desk. “I’m gladdened that my niece is all right. I suspected that she would be in Boulogne.”

The prince’s mouth hardened into a rigid line. “Your sovereign held my stepmother prisoner in bad conditions, trying to hurt her in all ways possible. Only God knows what else he did to her. Although my brothers lived in better rooms, your king humiliated and threatened them.”   

The duke was not taken aback. “Anne’s sons with King François are King Henry’s enemies, despite being children. My niece is also his adversary because she is your father’s wife.”

Disdain rippled through Henri. “Your king seems to be badly disposed towards the Howards: he hates my stepmother, he killed Queen Catherine Howard, and he imprisoned your son.”

Kitty’s death saddened Norfolk a great deal. He had warned her against committing adultery, but she had not listened to him. “He has a grudge against the House of Howard.”

His demeanor softening, the dauphin said with gratitude, “We quickly re-captured Boulogne mainly thanks to the documents which Your Grace gave to Madame d’Étampes. Everything was just as described in them: the English army in Boulogne had so few archers that we were able to overrun the camp within an hour with the aid of our own archers, and the rest was easy.”

The Duke of Norfolk felt guilty for betraying his sovereign. Yet, if he had to choose between his son’s life and treason again, he would have chosen Surrey. “Is my son still in Brittany?”     

“Yes.” Henri fidgeted with a quill. “You may go back to England. Nonetheless, King Henry will be furious with you for Lord Surrey’s escape and for your failure to conquer Paris. Your fate will be sealed. Your sovereign might realize that you supplied us with some information.”

Norfolk felt breathless, as if from fear. “I knew that in advance.”

“Join your son in Brittany. Surrey is residing in one of Anne de Montmorency’s castles.”

Although his features were impenetrable, Norfolk’s heart somersaulted in his chest as though it wanted to run away. He was an Englishman through and through, one who loved his country, even though he adored power and his nobility above all things. What would he do in France? His niece was the Queen of France, but Norfolk did not want to live there in permanent exile. Now I’m cornered. If I return, I’ll be executed. If I stay here, I’ll be called a traitor in England.

Henri gauged his thoughts. “You sacrificed for your son.” He released a deep sigh. “Now when my father’s life hangs in the balance, I would gladly have done anything for him.”

Norfolk was grateful for the understanding. “Good luck with liberating King François.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. King Henry took ill in Boulogne. His old ulcer on the right leg got infected, and he has been feverish for a couple of weeks. His health is deteriorating.”

Norfolk’s eyes flashed. “Is he so bad?”   

“As far as I know.” The dauphin elucidated, “Lord Hertford, regent of England, dispatched a ship with gold. The ransom for your sovereign, his wife, and his lords amounted to two hundred thousand pounds. This number is based on my calculations of the proceeds which your liege lord received from the dismantlement of chantries and the last of the abbeys in England.”

Norfolk rejoiced. His country would not be totally insolvent, as he had feared before. He had expected that the French would be greedier and less eager to release King Henry. Yet, given the lethal drama around King François and the continuing invasion in the north and south, Henri did not have any time for English affairs. If Henry Tudor dies, I might return to England.

The Valois ruler’s son continued, “The ransom will be delivered to Boulogne within a few weeks. If your king recovers, I do not think he will live for long. Perhaps you need to wait.”

“We do not know the future,” the duke noted.

Henri speculated, “I doubt the Earl of Herford will keep his offices. With Herford out of favor and the Duke of Suffolk dead, the Marquess of Exeter will become the central figure at court, in your absence of course. Your future might depend on your relationship with Exeter.”

“Suffolk is dead?” Norfolk’s eyes widened fractionally.

“Yes. King Henry tried to kill Anne, and Suffolk gave his life for her.”

Did Henry Tudor lose his mind due to jealousy? Norfolk wondered. The shocking demise of Charles Brandon did not sadden him, for he had always despised the upstarts whom his liege lord had elevated from the dirt. Norfolk had predicted that Hertford would be ousted from power after the end of England’s alliance with the Duchy of Cleves – this gladdened him.

With the old powerful figures out of the picture, Exeter would be a star at the Tudor court. King Henry favored Exeter a lot in spite of the man’s York blood, and Prince Edward adored the marquess. Exeter was a Catholic despite his pretense to the contrary; even Catherine Howard had realized that. Their faith was something that Norfolk and Exeter had in common.

Seeing the king in England, the Duke of Norfolk had long suspected that the man would not last for long. Henry Tudor’s life of tremendous excesses – his constant debauchery and gluttony – had weakened his body considerably. It seemed that Thomas Howard indeed needed to wait for a while before the monarch perished. Then he would contact Exeter and broker some deal with the man, which would let both him and his son, the Earl of Surrey, return England.

I prefer Princess Elizabeth to succeed Henry, Norfolk lamented bitterly. I want a Howard queen on the English throne, not a York king. Prince Edward is more a York than a Tudor. At Hatfield, he had watched Anne Bassett’s son, finding three resemblances between King Henry and the boy – the York features, the York arrogance, and the Woodville eyes. While the duke disliked the prince, he saw that Anne’s daughter was far more intelligent. Something unsettled Norfolk every time he looked at the prince, as if there were some secrets to unearth.

The dauphin’s voice jerked Norfolk out of his reveries. “I did not demand any ransom for Princess Elizabeth because of her bonds with Anne. She is awaiting her father’s release.”

The duke wondered how Elizabeth had found herself in France. “His Majesty will be angry with Elizabeth upon their return. I regret that I’ll not be there to shield her from his wrath.”

“She will need your later.” The prince stressed emphatically, “Alive.”

“I could not agree more,” answered the Englishman.

“So, Your Grace? Are you going to Brittany?”

“Yes,” acquiesced Norfolk. “For some time.”

“Once the siege of Milan is lifted, our life will go back to normal. Then Anne’s worries will focus on Elizabeth. My father and Anne would want you to return to England.”

“That my niece would.” After a pause, Norfolk requested, “Your Highness, could you please spread the rumor that I was mortally wounded during my attempt to preclude you from capturing me? That would allow me to bide more time until the situation is clarified.”

“Yes, in this case, you will not burn the bridges with England. I’ll ask our agents to circulate this gossip and embellish it with some tales about your heroic resistance to the French.”

The duke’s grin was conniving. “As soon as this rumor reaches the English army in Saint-Denis, they will surrender. Most of them are mercenaries with no allegiance to anyone. Given King Henry’s captivity, it will look plausible that they will refuse to fight for England.”

“Would they consent to fight for France? We need soldiers.”

“These men can sell their souls to the devil for money.”

Henri flicked his glance towards the tent’s distant wall, where a map of the Duchy of Milan hung. “We are recruiting forces for the impending battle of Milan. We need men.”

“Your Highness may try.” Thomas Howard stood up and bowed.

“Have a safe voyage to Brittany. My trusted men will accompany you there.”

As he exited, the Duke of Norfolk felt as if a giant weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He would find a way to come back to England together with the Earl of Surrey, but at present he needed a break because the war and the worries about his son had drained much of his energy.


April 23, 1546, outside Carcassonne, Languedoc, France

The day was bonny. The fairest southern skies were an endless cerulean canvas, cushioning flocculent clouds in its fathomless depths, and the sun was a glittering gold medallion.

“We have won the battle!” King Henri of Navarre sheathed his sword.

“Your Majesty, they are withdrawing to the south,” apprised Jacques d’Albon, seigneur de Saint-André and Marshal of France. He pulled his sword in the scabbard and bowed.

Henri tipped a nod. “With God’s help, we will expel the foe.”

The two men, both encumbered in armor, stood near the battlefield. For miles around, the ground was littered with countless mutilated corpses and drenched with blood. The battle of Carcassonne had been so ferocious that many bodies had their limbs missing, others had their heads gone, and some were completely disfigured. The moans of the dying were slowly fading.

Since the autumn of 1545, King Henri of Navarre and Marshal Jacques d’Albon were in Languedoc. They had been involved in battles against the Spanish under the leadership of Don Álvaro de Bazán, who was also a Spanish naval commander from an old Navarrese family. The battles of Montpellier, Lodève, Mire, Albi, and Béziers had all been brutal, and many knights had been injured or killed. Most importantly, the enemy had not moved outside Languedoc.

For months, no party could have gained the upper head. At last, today’s confrontation of Carcassonne had shifted the balance in the region: the Spanish had been defeated and forced to withdraw closer to the border with Spain. Having lost about fifteen thousand, the general Bazán had escaped, but he still had fifteen thousand camped in Perpignan close to the Pyrenees.

Those damn Habsburg invaders! Henri d’Albert breathed into the world his hatred towards Emperor Carlos. His fingers tightened around his sword hilt. Years ago, Ferdinand of Aragon had invaded the kingdom of Navarre, plundered and pillaged Henri’s homeland, having dramatically reduced the country’s size. The rest of Navarre owed its independence to the House of Valois.   

Henri again examined his surroundings. “How many did we lose?”   

“About ten thousand men,” answered Albon.

“I’ve recruited more men in Toulouse. Now they are marching to Carcassonne.”

Henri’s eyes rested upon an injured Spaniard who was still alive and was trying to get to his feet. “Excellent. As soon as they arrive, we will attack that rat Bazán once more.”

Albon approved of that. “To crush them once and for all.”

The ruler approached the Spaniards he had spotted. His countenance contorted in repugnance as Henri eyed several mutilated knights, their morions lying next to their remains.

Henri drew his weapon. “Go to hell, you insect!” He stabbed the wounded enemy.

Albon emerged behind the monarch. “Will we take prisoners, Your Majesty?”   

“That man would have died anyway.” Henri did not regret what he had done.

“Dauphin Henri is responsible for the massacre of Soissons. Although the battle of Soissons ended in a draw, His Highness showed to the world how France might treat her adversary.”

The king spat down onto the dead man. “I would have done the same if my father had been trapped in Milan for months. Emperor Carlos is the worst pestilence for the French.”

Albon said philosophically, “I wonder whether peace is possible.”

French knights crowded on the riverbank adjacent to the field. Now it was midday, and they were resting after the fighting that had started at dawn and lasted for hours.

The ancient city of Carcassonne was situated on top of a plateau overlooking the River Aude. Thanks to its convenient location, the lords of the city controlled historical trading and travel routes from the Mediterranean coast to the Pyrenees, from Aragon to France. That was why the French could not allow the adversary to conqueror this place and obtain strategic advantages.

Standing in the midst of fallen knights, King Henri of Navarre raised his sword far above his head, signifying their victory. “For France! For King François! For the House of Valois!” 

All the men on the riverbank and those who remained on the field bellowed, “For France!  For King François! For the House of Valois!” Then cheers rang up through the air.

Albon cried, “For King François and King Henri of Navarre!”

“For France and for Navarre!” everyone echoed ebulliently. The French troops had joined the Navarrese army of a smaller size in Languedoc to fight for two countries.

“God’s will is that we expel the invaders!” roared Henri d’Albert.

“Better kill them,” a soldier shouted. “Death to the enemy!” 

“Expel or kill them all!” an earth-shuttering collective shout echoed.

Henri gestured towards the riverside. “The stench of blood is horrendous.”

Albon agreed, “Indeed, it is enough for today.”

On the river’s coast, they stood surrounded by Albert’s private guard.

Henri spotted Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli among his men. “That Italian lord joined our armies a month ago and has proved himself in battle. He is an extremely ruthless warrior.”

Albon surveyed Montecuccoli who laughed with others at something. “He serves Dauphine Catherine. Thus, I expected him to join Dauphin Henri in Picardy.”

“Anyway,” said the ruler, “his contribution to our today’s victory is significant.”

Albon quizzed, “Your Majesty, what should we do with the injured?”   

Henri pondered this. “We did not take prisoners after our previous battles. Although now we need to gather forces for our attack on Milan, no Spaniard will change his allegiance.”

All was clear to Albon. “As you command, sire.”

After Marshal d’Albon had left, King Henri signaled his guards to step aside. Henri stood looking onto the river, where the water was brown due to the clay soil its tributaries collected from upland areas. He looked past a nearby forest to the silhouette of Carcassone’s crenellated outer walls in the distance, as well as its chiseling towers and turrets, buttresses and battlements.

“What is it with me?” Henri felt the familiar odd pain in his stomach.

One of his guards approached him. “Is everything all right, Your Majesty?”   

The ruler forced a smile. “Of course.” Then the man left.

In a minute, Jacques d’Albon returned and reported, “Your order has been fulfilled.”

Nodding, Henri dived into political topics. “At present, King Ferdinand is moving his troops from Hungary and Bohemia to Italy. Soon Queen Anne will sign the treaties with the ‘Anti-Carlos’ coalition. Despite the continuing battles in the north of France, Dauphin Henri is preparing to lead his troops to Piedmont. We must free Languedoc from the Spanish soon as well.”   

Again, the monarch felt the burning in his belly, just as it frequently happened during the past few days. Yet, he ignored it as he speculated, “The alliance of Ferdinand von Habsburg with Sultan Suleiman is sensational in the entirety of Christendom. It is a turning point in our favor, which is unpleasant news for the emperor. The war between Carlos and Ferdinand is inevitable.”

“Undoubtedly,” Albon agreed. “Sons of Juana the Mad will clash in Milan.”

The ruler swallowed, his painful sensations growing. “The dauphin did a marvelous job in Boulogne, Paris, and Picardy. Queen Anne is now assembling our Italian allies.”

Albon asked in a whisper, “We might arrive in Milan too late…”

Henri shook his head. “François is not dead. Why do I think so? If he had passed away, the city would have capitulated a while ago, but they have been under siege for eight months.”

“They are loyal to their liege lord,” Albon concurred.

“Yes.” Henri nodded. “The emperor’s generals attempted, but failed to capture Milan. The city was too well fortified by the Sforza family while they ruled the duchy.” He grimaced, for the discomfort in his belly increased. “The governor of Milan… he…”  He broke off.

An anxious Albon questioned, “Your Majesty, are you feeling bad again?”   

“Not well.” Henri’s pain receded a little. “The Governor of Milan – Pier Maria de’ Rossi, Count di San Secondo – ruled so brilliantly that Milan prospered for six years; they accumulated a large stock of grain and food. This must have helped them survive during all these months.”

At the sudden cramps in his stomach, Henri squatted down. He clutched his belly, gripped by continuous waves of contractions, as if his insides were tearing apart in agony.

Albon rushed to the king. “Your Majesty! What is wrong with you?”   

The guards encircled their leader, and their captain inquired, “Should we send for a doctor?”   

Albon was now supporting Henri. “Yes! It’s urgent!” 

“Argh,” moaned the Navarrese monarch, his vitals burning with a fire of mortality. “Send for my wife, Queen Marguerite, and for Madame d’Étampes. I fear I have little time left.”  

“Your Majesty cannot mean that–” A horrified Albon trailed off.

“God in heaven!” murmured Henri as another tide of torment surged through him. “I cannot die now…  Marguerite… Anne…” He passed out in the arms of Jacques d’Albon.

Commotion escalated. The King of Navarre was hastily taken to the Cité de Carcassonne.

Montecuccoli watched the ruler being carried away, suppressing a malignant grin. A week ago, he had had an audience with King Henri, and Sebastiano had managed to put some poison in the wine. After they had received the Pope’s second order to dispose of King Henri, Catherine de’ Medici had dispatched him to Carcassonne. Nothing will save Henri of Navarre, for my poison is lethal. Henri has done a great job as a general, and Marshal d’Albon will finish the rest.

Notes:

Hello everyone! We hope that you are fine and safe. Take care of yourself!

We hope you like this chapter, whose title reflects that there is hope for Queen Anne and King François, and for France to emerge victorious from the current war. Anne is now free, and Dauphin Henri escorted her to Nice, from where she sailed to Italy in spite of her advancing pregnancy. They need to form the so-called anti-Carlos coalition, the members of which are mentioned in this chapter. Cosimo de’ Medici and Italian characters will appear soon.

Anne and Dauphin Henri are close friends, and it will not change. Many were worried that Henry would never meet someone other than Catherine de’ Medici and Diane de Poitiers, but it is not so. We planned to give Henri Marie de Bourbon as a new mistress from the very beginning, and there is an important reason why she was introduced. So far Henri is only attracted to her and slept with her for some time, but it may lead to deeper feelings on his part.

In a complex chain of events, Ferdinand von Habsburg the emperor’s brother, escaped from his prison. Remember that in one of the previous chapters Dauphin Henri spoke to several men in Noyon who helped him learn where Ferdinand was incarcerated. Ferdinand is said to have been held in Schwerin Castle in Schwerin in the custody of John Albert I, Duke of Mecklenburg, who was the emperor’s Catholic ally in Europe in real history.

The war between Emperor Carlos V and King Ferdinand is inevitable – it will be the central plotline in the next ten chapters. Claude d’Annebault played a special role in Ferdinand’s salvation, and we will soon see Ferdinand and Annebault again. Dauphin Henri and Anne speak about these two men’s voyage to Constantinople and their intentions to ally with Sultan Suleiman. Later we learn from the last scene that Ferdinand is already leading his troops from Bohemia and Hungary to Italy. There will be more about Ferdinand’s agreement with the Turks in later chapters, and the Ottomans will also play some role in the battle of Milan.

We hope you liked the short appearance of Anne von Cleves who retired from court. Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, is in danger. Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, surrendered to the French, but he cannot return to England because he might be executed, so he took quite a conniving step with the help of the French dauphin. King Henri of Navarre landed in trouble because of Sebastiano de Montecuccoli’s vile plot, and perhaps it will not end well.

Colcombe Castle near Devon, England, was one of the castles owned by Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter. The descriptions of Château de Nice and Colcombe Castle are close to history. Carcassonne became a border fortress between France and the Crown of Aragon under the 1258 Treaty of Corbeil.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 72: Chapter 71: Demises of a King and a Mistress

Summary:

My daughter, Georgette (named after her late father), was born a few days ago! She is a ray of light and hope in the dark world of insanity happening around us.
Let me thank Sea Goddess Amphitrite and Lady Perseverance, my cousin, who edited this chapter. Or we would not have been able to update this fiction today.
Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Notes:

The amorous triangle of Queen Marguerite of Navarre, King Henri II of Navarre, and Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly is resolved in a tragic way. Diane de Poitiers comes to meet with her lover, Dauphin Henri, who is disenchanted with her, and something unexpected happens.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 71: Demises of a King and a Mistress

May 4, 1546, Cité de Carcassonne, Carcassonne, Languedoc, France

The two women raced through a maze of narrow and unadorned medieval corridors. Each step was urgent, deliberate, searching for someone who was dear to both of them. They were Queen Marguerite of Navarre and Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly, Duchess d’Étampes, who had hastily arrived in Carcassonne from Amboise, where the Valois court resided at present.  

Marguerite’s ladies-in-waiting trailed behind them like shadows of perpetual grief.

“My Lord,” moaned Anne. “Help us see him at least once more.”

“We are almost there,” panted Marguerite. “I pray that he is not… dead yet.”

They climbed a staircase, taking two steps at a time. They were out of breath, but did not pause at all, the terror of being too late pushing them forward. Marguerite had thrust her negative sentiments towards her husband’s mistress aside, and Anne was grateful to her for that.

Marshal Jacques d’Albon appeared from a nearby corridor. Bowing, he commenced, “Your Majesty, His Majesty is lodged in the best rooms in the fortress. We have waited for you.”

Marguerite stopped, trying to catch her breath. “Is Henri… still alive?”

The breathing of a nervous Anne was labored. “Will Henri recover?”

A dejected Albon enlightened, “There is no hope. His Majesty is barely clinging to life.”

A sob escaped Anne. “Oh God! Oh my God!”

Marguerite put a hand upon her rival’s shoulder. “Calm down, Madame. Not now.”

“Follow me, please,” Albon offered politely, shocked by the current happenings.

After passing through another hallway, they halted near the massive wooden door. Doleful people – government officials and nobles from Navarre – all dropped into bows. The Navarrese queen nodded at them, opened the door, and walked inside; Anne followed her.

§§§

The spacious bedchamber was illuminated by crystal chandeliers placed upon ebony tables. The light from them cast shadows across the walls swathed in tapestries depicting scenes from the 8-th legendary legend of Lady Carcas of Carcassonne. The smell in the room – stinky urine, human sweat, medical herbs, and vomit – foreshadowed the tragedy.  

The dolorific eyes of Marguerite and Anne were glued to a large bed in the corner. There, under canopy of black and red satin, rested Henri d’Albert, garbed in a shirt of white damask. The king was receiving the last rites from the old priest who had been invited from the city.  

The prelate’s voice droned on and on, like the thunder of nature heralding death.

Go forth, Christian soul, from this world

in the name of God the almighty Father,

Who created you,

In the name of Jesus Christ, Son of the living God,

Who suffered for you,

In the name of the Holy Spirit,

Who was poured out upon you,

Go forth, faithful Christian.

May you live in peace this day,

May your home be with God in Zion,

With Mary, the Virgin Mother of God,

With Joseph, and all the Angels and Saints.

As the churchman lapsed into silence, the two women settled themselves on either side of the bed and took both of the ruler’s hands. After making the sign of a cross, the priest left.  

“Henri,” called Marguerite softly. “We are here.”

In a tremulous voice, Anne uttered, “My Henri! How can it be happening?”

The Navarrese monarch opened his eyes with effort and looked at each of them in turns. His features were ashen and gaunt, showing that he was fading into the universe of nothingness. His hands were still warm, but life was barely flickering inside of him, like a snuffed-out candle.

Henri smiled ever so slightly. “Margot… Anne…” 

“We are here,” they chorused, squeezing his hands simultaneously.

“I feared to die before seeing you both,” he rasped. “I struggled to hold on…” 

Marguerite asked, “What has happened, Henri? You were healthy!”

His gaze oscillated between them. “Talk to my physician later.”

Marguerite wanted to stand up. “I’ll go speak to Monsieur Chapelain.”

Her husband objected, “No. I have little time left.”

“Jeanne is extremely worried about you,” apprised Marguerite. “She is at Amboise with the other Valois children. She has been distraught at the news that her beloved papa is very ill.”

Henri managed a smile. “Tell our daughter that I love her deeply.”

“I shall,” pledged his wife. “She adores you too, Henri.”   

His visage turned grave. “Jeanne will become Queen of Navarre today.”

“No!” Marguerite did not want him dead. “Do not say that!”

Anne de Pisseleu did not interfere, crying silently. She stepped aside.

Henri sucked in a faltering breath. “Margot, I prepared my will. I bequeath the kingdom and everything the Crown of Navarre owns to my only legitimate child – our daughter Jeanne.” He paused, his grief over his premature demise twisting his insides together with the poison that was gradually destroying him. “You will be her regent until Jeanne comes of age.”

Funereal dread clutched Marguerite’s gut with its icy fingers. “I’ll rule Navarre in Jeanne’s name until she grows up. After their wedding, Augustine will govern with her.”

“Yes,” whispered the ruler. “You will be the regent of both France and Navarre.”

“Until François returns,” Marguerite stressed.

The king felt the torturous sensations in his abdomen again, steeling himself against them. “François… Save him, or everything we have done in Languedoc might be in vain.”

His spouse vowed, “I swear on all I hold dear that we will rescue my brother.”

He sighed with obvious relief. “The Almighty bless the House of Valois.”

“God bless the House of Albert,” affirmed Marguerite. “God bless you, Henri.”

The monarch removed his hand from his spouse’s. He reached out for her face and caressed her cheek gently. “You have always been too strong, too talented, and too intelligent, Margot.” He traced her jawline. “Too unique! You cannot be an ordinary woman and a simple wife.”

His queen stroked his hair. “I was not a good wife to you. I chose France and François over you and Navarre, but not because I do not care for you and didn’t want to be happy with you.”   

He sighed. “Now I do understand that. I blamed you for the failure of our marriage for years. It took me quite a while to comprehend that you could not leave your brother and France that has long been encircled by Habsburg holdings, always being in danger of a foreign invasion.” He ended with, “You are a woman of state, Margot. Your heart belongs to France and your family.”

Tears stung her eyes. “Oh, Henri!”

For some reason, the king now felt a little better, as though God was giving him strength for this last candid conversation. “François and you ruled France together. Without you, it would have been difficult for him to keep the country independent and prosperous.”   

Marguerite acknowledged, “That is the reason for my choices. Through safeguarding France and making it stronger, I’ve been trying to protect Navarre from Spain and other enemies.”

He coughed, and his vitals ached awfully. “You are capable of sacrifices, Margot.”

“Forgive me,” she entreated. “For everything.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Henri d’Albert rested for a handful of heartbeats. When he opened them, his gaze found hers, blazing with liquid fire of his affection for his spouse. “Forgive me too, Margot. For my inability to understand you better and for causing you a lot of pain.”

Marguerite kissed his hand eagerly. “We ought to forgive each other.”

“Finally, we should.” He, too, lavished her hand with kisses.

The monarch became ill with cramps in his stomach. The royal doctor – Jean Chapelain – arrived from the antechamber. Chapelain had once been Louise de Savoy’s physician, then he had entered Marguerite’s service. After her marriage to Henri d’Albert, Chapelain had become the couple’s physician, and despite their estrangement, remained in the king’s service. A middle-aged man with austere features, Chapelain was clad in dark and plain satin attire.

“Your Majesty,” began Chapelain, “please give me some space.”

“Argh,” Henri groaned as he writhed in agony on the bed.

“Oh my goodness,” Anne de Pisseleu whimpered in the background.

Chapelain endeavored to somehow help his hapless patient, although he knew that there was no cure from this illness. Moaning like a wind-clutched shed, Henri retched and retched into the bowl, which the physician brought to the ruler’s lips, but only slime came out. Then Chapelain gave his patient a cup of water, and the ruler drank it slowly, but greedily.

All this time, Marguerite and Anne stood at different sides of the room, each weeping.

“Margot,” Henri addressed, feeling slightly better.

Chapelain warned, “His Majesty is getting weaker.” He then left the room.

His consort returned to the bed and settled on the edge. “Yes, Henri?”

“May I ask you something?” He was afraid at this moment.

His spouse had a guess as to his request. “Of course.”

Henri exhaled slowly. “Anne… and our children. Take care of them. I acknowledged all of them as mine, and I bequeathed to them some personal things as a memento of me.”

Marguerite’s amber eyes were conciliatory. “I’ll gladly do everything for them.”

“Thank you, wife,” he said gratefully. “I hope Jeanne will accept them. They are innocent.”

“Jeanne will,” vowed Marguerite. “I’ll ensure that.”

“Thank you,” reiterated the king. His gaze dashed to the other side of the chamber where the Duchess d’Étampes stood as lifeless as a statue. “Anne, come to me.”

Stifling her jealousy, the queen stood up and settled herself in a nearby chair.

Anne sprinted to the bed and landed on it, grabbing his hands and kissing them.

“Henri, my Henri,” his mistress repeated over and over again. “How will I live without you?  Please, do not leave me and our children! They are so small and need their father.”

The ruler forced a smile, his eyes shadowed by his fast approaching end. “Nobody can go against their fate, mon amour. God is calling me home, and I respect His will.”

Streaks of tears trickled from Anne’s emerald eyes. “I cannot lose you!”

“Listen.” Henri lifted his hand to her face and brought his thumb to her lips. “Let me speak. I love you, Anne, and I do not regret all the years we have spent together. For so long, you have been my splendor of joy woven of gold in the silken air. I’ve been happy with you.”

The duchess gushed, “Henri! No man has ever worshipped me in the way you have done. The best moments in my life are connected with you, and no one will replace you. My love for you is the nicest flower which I gathered with fingers of flame symbolizing my devotion to you.”

His lips touched her hand. “Our beloved Celeste, Arnaud, Raphael, and Yolande…” 

King Henri of Navarre and Anne de Pisseleu had openly cohabitated together in Navarre for six years. Their illegitimate offspring included: Celeste, Arnaud, Raphael, and Yolande d’Albert. Their second daughter had been born in the winter of 1546 while Henri had been at war.

“Yolande,” drawled Anne. “The little one… whom you have never seen.”

“How does she look like? Is she healthy?”

“Yes.” She smiled through tears. “Yolande looks like you.”  

The ruler’s heart swooped at the thought of leaving his offspring at such a tender age. “Tell all of them that I adore them, and that they are the light in my life, just as Jeanne is.”  

She tipped her head. “I shall always tell them how brave and great their father is…”

Henri’s gaze went to his wife. “I’m calm because of Margot’s promise.”

It was painful for Marguerite to watch her husband with his paramour, but her jealousy did not matter when her spouse was on his deathbed. “They belong to the House of Albert in spite of their illegitimacy. They will be raised by their mother – nobody will take them away.”

Guilt for his adultery speared through the monarch. “You have a benevolent heart, wife.”

“It is my duty,” asserted the Queen of Navarre. “To you and Navarre, Henri.”

The ruler entreated, “I wish to be with you both when I breathe my last.”

Marguerite returned to the bed. Now she and Anne were holding his hands.

Tears prickled Henri’s eyes as he regarded the most important women in his life. He did not want to die, but now he experienced a lethal, yet celestial, dizziness enveloping him. His insides burned and roiled, his skin felt hot, cold, then hot again. His illness had depleted him of strength, and Henri was astounded that he was still alive. God, I thank you for letting me live until today, until I could see Anne and Margot. Protect them both from the poisoner who killed me.

“I love you both,” the King of Navarre admitted. “I cannot explain it.”

Anne released a sigh. “I’ve always known that.”

Marguerite was astonished. “I’ve never forgotten you, Henri.”  

He chuckled. “Live in peace without me. That is my last wish.”  

“We will,” his wife pledged, and Anne nodded at her.

Henri dragged a torturous breath, his mouth dry like dust. He stared, half-unseeingly, at Marguerite, then at Anne. “I bless you both for long lives. Find joy in whatever you can.”

Tears leaked from Marguerite’s eyes. “In Jeanne.”

Anne was on the verge of a breakdown. “In our children.”

Darkness was closing in around the monarch. “Someone poisoned me.”

Marguerite’s eyes was thick with horror. “What?”

“How?” Panic screeched in Anne’s breast.

Henri’s eyes fluttered shut, opened wide, and then closed again. “Jeanne…” His head fell on the pillow, and blood bubbled from his discolored lips, staining his chalk-white skin.

“Save him!” cried Anne. “For God’s sake, help him!”

“Henri?” Marguerite was resigned to the inevitable.

Chapelain darted into the room and to the king’s bed. He checked the pulse, but found none.

“I’m sorry,” Chapelain. “His Majesty must be in heaven.”

“Eternal rest grant unto Henri, O Lord.” Marguerite crossed herself, her heart shattered.

Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly dissolved into heartbreaking sobs. Marguerite engulfed her into an embrace. The two women, united in their profound bereavement, wept in each other’s arms. The priest returned and started reading psalms. King Henri was dead, and now his daughter, Jeanne d’Albert, was the new Queen of Navarre, with her mother acting as regent.

§§§

Queen Marguerite of Navarre walked to one of the fifty-three towers and ascended to its top. For a long time, she stood beside a window, overlooking Carcassonne. As the citadel was located over-the-top, she saw most of its towers, strung together by enormous concentric walls, surrounded by a deep moat, punctuated here and there by heavy barbicans, portcullis, and drawbridges.

Doctor Chapelain entered. He cleared his throat to secure the queen’s attention.

“Jean,” said Marguerite in a tattered voice as she pivoted to him.

Chapelain swept a bow. “My most sincere condolences, Your Majesty.”

“How is Madame d’Étampes? Did she calm down a little?” The worry about her former rival was an unfamiliar feeling for her, but they had nobody to compete for now.  

“I gave the duchess some calming draught, so she is sleeping.”

“Good.” Marguerite admitted, “Neither she nor I will ever be complete again without Henri.” She had known Chapelain since her adolescence, so she could be candid with him.

“The king’s death is horrible, especially in the light of his assassination.”

“Was Henri indeed poisoned?” She stared out, her gaze lingering on the one of the barbicans.

Chapelain answered, “Yes, he was. Only His Majesty’s excellent natural health let him resist the poison for a couple of weeks. Or he would have perished within a few days. His Majesty had felt unwell for five days before he collapsed after the Battle of Carcassonne. At first, I thought that something caused his indigestion, but later, the symptoms of poisoning became apparent.”

“Which poison it was?” Marguerite turned to him.

He was thoughtful for a moment. “This poison seems to have been created by an experienced apothecary or alchemist. It is obvious that it is not arsenic that is rather popular in Italy. In my opinion, it is a blend of hemlock, belladonna, foxglove, and something else.”

Her heart sang a dirge. “Was there no cure?”

Chapelain’s countenance was apologetic. “If only it had been not a mixture of ingredients, I could have found the antidote.” He emitted a sigh of anguish. “I tried everything I could. I used various herbs, trying to cleanse His Majesty’s body, but nothing helped. The dose was lethal.”

“I have no doubt, and I do not blame you, Jean.” Her voice was cracking like an instrument with a loose string. “You have served our family loyally and diligently for years.”

Tears flowed out of the physician’s hazel pools. “If only I could save him... If only I could… I loved His Majesty a lot, and it was devastating for me to witness his agony.”

Marguerite had no strength to console anyone. “I regret I was not here.”

“But how could you be, Madame? You are governing France!”

“Now Navarre, too.” With Henri’s death, her burdens of queenship had doubled.

Chapelain ventured, “Could it be the Villain of Rome?”

“I think so.” Marguerite’s countenance was distorted in hatred. “We have the Pope’s agent in our ranks. In the past, our investigations led us to dead ends, but I’ll launch a new one.”  

A secret Protestant, the doctor snarled, “Allessandro Farnese should be burned.”

After Chapelain was gone, the Queen of Navarre remained in the tower. She was exhausted after the hasty journey without sleep and any stops, craving to shut herself somewhere and weep inconsolably. Nevertheless, the affairs of state were more important than her personal grief.

Marshal Jacques d’Albon appeared in the tower in half an hour.

“My deepest sympathies, Your Majesty,” Albon began sincerely. “His Majesty’s death is a great loss for France and Navarre. He was a courageous and honorable man and warrior.”

Marguerite tipped a nod. “Henri did an incredible job in Languedoc.”

Albon spat with inhuman animosity, “The Spanish could have poisoned him.”

“I do not think that the general Bazán is guilty. It must be the Pope.”

“Yes,” the Marshal of France concurred. “That criminal must be displeased with our success in suppressing the invasion of Languedoc. So, he could have ordered to kill His Majesty.”

Nodding, the queen questioned, “Did the soldiers from Toulouse arrive?”

“Yesterday, ten thousand knights. Local lords sent them, responding to our call to arms.”

“Henri recruited many of them.” Her late husband had written to her about that.

“Exactly.” Albon promised vehemently, “In His Majesty’s honor, I shall lead our army to the south and crush that Spaniard Bazán and his men. I’m planning a new battle.”

“God bless you, Monsieur d’Albon. The Almighty protect my brother who needs our help.”

“If I succeed, I’ll join Dauphin Henri. If not, I’ll not be able to leave Languedoc.”

“I understand.” Marguerite’s mind drifted to her daughter’s coronation. “I’ll have my Jeanne crowned as Queen of Navarre at Pau only after the invaders are expelled from Languedoc.”  

Albon concurred, “Of course, or it might be dangerous for Her Majesty.”

She instructed, “I need a heavily armed escort consisting of those whom you trust to go to Bearn. They must escort the children of Madame d’Étampes and the late King Henri to Amboise. At present they are under the protection of the Valois family and are my responsibility.”

The marshal was impressed by her kindness. “It will be done, Madame.”

Marguerite looked out again when he was gone. The sun was at its midday peak, for Henri d’Albert had passed away at dawn. Everything around was green and fresh to the gaze, yet evoking dismal sensations in her soul. How can nature be so flamboyant when kings are killed? Why does God who ordains them to rule a country let regicide happen? The roof of Marguerite’s composure was crumbling, its walls being pelted by her tears that she was now shedding for Henri.

§§§

Jean de Brosse, Duke d’Étampes and Count de Penthièvre, paused at the doorway and looked inside. Queen Marguerite of Navarre, a physician, and a servant maid crowded around a bed. He glimpsed the pale face of his wife, who rested on the canopied bed draped in ochre velvet.

Marguerite settled herself on the bed’s edge. “I’m quite worried about Madame d’Étampes. Her sister, Péronne, is heavily pregnant and cannot come. I do not trust her other relatives.”

Chapelain commented, “She is not in peril, Your Majesty. If she becomes hysterical again, her maid will need to give her some calming herbs so that she does not hurt herself.”  

“God forbid that!” The queen’s gaze was fixed on her dead husband’s sleeping mistress.

The Duke d’Étampes made his presence known. “Your Majesty, please accept my most sincere condolences on the passing of King Henri of Navarre.” He crossed to the bed and bowed. “Even if you don’t believe me,” added Étampes, his concerned eyes glued to a pale Anne.

With a wave of her hand, the Dowager Queen of Navarre dismissed everyone.

Marguerite eyed the Duke d’Étampes, whose traveling outfit of gray brocade was covered with dirt. Apparently, the man had journeyed too rapidly to Carcassonne.

“I believe Your Grace,” said the queen. “This day is tragic for me and Anne.”

Étampes swallowed convulsively. “You are right to trust only Péronne. All of Anne’s other many relatives have always wanted only privileges and riches from her.”

“Unfortunately, I cannot leave you in charge of your wife’s life, can I?”

His expression indicated his regret. “No, it is impossible.”

“Anne will go back to court with me,” declared Marguerite. “Until she recovers emotionally, she will be under the protection of the royal family. Then maybe you two will reconcile.”

The duke gaped at her. “Thank you for your generosity, especially in such troubled times for you, Navarre, and France.” After a pause, he admitted, “I’m shocked with the tragedy and also worried about my wife. I changed horses many times and traveled without any stops.”    

Margot bit back a half-smile. “Anne has a good husband, but she does not understand it.”

Étampes chuckled ruefully. “Our marriage is a big farce.”

“So far! Give Anne time. My husband and your wife were tied to one another with the bond of deep and sincere love. I’ve long reconciled with their affair because of my knowledge of how happy Anne made my Henri, who loved us both in his own way.”

The duke’s heart collapsed at the thought of how profound his duchess’ feelings for the deceased king were. If only Anne had loved me with the same fierce passion and unselfish devotion which she bestowed upon Henri d’Albert for years…  But she hates me so! The constant twinges of anguish rippled through his chest, his jealousy resurfaced, but Étampes berated himself for it.

“Anne will eventually have to move on,” Marguerite assumed with confidence.

Rising to her feet, the queen prodded over to the door. Étampes bowed before she left.

Jean de Brosse took the widow’s place on the bed. He caressed Anne’s face with his fingers as a spasm warped her countenance. “You are such a perfect beauty, Anne. For the first time, you look not like Venus, but like Madonna. I’m upset with King Henri’s passing.” His finger trailed a path from her forehead to her chin. “I wish you all the best, Anne.”

As she would not regain her consciousness today, Étampes remained with his spouse. When the first rays of dawn broke, he visited Queen Marguerite and then departed from Carcassonne.

§§§

Queen Marguerite’s heart was breaking as she watched her sister-in-law weeping over the body of the dead Navarrese ruler. Garbed in a black brocade gown, Princess Isabelle of Navarre, Viscountess de Rohan, had arrived at Carcassonne only an hour ago.

“My God! My poor brother!” Isabelle sobbed. “Who could commit such a villainy?”

Marguerite approached the bed. “Isabelle, I swear that the culprit will be found out.”

The monarch’s sister tumbled to her knees by the bed and grabbed her brother’s cold hand in hers. Kissing it tenderly, she mumbled, “That monster deserves death! Only death!”

“The poisoner will reap what they sowed – death,” swore the dowager queen.

Isabelle climbed to her feet with Marguerite’s help. For a while, the two women embraced one another and cried over the demise of the man who was very dear to their hearts.


May 20, 1546, Château de Crussol, Valence, Dauphiné province, France

A litter, draped in white and black brocade, stopped in a courtyard. Several more chariots, swathed in the same fashion and containing luggage, halted nearby. It was the cortege of Diane de Poitiers, who had just arrived at Crussol from Amboise because of the dauphin’s summons.

“Dearest Antoine!” greeted Diane. “I’m delighted to see you.”

Antoine de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, nodded, but he avoided looking at her. However, he courteously assisted her in climbing out of the chariot, and then shrank away.  

“What is wrong?” The dauphin’s mistress felt tension in the air.

“Nothing,” his monotonous response followed.

Diane glanced around. The large courtyard was not decorated with sculptures. Château de Crussol was a 12th century limestone complex. Situated over the peak of the hill of Crussol, at the edge of a cliff over two hundred meters above the surrounding plain, the fortress overlooked the towns of Saint-Péray, Granges, and Valence in the Dauphiné Viennois province.

“What is Henri doing here?” She was confused and unnerved.

“We will not be here for long.” Vendôme stared at the battlements. “About fifty thousand soldiers are stationed in Crussol. We will march on Piedmont and then on Milan.”

“When are you leaving? Who of French Marshals is accompanying Henri?”

“Philippe de Chabot, Admiral de Brion, and Charles de Cossé, Count de Brissac.”

His hostile demeanor sent waves of disquietude through her. “And the fight in Picardy?”

Vendôme fidgeted with the collar of his doublet. “Jean de Brosse, Duke d’Étampes, and a few other generals remained in Picardy. Now the release of King François is our top priority.”

“Antoine, aren’t we old friends?  We have known each other for many years. We celebrated Henri’s triumphs and lamented over his troubles together. We are both loyal to Henri!”

At last, the duke flicked his scrutiny to her. “Are you?”

An abashed Diane demanded, “Have I wronged you?”   

He dodged her question. “His Highness is awaiting.”

Once more, the dauphin’s paramour examined her surroundings. The castle’s entire grounds were enclosed by high ramparts, and through the spaces between them, she could see the winding Rhône Valley against the majestic backdrop of the foothills of the Vercors.

“It is a lovely place,” commented Vendôme in a voice layered with something she could not decipher. “The mountain was occupied since Roman times, where a temple was built to honor the God Mars. It is so well fortified that it is impossible to escape from here, Madame.”

“Why should I run away? From whom?” She broke into a fit of laughter.

A moment later, Diane noticed a small scaffold draped in black cloth, which had been erected at the other side of the courtyard. She trembled as a spasm of fright lanced through her.

“What is it, Antoine? Did you execute some wayward soldiers?”

This time, he addressed her personally, “Diane, His Highness is waiting.”

They entered the fortress, where a group of nobles met them. Their countenances disdainful, they surrounded Diane as if she were a prisoner, and then Vendôme led them through corridors.

§§§

Diane and the others stopped near the massive ebony doors. Vendôme opened them, letting the mistress enter first. Chabot and he followed, while the others remained outside.

“Where is Henri?” she enquired anxiously. “I want to see him.”

“I’m here,” the dauphin barked as he entered from the other side of the room.

For a space of a few heartbeats, Diane and Henri froze in their tracks. Her blue orbs, full of bewilderment and joy to see him again after their long separation, met his hazel glower. His eyes, which usually looked at her with immense devotion, now exuded only coldness and scorn – a toxic mixture of such intensity that his glare was gradually reducing her composure to ashes.

Her lover had lost weight. As always, Henri was dressed unostentatiously in a doublet of brown velvet with green slashings and hose of the same fabric. A chain of gold dangled from his neck, and a girdle of emeralds accentuated his narrow waist. Henri had circles under his eyes and a stubble. There was an edge of hardness to him, as if a sword’s edge, which she had never seen in him before. The war and the drama around King François had such a toll on Henri…

Henri prodded over to a desk filled with inkwells, parchments, and scrolls. He seated himself in a chair. “Your things will all be sent back to your main residence – Château d’Anet.”

A displeased Diane glided across the room, as if she were attending festivities. Attired in a handsome outfit of white and black damask embroidered with pearls, she looked like a timeless beauty forever youthful in appearance, although her essence seemed to be mantled in ice.

“What does it mean, Henri? I arrived because you invited me.”

“A lot, Madame.” His tone was the most impersonal one she had ever heard.

She stopped near the desk, her hands on her hips. “Dismiss everyone.”

“That is not needed.” His paramour felt his animosity with every fibre of her being.

Chabot and Vendôme remained in the presence chamber. They stood near the door, through which they had entered, as though guarding it like sentinels, their countenances blank.

“What happened?” She imagined that he would discard her now.

“Was Viscount René de Rohan your lover?” He remembered what his late uncle, King Henri of Navarre, had once told him. “Your terrified expression speaks volumes, Diane. Of course, he is not a soldier and remained at court or in his estates with his family during the war.”

Diane lifted her chin. “You also have mistresses. Marie de Bourbon.”

Henri let out a sigh – the only weakness he could allow himself at the moment. Taking one of the parchments, he waived it in the air. “Madame de Poitiers, this is your death warrant signed by Queen Marguerite of Navarre, regent of France, and me as the king’s representative.”

A shocked Diane reached out to the back of a nearby chair for support. “Impossible!”

He jeered darkly, “It is too late to repent of your sins.”   

She clasped a hand to her breast. “Why, mon amour?” What had her lover discovered? 

His throat tight, Henri pronounced in a sibilant voice, “We, the regent of France and the Dauphin of France, hereby declare Diane de Poitiers guilty of conspiring with Pope Paul the Third, King Henry the Eighth of England, and Emperor Carlos the Fifth against the House of Valois and France.” He sighed before informing, “We have several letters proving it; they were found in your apartments at Amboise. You are the Pope’s agent whom we have searched for months.”

Dragging an agonizing breath, the dauphin continued, “I know everything. For so long, we could not realize who ordered the massacres of Protestants in Provence, Piedmont, and Milan. The documents, which our generals received and where they were commanded to kill those men, were stamped with the Valois seal. It was clear that the traitor is someone close to the royal family, but we could not figure out his identity until we found the Pope’s correspondence with you.”

A shaken Diane stepped back. “No, it cannot be true! No, Henri! I did not have any letters in my quarters!” She had always burned every missive from the Vatican.   

He sucked in his breath. “Yet, they are here.” He grabbed a pile of papers and waved them in the air. “I read each of them, Madame. You are a traitor to France and our family!”

Before she could defend herself, Henri launched another verbal assault, his voice dripping with immeasurable abhorrence. “You stole the authentic royal seal from my chambers, where you had access at any time of day and night. Then you forged His Majesty’s decrees to perpetrate those massacres, using my seal. It was necessary for you to lure our sovereign out of France and to Milan so that he would be trapped there by the hordes of Imperial barbarians.”

“Henri, please let me speak!” She squeezed her eyes shut for a heartbeat.

The prince would not grant her request. “The forgery of yours also goaded Anne into rushing to Boulogne from Cognac. Another fake letter stamped with our seal was received by my brothers’ governess, in which she was enjoined as if by the king to bring them to Boulogne. Your aim was to entrap them in the city, delivering them into the hands of that Tudor monster.”

“We need to talk.” Her whole being was chilled with mortal dread.

He threw the parchments on the desk. “There were weeks in the winter of 1545 when no one could find you, and you did not respond to my letters. You could go to Flanders to Carlos.”   

Diane felt broken, like a branch shorn by lightning. “Henri, please–”

“Thousands of innocent people were slaughtered in those massacres! Their blood is on your hands! You shall never wash it away!” After a short silence, he added, “I’m a Catholic, but I would never have sanctioned the brutal assassination of weaponless women and children.”

It was her fault! She had stolen Henri’s seal, and a semblance of remorse – only a semblance of it – speared through Diane. “They were heretics! King François favored them too much.”

The dauphin shot her a fulminating look. “Finally, a confession.” He roared like a wounded lion, “My stepmother and brothers could have been taken to England because of you. My father and sister have been under siege in Milan for months. France does not have her ruler!”

Once more, contrition swept over her. “I did not mean to hurt you, Henri. France must be purified from heresy that François allowed to spread. I wanted you to be a great king!”

He spat, “Did you ask me what I desire?”

Diane persevered, “I regret deceiving you. However, heretics must all be eradicated! You ought to burn them because you used to be an ardent Catholic. Or has it changed?”  

His two pools were dark like an abyss of pain, despair, and hatred, each of these sentiments etched into his countenance before he schooled it into impassiveness. “I adore my father and all of my siblings. I admire Anne – we are friends. How could you do that to me and France?”

His mistress backed away from him, her universe crumbling like a tottering edifice. The disbelief and heartache in his voice were so palpable that she could touch them, press them to her breast, but not to share with him because Henri had erected a permanent wall between them. An overwhelming sense of guilt washed over Diane, for she felt his pain with her entire being. God, how could I do those things? I love Henri, yet I did things to him he cannot even imagine!

Henri did not expect answer from her. “You are also accused of King Henri the Second of Navarre’s murder. We stumbled upon the poison that was used to kill him among things of a knight in his troops. That malefactor was hanged, drowned, and quartered before the whole army.”

Her eyes were storm-tossed seas of total incomprehension. “What?”   

His visage conveying his sheer loathing, he divulged, “Together with the letters from that devil Pope Farnese, we discovered in your rooms at Amboise the same poison that destroyed my Uncle Henri. You received the order from that Roman scum to get rid of him and complied.”

Diane was nonplussed. “I do not understand.”

Henri felt devastatingly ill, barely warding off the urge to vomit from repugnance and mad rage. “Regicide is a grave crime, Madame de Poitiers. All the other villainies you committed are tantamount to attempted assassinations on the lives of my father, my brothers, and Anne.”

A shaft of total confusion buried itself by her foot. “I did not kill Henri of Navarre!”

“Again falsehoods,” he ground out. “You have always lied to me!”

Diane shook her head, trying to clear her mind. Why was he accusing her of Henri d’Albert’s assassination? How could they find the poison in her apartments together with the missives from the Bishop of Rome? All of her correspondence with the Supreme Pontiff had been annihilated by Diane. She had never kept anything that could compromise her. What was really happening? 

Henri was deadly silent, his glare piercing her with brutish darts. Portentous silence, heavy with the most antagonistic emotions, reigned. Every sound earned a flinch on Diane’s part, and every moment of this breathy stillness seemed to foreshadow doom – her doom.

Remembrances swam through Diane’s brain. After receiving the Pope’s latest instructions, she had prohibited Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli from harming the Navarrese rulers because of her unwillingness to cause Dauphin Henri more torments than they had already done. She had been so afraid that he would not be able to bear the deaths of François, Anne, and his brothers. Diane had argued with Catherine de’ Medici about the fates of Marguerite and Henri d’Albert.

I wanted both of the Navarrese monarchs to live for Henri’s sake! Diane cried in her mind, her inner voice echoing ominously through her skull. Yet, the King of Navarre was poisoned, but I did not do that. Upon the receipt of the tidbits of his demise in Carcassonne, Diane had been outraged and hastened into Catherine’s apartments only to learn that her secret conspirator had left court for seclusion in a monastery, where she would pray for the dauphin’s military success.

Diane had not seen Catherine throughout the past month. Weeks earlier, the Italian count had suddenly disappeared. Someone had told Diane that Montecuccoli had joined the dauphin’s army in Picardy. Had Montecuccoli gone to serve in the army of Henri d’Albert in Languedoc?  Had Catherine lied regarding the atrocious count’s real whereabouts? Had the man done the Pope’s bidding and poisoned the King of Navarre? Diane’s head was swimming.  

The Dauphin of France’s voice intruded upon her musings. “I loved you, Diane.”

“I love you a lot, Henri,” she blurted out, her heart thundering against her ribs.

“It is an odd and cruel love, then,” he muttered with enormous chagrin. “When two persons adore each other, they safeguard their peace and happiness, not hurting one another.”

“I wanted you to be king,” she justified herself, knowing that it was all in vain.

Madame de Poitiers watched Henri intently, her frame shuddering just as he was. The fall of his features tinged in infinite melancholy, the sagging of his shoulders, the stressful wrinkles on his brow, the picture of ancient pain in his eyes – all these were signs of his disillusionment and despondency. A wave of contrition crashed over Diane. God, forgive me for doing all this to him!

A more disappointed Henri spoke. “I would prefer not to be a monarch if my father and all of my departed siblings survived. At least, I still have my beloved brothers – Anne’s sons.”

The weight of her many mistakes was now too heavy to bear. “Henri, I…”  

He laughed morbidly. “You raised me as my governess, but you seem to have never known me, Diane.” He leaned forward and hissed, “Just as I’ve never known the real you.”

“I pray you will forgive me.” The regret in her orbs was genuine.

Their gazes intersected. For a fraction of a second, something flickered in those hazel caverns where she was drowning in. In them she saw Henri’s true heart – the heart of the traumatized child she had labored to revive to life after his return from Spanish captivity. The heart of a French prince that had once been like a rarefied diamond, unblemished by the filth of the world.

Before today, heavens had stretched over Henri and Diane wherever they had gone on the earth. For years, Diane had been enshrined in her lover’s mystic temple, having been worshipped like a priestess. She had possessed the thoughts of this powerful man! Initially, Diane had used his love for power, but then she had fallen for him deeply and obsessively. Nonetheless, now all that remained of them were ruins of the romantic story that could transcend time and generations.

Do you love me at least a little, Henri? Diane’s eyes, full of tears, were imploring him to respond. In a flash of seconds, she had seen herself conspiring with Catherine and killing the late Dauphin François, then she had recalled as she and Catherine had kept silent that the Guises and Cardinal de Tournon would make an attempt on Anne’s life when Prince Charles had died. Does Henri suspect that? He said nothing about it! Holy Father, I’ll never atone for what I did… 

The dauphin confessed, “All my good feelings for you perished, Diane.”

At this moment, Chabot and Vendôme cast compassionate glances at the prince.

A sliver of hope glimmered in her eyes. “Henri, mon amour!”

He stared at an old tapestry depicting St Anne. “I’ve seen the real love between two people – pure, unconditional, fathomlessly deep, and unstoppable like a force of nature. The love between my father François and Anne.” His gaze slid to her. “Our feelings have never been like this.”

“Long ago,” began Diane, half-sobbing, words bubbling up from within, long repressed, “I did not know what love is. My cold father and my late authoritarian husband did not teach me to love. Only over time, I learned to feel affection for a man… only thanks to you.”

His grin was dismal. “Then I was a bad teacher. It is not love – it is insane obsession.”

Their gazes met again. Never before had she seen his eyes so dark, like those of a Minotaur.

“Philippe and Antoine,” addressed the dauphin. “Do what is necessary.”

“Henri, please!” beseeched his former mistress. “Please!”

Yet, her words felt hollow on her lips. Dead! I’m already dead to him! Her mind reeled from the realization that Henri had already placed her body into the coffin. Would she have a grave? A sense of indescribable terror was seeping into the fabric of her psyche, tinged with her despair and the sensation of contrition for all that she had perpetrated to make him the eldest heir.

Chabot and Vendôme approached Diane from the back, grabbing her arms.

The prince’s hands trembled as he took her death sentence again – from horror, fury, sorrow. “I cannot pardon you, Diane. Whether your soul will burn in hell – it is in God’s hands.”

“Let’s go, Madame,” insisted Chabot brusquely.  

The condemned woman choked out, “You do not know everything, Henri.”

“Please,” beseeched a crestfallen Henri. “Take her away…” 

“Be strong, Your Highness,” Vendôme told his close friend.

Henri nodded absently. “I want the deed done! Go!”

Chabot spat, “You heard His Highness. You will be executed.”

The two men led Diane out of the room. Her head swiveled back to look at her former lover again, her legs were wobbling, as if she were losing her only anchor in a spinning world – Henri.  

Before they exited, Diane shouted, “Henri, you do not know the whole truth!”

Chabot threatened, “I shall drag you out if you don’t obey.”

Vendôme slammed the door behind them. “I fetched a priest to the scaffold. His Highness granted you the privilege of a private execution, although you do not deserve it.”

Meanwhile, Dauphin Henri sat at his desk, staring into space with his chin resting upon his hands. Fevered with the colossal mental agony, he could not think, breathe, live a single hour. Hot, bitter tears leaked out of his eyes, forming strings of his forlornness. Farewell, all illusions of my youth! What an idiot I was to think that Diane was everything to me…  The only pure thing that came out of our relationship is our daughter, our little Diane. My love for her is dead.

§§§

As they reached the courtyard, Diane noticed the same nobles whom she had encountered upon her arrival. The entire area was surrounded by a squad of arquebusiers.  

“Why so many guards?” Madame de Poitiers then jested, “I’m not going to flee.”

Chabot snarled, “Demoness such as yourself might do anything.”  

Diane surveyed him. The Admiral of France had no clue that Dauphine Catherine and she had poisoned his wife and her mother – the late Jeanne d’Angoulême and Françoise de Longwy.

She entreated, “I’d like to look at the sky and pray. Alone.”   

“No,” shrilled Chabot. “The Satan is waiting for you in hell.”

Vendôme nevertheless conceded, “His Highness would want that.”

Chabot acquiesced, “Only a couple of minutes. And she will be guarded.”

“Thank you,” muttered Diane sincerely.

The two men stepped aside. At Chabot’s sign, soldiers encircled Diane. The chariots still stood in the courtyard, and Diane’s servants peered at their mistress in consternation.

Madame de Poitiers lifted her eyes to the firmament that was a deep blue, without a cloud in sight. The sun was bright and warm. She felt the mild intoxication of the fresh air, admiring the beauty of the valley where the citadel stood, gleaming in the sunlight like an emerald sheen.

That harpy Catherine entrapped me, Diane surmised, basking in the sunlight for the last time in her life. Suspecting that François may survive, she commanded her allies to put fake letters and the poison in my apartments at Amboise. Catherine wants to make me a scapegoat and survive the coming storm. Anne’s release from Boulogne and her departure to Italy had marked the failure of their trap for the Queen of France. Then King Ferdinand had escaped from his German prison.

After Ferdinand’s alliance with the Ottoman Empire, the conflict between the emperor and his disinherited brother became ineluctable. The two Habsburg rulers would vie for victory and the other’s destruction on the battlefields of Milan. Ferdinand would go to any lengths to liberate his friend and father-in-law, François, and his wife from the besieged city. It was likely that the combined forces of Dauphin Henri, King Ferdinand, and their Italian allies would defeat Carlos.

If François returned to France, many heads would be chopped off. Seizing the opportunity, the Medici woman had applied her craft to kill two birds with one stone – to get rid of her husband’s paramour and to cover the tracks of her crimes by making Diane the scapegoat for the fatal situation in which they had placed the French sovereigns. Diane had not lifted a finger to harm Henri of Navarre, but Catherine had shifted the blame for her and the Pope’s crime on her rival.

All the pieces of the puzzle were now in place. Diane blamed herself for the lack of caution, for she should have known that the day would come when Catherine would settle scores with her. The two women despised each other despite their numerous conspiracies. However, Catherine’s hatred for her rival was implacable, etched into each and every pore of her Machiavellian being. That Medici merchant does not comprehend that Henri will not love her even after I’m gone.

“Madame de Poitiers!” shrilled Philippe de Chabot. “Stop looking at the sky. God will not accept your diabolical soul in heaven. You shall never atone.”

“Her sins are dreadful,” Antoine de Bourbon put in. “But only the Lord may judge her.” He lowered his voice to a whisper, but the breeze carried his words to Diane’s ears. “His Highness is suffering awfully. I permitted her some freedom because of his feelings.”   

Chabot capitulated, “Yes. Only for the dauphin.”

Diane’s heart plunged into a pit of fathomless grief. A heartbroken Henri de Valois living in a nightmare! Her abhorrent crimes had resulted in the situation when the dauphin was obligated by a sense of his duty to France, as well as by his moral code to have his mistress executed. Diane did not blame Henri for her sentence, for she had merited the torments in the eternal hellfire.  

I shall never forgive myself for the pain I caused Henri, Diane thought remorsefully. In my attempt to make him king, I’ve destroyed our lives. I’ve almost broken him. They had experienced that universal passion that brought dizzy heights of ecstasy and deep abysses of despair to people since the beginning of humankind. What else had Diane needed? At last, she realized that power meant nothing compared to the love, even an obsessive love, they had once felt for each other.

Vendôme’s quiet words reached her ears. “I fear for Henri’s sanity.”

Chabot claimed, “He is very strong. He will cope.”

Vendôme murmured, “But he has withdrawn into himself.”

“His Highness has always been reserved,” Chabot commented. “He asked us to stay during their conversation today because he was on the verge of a complete breakdown.”

Once more, Diane’s soul was overflowing with contrition. She squinted her eyes from the blaze of the sun, imagining that the fires of the netherworld would be far, far more sizzling hot. For some reason, the clouds assembled like a funereal shroud over the firmament, blanketing the sun’s glory. Diane envisaged the canvas of Henri’s life being marred by the evil she and Catherine had perpetrated, and being further blackened by the Medici woman’s new misdeeds.

Pivoting, Diane spun on her heels and walked to Vendôme and Chabot.

The condemned woman addressed Vendôme whom she knew very well. “Antoine, whatever I say now will be taken with a pinch of salt. I cannot accuse anyone without proof.”

Vendôme furrowed his brows. “That is true, Diane.”

“Madame, the scaffold is there.” Chabot craved to spill her blood.

“Wait, Philippe. She wants to say something,” Vendôme inferred and emboldened, “So?”

Diane promulgated, “If you want Henri to start his life afresh, mysteries of the past must be unveiled, regardless of how monstrous they are.” She let out a sigh. “I wrote the diary of my whole life, covering everything we have done. It is kept in my bedroom in my home, Château d’Anet, in the gilded jewel box which Henri gifted me. Do you remember it?”

Vendôme tipped his head. “I do. Your entwined initials are engraved on it.”  

Diane recommended, “Go there to collect the diary.” Shame colored her cheeks. “Henri must know the truth even if it bruises his heart more. Or he will never find peace.”

Vendôme looked her in the eye. “I’ll retrieve it after we return from Italy.”

She stressed, “Don’t speak about it to anyone, or the diary might be burned.”

Chabot hypothesized, “Did you commit more appalling crimes?”

Nonetheless, Diane continued talking with Vendôme. “Henri will definitely hate me more than ever after reading my diary, but he must do so.” Tears clouded her eyes. “Please, Antoine, take care of Henri. Help him find consolation – someone who will help him heal.”

Vendôme thought of his sister’s brief affair with the dauphin during the war, but he would not say anything to this woman. “The dauphin’s wellbeing is my goal, Diane.”

Diane scrubbed the tears away with fisted hands. “Then I’m ready.”

Madame de Poitiers was escorted to the scaffold by Vendôme and Chabot; the other nobles remained afar. She climbed the wooden steps with her head held high, her countenance composed. She briefly spoke to the priest, who blessed her with a cross. Then Diane gracefully knelt.

“Forgive me, Madame,” the executioner implored.

A tiny grin curved Diane’s lips. “Gladly.”

The sword flashed like a bolt of lightning in the sunshine. Diane thought of Henri’s eyes that had once had the shade of cordial amber as he had watched her with affection, of his woebegone pools that had been pits of chilly liquid, gray with loathing and disappointment during their last conversation. Henri was not meant to suffer so much, and she prayed for his emotional recovery. The steel descended, and Diane’s severed head rolled across the scaffold in a pool of blood.

Notes:

Hello everyone! We hope that you are fine and safe. Take care of yourself!

This chapter’s title reflects what happens to King Henri II of Navarre and then to Diane de Poitiers. Just as many reviewers expected in the previous chapter, Henri received a lethal dose of some poison prepared by Montecuccoli, so he was indeed doomed. Later in the same chapter, Diane de Poitiers makes her last appearance, is sentenced to death by her own lover, who is disenchanted with her, and is executed in spite of Dauphin Henri’s residual feelings for her.

As we hinted, the love triangle of Queen Marguerite of Navarre, King Henri of Navarre, and Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly would be resolved in a tragic way. No one stays with Henri d’Albert in the very end, and he realizes that he loves both Marguerite and Anne. Margot is a special woman, as Henri tells her – everyone knows that. Margot was a great politician and a woman of state and letters, not a simple wife. There is a hint at how Anne de Pisseleu’s life may continue.

Diane’s execution must have come as a shock to most readers. It was arranged on purpose in the same chapter where Henri of Navarre dies. Diane is not responsible for his death: she did not order Montecuccoli to poison the Navarrese ruler. Montecuccoli received the command from the Vatican and Catherine de’ Medici, who, as Diane realizes, decided to cover the tracks of their plots by making Diane a scapegoat for their crimes, understanding that after Ferdinand’s escape the allied armies of France, Ferdinand, and their Italian allies might defeat Emperor Carlos V.

King Ferdinand will appear in Italy, and soon we will have some battles in Italy. Dauphin Henri is not in a good state of mind as he sent his mistress to the scaffold himself. Dauphine Catherine is not going to die anytime soon, but she will be eventually discovered – her fate will surprise you a lot. She will play a special role in the later chapter of this AU and in a much shorter sequel, which we will start slowly writing in 2022. Who knows maybe Catherine can even come an ally of Anne Boleyn in years to come if Catherine is still around.. We cannot say more now.

Cité de Carcassonne is a medieval citadel located in the French city of Carcassonne, in Occitanie region (former Aquitaine). Google this place – it is impressive. Château de Crussol is a mostly-ruined 12th century limestone castle in the commune of Saint-Péray that dominates the valley of Rhône, just opposite Valence in Rhône-Alpes region of France. You can also find the pictures of Château de Crussol online. The historical additions about these castles are correct.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 73: Chapter 72: Three Birds in Milan

Summary:

Happy New Year to everyone! We hope this year will be a better one for all of us.
We have been in mourning since mid-December because my father died, God rest his soul. We cannot promise regular updates now. I'm emotionally devastated, and there are lots of things I have to do now.
Love your parents! Treasure every moment you have with them!
Lady Perseverance (Athenais)

Notes:

Empress Mary is not happy in her marriage to Emperor Carlos, but now they have a child. Three birds are still trapped in Milan – King François I of France, his daughter Queen Marguerite of Bohemia, and Duke Anne de Montmorency, Constable of France.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 72: Three Birds in Milan

June 10, 1546, Palace of Margaret of Austria, Mechelen, Flanders, the Burgundian Netherlands

“Our invasion of Picardy is over.” Emperor Carlos looked out into the gardens. His gaze lingered on beds of tulips and columbines, which his wife Mary was particularly fond of.

Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alba and the chief commander of the Imperial forces, stared at his liege lord’s back in astonishment. “Your Imperial Majesty, are you sure?” 

“Yes,” answered Carlos curly. “We have no choice, given what is happening in Italy.”

Two months ago, the wounded Duke of Alba had been delivered from Picardy to Flanders. The injury that Dauphin Henri had inflicted upon him had festered. A feverish Alba had spent weeks close to death as the emperor’s physicians had fought for his survival. Just as Carlos had barely survived his wound after the invasion of France of 1536, Alba was fortunate not to die.

The sun’s rays streamed inside the general’s bedchamber through the windows. As he was still convalescing, the Duke of Alba rested on a canopied bed in the shade of crimson curtains. Pieces of mahogany and ebony furniture were scattered around the area.    

Alba heaved a sigh. “We cannot hold onto our positions in Picardy, especially if we want to win the battle of Milan, which will surely be ferocious due to–” He broke off.

Carlos pivoted to his subject. “Due to my brother’s eagerness to crush me.”

“Your Imperial Majesty, I do apologize for touching upon this personal topic that is so uncomfortable for you. But would it not be prudent to make peace with King Ferdinand?” 

At this, the monarch bristled. “Why? Because of our filial bonds?”    

“Yes.” Alba weighted his words, which held huge underlying significance. “The quarrel between you two is weakening the House of Habsburg. It might have lethal consequences.”

“Ferdinand,” Carlos said with silky menace, “was given a chance to be both my subject and my brother. After his marriage to that Valois vixen, and after he had gifted the Duchy of Milan to François, I did not deprive him of any offices and titles.” His visage contorted in rage. “Yet, he turned against his family when he betrothed his son Maximilian to Aimée of France.”

“Then you had the former archduke apprehended,” remarked Alba.

The emperor stomped across the room. Usually, Carlos would not have such conversations with any of his subjects, but he was too close with Alba.  “Ferdinand… I knew that as soon as we launched the invasion of France and besieged Milan, he would do his best to dissuade me from this course of action, and after his failure he would have attacked me.”

“I tried so hard,” growled Carlos as he paced to and fro, “to keep Ferdinand away from my conflict with that Valois blackguard. I sent my men to Vienna who arrested Ferdinand and delivered him to Schwerin Castle into the custody of Duke John von Mecklenburg. However, I planned to have Ferdinand released after we conquer Milan and dispose of François.”

Alba understood these motives, but not the methods. “With all due respect, I warned you that King Ferdinand would perceive his arrest as an act of aggression against him.”

Carlos stopped near a table and poured out a cup of cognac for himself. He drained the contents in one gulp. “But Ferdinand escaped somehow!”  He threw a cup into the wall. “Then he went to Constantinople with Claude d’Annebault and allied himself with the heathens.”

A sigh slipped from the duke’s lips. “At present, King Ferdinand is moving his armies from Bohemia and Hungary to northern Piedmont, where he will join forces with Dauphin Henri and François’ marshals. Moreover, according to my sources, Sultan Suleiman provided him with so much gold that Ferdinand’s generals are hiring thousands of mercenaries in Switzerland.”

The emperor gripped the table’s corner. “My brother made his allegiances known.”

After a moment’s dithering, the Duke of Alba entreated, “Your Imperial Majesty, let’s make peace with King Ferdinand. We ought to keep the House of Habsburg united.”

Carlos slammed his fist into the table. “Ferdinand has long divided our family – those who are true Habsburgs and Trastámara, and those who have perverted loyalties to the House of Valois.” He then roared, “My brother is a true Habsburg. He is a Valois puppet.”  

Again, Alba countered audaciously, “Your Imperial Majesty disinherited your brother after his escape, as well as all of his many children. Now Ferdinand will fight for two things: for the release of his wife and his father-in-law, and to regain his titles and lands.”

The ruler approached the bed and seated himself in a walnut chair adorned with leaves of acanthus. “I made my little son, Juan, Archduke of Austria instead of Ferdinand. Do you suggest that I dispossess my son and give the Austrian lands back to my treacherous brother?” 

It was exactly what Alba had implied. “No, I don’t,” he lied.  

Carlos flashed a lopsided grin. “I would never have let anyone to talk to me like this. You are my best friend and comrade, Fernando. Yet, even you should not cross a line.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Imperial Majesty. I didn’t mean to displease you.”

“There is no need to apologize.” The monarch switched to the topic at hand. “We have three birds in Milan: François, Marguerite de Valois, and Montmorency. I could agree to liberate Ferdinand’s’ wife because despite my negative attitude towards this marriage, my brother and the girl are joined in holy matrimony. Nevertheless, I’ll never allow François to escape.”  

Alba could see that the Habsburg siblings had arrived at impasse. “King Ferdinand will not let you have his spouse’s father burned as a heretic. He will fight for François.”

Carlos’ eyes flashed with raw fury, his mouth a grim line of animosity. “That Valois parvenu is a pagan married to that damned Boleyn whore and ruled by her. How I regret that the demoness was saved from Boulogne, and that Tudor idiot turned out to be such a weak ally.”

“Dauphin Henri rescued that witch from the English clutches, damn them!”  Since his duel with Henri at Soissons, Alba hated François’ eldest son with visceral hatred.

The emperor’s countenance was like lightning as he ground out, “That Valois green boy who positions himself as a fierce and great warrior will be vanquished in Milan.”

Despite his worry about Ferdinand, the Duke of Alba loathed the House of Valois and wished to destroy them. “Maybe we will have both François and Henri burned at the stake.”

Carlos’ grin was malevolent. “His Holiness is going to excommunicate the whole House of Valois. That will allow us to have each of its members tried as heretics and burned.”

The duke enquired, “And your brother?” 

Carlos had conflicted feelings over the matter. “I’ll not let Ferdinand be free, or he will always be a thorn in my side.” After a pause, he rendered a decision. “He will be imprisoned for the rest of his life, perhaps with my mother at Tordesillas, if he does not perish in battle. I might proclaim Ferdinand mad, just as my grandfather did to my mother.”

Alba snuggled under the blankets. “I shall always be loyal to Your Imperial Majesty, but I must admit that I regret it has come to that. I prefer your brother to live.”

The emperor let out a sigh of frustration. “I would want Ferdinand to make different choices, but he did not. He made us enemies when he pledged his allegiance to the Valois.”

In grave silence, Carlos stood up and walked to the table. He poured out a glass of wine and sipped it in his foulest mood. “I’ve already issued instructions to withdraw from the north of France and lead all our armies to Milan. I’m assembling all my forces from Flanders and the Holy Roman Empire in Milan, where our swords will be drowning in lakes of blood.”

“I beseech you to pardon me for being incapacitated, Your Imperial Majesty.”

All this time, the door was ajar. They were so absorbed in conversation that neither of them noticed Empress Mary eavesdropping upon them just behind the door; then she tiptoed away.

Already after Mary’s departure, another man entered. Bowing, Philip II de Croÿ, Duke of Aarschot, affirmed, “Your Imperial Majesty, we have received news from Italy.”

The emperor tensed. “Your Grace de Aarschot, tell me everything.”

Aarschot informed, “Your brother, King Ferdinand, and his Italian allies are planning to create the so-called anti-Carlos coalition against you to lift the siege of Milan.”

Carlos ground out, “Well, my brother is even more treacherous than I initially thought.”

“The heretical Queen Anne is already in Florence,” Aarschot continued.

“Pregnant?” The Duke of Alba then asked, “Didn’t she miscarry due to all her stresses?”

“No, she did not.” The Duke of Aarschot added, “She is at the heart of this coalition.”

“Thank you. You are dismissed.” Carlos waved his hand.

“At your service, my liege.” Philip II de Croÿ bowed and then left.

The ruler finished off his drink. “My friend Alba, you did all you could in Picardy.”

“I swear that I did my best to defeat them.” Sighing in mingled ire and frustration, Alba recollected his many battles in France. “The French were well prepared, so we fought for months with neither of us gaining the upper hand. And then that Valois lad wounded me…”   

Carlos put the glass on the table. “I do not blame you, Fernando. You need to recuperate. You will stay for another week at Mechelen before our departure to Milan.”

Alba bowed his head in obeisance. “I shall be ready, then.”

“Now sleep.” Then the monarch crossed the chamber and walked out.

The Duke of Alba stretched his body on the bed and veered his scrutiny to the window. The sun was concealed by the layer of clouds overhead. Was it the foreshadowing of something bad that could happen to the emperor in Milan? A sense of foreboding overwhelmed Alba. The antagonism between Carlos and Ferdinand might create a terrible chaos, he feared.

§§§

In the late afternoon, the garden glowed orange and golden in the slowly fading sunlight. Empress Mary strolled between multicolored flowerbeds, admiring the foliage and the blossoms, enjoying the floral fragrance. Behind her walked her principal lady-in-waiting, Doña Leonor de Mascarenhas, and several other maids, both Spanish and Flemish women.

They passed between two fountains. Then Mary halted, and so did the others.

I love this magnificent place, Mary thought. They had relocated to Mechelen from Ghent in the summer of 1545. After the burnings of heretics in the aftermath of the Revolt of Ghent, she didn’t want to come there anymore. Moreover, Mechelen was a lovely medieval town hemmed in between Brussels and Antwerp, and she appreciated the opportunity to visit these places.

The empress glanced around. The Hof van Savoye, or Court of Savoy, was also called Palace of Margaret of Austria, who had run the Netherlands with strong hand as regent for years. Built in Italianate style, it was the first Renaissance building in Flanders, with a stunning façade that still had Margaret’s coat-of-arms, and a charming garden bordering with a courtyard.  It amused Mary in a good way that Anne Boleyn had spent several years at Mechelen in childhood.

Turning her head to her ladies, Mary called, “Leonor!” 

Leonor approached and swept a curtsey. “Your Imperial Majesty?” 

“We need to talk. In private,” answered the empress in a strangled voice.

The two women headed to the opposite side of the garden, leaving the others behind. They stopped near a green lawn, carefully manicured and gleaming with summer brightness.

“Something is happening,” Henry Tudor’s daughter began. “Something too bad.”

“What do you mean, Mary?”  In private, Leonor addressed her mistress by name.

The empress confided, “I overheard his conversation with His Grace of Alba.”

In the next few minutes, Mary described everything to a horrified Leonor.   

Leonor asked, “Does His Imperial Majesty intend to jail King Ferdinand again?”

The empress sighed with tremendous unease and then sighed again. “My husband wants to make his brother’s second imprisonment permanent and declare him mad, like Aunt Juana.”

Her lady still could not believe that. “His brother served the emperor so loyally for years! Of course, he had to cooperate with the French in order to be released from his captivity. Therefore, he married Marguerite de Valois and gave King François the Duchy of Milan.”

Mary gazed towards a fountain where water splashed merrily around a Grecian statue. “Aunt Juana has been held captive at Tordesillas for most of her gloomy life.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Carlos is capable of making Ferdinand’s life as miserable as Juana’s.”

Slowly, Leonor shook her head. “Isabella loved her cousin very much.”

“Isabella failed to have Juana released,” speculated the empress dolefully, “despite the great love that flourished between her and Carlos. Even if she were alive, Isabella would not have been able to stop the war between Ferdinand and Carlos. It is too late.”

“I’m so very afraid,” bemoaned Leonor. “For both of the brothers.”

Since her wedding to the emperor, Mary was interested in politics, although he did not let her voice her opinions. “The battle of Milan is inevitable: it will be lethal because Dauphin Henri and King Ferdinand will fight fiercely for the release of King François and Queen Marguerite.” A sigh tumbled from her mouth. “Carlos hates François so awfully that he yearns to burn him as a heretic together with Henri. Regicide of those whom my husband loathes is normal for him.”

A shaken Leonor gasped, “To burn a king and a dauphin at the pyre?!” 

Dark amusement danced in Mary’s eyes. “Are you astonished? It is Carlos.”

“Oh, Mary… I do not know what to say. His Imperial Majesty despises all heretics.”

“During the past two years, my husband burned many of them in Flanders.”

After their wedding, Mary observed how the emperor’s religious fanaticism was getting out of hand. Kept away from affairs of state, she could still hear his conversations with nobles about the ways to eradicate heresy in Europe. The whole of Flanders was currently illuminated by a conflagration of Protestants and Lutherans, who were being burned upon Carlos’ order and tried regardless of their age and gender. The same was happening in Germany.  

The empress vocalized her thoughts. “My husband’s religious zeal is commendable, but excessive. There might be a revolt in the Low Countries if he continues persecuting people with interest in new religious ideas so harshly. The people are against his policies.”

“I agree with you, Mary. Nonetheless, the emperor will suppress any revolt.”

Mary meditated, “If riots happen in the nearest future, it might be good. Then Carlos’ voyage to Milan will be delayed, while Ferdinand and Henri of France will lift the siege.”

Leonor’s head pivoted back and forth. “Such words might be construed as treason.”

“They might.” The empress folded her arms over her chest. “Nonetheless, now the most important thing is to ensure that Carlos and Ferdinand will not harm each other.”

Leonor looked thoroughly alarmed. “What are you going to do?” 

The empress slanted a quick glance at Margaret of Austria’s coat-of-arms on the façade. “I learned that my former stepmother is currently in Florence. It seems that she had another son – Prince Lorenzo, who survived the siege of Boulogne, thanks be to God.”

“My husband’s enmity towards the House of Valois is catastrophic. If the Valois family is excommunicated by the Pope who is hated by many because of his evil deeds, which now I don’t doubt will happen, France and Piedmont, as well as many others will rally to their cause.”

“Then they will have more chances for salvation,” surmised Leonor.

The empress eyed the lawn, its emerald color a stark contrast to her dark mood. “However, Carlos will have the reason to have most of the Valois burned. Provided that he wins the battle of Milan. But if he does this thing to another Catholic royal dynasty, his soul will burn in hell.”  

Her lady nodded. “Isabella feared for his soul too.”

Anger reared up inside Mary. “Why cannot Carlos rule only his empire?” 

“You know the answer: his lust for power is stronger than anything.”

“Especially after Isabella’s passing,” the empress remarked moodily.

Leonor was aggrieved. “All these events sadden me so much.”

Mary dropped her head to her chest. “My heart is breaking at the thought of a war between Carlos and Ferdinand. Aunt Juana must be in the throes of mental agony at present.” 

Tears stung Leonor’s eyes. “I cannot imagine how miserable Queen Juana is.”

“All because of Carlos,” Mary grumbled. “But there must be something I can do.”

The older woman scrubbed her tears away. “Do not provoke His Imperial Majesty.”

The empress lifted her head intrepidly. “What would Carlos do to me? Declare me insane? He will not win: he does not know to which lengths a true Tudor can go to win.”

“You do not need any problems.” Leonor admired Mary’s smart personality, one that was perhaps stronger than Isabella’s. Yet, she feared that the empress underestimated the monarch’s capacity for ruthlessness. “The emperor has lived in the darkness since Isabella’s passing. Where is the boat carrying his forlorn soul sailing? Your fate is in his control – you are his wife.”

“Do I have a happy marriage?”  Mary’s voice was the lament of a dying soul.

Her maid’s heart ached for her. “I warned you at the very beginning.”

Mary’s scrutiny wandered across the lawn. “Carlos does not love me. I think I could fall for him, but I’ve not permitted myself to think of him with affection because of the fear to suffer from unrequited feelings. At times, my spouse is not a dark man whose heart is twisted with hate, but a man of refined aspirations and honor, but I rarely see this in him.”

Leonor attempted to improve her spirits. “Your son made you two closer.”

The empress’ hand slid to her belly, and a wide smile blossomed across her countenance. “Only a little. Yet, perhaps this new child will give me the peace that I’m still seeking.”

“Let it be so, Mary.” Leonor wished her mistress to find contentment.

My beloved Juan is the light of my life, Empress Mary enthused in her mind. In several months after their wedding, she had discovered her pregnancy. In spite of her jubilation, she had feared that she would not carry the baby to full term. Carlos had rejoiced and been attentive to his wife more than at any other time; his best doctors monitored her condition. Neither of the spouses could forget about Catherine of Aragon’s dismal history of miscarriages and stillbirths.

Nevertheless, after her easy pregnancy, Mary had given birth to a healthy son in November 1545 – Doñ Juan of Austria. Pageants and celebrations had been held across Flanders in joy that the emperor had a spare heir. The prince’s lavish christening had taken place at St. Rumbold’s Cathedral at Mechelen. Mary of Hungary, the emperor’s sister, had stood as a godmother, while the Duke of Alba and King John III of Portugal via proxy had acted as godfathers.

The empress had received a multitude of congratulations, including from King François and Queen Anne. Eustace Chapuys, who now served in England as the Imperial ambassador, had sent Mary a long letter with blessings, but she had not responded to him. At the time of Juan’s birth, King Henry of England had been in Boulogne, but he had sent to his daughter a letter.

Perhaps, Mary, you are not cursed with bareness, unlike your wretched mother-liar. Give Carlos as many boys as you can produce to atone for Catherine’s sins, and to cement England’s alliance with the Habsburgs. Yet, I’ll never forgive you for your escape from England.

These nasty words were buzzing in Mary’s ears like a hive of bees. She did not need anything from Henry. Knowing that at present, her father was a prisoner in Boulogne, she felt nothing but chilly indifference, flat like profound monotony. On the contrary, Mary was relieved that Anne had escaped from Henry’s clutches, and she had been shocked with the execution of Queen Catherine Howard. She was also worried for Elizabeth Tudor who still lived in Boulogne.

Leonor’s voice intruded upon the empress’ musings. “When will you tell the emperor?” 

Mary smiled. “Today; he will be delighted.”

The sky rumbled, and flashes of light lit up its gloomy canvas. The afternoon became desolate, with gray clouds. Empress Mary and her ladies hastened to return to the palace.  

§§§

“Carlos,” called Empress Mary as she entered the nursery. “Where are you?” 

“I’m here.” Her husband sat near the gilded crib.

Mary froze at the threshold. A grin hoverer over her lips as she watched the emperor with their son. Only in such moments, Carlos smiled with a real, affectionate smile that lit up his whole being. The walls, tapestried with the richest silk brocades of gold, gilded his smile further.

The ruler turned to her. “Juan is sleeping. I do not wish to wake him up.”

“But you cannot leave either.” She sauntered over to the crib.

He somewhat tensed. “Indeed.”

For some time, the spouses contemplated the infant, swaddled in a blanket of green and red satin, which was embroidered with birds by Mary herself. At seven months, Archduke Juan was well formed and bonny with gray eyes and chubby cheeks, in spite of him having the Habsburg lip. He had a tuft of red-gold hair, which he had inherited from his Tudor mother.

The empress settled herself in a chair beside him. “There is such perfect innocence of the mind and heart in children that you cannot help but wish they never lose it.”

In a philosophical tone, the monarch spoke. “Childhood ends when the person grows enough to put away childish things. Nobody can stay in the garden of Eden for all eternity.”

She enjoyed this contemplative side to the emperor, which she rarely saw. “When we take revenge against another, we lose some of our innocence, some of our true selves.”

Instantly, Carlos narrowed his eyes at his consort. It was an allusion to his loathing towards the French and his brother. “Mary, I know where you are going with this. Do not entertain fantasies to influence my decisions. You are only my wife: run our household and raise our son.”

She paraphrased his own words. “We each begin in innocence. We all become guilty.”

“Exactly.” His demeanor softened. “Do I need to repeat the rules I’ve set for you?” 

“Because I’m not Isabella!” she croaked out, tears brimming in her eyes. Her umbrage was superseded by snippy stoicism. “All right. Just do not be angry, Carlos.”

To her astonishment, Carlos leaned into her and brushed their lips together. Then his mouth began marauding hers with desperate intensity, his arms pulling her tighter to him. Incredibly, despite the many things she detested in their union, Mary discovered that this was where she longed to be, wrapped in his embrace, her body pressed against his.

Breathing heavily, his eyes glittering with desire, the emperor loosened his hold on her. “It has been a couple of weeks since we were together. I’ll come to your bed tonight, Mary.”

Rage billowed and plumed inside the empress. “When you do not claim me as your wife, you go to the manor in Mechelen, which you purchased for your mistress from Germany. What is her name? Ah, Barbara Blomberg, daughter of a burgher. There could be someone else.”

For the space of a few heartbeats, Emperor Carlos was nonplussed. Mary had never broached the subject of his infidelities before. He had always been faithful to Isabella whom he would always love, but he did not intend to honor his vows in his political matrimony with Mary.  The ruler’s sentiments towards Mary consisted of lust, attraction, and amenity, tinged with anger that he had married her because of the alliance with England that had turned out to be worthless.

Mary is aware of my affair, the monarch inferred. How had she learned about them? Did she have spies in the palace? He had put their relationship into strictly formal boundaries, which was colored with emotion only when Carlos exercised his conjugal rights. Why was Mary hurt of when she did not have any amorous feelings for him? He shoved aside all these thoughts.  

Carlos smiled sourly, his gaze moving possessively over her form. “I’m a man: moreover, a monarch. You will not dictate to me anything. When I want you, I come and take.”

Fury lanced through Mary. The sheer arrogance of this man who was going to imprison his brother with his mother! The possessive nature of this creature that had lost its path in the pitch-black ocean of antagonism! The amours of this man who took her whenever he wanted and then rushed to his paramour! How could her mother tolerate her father’s affairs? When Carlos kisses me, passion simmers between us like a slavering beast, but it is only physical.

They had been intimate many times. Generous in caresses, Carlos did not disappoint her as a lover, but she could not compare him with anyone else. Most of their encounters happened at night after he had finished the work with his councilors; only few of them were short despite his coldness towards her in the daytime. Carlos was attracted to Mary’s young, slender body, and she enjoyed the marriage bed because it was one of the few good things in her life with him.   

Mary shot back, “Well, you cannot do this while I’m pregnant.”

A smile shone across his frigid visage. “Excellent.”

“I’ve never begged you to do anything for me. I need only your respect and kindness.”

“Forgive me for the stress I might have caused you.”

“You care about the baby because it may be a male heir,” she gritted out.

Carlos stood up and hoisted Mary to her feet. He took her hands in his. “Our marriage is far from being an ideal one, but I’m not your father. Have I ever demanded sons from you?” 

“No,” she acknowledged. “Never.”

Pressing a light kiss on her fingers, he said, “I’ve handled this badly.”

A moment later, the prince began wailing. The empress came to the crib, then cradled the baby in her arms until a wet nurse arrived and collected the child for feeding, 

Carlos aided Mary to make herself comfortable on a couch. He sat next to her.

She informed, “I spent the whole morning here. Playing with Juan and speaking to him.”

“He is too small to understand you.” The ruler burst out laughing, tipping his head back. “I remember my Philip in childhood. At the age of two or three, he was such a serious boy.”

“His Highness is an intelligent and strong-willed boy. I often talked with him in Spain.”  

The emperor’s heart hammered with gladness at the thought of his eldest son – Isabella’s son. “I invited Philip to Flanders. He will arrive in a month or so.”

“I’ll be happy to see Philip. So, he will come in your absence.”

“Precisely. You will be waiting for my return from Milan with triumph.”

She took a steadying breath. “And what if not?” 

“Trust me, Mary.” He ran a finger down her cheek. “Everything will be well.”

Carlos fell into thoughtfulness, his features shadowed with obvious inclemency. Mary guessed that he planned the capture of his brother and the murder of François. In such moments, he repelled her, as if her instincts had told her that he was a monster. Her mind drifted back to the situation between the Habsburg brothers and the King of France, and then Mary envisaged a crying Juana of Castile at the news of Ferdinand’s troubles. I must prevent this. But how?


June 20, 1546, Milan, Duchy of Milan, northern Italy

King François and Duke Anne de Montmorency, Constable of France, hopped down from their horses. They made a stop on the picturesque Piazza Mercanti, located not far from Piazza Duomo. The royal guards also dismounted and encircled the monarch for protection.

At this early hour, the square was empty. During the siege of Milan, the gloomy spirits hung over this land, trembling in the air and singing liturgical melodies. All the business and trade had long collapsed, so the streets and the markets were not brimming with activity even in the daytime. The stunning Renaissance palazzos stretched out around the square, with their grand façades and loggias, opulent and intricately designed, with green gardens and courtyards.

Montmorency enquired, “What are we doing here, Your Majesty?” 

“Breathing the air of freedom,” answered the Valois ruler. “Before seeing the foe again.”

They looked up, as if to see Jesus Christ enthroned there. The firmament was tinted with reddish and yellow hues of dawn. The air smelled with the city, but the morning was beautiful, yet not glorious because now every day could be the last one for the besieged inhabitants.

François commented, “I prefer to contemplate the skies of Milan at midday. They are so blue at this time of day, yet with hints of russet and gold. Evening and morning heavens seem to signify the end of the universe, perhaps the end of us.”

The duke objected hotly, “No, Your Majesty! Do not say that!” 

A halo of melancholic resignation encompassed François. “How can I not think of my own demise after so many months of siege with no sign of help from France or Ferdinand?” 

“These Habsburgs are the worst pestilence,” growled Montmorency, his animosity towards them charging the air. “The worst malady France, Italy, and the world have ever seen!” 

King François thought so as well. “That is all true, my friend.”

Montmorency leaned back against the side of his destrier. “We began running out of our stock of grain and food two months earlier. The famine has long started, Your Majesty, but the population of Milan are enduring all these difficulties for the sake of their beloved duke.”

The king contemplated the Gothic Palazzo della Ragione, which had been constructed in the 13th century, and which played a central role in the administrative and public life of Milan.

“They should not die because of me.” François glanced across the square, his gaze lingering on the spire of the Milanese Duomo that towered above the buildings like a clinging black cloud of mortality. “Carlos hates me and wants me dead, but they should live.”

“No, Our dearest and most chivalrous Majesty!”  appealed Montmorency with a desperation colored with his immense devotion to his sovereign. “You cannot surrender to the Imperial forces! None of your subjects will allow you to do that because it will be fatal for you!” 

François smiled dolefully. “But the whole city will be saved, then.”

“No,” repeated his subject. “That Habsburg thug with a protruding lip will have you burned as a heretic. Everyone in Milan knows what fate the emperor intends to mete out to you, so they will not allow their liege lord to have such an inequitable and most gruesome end!” 

Cosmic sadness was reflected in the monarch’s orbs. “Do we have a choice, my most loyal Monty? We have hoped that the French would come, but they are not here.”

The duke protested, “It is better to die than let our enemies kill our king.”

The ruler shook his head. “The people must not suffer for my sins. God must be punishing me for something as He has sent me into the inferno of this siege.”

Montmorency breached the gap between and permitted himself to put his hands on the king’s shoulders. “The Almighty is testing us, Your Majesty. He will send us salvation!” 

Hope for their rescue was slowly dying within François. “I’m not optimistic, but I’ll accept any fate the Lord has allocated to me.” He then hugged his friend affectionately.

“Your Majesty, I shall gladly die with you,” his subject whispered into the rich fabric of the king’s doublet. His head was buried into the monarch’s shoulder because François was a head taller. “I’ve always lived for France, your family, and you. And I love you dearly!” 

François pressed his best friend to him tighter. “I’ve always adored you, Monty. We grew up together, and in childhood, we were closer than I was with Chabot and Annebault. You have always served me exceptionally well, Monty, and have long become my brother.”

Tears stung Montmorency’s eyes. “Brothers-in-arms, Your Majesty.”

The king disentwined himself from the other man. “Call me François in private.”

“François,” Montmorency drawled, liking his sovereign’s name. “Sounds like our beloved France. It is such a great pity that we cannot see our homeland at least once more.”

“Maybe we will.” François expelled a sigh of grief out of him. “If God wills it.”

The King and Constable of France mounted and urged their horses into a gallop. The soldiers from the Scots Guard, which was now headed by Count Antoine de Noailles, followed their master. After the monarch had found himself besieged in Milan, the previous leader of the Scots Guard – Robert Stuart d’Aubigny – had disappeared, and, hence, the man was considered a traitor who must have helped the emperor arrange a trap for the French ruler in Milan.

§§§

The horses galloped like whirlwinds across Milan.  The streets, slowly awakening from the slumber, slid past them, ending at the southern gatehouse to the city. After a long ride, the king’s party neared the thick, tall outer walls of Milan. François steered his stallion towards the gate and halted beside the steps. He jumped down from the saddle and beckoned sentinels to him.  The walls stretched out in all directions, framing a small courtyard where they had arrived.

“Your Majesty!”  the men, both French and Italian, greeted him with deep bows.

The king inquired in Italian, then in French, “Was everything quiet at night?” 

A sergeant responded in French, “Yes, Your Majesty. There were no attacks.”

The ruler grinned somberly. “That is what I expected. They are awaiting our surrender.”

“No! We cannot!”  the sergeant declared vehemently. “Never ever! We will not allow them to harm our sovereign! King Ferdinand acknowledged Your Majesty as the Duke of Milan several years ago, and each of us has been loyal to you since then! We may die for you!” 

This warmed the monarch’s heart. “Your loyalty is very commendable. Thank you.”

Having learned about the king’s arrival, soldiers were gathering. They all bowed to their liege lord and surrounded François, as if this human circle could protect him from all perils.   

The garrison of Milan, commanded by the governor Pier Maria III de’ Rossi, Count de San Secondo, included ten thousand soldiers. Most of these Italian knights had once served under the leadership of Rossi, who had been a famed condottiero on Apennine Peninsula before pledging his unwavering allegiance to the House of Valois. These heroic men had repelled many direct assaults on the city since the beginning of the siege, none of them fearing to die for their duke.

François stood listening to them, with Montmorency at his side.  

“Your Majesty, you cannot surrender – they will murder you!” 

“You are the King of France and the Duke of Milan!” 

“We will endure whatever the Lord sends us to survive!” 

“If you leave the city, the Imperial barbarians will kill you!” 

“Queen Marguerite, your daughter, and you must both live!” 

“No monarch can be killed, all the more burned as a heretic!” 

François did not interrupt them, although their loud voices caused pangs of headache shoot through his temples. He needed to boost the morale of his small army.

They all hate Carlos and protest against the very idea of our capitulation, the King of France inferred. Then we can wait for a little longer. Despite the starvation, they could sustain the siege for another two months before the situation would become irreversibly calamitous. François silently thanked the Governor Rossi for the successful management of the city during the past six years, for the enormous stock of food had allowed them to still be alive.

At last, the monarch waved for silence, and the congregation quietened.

“My comrades!”  François began in a majestic voice. “Your fealty to me is unprecedented, and it brings tears to my eyes. I’ll never repay my huge debt to you for all the hardships you are all tolerating because of the emperor’s intention to see me destroyed. God bless all of you!” 

“For King François!”  Montmorency shouted in Italian. “I’ll gladly die for my liege lord!”  

The knights chorused, “For King François! For the rightful Duke of Milan!” 

Ebullient cheers erupted from the soldiers. The men’s features were exhausted, their bodies gaunt despite their enthusiasm. The food ration was meagre these days for everyone.   

“Your Majesty,” addressed the same sergeant who had met them. “Yesterday, there was an attack on the gates, which we prevented. The leader was your former French general – Monsieur de Guise. He was so incensed that something interesting slipped from his tongue.”

François and Montmorency shared glances of perpetual hatred towards Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise. After the siege had been laid, they had soon learned that one of the main Imperial generals was Guise. The ruler was aware that Anne de Pisseleu had helped him escape to Spain out of fear that her amours with Guise would become known to François. Nevertheless, the appearance of Guise in Milan was unexpected for François, though understandable.  

The monarch spat, “Guise tried to kill my queen and children. He is a traitor to France, but he fled to our enemy. He will go to any lengths to dispose of me and my family.”

The sergeant continued, “That traitor should be slaughtered. Guise spoke in accented Italian, but I understood him well. He mentioned the approach of Dauphin Henri and his forces, as well as the gathering of King Ferdinand’s forces in Vigevano in the province of Pavia.”

“God be praised!” the congregation shouted in unison.

King François and Montmorency crossed themselves. There were wide smiles upon their countenances for the first time in months. A nascent hope to survive hummed in them.

The monarch uttered in cheerful accents, “My son and marshals would not have abandoned me for so long, if they were not seriously delayed. Most likely, the emperor launched an invasion of France from the north and south simultaneously. They must have been preoccupied with battles, but once the window of opportunity opened, they rushed to Piedmont and Milan.”  

During all these months, they had known nothing about the situation in France. The siege had shattered all the communications channels, and they could not leave the city.

Montmorency rejoined, “They must have stopped the invasion or at least won a decisive battle. Otherwise, they would not have been able to lead their armies to Italy.”

“Ferdinand,” said François with a grin. “He must have escaped, then.”

“There should be a battle soon,” Montmorency surmised.

“Yes.” The king asked the sergeant, “Did Guise say something else?” 

The man tipped his head. “That traitor mentioned the Turks.”

François and Montmorency shared amused glances. They had no clue what it meant.  

After some hopeful talks, the king and his constable ascended to the watchtower located to the right from the southern gatehouse. Standing near a window, they beheld the endless military landscape represented by countless tents in the hugest Imperial camp. The entirety of Milan was thickly surrounded from all sides, not allowing even a fly to approach the city. That was why François and his men, as well as all of the inhabitants were trapped in the city for so long.

The monarch spotted the Habsburg standard in the air. “If the siege is lifted and we survive, I swear on all I hold dear in my life that Carlos will pay for everything.”

Montmorency gave a nod. “The least he deserves is to be dethroned.”

François noticed more military standards. “I shall never stoop as low as Carlos would. No monarch should be burned. Yet, he might be dethroned and executed after a public trial. At the very least, Carlos should lose everything – power, throne, and wealth.”

His subject’s glare pierced the picture of the Imperial hordes in front of them. “I crave to see all of them slaughtered like cattle, and I would gladly have done that myself.”

The king nodded. “Maybe we will join the battle if our defenders will be winning.”

Montmorency snarled like a beast, “I’d love to slit Carlos’ throat.”

“That would be an easy death for that scum, Monty. I vote for something more agonizing. The worst punishment for that Habsburg thug would be to deprive him of power and the throne, although if he is allowed to live, he will remain dangerous for both Ferdinand and me.”

“Would Ferdinand be ready to dispose of his brother, François?”  For the first time, the duke addressed his king in such a personal manner, but it had long been permitted to him.

François noticed that the camp was awakening. “Ferdinand is a man of honor, unlike the emperor. He did not want to have a confrontation with Carlos, but it became inevitable after the emperor imprisoned him. Now Ferdinand must be very angry.”

After a pensive pause, the monarch continued, “Nonetheless, I do not think that a man such as Ferdinand would be willing to kill his own brother. He would fight for our release, and if he wins – God bless Ferdinand, Henri, and our marshals for victory – Carlos will lose power.”

Montmorency offered, “King Ferdinand should become a new Holy Roman Emperor.”

The sovereign of France agreed. “He deserves that.”

“Everything will change in Europe,” concluded Montmorency.

They observed the enemy camp attentively. Soldiers were leaving their tents and lighting campfires, blazing like inferno. The sun’s heat was rising as the morning progressed. There was a flurry of activity among the adversaries, so François and Montmorency heard the distant echo of German, Italian, Swiss, Flemish voices. This created a stark contrast with the deadly stillness in the watchtower, as if silence were heralding a new beginning for the besieged city.

Montmorency turned to his liege lord. “Is Your Majesty worried about Dauphin Henri?” 

François replied truthfully, “Yes, I am. God save and protect my Henri. I’m certain that Philippe de Chabot will never leave him in danger, but I’m still worried.”

The king and his subject left the watchtower, and then departed from the gates.

§§§

Upon their return to Palazzo Reale, the royal and governor’s residence, they encountered Marguerite de Valois, Queen of Bohemia and Hungary, on the front steps. She was accompanied by Jeanne de Gontaut, Countess de Noailles, and her several Austrian ladies-in-waiting.   

“Father!”  Marguerite strode towards the king. “Where have you been?” 

“We went to one of the gates.” François dismounted and gave the reins to a page.

“We bring good news.” Montmorency jumped down from the saddle.

Marguerite measured them with a skeptical glance. “About our deaths?” 

The monarch strolled to his daughter. Taking her hands in his, he kissed them. “On the contrary, Margot. It seems that your brother, Henri, and Ferdinand are assembling forces.”

Marguerite’s amber eyes flashed. “My husband is free? How do you know that?” 

François rehearsed the words of the sergeant to her. “Your husband must have fled.”

“My Ferdinand!” exclaimed Marguerite with all the affection she felt for her spouse. “Even after he was apprehended in front of me, I had faith in him and our love. He pledged his devotion to me forever! He will move heaven and earth so that we can be together again!” 

The ruler, Montmorency, and her ladies all grinned, pleased to see Marguerite joyful after the recent tragedy. The guards, who clustered nearby, also wore smiles.

As usual, the monarch was delighted to see another proof of his daughter’s happy marriage to his once captive. “My dear, we must be patient for some more time.”

Marguerite’s expression was shadowed by grief. “After Ferdinand and Henri rescue us, what will I tell my husband? How will I explain to him that we lost another babe?” 

In Milan, Marguerite had discovered her condition. The colossal stress she had experienced during the siege had made her pregnancy difficult. She had stayed in bed for the most part, and Governor Rossi’s competent physician had monitored her health. Two months ago, she had gone into labor that had been too complicated. In the absence of her husband, it had fallen to François to decide whom to save – his daughter or his grandchild. The king could not lose his girl.

Marguerite’s thoughts drifted to her living children – Charles and Helena von Habsburg. How are my little ones faring in Bohemia? After Ferdinand’s arrest on the emperor’s orders, and before her departure to Milan in the hope to seek her father’s aid, Margot had sent Ferdinand’s many children from his two marriages from Vienna to Bohemia. Ferdinand’s close friend – Philip, Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg – had accompanied them on their journey.

While in Vienna, Marguerite had befriended all of her husband’s children. They all missed their mother – Anna of Bohemia and Hungary. She could not replace their mother, but Margot had endeavored to become their trusted friend. Surprisingly, none of Ferdinand’s offspring had cared for her French origins, so she had been welcomed into the Austrian Habsburg family.

Ferdinand…  You are the love of my life. Her heart hammered with immeasurable longing for her spouse, and with the knowledge that Ferdinand returned her deep amorous feelings in full measure. Initially, neither of them had their hearts set on marrying the other, but sometime during their betrothal as they had regularly communicated while in Blois, they had found common ground and discovered that they shared interests in many things, especially in literature.   

After their arrival in Vienna, Margot had swiftly settled into her new life with her husband. Ferdinand had always been affable, faithful, and respectful to her. During her pregnancy with their first child, Charles, her secret thoughts had progressed to her regular detailed memories of how Ferdinand was making love to her. Margot needed and wanted Ferdinand more than anyone else to the point of asking him to spend time with her instead of working with his councilors.

When the infant Charles had first been in his arms, Ferdinand had confessed to loving his wife. Her heart had flourished like a sprout that had waited for warm spring to come out of the soil – Marguerite had realized that she loved her husband desperately. When she had voiced her feelings, Ferdinand had approached her with their baby and kissed her fervently. Since then, they had been happy together until Carlos had dismantled the edifice of their marital contentment.   

Then Margot’s mind reproduced the day when their daughter Ursula had died of fever. “We have not recovered yet from the loss of our Ursula. And now another loss…” 

All the pernicious loathing that François experienced for Carlos threatened to spill out. Yet, he throttled it to console his daughter. “After this nightmare is over, Ferdinand and you will return to Vienna. His children and your offspring will be taken back to Austria from Bohemia.” He lifted a hand to his daughter’s face. “You are young, Margot. You will have more babies.”

“We lost our daughter Ursula. And then–”  Her voice faded to a thin ghost. “I cannot forget the death of my son in childbirth. My poor boy! My dear little boy!” 

“Of course you won’t,” François soothed. “Your little one went to heaven.”

Tears blurred Marguerite’s vision. “I did not know that I had been with child when I left Vienna. Ferdinand was taken away by the Imperial men. All I could think about was to send all the children to Bohemia with my trusted nobles for their safety. Upon learning that you are in Milan, I traveled to you, Father, but soon we were all trapped here. And then my baby died…”

The king stroked her hair. “I decided to save you during the birth ordeal, Margot.”

She sobbed, “It would have been better if the baby had survived.”

“No,” he contradicted. “Ferdinand would have made the same choice.”

“Oh Father,” moaned Marguerite. “It is so painful for me! I want this nightmare over!” 

François enfolded his daughter into his arms in a consoling manner.

Montmorency looked sad. The queen’s ladies were crying quietly.   

“Where are you going?” the king inquired, still holding her in his embrace.   

Marguerite responded, “I was on my way to the Duomo so as to pray for my stillborn son’s soul, for my other children, for Ferdinand, and for all my other relatives.”

Her parent advised, “Then go there, my girl. Pray for them and our salvation.”

“I want Emperor Carlos dead,” hissed Marguerite with the visceral hatred she had once not known she was capable of feeling. “Just like my boy died because of this siege.”

François nodded his comprehension. “Perhaps not dead, but dethroned for a certainty.”  

François and Montmorency watched Marguerite and her maids walk away towards the main Milanese cathedral. They were all dressed in black in mourning for the prince. At the same time, the monarch’s thoughts were on Queen Anne and their offspring; Montmorency thought of his son, François, and his wife Marie with their daughters, hoping that they were not in Rome without him. Their prayers were about the safety of their families, their hearts beating for them.

Notes:

We hope that you are fine and safe. The beginning of this year is happy neither for the authors of this story, but maybe things will get a little better over time.

This chapter’s title refers to the troubles of three characters who are still trapped in Milan – King François I of France, his daughter Queen Marguerite of Bohemia, Hungary, and Croatia (King Ferdinand’s own titles), and Duke Anne de Montmorency, Constable of France. At last, we have scenes set in Milan, from which we learn that the city has been surrounded for months, and that the besieged inhabitants are not ready to capitulate and allow the emperor to have their liege lord – François – burned at the stake as a heretic.

Young Queen Marguerite (Marguerite de Valois) was pregnant when she rushed to Milan from Vienna. King Ferdinand lost not only his freedom and title of Archduke of Austria (Carlos disinherited him), but also a child as Margot’s pregnancy was a stressful one – in the end she lost her baby because François made the choice to save her instead of the child. There is something about the marital life of Ferdinand and Marguerite – they are in love, and Ferdinand will fight fiercely for the release of his wife and François.

Empress Mary (Mary Tudor) is not happy with Emperor Carlos. Their marriage is a political alliance, one that aimed to establish a solid alliance between King Henry of England and Carlos, which, much to the emperor’s displeasure, did not happen as Henry was defeated and captured in Boulogne. Mary had a son with Carlos – Juan of Austria. This boy, who received Ferdinand’s title of Archduke of Austria, is a historical prototype of the bastard Juan of Austria who in history was the son of Carlos V and his mistress Barbara Blomberg. Mary knows that Carlos is not faithful to her, but she accepts it because they are not in love. Like in history Barbara Blomberg is the emperor’s paramour.

The Hof van Savoye (Court of Savoy) or Palace of Margaret of Austria is an early 16th-century building in Mechelen, modern Belgium. It was one of the first Renaissance buildings in northern Europe, one where Archduchess Margaret of Austria, governor of the Burgundian Netherlands (she raised Carlos V in childhood) lived. Young Anne Boleyn spent several years in Flanders at Margaret’s court. You can find the pictures of this palace online; the historical description of the castle is more or less correct.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 74: Chapter 73: The Anti-Carlos Coalition

Summary:

We apologize that we were unable to update often. My father, God rest his soul, died in December. The father of my cousin Nathalie (Lady Nature) passed away over a week ago, God rest his soul. They both lived long lives, but it does not make it easier to handle these sorrows for Nathalie and me. Love your parents! Treasure every moment you have with them!

Lady Perseverance (Athenais)

Notes:

The members of the newly formed coalition sign a treaty against Emperor Carlos V in Florence. King Ferdinand, King François, and their entire families are excommunicated. Now Dauphin Henri is with his army and his wife, Catherine de’ Medici, in Piedmont.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 73: The Anti-Carlos Coalition

June 30, 1546, Palazzo Medici, city of Florence, Tuscany, Italy

The sun was rising from behind the hills surrounding the city of Florence. The sky was of a pale rose color with golden clouds. Queen Anne of France, who stood near a window, fantasized that the glory of this morning symbolized the end of the fatal drama around the House of Valois.

“Sunrise signifies a new day,” said Ferdinand, King of Bohemia and Hungary.

Anne turned to him. “A new beginning for all of us? That sounds too good to be true.” 

The two of them stood in the small reception room, frescoed with biblical scenes by Fra Angelico. Yesterday, Ferdinand had arrived in Florence from his military camp in Vigevano, located to the southeast of Milan, in order to attend an important political meeting.

Ferdinand recollected, “I was raised in Spain by my grandfather – King Ferdinand the Second of Aragon; I was named after him. Once he took me to the Royal Palace of Tordesillas, where my mother has been confined to for years. We spent only a few hours together with Queen Juana, but those wonderful moments are engraved upon my memory forever. We saw sunrise over Tordesillas from her room, and she was crying, knowing that we would be separated.”  

“You haven’t seen Queen Juana for ages. Have you ever tried to meet with her?”

“It was the only time I met her,” he supplied in a voice layered with sadness. “Throughout all my life, I was told that my insane mother was violent, so it was supposedly dangerous for me to see her. I loved my grandfather so much that I believed him. Even before Carlos’ arrival in Spain from Flanders, Ferdinand of Aragon did not permit me to visit her.” 

Ferdinand’s mind drifted back to his early youth. “After my grandfather’s death, Carlos appeared in Spain; his Spanish was highly accented back then. He assumed the role of a king after our mother had invested him with the power to rule in her stead. Carlos visited her at Tordesillas from time to time, but he never took me with him, explaining it in the same way as our grandfather did. Then I departed to govern Austrian and German lands in Carlos’ name.” 

Anne was interested in Queen Juana. “François and his sister Margot believe that Queen Juana was jailed by her relatives who strove to usurp her power.” 

“My brother! Damn him!” Ferdinand exploded, outraged, his eyes nearly purple with anger. “He has lied to me and the world! Carlos has broken our mother’s life because of his thirst for power! For years, I believed in his falsehood about her madness, but now I don’t.” 

She cast a sympathetic glance at him. “You were quite close with the late Empress Isabella. Didn't she tell you anything, Ferdinand? She must have known the truth.”   

His features softened a little. “When Carlos and Isabella got married, I lived in Vienna. We corresponded and became friends when she came to France to negotiate my release. I suppose she did not tell me the truth about my mother to keep Carlos’ relationship with me affectionate.” 

Anne deduced, “Isabella must have been afraid of your potential conflict.” 

“Yes. At every question about my mother, Isabella shook her head sadly. Why? She knew that if I had learned about Carlos’ lies regarding our mother’s insanity, I would have rushed to Spain and demanded that Juana be released. Most likely, Isabella feared repercussions from Carlos towards me, and by telling me nothing, she safeguarded me from my brother’s wrath. Isabella did not confide in me about her unsuccessful attempts to have Juana liberated.” 

“Ferdinand, it is the only thing that Isabella could do at the time.” 

“Indeed, Anne. She guarded me from Carlos and did not want to go against him.” 

“Isabella loved him more than life itself,” the Queen of France finished.

The King of Hungary tipped his head. “Isabella was in a complicated situation.”  

The door opened. Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant, walked in and curtsied. “Your Majesties, the diplomats have assembled in the great hall.” 

“We are coming,” Ferdinand replied in flawless French. During his marriage to François’ daughter, he had learned to speak her native tongue very well. “Thank you for the notification.”  

Anne asked, “Françoise, thank you. Did my little Lorenzo finally fall asleep?”

Her principal lady-in-waiting smiled. “Yes, he is sleeping like an angel.” 

On the 17th of May 1546, Queen Anne had birthed a healthy son on the day of his uncle George’s execution, but the boy would never know him. Amazingly, their fourth son, whom Anne and François had intended to name Laurent in French or Lorenzo, had been born at Palazzo de Medici, the birthplace of his illustrious namesake Lorenzo Il Magnifico. The infant had been christened at Medici Chapel; Duke Cosimo and Duchess Leonor had stood as his godparents.

My little Lorenzo, Anne enthused wordlessly. God, thank you for preserving my dearest baby! Her voyage from Nice to Florence had been smooth, and Cosimo had met her in Pisano. Nonetheless, Anne had been so worried that she could have miscarried because of her stress.

The queen had apprised Queen Marguerite of Navarre and Dauphin Henri of Lorenzo’s birth. Marguerite had written that the new Valois prince was Duke de Maine. In the absence of François, only Marguerite could assign titles as regent of France. Lorenzo could become a duke twice over as François planned to bequeath the Duchy of Milan to one of his youngest sons.

Cosimo de’ Medici had offered Queen Anne to have little Lorenzo de Valois betrothed to his daughter – Isabella Romola de’ Medici, born in 1542. Having consulted with her husband’s sister, Anne had signed the betrothal agreement with the Duke of Florence; she could represent François. On paternal side, Cosimo de’ Medici was descended from Caterina Sforza, Countess of Forlì, who had been the illegitimate daughter of Galeazzo Maria Sforza, Duke of Milan.

Valentine Visconti was Lorenzo’s ancestress on paternal side. If the boy inherited Milan, this would be truly a wonderful matrimonial arrangement. When François had taken over Milan in 1538, he had promised that one day, the city would be ruled by one of his sons married to a Sforza descendant. As all the daughters of Pier Maria Rossi, Count di San Secondo and the governor of Milan, had died, this betrothal had become possible and necessary.

Queen Anne had worked hard to assemble Italian allies against Emperor Carlos. The news from France was tragic: King Henri of Navarre had been poisoned, and Jeanne d’Albert had succeeded him with her mother acting as her regent. The execution of Diane de Poitiers had shocked Anne. Poor Henri, Anne’s heart ached for her stepson. He must be suffering now.   

“Good,” said the French queen with relief. “He is a restless child, especially at night.” 

A smiling Ferdinand jested, “What a glorious boy he is! The son of the Knight-King and his English Jeanne d’Arc. He will be as enlightened as Il Magnifico.” 

“That was François’ main thought when we chose the name before he–”  Anne broke off.

The emperor’s brother gestured towards the window. “Look there! The sun is rising!”

The King of France’s wife noticed that now the sun’s disk was clearly larger than a mere minutes earlier. “There is a sunrise and a sunset every day, but Milan is still besieged.” 

Ferdinand attempted to elevate her spirits. “During that meeting with my mother, she told me something I’ve never forgotten. Juana said, ‘We can only appreciate the miracle of a sunrise if we have waited in the darkness.’  You and I have been enveloped in the darkness without our loved ones – your François and my Margot – for months. But it is about to end!”

Françoise interfered, “Every sunrise is a blessing, especially if you sign important treaties.” 

Pulling herself together, Anne smiled at her husband’s son-in-law in the friendliest way. As he extended his hand to her, she took it, and Ferdinand escorted her out of the chamber.

§§§

The grand reception room was crowded with diplomats and the Florentine officials serving at the ducal court of Cosimo de’ Medici. They were Italian, excluding the ambassadors from Hesse and Sweden. Their clothes of multicolored brocades, silks, and damasks in the Italianate style were a stark contrast against the wall frescoes of saints in bright and pictorial language.

Queen Anne and King Ferdinand entered. Perfect hush ensued, all eyes glued to them.  

“Welcome, my friends!” greeted Duke Cosimo. “Let’s begin.”

“We are most happy to be here,” responded Ferdinand in Italian.

Anne continued, “We have a vitally important agenda for today.”

Clad in a shimmering gold-tissue gown, Anne strolled with her head high, her bearing regal. Her gown bore the royal salamanders – her husband’s personal emblem. The Valois coat-of-arms was emblazoned on her bodies, stressing her belonging to the French royalty. Although she looked well rested, Anne’s gaze was haunted, alluding to the current nightmare of her life.

My appearance proclaims that I am a Valois, the Queen of France thought with pride. A massive amethyst necklace, one of François’ gifts, adorned her bosom. For this occasion, she had selected the gorgeous pearl and diamond tiara that her husband had gifted her on the day of their conversation in the Clock Tower at Palais de la Cité. This tiara had once belonged to Valentine Visconti, Duchess d’Orléans, who was the King of France’s ancestress on his father’s side.  

Despite his unostentatious tastes, today Ferdinand was clad in a purple velvet doublet, slashed with black satin and lavishly ornamented with gold and diamonds. His girdle of emeralds encircled his waist; his black taffeta hose accentuated the leanness of his legs, for he had lost much weight due to his misadventures. His red brocade toque was plumed with black and white feathers. Today’s change in his style showcased his admiration for Italian culture and life.

The Duke of Florence stood up from his gilded throne at the other side of the chamber. He strode to his guests, and the three of them exchanged greetings. At present, Cosimo’s wife, Leonor, was very close to giving birth to their next child, so she did not attend the audience.

Looking at the crowd of ambassadors, Cosimo addressed them. “Today we are going to sign the treaty that will form a new coalition against the man who has become the worst enemy of peace in Europe – Emperor Carlos. Once he helped me regain the lost Medici inheritance and was my ally for a short time, but the previous invasion of France let me comprehend that Carlos is too warmongering to be my friend. Since then, I’ve been France’s staunch ally.”   

Anne gazed at Cosimo. “Your Grace, France is most honored to have Florence as our friend and ally. Throughout all these years, the Medici family and the House of Valois have both abided by our treaty. Today, we will form a new, broader alliance that will aid us to reestablish peace in Italy and to rescue my husband who is now trapped in Milan.”

Cosimo and Anne smiled at one another cordially. They were good friends.

“The siege of Milan must be lifted,” asserted Cosimo. “For peace in the entirety of Italy! The emperor has gathered more than hundred and fifty thousand soldiers near Milan. That is unprecedented! His armies might plunder our lands and annex them.”

Ferdinand affirmed, “Carlos has lost the sight of everything save the ducal throne of Milan and his animosity towards France. His personal enmity overrules principles of rational governing in his wild pursuit of King François. I love my brother, but these facts are undeniable.”

“Carlos von Habsburg,” hissed Anne the name she hated more than even Henry Tudor. “He has become a threat not only to Italy, but even to the Holy Roman Empire.”   

Ferdinand’s heart constricted as he said, “My wife, Marguerite de Valois, has been trapped in Milan with her father. My own brother has brought all these troubles upon my family.”   

There were compassionate looks upon everyone’s countenances.

Cosimo stated, “The criminal Pope Paul the Third excommunicated the House of Valois and the family of King Ferdinand, as well as Anne de Montmorency and his family.”

The throng broke into shouts and growls of disapproval and even outrage.

Over a week ago, the Bishop of Rome had issued three bulls of excommunication of King François, King Ferdinand, and Anne de Montmorency with their families. If the Pope counted on universal support of this, he was grievously mistaken: many Catholics were astonished to say the least, even Spanish and Flemish ones. Everyone was aware of the misfortunes that had beset François and Ferdinand during the past year because of the emperor’s aggression.

Ercole d’Este, Duke of Ferrara, emerged from the crowd. “I was in Rome when Cardinal Allesandro Farnese, the Pope’s nephew, read the bulls of excommunication to the populace. People were surprised and astonished because His Unholiness excommunicated Catholics.”     

Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire and the French ambassador to Venice, stepped forward. “I came here from Venice. Messer Francesco Donato, Doge of Venice, assures of his support Your Grace Duke Cosimo, Her Majesty Queen Anne, and His Majesty King Ferdinand.”

“We are most grateful, Lord Wiltshire,” chorused Cosimo and Ferdinand.  

“Thank you, Father,” replied Anne. “We are glad to see you.”

Wiltshire smiled. She had granted him her first affable glance since George’s demise! “How could King François, who has been under siege in Milan, and King Ferdinand, who was imprisoned by his brother, be excommunicated by the Pope who is the emperor’s conspirator?”  

This was met by a hubbub of vehement, approving statements.

Anne affirmed in a high voice, “I am not a Catholic. François allows me to worship my faith in private, although I do not use any prayer books by Calvin or Luther.” Her voice rose to a crescendo. “But how can Farnese excommunicate my husband who is a true Catholic?”   

Wiltshire supplied, “The policy of religious tolerance in France cannot be used to label someone a heretic. Yet, that Lucifer Farnese wants to have King François burned!”

Anne’s thoughts drifted to her children with François. “My French daughters and sons are being raised as Catholics. What right does the Bishop of Rome have to declare them unholy?”

The mention of the Valois offspring being mistreated so produced shouts of indignation.   

Ferdinand chimed in, “I was declared a heretic as well because I’ve advocated religious tolerance in Austria, which I had governed before Carlos dispossessed me. As well as because of my new alliance with the Turks, which is necessary to save my wife and François.”

Anne trembled with fury. “Carlos and Farnese want François to surrender.”

“We shall not allow that to happen,” Ferdinand pledged.  

The ambassadors nodded. Wiltshire’s scrutiny oscillated between Anne and Ferdinand.

In a voice dripping with anger, King Ferdinand complained, “My children were proclaimed heretics too. The evil Pope Paul cannot be humankind’s shepherded and Holy Father.”

“Allesandro Farnese is the devil!” shouted the diplomat from Sweden. “My sovereign, King Gustav of Sweden, has long considered the King of France’s hesitation to convene the Conclave and have the Pope reelected a grievous error, I beseech Queen Anne to pardon me.” 

“The emperor and the Pope are both evil!” shrilled the envoy from Hesse, France’s ally since the invasion of 1536. “My master, Landgrave Philip of Hesse, calls them heretics, not King François and King Ferdinand who do not burn their countrymen regardless of their religion.”

Ferdinand recited the messages he had received from his spies in Flanders. “The number of burnings in the Low Countries has skyrocketed during the past year. The people are very upset.”

“And frightened,” the same man from Hesse added. “Many migrate from Flanders and other German dominions controlled by the emperor because of their fear for their lives.”

“Yes,” agreed Ferdinand. Carlos’ persecution of Protestants horrified him.

The French queen gazed at the tapestry of the Last Judgment. “François is a chivalrous man. They had certain agreements with Farnese, but the Pope repudiated them.”

Ferdinand supplemented, “Six years ago after our capture of Rome, I told François that the Pope should be dethroned. However, after Farnese’s heart stroke in our camp, we considered him an old and frail man, one who would not try to plot anything again. We were mistaken.”

Ercole stated, “I said to François that having Duke Anne de Montmorency as governor of Rome might not be enough to prevent the Pope from scheming again.”

“The past is the past,” Anne breathed. “Let’s concentrate on the present.”

Cosimo rejoined the conversation. “According to my spies in the Vatican, Farnese is going to have me and my family excommunicated for my support of François and Ferdinand.”  

Ercole grinned. “Will that ancient Satan excommunicate the whole of Italy?”

A collective laughter was a moment’s repose for them. Some of the tension dissolved.   

Cosimo de’ Medici maneuvered their discussion to the agenda. “If the siege of Milan is not lifted, King François and Queen Marguerite of Bohemia will die of starvation or will be burned in case of their capitulation. If we allow this to happen, Emperor Carlos will think that he might dethrone or murder any monarch if they refuse to dance to his whims.”

Ercole predicted, “If the King of France dies at the pyre, we will all be in danger.”

The ambassador from the Republic of Genoa came forward. “We do not have monarchy in Genoa. However, nobody of the Genoese people doubts that the Almighty appoints dynasties and kings to rule countries and lands. The life of any ruler is sacred! But to kill a king…” 

“Regicide is a normal thing for my brother,” commented Ferdinand. It was painful for him to say such things about his elder sibling, but it was the harsh reality.

The Genoese man bowed deeply to Ferdinand. “Your Majesty! All the Genoese remember your bravery on our battlefields when you expelled the Ottomans from our republic.”

Ferdinand’s lips curved in a smile. “I’m glad to see you.”

The envoy from the Sienese Republic joined the discourse. “The siege of Milan must end!”

King Ferdinand enlightened, “We are ready for a bloody confrontation. My troops, which include seventy thousand men, are stationed near Vigevano. Dauphin Henri arrived in Soncino with the French army of fifty thousand. How many men can our Italian allies lead to Milan?”

The Earl of Wiltshire informed, “I arrived in Florence together with the Captain General of Venice. He is ready to lead his ten thousand knights into battle.”

The Genoese diplomat revealed, “We can dispatch seven thousand men to Milan to fight under King Ferdinand’s leadership. Furthermore, Messer Andrea Doria, our Admiral, consented to make peace with the Ottoman fleet and help them attack Spanish ports and ships.”

This announcement elicited exclamations of surprise from the audience. Andrea Doria was a famous Italian condottiero and Admiral of the Republic of Genoa. Years ago, Doria had pledged his allegiance to Emperor Carlos and had once been the emperor’s ally against François. Doria had commanded several successful expeditions against the Ottoman Empire.

Ferdinand’s expression brightened. “Thank Messer Doria for his assistance.”

The envoy from Genoa explained, “Messer Doria can no longer support Emperor Carlos, for he strictly disapproves of the emperor’s intention to have King François burned.”   

Cosimo interjected, “Just as in 1540 I realized that my alliance with Carlos would not last.”    

“Indeed, Your Grace,” the Genoese man concurred.  

Cosimo sighed: his wife’s father, the Viceroy of Naples, now headed the emperor’s troops in Milan. “Unfortunately, Naples will side with Carlos, as well as the Duchy of Mantua.”  

“I did not expect anything else,” Anne uttered.

The Duke of Ferrara supplemented, “I’ve recruited ten thousand men in my army.”

The envoy from Sienna said, “We can give only three or four thousand men.”

Cosimo elucidated, “I’ve been preoccupied with Florence’s military affairs. Now there are twenty thousand men in our troops, and they will all fight against the emperor.”

Anne and Ferdinand gaped at the Duke of Florence. They knew of his dream to conquer Siena and the whole of Tuscany. Cosimo was assiduously preparing his army for conquests.

The diplomat from Hesse interposed, “Landgrave Philip is on his way to the Duchy of Milan. He is going to join his forces of eleven thousand with Dauphin Henri in Soncino soon.”

The ambassador from Sweden apologized in accented Italian, “King Gustav is ready to send his armies, but we are located too far from Milan, while the siege must be lifted urgently.”

The Queen of France smiled at the man. “We thank King Gustav for his help anyway.”

Cosimo counted, “In total, we will have about one hundred and sixty or seventy thousand men against the approximately equal Imperial force. That is not bad at all!”

Ferdinand smirked knavishly. “We may not need so many soldiers. If everything goes in accordance with our plan, we will burn half of Carlos’ army within a few hours.”

“Ah, our magical Turkish trap!” Cosimo burst out laughing.

“I had a nice time in Constantinople,” Ferdinand confessed. “I admire Sultan Suleiman, although we have to be careful with him. I learned a great deal about the Ottoman army. At present, we have the Grand Vizier Rüstem Pasha and his soldiers in my camp.”  

Anne, Ferdinand, and Cosimo traded conspiratorial glances.

Sultan Suleiman was extremely eager to rescue his French ally, of course with benefits for the Ottoman Empire, which France and Ferdinand would have to give. Suleiman had sent to Italy Rüstem Pasha Hirvati, the empire’s grand vizier. They would apply the highly flammable Greek fire against the foe even before battle. The secret of its preparation had been known only to the Byzantines, but later the Muslims learned it after they had subjugated Constantinople.  

The Genoese representative was now alarmed. He remembered the Turkish occupation of Genoa, from which they had been liberated by Ferdinand in 1540. “The Turks? In Italy?”

Anne allayed, “Your Excellency, neither Messer Doria nor you should be worried about the Ottomans. Ferdinand and France represented by Monsieur d’Annebault signed an agreement with them that Rüstem Pasha and his men would leave Italy after Milan is freed.”   

Ferdinand confirmed, “All is well. Be at ease.”

Cosimo de’ Medici proceeded to the final part. “Let’s sign the treaty.”

In a matter of minutes, the treaty between France, Ferdinand von Habsburg, and their Italian allies was signed. The so-called ‘Anti-Carlos’ coalition was formed. With the stroke of an ink pen, Anne exercised her right to represent François and make decisions in his name.

Cosimo stamped the paper with the Medici ducal seal. “It is done.”

Cheers echoed through the room. Anne’s and Ferdinand’s hearts were now lighter.

One of the diplomats cried, “Long Live King François and King Ferdinand!”

The assemblage repeated this, then roared, “We are against the emperor!”

“Long Live Emperor Ferdinand!” hailed the Queen of France.

Though at first startled, the crowd exploded with acclamations of delight.

Anne stepped to Ferdinand. “I’m certain that we have the same thoughts.”

Ferdinand dipped a nod without any shyness. “Precisely.”

The Duke of Florence summed up, “With the Lord’s blessings, our efforts will result in the liberation of Milan and the replacement of the Holy Roman Emperor.”

“I shall not be as warmongering as Carlos,” Ferdinand pledged.

After the long exchange of courtesies, Duke Cosimo, Queen Anne, and King Ferdinand departed the presence chamber. The Earl of Wiltshire stared after his daughter wistfully.


July 10, 1546, Soncino Castle, Soncino, Duchy of Milan, Italy

Dauphin Henri stood near the battlements, a breeze raising his brown hair and curling it somewhat. He had awoken at dawn, leaving Dauphine Catherine de’ Medici asleep in his bed.   

The heir of France had led more than fifty thousand men to the Duchy of Milan. Now they were stationed in Soncino, a military fortress located to the north of Milan. In 1536, Emperor Carlos had assigned the Milanese Stampa family the Marquisate of Soncino. Nevertheless, after the Duchy of Milan had come under the Valois control, the Stampa had pledged their allegiance to King François. Despite the current siege of Milan, the Stampa did not betray their liege lord.

Philippe de Chabot approached the battlements. Now they were in the round tower, unique in its shape: at the battlements level, the tower presented a round room with a circular canopy in the center that had a cylindrical column leading to the top of the conical bastion. 

Henri turned to him. “Philippe, what of your report?”

Chabot bowed. “Landgrave Philippe of Hesse is expected to arrive tomorrow.”

“Any news from Ferdinand?” Impatience colored the dauphin’s voice.

Chabot notified, “He arrived from Florence to Vigevano near Pavia. Claude d’Annebault is with him. They need some time to coordinate our actions with the Turks.”

The prince nodded. “We cannot act without knowing how Rüstem Pasha will attack.”

They no longer cared that they were not only allied with the Muslims, but had also let them step on Italian soil. The Imperial army was so huge that they had to garner all support possible.

“The Turks,” started Chabot, “pledged to leave Italy after the siege will be lifted. That was King Ferdinand’s agreement with Sultan Suleiman who strives to save our sovereign.”   

Henri commented, “I’m grateful to Suleiman for his desire to rescue my father. They have been allies for ten years. The emperor has shown how dangerous Carlos has become for kings.”

Chabot tipped his head. “If every ruler considers it possible to dethrone a rival monarch and even worse to murder them on phony charges, there will be anarchy everywhere.”

“That accursed Carlos,” the hissing sound fell from the dauphin’s mouth, “shall not have me and my father burned as heretics. He might say whatever he wants, but it will never happen.”

“We will need to decide what to do with Carlos after we win.”

“The trap with the Turks must work,” claimed François’ son with certainty. “After our victory, it will be up to my father and Ferdinand to deal with Carlos.” Henri clenched his fists angrily. “But if I encounter that rascal in battle, I’ll slaughter him like an animal.”

Chabot eyed the young man alarmingly. He would have to watch over his sovereign’s heir. “Carlos is one of the best swordsmen in Christendom. Do not tempt fate, Your Highness.”

The prince smirked. “The Duke of Alba is also a great swordsman.”

“You wounded him, but he survived. He and the emperor are on their way to Milan.”

“Let the birds come here. We shall burn their wings, and they will escape.”

Chabot nodded. “We shall burn part of their army.”

“Thanks to the Ottomans.” Henri eyed the fortifications and the drawbridges. “In spite of being the heathens, they are reliable allies, although their help comes at a certain price. Now they can station their ships in all of our ports, but it is such a small payment for my father’s life.”

“We must be careful with them, Your Highness. They might be playing a game.”

“I do not think so,” protested the dauphin, his gaze examining the inner courtyard. “I’ve spent some time studying the history of the Ottoman Empire during our march on Milan. Anne told me a lot about Suleiman and his reign. This Eastern caliph has a code of honor in battle and politics, as the history of his reign proves, in spite of being ruthless in his conquests.”

Philippe de Chabot had the same opinion. “I’ve acted as France’s foreign minister since the death of that traitor Tournon. I know a great deal about Suleiman, and your opinion of him is correct. At the same time, he is a crafty politician, one who should not be underestimated.”

The prince pointed out, “Suleiman is highly unlikely to endeavor to conquer Italy. He is preoccupied with his obsession to crush the influential Shah of Iran Tahmasp the First.”

“Indeed, Your Highness. Most of the Turkish armies are stationed in the eastern part of their empire. The Safavid dynasty has long been the worst enemy of the Osman royals.”

“We shall discuss it later, Admiral de Brion. Now all my thoughts are about Milan.”

Chabot took a step to the dauphin and paused near the battlements to see him better. “Your Highness, I beseech you not to seek Emperor Carlos in battle. We must protect you.”

An incensed Henri gripped the parapet of the battlements. “Carlos deserves to fall from my hand after what he did to my family. I still remember the Spanish captivity where I suffered with my late brother, François. At last, I have the chance to settle scores with my captor.”

Once more, Chabot promised himself to look carefully after the dauphin. The events of the past year had changed the prince dramatically: Henri had become a strong, mature, resourceful man who was learning to exercise power in all ways possible during his father’s absence. It was beneficial for a future king, as Henri was viewed by the French, but the prince was too full of ire and pain at the moment. Henri has not recovered yet from the execution of Diane de Poitiers.

The Admiral of France recalled, “King François once told me something important. Anger burns you like iron, whose tenderness makes you ache and lose control over yourself.”

Henri smiled. “I can control my emotions very well. Have always been like that.”

“That is true, but not in this case with the emperor.”

“Don’t worry about me.” The dauphin then dismissed his father’s friend.

Henri shut his eyes, relieved to be alone. Since the dramatic events in Crussol when he had sent his former favorite to her grave, he preferred perfect stillness, finding in its folds blanketing him in his loneliness the much-desired consolation that his battered soul was seeking. He did not grieve the loss of Diane de Poitiers: he mourned for the years of having loved her and trusted her immensely, the years of having been ensnared by the delusions Diane had formed in his head.

“I do not regret your death, you harpy,” Henri spoke, as if the dead woman could hear him. “It is a pity that you ruled my decisions and heart for so long. I regret that I adored you.”

Opening his eyes, the dauphin surveyed coats-of-arms on the walls and stopped his gaze on a crucifixion on the opposite wall. Again and again, Henri remembered his last conversation with Diane, every time despising her more and more, also hating himself for once worshipping her. He hoped that she would burn in hell for what she had done to his relatives. Antoine says that she wrote a diary. What other crimes are hidden in that diary? Who else did she kill?    

Dauphin Henri spun on his heels and exited the tower, heading to his rooms.

§§§

Henri descended from the tower and into the inner courtyard. He halted as he saw on one of the castle’s walls the Duchy of Milan’s former coat-of-arms, flanked by torches and water buckets, as well as symbols and the personal motto of Francesco Sforza – ‘Accendo e spengo.’

Antoine de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, approached the dauphin and made a bow. “This motto means ‘I light up, and I turn off’. I find it applicable to our plans in Milan.”

“It is like the explosion we will make,” agreed Henri, furrowing his brows. “Nonetheless, Sforza no longer rule Milan, and they never will. One of my brother’s should inherit the duchy.”

Vendôme nodded. “That is an excellent idea.”

“His Majesty has been planning that all along.”

“Your Highness, I can tell the Scampi family to remove the Sforza arms.”

“No.” Henri’s gaze stopped on another wall where the Valois arms hung. “My little brother Lorenzo will inherit Milan. He will marry daughter of Cosimo de’ Medici – Isabella.”

Vendôme recalled the Duke of Florence’s ancestral tree. “Indeed, Duke Cosimo is a descendant of both Lorenzo Il Magnifico and Francesco Sforza on his mother’s side.”

The dauphin sighed. “Well, enough of politics.”

“Going to your wife?” Vendôme could feel the other man’s unwillingness to do that.

“I must, Antoine.” Henri then admitted a bit shyly, “I miss your sister. I would love to see Marie again as soon as possible. I would better be with her rather than Catherine.”

Vendôme was not surprised to hear that. “Will you continue your affair with Marie?”

The prince answered unhesitatingly, “Yes, if she wants to be mine.”

“Oh, she does.” Vendôme chuckled. “She is infatuated with Your Highness.”

Henri smiled broadly. “I often think of her, Antoine. Of her loveliness and kindness.”   

Vendôme wondered whether the dauphin had already forgotten Diane de Poitiers. “My sister wrote to me that she would come here from Florence if you had invited her.”

“I want to spend time with Catherine. I feel guilty for mistreating her for too long.”

“I understand, Your Highness. But what will happen in France?”

The dauphin felt warm as he recalled the face of Vendôme’s sister. “Marie will be with me. Catherine tolerated Diane, so she will get accustomed to my new favorite.”

Vendôme dipped his head. “Marie is yearning for you – not for your title.”

“I do know that.” With sadness, the dauphin affirmed, “I regret that I’m not a free man despite having three children with Catherine. If I could, I would marry your sister.”

This admission both surprised and gladdened Vendôme. “Fate is a cruel thing.”

Henri patted his friend’s shoulder. “An atrocious vixen.”

The duke questioned, “Your Highness, are you really fine after the drama in Crussol?”

The dauphin grimaced at the memory of Diane’s demise. “That woman merited a far more gruesome end than one I gave her. It is all too difficult for me, Antoine. What helps me stay sane is that I started reassessing our relationship some time ago, before Diane’s condemnation.”

“I’m astounded and relieved to hear that, Your Highness.”

“I rarely share my private thoughts. I’ll be fine soon.” Henri then walked away and entered the fortress, whose first set of defensive walls had been erected in the 10th century.

§§§

The dauphin’s chambers were located in Torre del Castellano, or the Castellan’s tower. Once it had been the official residence of the castle’s governor. After his arrival at Soncino, Henri was lodged in the best rooms, and the Scampi family had relocated to modest quarters.   

Upon entering his bedroom, Henri saw Catherine sitting in his bed under a canopy of blue and yellow silk. She had changed into her nightgown of black and red silk. Despite her rather plain looks, his spouse looked quite nice and content, her features tinged with the gentleness that Henri had seen on her face on the day of their son François’ birth. Yet, even the biblical wall frescoes could not make her look like sainted Madonna, for there was something sinister in her.

She shot him a grin. “I woke up without you.”

“I needed to talk with our generals.” Henri sauntered over to a marble table in the corner and poured a cup for himself; he adored Italian wine. “We are planning the battle and our trap.”

Catherine’s nefarious heart tumbled to her feet. “Which one?” She did not want François to be released from her trap. Her most cherished desire was to make Henri the next King of France.

He sipped wine. “Military secrets are not interesting for you.”

“Ah, I see.” She kept her voice devoid of her anger.

“Don’t be offended.” He finished off the cup and poured out another one.

She purred, “Henri, I want to wake up in your bed every morning.”

He glanced at the fresco of Christ’s crucifixion by Bernardino Gatti. “I’m glad, then.”

Catherine flashed a scintillating smile as their gazes intersected. The Medici eyes full of jubilation at seeing his slightly more affectionate and attentive attitude to her, and his neutral gaze watching her critically, as if she were a perilous conundrum that he needed to fathom out.

Henri, will you ever look at me with love? wondered the Medici princess. After the demise of Diane de Poitiers, which she had engineered by entrapping her hated rival, she was flying on the wings of malicious joy. A sense of her ultimate triumph over Diane overmastered her. For years, Catherine had waited for a moment to get rid of her husband’s mistress, but she could not have done so due to their secret alliance. At last Diane was dead, disgraced as a traitor to France!

Questions circled Catherine’s mind. Had she really conquered Henri? She had hoped that with Diane gone, he would seek consolation in her – his wife who had given him two sons and one daughter. She had been surprised and overjoyed to receive Henri’s summons to Italy when she had been in seclusion at a monastery. Her official legend was that she had left court so as to pray for the salvation of King François, but it was her tactic to cultivate her good reputation.

She had believed that Henri craved to see her because Diane had been executed. Catherine fantasized that she had finally managed to become the first woman in her spouse’s life. Only until they had met at Castello di Rivoli in Turin, where she had found him with his army. Henri had become more attentive to her, and for the first time in their marriage, he spent nights with her instead of coming to her apartments for short couplings with the only goal to impregnate her.

The dauphine had followed her husband with the French troops from Turin to Soncino. For most of the time, they had lived in Henri’s tent during the army’s march across northern Italy, and every night Henri performed his martial duties, sometimes taking her several times during the same night. Despite all the inconveniences, Catherine’s head was full of romantic fantasies about Henri falling in love with her and pledging his heart and body to her for the rest of his life.

Nonetheless, there was no deep affection in his eyes whenever Henri looked at her. Their lovemaking was not as cold as before: in the past, all their couplings had been based on primitive male desire and the necessity to produce an heir. Currently, their intimacies were tender and even passionate, but they were colored with shades of restraint on his part. There is still a thick wall between us. Why cannot Henri be closer to me? Can’t he see that I shall do anything for him?

Her spouse’s voice jerked her out of her musings. “I’ll send you away soon because we will attack Milan. You will return to France to Amboise, where the court is now.”

“How soon?” Her heart hammered with apprehension.

“Before the end of this summer.” He set an empty cup at the table. “Governor Rossi used to send to France regular reports for His Majesty. When the invasion started, my Aunt Margot calculated on the basis of these documents that Milan would run completely out of grain stock in a year. In August, it will be eleven months since the siege began. It will soon be over.”  

“I wish you every success, husband. I have faith in you.” Lies came easily to her lips.

Damn François! Catherine cursed silently. I want that pagan king burned! She had been sure that her traps would work like magic, and that soon both Anne and François would perish. However, at first, Henri had rescued Anne in Boulogne, and now he was doing his best to save his father. It was the dark irony of fate that everything that the Medici villainess had designed to dispose of the French monarchs was gradually being razed to the ground by Henri himself.

Seating himself in a wooden chair near the bed, the dauphin asked quietly, “Are there any signs of pregnancy? We have been together for a month every night.”

“Did you invite me to Italy because of your desire for another heir?”

He sighed. “That is one of the reasons. Another one is to spend some time together.”

Her eyes were beseeching, glinting insanely too. “My Henri, we are so well matched! One day, we will become a grand couple, one who will govern France, Piedmont, and Milan together. If only you had fallen in love with me or appreciated my intelligence and education at least.”

His mouth thinned. “I’ve never considered you a fool, Catherine.”

She grinned. “I’m delighted when you speak so openly with me.”

A deep frown marred his forehead. “I’m not the King of France – my father is. I love him and wish him a long reign with Anne. I’d prefer not to hear such speeches about our greatness again, and even upon my accession – the later, the better – you will not command me.”  

The dauphine inwardly seethed with ire. “Of course.”

Henri began unfastening his doublet. “I have something else on my mind now.”

In a few minutes, Catherine and Henri were naked on the bed. He kissed her with a force that trapped her breath in her lungs, ready to explode. His hands caressed her body with at first feathery touches and then urgency as his lust grew. Catherine enjoyed the exquisite torture as her husband’s delicate caresses made her tremble from the wonderful sensations in her whole body.

“I never thought that I could feel so good,” she whispered as he kissed her neck.

He dropped his head to her bosom, massaging one breast, while his mouth sucked the other. “It is my fault that we never enjoyed merry lovemaking. I apologize for that.”

It pleased her that he felt guilty for not being attentive to her in the past. Perhaps he would be able to fall for her over time. Yet, could love grow out of his remorse and his sense of duty to her as his wife? She desperately begged the Lord that it would be so.

Catherine entangled her hands into his hair. “I wish to forget all the bad between us.”

“I guess,” he began between his kisses on her stomach, “we can try.”

The hot pressure was building inside of her. “Oh, heavens!”

He stared up into her flushed face. “Do you like the things I do to you in bed?”

“Yes!” she gasped. “I’m craving for you!”

The prince positioned himself above her. “I need my release too.”

With her eyes dazed, she implored, “Take me, Henri.”

His mouth crushed into hers, and Henri drove himself deep within his wife’s welcoming flesh. They trembled from the blatantly carnal pleasure that flooded through them as he moved inside her faster and harder. His hands tightened around her wrists, holding her a willing prisoner to his invasion. Catherine arched her back and raised her hips to meet his thrusts. She was full of him, stretched near to bursting, and it brought her immense physical satisfaction.

Henri will love me and only me, the dauphine repeated again and again in her head. As her legs wrapped around his waist, she ran her arms over his back, enjoying the feel of his muscles. Never before their meeting in Turin had she been given the opportunity to explore her husband’s body that she found fascinating. As a wave of rapture raced through her, Catherine kissed him as fiercely and possessively as she could, finally claiming what was hers since their wedding.

“Henri! My Henri!” Her moans of his name were guttural.

Yet, her husband was not calling for her. As the prince opened his eyes and stared into the wide-open and bulging hazel Medici eyes, he inwardly cringed. Since their wedding, he could barely look into her orbs: in their depths, he always discerned something akin to the darkness of the gloomiest night that could blacken everything it enveloped and that had no end. Why do I feel so every time when I am with Catherine? Something in her makes me shudder in apprehension.   

Shutting his eyes, Henri drove ferociously inside her, at last earning the ecstasy he yearned for. A low, primeval growl erupted from him as he emptied himself into his spouse. Catherine lay beneath him, then he rolled off of her and lay on his side, staring into space.

The dauphine pressed herself to his body. “Henri, I love you so much!”

“Did I please you enough, Catherine?” His tone was reserved.

She sighed with pleasure. “Yes! I want to be only yours! Always!”

He climbed off the bed, and donned on his robe. “But it shall not be so.”

Catherine gawked at him. “Diane is no longer part of our lives.”

The dauphin’s expression whitened to the color of ash, then blackened like a raven’s wing. “Diane paid for her crimes. I buried my romance with her forever.”

Elated, she gushed, “We will start anew – you and me.”

He regarded her half-apologetically, half-sternly. “I’ll be a better husband to you, Catherine. I’ll be a good lover and a courteous gentleman, but I cannot give you my heart.”

“Diane is dead!” She jumped from the bed, disregarding her nudity. “Why, mon amour?”

He could not look into these pleading eyes. “Never beg a man for love.”

She wrapped herself in the sheet soaked with sweat. “We can become kindred spirits!”

Henri prodded to a window; outside the sun was high in the sky. “People are born as soul mates – they do not become them. My father and Anne are kindred spirits, but you and I are not.”

An irritated Catherine darted to him. “Is there someone else?”

The dauphin swung around to face her. His eyes sparkling in a way they rarely did when he looked at his spouse, he confessed, “I’m very interested in one woman.”

Bestial rage speared through her, but her voice was calm. “Who is she?”

Henri would not tell her anything now. “You will learn her name in due time.”

“Will she become your second Diana?” She fended off the urge to punch him.

“Don’t remind me of that demoness.” His mood turned foul.

“I’m sorry. I know how vicious she was.” What else could Catherine say?

Henri envisaged Marie de Bourbon and smiled brightly. “I began to fall out of love with Diane some time before the discovery of her crimes. Then I met her opposite – a kind and noble-minded woman, smart, and loving me for who I am, not for my status. I feel affection for her.”

Memories cascaded through Dauphin Henri: of helping Marie do little pranks when they had been alone; of being engrossed in their intelligent discussions; of making love to Marie passionately. Marie had joined his cortege in Lyons on the way to Nice, where Henri had escorted Anne. Having come to meet with her brother, Antoine de Bourbon, Marie had stayed there because the dauphin had expressed his interest in her, and soon they had become lovers.

Henri craved Marie’s touch, his heart aching to feel her hand on his chest. She had saved him from the horror that had paralyzed him after the battles in Picardy. When he had made love to Marie, he had been only hers, feeling too warm to let Diane’s cold chill him. Henri often thought of Marie while bedding Catherine. I need Marie’s sweetness again, the dauphin mused.

Her breathing became erratic. “You swore that you would love only Diane.”

“It was obsession,” he identified. “It took me years to realize that. I was bewitched with Diane’s beauty and her intelligence. After my return from captivity in Madrid, my mother was dead, and Diane was the only woman who could comfort me in my distress. My infatuation with her grew during those days.” He sighed. “If only I could have predicted how evil her spirit was.”

The dauphine eyed him incredulously. “And what about me?”

Her spouse answered bluntly, “I cannot compel myself to love you, Catherine.”

“That woman will be your paramour, won’t she?” At his nod, Catherine suddenly yearned to murder her new rival. “You are hurting me, Henri! You are ripping my heart out of my chest!”

“Don’t dramatize everything, Madame. You ought to accept that I shall have a mistress, and that we will always be tied to each other by vows we pronounced on that day in Marseilles.”

The dauphine winced at the emphatic note in his tone. “You are cruel!”

To his credit, Henri objected in a calm manner, “Being sincere does not mean being bad and callous. My late mother Claude, God rest her soul, adored my father, but she resigned herself to the fact that her feelings would remain unrequited. My parents were friends and allies.” His voice silken, he advised, “If you do the same, then we will have a normal relationship.”

“Henri…” Angry tears filled her eyes.

He touched her cheek gently. “Forgive me, Catherine.”

The dauphin stomped over to the dressing room, leaving his weeping wife. The loathing for the unknown woman was striking its root in her already dark soul. When I find her, I shall kill that creature who dared try to destroy my matrimony. Her days are numbered, Catherine vowed.

Notes:

We hope that you are fine and safe. Please take care of yourself and your family in these very difficult times. We are more likely to update at the beginning of March again.

This chapter’s title refers to the main topic in this chapter – the formation of anti-Carlos coalition that includes France and the French royals, King Ferdinand and his supporters, as well as France and Ferdinand’s Italian allies, including Cosimo de’ Medici, Duke of Florence. The Republic of Venice, represented by Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, is still France’s ally thanks to Thomas’ diplomatic accomplishments and his friendship with the Doge of Venice. The Duchy of Ferrara, represented by Ercole d’Este, Duke of Ferrara, is also their ally.

King Ferdinand and Queen Anne are friends. Queen Juana of Castile, who is imprisoned at the Royal Palace of Tordesillas, will soon make her appearance. Those who think that Emperor Carlos V and King Ferdinand are now sworn foes are right: there is no way Carlos might let Ferdinand prevail because Ferdinand made his choice and sided with France, although Carlos’ own actions (for example, his brother’s arrest) made Ferdinand his enemy. Ferdinand cannot allow Carlos to win because otherwise Ferdinand, his wife, and all of his children will have a bleak future.

Pope Paul III excommunicated the House of Valois and the families of King Ferdinand and Anne de Montmorency. The Pope acted so in order to try and make their soldiers think that if the men follow the orders of François and Ferdinand, their souls might be damned for all eternity. But will this work? As for France’s Protestant allies, some of them still support King François despite the dissolution of the country’s former Protestant alliance after the massacres of many Protestants perpetrated because of Diane de Poitiers and Catherine de’ Medici’s schemes.

Dauphin Henri of France and his soldiers are already in Piedmont. The Turks will play important role in the war between Ferdinand & François against the emperor. Rüstem Pasha, who is mentioned in this chapter, was an influential Ottoman statesman who served as the Grand Vizier of Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent. Rüstem Pasha was married to the sultan’s daughter, Mihrimah Sultan. Greek fire was an incendiary weapon used by the Byzantine Empire starting from c. 672, and as the empire was conquered by the Ottomans after the fall of Constantinople in 1453, some historians assume that the Turks learned the secrets of the Greek fire.

At present Dauphin Henri attempts to take care of his neglected wife, Catherine, feeling guilty that he had once been obsessed with Diane. Henri invited Catherine to Italy from France to spend some time with her, hoping to impregnate her again. We do not think that Dauphin Henri could fall in love with Catherine de’ Medici in history, and he will not love her in this fiction either, but they will be together for some time – we do not need to have Catherine’s crimes discovered now. We need Catherine for a few plotlines, and she is an excellent historical villainess, in some ways a controversial woman struggling for her family and for power.

Soncino Castle (in Italian Rocca di Soncino) is a military fortress in Soncino, northern Italy, which was constructed in the 10th century. It was active since the years around 1500. In 1536, Emperor Carlos V assigned the Milanese Stampa family the Marquisate of Soncino, and this family transformed the castle into a luxurious residence (you may google it). The description of the castle in this chapter in the Catherine/Dauphin Henri scene is historically correct.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 75: Chapter 74: Enmity between Brothers

Summary:

Queen Anne of France meets with Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, in Florence and then travels to Rome. Empress Mary Tudor does the unthinkable. Juana of Castile, the once captive Queen of Spain, meets with her son, King Ferdinand. The brothers’ war is now inevitable.

Notes:

We will respond to all the reviews to chapter 73 (the previous chapter) within a week.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 74: Enmity between Brothers

July 20, 1546, Palazzo Compagni, city of Florence, Tuscany, Italy

“I wish to be with you forever,” breathed Jane Percy, Countess of Northumberland.

Her husband, Sir Henry Percy, laughed. “You can freely do this, my lady wife.”

It was late afternoon, but the spouses had already been in bed for many hours. Jane pressed her body to him, her head resting upon his shoulder, his arm holding her close. Ensconced in the intimate warmth of their bed canopied with violet velvet, they had made love several times.  

Over a year earlier, Henry Percy had eagerly altered their relationship. After dismissing all of his Italian mistresses, he had become faithful to his Seymour wife and renewed their marital relations. He had decided not to bequeath his English estates to King Henry, but to accomplish this, he had needed to produce an heir with Jane. He still felt guilty for his previous ignorance of Jane and the pain he had caused her, so Percy had endeavored to make their life pleasant.  

Jane had quickly conceived and carried the child to term despite her fears. Their son, Alan Percy, had been born in the spring of 1546. Their healthy baby was the apple of his parents’ eye, for both spouses had lost children in the past. They spent all their free time with the infant.

Eventually, the Earl of Northumberland climbed out of bed. “It is rather dark.”

“Do not leave me, Harry!” implored Jane, unwilling to be separated from him.

Percy donned his black silk robe. “I’m here, Janie.”

“When is your next audience with Duke Cosimo?” she inquired.   

He looked at the clock ticking on the black marble mantel. “His Grace of Florence is too preoccupied at present. They are preparing for the impending confrontation in Milan.”

Like everyone, Jane was horrified with the recent events. “Will they rescue King François, Duke Anne de Montmorency, and Queen Marguerite of Bohemia? What about King Ferdinand?”

“I suppose they will, and I do really want this to happen. The question is how the Habsburg brothers will divide power. The Battle of Milan will change the political map of Europe.”

Percy lit candles on bedside tables. The shadows from these candles were dancing across the walls frescoed with the mythological romance of Zeus and Leto, daughter of the Titans Coeus and Phoebe. The mahogany furniture was of high quality and expensive; the Florentine rugs covered the floors. Several paintings by Michelangelo and Raphael adorned two walls.

Jane stretched herself along the soft satin sheets, grinning at the amazing way her spouse’s eyes seemed riveted by the sensuous movement of her body. “Oh, that is all terrifying.”

He settled on the bed’s edge. “It is horrible for the French monarchs.”

Jealousy stirred in her. “Are you still thinking of Anne Boleyn?” 

Silence ensued, and it spoke volumes without any confession.

Percy glanced at his spouse with pleading eyes. “Jane, I beseech you not to touch upon a topic that might cause us to quarrel. I resigned to the fact that Anne would never be mine, and I realized that I could not live in perpetual misery, so I changed my attitude to our marriage.”

Jane sighed with frustration. “I understand that you cannot give me more.”

He felt wretched as he recollected the years when he had avoided Jane. “Forgive me. You are a good woman, and you suffered enough because of my indifference and my infidelities.”

“I did, but I’m grateful for your kindness and for your respect to me, Harry.” She could not refer to her husband as Henry because this name brought back many painful memories.

He surveyed the fresco depicting the first meeting of Leto and Zeus. “I do not want you to feel like Leto who was ravaged by Zeus and abandoned by him while being pregnant.”

Jane dropped her head dismally. “You cannot leave me because we are married, unlike Zeus left Leto. I reconciled myself with my situation. My dreams of being loved will never come true, but at least I have a son and a faithful husband who is trying to make me happy.”

Percy looked at her with remorse and admiration. “You are truly wonderful, Jane.”

She expelled a sigh of frustration. “It is just a bad feeling that I have about the matter,” she went on, attempting to verbally express her inner musings. “At present, Queen Anne of France is in Florence together with her sister, Duchess Marie de Montmorency. We have not seen her yet, but every time I think of your inevitable meeting with her, I begin shuddering.”

He steeped two fingers beneath his chin. “We have had no chance yet to see her. Queen Anne arrived in Florence in secret. We learned about her presence in the city only after Prince Lorenzo’s birth. As of late, she has been too busy with her diplomatic efforts to form the anti-Carlos coalition, as they call it. I had audiences with Duke Cosimo, but I did not meet with her.”

Jane pulled the sheet up to her chin. “She knows for a certainty that you are married to me, and that we live in Florence. Sooner or later, we will encounter the Boleyn sisters.”

“Are you jealous? Or are you afraid that I might try to woo her?” 

“Something like that,” she admitted.

Percy let out a half-bitter, half-jealous laugh. “Did you hear the poems that King François composed in his wife’s honor? They are known even outside of France.”

“I do not speak French, except for a few words. But I’m aware of their existence.”  

His countenance was now tinged with envy. “Anne Boleyn and François de Valois are madly in love, and everyone knows that. After her release from Boulogne, she rushed from France to Florence despite her delicate condition because of her desire to save her husband trapped in Milan. She did not act in such a sacrificing manner for King Henry.”  

The story about the captivity of a pregnant Queen Anne and her sons in Boulogne had spread across Europe like the most horrible legend, just as the tale of Queen Catherine Howard’s execution had done. Both Jane and Harry rejoiced that King Henry and his entourage had been captured after Dauphin Henri had retaken Boulogne. Neither Jane nor Percy was a traitor to their homeland, but they loathed England’s sovereign and reveled in his misfortunes.

Jane said honestly, “I’m glad for Queen Anne. She and I both suffered at the hands of that Tudor monster, who changes queens like jewelry and murders them without compunction.”

Her spouse’s hand tightened gently about her arm, and he drew her towards him. “Indeed, Henry Tudor is a beast. Don’t torment yourself by remembering him.”

“Yes,” she agreed quietly. “I pity Catherine Parr, his new wife.”

“Jane,” Percy drawled. “Do not doubt me. I shall not betray you with another woman.”

“Oh really?” She looked at him with challenge.

“The old story of Anne Boleyn and Harry Percy is long over.” His heart swooped at these words, but they were true. “I shall not make any advances to Anne if we see her.”

Her smirk’s was acrid. “Even if you had done so, she would have rebuffed your attempts. Whatever existed between you two in youth is long gone – Anne loves the French monarch.”

This utterance of the truth tortured Henry Percy like nothing else. Percy still loved Anne and envied her French husband, who was deeply worshipped by her, who was the father of her many children, and who could touch his queen anytime. At times, the Earl of Northumberland imagined Anne and François shining in the splendor of the magnificent Valois court, and in such moments, he wished to forget about what he knew of Anne’s personal dramatic life.

Nevertheless, Percy had long learned to live without Anne. He was not enamored of Jane, but his wife was undoubtedly a better person than his first spouse, Lady Mary Talbot. At present, Jane and Percy were quite content together and cherished their son, the growing trust between them, and their gentle companionship. They were still young enough to be ardent lovers, and Percy had unleashed in his wife the dormant passion that had slumbered in her before.

Looking into Jane’s endearing eyes, Percy considered himself a lucky man. Despite her lack of education, Jane is a good wife to me. An intelligent and educated man, he needed and enjoyed intellectual talks with his Florentine friends, collected artworks, and participated in all kinds of intellectual activities in Italy. Percy was versed in politics and arts, and he was also well learned in humanism. He could not lead such conversations with his spouse, but Jane gave him warmth, understanding, and compassion, respected him and admired his smart mind.

The Earl of Northumberland vowed, “Jane, I shall not do anything to disgrace you. I swear that I’ll treat Anne in the way befitting her high station and formally. Please believe me!” 

His countess smiled gratefully. “Thank you, my dearest Harry.”

The earl gathered his spouse into his arms. He stared into her orbs, and kisses hovered over their mouths like an invisible fiery wind, their bodies tensing with hunger awakening in them.  

“God!” he burst out, kissing her jaw. “My letters to England can wait.”

His wife’s breath caught in her throat. “It is late. Don’t go to the study.”

His hands removed the sheet from Jane’s bosom and fondled her breasts. Percy discarded his robe and wrapped his countess into a cocoon of all-absorbing lust. They made love again, at first slowly and then almost frantically, and soon they experienced the most tremendous ecstasy that his expert thrusts and caresses ensured. They fell asleep at dawn.

§§§

At one o’clock in the afternoon, the Earl of Northumberland was hard at work in his study. Having fallen asleep early in the morning, he had rested until midday. He worked efficiently and with zest as he always did, but only until the Boleyn family paid him an unexpected visit. Percy was surprised, to say the least, to see Thomas Boleyn with his two daughters in his palazzo.

They sat in gilded X-shaped armchairs. A marble table stood between them.

“Good day, Lord Northumberland,” commenced Queen Anne officially. “Lately, I’ve had little free time, or I would have come earlier. What news do you have from England?” 

The English ambassador to Florence leaned back in his seat. “It is nice to see Your Majesty safe in spite of the perils that have beset you,” he answered with equal formality. “King Henry returned to England a month ago after his ransom had been fully paid to the French.”

Anne recalled what her stepson had written to her about Henry Tudor’s illness. “How is he faring? I was told that your sovereign was close to death due to the infection of his leg ulcer.”

“He recovered,” responded Percy coldly. He did not care at all about the tyrannical man’s health. “He came back not with victory, but in disgrace, as Your Majesty knows. He returned to England with half-empty coffers after the payment of his ransom and torn by sweating sickness.”

The Earl of Wiltshire questioned, “Are people still dying of the sweat?” 

Percy enlightened, “The epidemic is over in the south, east, and west of the country. At the same time, many new cases were registered in the city of York.”  

Marie de Montmorency opined, “This is God’s punishment for the invasion of France.”

“Perhaps,” said Percy, his scrutiny fixed on his former sweetheart.

Anne’s worries about her elder daughter intensified. “What about Princess Elizabeth?”

The diplomat informed, “Currently, Your Majesty’s daughter is in safety at Hever Castle. King Henry banished her from his court, punishing her for the voyage to Boulogne with the late Queen Catherine Howard. However, it is good for her to be away from York and the infection.”

Anne crossed herself. “God be praised! I hope the sickness will not re-appear in the south.”

Percy mentioned, “Thousands of Englishmen fell victim to this malady, but none of your relatives died. The Duke of Norfolk is rumored to have been killed during the siege of Paris.”

Each of the three Boleyns smiled mysteriously, but they said nothing.

Northumberland noticed their reactions, but he did not figure out anything. “Eventually, the princess will be allowed to return to court. So far, she is in your childhood home.”

“She must be thinking about you, Anne.” Marie’s laugh was encouraging.

Nostalgia swept over Wiltshire. “It has been such a long time since I last was at Hever.”

Anne had similar sentiments and whispered, “Most likely, I’ll never see it again.”

Anne is so official and even indifferent towards me, Henry Percy thought with chagrin. Yet, she misses Hever Castle. Does she remember our romance? He watched Anne with interest that he failed to conceal. As the Queen of France sat near the window, her gaze moved through the sun-glittering park, lingering on an alley of the Italian alders and maples. From her rather distant expression, Percy concluded that Anne plunged into thoughtfulness.

Visions of their erstwhile rendezvous deluged Percy’s head. Their clandestine meetings at court when he had served as Cardinal Wolsey’s page and she had been Catherine of Aragon’s lady-in-waiting for a short time. Their dances during feasts at court when the touch of their hands had burned them with heat. Their secrets trysts in the forest near Hever Castle, where the deer had been lurking in the shadows and where the birds had been singing vespers when dusk had fallen as Percy had kissed his beloved Anne for the first time. It was all long gone…

Northumberland remembered larks warbling on stumps in the meadow where they had often met. Until Thomas Boleyn had found them there and prohibited his daughter from seeing Percy. Anne’s love confessions to him and his vows of undying devotion sounded in Percy’s ears like the watery murmuring of the matrimonial river in which he had dreamed of drowning with Anne. I should not think of Anne in this vein. But she is so beautiful, as if she had not aged.

Marie’s voice intruded upon Percy’s revelries. “What about a brewing rebellion?” 

Northumberland elaborated, “The ruthless closure of chantries at my liege lord’s behest led to the people’s discontent. Lord Hertford, the king’s former chief minister and my brother-in-law, warned His Majesty about the possibility of a new uprising, but the king did not listen.”

Wiltshire spoke. “Was Hertford fired after the king’s return home? There were compelling reasons to dismiss him – the assassinations of Francis Bryan, Louis de Perreau, and the Duchess of Suffolk’s maid. He failed to find the culprit until the Marquess of Exeter discovered Thomas Culpepper’s connection with that Farnese thug. Don’t be astonished that I’m well informed.”

“I am not.” Percy smiled at the man with whom he had corresponded since his arrival in Italy. “In fact, Lord Hertford did a lot for England. During his tenure as the chief minister, the last religious houses were dissolved without a ruthlessness that Cromwell had once applied. Some of their wealth was invested in education and charity, just as Your Majesty wanted.”  

Anne remarked, “But only a little. England needs to finance education more. France is an enlightened country because my husband has never been greedy to support culture.”

“Lord Hertford could not do more,” Northumberland countered. “The king desired to appropriate the entire wealth of the monasteries into the state coffers. If Hertford was not careful, he would not have served in Cromwell’s office for seven years so well.”

Wiltshire concurred, “Hertford is a brilliant statesman and administrator.”  

The ambassador had grown to respect Hertford for his talents. “Edward Seymour and his family were banished from court. However, they have their heads attached to their necks.”

“Unlike my late husband William Stafford,” Marie lamented. “He was killed by Henry.”

Percy stared out; the gardeners were planting exotic trees from Sicily at Jane’s behest. “If there is a new rebellion, I fear the insurgents might have a very gruesome end.”

Wiltshire assumed, “Especially because of the king’s fury after the disaster in France.”

“Yes.” Percy was relieved that now he lived in another country.

“Henry Tudor,” hissed the queen like a snake. “He is greedy for everything, in particular sons and wealth, caring only about his own selfish needs and whims. In the meantime, he is desperate for approval from others and for servile admiration that boosts his inflated ego.”

It did not surprise Percy that Anne despised her former husband. “I cannot disagree.”

Disgust colored Marie’s visage. “He is a murderer of queens and of many others.”

Percy offered, “Do you want any refreshments?”

The queen shook her head. “No, thank you; we are already in a hurry.”

Wiltshire joined, “We are leaving for Rome. We came here to learn about Elizabeth.”

“Farnese,” spat Marie like the most venomous creature on earth. “That Lucifer!” 

Northumberland’s expression evolved into shock. “You are putting your lives in jeopardy! That man excommunicated all of you! If you are caught, you will stand trial for heresy.”

Anne stood up abruptly. “We are travelling in disguise and with protection.”

Marie rose to her feet. “We thought everything through.”

“It is high time to settle scores,” summarized Thomas Boleyn.

Percy arched a brow: he deciphered the sadistic anticipation in the eyes of each Boleyn. Were they intending to assassinate Pope Paul III? How? Had they invented some crafty plan to accomplish that? Despite being a Catholic, Percy would not blame them for the deed.  

“Just be very careful,” was the only thing Percy said.

As Queen Anne glided across the study, Northumberland drank in her unusual loveliness and gracefulness. The skin of her face and of her bosom, exposed by her low square neckline, was swarthy, smooth, and soft like a flower petal. She is an exotic mature beauty, Percy admired silently. He then tried to shut away memories of Anne and him, which swarmed his head again.

Henry Percy exited the study after the Boleyns. They headed to the great hall.

§§§

After the Boleyns’ departure, the Earl of Northumberland went to the garden. He found his wife sitting on a marble bench cradling little Alan. In the backdrop of this heart-warming picture, the sky was a molten gold as the sun blazed down, the scenery reflected in a fountain.

“You look majestic, Janie,” complemented Percy. “You and our son.”

Jane veered her gaze to him. “More stunning than Queen Anne of France?” 

With a sigh, her spouse settled on the bench beside her. “Do not be jealous.”

“Don’t I have a reason to feel so? Just look how perturbed you are following this meeting.”

“Jane, please don’t,” he implored. “It will do neither you nor me any good.”

The Countess of Northumberland stared at a bed of roses. “I saw the Boleyns from afar. I could not bring myself to greet them after glimpsing your heated glance at Anne. Yes, she is an unconventional beauty and does not look old at all, still slender after her many pregnancies.”

“They visited me because I am the English ambassador to Florence.”

“And her mind is so brilliant,” continued Jane with undisguised frustration.  

“Wife,” he started in a beseeching tone. “Please, let’s change the topic.”

Jane dissolved into tears. “Do you think that it is easy not only to know, but also to see that your husband adores another woman so much? Even though she forgot you years ago.”

Percy’s arms closed fiercely around her, their son nested between them.

“Do not torment us both, sweetheart. Forgive me. I’m not seeking meetings with her.”

They clung to each other, Jane let him held her. Only when the baby wailed, they parted.

“He must be hungry,” assumed Jane. “He also needs to be re-swaddled.”

A flood of unconditional affection swamped Jane. My Alan is my anchor to the world of the living. I’ve never known how deep and pure love can be until my son’s birth. The infant was a mixture of her and her husband, having inherited her gray eyes and most of Percy’s features. His milky-white complexion was that of his mother, but Alan had high cheekbones, a tuft of brown hair, and a nose as narrow as Percy’s. Perhaps Alan would have another sibling one day.

“I’ll bring the child to his wet-nurse.” Percy guessed that she wanted to be alone.

Jane handed the infant to him. “Come back, Harry.”

He smiled at her. “I shall.” Then he left the garden and entered the palazzo.

Her gaze examining the garden, Jane did not find its beauty soothing. She did not like Percy’s penchant for adorning the palazzo and the park with statues and marble busts, gravitating towards something more natural. She had been pleased to discover the large herb garden at the other end of the park, with lavender thyme and rosemary spilling over a series of arbors.

What do I feel for my spouse? Jane could not find the right answer. Her attitude to Percy was conflicted: exuberant joy that he treated her as his wife and had set aside his lovers, and painful disappointment because her husband’s amorous sentiments towards Anne were still strong. For the most part, Jane was content, for she had fulfilled her destiny as a woman with Alan’s birth. Yet, the knowledge of Anne’s ghost standing between her and Percy plagued her.

The countess was grateful to the Almighty for granting her a second chance at happiness. Most arranged unions were loveless, and their marriage had begun on a worse note. At least, with Northumberland’s commitment to be a good husband to Jane and a loving father to their son, Jane’s life was no longer a colorless existence that she had led as King Henry’s consort.


July 30, 1546, Visconti-Sforza Castle, Vigevano, Duchy of Milan

Three people lounged on black-brocaded couches on the terrace, which overlooked Piazza Ducale. Built at the end of the 15th century on the orders of Ludovico Sforza il Moro, this square was the finest model of Italian architecture. It functioned as an antechamber to the ducal fortress.

“My dearest son!” enthused Queen Juana of Castile. Her heart was singing a hymn of joy at the sight of Ferdinand. “You have grown into such a handsome and brave man! However, you will always be a boy of five for me, one who watched sunset with me at Tordesillas.”  

King Ferdinand grinned blithesomely. “My memories of this day are distant, but they have always been precious to me. I’m most delighted to have you at my side, Mother.”

Juana smiled sweetly. “You cannot imagine how happy I’ve been during the past week.”

Empress Mary listened to them, comparing Ferdinand and Carlos. The differences in the way these men behaved and spoke about life and power were significant not to notice them.

Mary began, “Well, it is your first meeting in so many years.”

Ferdinand counted, “We have not seen each other for thirty eight years.”

The words who was at fault for their separation hung in the air like anathema.  

A week ago, Empress Mary and Queen Juana of Castile had arrived in Vigevano. They had travelled in disguise across Spain, and then they had boarded the ship in Barcelona and sailed to Italy. They had docked in Sanremo located on the Mediterranean coast of Liguria, and then they had voyaged to Milan. They had been accompanied by Mary’s trusted people: despite being kept away from state affairs by Emperor Carlos, Mary had found those who were loyal only to her.

Currently, the two women resided at the Visconti-Sforza Castle, where Ferdinand lived at the moment. Built in the 14 and 15th centuries by members of the Visconti and Sforza houses, it was a luxurious aristocratic palace. Ferdinand’s camp was in Vigevano’s vicinity.

“And so am I,” Ferdinand uttered. “Finally, I can see my Mother.”

The queen’s grin was wide. “Who turned out not to be a lunatic.”

“Carlos and my grandfather Ferdinand are big liars,” Ferdinand barked, then reigned in his temper. “If I had known the truth, I would have insisted that you regain freedom.”

It warmed Juana’s heart that her second son was incapable of hurting his mother in the way the emperor had done. “No, Carlos could have declared you mad.”

“True.” Ferdinand surveyed the square. His gaze paused briefly on the triumphal arches, which formed a gap in the porticoes at the point where the central streets of the town intersected.

“Are you awaiting someone?” Juana poured a goblet of wine for herself.

“Yes.” He thought of Claude d’Annebault’s visit today to coordinate their plans. “I would gladly have stayed with my soldiers camped near Vigevano. Nevertheless, I’ve been fatigued as of late, so I prefer to stay in comfort as long as I can before–” He broke off. “Well, you know.”

The air tensed and rippled with the fluids of Ferdinand’s bellicose disposition towards his brother. Juana drained the goblet in one draught, but her nervousness was twisting her vitals.

Mary beheld both Juana and Ferdinand. I did the right thing when I left Flanders, travelled to Spain and went to the royal palace of Tordesillas, where I released my Aunt Juana. It was absolutely necessary to take her out of Spain. Tortured by the agonies of uncertainty over the struggle between Carlos and Ferdinand, Mary had resolved that the only person who could stop the two brothers from annihilating each other would be their mother, if even Juana could.

The empress had wanted to have Juana liberated since her departure from Tordesillas before her wedding to Carlos. For a long time, she had been afraid of Carlos’ wrath, just as Isabella had been for years. Yet, there was a difference between Isabella and Mary: Isabella could have lost Carlos’ love, so she had endeavored to maintain a shaky peace in the family, but Mary was not enamored of her husband while the two male siblings were enemies at present.

Ferdinand leaned towards a nearby rosewood table. Taking a cup of cognac in his hand, he sipped some. “Mother, you cannot go back to Carlos. You will stay with me in Vigevano.”

Juana nodded. “Of course, son.”

Mary confirmed, “Aunt Juana suffered too much because of her power-hungry relatives. She deserves to live with those who love her and will not imprison her again.”

Ferdinand’s temper boiled at the thought of what Carlos had done to their mother. “I’m not Ferdinand of Aragon or Carlos. I would never have perpetrated such an evil deed.”

Juana scrutinized her second son attentively. Clad in Italianate attire of blue and black silk ornamented with sapphires, Ferdinand looked different from Carlos, who Juana had always seen in austere clothes. Despite being her son, Ferdinand was virtually a stranger to Juana, so perhaps she was not aware of his tastes and habits yet; she needed to get to know him better.

A tall man of regal bearing, Ferdinand had a swarthy complexion and dark hair framing his oval face. His handsomeness was a combination of strictness, intelligence, nice features, and charm. His jaw less protruding than Carlos’, Ferdinand was thin and had dark circles under his eyes. His misadventures had taken physical and psychological toll on Ferdinand.

Juana glanced into her youngest son’s pale blue eyes that twinkled with joy. Ferdinand was kinder than his elder sibling. During his rare visits to Tordesillas, Carlos had often stared at his mother like a hawk contemplating at a mouse – the rightful Queen of Spain had been a mouse captured in Carlos’ trap. Ferdinand’s gaze is direct and intense, but there is no darkness in it.

“Mother?” Ferdinand’s gaze did not waver under her penetrating stare.

“Son, you look like your grandfather,” observed Juana. “But you do not have his spirit.”

“I have my flaws,” replied Ferdinand in a measured voice. “I want power, but I understand that a monarch must be careful to ensure that it does not corrupt his soul, just as it happened to Henry Tudor and my brother. I’m proud of my achievements as a ruler of the Austrian lands.”

Juana discerned the differences between her sons. “There is a thin line between power and oppression, as well as between a benevolent, wise monarch and a cold-hearted ruler. My parents were ruthless and guileful politicians, despite their achievements, and Carlos took after them.”

Ferdinand was completely disenchanted with Carlos. “For years, I admired Carlos and believed him. I should have taken all the things he told me with a pinch of salt.”

“Until your captivity in France,” his mother deduced.

“Indeed.” Ferdinand tipped a nod. “I learned a lot about life and the House of Valois.” He finally emptied his goblet and set it on a table. “They are not our enemies.”

Mary interjected, “Well, your wife is a Valois princess.”

Ferdinand beamed at the remembrance of his spouse. “I adore Margot, although I married her to fulfill François’ conditions for my release. I love her more than my first spouse.”

Mary concealed her envy with a smile. “Good that some forced marriages are happy.”

He regarded Mary with interest. “Why did you become Carlos’ wife, cousin?” Hesitating, he added, “Did not you know about his great love for Isabella, which will transcend death?” 

The empress sighed. “I was browbeaten into submission by my father. Then I convinced myself that I was doing my duty to the Houses of Habsburg, Trastámara, and Tudor.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Ferdinand directed a compassionate glance at his cousin.

Mary eyed the square where birds fluttered around. “King Henry has a violent temper.”

Juana noted, “Just as all the Tudors do.” Mary only shrugged.

Ferdinand shook his head. “His English Majesty changed so many queens that he has long become a laughingstock of Europe. I think he is capable of killing anyone for power, just as Carlos is. They both consider regicide acceptable if it suits their purposes.”

Juana gazed into her niece’s eyes. “Do you regret marrying Carlos?”

“I do.” The empress shut her eyes for a moment as vulnerability washed over her. “The only good thing that came out of our relationship is my son, Juan, and the baby I’m expecting.”

The emperor’s brother gaped at the empress. “How could you travel in your condition?”

Garbed in a gown of white brocade, Mary left her hair loose, and it fell to her shoulders in a glossy auburn cascade. Her stomacher was of black brocade studded with gems, and her girdle of red silk encircled her waist. As she was only about four months along in her pregnancy, her baby bump was not prominent yet, and her gowns in Flemish style concealed it well.

“I feel fine. And did I have a choice?” Mary’s hand flew to her belly.

Juana commended, “Mary is a lioness!” She laughed at the memory of their escape from Tordesillas. “She compelled Francisco de les Cobos, the regent of Spain, to let us go without being pursued, which allowed us to board the ship in Barcelona. He was afraid to disobey his empress because Mary managed to obtain the papers proving his embezzlement from the Spanish treasury. If Carlos learned about it, he would have executed his regent.”

Mary leaned back in her seat. “Aunt Juana! During my years at Tordesillas, you said that Cobos could be stealing, for he became too rich. By chance I found the proof of this.”

The queen’s smirk was spiteful. “I cannot forget Cobos’ face when you blackmailed him.”

The empress leaned over the table and filled a cup with water. “He deserved that.”

Cobos’ arrogant face resurfaced in Ferdinand’s brain. “I remember Francisco de les Cobos, although I last saw him years ago. He was ambitious and greedy, but a competent councilor.”

Mary sipped water. “Regardless of his talents, the regent of Spain is a thief.”

Her cousin emphasized, “His punishment is not our priority now.”

Queen Juana sighed again and again. Everything led all of them to the brothers’ war.

§§§

The pleasant coolness of the evening descended on the town. Ferdinand, Mary, and Juana went to one of the chambers in the Loggia delle Dame, or the Ladies’ Palace, which had been constructed by Donato Bramante. During the Visconti-Sforza era, this part of the palace was reserved for the duchess and ladies of the ducal court; now Mary and Juana were lodged there.

The sun was setting, glowing crimson like melted iron. Nonetheless, the three of them had a different association – the blood that would soon be spilled in Milan. Perhaps brotherly blood. Moreover, the room’s walls and couches were swathed in crimson brocade, while the furniture was made of rosewood – these things added to a sanguinary environment in their inner realms.  

Ferdinand half reclined on his couch. “Dearest Mary, you ought to stay in Italy until your child’s birth. Your former stepmother, Anne, was lucky to have a healthy son after her ordeals, but they did not have any other option – Anne had to go to Italy. You cannot risk so.”

The empress released a sigh. “Yes, but I’ll have to return to Carlos.”

“What?” His eyes widened in shocked amazement.

Juana inclined her head in comprehension. “I expected that, niece.”

Mary voiced her decision. “Carlos is my lord and husband.” Her gaze drifted to the queen. “I did my duty to you, Aunt Juana: I released and delivered you to Ferdinand.”

The queen took her niece’s hand in hers. “You cannot leave Carlos. I know.”

Ferdinand’s mind was whirling. Mary went to great lengths to bring my mother here. She betrayed Carlos because she could not watch how horribly he treated our queen. Yet, Mary had also done the unthinkable to stop the bloodshed between him and Carlos. He also comprehended her sense of duty to his brother who would be cruel to her upon learning of Juana’s liberation.

Ferdinand addressed his cousin. “Cousin, now you are facing a horrible dilemma: you are torn between your duty to Carlos and your filial bonds with me and my Mother.”

The empress fell quiet for a moment, rubbing at her hands. “Exactly.”

His gaze hardening, the King of Hungary continued, “You were so desperate to rescue my Mother in the hope to have Carlos and me reconciled. But it is impossible at this stage.”

“Can’t you really make peace?” Mary knew the answer, but she still asked.

Ferdinand shot to his feet. “How can I be friends with the very man who lied to me about our Queen Juana and jailed us both, though separately? My confinement was comfortable, but Carlos had me arrested!” His voice rose to a crescendo of sarcastic indignation. “Finally, my brother proved all his love for me: he disinherited me and all of his many nephews.”

Juana’s heart tightened. “That was Carlos’ great mistake.”

The empress avouched, “I, too, think that the Austrian lands must be yours.”

His head throbbing with the inner strain, Ferdinand paced. “My arrest and disinheritance, as well as the siege of Milan and my excommunication are the rewards for all my loyalty to Carlos! I bestowed the Duchy of Milan upon France because they would not have released me otherwise. And I do not regret that because Milan has thrived under the Valois leadership, while Carlos would have drained the Milanese treasury completely to finance his wars.”

A trembling Juana watched the sun turn redder in the darkening sky. “Taking into account the harsh terms of François’ release from his captivity after the Battle of Pavia, the conditions for your liberation by François were far better. François could have demanded something else.”

“Yes, he was quite moderate in his demands,” agreed Mary.

Ferdinand’s heart tumbled in dejection as his thoughts meandered to his spouse. Vitriol was spilling out of him, tinged with ire. “Thanks to Carlos’ faux devotion to me, my wife Margot has been under siege for months! I know nothing of her fate!” His voice dropped to the whisper of a broken man. “But I shall go to the underworld, if necessary, to save her.”

The queen was now a picture of agony. “Carlos… Despite everything, I love him because he is my flesh and blood. Yet, I’m disappointed in him – even far more than I was in my father, your namesake. Carlos is a clever, strong, and capable ruler, but his obsession to crush the Valois, his animosity towards you, and his fanatical religious zeal negate these qualities.”

Ferdinand looked at his mother with sympathy. “Mother, I can only promise that I shall not kill Carlos.” He sighed. “I’ll never make the fatal blow unless he attempts to take my life.”

Juana nodded gratefully. Ferdinand will not commit fratricide. Is Carlos capable of it? It was surreal, this feeling of liberty and being with her youngest son, and yet the sensation of sheer terror that one of her male children could murder the other. There was no way back for her boys at this point: they would fight against each other until one of them won and, hopefully, let the other live. Juana had spent weeks trying to invent a way out, but there was none. Too late...

The Queen of Spain felt like a ghost, drifting through a universe of unutterable despair. Now she finally was free and did not wish to descend into the valley of woes again. Nonetheless, life did not permit her to have a break and walk about on the plateau of happiness, contemplating beauty of the world. If Ferdinand became the winner, Carlos would be dethroned and maybe incarcerated; if Carlos won, Ferdinand would be imprisoned or assassinated.

Her son’s voice snapped Juana out of her grievous musings. “If Dauphin Henri encounters my brother in battle, he will try to kill Carlos. I cannot control what Henri will do.”

A haze of gloom encompassed the queen. “To avenge his Spanish captivity and his father’s sufferings. Carlos made the whole House of Valois his mortal foes.”

“Exactly; I understand Henri.” His voice was apologetic.

Juana tipped her head, signaling her comprehension. To her relief, the sun had set, and its forces were no longer working towards developing her associations with bloodshed.

Ferdinand scrutinized his mother with the filial affection that had lived in him during their long estrangement. The Queen of Castile had recently turned sixty-six. Her oval, wrinkled face revealed not only her age, but also the traces of her afflictions. Despite everything, the healthy Juana looked only a little fatigued from their hasty journey. Clad in a tight black gown with billowing sleeves, she wore her grizzled hair in a braid gathered at the nape of her neck.

I inherited my mother’s eyes, Ferdinand noted to himself. Two pairs of identical eyes, pale blue like a summer firmament, contemplated one another warmly. Visions of his mother’s captivity assailed him: images of Juana crying day and night at Tordesillas swarmed his head, and a torrent of white-hot fury at Carlos rippled through Ferdinand.

“Where is Carlos now?” Mary was planning her departure.

Ferdinand came to an ebony table adorned with geometrical patterns, which reminded him of decorations in Spanish palaces. “His camp is in Monza, ten miles north-northeast of Milan.” He poured out more cognac and swallowed it in one gulp.

“It will not help you, son,” his mother advised.

Nodding at his mother, Ferdinand swiveled to his cousin. “Mary, Carlos should not know that you released our mother. Not before the battle and not while you are with child.”

Mary dipped her head. “My intention is to keep silent for some time.”

He glanced between his relatives. “Carlos will lose the confrontation.”  

“That you do not know, cousin,” parried the empress.

“That is almost a certainty,” he answered with relief mixed with grief, too. “Carlos will be dethroned if he does not perish in battle. I’ll take care of you and your offspring, Mary.”

Mary and Juana shared confused glances. Were they preparing some trap for Carlos?

The door opened, and a servant entered, bowing. “Your Majesty,” he addressed his master in Italian. “Messer Claude d’Annebault has just arrived. He is in the presence chamber.”

“Thank you.” Ferdinand waved a dismissive hand at him.

Juana stood up. “You need to go, don’t you, son?”

“Yes, I do.” He approached his mother and hugged her. “Try to rest, Mother.”

His gait decisive, the King of Hungary marched towards the door and walked out.

Mary stood up. “I have a bad foreboding, but not with respect to Ferdinand.”

Juana felt the same, with all her skin and her whole being. “Carlos…” 

The Queen of Spain and the Holy Roman Empress embraced each other in distress. In spite of everything, they were worried about the warmongering ruler who could lose his thrones, his freedom, and even his life. The shadows were thickening and elongating around Carlos.


August 8, 1546, Basilica of San Lorenzo Maggiore, Milan, Duchy of Milan, Italy

Silence reigned in the Chapel of Saint Aquilino, part of the ancient basilica. Three people lay prostrate on the floor near the altar. They were King François of France, his daughter Queen Marguerite, and Duke Anne de Montmorency. These days they frequented churches in Milan, giving alms and distributing the little grain, which they still had in stock, to the populace.

François lifted his scrutiny to the ancient Byzantine wall mosaics. Having been established in the 4th century, San Lorenzo was the oldest church in Milan. Dedicated to Saint Lawrence, it had been erected with enormous blocks, which had been taken from other Roman sites.

Holy Father, perhaps I broke Your laws in such a bad way that you sent me to die in Milan for my sins. I beg for Your forgiveness with all my heart. I beseech You, gracious Lord, not to take the lives of my daughter, Marguerite and those of the innocent Milanese civilians.

At the same time, Marguerite rested on the floor crying. Tears were falling from her eyes like raindrops, and the prayer echoed through her mind, feverish with anguish.

Jesus, please forgive me and come into my life, let me receive You as my Lord and Savior. I implore You to allow me to see my beloved Ferdinand again. Protect Ferdinand and our children, as well as my brothers and sisters in France. Save us all trapped in Milan.

Montmorency raised his head and stared at the wooden crucifixion on the wall. He then examined magnificent mosaics depicting Elias in a chariot and Jesus with the Apostles.

Jesus Christ is the Savior of mankind. By His death on the cross, He paid the price for the sins of the world. Which sins did I commit to be sent here to die without my family? I implore You to save and protect Marie and our daughters, as well as my other children.

The church was empty. The local abbot knew that the king preferred to pray alone before being invited him for private Mass. Nonetheless, a chilling feeling of death was in the air.

The monarch stood up and went to the pew closest to the altar. As he seated himself there, he bowed his head and prayed. “Dear Lord, protect my son Henri, my queen Anne, and my sons Augustine, Jean, and Antoine, as well as my daughters Marguerite, Louise, and Aimée. Bless them and my sister Marguerite, and help them all survive without me if I perish here.”

Marguerite and Montmorency climbed to their feet and occupied their places beside the king. They continued praying, uttering words of prayer like laments of lost souls.  

Francesco Maria Borri, Abbot of San Lorenzo of Milan, exited the sacristy. He approached the parishioners. “Do Your Majesties and Messer Montmorency wish to attend Mass?”

François looked at him. “Gladly.”

Marguerite flicked her tearful eyes to the churchman. “Does Your Grace want to talk with those who were excommunicated by the Bishop of Rome? I despise the Pope.”

Yesterday, Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, had perpetrated another attack on the city’s northern gates. It had been repelled, and they had learned about the excommunication of King François and King Ferdinand together with their families, as well as that of Montmorency and his relatives. The news had spread through the city, enraging the citizens.

“I do, and most eagerly,” assured the abbot in sincere accents. “I do not understand which of your deeds might be considered plausible excommunicable offenses.”

Montmorency was awash in relief. “Your Grace, you don’t think that the Farnese thug did the right thing, do you? We are all true Catholics: have always been and will always be.”

The abbot regarded each of them in turns. “Unlike the population that is now cussing him, I shall not speak ill words about the Pope. I’m a man of God, and I’m not corrupt.”

François let out a wan smile. “I’m glad to meet a prelate who has an honest heart.”

Marguerite demanded, “What does Your Grace think about Farnese?” 

The abbot did not reprimand them for not referring to the head of Rome properly. “I think that the man who is now the Supreme Pontiff is a very bad person. He must be replaced.”

“If we survive,” started François, “it will most definitely happen.”

Montmorency added, “I met cardinals in Rome who would make an honorable Pope.”

Marguerite sniffed. “Yet, our stockpiles of food are almost over. We eat once a day now.”

The abbot glanced at them compassionately. “And so do I. We are enduring the trials God has sent on our path. It is not a punishment – it is a test of our faith in the Almighty.”

“And the test of our loyalty to our sovereign,” assumed Montmorency.

“Yes.” The prelate underlined, “Everyone is ready to die for their Duke François.”

The monarch’s expression was a picture of torment. “They should not suffer so much…” 

The abbot addressed the king. “Your Majesty, have faith! Help will come!” 

After the Mass without any bread used in rituals due to its shortage, benedictions were given to them. The Abbot of San Lorenzo then left the parishioners alone in the basilica.

Hasty footsteps were gliding down the nave, and they saw Claude d’Annebault.

“Claude!” François exclaimed. “How can you be here?” 

“Annebault!” Montmorency looked confused. “But we are siege.”  

“Monsieur d’Annebault,” greeted Marguerite with a grin.

Annebault was giddily happy to see his liege lord. He barely fended off the urge to pull his sovereign into his arms, forgetting the etiquette. François himself embraced him spontaneously, and they held each other for a minute. Then Annebault hugged Montmorency.

As they parted, Annebault observed sadly, “You are all so thin.”

“It matters not,” Montmorency burst out impatiently. “We are alive.”  

The king’s heartbeat accelerated. “Tell us everything, Claude.”

Annebault informed, “King Ferdinand and his army left Vigevano three days ago. Dauphin Henri and his men are marching from Soncino. They will join forces together with those of our other Italian allies in Vimercate, sixteen miles north of Milan and six miles east of Monza, where the emperor is camped. Within a week or so, we will lift the siege.”

An ecstatic Marguerite cried, “God be praised! I’ll see my Ferdinand!” 

François was nevertheless focused entirely on their plans. “Carlos’ hordes encircled Milan. He must be staying in Monza because if he loses the battle, he will have to escape.”

“Are our forces at least equal?” Montmorency wanted to know.

“Yes, they are.” Annebault’s lips curved in a sneaky grin. “Thanks to the Ottoman Grand Vizier Rüstem Pasha, we prepared a trap for the adversary. We will burn many of their soldiers.”

François and Montmorency frowned. “How?” 

Annebault boasted, “King Ferdinand and I went to Constantinople. His Habsburg Majesty allied with Sultan Suleiman and requested his help. We brought the Byzantine fire to Milan.”

“What?” Marguerite had no clue as to what they discussed.

François and Montmorency shared dumfounded and hopeful glances.

The intrigued monarch explained, “Greek fire was used by the Byzantine Empire since the 7th century. It consists of a combustible compound emitted by a flame-throwing weapon.”

Montmorency added, “It was used to set light to enemy ships and to break sieges.”

Annebault clarified, “Now the right mixture is known only to the Turks.” His gaze flicked between his liege lord and the duke. “There is something King Ferdinand wants you to do.”

François proposed, “Let’s return to the palace. You will tell us everything.”

Nodding, Annebault apprised, “It is wonderful that we are now in the Basilica of San Lorenzo. Your Majesty’s son, Prince Lorenzo, was born in Florence in May.”

The king’s expression was torn between gladness and confusion. “My new son?” 

Annebault continued, “King Ferdinand told me that the child is healthy.”

Marguerite and Montmorency cried in unison, “Congratulations!” 

François recollected the last passionate encounter with his wife at Château de Cognac after they had danced the Volte. Anne must have conceived on that night before their long separation. “I did not know about Anne’s pregnancy. I’m overjoyed that we have a new child.”

A shudder of alarm snaked down Marguerite’s spine. “Wait! Anne is in Italy?” 

Annebault elucidated, “Exactly. She signed the treaty with our Italian allies to gather the forces against the emperor because the Protestant alliance is over, at least for now.”  

The king’s nod communicated his comprehension. “I expected that it would be so.”

“After those horrible massacres,” Montmorency grumbled.

Annebault affirmed mysteriously, “There are many shocking news from France.” He then supplemented, “Queen Anne is travelling to Rome with her sister and her father.”

“What?” chorused François, Marguerite, and Montmorency, each of them horrified.

“Be at ease, please,” Annebault uttered hastily. “Queen Anne and King Ferdinand decided that it is high time to dispose of that Farnese devil. Dauphin Henri approved of their idea.”

The ruler’s entire being was full of fear. “It is too dangerous.”

“They have a plan,” assured Annebault. “Soon we will have a new Pope.”

His unease growing, François inquired, “Claude, how did you infiltrate into the city?”

Annebault’s mouth twisted into a half-grin. “I disguised myself as an Imperial soldier. Then I stalked towards the northern gates in the dead of night, but the sentinels wanted to capture me. King Ferdinand’s royal ring proved that I am not a wretched spy. At the Palazzo Reale, Governor Rossi told me where you had come, so I immediately headed to this basilica.”

After crossing themselves, they exited. In the square in front of the church, they paused as they contemplated the Colonne di San Lorenzo, or the Columns of St Lawrence – sixteen columns dating back to the 3rd century. The exhilarated king thought of his new son Lorenzo.

The morning sun was shining in the clear firmament, embodying the hopes of the Milanese for salvation. The ruler assisted his daughter in climbing to a litter draped in silver. François and the others mounted and rode away, followed by the Scots Guard, leaving behind the bronze statue of Constantine the Great, the first Roman Emperor who had converted to Christianity.

Notes:

We hope that you are fine and safe. It was a difficult time for us both, but we want to be back to the fandom and intend to update this fiction twice a month from now on.

This chapter’s title refers to the main topic in this chapter – enmity between the Habsburg brothers and the impending brothers’ war. Finally and perhaps unexpectedly for you, Juana of Castile, the once captive Queen of Spain, was released by Empress Mary Tudor who could not leave Juana to rot in her prison forever and who courageously voyaged from Flanders to Spain to free the true Queen of Castile. We always planned Mary to become Juana’s savior.

King Ferdinand describes his situation at length. Emperor Carlos V, whom Ferdinand was once extremely loyal to, drove his brother into the corner. Ferdinand was mistreated by Carlos for years, then Carlos had Ferdinand arrested and even disinherited together with Ferdinand’s many children from both marriages. Ferdinand’s wife, Marguerite, as well as his friend and relative Francois are under siege in Milan and might be killed by the Imperial troops. Finally, Ferdinand was excommunicated together with his Valois wife and his children.

What choice does King Ferdinand have at this stage? Ferdinand will fight against Carlos for his life and his titles. We planned to have the brothers’ war between Ferdinand and Carlos from the very beginning. Thus, we created the special circumstances under which Ferdinand was forced to turn against his once beloved brother, who Ferdinand had admired for years. The Byzantine or Greek fire, mentioned by Ferdinand, will play an important role in the battle of Milan.

Jane Seymour, who is now Jane Percy, is content with her husband. Henry Percy still loves Anne Boleyn, but he knows that he cannot and will never have Anne. We gave a son to Jane and Percy to make them more or less content after their unhappy personal lives with their former spouses (Mary Talbot in Percy’s case and Henry VIII in Jane’s case). Jane is jealous of Henry Percy, but it would have been unrealistic if Jane had not been jealous knowing that her husband loves Anne.

Queen Anne, together with her sister Mary/Marie and their father Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, are travelling to Rome. The Boleyns are intending to deal with the Farnese Pope. We thought that we should give Anne and Henry Percy at least one meeting, but we did not want to focus on Anne’s thoughts because it is clear that she does not love Percy. In the meantime, François, his daughter Margot, and Anne de Montmorency are still trapped in Milan…

The Palazzo Compagni, where Jane and Henry Percy reside, was built by the Cresci family in the 14th century in Florence (you can google it). The Visconti-Sforza castle is a medieval castle located in the centre of the city of Vigevano, Lombardy, northern Italy, and its descriptions in the Ferdinand/Juana/Mary scene are historically correct. I also recommend that you google Basilica of San Lorenzo Maggiore located in Milan – it is a very beautiful Renaissance church, whose descriptions in the François/Marguerite/Montmorency scene are historically correct.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 76: Chapter 75: End of the Siege of Milan

Summary:

Empress Mary returns to her husband, Emperor Carlos, and they have some moments together. Carlos and his generals are attacked. Meanwhile, the siege of Milan is lifted with the help of Greek fire, creating bloody chaos all around the city. The brothers’ war is in full swing.

Notes:

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 75: End of the Siege of Milan

August 14 and 15, 1546, Monza, near Milan, Duchy of Milan, Italy

“So many knights,” commented Empress Mary for herself as she looked around.

Warriors, pages, and nobles crowded all the spaces between numerous tents. A cacophony of Flemish, German, Swiss, and Italian voices echoed through the Imperial camp. The dusk was descending into night, but they were not asleep, preparing for tomorrow’s confrontation.

As Empress Mary walked with a slow and measured gait, the men parted to let her pass, bowing to her. She stopped near the tent, occupied by Emperor Carlos V, above which the double eagle Habsburg standard floated in the air proudly. The sentries dropped into bows and let her in. Upon entering, Mary stepped forward noiselessly, but then she halted.

Carlos was engaged in a heated debate with his chief commander – Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alba; Philip II de Croÿ, Duke of Aarschot, was also with them. The emperor was leaning over a desk with his hand pressed to his chin. A detailed map of the Duchy of Milan was unfolded on the table. Towns of Monza, Vigevano, Soncino, and Vimercate were encircled in bold, while Milan was encircled in vivid red, as if signifying bloodshed.

Aarschot informed, “Dauphin Henri, King Ferdinand, and their allies joined in Vimercate.”

In a voice dripping with perturbation, Carlos inquired, “What about the Turks?”   

Alba reported, “Part of your brother’s army escorted the Muslims closer to Milan, where our main camp is situated. Three days ago, they pitched a camp very close to ours, for you can see the city walls from there. They also installed a great many catapults and trebuchets.”  

The monarch grouched, “They will load trebuchets with stones and bombard my soldiers. Send my command to the Viceroy of Naples to launch an offensive at night and destroy them.”

Alba felt uneasy. “Odd flames were noticed by our spies above the Ottoman camp.”

Carlos’ brow fanned into a frown. “What are they like?”

Aarschot conjectured, “Perhaps they are testing trebuchets.”

A feeling of bad foreboding was working its knuckles into the emperor’s shoulders. “I don’t like it, Fernando. Despite Ferdinand’s alliance with Suleiman, I did not think that he would allow the heathens to step onto Italian soil. Oddly, there are only twenty thousand of them here.”

Alba shrugged his shoulders. “Not enough for conquest.”

Some premonition was chilling Carlos from the inside out. “It might be a trap.”

The Turks are on the Apennine peninsula, Mary thought, observing them from a distance. Ferdinand was confident of his victory. The emperor and his generals were so involved in the discussion that they paid no heed to her. Mary’s heart was sour with a burst of fear for Carlos.

Aarschot inquired, “Which one, Your Imperial Majesty? What are they going to do?”

They had no answer. In the next moment, they finally noticed the empress in the tent.

An enraged Carlos shot to his feet. “Are you eavesdropping upon us, Mary?” His eyes narrowed, expressing his wrath. “Is that how Aunt Catalina taught you to treat your superiors?”

“I’ve just come,” Mary lied, indifferent to his outburst.

The Dukes of Alba and of Aarschot swept bows to the empress, looking at her with evident distaste. While they liked Empress Isabella, they were not fond of Mary Habsburg née Tudor.

The emperor dismissed, “My friends, leave us.”

The general bowed to his sovereign, then glowered at Mary, and stomped out.   

§§§

The emperor and his consort stood glaring at each other. Their pallid faces glimmered in the candlelight, their features strained, like two hawks that could pounce at one another.    

“How could you?” the emperor broke the pause. “I cannot trust you at all.”

Mary’s orbs conveyed her vexation. “What are you implying, husband?”

“Damn,’” he made a sound of exasperation. “You ignored my order to stay in Flanders and risked our unborn child by traveling here. How did you learn that I’m at Monza?”

You do not know yet that I released your mother, Mary mused as she held his gaze. That I brought Aunt Juana to Ferdinand. She had arrived at the emperor’s camp three days earlier, and since then, Carlos wrangled with her. Mary had been lucky to destroy the letters from Francisco de les Cobos, which she had found on her spouse’s desk before he could have read them.   

“I did not anticipate rudeness.” The empress could not say that Ferdinand had apprised her of the Imperial camp’s location. “I journeyed to you because of my worries for you.”

He regarded her with slitted eyes. “You are my wife, but you disobeyed me.”

She exploded, “Then treat me like you treated Isabella! I do not beg for your love, but I want respect and appreciation of my intelligence and my stellar education. You allowed Isabella to be supreme regent of Spain in your absence, whereas I’m permitted nothing of the sort.”

Carlos paced the tent. “I have my capable advisors, so I do not need any counsel from you, Mary. Spain is now governed by my competent regent. The Low Countries are governed by my sister – Mary of Hungary. I rule the rest of my empire through my viceroys.”

Mary began striding to and fro. “Cobos? Are you certain of his honesty?”

“Yes, I am. Why should I doubt the man who has always been absolutely loyal to me?”

She sniggered at this statement. So far Mary could not disclose that Cobos was a thief from the treasury; otherwise she would have to confess to Juana’s recent liberation by her. “Didn’t you notice how extraordinarily wealthy Francisco de les Cobos became? Isn’t it suspicious?”

“I’ve been very generous to him.” He rubbed his forehead.

“Very well, Carlos. Trust all of your councilors, but not your consort.”   

The emperor halted near an ebony table, where a pitcher of wine and goblets stood. He filled a goblet and gulped down the wine. “I received news that Philip had arrived at Mechelen. You should have stayed there together with my sons. Yet, you have done the unthinkable!”   

“Should I not be terrified when two brothers are at each other’s throats?”

Carlos balled his fists into knots. “Ferdinand is a traitor to our family! He chose his side!”

She said sarcastically, “You loved Ferdinand so much that you arrested him, dispossessed him, and approved of the Pope’s grave error – the excommunication of your Catholic brother.”

“Ferdinand is allied with the Turks!” he bellowed. “It goes against the Lord!”

“He is not a heretic!” she confronted. “He is your brother who you have wronged.”

Aggressively gesticulating, he flung back, “Not before Ferdinand wronged me! He gifted the Duchy of Milan to François when he had no right to grant my lands to anyone.”

“Ferdinand had to do so, or he would still have been incarcerated in some French castle. The terms of the Treaty of Madrid, which you made François sign after Pavia, were far harsher.”  

He accused, “Whose wife are you? Ferdinand’s or mine?”

She sighed, tired of this quarrel. “Yours, Carlos.”

“Ah, it is such a charitable comment,” he jeered. “Should I applaud you?”

“I don’t need to experience these emotions.” The empress started walking to the door.

Before she could leave, the monarch caught up with his consort and put his arm around her waist. He pressed himself to her back, his hot breath searing the skin of her neck wildly.

“Don’t leave, Mary,” he requested in a gentle tone.

“What do you seek, Carlos? You can barely stand my presence.”

His right arm encircled her waist; his left one reached under her neckline and caressed her breast. “You are mistaken. I’ve been enchanted by your headstrongness and your power of will for a long time. I like you even in anger, and I’m bewitched by your charming disobedience.”

She enjoyed the feel of his fingers on her skin. “One moment you seem to imply one thing – I must run our household and bear your children. The next you mean something different.”

He lavished kisses on the back of her neck and ear. “I cannot understand myself, Mary. But I cannot forget how you were the Goddess Bellona who I admired on our wedding night.”

Heat was rising inside of the empress. “In ancient Rome, Bellona’s priests were known as Bellonarii and used to wound their own arms or legs as a blood sacrifice to the goddess.” He nuzzled her earlobe and nipped at her neck. “You are not a priest in my temple, Carlos.”

“I want to be him tonight.” His hand was caressing her small baby bump.

She slipped out of his arms. “How odd, perhaps artificial! That is quite a dull profession, Carlos,” she said caustically. “Moreover, I’m with child, so we cannot be together.”

“I’m being sincere.” Umbrage colored his tone, but his anger was entirely gone. “I told you the truth, Mary. My feelings… they are too complicated even for myself.”

His wife eased herself in an oak chair adorned with the Habsburg coat-of-arms. “I ought to hint: I do not enjoy our squabbles and your lack of respect towards my intelligence. I could have helped you a lot, but you would not allow me to. How am I supposed to understand you?”

The emperor poured more wine and gulped it in a swig. “We can lose everything, Mary. In a short while, you and I can be not Holy Roman Emperor and Empress. I might even die.”

“You know pretty well that Ferdinand will never commit fratricide. But will you?”

Carlos is worried about the battle, Mary concluded, watching her husband pace back and forth. Is that because of those trebuchets and catapults? Her conscience was heavy with guilty knowledge of her deceit, but she could not have acted differently. His speech about his feelings unleashed emotions in her that could prove to be a turning point in her life. Or would they?

“No,” he responded. “I’ll have Ferdinand imprisoned for the rest of his life.”

Now she was concerned about her cousin. “Carlos, you cannot do such an awful thing to your own brother. Your actions were slowly making him your enemy.”

He kept walking across the perimeter of the tent. “No! Ferdinand betrayed me first! My sister, Mary of Hungary, agrees with me that Ferdinand is a traitor who must be punished.”

Despair billowed through Mary. “Isabella tried to keep peace. Now you are destroying it.”

He enjoyed, “Think about us: me and our son! Not about Ferdinand!”

The empress rose to her feet. “I cannot listen to you anymore.”

His demeanor again changed. “Stay with me tonight.”

“The baby…”  She hesitated, but sparks of desire were shooting through her.

Once more, the emperor approached and enfolded her into his arms. “I shall be very gentle. I made love to Isabella on the early stage of her pregnancies. Nothing bad will happen.”

The mention of Isabella discomfited her. “I am not your first wife.”

“I would not want you to be.” He was kissing her cheeks. “Please.”

The plea in his voice broke her earlier resolution. “Yes.”

Carlos carried Mary to a wide bed with a sheer lavender drape, its headboard decorated with the Habsburg arms. He undressed her slowly and then got rid of his own clothes. As he touched her erotically, her moans filled the air. There was lyrical tenderness in the movements of his hands and fingers stroking her curves and planes, at times reverently touching her abdomen.

As his lips were worshiping each new bit of her skin, his kisses and caresses set her on fire. She ran her arms down his muscled back, clinging to him as his hands slid up her legs and to her belly. Drugged by his nearness, by her unfurling carnal needs, she melted against him, forgetting about the brothers’ war and their discord. She returned his endearments with an ardor that matched his, trembling with the force of hunger. Carlos is rarely exquisitely tender with me.   

“You are the Goddess of war, yet you are as perfect as something less bellicose.” His voice was soft like a breeze as he kissed her on the mouth. His hazel eyes were bright with his newly found affection for her. “I’m not a romantic man, but tonight I’m your priest.”

Mary’s eyes were spheres of curiosity. “Why such a sudden change, Carlos?”

“Have I ever disappointed you in bed?” he breathed against her lips.

“No.” Their intercourses were pleasurable, one of the few good things in their union.

Carlos stared at her a long time. Mary was lovely and youthful at her thirty years of age. Had she been married off to someone earlier, she would already have been marked by another man’s touches and pregnancies. Carlos, whose innocence of mind and body had long been lost in the waters of life, felt a light of innocent wonder and warmth illuminating him when he was with her. Thus, despite having mistresses, he was clinging tenaciously to his wife whenever he could.

I regret that I cannot love Mary, he mused remorsefully. She deserves someone who can give her his heart. Carlos was a broken man, and the ghost of his dead wife walked side by side with his daily existence in this painful world. Only his beloved Isabella could give him a good assurance that the ultimate reality was righteous and loving. In Italy he found a new paramour and had visited a bordello with the Duke of Alba, but nobody could make him complete.   

None of his musings showed upon his face as he whispered, “You deserve all the best, mi querida. Perhaps if I’m gone after this war, you may remarry and find happiness.”

“No, Carlos, no! I do not want you dead!” Her eyes were half blinded by the unshed tears shimmering in their depths. “We are in an arranged marriage, but I do not wish ill upon you.”

He sent her a faint smile. “The future is uncertain, but today I have you.”

He caught her mouth in a passionate kiss. Positioning his spouse on her side, the emperor slowly entered her from the back and rocked his hips forward, each of his thrusts carefully measured and not deep. Sometimes he paused, fearing to move, as if even one stroke could cause her discomfort, but her moans goaded him into continuing his quest for their mutual enjoyment. It was a delicious agony for them, tinged with melancholic notes of approaching doom.

Hearing her cry his name and feeling the tremors rush through her, the ruler felt something snap inside him. As he himself reached his peak, tears stung his eyes, as if it were their farewell before either his death or their separation. Nevertheless, the sensations that cascaded through him were more of lustful than emotional nature. If Ferdinand wins, he will be kind to Mary and all of my children, for he has never been cruel, Carlos ruminated before they both fell asleep.

§§§

“Your Imperial Majesty!” the Duke of Alba’s shouts caused the spouses to awake.

Carlos climbed off bed. “Groom! Bring my armor!”

Covering herself with the sheet up to her chin, Mary watched Emperor Carlos getting dressed in his armor. It was the ‘KD’ garniture with diamond-studded borders, manufactured by Kolman Helmschmid in the 1520s. The ornately engraved initials on the haute piece of the left pauldron signified Karolus Divus, or Divine Carlos, attesting to the monarch’s Imperial title.

“Give me my armet!” demanded Charles. “Quickly, you idiots!”

The Duke of Alba rushed inside the tent, bowing. “Your Imperial Majesty…” 

Carlos put on his gauntlets. “What has happened?”

Alba gabbled, “There is such inferno near Milan! The Viceroy of Naples failed to launch an offensive on the Turkish camp. Those trebuchets and catapults were used not to fling stones.”

“Explain!” The nervous monarch donned his armet.

“Greek fire,” pronounced Alba with dread. “The trebuchets and catapults are launching a great deal of this mysterious combustible substance towards our Milanese camp. King Ferdinand and Dauphin Henri together approached the city in the dead of night before we could attack.”

A shocked Carlos pushed away the groom. “Enough. Leave!”

The young man bowed to his liege lord and ran out of the tent.

The Duke of Alba continued, “They haven’t charged into battle yet.”

“We should do everything strategically,” opined the Duke of Aarschot.

Finally, the emperor understood his brother’s stratagem. “Ferdinand and Henri will wait until as many people are burned alive as possible. How many of our knights are dying?”

Aarschot looked horribly sad. “Many thousands! The Ottomans have an awful lot of Greek fire in stock. Their trebuchets might continue bombarding our camp for long.”

Carlos shuddered in a blend of mortal terror and impotent rage. “So the Greek fire still exists. The ingredients and the processes of production and deployment of this thing were carefully guarded secrets. Suleiman used it in Persia and allowed Ferdinand to apply it in Italy.”

The emperor felt himself like a complete fool. Having known about Ferdinand’s voyage to Constantinople, he should have expected that his brother would apply some Turkish trick in war. I anticipated a standard battle with swords, horses, and canons. Ferdinand has outwitted me.

“What else?” demanded Carlos, now resplendent in his armor.

“Panic seized our camp,” added Alba, his voice slightly shaking. “Then the main gates of Milan opened. King François appeared, together with the Duke de Montmorency; it was safe for them to leave the city. That Valois mischief-maker joined his allies observing the fires.”

Carlos ground out, “The Greek fire allowed them to break my siege. After thousands are burned, François, Ferdinand, and Henri will face not one hundred and seventy thousand men, but not more than one hundred thousand, if not fewer. The battle will happen anyway.”

Alba emphasized, “It seems so, Your Imperial Majesty.”

The emperor readjusted his helmet. “Ferdinand is crafty. But I’m still the emperor!”

“What should we do now?” Aarschot was sweating under his armor.

Empress Mary interjected, “Retreat as quickly as you can.”

All the men looked at her without scorn, for her advice was absolutely correct.

Cornelius de Schepper, the emperor’s closest Flemish advisor, appeared. “Your Imperial Majesty! Duke Cosimo de’ Medici and Duke Ercole d’Este, together with the Venetians, have just launched an offensive on us! We cannot escape from Monza right now!”

Carlos made up his mind. “Very well. After we vanquish them, we will leave.”

Measuring Mary with a peculiar stare, the emperor left with the others. As Leonor, Mary’s principal lady-in-waiting, slipped inside, Carlos enjoined the sentries to guard the tent closely.

§§§

Carlos stepped outside his tent. His camp became a chaotic mass of fighting men, and he spotted the Medici and Este standards, as well as those of the Venetian Doge Francesco Donato.

“Fight them as true knights!” proclaimed Carlos in German, Italian, and Spanish.

Having unsheathed his sword, Carlos dived into the heart of the battle that was taking place in his camp. The men from his private guard followed and formed a circle around him for the protection of their master. The Duke of Alba gathered the Imperial men into formation and led them into battle against the troops under Cosimo de’ Medici, which had adroitly stalked the camp from the west. Arrows whizzed through the air: people howled and fell over.

“Carlos must live!” Duke Cosimo commanded while leading his cavalry attack. “Emperor Ferdinand prohibited us from harming his brother. Capture Carlos von Habsburg!”

In several moments, Cosimo’s cavalry clashed with the Imperial one commanded by Alba.  

With vehement shrieks, Ferrante Gonzaga – an Italian condottiero in the emperor’s service – steered the Imperial infantry towards the advancing Venetian infantry. As soon as the infantries collided, screams of agony from the mortally wounded and the dying sounded like liturgy.

“For Emperor Ferdinand!” cried Ercole d’Este, Duke of Ferrara. “Let’s dethrone Carlos the brutal besieger of kings and queens!” Ercole was in the middle of the battle.

The men from Ferrara echoed, “For Emperor Ferdinand! We are against Carlos!”

The cry was taken up by the other Italian allies of François and Ferdinand. “For Emperor Ferdinand! For King François! For their alliance! For peace!”  

“Kill Duke Cosimo!” the Duke of Alba commanded. “Protect Emperor Carlos!”

“I want Alba dead!” shrieked Cosimo. “He is Carlos’ first demon!”

In response, Cosimo steered his hose towards the heart of the battle, trying to get to Alba. Riding forward on his destrier caparisoned in red, yellow, and blue – the Medici colors – he swung his sword here and there, lashing out at the enemies. At last reaching Alba, Cosimo lunged forward, thrusting his blade at him on his right, but Alba parried and swung for his head.

Ferrante Gonzaga shrilled, “For Emperor Carlos! My infantry – fight and win!”

The Venetian captain yelled, “For Emperor Ferdinand! Crush Carlos’ infantry!”

The emperor’s infantry collided with the Venetian one with a beastly ferociousness that would have stalled the Venetians if the Medici infantry did not come to their aid. Arrows were falling, one of them hit Cosimo in the shoulder, but his chainmail protected him, and the Duke of Florence continued the battle with the Duke of Alba, his head forward beside his horse’s neck.

The Imperial horn boomed, and the German knights advanced forward. In the field next to the camp, the Spanish each carried a body-length shield as they were marching to join Gonzaga’s infantry. Cosimo and Alba were separated, but their threats echoed over the battlefield.

At the same time, Emperor Carlos was in the melee of knights within the camp. As he finished off an opponent in Este colors, he shouted, “I’m the rightful Holy Roman Emperor! Not my treacherous brother!” He plunged his blade into another man. “You are traitors to me!”

Ercole d’Este, Duke of Ferrara, stepped forward. “You are a warmongering rascal! You thought that we would tolerate the presence of your huge armies in Italy – such a threat to our independence. Now you want to destroy François – tomorrow anyone will become your foe.”  

Carlos hissed, “Ferrara, you betrayed me during the previous invasion of France.”

Ercole deflected a blow. “I pledged my allegiance to peace! I helped François and spied on you because peace in Europe and France may come only with François’ victory.”

“You swore to serve me once.” Carlos wielded his sword in a flurry of cuts and strokes.

“Back then, I did not know your true face.” The Duke of Ferrara loathed his opponent. “A power-hungry monarch who would gladly kill other rulers.” He evaded a downward blow.

The emperor stabbed at him. “You should have aided me to subjugate France years ago.”

“To hell with you, Carlos!” Ercole dodged from a blow and swung his sword in a circular motion, blocking the strike from the side. “Ferdinand would make a better emperor!”

This sent Carlos over the edge. “You treacherous little soul from Ferrara!”

“Let’s kill the king-killing bastard!” one of Ercole’s guards hollered.  

There was a roar of approval from the Ferrarese soldiers, and they darted to their master. The Imperial men also surged forward. The two parties met with the clash of steel.

“For Emperor Carlos!” roared the Duke of Alba over the din of the battle.

“For the House of Habsburg!” the Duke of Aarschot shrilled.

“For Emperor Ferdinand!” shrilled Cosimo, chagrined that he was far from Alba.

Ercole was still locked in the fight with Carlos. “For King François!”

All the Italians repeated, “For France and King François! He will not be burned!”

Moving his sword against another parry, Ercole hailed, “For Duke Cosimo of Florence! For me, the Duke of Ferrara! For the Doge of Venice Francesco Donato! For peace in Italy!”

In the midst of the chaos, Carlos and Ercole grunted at each other with hatred. The emperor hacked down at his rival’s head. The Duke of Ferrara parried, but the force of the blow almost knocked his blade from his hand. Ercole was tiring, being a less proficient swordsman than Carlos. As the duke sidestepped, the emperor hammered at him, chopping down again and again.

Ercole managed to dance away. “It is a pity that you are not burning near Milan.”

Carlos slashed for his chest. “The siege was lifted, but it is not the end of this war.”

“Your brother deserves to become our new emperor.” The duke jumped backwards.

With a loud howl of unbridled fury, Carlos brought his weapon down, slamming it into the crown of Ercole’s helmet and leaving a deep dent. Ercole stumbled back, a trickle of blood running down his forehead, but he was alive. Nevertheless, Ercole compelled himself to rise to his feet. His fall rendered Carlos stunned, and he leveled a wicked blow at the emperor’s side.

Only the emperor’s armor saved him. “Damn you!”

Getting rid of others, Carlos saw three men in Ferrarese livery taking their duke away. He hoped that Ercole’s head injury would kill him a bit later. Carlos felt trickles of blood running down his side, for Ercole’s blow had still injured him. Smoke appeared and hung in the sky in the distance before the wind swept it away – another proof of the inferno created by the Greek fire near Milan. Carlos would not be in Milan today, but perhaps he would be able to retreat.


August 15, 1546, the city of Milan, Duchy of Milan, Italy

Thousands of men, bearing Valois standards and those of King Ferdinand, gathered on the hills to the west of the city. Among them, there were also standards of the Republics of Sienna and of Genoa, which had sent their men to fight under Ferdinand’s command.

The midday sun blazed down onto the city of Milan, as if heralding something glorious to happen on the Assumption of the Virgin Mary. The warm air was heated with conflagrations in the Imperial camp around the city, save its northern and western parts. In the valley near those parts, the Viceroy of Naples – Don Pedro Alvarez de Toledo y Zúñiga, Marquess of Villafranca del Bierzo – attempted to make the surviving Imperial soldiers create some formation.   

The French ruler was here with Dauphin Henri, King Ferdinand, and their men. François was encumbered in silver armor, which the Governor of Milan – Pier Maria de’ Rossi, Count di San Secondo – had provided him with. As the garrison of Milan was exhausted after the many months of siege, the French monarch had enjoined them not to participate in today’s battle.

King François sat on his white stallion, caparisoned in white and blue brocade. Squinting his eyes, he gazed into the distance. “The smoke is so thick that we can hardly see the remains of the enemy camp. I wonder how many soldiers General Toledo has at the moment.”

“Not more than one hundred thousand,” estimated King Ferdinand. His destrier, draped in green velvet, stood near his Valois counterpart’s. “The Ottomans could not put several camps around the huge Imperial one, so some parts of Carlos’ camp were not burned.”

Dauphin Henri observed the flames licking many tents. “In any case, we will have to face far fewer of them than we could if we did not use Greek fire. The Turks assisted us in breaking the siege quickly and saved you, Father.” He cast an affectionate gaze at his parent.

François glanced between Ferdinand and Henri warmly. “You both rescued me.”

“How could it have been otherwise?” Henri blurted out in a pained voice. “France would never have been the same without you. And so many bad things happened in your absence.”

The French monarch steered his horse towards his son’s. Reaching him, François tightened the reins, and, gripping them in one hand, put the other upon his heir’s shoulder. “I’m very proud of you, son – of the man you have become. Claude d’Annebault apprised me of everything that transpired in France. The country would have crumbled without you and my sister Margot.”

Dropping the reins, Henri placed his hands on his father’s arms. “Father, I would have done anything to restore you to your rightful place. France was orphaned without you.”

François said gently, “I’m sorry that Diane de Poitiers turned out to be a traitor.”

The dauphin’s features contorted in abhorrence. “Don’t be, Father. I had her executed for the crimes she committed against our country and family. Her evil soul must be burning in hell.”

“It must be painful for you, son,” François assumed sympathetically.

Henri looked doleful only for the briefest moment before a tiny smile stole across his lips. “I regret far more that for years, I was so blind that Diane manipulated me with ease.”  

His father smiled slightly. “You sent the woman you loved to her death. It did have a toll on you, but I’m both delighted and relieved that it is not as significant as I feared.”

The dauphin’s expression fell. “Diane made her bed and had to lie in it. I blame myself for my inability to save Uncle Henri, Aunt Margot’s husband. His death is a huge loss.”

Grief shadowed the ruler’s countenance. “I’m very deeply saddened with Henri’s passing. Jeanne is now the Queen of Navarre, and Margot is her regent. It is a difficult time for them.”

“For all of us.” Yet, the feeling of guilt was hunting Henri.

François rode back to Ferdinand. Now his horse stood between his son’s and his friend’s. In their glittering armors, the three of them looked like messiahs of divine light.  

§§§

They examined their surroundings from the hill that was an excellent vantage point. To the north lay the great sweep of the southern flank of the Alps – the wall of the mountains luminous in the sunlight, shining in all its glory. Between the semicircle of mountains and the Po River in the south, there was an arid zone towards the north, a little swampy near the river.

In the midst of this natural beauty, the horrific conflagration blazed in the adversary camp like fires of the netherworld. The Turkish trebuchets and catapults were constantly throwing gigantic amounts of flaming liquid since dawn. The smoke in the city’s vicinity was so thick that it was hard to see anything and nearly impossible to breathe. With intervals from ten to fifteen minutes, trebuchets and catapults flung pots and arrows with the combustive Greek mixture onto the camp, and soon the smoke thickened so much that it obscured the view almost entirely.

“Ferdinand,” addressed François in the most affable accents. “Thank you for everything you have done for me and my daughter. If you didn’t come, I would eventually have surrendered to Carlos regardless of my fate. There is almost no grain and food left in the city.”

Ferdinand spoke in a friendly tone. “François, I would have rescued all of you earlier, but I could not as misfortunes beset me. I was apprehended in Vienna and delivered under convoy to Schwerin Castle. I spent months in my quite comfortable prison. If not for your marshal, Claude d’Annebault, I would still have been jailed, and Carlos would have continued playing a god.”

François laughed. “Tell me how you escaped. Was it difficult?”  

“So-so. Claude infiltrated into the castle as a guard and found me. Then we fled in disguise and wandered across Europe until I decided that we would not win without the Turks.”

François nodded. “Now you must understand why I allied with Suleiman ten years ago.”

“Yes, I do. However, we cannot let the Muslims stay in Italy for long.” Ferdinand gestured towards the burning camp. “Look there! You can see their destructive weapons. Now we have only twenty thousand of them in my camp: they are not Janissaries – they are all working with catapults and trebuchets. Imagine if they bring their armies to Italy or anywhere else to Europe and use the Greek fire against our Christian cities and armies. They might easily conquer us!”

The sovereign of France witnessed panicking knights running away from the camp. “You are right, Ferdinand. Claude told me that your agreement with Suleiman was to use their help only to lift the siege of Milan, but not in the rest of our campaign. Of course, Suleiman would not share his military secrets with Christians, so he sent Rüstem Pasha with Greek fire. After the battle, we will thank the Grand Vizier, but we will see or even make them leave Italy.”   

“Exactly, François. It is our war against Carlos,” the King of Hungary confirmed.

François peered into Ferdinand’s orbs. “You must become the next Holy Roman Emperor. We need peace in Europe, but if Carlos remains in power, we will not have it.”

Ferdinand tipped his head decisively. “It is not that I want to harm my brother…However, he left me no choice. Therefore, I intend to make him abdicate in my favor.”

“But you want him alive.” François could see the inner struggle in his friend.

Ferdinand lowered his voice to a whisper. “God forgive me, but at times I cannot help but wish that Carlos perishes in some battle. It would have been much easier, then.”

The Valois ruler thought the same. “The Lord’s ways are mysterious.”

“My wife Marguerite,” began Ferdinand, his voice trembling. “You said she is fine.”

François’ chest was thick with tears as he remembered his daughter’s tragic childbirth. “Ferdinand, when Margot arrived in Milan to ask for my aid in your salvation, she was pregnant. We found out her pregnancy only after we had been surrounded by Carlos’ hordes. She was very stressed out for months, and the birth ordeal in the spring was too complicated.”

Despair was etched into Ferdinand’s countenance. “Did the baby die?” He pounded his fist against his heart. “If not for Carlos, it would not have happened.”

François’ amber pools, overflowing with sadness and apology, stared back at him. “Margot lost an awful amount of blood during the labor, and I had to make a choice who would survive. I could not see another child of mine die. The boy was stillborn. Forgive me, Ferdinand.”

Ferdinand inclined his head. “That was the right decision, François. It is not your fault.”

The consecutive explosions of colossal strength interrupted their discourse. The trebuchets hurtled hundreds of pots with the deadly substance inside them, setting the southern and eastern parts of the Imperial camp on the most catastrophic fire they had ever seen. The flames were so bright, so voluminous, and so fierce that the conflagrations seemed to be heralding the advent of the Lucifer upon the earth to annihilate and curse the whole universe.

“This is hell!” thousands of soldiers chorused. “God, save us!”

Ferdinand rode into the center of the assemblage, followed by François and Henri.

“Our comrades!” Ferdinand addressed. “Calm down! I warned you in advance that you would see unprecedented fires. We are not anywhere close to them. We are not in danger!” To ensure the clarity, he spoke the same words in German, Hungarian, French, and Italian.

François pointed towards General Toledo’s army. “They are going to give us the much-desired battle far from the ruins of the Imperial camp. I shall forever be grateful to you for lifting siege, but we will have to fight for our lives today. Toledo will attack us later today – be ready!”  Unlike Ferdinand, François pronounced his speech in German, Italian, and French.

Henri joined, “Without this Turks, Milan would still have been under siege.”

Ferdinand shared his knowledge. “The Greek fire was invented by Callinicus of Heliopolis, a Greek-speaking Jewish weapon maker in the 7th century during the reign of Constantine the Fourth Pogonatus. The Greek fire was responsible for many key Byzantine victories.”

François rejoined, “Today the Greek fire saved us. And it was God’s will!”

This was repeated in many languages. A composed hush settled over the hill.

§§§

In the late afternoon, François, Henri, and Ferdinand gathered their troops into formation. They began moving closer to the city, towards the field where General Toledo’s army awaited them. Most of the fires had been extinguished by the wind, but clouds of smoke still hung above.

Ferdinand proposed, “Toledo is putting his army into a triangle. I suggest that the French troops deal with the central wing, while my men and I will destroy their left and right wings.”

“Very well,” accented François. “I offered that Monty take the command of your infantry. No one can do this better than him, and he knows many tactics which Carlos’ generals use.”  

Henri smiled. “Of course, after the invasion of France of 1536.”

“I can imagine.” Ferdinand did not want to recall that war.   

“My sovereign and I shall crush Toledo’s men,” interjected Giovanni Battista Castaldo. He was an Italian condottiero and Marquess di Cassano in Ferdinand’s service.

“We shall show no pity to them,” François snarled.

Montmorency emerged next to them on his stallion. “I spoke with all leaders of the French and Habsburg infantry in these armies. I know how to coordinate them.”

Ferdinand nodded. “Brilliant. Then we will lead cavalry attacks.”

“I’ll command King Ferdinand’s artillery,” interposed Wilhelm Freiherr von Roggendorf with thick German accent. He was an Austrian military commander and Hofmeister, who had fled from Austria after Ferdinand’s arrest and whose loyalty to his master was unwavering.

Claude d’Annebault appeared next to them. “I’ll ensure that the artillery swiftly and effectively aids the French cavalry attack on the central wing.”

Philippe de Chabot rode to François and Henri. “I’ll be with you, my liege.”

François whispered, “Don’t leave Henri, Philippe. He must live.” Chabot nodded.

Charles de Cossé, Count de Brissac, rode towards them. “The French archers are ready.”

François told his ally, “If you need our help, send someone with a message.”

Ferdinand gave a nod. “Thank you. But there are no hordes of survivors after the burning.”

General Toledo’s horns blasted, signaling the advancement of the Imperial troops as they launched a cavalry attack from all wings. The wind carried snatches of martial music towards the Valois forces and those of the emperor’s brother. The French and Ferdinand’s cavalry mounted and launched a counter offensive, the drumming of their horses’ hooves sounding like thunder.

§§§

Galloping like a whirlwind, the French cavalry was headed by King François and Dauphin Henri. Much to their surprise, the central wing’s Imperial cavalry was commanded by Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise. The sound of drawn swords was heard, followed by yelps of pain.

Sitting astride his horse at the front of the Valois army, François addressed his soldiers. “Today we fight for the Duchy of Milan that belongs to the House of Valois by my birthright.”

“For the House of Valois!” the French roared enthusiastically.  

Dauphin Henri cried, “For King François!”

The Valois horn encouraged the soldiers to urge their mounts forward until the two forces collided. The clang of swords was deafening, the groans most pitiful. Many men fell on each side, and blood gushed like rivers, pooling onto the green grass, now tinged with crimson.  

“Charge at them!” emboldened King François. His stallion twirled around as he swung his weapon in all directions, taking lives mercilessly. “They are all our enemies!”

The line headed by the dauphin spurred their mounts to a trot and then to a canter, pulling him into the thickest of the battle. Henri was beside his father on his horse, wielding his blade in a skillful array of swordsmanship. King François was relieved that Antoine de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, and Philippe de Chabot, Admiral de Brion, acted as his son’s protective shadows.

Brissac’s archers shot missiles, aiming into the adversary lines. Meanwhile, the emperor’s archers also released a volley of arrows from the central wing. Horses neighed and tumbled to the dusty earth as the arrows found their marks, disemboweling and dismembering the animals.

“Attack!” Anne de Montmorency screamed. “Destroy them all! Especially Guise!”

The French infantry advanced forward with immaculate discipline and precision, and so did that of the emperor’s brother. Together they rushed towards each of the foe wings. Soldiers of various nationalities, armed with arquebuses, were placed in three lines so that one line would be able to fire while the other lines could reload. The continuous flow of gunfire was maintained on all wings as they all assumed the same tactic of effective volley fire or shooting in turns.

“Destroy François and Ferdinand!” General Toledo cried from the right wing.

Claude d’Annebault was now somewhere close to the central wing, barking orders to the artillery. “Fire! Take down as many Imperial worms as you can! Now!”   

The French artillery succeeded in dislodging most of the enemy rear. The Imperial artillery was nevertheless no less professional, so the opposing forces withdrew to a safer distance. Then the infantries and the cavalries, whose many soldiers now fought on foot, slammed together.  

Suddenly, François recognized his former friend Duke Claude de Guise. Both men were without their horses, which had been killed. The king sprang forward, lunging at Guise’s chest.

François stabbed at the traitor. “It is your last day, Guise.”

“I loathe you, pagan king!” Claude de Guise screamed in a high-pitched voice.  

“God curse you!” The monarch’s blade nearly caught his opponent’s shoulder, but the rival sidestepped in time. “I loved you so much. I made you almost a prince of the blood.”  

Guise parried the diagonal blow. “You married that Boleyn witch!”

“And?” demanded François, a new tactic forming in his head.

“I was loyal to you.” Guise wielded his weapon in a violent attempt to subdue the ruler, but he failed. “Loyal to the House of Valois. Until that whore has clouded your mind!”

“Absurd!” The king’s face twisted into a scowl. “Anne has never been France’s foe.”

With surprising swiftness, Guise sliced his blade at his former liege lord. “You are a heretic, just as that sorceress is! She bewitched you into wedding her and is now ruling France!”

“You are a fanatic!” The monarch brushed the enemy’s sword aside.

“I adore France!” Guise directed his blade at his adversary’s helmet.

François ducked and swiped his weapon at the rival. “If you had loved France, you would never have attempted to kill my pregnant wife and my daughter Louise. Never ever!”

The traitor clenched his jaw angrily. “I do not want France to be governed by the Valois brats who came out of that accursed woman’s womb. I fear that once day it might happen.”

Dauphin Henri, Chabot, and Vendôme surrounded François, who was locked in a deadly combat against the traitor, safeguarding him from the Imperial knights.

“Protect the king and the dauphin!” Chabot ordered while dispatching opponents.

“At any cost!” emphasized Vendôme, his sword an extension of his hand.

“You are a damned scum!” The ruler’s blade collided with Guise’s with such a force that Guise’s sword trembled in his hands. “My son Charles was murdered because of you.”  

Guise corrected, “Your friend’s wife Madeleine killed him.”  

“It matters not.” François had his blade in his right hand and his poniard in the other one. “You committed a regicide attempt on the members of the House of Valois.”  

“Yes, I did!” Guise also extracted a dagger. “To purge my country from heresy!”

François deflected a blow. “You would gladly have burned me and my family as heretics.”

Guise did not deny that. “Everyone except for the sons of Catherine de’ Medici.”

“The punishment for treason is death,” growled François. “I shall execute you today.”

You shall rot in hell, Guise, vowed the sovereign of France. He faked an overhead blow and slashed at his side, but his opponent sidestepped and then charged into battle again. Guise was a competent swordsman, and now he was stronger because he had not spent months under siege without enough food, unlike François. Yet, the king’s deceptive tactic was working.   

Cursing François, Guise attacked him like a warrior possessed by a bloodthirsty spirit. A tired François was pushed forward by the insane abhorrence he felt against the man whom he had once called his friend. The monarch’s weapon rammed into the traitor’s chest with such a force that Guise nearly stumbled, and, seizing the opportunity, François decapitated him. At the same time, Dauphin Henri severed both of the man’s arms one after another.

“For Charles!” François and Henri watched Guise’s head and limbs roll over the ground.

Annebault’s voice was carried by the wind. “Artillery! Fire!”

“The left wing is gone!” King Ferdinand’s shout made the French roar their cheers.

“That man!” one of the Imperial soldiers wailed. “He must be King François!”

The Valois ruler veered his scrutiny towards the source of the voice, but there was a complete bloody mess all around him. The arrows flew back and forth, and so did the fire of the French, Imperial, and Ferdinand’s artillery. Having sheathed his poniard so that he could use his shield with his left hand, François ducked, parried, and cut the threads of numerous lives.   

Suddenly, François saw Henri, Chabot, and Vendôme in a circle of ten men. The dauphin wore François’ burgonet adorned with salamanders, which Henri had taken from France to Italy. They have mistaken Henri for me, the king realized. I shall not let them murder my son!

In his peripheral vision, François spotted Montmorency with two spears and a sword. His constable appealed, “Protect Dauphin Henri! Safeguard King François!”

“Die, you Carlos’ vermin!” hissed Henri as he impaled one of his attackers.

Chabot, Vendôme, and Montmorency were barely holding back the foes who attempted to kill the knight who they thought to be François. One of them was the Viceroy of Naples, Don Pedro Alvarez de Toledo, who was now dangerously close to the dauphin.

Toledo’s wiry beard, covered with perspiration and dirt, stuck out in all directions, making General Toledo look feral. He shouted, “Death to that Valois heretic!”

Henri was engaged in battle with two warriors. Before Toledo could make the fatal blow, François appeared next to them and plunged his blade into the man’s stomach. The chief general, who had spent eleven months besieging Milan, was shocked, his eyes bulging in agony.

“Careful, Henri,” admonished François as he cut off someone’s arm.   

“Thank you.” The dauphin nodded. “Ah, your helmet, Father.”

“Yes.” In the next instance, the ruler noticed three more knights in Spanish morions.

Henri and François finished both of them off. The third one raised his weapon for a strike directly at the prince. Chabot darted to them and stabbed the assailant in the gut, but the dying man lifted his arm reflexively and in response impaled Chabot on the blade.   

“Philippe!” cried François and Henri together in despair.

Nevertheless, it was already too late. Philippe de Chabot, Admiral de Brion, was dead.

King Ferdinand hollered from the background, “The right wing! To me!”

The central wing was falling back under the weight of the French larger force. In several minutes, nothing was left of it, and thousands of corpses littered the blood-drenched ground.

§§§

No help from the French was needed. By the time François and Henri had made their way the right wing, it had been destroyed by the large landsknechte – German-speaking mercenaries, whom Ferdinand had hired in Switzerland. The left wing had been annihilated by the joint efforts of the Hungarian and Bohemian divisions, as well as the small armies of Sienna and Genoa.

King Ferdinand removed his helmet as he examined the battlefield. Thousands of corpses littered the field, where the foliage was stained and streaked with blood. Oaths, prayers, and the moans of the dying and the wounded were getting commingled. The area around Milan reminded a cemetery with numerous mutilated bodies. Most of the smoke had already dispersed, however a colossal quantity of ash covered the place where the Imperial camp had once been.

François approached. “It’s done.” He pulled off his helmet.

Ferdinand spoke. “Yes. Between sixty and seventy thousand men were burned alive in the camp. Then we defeated the Imperial army consisting of one hundred thousand.”

Henri neared, the burgonet clasped in his hand. “Many of our comrades died.”

The King of France crossed himself. “They died as heroes.”

“Just as Philippe de Chabot did,” said Henri while also crossing himself.

Giovanni Castaldo strode to Ferdinand and bowed. “Your Majesty, the Imperial troops lost more than seventy thousand men in battle. Thirty thousand are still alive.” He sighed. “We lost one third of our army, or thirty thousand men. There are heavy causalities on both parts.”   

Ferdinand instructed, “Take the rest of them prisoners. If they pledge their fealty to me, we will recruit them into our army. If they refuse, then have them executed.”

Castaldo approved of that. “Emperor Carlos retreated from Monza with thirty thousand men after losing about the same number. Yet, he has more men in Spain and Flanders.”

“Where is Carlos now?” Henri demanded.

Castaldo conjectured, “He must be retreating to Switzerland now.”

“He can recruit more mercenaries there,” hypothesized François.

Ferdinand smiled. “If Carlos finds money to do so. My spies reported that he had used most of the revenues from the Spanish and Imperial treasuries to hire one hundred and seventy thousand knights for his Milanese escapades. He is also deeply in debt to the German Fuggers.”

François asked, “How many men does he have in Flanders and Germany?”

“Maybe fifty thousand,” estimated Ferdinand. “But he needs to pay to them.”

Henri huffed, “Hopefully, he has no funds.”

Wilhelm Freiherr von Roggendorf came to them. He bowed to both monarchs, and then his gaze focused on François. “Your Majesty, we caught Cardinal Jean de Lorraine.”

The King of France leered. “Both of the Lorraine brothers are in our hands now.”

“One of them is dead,” Henri snarled. At Ferdinand’s dumbfounded visage, he explained, “Father and I killed Claude de Guise in battle. Father also disposed of General Toledo.”

Ferdinand looked satisfied. “Excellent. I, too, killed a few generals who served my brother. Sadly, Gonzaga and Alba escaped together with Carlos – that is not good.”

“We will find them,” François assured. “At first, we need a new Pope.”

Henri inquired, “Father, will you go to Rome? The Pope might already be dead.”

François nodded. “I must ensure that Anne is safe.”

“Anyway, we need some rest,” Ferdinand huffed. “So, go take care of your wife.”

Henri offered, “I’ll have the Cardinal de Lorraine executed surreptitiously.”

“Yes,” François approved. “No public execution of a prelate please.” After his son nodded, he supplemented, “We must give Admiral de Brion lavish funeral in Milan.”

The dauphin sighed grievously. “Yes, Father.”

It was several hours before sunset. The sky was darkening as banks of clouds were piling far out across the Alps. Because of the carnage, the stench of blood was stuck in their throats; François, Ferdinand, and Henri rode into the city of Milan. As the siege was over, everyday life would proceed in Milan on its usual course from now onwards, the cheerful bustle of business would raise the spirits of inhabitants, but the war against the emperor would continue.

Notes:

We hope that you are all fine and safe. The new chapter is up! Here we go.

This chapter’s title refers to the main topic in this chapter – the end of the siege of Milan that lasted for about 11 months. Some readers said that it lasted for too long, but you have to remember that some sieges lasted for even longer. For example, the First Siege of Rome during the Gothic War lasted for a year and 9 days, from March 537 to March 538. As we mentioned several times in previous chapters, the governor of Rome created a substantial stock of grain, which helped François and those entrapped in Milan survive, but they of course starved.

Empress Mary came back to her husband because there is no way she could have left him in spite of her comprehension that she placed herself in danger. Carlos does not know yet that Mary liberated Juana of Castile, his mother, and delivered her to Ferdinand. We wanted to show the contradictory relationship between Carlos and Mary: at one side, he does not let her be herself – a young intelligent woman – and is not interested in her opinion, but on the flip side, he is capable of being tender with Mary and feels something (though not love) for her.

Carlos has some kind of bad foreboding, but who knows how the brothers’ war will end. The Italian allies of François and Ferdinand attacked the Imperial camp located at Monza, but Carlos and his chief commander the Duke of Alba managed to escape after their troops suffered heavy casualties. Ercole d’Este, Duke of Ferrara, served the emperor during the invasion of France of 1536-37, but he spied for the French and then openly joined François – therefore, Ercole is a traitor in Carlos’ eyes, so Carlos seriously wounded Ercole who also injured him. Carlos took Mary with him and the rest of his army when they retreated from Monza.

Finally, the battle of Milan took place, and the Turks assisted Ferdinand in lifting the siege, saving François, Montmorency, and young Marguerite, Ferdinand’s wife. The use of Greek fire seems to be a bit fantastic, and in a way it’s true because it is likely that the Ottomans didn’t know how to use the Greek fire, but let’s suppose they did for fictional purposes. We like the twist of them using the Greek/Byzantine fire to lift the siege, and we hope you like this twist as well. Ferdinand and François are worried that the Turks might try to conquer the Christian lands because they have such lethal weapons in this fiction. Well, the Ottomans were indeed very powerful in history, especially during the reign of Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent.

François and Dauphin Henri encountered Duke Claude de Lorraine in this chapter. We decided to give François a personal duel against Guise so that the traitor could be punished for what he did to his liege lord and to the House of Valois by François. Dauphin Henri also deserved to take part in the killing of the Duke de Guise. Pedro Álvarez de Toledo y Zúñiga, Marquess of Villafranca del Bierzo, was the Imperial viceroy of Naples in history, while in this fiction we made him the commander of the Imperial army in the siege of Milan; Toledo was also the father of Leonor Álvarez de Toledo, Cosimo de’ Medici’s wife and Duchess of Florence.

Monza is a city and commune on the River Lambro, about 15 kilometers (9 miles) north-northeast of Milan. A Janissary was a member of the elite infantry units that formed the Ottoman Sultan’s household troops and the first modern standing army in Europe. The corps was most likely established under sultan Orhan (1324-1362), during the Viziership of Alaeddin.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 77: Chapter 76: Death below Michelangelo’s Ceiling

Summary:

Pope Pole III breathes his last in the midst of artistic beauty. At last, Anne and François are reunited, and so are her sister and Montmorency. In Milan, Juana of Castile enjoys her time with her son Ferdinand and his wife. Dauphin Henri learns that Diane de Poitiers had a conspirator.

Notes:

Attention! We posted a prologue to the sequel “Chained by Blood and Power” (CBP). Let us know your thoughts and thanks!

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 76: Death below Michelangelo’s Ceiling

August 24, 1546, the Sistine Chapel, Apostolic Palace, Rome, the Papal States, Italy

The afternoon sky was gloomy, the weather in Rome humid and warm. No ray of sunlight lit it up today, as if heralding something inevitable and egregious approaching fast. Perhaps it was so in the aftermath of the numerous burnings of those sympathetic to heresy in Rome in the past year. Recently, much to everyone’s horror, Vittoria Colonna, who was Marchioness of Pescara and a notable poetess, had been burned in the square near Saint Peter’s Basilica.

“Why here?” asked himself the Bishop of Rome. “Why not in my rooms?”  

His breathing labored, Pope Paul III slowly entered the Sistine Chapel. At seventy-eight, he walked with a cane and difficulty, his body exhausted by the natural illnesses of old age. His secretary apprised him that his beloved son – Pier Luigi Farnese, Duke of Castro – awaited him in the chapel. The Pope could not have refused Pier who kept the unwavering fealty to him after the betrayal of Ranuccio Farnese, who stayed in France following his release from captivity.

“Pier!” called Paul huskily. “Why did you invite me here?” 

There was a perfect stillness in the chapel. One would say that it was reverential, if not for sinister shadows thickening in the air, as though impending doom was now too close.

The Pope halted. His heart hammered as he contemplated the beauty around him. The southern wall was adorned with the Stories of Moses, painted in the 1480s by Pietro Perugino, Sandro Botticelli, Pinturicchio, Domenico Ghirlandaio, and Cosimo Rosselli. The northern wall housed frescoes portraying the Stories of Jesus, created by the same artists. Pope Sixtus the Forth, who excommunicated Lorenzo de’ Medici, was a great patron of the arts, Farnese mused.   

“Pay a special attention to the fresco ‘The Last Supper’ by Cosimo Rosselli and Biagio d’Antonio. The table has no meals: there is only a single chalice in front of Jesus Christ.”

A sonorous feminine voice caused the old man to pivot. Alessandro Farnese blinked in astonishment and fright. A woman, clad in a hooded black damask cloak, stood a few feet away from him. On the wall beside her there was the fresco ‘The Last Judgment’ by Michelangelo, which had been designed on a grand scale spanning the entire wall behind the altar.  

The Bishop of Rome demanded, “Who are you? Where is my son?” 

Ignoring his question, the stranger continued, “Today was your last meal.”

“What?” A tide of anger rippled through the Pope. “How dare you deceive me that my son Pier is here and threaten me, the Supreme Pontiff of the Catholic Church?” 

“We invited you to the Sistine Chapel so that on the last day of your life Your Unholliness could enjoy Michelangelo’s ‘Last Judgment’. When your soul goes to hell, you will think of the second coming of Christ and your torments in the afterlife. Hell will be your new home!”   

The prelate was scared and incensed. “The Almighty speaks to me and tells me His will.”

A half-tragic, half-acrid laughter erupted from her. “I can see only an old villain, one who despite his ailing health continues plotting murders in various countries through his agents.”

Farnese swallowed convulsively. “Who are you?” 

She did not answer and went on. “On this Michelangelo’s fresco, which you commissioned several years earlier, there is the figure of Christ in the middle. He is surrounded by the saints clustered in groups. At the bottom left of the painting the dead are raising from their graves and ascend to be judged by the Lord. To the right there are those who are assigned to hell and are dragged down by demons. Where do you think your rotten, accursed body and soul will be?” 

“Who are you?” he rasped, feeling an odd burning in his stomach.

The female figure moved closer to the altar and the artwork that she had described. “You are the Satan’s ambassador on earth. You ought to be painted on the right side of this work.”

The Bishop of Rome exploded, “No one has the right to judge the Pope, a descendant of St Peter and the leader of all Christians. You will be arrested and tried as a heretic!” 

She tittered in a sad and yet steely manner. “You are the Lucifer’s incarnation! Your hands are tainted with the blood of so many innocents that you will never wash it away.”

Farnese advanced forward. “You are wretched! You will be burned!” 

The woman backed away further, her head high, her bearing regal. “There is only one God for both Catholics and Protestants – Jesus Christ regardless of how people call Him. Everything else is politics! An out-and-villain such as yourself cannot be the leader of any Church.”

The main Catholic Bishop narrowed his eyes to slits and pointed a furious finger at her. “I don’t know who you are, but you will pay for every insult towards me – you will suffer.”

Her laugh reverberated through the chapel’s vastness. “You excommunicated my husband, our children, me, and our entire family. The new Pope will certainly lift the excommunication.”

A thought occurred to him. “You must be that Boleyn witch who ensnared two kings.”

Queen Anne removed her hood. “Nice to meet you, the chief villain of Rome.”

“How?”  The shaken man’s eyes bulged in awful fear.

This old man is a dreadful villain despite his visible frailty, Anne observed as her glare collided with his. Lurking in his eyes, the evil is snarling, breathing, contaminating everything. She associated the Pope’s crimson robes with rivers of blood, which this malefactor had spilled in his quest against heresy. Farnese’s hatred for her had originated in her role in England’s break with Rome, and Anne’s marriage to François had solidified his desire to get rid of her.  

“Any guesses?” She was both taunting and exasperating him.

Pulling himself together, Alessandro Farnese eyed Anne Boleyn. His main nemesis, who he had failed to annihilate in England and France, looked younger than most women of her age did. Anne’s exotic face, though too pale, was tinctured with the calmness that seemed to exude some unearthly fierceness to shake everything in the world, being an ominous sign for him.

The Pope was hit by Anne’s strength and animosity reflected in her vengeful pools. He had longed craved to see the legendary creature, invisible despite all of his plots against her. Her eyes were windows to enigma, where Farnese discerned something he would never fathom out, and through which she bewitched people and rulers with her powerful spells. These brown eyes ensorcelled two monarchs, the pontiff growled silently, unable to tear his orbs away from her.

§§§

His shock now replaced with abhorrence, the Bishop of Rome stepped towards the queen. Again, Anne glided away from him across the floor, her footsteps light and her laughter morbid. His hands only barely caught her cloak and instead brushed against the frescoed wall, which was too cold, lifeless and yet breathing with the prediction of retribution for all his villainies.   

“How did you come?” His black heart palpitated with his thirst for Anne’s blood.

Tossing her raven locks like wings, she explained, “During the five years when the Duke de Montmorency served as Governor of Rome, he developed connections with the local clergy and aristocracy. In fact, most of your cardinals are loyal to Monty and France – they despise you so much that they will dance upon your grave once the evil spirit leaves your body.”

The Supreme Pontiff sniggered. “I cleansed the circle of cardinals.”

“By killing them?” She crossed herself before saying, “We are aware that you ordered to have some of our loyal cardinals and ecclesial men poisoned. However, most of them were reasonable to escape after you had dismissed Monty from his position of the city’s governor.”

His countenance contorted in the implacable loathing that he felt for the very woman who he considered the most diabolical demonness. “I only commenced purging Rome from treachery and heresy. There are many things I still need to do, but my son and I will cope.”

The Valois queen apprised in a crafty undertone, “Your secretary and many other residents of this palace want you dead so much that they gladly conspired with us.”  

Weakness was overmastering Farnese. “Of course, my son can’t be here.”

“Your secretary lured you into the chapel for a compelling reason, Farnese.”

“You are a sorceress! You will perish in flames of my inquisitorial fire.” 

She leered like the Goddess Nemesis. “You shall die before me.”

“Guards!”  the leader of Catholics blustered, terrified out of his wits. “Guards!” 

The queen shook her head. “They will not protect you.”

The villain was now burning from the inside out – every nerve, every vein, every muscle. A tide of pain slashed through his stomach. “What did you give me, you whore?” 

A deep male voice, furious like that of a wrathful Zeus, elaborated, “A deadly concoction similar to the one your agents gave my wife – Lady Elizabeth Boleyn, Countess of Wiltshire. However, this poison kills more slowly. I know that she was poisoned in Venice.”

Another female voice spoke. “Our mother must be in paradise. You will be in hell.”

Enduring the increasing torment in his abdomen, Farnese swiveled to face the newcomers. Both dressed in black satin clothes like Anne, Thomas Boleyn and Marie de Montmorency stood at the entrance to the chapel. Then they sauntered forward, stalking him like hunters.

“The heretical Boleyn slut of two kings and a duke!” hollered the Pope the nickname that he had given Marie in Rome after her flight to Florence. “How dare you return to my city?” 

Pulling off her hood, Marie stepped into the depths of the chapel. “To settle scores, the devil Farnese. For our mother’s murder. For my husband’s afflictions during the siege of Milan.”   

Wiltshire stood beside his older daughter. His visage was like that of the Creator allocating comeuppance. “To punish you for the crimes against my wife and both of my girls.”

The queen hissed, “For the death of Prince Charles de Valois. For the siege of Milan.”

Marie accused, “For the burnings of my several Italian friends who you call heretics. One of them is Vittoria Colonna, Marchioness of Pescara, whom you destroyed a week ago.”

Anne clarified spitefully, “The poison was in the wine you drank at your dinner.”

The harrowing sensations in the villain’s stomach subsided. “Those heretical François and Montmorency must already be dead from starvation or arrested by the emperor’s men.”

“Fantasies, Farnese,” affirmed King François. “The siege of Milan was lifted.”

Anne, Mary, and Thomas Boleyn swung around and stared towards the chapel’s entrance.

The queen’s heart sang the most celestial rhythm. “François!”

The king smiled at her with all his devotion to his wife. “Yes, mon amour!” 

The King of France and the Duke de Montmorency stood at the doorway.  

Marie gasped, “Monty!” Her husband in response flashed a smile for her.

“No!” For the first time in his long life, Alessandro Farnese felt so utterly defeated.

François took a step forward. “Yes, the Satan of Rome. We are alive! Ferdinand and Henri, my son, rescued us and defeated the Imperial forces. Carlos will be dealt with, too.”

The Pope backed away, the pain in his gut returning. “You will all be damned.”  

Montmorency ground out, “Your friend, the Lucifer, is waiting for you.”

“No, no, no!” His legs faltering, the prelate stuttered towards the altar.

At last, Alessandro Farnese collapsed on the floor, writhing in agony. The cramps in his abdomen were so very horrible that he almost doubled over in pain, moaning and whimpering. His insides felt like scorching acid, his whole being stinging, burning, and twisting every fiber of his being. The Pope had been poisoned in the same way as he had disposed of many others.

I’ve failed to eradicate my enemies, the Pope’s dying thoughts were gloomy. At least I breathe my last in the midst of the beauty created at my behest by Michelangelo. His scrutiny was glued up to the stunning ceiling painted by the celebrated artist in bright colors, so unlike the bishop’s soul. His gaze lingered upon the ancestors of Jesus Christ, then on nine stories from the Book of Genesis on the highest section before detouring to twelve figures – the Apostles.

Anne and François emerged near the criminal’s dying form from both sides.

The queen taunted, “Farnese, you will not find yourself in the Garden of Eden.”

“The netherworld or something worse is your destination,” the monarch jeered.

Grimacing in severe excruciation, the dying villain glared between the spouses. “François, that heretical… prostitute is your Eve. She is…. dragging the entirety of France… to ruin.”

“You are mad,” the ruler replied in a sibilant voice. “A person with a kind heart dies at peace with God, man, and nature. His wholeness of spirit brings him or her to heaven.” François squatted at the man’s level. “Sadly, our current Supreme Pontiff does not understand that.”

“Heretics,” Alessandro Farnese spat, his heartbeat slowing.

François said benignly, “I forgive you for all your crimes against my family.”

The Pope’s vision was blurry. By now, his vitals were fully incinerated by the venomous wine. Farnese wept as waves of suffering crashed over him – wept with bitter tears of defeat and hate. He had always thought that he would die in his bed after his project of cleansing Europe from heresy would be completed. Yet, the circle of fatality was squeezing the life out of him.   

Farnese’s last thought was about Catherine de’ Medici. “Revenge will come.”

The Almighty carried the scoundrel’s soul to face His divine judgment. Looking at his mortal remains, Anne and François noticed the consternation etched into the villain’s features, dark with something monstrous even in the candlelight, his lips drawn back in a deathly grimace. The fiendish head of Rome, whose his atrocious hand had been busy with writing orders to his agents for years, the Pope Paul III was finally dead.

§§§

As Anne stepped back from the Pope’s corpse, François followed her. Then they froze.

A moment later, Thomas Boleyn approached the body and spat down onto him. “My wife Elizabeth can sleep peacefully. Her death has been avenged, and now my heart is a bit lighter.”

Marie approached the body. “Not yet. We must find the criminal who poisoned her.”

Wiltshire’s soul tightened with grief. “We will. I swear.”

Montmorency neared them. “Marie, I was out of my mind with worry that you had traveled here. His Majesty and I hurried from Milan to Rome, overworking our horses.”

Marie glanced at her husband affectionately. “Monty, we arrived in Rome in disguise and went to our friend, Pirro Colonna, who stayed here despite all the dangers. He informed us about the upcoming battle of Milan. We spent several weeks at his house plotting the Pope’s death.”

“It was too risky, wife,” Montmorency chided. “You should have stayed in Florence. The Pope could have murdered you, your sister, and–” He paused, looking at the Earl of Wiltshire whom he did not like because of what the man had done to his daughters. “Your father.”

Marie bristled, “I could not just watch how the old villain excommunicated us all, giving the emperor the grounds to make you stand trial for heresy in case of your capitulation to him.”   

Montmorency continued, “Your life is more important than mine, my dear Marie.”

“Why is that so?” Marie added vehemently, “I’m not a ninny!” 

A weary Montmorency lowered his voice. “Can’t we just stop bickering?”  

Marie’s heart fluttered with joy. “I was nearly broken without you.”  

The Constable of France hugged his spouse so tightly as though to embed her into him.

Will my Marie ever fall in love with me? Montmorency wondered. In Milan, Montmorency had prayed that if he were destined to survive, he would conquer his wife’s devotion. Every day visions of Marie and their two daughters had plagued him, breaking his heart that he would never see them again. Marie was Montmorency’s anchor to the earth, holding his soul within his body.  

Squeezing him in her arms, Marie felt her spouse’s bones through his clothing. Like the king, Montmorency was exhausted and undernourished. During the siege, the river of her life had been frozen without her husband. Marie had found consolation in their daughters Marie and Christine. I did not think about William Stafford for too long. Did my love for Will fade away?

Wiltshire enjoyed contemplating his daughter’s happiness. “Pirro Colonna masterminded the plot how to get rid of the Pope. His connections helped us infiltrate into the palace.”

As the spouses parted, Montmorency commended, “Pirro was my right-hand man during my tenure as Governor of Rome. He knows everyone, every nook and cranny in this city.”

“Pirro is outside the chapel,” Marie clarified. “Guarding us.”

Montmorency nodded. “Yes. The king and I saw Pirro on our way here.”

Wiltshire’s metallic voice spoke. “It was high time to dispose of that Farnese scum.”

Marie noted, “Today is the Feast of St. Bartholomew Apostle. How interesting!” 

“Indeed.” Montmorency stroked his chin.

Montmorency’s wife enlightened, “Your son, our daughters, and I all escaped to Florence from Rome. Cosimo de’ Medici was hospitable: we lived at one of his villas for many months until Anne arrived from France. Cosimo refused the Pope’s demands to send us back.”  

A relieved Montmorency glanced at the fresco ‘Vocation of the Apostles’ by Domenico Ghirlandaio. “Dauphin Henri and Claude d’Annebault brought all the news to us.”  

“How was the battle, Your Grace?” Wiltshire asked.

Marie’s mind drifted to the emperor. “What about Carlos?” 

Montmorency replied, “The trap with Greek fire worked. Thousands of men fell on each side. The carnage and inferno around Milan were so horrible that it would take us weeks to bury the dead.” He flung his arms up in frustration. “Unfortunately, the emperor was not in Milan. His camp was ten miles away from the city. Our Italian allies attacked him, but Carlos retreated.”

“We owe huge thanks to Henri and Ferdinand.” Marie released a sigh.

Wiltshire opined, “Only Carlos’ abdication or death will end the Habsburg brothers’ war.”

The duke dipped his head. “We will attack Carlos again. At first we need a new Pope.”   

§§§

Anne and François stood in front of each other, silent like sphinxes, fearing that each of them was a mirage that could vanish. Candles in the chapel blazed upon them like benediction.     

Her heart somersaulting in sheer elation, the Queen of France viewed her husband from top to toe. Clad in an outfit of brown silk, dusty from his cap to boots after his journey, François looked too thin and pale, with dark circles under his eyes, which she had been afraid to never see again. Dear God, this is my husband! Yet, it is not him… He is so tired to even hold a sword!

The monarch scrutinized his wife. She was skinny, her bones stressed by her black attire, because of all the horrendous stresses Anne had endured during their separation. So thin that her eyes, about which François had written many poems, seemed unnaturally large in her exotic face. My Lord, Anne is here! Alive and yet different! How much she survived through without me…  

At last, Anne broke the silence. “You do not look healthy.”

François sighed. “I cannot look like a dashing king after such a long siege with our food stock dwindling with every day passing. I’m also exhausted after the battle and the trip.”

Her gaze was haunted. “My life was dreadful without you.”

“I’ve never seen you so thin, Anne. Only skin and bones!”

Anne and François embraced each other, entwining themselves in a cocoon of immortal love, burning inside them with a life-giving brightness that had prevented them from crumbling like the crest of a wave before hurling itself against the shore. A taller François buried his head into her shoulder, while Anne pressed her head to his chest, their bodies trembling like leaves.     

François whispered into her ear, “With a sinking heart, I waited for my end in Milan. I hated the emperor, God, and myself for rushing headlong into the trap. My soul pleaded with the Lord for pity – to have the chance to see you, Anne, at least once more in my life before dying. In the worst days, nothing could give me more succor than memories of you and our children.”

Anne wrapped her arms around his back. “I, too, was trapped in Boulogne for five months. Then I had to live imagining your death in Milan. Fearing every day, every minute, every second to get the news of Milan’s surrender and of your murder at the pyre, like the Pope and the emperor threatened. I drew comfort from remembrances of you and our offspring.”

His arms snaked around her waist. “It is over, mon amour.”

She muttered, “You left me with child before departing for Provence.”

Lifting his head, the king kissed the nape of her head. “Our Laurent! Our Lorenzo!”

The queen gazed at him, tears trickling down her cheeks. “Another boy.”   

Her husband brushed the tears away. “We conceived him on that night in Cognac.”  

Anne smiled through tears. “After dancing Volta.”

All of a sudden, the queen disentwined herself from her husband and backed away.

She glanced towards Raphael’s ten tapestries that hung around the lower tier of the walls, depicting the lives of St. Peter and St. Paul. “François, you vowed to never leave me.” Covering her eyes with a hand as if not to see him, she lamented, “But you were absent for almost a year!” 

His wife was on the verge of a breakdown. “Anne!”

“You left me!” she sobbed out. “God, how afraid I was to die with our baby.”   

Wiltshire, Montmorency, and Marie – each of them looking sad – did not interfere.

He defended himself. “I did not abandon you because I wanted to. Milan was besieged.”

Her orbs, overflowing with tears, stared at him. “Death hovered over me like a monstrous angel. It swayed in the wind when it blew, it was in the air when I breathed, and it haunted me every day and night. It always had your face, François – never mine or that of our children.”

The monarch soothed, “It is over and will never happen again, wife.”

With her mouth open, she seemed lost in some frightful image as she envisaged a lifeless François. “I can go to the underworld one thousand times, but you must live.”    

“I do feel the same, Anne.” His voice was fractured, like light refracted through a prism. “I would better perish in innumerable sieges and battles, just to let you live.”

Breaching the gap between them, François gathered his wife into his embrace. He soothed her as Anne shuddered in his arms. Even the saints on the frescoes seemed to have watery eyes.

Montmorency, Marie, and Wiltshire stood silent in respect to the depth of their feelings.

§§§

Pirro Colonna entered the Sistine Chapel. “We must leave! Urgently!”

“What’s wrong, Pirro?” the Duke de Montmorency asked.

“Your Grace,” began Pirro, “The Duke of Castro and Cardinal Reginald Pole with young Cardinal Alessandro Farnese are coming. We must disappear through an underground tunnel.”

François and Anne parted. The king addressed, “Messer Colonna, what about Castro and Farnese? They are as dangerous as the Pope was. We must get rid of them.”

Anne opined, “Not on the same day. Another accident might happen a bit later.”

Wiltshire entered the conversation. “The poison creates the symptoms of a heart attack. They will suspect that the Farnese demon was poisoned, but they will not prove anything.”

François took his wife’s hand. “Excellent. The new Pope must be elected soon.”

“Exactly, Your Majesty,” Montmorency concurred. “I have a lot of gold in my palazzo; the cardinals supporting France and you will return after Farnese’s death. All shall be well.”

Marie offered, “Let’s go to our palazzo to rest and hide.”

“Please, quickly! All of you!” Pirro prompted.

After quitting the chapel, they hastened through the corridor, passing the Cappella Paolina, Vatican Library, Raphael Rooms, and Borgia Apartment. They entered the underground tunnel undetected, and horses waited for them outside. They could not see the horror on the faces of the Duke of Castro and his companions upon their entrance to the chapel and finding the Pope dead.


September 2, 1546, Palazzo Reale, Milan, Duchy of Milan, northern Italy

“Holy Father, why has it come to that?” Cardinal Jean de Lorraine moaned.  

After his capture at the end of the Milanese battle, he had been manacled and dragged to the dungeons. They had stripped Lorraine of his cardinal raiment and thrown him into a small, dirty cell. He had been tied to the wall on short chains just long enough to let him sit.    

I do not want to die, the cardinal thought, utterly terrified. Why did God spare that pagan François? After their flight to Spain, he and his older brother, Duke Claude de Guise, had resided in one of the estates owned by Francisco de les Cobos. Finally, Carlos had invited the Lorraine brothers to Milan, with Claude being one of the generals. The siege of Milan had lasted for too long: both Claude and Jean had been forced to live in tents for eleven months.

Lorraine shut his eyes, accustomed to darkness, tipping his head back against the cool wall to lessen the strain on his shoulders. Mortal fright squeezed him: how would he be executed?  The door opened, and a stream of bleak light illumined Lorraine’s face, causing him to squint his eyes. Then Dauphin Henri and his best friend, the Duke de Vendôme, walked in.

“How is our notable prisoner?” Henri held an oil lantern in his hand as he approached.

The Cardinal de Lorraine grouched, “I used to be Your Highness’ friend when you were a true Catholic prince. I always supported you, not your late brother Charles, in your rivalry.”  

“If you had been loyal to France, you would never have attempted to assassinate Queen Anne and her daughters. You betrayed the Crown when you conspired with the Pope.” Henri stood close to him, so the light from the lantern fell onto the prisoner’s pallid face.

Lorraine’s gaze flashed fanatically. “Once you were the hope of France, Henri de Valois.”

“I understand why my father is against persecutions of our Protestant countrymen or those interested in new religion. The current policy of tolerance keeps the nation united.”

The captive shook his head. “One day, the Protestants will become an organized movement in France. They will demand the recognition of their rights, and when the French Crown refuses to grant it to them, religious wars shall begin. It would be better to eradicate them all now.”

Henri grimaced. “Perhaps, but it is none of your business.”

“I love France, so it is my concern,” objected Lorraine vehemently. “The Boleyn witch and whore led your father astray. At present, they are together destroying the religious unity of our country. You could have become a great monarch, but you are already a lost cause.”

Memories of Prince Charles’ murder resurfaced in the dauphin’s brain, traumatizing Henri. “Lorraine, because of you and your damned family my brother Charles was killed.”

Lorrain’s visage turned loathsome. “The Lord took his soul in punishment for the greatest sin of King François – his marriage to that heretical English sorceress.”

Henri’s temper flared. “You, damn son of the Lucifer! You craved to have my father and me burned! In the end you have lost: my father is alive, and so are all my brothers.”  

The cardinal sneered. “Someone else might finish the deed.”

An unbearable stillness settled over the cell, full of alarms and suspicions.

Henri crouched and grabbed the prelate’s throat. “Tell me the truth: who else in France was Diane’s conspirator?” He squeezed his neck tighter. “Who? Speak, goddamn you!” 

“You shall kill me anyway,” croaked Lorraine, barely breathing.

“Who?” The dauphin pulled a dagger from his belt.

Vendôme interfered, “Your Highness, there are special men for torture.”

“Lorraine is mine,” hissed Henri, his grip on the man’s throat getting more severe.

The prelate chocked out, “Where is my brother Claude?” 

Henri watched the man gasp for air as he loosened his grip slightly. “That nefarious Duke de Guise was slaughtered in battle. My father and I did that. His mutilated corpse was thrown to dogs, while his head is beautifying the spike near the ducal palace in Milan.”

Tears poured out of Lorraine’s orbs. “The same will be my fate.”

His hand gripping his throat, while the prince’s other one caught the flesh between the prisoner’s nostrils by his thumb. “Your remains will be fed to dogs. Then you will be forgotten.”

The pain was incredible, and Lorraine squirmed. “I do not want to live!” 

“Burn in hell.” Henri plunged the dagger deep into the traitor’s stomach.

Vendôme sighed: he had seen Henri so angry only during the massacre of Soissons. “Your Highness, with all due respect, it would have been better if the executioner had done the job.”

Lorraine drew his last breaths as the dauphin twisted the dagger. Then Henri plucked the knife from the wound, wiped it with the prisoner’s tunic, and pulled it back into the scabbard.

Henri pivoted to Vendôme with a vicious expression. “That worm deserved it.”

“Your Highness,” called Vendôme softly. “It is almost over. All will be fine.”

“I’ll rest calmly only when the emperor is vanquished and all the traitors pay.”

The dauphin stomped out of the cell. Vendôme followed him, feeling that Henri was right.   

§§§

The day was warm and sunny, though a bit humid. Both attired in asparagus-colored attire ornamented with diamonds, two royals lounged onto blue-brocaded couches in the antechamber. They were King Ferdinand and Queen Marguerite of Bohemia, Hungary, and Croatia.

Amboise Paré, the Valois family’s French physician, stood in front of them. A tall man of average height, he appeared shorter on account of his sturdy build. Clad in a black satin doublet trimmed with white lace, he had chocolate hair, hazel-green intelligent eyes, and a long beard. At Marguerite’s request, Paré had performed her rigorous examination half an hour earlier. She had told him everything about her birth ordeal during the siege of Milan.

A few days ago, Prince Lorenzo had been brought from Florence to Milan, accompanied by the Queen of France’s train. Anne and François were still in Rome, expected to return soon.

“Doctor Paré,” started Marguerite, “you were highly recommended by my Aunt Margot. You watched over my stepmother’s health and helped her deliver my little brother Lorenzo.”

The doctor predicted her question. “Your Majesty wants to have another baby.”

“Yes, I do.” Marguerite released a sigh of grief at the remembrance of her stillborn son.

Ferdinand squeezed her hand. “We already have two children.”

Paré gazed between the spouses. “Her Majesty must recover completely from the previous birth ordeal to be strong enough. It would be better not to get pregnant every year, or it would wear you out quickly despite your youth. Wait for at least a year, don’t take unjustified risks.”

“Thank you, Doctor Paré,” uttered Ferdinand. “That is exactly what we will do.”

“Have a good day, Your Majesties.” Bowing to them, the man exited the chamber.

Marguerite burst out, “What do these doctors know?” 

“He is right.” Her husband stroked her hair. “Our Austrian physician told us the same.”

Tears stung her eyes. “It is just…  I want your child so much.”

Ferdinand stood up and then opened the window’s shutters just above the couch. They both breathed deeply, filling their lungs with stuffy air shimmering in the sun’s rays.

Margot is the center of all my thoughts and my dreams, Ferdinand’s heart murmured. Now when they were reunited, he felt with the consciousness of a mature man that the Valois princess was his greatest love. His feelings for Marguerite were far, far deeper than an unfathomable sea, which received rivers from all sides and absorbed them into itself. Everything in his life came back to his wife! Mostly for her, Ferdinand had been so desperate to crush his brother’s armies.

Now they spoke in French. He settled himself her on the couch and gathered her into his embrace. He held her, her head buried into his chest, his fingers stroking her hair back and forth.

Ferdinand looked into her eyes. “I love you insanely! I feared to never see you again.”

Marguerite smiled at him mistily. “During the months under siege, I was afraid to never be in your arms again. I longed for you with your amorous mantle to fold over me and drive the cold out of my body that penetrated my soul without you.” She kissed him on the mouth. “My love for you is in my every breath, thriving under a vaulted dome of our home like heavens.”

“It sounds like your father’s poem.” His lips traced a path to her collarbone.

“Partly, Ferdinand.” Her fingers were entangled into his brown hair.

“Read one of them, Margot.” He was unlacing her bodice. “I’m not as poetic as François.”

“Well, we have a splendid court in Vienna, where we patronize many artists.”

“Thanks to you.” He pulled out one of her breasts from her décolleté and caressed it.

As his hands roamed over her clothing, Marguerite murmured François’ sonnet.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness, but still will keep

The world serene for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, we are wreathing

A flowery band to bind us to each other,

To get rid of despondence, of all gloomy days,

To fill it with noble natures and bright colors.  

“Beautiful,” Ferdinand drawled against her lips. “Just as you are, Margot.”

“Yes,” she drawled. “Were you faithful to me during our separation?” 

“I’ve never been with another woman since my wedding to you,” he avouched.

“Oh, forgive me,” she pleaded. “I’m simply jealous of you.” 

“You should be.” He jested merrily, “Imagine how women will look at me when I become a new emperor. There will be a queue of them every time they see me, all of them flirting.”

Marguerite swatted him on the chest. “I might punch you hard, Ferdinand.”

The emperor’s brother chuckled. “You know that you are the only woman for me.”

“I just wanted to hear it again. You also adored your first wife, Anna of Bohemia.”

He claimed, “I worship you, Margot. Yes, I did love Anna, but these sentiments are a bit different. There are two main reasons why I took up arms against my own brother: you being trapped in Milan siege and the disinheritance of all my offspring, including our children. Not even your father’s fate despite our friendship, although I strove to rescue François.”

I could never imagine that I would love our former enemy so much, Marguerite enthused. Years ago, she had been terrified of marrying a Habsburg prince, although she liked Ferdinand’s appearance despite their significant age difference. Being with him, she was overflowing with rapture, an ecstasy of reverence that had overmastered her in Vienna. She wished to return to their court, to be happy with her husband, and have more children with him.

“Don’t worry, mon amour,” he murmured, as if reading her thoughts. “I swear that we will go back to Vienna or perhaps move to Prague. We will take all of the children from Bohemia to where our court will be based. I shall not allow Carlos to deprive my family of everything.”  

Marguerite tensed in his arms. “Carlos… is still powerful. The war is not over.”

“My brother is not very strong at present: he lost many men and faces financial difficulties.  Carlos will not die at my hand, for I’m not capable of killing him, but he will abdicate.”

“How? He will not give you the Imperial crown willingly.”

“If he is cornered utterly and completely, he will. Or there will be no peace.”

Ferdinand kissed her palm, then her wrist, slowly working up the inside of her sleeve. His wife reached up and cupped his face, feeling the rasp of his growing stubble. His lips finding hers, her mouth opened to let him plunder its sweetness, her arms clinging to his neck, her body strained eagerly against the rigid flesh between his thighs as Marguerite pressed her hips to his.

“Take me to bed, husband,” she requested breathlessly.

The gleam in his gaze made her heart hammer. “I’ll be careful. You will not conceive.”

They rose synchronically. His hands on her waist, he backed her towards the bedchamber, those mesmerizing pale blue eyes never moving from her bewitching pools amber like ember.

A salacious haze enveloped them for the rest of the day. Under a canopy of azure velvet, their gentle lovemaking alternated with frantic couplings. Ferdinand and Marguerite had not seen each other for too long, and while Milan was coming back to normal after the siege, they were eagerly reinvigorating their sensual romance. A Habsburg and a Valois could be happily married, becoming a celestial beacon for one another in the vistas of years stretching before them.

§§§

With candelabrum burning on ivory marble tables, the chamber was swathed in a reposeful light, adding to the contented atmosphere created by Marguerite and Ferdinand’s lovely-dovely chatting. The frescoes of the Madonna and saints by Gian Paolo Lomazzo smiled at them.

“I’ve won again,” Marguerite gushed in jubilation. “What’s wrong with you, husband?” 

“Maybe I’m too charmed by someone.” Ferdinand shuffled the deck of cards several times, then placed it on the table. “Who can it be, wife? Would you venture a guess?” 

His queen flashed a resplendent smile. “Me!” She took one card.

“Correct!” His grin was no less resplendent. “What a clever consort I have!” 

Queen Juana of Castile watched her son and his wife play Bassetta. As they sat at a table, she acted as the talliere or the dealer, and the box with florins and ducats lay before them. Marguerite and Ferdinand each had thirteen cards. The spouses laid down one, two, three, and more cards as they pleased, every time putting money onto them. Juana took the remaining pack in her hand and turned the cards up, revealing that Marguerite triumphed in their contest again.

Marguerite pushed a multitude of coins to her. “Ah, ah, ah!” 

Ferdinand shrugged. “Well, I’m incurring significant losses, which are accruing.”

“My father,” started Marguerite, her eyes twinkling, “once wanted to ban this game at the French court. And why? Several families fell into financial ruin because of the Bassetta.”

His grin was jaunty. “I should blame François for my misfortunes at the card table.”

“Father taught me to play.” Her pride was manifested upon her countenance.

He jested, “I’ll demand the repayment from His French Majesty.”

Marguerite addressed her husband’s mother. “Doña Juana, will you be our dealer again?” 

“I shall,” agreed Juana with a smile. “Call me by my first name, my dear.”

So far, Marguerite had little time to get accustomed to the Queen of Spain’s presence in their life, which would be constant from now on. “Of course; now let’s play.”

The conversation was now led in Spanish despite Juana’s knowledge of several languages.

Ferdinand does love François’ daughter madly, Juana deduced. My son lifted the siege of Milan mainly for her. He has been faithful to her, unlike his father who betrayed me with every pretty woman. Juana thrust memories of her dead husband aside, watching Ferdinand’s eyes sparkle as he was losing again while his young wife flirted with him. Juana was delighted that Ferdinand’s union with the Valois princess had turned out to be blithesome.   

Juana felt like a phoenix emerging from ruin, yet her fierce, implacable eye was focused on the universe in which the future of her two sons was still uncertain. She did not miss Spain at all after having spent in her homeland her gloomiest years, exceedingly eager to stay with Ferdinand wherever he went and satisfied with his promise not to harm Carlos himself. Her newly obtained freedom provided her with a feeling of expansion and elevation above the petty cares of life.

Juana scrutinized her daughter-in-law Margot: the Valois long nose and amber eyes, clever and stubborn, her family’s famous dour complexion, her face angular and attractive. The girl was not a perfect beauty, but her quite good-looking countenance, inner strength, intelligence, and French manners were bewitching to a mind-blowing degree. It was no wonder that Ferdinand had fallen so hard for his second spouse despite the circumstances preceding their matrimony.

“Do you yield?” Marguerite asked in anticipation to win again.

Ferdinand burst out laughing. “Yes! Mother, reveal to us the outcome.”   

Juana turned up the rest of the cards. “This time, you have triumphed, son.”

“Ah, Your Bohemian Majesty,” sang Marguerite. “You should have been more patient.”

Ferdinand purred, “I don’t regret my previous losses.”

Marguerite put the cards aside and recalled, “I remember my first stepmother Eleanor, God bless her soul. She was a pious and kind woman. My late sister Madeleine and I befriended her. I was sad that few people liked her at our court because of my father’s Spanish captivity.”

Ferdinand emitted a sigh. “We never spoke about her before, Margot. Eleanor grew up in Flanders. When she arrived in Spain with Carlos, she was shy until I befriended them both. We had little time together because I left for Austria. Later she went to Portugal and then to France.”

Juana said sadly, “Eleanor came to me only once in Tordesillas with Isabella.”

Her son assumed, “Carlos must have not permitted her to visit you.” His mother nodded.

Marguerite supplied sincerely, “I regret that Eleanor was not happy in France. I understand why my father ignored her, unable to overlook his fierce hatred for Carlos.” She glanced at her husband. “Our marriage started under similar circumstances, although what you experienced in France cannot be compared with the troubles which my father and my two brothers went through in Spain. Nevertheless, I feel that my father should have treated your sister better.”   

“He should, but he did not,” Ferdinand grumbled.

Marguerite continued dolefully, “My father and my two brothers were deeply traumatized by their captivity. It scarred them all for life, emotionally and mentally. My father cannot forgive himself for his sons’ afflictions, and that guilt also alienated him from Eleanor.”

Juana dropped her gaze to the table. “Hatred poisons everything.”

“The siege of Milan also scarred me for life,” confessed Marguerite.

Ferdinand loathed his brother at this moment. “Please try to forget it, Margot.”

“It is not easy.” Marguerite then returned to the previous topic. “My father was a great parent to me. However, he was not an ideal husband to his first two queens. He was a friend and an ally to my mother, Claude, and he respected her a lot. Nonetheless, my mama shed lakes of tears because of his infidelities and her unrequited feelings for him. The only woman the Knight-King has ever loved is Anne Boleyn, so only to her he pledged his soul and body.”   

Ferdinand nodded. “Men might be cruel if they do not love.”

Juana knew it better than anyone else. “Ferdinand, your father adored every woman and at times me. Most of all, he loved pleasures and himself, and he was rather harsh to me.”

He took her hand in his. “Will you tell me more about Philip the Handsome?” 

“Yes, son, if you wish so.” His mother let out a sigh.

Marguerite supplemented, “When Eleanor was fading from consumption, my father visited her every day. I could see the anguish in his eyes; the King of France is bad at pretense.”

Ferdinand and Juana both nodded their thanks for this addition.

“François is so impulsive,” continued Ferdinand. “That is why he got entrapped in Milan, where he rushed from Provence with a small escort to check who perpetrated those massacres.”

Marguerite noted, “A trait that I share with my father.”

The three of them laughed, as if at a funny joke. Their mood was excellent. 

§§§

The door opened, and Dauphin Henri walked in. Nodding briefly at Ferdinand and bowing to Juana, he strode over to a window and looked out. The Piazza del Duomo was illuminated by torches flickering with yellow light on the walls and in the hands of patrolling sentries.

Marguerite stood up and neared him. “Henri, how are you?” 

The Dauphin of France stood with his back to his sister. “Someone is still betraying us.”

“What?” Bafflement tinctured her voice. “But you had Diane de Poitiers executed.”   

“That harpy had a partner in her crimes.” His mind was concentrated on the conundrum of the heinous intrigues against the House of Valois. “I’m certain that Diane participated in the construction of the intricate traps for Anne and our father in Boulogne and Milan, respectively. However, someone else could have masterminded the whole plot – someone devilishly clever.”

“Why do you think so, brother? Is there a threat to our lives?” 

The prince swung around, his expression austere and immobile, but his eyes intense. “Yes, Margot. The lives of the French monarchs are still in peril, as well as those of their sons. This threat comes not from Carlos – it originates in France. There is something we are missing.”

Juana and Ferdinand listened to them carefully; they both knew French well.

“Oh, no.” Marguerite put her hands upon his shoulders. “Maybe you are tired, Henri.”

The dauphin clasped her hands in his and kissed them reverently. “Sister, you have nothing to fear. Your life is not in danger as long as something is done with Carlos.”

Ferdinand interposed, “Henri, we shall follow our plan.”

Henri glanced at his brother-in-law whom he liked. “Be at ease, Ferdinand. I’d love to spill Carlos’ blood, but I would not do so unless he tries to murder me, my father, or you. I would never do anything to drive a wedge between you and Margot. I know how dear you are to her.”   

“Thank you,” Juana said, astounded.

Ferdinand dipped his head. “I’m very grateful.”

The dauphin stared out; the sentinels were changing. “No one will threaten our family.”

Marguerite ventured, “Did the Cardinal de Lorraine say something?” 

“I killed him myself.” Her brother’s metallic voice sounded like the striking of flint. “That vermin confirmed that Diane had co-conspirators, but he did not say who they are.”

She opened her mouth in shock. “When did you become so ruthless, brother?”   

The dauphin’s scrutiny was fastened upon the façade of the Milanese Cathedral. “If I had been a benign boy during the past year, there would have been no France. Anne and our brothers would have been taken to England and perhaps disposed of. The Flemish army would have captured Paris and Picardy, perhaps other provinces too. For months before Anne’s release, there were only Aunt Margot, our late Uncle Henri of Navarre, and I, but even our uncle is gone now.”  

Marguerite leaned against his back. “Henri, I’m very proud of you.”

He swiveled and pulled her into his arms. “I love you, sister.”   

“And so do I, brother.” She returned his affectionate embrace.

Henri disentangled himself from her. “I shall find the traitors.”   

Bowing to Juana again, the Valois dauphin turned around and stomped out.

Marguerite was about to follow him, but her husband warned, “Leave him be.”

Dauphin Henri walked through the corridors. Everyone bowed to him deeply, but he paid no heed to anyone. While his mind was preoccupied with mysteries, his heart called him to the ocean of gentleness in the arms of Marie de Bourbon who could make his whole being melt.

As he approached his mistress’ room, Henri opened the door with a trembling hand. Upon entering, he spotted Marie writing something at her oak desk, her face lit up with a brilliant and cheek-stretching smile. Rambunctious shadows from the candles danced across her features.

“What are you composing, Marie?” The dauphin was aware of her penchant for poetry.   

At the sound of her beloved’s voice, Marie stood up and turned to him. Dressed in her robe of white brocade, she looked like an innocent princess in some sophisticated realm. She lifted the letter in one hand, her grin growing, her gaze warmer, her body getting tenser from his nearness. Every time they saw each other, emotions soared, crashed, and fluttered across the landscape of their relationship, culminating into the marvelous sunrises that they spent in his or her bed.

“A poem for you, Henri,” she answered dulcetly.

The dauphin closed the door. “I’m not a poet, unlike my father.”   

She ran a fond finger across the parchment. “But I’d like to write about us.”

He stepped closer to her. “Romantic fantasies, Marie? About me?”   

She placed the letter into his hand. “And why not?” 

“I want and need you.” The paper fell to the floor.

Driven by lust, Henri swept her into his arms and placed her onto the cushions of a bed in red gauze. Their clothes were discarded in tremendous haste, and their bodies locked together in the beginning of their nightlong session of passionate sensuality. An immense languor possessed the dauphin, his soul gravitating towards Marie’s benevolence, cordiality, and her acceptance of him for who Henri really was, and never before had she been more charming in his eyes.

Henri was soaring. When he was in Marie’s arms, his soul sang a happy tune, pulsated like an excited heart, breathed deeply like a creature of freedom, and vibrated like a musical string. He needed Marie more than a blue firmament to look at every day. Henri had seen Marie at court years ago, but why had he not noticed her before? The dauphin had simply been too infatuated with Diane de Poitiers and missed the very woman who he was falling in love with now.

Notes:

The new chapter is up! We hope you, our dear readers, are fine and well.

This chapter’s title refers to the main topic – the end of the villainous Pope Pole III. Why did we choose to kill the old man in the Sistine Chapel? In real history for his finest patron, Pope Paul III Farnese who was a great patron of the arts, Michelangelo painted the Last Judgment in the Sistine Chapel, two monumental frescoes in the Pauline Chapel, and managed the design and reconstruction of St. Peter’s Basilica. Paul really adored the arts a great deal.

That’s the main reason why we had Pope Paul III die beneath Michelangelo’s ceiling in the Sistine Chapel. Isn’t the death of such a villain in the midst of such glorious beauty ironic and unusual? Yes, it is! Just imagine: being poisoned and die in the Sistine chapel after meeting Anne Boleyn and her relatives who Paul tried to destroy. What could be better? Many readers said in the previous chapter that Paul should have been jailed, but if he had been, he could have always escaped and then attempt to extract vengeance killing someone in the process.

The impact of the Pope’s death on Anne’s reputation will be described later. At last, Anne and François are reunited in the midst of heavenly beauty. What could be better than seeing each other in the Sistine Chapel next to the body of their mortal enemy? Mary Boleyn/Marie de Montmorency and Anne de Montmorency have been married long enough for Marie to develop feelings for him. Thomas Boleyn avenged the death of his wife Lady Elizabeth Boleyn.

Pirro Colonna was an Italian military leader in the service of Emperor Carlos V. The House of Colonna was representatives of the old Italian nobility in the Papal States, and Vittoria Colonna, Marchioness of Pescara, belonged to this family. In history, the Colonna family supported the Spanish Habsburgs in Rome, but in this epic, Pirro is allied with France and helped the Boleyns.

In Milan, young Marguerite, Queen of Bohemia, Hungary, and Croatia, enjoys her marriage to King Ferdinand; the poem she reads to Ferdinand was written by Lady Perseverance. Now Juana of Castile lives with her son Ferdinand, who will never send his mother back to Carlos. Dauphin Henri killed the Cardinal de Lorraine, and now he knows that someone devilishly clever was the partner in crime of his dead mistress Diane de Poitiers.

The description of the Sistine Chapel and the frescoes inside the chapel are historically correct. If I were you, I would google this chapel to see the wonderful works of art there. The Pope was killed on the day of St Bartholomew, which means something for the future events in a sequel.

Attention! We posted a prologue to the sequel “Chained by Blood and Power” (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We still have more than 30 chapters in CWL and will need a couple of years, perhaps less, to post them, but we decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 78: Chapter 77: The Queen’s Mortification

Summary:

King Henry faces another rebellion and sends more people to death. The Marquess of Exeter continues his rise to power. François learns the truth about Anne’s disgrace at Henry’s hands in Boulogne, so Henry will have to face the consequences. The Montmorency spouses are happy.

Notes:

Attention! We posted a prologue to the sequel “Chained by Blood and Power” (CBP). Let us know your thoughts and thanks!

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 77: The Queen’s Mortification

October 1, 1546, Nonsuch Palace, near the village of Cuddington, Surrey, England

The Earl of Southampton and a contingent of guards encircled three people in the great hall thronged with courtiers. Everybody backed away from them, observing the drama from afar. The Tudor court had arrived at Nonsuch Palace three weeks ago from Whitehall.

“What have we done wrong?” inquired Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury.

“What is it?” asked Henry Pole, Baron Montagu, who was Margaret’s eldest son.

“You are all traitors,” declared Thomas Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton.

Sir Geoffrey Pole of Lordington, Margaret’s another son, parried, “We are loyal subjects.”

Southampton regarded them with contempt. “The Poles are all liars.”   

Until May of 1539, the Earl of Southampton had been the king’s ambassador to Brussels. In 1540, he had been appointed one of the monarch’s principal secretaries, while also acting as Secretary to the Privy Council. The execution of Queen Catherine Howard in Boulogne, the Earl of Surrey’s rumored escape to France, and the Duke of Norfolk’s death during the siege of Paris signaled that the political pendulum was swinging away from the House of Howard.

Finally, I am a royal favorite, Southampton enthused giddily. The landscape of the English politics was quickly transforming. With the Dukes of Suffolk and of Norfolk gone, the Marquess of Exeter had been appointed both the king’s chief minister and his Lord Chancellor. One of Exeter’s allies, Southampton had been recommended by the marquess on the position of Lord High Admiral. Southampton took profound delight in the Earl of Hertford’s fall.

“We have always been loyal to His Majesty!” Montagu protested.

The old Countess of Salisbury objected, “I was Empress Mary’s governess for years. I’ve served the House of Tudor most diligently. We have not merited such awful treatment.”

Southampton was unbending. “You have all corresponded with Cardinal Reginald Pole, a traitor to England and King Henry. Therefore, you are all wretched creatures.”

Sir Ralph Sadler approached them. Waiving several parchments in his hands, he stated, “Our sovereign signed your arrest warrants in the morning. You will be conducted to the Tower of London, and the bills of attainder for each of you will be passed by Parliament.”

At first, Ralph Sadler had served as Privy Councilor and ambassador to Scotland. After returning from Scotland, Sadler had been made the principal royal secretary – a position he had held jointly with Southampton. After the earl’s recent promotion, he became the only secretary.

Southampton leered. “The three of you will be beheaded on Tower Green.”

Montagu shouted, “The king wants us dead, for we are the last surviving Plantagenets.”

Sadler countered with a sibilant voice, “Your family made your own beds, so you must lie in them. Reginald Paul has long resolved to live in Italy in his self-imposed exile. He has been vocal about his displeasure with regards to our liege lord’s policies on many occasions.” He paused, glowering between them. “You had to break your ties with Reginald, but you did not.”

“Reginald is our brother,” Geoffrey opposed. “We wrote to him about our private affairs.”

Southampton glared at Margaret. “Thomas Culpepper was the deceased Pope Paul’s agent. Among his things we discovered his correspondence with Reginald, in which your damned son swore that he would invade England and become king. That is high treason!”   

The spectators uttered cries of consternation, some of disbelief.

Margaret blanched to the color of ash. “If Reginald said it, we are not responsible for that. I sent him letters only because he is my son. I was worried about him, given the situation in Rome when Pope Paul seems to have been surreptitiously killed by the French.”

Despite being Catholics, Southampton and Sadler were shaken by the Pope’s villainies.

Sadler commented, “Even if those loyal to King François or King Ferdinand killed the old Alessandro Farnese, it was the right thing to do because of the harm the malefactor caused to many people in different countries. Your son was close to the late Pope, so he is a villain, too.”

“My son… He…” Margaret gulped for air as torrents of unshed tears poured forth in a great surge of loss. “I’ve missed my boy. I’ve not seen Reginald for too long.”   

Baron Montagu defended his mother. “Don’t you see that our mother – an old, frail woman – is not aware of anything bad that our brother might intend to do?” 

Geoffrey Pole chimed in, “None of us is aware of Reginald’s conspiracies.”

The Pole brothers were scared. Their mother did not know about their correspondence with Reginald concerning the reestablishment of the Plantagenet dynasty on the English throne. Reginald had no means to invade England anytime soon, but it was his much-cherished dream.

“It matters not.” Southampton’s eyes narrowed at Margaret. “Lady Salisbury, both of your sons would gladly have brought Reginald to England with the intent to dethrone His Majesty and make their brother king. We have staved off the disaster by figuring out their plans.”      

A weeping Margaret persevered, “All of my sons are innocent.”

“Enough of your melodramatics!” Sadler’s voice rose to a snarling shrill. “After your arrest your lands and estates will be confiscated, and your relatives will be attained.”

Southampton hoped to receive part of these lands. “Lord Montagu’s son Henry Pole will be committed to the Tower as well. Maybe this will cool off Reginald’s zeal for treason.”

The audience paled, for no one expected that the boy would be apprehended.

Montagu pleaded, “Please, don’t do that! My son is just a child!”

Now nearly hysterical, Margaret beseeched, “My grandson is innocent!”

“We want to speak to His Majesty!” Geoffrey demanded.

Indifferent to their pleas, Southampton enjoined, “Take them away.”

The guards chained the Poles, even the old Countess of Salisbury. As Margaret broke into a fit of crying and uncontrollable shaking, her sons supported her while being escorted out of the room. The courtiers looked as if the arrests of the Poles were something surreal.

Sadler notified, “I’ll go prepare my report for the next meeting of Privy Council.”

“Show it to me,” Southampton advised. “But you will re-do it if Lord Exeter disapproves.”

After Sadler had left the great hall, Eustace Chapuys, the Imperial Ambassador to England, prodded towards the Earl of Southampton slowly, helping himself move with a cane.

Chapuys bowed. “Your lordship, I request an audience with King Henry.”

Southampton bowed in response. “His Majesty shall not see Your Excellency.”   

“When will your liege lord meet me?” Chapuys persisted.

Southampton supplied, “Only if Emperor Carlos defeats his enemies.”

The diplomat burst out, “His Imperial Majesty will triumph over his foes!  His treacherous brother Ferdinand and that Valois miscreant will drink many cups of humiliation.”  

“I would not be so sure. Have a good day.” Southampton then strode away.

Damn Ferdinand and François, Eustace Chapuys cursed, gripping his cane in fury. He grappled with disbelief that the Habsburg brothers, who had once had an affable relationship, had become enemies. He blamed François for the current feud between them. His allegiance to the emperor was unwavering, and Chapuys prayed fervently that Carlos would win.

The agitation in the chamber was growing as everyone discussed the events.  

§§§

Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, exited the palace into the gardens. The weather was cold and damp, a smattering of clouds scurrying across the sky in the stiffening wind. The autumn park was ablaze with yellows, reds, and oranges. Leaves swirled in the air and danced around the gardeners, who were working to cleanse all the paths in the park.

God forgive me, Exeter implored the Creator silently. I was unable to stop that Tudor beast from arresting the Pole family. They are Plantagenets like me, and I feel as if a large part of me had been annihilated. His conscience was troubled, a nettle of guilt stinging its way through his guts. Exeter obeyed the monarch, fearing that if he had voiced his disagreement, he would follow in the tragic footsteps of the Poles. Exeter could not help the Poles abscond.

He crossed the inner courtyard, divided into the king’s west side and the queen’s east one. Those who met him bowed lower than necessary because of his very high station.

“Lord Exeter, good afternoon!” The Earl of Southampton dropped into such a deep bow that he could lose his footing. “It’s done: the Poles are on their way to the Tower.”

Exeter nodded. “When will the bills of attainder be passed?” 

Southampton looked cheerful. “Next week, your lordship.”

Outwardly nonchalant, Exeter wondered whether the man suspected how tormented on the inside he was at the moment. “Then I shall apprise His Majesty of this.”

“No one will threaten Prince Edward’s future reign,” Southampton stressed.

“Hopefully, we will have peace, and His Majesty King Henry will rule for long.”

The other man smiled. “Of course, sire.”

As Southampton bowed even lower than before, Exeter warded off the impulse to vomit. A York prince, he was indeed addicted to power and wealth. His ascendance to his new positions and the defeat of his foes pleased him a lot. Yet, their surveillance and accolades to him aimed at gaining his friendship exasperated Exeter like torn skin catching every touch.

Inhaling deeply, the Marquess of Exeter kept walking. Sir Ralph Sadler and Sir Richard Rich, as well as several other advisors, swept low bows, and Exeter nodded at them. At present, Exeter was the most powerful figure in the country, the monarch’s favorite who was adored as much as the late Duke of Suffolk had been. Everybody expected that Courtenay would play the most important role in English politics during King Edward’s upcoming reign.

I cannot forget the events in Boulogne, Exeter mused, his steps slow and reluctant. He did not want to see his liege lord in the slightest – the very man who had taken away his beloved Catherine Parr from him. The man who had deprived him of Anne Bassett. The villain who now intended to murder his Plantagenet cousins. The marquess found himself unable to suppress the growing hatred for the English ruler – the tormentor of him, Catherine, and many others.

After passing through an alley of maples and birches, Exeter entered the king’s garden that bordered with the broad plain of the wilderness. In the summer, more than two hundred pear trees had been delivered from France and planted in this park; now there was no fruit on them, and the leaves were brown. Laid out in the Italianate style, the gardens contained stuccos of scenes from Ovid’s Metamorphoses and statues of the Olympian Greek gods.

Exeter’s heart plummeted as he saw King Henry practicing archery. Visions of Suffolk struck fatally by the ruler’s arrow in Boulogne resurfaced in his mind. Exeter eyed the monarch: because of the dangerous inflammation of the ruler’s ulcer in Boulogne and the weeks of fever, Henry had lost a lot of weight, his pallor accentuated by his attire of beige brocade passmented with gold. At least, now that blackguard is not as stout as before.

“Cousin!” greeted Henry in more or less enthusiastic accents. “I’m glad to see you.”

“Me too, Your Majesty,” Exeter lied. “You are in high spirits.”

Henry shot an arrow that hit the mark in the center of the target. “I’m winning!”

A page handed a new arrow to the monarch. “Here, sire.”

“I’ve always been extremely competent in archery.” The ruler nocked an arrow in his bowstring and took aim. He released it and followed the shaft with his eye – his aim was true.

Exeter jested, “Your Majesty is a modern Robin Hood.”

Henry passed the bow to his page, who bowed and hastened away.

The king grimaced as he swiveled to his chief minister. “My arrow would have reached its mark in Boulogne if Charles had not saved that Boleyn whore.”

The other man crossed himself. “Let Charles sleep in peace.”

The monarch looked towards fruit trees planted along the walls and the wooden porches. “I miss him, Hal. You, Charles, and I were a great trio who could take on the world. Now only the two of us are left, which makes you especially precious to me, my friend.” He embraced Exeter.

The marquess was relieved when they parted. “My place is always with you.”

Henry settled himself on a bench. “The Poles?”   

“They are on the way to the Tower of London. Anything else, Your Majesty?” 

“Yes, Hal.” The ruler’s snarl was like a wolf’s. “My next order is to have Agnes Howard, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, apprehended and executed. She must be fully aware of that adulteress Kitty’s affair with Francis Dereham before my marriage to her.”

Exeter sighed heavily: this was another old woman who would be killed by the tyrant. “I’ll send Sir Ralph Sandler to Lambeth today. The Parliament can pass her bill of attainder together with the others. Will the whole of the Howard family be attained, then?” 

“No, it is not necessary. The Earl of Surrey was attained. His little son, also Thomas, is the Duke of Norfolk. As Surrey escaped, probably to France, he will remain exiled forever. The old Norfolk failed to capture Paris, and his death during the siege saved him from execution.”

The royal chief minister did not believe in the Duke of Norfolk’s demise. Given the filial bonds of Norfolk and Surrey with Queen Anne of France, the French could just spread rumors of his death. Exeter was glad that Surrey had fled because Surrey’s arrest and Norfolk’s blackmail by the monarch had shocked the marquess. The duke must have joined Surrey in exile in France, but they would definitely endeavor to return after Henry’s death.

Exeter complied, “I’ll have all the documents drafted, then.”

The king’s mind drifted to the sweating sickness in England. “What about the outbreak of the sweat in the north? Are my Edward and Elizabeth safe?” 

“Yes. Prince Edward is now at Hatfield, while Princess Elizabeth remains at Hever Castle on your orders. There were only few registered cases in York, so the outbreak was local.”

The Marquess of Exeter then delivered bad news. “Your Majesty, the ruthless closure of chantries led to rebellions in Wymondham, Attleborough, Hellesdon, and Norwich.”

A furious Henry bellowed, “Squash them!” His train of thought drifted to his former chief minister. “I should have executed Hertford instead of banishing him.”

It was the king’s command to close all the chantries as soon as possible, so the rebellion was not Hertford’s fault. One of the few things that gladdened Exeter was Hertford’s downfall.

“Should we send someone to Wulfhall to arrest Lord Hertford, sire?” 

“No. Let that insect Hertford rot in the countryside.”

Exeter shifted the discourse back to the uprising. “I’ll dispatch the Earl of Arundel to Norwich with the royal troops if Your Majesty wishes so.”

Along with Exeter, Arundel and Southampton now played a significant role at court.

After Dauphin Henri’s forces had re-captured Calais in February 1546, King Henry, Queen Catherine Parr, and some nobles, including Exeter, Arundel, and Southampton, had spent months in French captivity. The ransom had been delivered from England for all of them in June 1546. The former regent, Herford, had been compelled to use more than half of the English annual income for their ransom, for what the monarch blamed Hertford.

“Arundel was courageous during the siege of Boulogne,” recalled Henry. “Arundel must oversee the preparation of my army. They ought to quickly march on Norfolk and punish every insurgent in the same way as we suppressed the accursed Pilgrimage of Grace.”

“Everyone?” Exeter shuddered at the memory of those brutal punishments.

“Yes.” The king’s aquamarine eyes blazed like live coals. “I do not care about their gender and age. They disobeyed their sovereign and must drown in blood for their treason.”

The councilor tipped his head. “Lord Arundel will do as you wish.”

The monarch’s mind drifted to the situation in Rome. “Is there any news from Rome?” 

His subject eagerly changed the theme. “The sudden death of Pope Paul the Third changed the political landscape of Europe. Queen Anne and King François are now in Rome. As soon as another Pope is elected, their excommunications will be lifted.”

François and Anne murdered Alessandro Farnese, surmised Henry. Despite his loathing for the late Pope, he was rather upset, for the French had disposed of Emperor Carlos’ ally. In the struggle between Ferdinand, allied with France, and Carlos, Henry preferred the emperor to keep his power and get rid of his adversaries. François’ demise would lead to Anne’s great sorrow, and the English king yearned to see her woes and pain with every fiber of his being.

The Tudor monarch had hoped that his French archrival would perish in Milan. Upon getting the news of the end of Milan’s siege, Henry had flown into a fit of insane rage and destroyed his apartments in Whitehall. He had spent many weeks confined to his rooms, inviting his mistresses from time to time for entertainment. Until the king’s emergence from his stupor in late July and the court’s progress to Surrey, the country had been ruled by Lord Exeter.

“François and Anne poisoned him,” the ruler verbalized his thoughts.

The Marquess of Exeter agreed, “It seems so.”

“What about the confrontation between Carlos and Ferdinand? How is it going?” 

“Nothing is happening at the moment, Your Majesty. I think King François and King Ferdinand are waiting for the election of a new Pope. Once it is done, the war will continue.”

“God bless Carlos to win and punish those rodents Ferdinand and François.”

Exeter doubted the emperor’s victory. “Ferdinand and François have become very popular after the battle of Milan. Many sympathize with their afflictions and hail their bravery.”

Henry could not think of their possible victory. “You are dismissed, Hal.”

After bowing to his liege lord, the Marquess of Exeter hurried into a nearby ally. Through a maze of hedges behind the palace he took a shorter route and soon returned to the castle.

§§§

The Marquess of Exeter met Queen Catherine Parr at the entrance to the palace. She was accompanied by her ladies-in-waiting: Lady Bess Holland, who served in the queen’s household despite Norfolk’s rumored death, and her sister – Lady Anne Herbert, Countess of Pembroke.

Cathy is so beautiful, Exeter’s heart wept from his heartbreak. Catherine wore a cloak of amethyst brocade wrought with gold. Although her countenance was impenetrable, melancholy splashed in the depths of her eyes. Due to their captivity in Boulogne, the king’s union with Catherine had not been consummated at first. Since the beginning of autumn, Henry had started bedding his seventh wife every night, causing Exeter to experience ghastly mental torments.

Bowing, Exeter halted a few respectful paces before her. “How is Your Majesty faring?” 

Catherine forced a smile. “I’m very well, Lord Exeter. I bid you a good evening.”

As if in a choreographed performance, the queen and her two handmaidens pivoted. They walked away towards the inner courtyard, apparently to have a stroll in the queen’s gardens.

With a sigh, the marquess entered the palace and stomped to his quarters.

Queen Catherine met lords and ladies, each greeting her with smiles, bows, and curtsies. Unlike Kitty Howard, the former Lady Parr was a far more popular and respected queen.

In a matter of minutes, the queen and the two other women sauntered through an alley of trees with red and orange crowns, trimmed and trained, both for shelter and as topiary. Among the trees, there were wire-netted aviaries, and the Queen of England approached them.

“I’m like these birds,” Catherine whispered. “I have no freedom.”

Anne Parr and Bess Holland glanced at her compassionately; the queen trusted them.

Images of the previous nights swarmed Catherine’s brain. The King of England claiming his wife in her chambers, his hands gentle yet demanding that she perform everything to please him. Her indecent caresses that she had loathed to apply to the man – though she would gladly do them to her beloved Exeter – elicited moans from Henry. The ruler’s hips pounding into her, wildly and at times roughly. Catherine hated the feel of his seed besmirching her insides. 

You owe me a son, Cat. But if you fail me and England, I shall annual our marriage.

The king’s words instilled hope into the queen that her union with the Tudor barbarian, as she privately labeled Henry, could end soon. Catherine had never conceived, perhaps because her deceased husbands had rarely slept with her or for another reason. During her affair with Exeter, Courtenay had pulled out to avoid conception. Now the king is bedding me every night…. What if I get pregnant?  Lord, I beseech you… let Henry be with his paramours, not me.


October 15, 1546, Montmorency Palazzo, Rome, the Papal States, Italy

King François scanned through the most recent letter from his sister. His expression sour, he sighed in bereavement as he recalled the late King Henri of Navarre, his friend.

Observing him attentively, Queen Anne quizzed, “What is it, mon amour?” 

“I’m aggrieved with Henri d’Albert’s death. I loved him and owe him a great deal.”

He rose to his feet and approached a bed with canopy of emerald velvet in the corner. Anne bolted into a sitting position as he handed to her a letter stamped with the Valois seal. In the past weeks, they had spent most of the time in their apartments at Montmorency’s palace, resting, talking, reading and responding to correspondence, enjoying their temporary repose.

Their bedroom was furnished in the most luxurious style. The prevailing hue was a deep, cerulean blue that roused associations of a warm summer sky tinged with the sun’s golden light. The azure-brocaded couches and chairs were softly cushioned. Giulio Romano’s illusionism, obvious in his wall frescoes, created a sensation of flight, especially if one looked at his frescoed domed ceiling exhibiting the scene ‘The Fall of the Greek Titans.’

The king seated himself into a chair adorned with gilded leaves of acanthus. “The situation in France has improved. At present Margot is running two kingdoms effectively. My sister’s political acumen, moral strength, and many other talents are unprecedented.”

Anne unfolded the parchment and smiled at her sister-in-law’s lovely, firm handwriting.

My dearest brother,

There are no words to describe how happy I am to know that you are unscratched and alive. During the siege of Milan, I prayed every day, sometimes spending hours on my knees and begging the Lord to save you and my niece Margot. God’s grace is abounding: you are both well, and so is Monty. Thanks to my nephew Henri and our alliance with Ferdinand.

Ferdinand… Who could imagine that he would rescue you so bravely?  Years ago, we were right that making him our ally would drive a wedge between him and Carlos. I’ve never liked and will never like Spain due to my hatred of Carlos, but I have profound respect to Ferdinand. I feel bad for him as he is forced by circumstances to wage war against his own brother.

My daughter Jeanne was crowned Queen of Navarre in Béarn. The invasion of Languedoc is over: Marshal d’Albon expelled the Spanish General Bazán. As soon as it became safe to travel south, I took Jeanne to Béarn for her coronation. My poor girl has been distraught over Henri’s death; she nevertheless accepted her father’s children with Anne de Pisseleu.

France is at peace now. There are no invaders in the south. The Imperial forces withdrew from Picardy to Flanders, from where they marched on Milan, only to be destroyed there. I’m delighted that the Duke de Guise and the Cardinal de Lorraine are dead.

We are all impatient to see little Lorenzo, you, and Anne. Catherine de’ Medici is about five months along in her new pregnancy, so we will have a new addition to the family soon.

Please, take care of yourself, my dearest brother. Stay safe and healthy! 

Your loving sister Margot

Anne put the sheet of paper on a bedside table. “Your niece is now Queen of Navarre.”

François nodded solemnly. “I would prefer it to happen later.”

She shared his grief over his brother-in-law’s tragedy. “Henri d’Albert is in a better place. Diane de Poitiers was punished for her crimes, although I’m worried about your son Henri.”

He stretched his long legs out and crossed his feet at the ankle. “I talked to Henri in Milan before my departure to Rome. While still shocked, he hates Diane ferociously. I’m relieved that Henri has an affair with one of your ladies-in-waiting and is interested in her.”

“Marie de Bourbon. It started in Nice, even before Diane’s execution.”

The monarch conjectured, “Maybe it will help him heal.”

The queen labored to lift his spirits. “France is at peace, and Margot will take care of all state affairs during your absence. In the meantime, we will crush Carlos once and for all.”

He maneuvered the conversation to the topic that had long gnawed at him. “Anne, you spent a month in captivity in Boulogne and often saw Henry Tudor. What happened there?” 

A scared Anne lay back down, pulling the sheets up to her chin, her muscles strung tight with tension. Her head bowed, she was as still as a tomb, her heart drowning in the blackness of her shame. For days, the queen had battled against her misgivings as to confessing everything to her spouse, but the fear of losing François forever had precluded her from speaking out. Does my husband suspect anything? My goodness, what should I do now: tell him the truth or deny it? 

Anne, we need absolute candor! A cavalcade of memories resurfaced in the king’s head. After they had gone to Montmorency’s palazzo, the spouses had shared the bedroom. On the night following their reunion following the Pope’s poisoning, Anne and François had indulged in feverish lovemaking, all too desperate despite their fatigue, as if they were prisoners sentenced to death. Yet, his wife was rather reserved with him during their later intimacies.  

“Something is different. You want me, but at times, my touch frightens you.”

His consort lifted her tearful orbs to him. “I love you, François. Only you.”

His heart constricted. “I love you too, wife. You are the greatest light in my life.”   

Garnering her courage, she supplied in a voice shaking with sobs, “I was forced to betray you, husband. Unwillingly… I tried to stop that beast, but he was too obsessed with the desire to hurt me and you… He was too strong and huge – he quickly overpowered me.”   

“Did that scum force himself on you?” The words barely came out of his mouth.

“Yes, he… did,” she stammered. “I attempted to struggle, but he…” Racking, blubbering sobs assailed her. “My pregnancy did not stop him… He wanted me to have a miscarriage…  but the child survived against all odds. I was so afraid to tell you the truth… so very terrified…” 

There was a silence during which François stared with profound gravity at his wife. He had not anticipated that his Tudor nemesis would stoop so low as to compel a pregnant queen to have intercourse against her will. For a space of a few heartbeats, the monarch was frozen in the quagmire of emotion, and then his eyes turned red-rimmed as unshed tears brimmed in them.

The queen’s heart thundered in her chest, breaking against the walls of her ribcage. “I’m a forced adulteress! You must hate me now! Henry tainted my body.” Her shoulders shuddered, as if some invisible demon were shaking her, and a volley of sobs erupted from her. “That Tudor monster desecrated our sacred love, despite all my attempts to stop him.”

God, I beseech you not to deprive me of François’ love, Anne prayed. His silence made her afraid that he would leave her hover in an eternity tinctured with uncertainty as to his forgiveness or his permanent rejection. She felt sick at heart and in body, her entire universe breaking once more, just as it had occurred on that nightmarish night in Boulogne. Slowly, she nestled into a ball on her side to evade her husband’s blank stare that frightened her so much, tormenting her.

Anne craved for the demise of Henry Tudor. “François, my François!” she cried with the despair of a mortally wounded warrior dying in disgrace. “Henry violated me because of his obsessive dream to destroy me and your feelings for me, to shatter our happiness and make us always remember my mortification.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “That blackguard hates me and you so much that he would have raped me every night if I was not pregnant.”   

Anne rolled onto her stomach and nuzzled into the pillow soaked with tears. It is too soft for a dirty adulteress such as myself… I deserve to be stoned as a whore. Her husband’s stillness was like a black void in her being, another one among the countless scars inflicted on her by the English ruler. She wanted to scream, to entreat him for clemency, to die on the spot, or at least to run away… from the most awful, stinging guilt that was making a bonfire out of her very soul.

Yet, Anne could only sob, “I’m tainted, François. I’ll never be the same again.”

At last, her distress galvanized François into action. He got to his feet and settled himself on the bed’s edge. He touched her shoulder, but she did not react and sobbed louder. Then he turned her onto her back tenderly, and his whole being swooped at the sight of her pallid features contorted in unbearable suffering. Embracing her soothingly, pressing her possessively to him, François held her tight, his own tears mingling with hers, united with her in her woes.  

His voice was silken as he spoke while stroking her hair. “Upon what a slight foundation rests man’s fate! How cruel God may be, and the incomprehension of His will depletes me of much of my strength and even faith.” His voice dropped to a lament. “A chance turning this way or that, a moment’s hesitation and lack of decisiveness may make you great or lead to destruction or salvation. If only I had not journeyed to Provence, then to Piedmont and Milan…” 

Anne looked up to see his face streaked with tears. “You went there because of those fake orders as if issued from your name to commit those horrendous massacres.”

“My duty is to protect you, wife,” he went on in the same dramatic tone of voice. “I failed to safeguard you, mon amour. Despite my all-encompassing love for you and my attempts to keep you safe from your enemies, I allowed Henry to hurt you so much again.”

“That is not your fault.” Anne’s voice was vibrant with emotion.

He shook his head. “Partly it is. I am your husband.”

Her voice was strangled. “As your wife, I had to be only yours, in particular because you have been faithful to me throughout all these years. I’ve never doubted your fidelity – not even when we were apart as you went to Italy or traveled across France. But what did I do?” 

“Shhh,” he uttered, gently stroking her hair. “Indeed, I’ve been only yours after I sent away my former mistresses from court, just as I promised you in the Clock Tower in Paris.”

The queen shut her eyes, as if it could conceal her infamy. “My God…  I’m tainted for the rest of my life…  I feel so ashamed of myself that I can barely look at you, François.”   

The king clutched her shoulders. “Wife, look at me!”

She complied, her cheeks pink. “Do you despise me?”    

“I can never hate you, Anne,” he objected. “I love you too much.”

Her lips quivered. “How can you be so noble towards an adulteress?” 

François glanced into her eyes with absolute adoration as he cupped her face. “I love you and only you – insanely, wholeheartedly, with every fiber of my soul. I blame you for nothing, Anne! I blame myself and that inhuman brute who yearned to destroy the innocent life inside of you. God shall curse Henry Tudor for all eternity.” His last words were a hissing sound.

“But what about us?” Hope for a better future stirred in Anne.

“We will be happy together,” the monarch vowed with supreme confidence. “Wife, neither your heart nor your body was befouled. That vermin sullied himself and his immortal soul with this horrible sin. Your afflictions made you stronger, and I admire you for that.”

“You will touch me as if nothing had happened?” 

“Always, mon amour,” he avouched. “I can prove this now. Let me love you.”

His own clothes discarded, François stripped his wife of her robe. Their bodies were now entangled, and he was especially gentle, very-very gentle this time. His lips worshipped her body with a peculiar and poignant tenderness, more than innate. The noble sentiments in his each caress and kiss were flowing from the tips of his fingers, gliding across her slim frame and from his mouth, spreading in waves through Anne’s body to the deepest recesses of her essence.

As they became one, the king and his queen felt the reunion of flesh, blood, and souls. A light wind breathed through the trees of Anne’s unhappiness, pushing away the clouds from her matrimonial canvas. The black shadows of her dishonor at the hands of her former husband now seemed only faintly alive, François’ every new thrust into her marking her as his, his, and only his forever. François does not feel disdain for me! Dear God, thank you for this! 

François was making love to Anne gently for hours. It was not a time for frantic couplings. His words were true: he held her responsible for nothing, and for him Anne would always remain his pure treasure. Nevertheless, he was incensed beyond measure – angry with himself, the Almighty, and his English counterpart. The more he claimed his wife as his, the grimmer his thoughts were getting, finally moving towards his rival’s death. Henry Tudor has no right to live.

As the shadows of the evening lengthened outside, the spouses lay in bed sated. François and Anne would find refuge beyond the reach of blasphemers and desecrators, but Henry would have to pay with his life for all the atrocities he had perpetrated towards the Queen of France. His decision crystallized into the steely resolve in the monarch’s innermost consciousness.

§§§

The Duchess de Montmorency sat on a bench beside the statue of the Goddess Flora. Moonlight flooded the park, tinting the statues with silvery hues. The pleasant night was still, but the nip of autumn was in the wind sweeping down the Quirinal Hall from the Tiber River.

Marie’s emotions were a tangle of contradictions. Unalloyed exhilaration over being with her husband again. Fears for their future because of the continuing campaign against Emperor Carlos. Excitement to be reunited with her daughters from her third marriage again. Relief that Pope Paul was finally dead. Confusion over her sentiments towards Montmorency.  

As Marie turned to the palazzo, to her surprise, she discovered her spouse.

She permitted herself a tiny smile. “What is going on, Monty?” 

The Duke de Montmorency crossed to the bench and eased himself next to his wife. “The Holy See has always been the center of power and, unfortunately, corruption.” A sigh fled his lips. “I have to bride cardinals so the Conclave votes for the right Pope.”

She whispered, “Does someone suspect that the Farnese devil was killed?” 

He answered in a hushed voice, “They do, but no one says anything.”

After the demise of Pope Paul III, the Vatican had officially announced the man’s death of heart failure. Alessandro Farnese had been almost eighty, so it sounded realistic. Nonetheless, the rumor was that one of his enemies had poisoned him. The disappearance of Farnese’s former secretary, who had run away to France with Montmorency’s aid, had indirectly confirmed that. In any case, most cardinals welcomed the villain’s departure from the world of the living.

“Everyone was fed up with Farnese,” continued Montmorency, bending forward to see her face better. “His crimes against kings and foreign dynasties were infamous. They were all afraid that he could command to kill any ruler any time or to excommunicate at his whim.”

“After your dismissal from the position of Governor of Rome, Farnese lost control over his brutality. He killed cardinals and persecuted notable aristocrats and wealthy Romans. The whole of Rome is overwhelmed with the human ash that accumulated in the city during the past year when Farnese was burning people in his quest against heresy. Even our friend, the Marchioness de Pescara, was burned just because Farnese hated her sonnets, God rest her soul.”

Marie and Montmorency crossed themselves as they gave silent tribute to the dead poetess.  

He nodded. “Yes, the demon murdered many. They are martyrs.”

“Even in your eyes, Monty? You are still a Catholic.”

“Marie, I’ll not abjure my faith for the rest of my life, just as you will not do so. François is a Catholic despite everything, while Anne is a Protestant – this is unlikely to change.” 

“I’ve never demanded that you do so.”

“I’m grateful.” He moved the thread of their discussion back to the Pope’s election. “The Conclave will assemble in late October. The Farnese faction is not as strong as it used to be. For the first time in years, the Imperial faction, headed by one of King Ferdinand’s friends, has the same interests as the French one – to elect a conciliatory candidate who will be eager to reform the Catholic Church and will not be as devious and murderous as Allesandro Farnese.”

“Who?” Marie had no idea, for she did not interfere with politics.

Her spouse apprised, “Giovanni Maria Ciocchi del Monte. First, he has weak ties to the existing factions. Second, he has always been popular for his affable manner and respected for his administrative skills. He was entrusted by the Papal curia with several duties.”

She recollected, “He pursues a life of pleasures and just squanders money.”   

“Better to have such a Pope than another assassin from the Farnese family.”

The duchess gazed towards a nearby row of statues. “That is true.”  

“Today I met with several French cardinals. Jean du Bellay arrived from France to help me coordinate the election. I also have regular meetings with those who support Ferdinand over Carlos in their combat for supremacy. As soon as we have a new Pope, the excommunications will be lifted; very few people welcomed them once they were proclaimed.”

The overwhelming majority of the Roman cardinals were shocked that the two Catholic monarchs had been excommunicated on phony charges of heresy. The excommunications of their families were flagrant! Never before in history had been one ruling Catholic dynasty – the House of Valois – and half of the other royal, prominent Catholic dynasty – the family of Ferdinand von Habsburg – denied the Lord’s grace and blessing by the Supreme Pontiff.   

“Anne and I care not a whit about these excommunications. But our children and husbands have been affected, so we are impatient to see them eliminated.”   

“The whole of France is furious about the excommunication of their beloved Knight-King and his family. They are impatient to see their sovereign’s reputation cleansed.”

Her satirical laugh pulsated through the air like a bell’s sound. “Well, they no longer need to salvage their liege lord from the Satan of Rome. The Boleyn family accomplished that!”

It was the irony of fate that Pope Paul III had been annihilated by the Protestant Boleyns. Those who he had tried to murder for years. Only the representatives of the House of Farnese, still powerful, had attended the former Pope’s funeral. In Rome, poets and artists called the dead man the chief Satan of Rome, the devil Farnese, the most evil Lucifer Farnese, and so on.  

“All the pro-French cardinals, who fled, are flocking back to Rome. They are all itching to see Anne and you, suspecting that you put an end to Farnese’s tyranny. Yet, it would be better not to leave the palazzo until the excommunications are declared null and void.”

Marie nodded her comprehension. “I was not going to invite anyone. I miss meetings with our friends at, as they call it, ‘The Montmorency salon,’ but I prefer to have some quiet days.”

His lips curved in a grin. “Like Anne and François who rarely leave their bedroom?” 

She swatted him on the shoulder. “Don’t be vulgar, Monty.”

His grin widened. “I would gladly do the same, wife, if I could, keeping you in my bed for days. But who will ensure that we have a new Pope as soon as possible, then?”  

“You are a libertine,” she teased. “Though a faithful one.”

“Indeed.” In a beam of the moonlight, Marie discerned a lewd glint in his eyes.

“Tell me, Monty, will we return to France or stay in Rome after all is over?” 

The duke shared his liege lord’s words. “We will stay in Rome until the Pope’s election. The emperor is now re-grouping forces and recruiting mercenaries in Switzerland and Germany. With God’s help, after this war, we will all return to France.”   

Marie was seized by terror. “Do François and Ferdinand stand a chance against Carlos?” 

“Of course. Carlos is not that strong.”

“I’m dreaming of seeing that Spanish thug with a protruding lip dethroned.”

“Careful: Ferdinand also has a protruding lip, although it is less prominent.”

They laughed and laughed, their felicity filling the night air with delight.

“I don’t want you to fight,” supplied Marie in a tremulous voice.

Montmorency took her hand in his and kissed it. “I’m a martial man, wife.”

Tears stung her eyes. “Have always been, and will always be – I know.”

“Yes,” uttered her husband. “My duty to France is to keep François and his family safe.” His tone was tinged with his devotion to and fealty towards the House of Valois.

For a moment, Marie said nothing, then she jumped to her feet like a tigress. “What about your duty to me, your children with your first wife, and our girls?” 

He stood up. “When there is peace, we will all live together in France.”

Her anger with him for their separation boiled over. “Your duty to François drove you to Milan, although the letter you received with the summons was a forgery produced by Diane de Poitiers.” She stabbed a finger at him. “You rushed to the king, leaving us all alone in Rome.”

Her husband moved forward. “I had no idea that it was a trap.”

“Of course, you didn’t!” retorted Marie with heat. “But will it always be so?” 

“Pardon me,” grouched Montmorency, “but you understood that you married the Constable of France who is always at his sovereign’s disposal. I cannot live a quiet family life.” 

“You cannot?” She stepped back from him. “Perhaps I was most unfortunate to wed you.”   

“You are just being irrational,” he said pointedly.

A halo of terrified melancholy about her, Marie stood glowering at her husband. Cloaked in a mantle of green satin, she was not cold. In the bright moonlight, her blonde hair, streaming down her shoulders, acquired a luster. The park seemed to be one enormous black pearl painted with whitish hues here and there, as beams of the moonlight shone through the tips of the trees.

“I’m so very afraid to lose you.” Marie’s anger slackened. А shower of tears deluged her cheeks. “I do not want to be a widow again. Our daughters must know their father, Monty.”

Montmorency stepped to her. “We will see them soon in Milan.”

Marie peered long at his pallid face, examining and marking him with her gaze. Once she had supposed that William Stafford had been her first and eternal love. However, she had been mistaken: throughout the years she had spent with her third husband, Montmorency had become too important to her. During the siege of Milan, Marie had realized that she would have rather perished between his arms under the boiling waters of the underworld than see him dead.

Monty conquered me, she inferred, ghosts of the past dissipating. It took me years to fall for him and forget Will, but it happened. Her matrimony with Montmorency was life itself, for it had restored her faith in happiness and her health of mind. The past, with all its sorrows, held only pain, almost forgotten by now – the present and the future promised happiness.

“I’m your conquered city,” Marie confessed, tears gone. “You have earned my love.”

In the next instant, Montmorency was next to her. He grabbed his spouse into his arms and molded her tight against his chest. Marie let out a sigh and melted into his embrace. That tender mouth of his, slightly rough, captured hers, while his arms cradled her next to him.

As they parted, the duke glanced towards the statue of Flora, which had been installed in the garden at his behest. “You are Flora, Marie. My goddess of spring in my old life.”

“You are not that old yet,” she murmured.

“François is several years younger. But I am not afraid of old age if I meet it with you. We have two healthy and beautiful daughters. What else can I desire?”

She smiled through tears. “I love you, Monty, and I believe you.”

“God be praised.” He kissed away her tears. “I have the best treasure – your love.”

The Montmorency spouses left the garden in a tight embrace, chatting mirthfully.  

§§§

Neither of them noticed the Earl of Wiltshire standing in an alley of maples, acacias, and chrysanthemums. Due to the mild climate in Rome, the foliage was still green.

My daughters are very happy with their husbands, Thomas Boleyn thought with paternal delight. He had just witnessed Marie’s confession to Montmorency, and it amused him that it had taken his elder girl so long to fall for the King of France’s best friend and most trusted advisor. Wiltshire saw Anne and François rarely, but he remembered their talk in the Sistine Chapel, which confirmed that Anne loved the monarch in the way she had never felt for Henry.

The couples were different, and so were their stories. The quiet affection between Marie and Montmorency was a stark contrast to the romantic, ebullient devotion that thrived between Anne and François. Boleyn thought that his wife would have been amazingly joyous now.

Nevertheless, loneliness washed over Wiltshire like whitecrested waves lapping on the sand shore. To Wiltshire this loneliness was a constant companion since all of his relatives had turned against him. Boleyn had hoped that he would become closer to both Anne and Marie after his arrival in Florence, where he had spent several months with them, but it did not occur. His daughters were courteous and polite with him, but they did not need him.

Yet, these were good days for Wiltshire. Thanks to his role in the Pope’s demise and his successful diplomatic career in the Republic of Venice, the King of France finally offered him to return to France and serve at the Valois court. The erstwhile days of his powerful glamour at the Tudor court lingered long in his mind, and Boleyn coveted more power, but he did not wish to feel his daughters’ lukewarm attitude to him every day. I shall not be humiliated again! 

The Earl of Wiltshire would return to Venice after the Italian campaign. He adored his aristocratic life in Venice where he was respected and admired by the Doge and the local nobles. Furthermore, Boleyn had married one of the Doge Francesco Donato’s relatives because his young wife, who had previously been his mistress, had poured into him a magical elixir of youth.

“I finally have a male heir,” Thomas Boleyn told himself. “My son Ludovico.”

Would English nobles accept his Italian-born son as his heir in the future? Would King Henry or King Edward, who would succeed his aging father, allow Ludovico Boleyn to inherit the earldom of Wiltshire with many manors? Would it be possible given that his son was being raised in Venice? Thomas had hired an English tutor for Ludovico to study the English language, but a large part of him doubted that it would be enough for his plans to come to fruition. 

Wiltshire exited the alley and headed to the palazzo. The moon was concealed by clouds, and the darkness thickened with a silence no lilting melody could break. Was it a sign that neither Marie nor Anne would forgive their father for his second marriage and his child?

Notes:

The new chapter is up! We hope you, our dear readers, are fine and well.

This chapter’s title refers to the horrible deed perpetrated by King Henry of England in Boulogne when Henry forced himself on Queen Anne of France in spite of her pregnancy. It’s a bit controversial twist, but a dramatic twist too. Now when François knows the truth about Anne’s disgrace at the hands of his English counterpart, Henry will have to face the consequences.

We are back to England. King Henry is alive so far, but in 10-11 chapters will already be in Edwardian era. With the Duke of Suffolk gone and the Duke of Norfolk hiding in France with his son Surrey, the Marquess of Exeter becomes the key political player in England. The Poles are following in their historical footsteps as they are apprehended on the king’s orders and will be executed. Exeter is growing more hateful of his Tudor cousin because of Henry’s own actions, and he is jealous that Henry is married to Exeter’s beloved Catherine Parr.

Edward Seymour is best remembered for his religious reforms. One of Edward’s historical reforms was the Chantries Act of 1547, according to which all the chantries were shut down and their property was confiscated for the crown and expressly for use in education. In this fiction this Act was passed in 1545 before Henry’s departure to Boulogne. The unrest that Henry is now facing is the historical rebellion that happened under Edward VI as a reaction to Edward’s Protestants reforms; including Kett’s revolt in Norfolk which began at Wymondham 1549.

Pope Paul III’s poisoning has its consequences. Paul was close to eighty, so his natural death was expected at some point. As we had a twist with Paul’s heart attack during the previous Italian war, we have them announce that the old man died of heart failure. Of course few believe in this, but Rome is now controlled by François and Ferdinand, so nobody dares accuse the Boleyns. Moreover, the Pope committed many villainies, and we have him take a very harsh approach to his enemies and heretics in the last year of his life in order to create discontent among his cardinals and Italian nobles. Yet, there will definitely be some impact of the Pope’s death on Anne’s reputation in later chapters, but Anne intends to take some necessary steps.

Mary Boleyn and Anne de Montmorency have been married for a long time, so it’s high time for them to confess to loving each other. Mary was given another chance at happiness after William Stafford’s early death (he was executed during the Pilgrimage of Grace in earlier chapters). Mary’s daughters with Montmorency – Christian and Marie – will appear in later chapters, but they are far from being main characters, although they will play some role in the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power.’

Thomas Boleyn is pleased that both of his daughters are happy with their husbands. We don’t see Thomas in England and France, so it is better to keep him away from Anne and Mary in Venice. It’s a controversial twist to give Thomas another family with one of his Venetian mistresses and even a son, but why not? His Italian family exists off screen and is not really important. Even older men in history had children with their wives, for example Edward II of England with his second wife Marguerite of France, half-sister to Philippe IV of France called the Fair.

The description of Nonsuch Palace is more or less historically correct as we found in English contemporary sources. The information the Renaissance painter Giulio Romano and his style is correct, so you may google him to have a look at his works of art.

Attention! We posted a prologue to the sequel “Chained by Blood and Power” (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We still have more than 30 chapters in CWL and will need a couple of years, perhaps less, to post them, but we decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 79: Chapter 78: A New Pope

Summary:

The new Pope has just been elected, and the monarchs meet with him in private. Anne receives an important recommendation from the Bishop of Rome. In England, Elizabeth Tudor remains exiled from court, she also receives a special gift from her mother and two letters.

Notes:

Attention! We posted a prologue to the sequel “Chained by Blood and Power” (CBP). Let us know your thoughts and thanks!

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 78: A New Pope

October 20, 1546, Apostolic Palace, Rome, the Papal States, Italy

The sun was rising in the clear blue sky. Queen Anne, King François, and King Ferdinand proceeded through the four Raphael Rooms. Located above the Borgia apartments, they formed a suite of reception rooms, where Raphael and his famed workshop had painted gorgeous frescoes. They would soon have their first meeting with the new Pope – Pope Julius III.  

“In the Sala di Costantino?” asked François, looking between his companions.

“Yes,” said Ferdinand. He had arrived in Rome yesterday. “It has a symbolical meaning.”

Anne concurred. “It hails the victory of Christianity over paganism.”

François sighed. “That Farnese thug was kind of a pagan.”

Admiring the wall frescoes, they entered the Sala di Costantino – the Hall of Constantine. Reverential silence reigned, tinged with a sense of their beatific exhilaration at contemplating the masterpieces of art. Created by Giulio Romano, Gianfrancesco Penni, and Raffaellino del Colle, the frescoes represented the struggle of the Roman Emperor Constantine against paganism.  

At the other end of the room stood a red-brocaded, gilded throne on a dais under a canopy of estate for the Supreme Pontiff. Auburn-brocaded armchairs lined one of the walls.

Ferdinand noted, “Everything is ready for our meeting.” 

They crossed to these armchairs and seated themselves in them.

“Pope Julius the Third,” drawled Anne. “I hope he will not be as bad as Farnese was. But even if he does not plot against foreign rulers, he might continue a quest against heresy.”

François took her hand in his, lacing their fingers together. “Every Pope will consider it his duty to lead a combat against heresy. The question is how ruthless he will become.”

Ferdinand allayed, “Julius is quite a conciliatory candidate. Although he states that he will cleanse the Catholic Church from corruption, I’m certain that he will soon abandon himself to a life of luxury and dissipation. He will pose minimal threat to the heretics and anyone else.”

Anne regarded their ally. “Ferdinand, what do you think of what is called heresy?” 

“There is only one God,” answered Juana of Castile’s youngest son. “Reformation began in Germany and has been spread throughout Europe. It was triggered by the growing corruption and the administrative abuse in the Catholic Church, expressing an alternate vision of Christian practice. Countries such as Sweden, Norway, England, Switzerland, and the German Protestant States have embraced these novelties. There is no unity in the Christian world.”

Anne frowned: was he avoiding her question? “Indeed, the church reform was rooted in a broad dissatisfaction with the Vatican and started thanks to Martin Luther.”

Ferdinand smiled sadly. “Luther is not God: he is just a sinful man, like we all are.” After a moment’s dithering, he confessed, “I’m a moderate Catholic and shall always be. Nonetheless, I’m rather sympathetic to new religious movements, and I understand why Luther and Calvin protest against the Vatican. I do not consider burnings an effective tool to eliminate heresy.”

François chimed in, “I’m also a Catholic. All my children are Catholics, including Aimée who will marry your son, provided that you, Ferdinand, don’t call off their betrothal.”

Annoyance manifested upon Ferdinand’s expression. “You again don’t trust me, François? Your Aimée will marry my eldest son, Maximilian, when she reaches sixteen.”

“Thank you, Ferdinand.” Anne wanted Aimée to be Holy Roman Empress in the future.

Ferdinand chuckled. “Your Majesties are most welcome.” 

François continued their debate. “Watching Allesandro Farnese and his desperate quest against any form of religious dissidence, I’ve become more liberal in religion. We all have only one God, but we call it differently. However, all these conversations must be kept secret.”

Ferdinand tipped his head. “Of course. Most of Europe remains Catholic despite reforms in various regions. Religious unity is no longer possible, and it must be regulated.”  

“How?” Anne pondered the matter. “Will you do it as Holy Roman Emperor?” 

“I hope so,” confirmed Ferdinand. “I shall discuss it with His Holiness.”

The King of France meditated, “So far I’m not intending to harshly persecute Protestants in France. I’ve always been against the bloodshed of my countrymen. However, if the Protestants become an organized movement, some action will be needed. In this case, we will have to pass an edict governing the existence of both Protestantism and Catholic faith in our kingdom.”

Anne squeezed his hand in approval. “It would ameliorate most of the tensions between followers of the true faith, as Catholics state it, and those of Luther and Calvin.”

“It is not necessary now,” François grazed before admitting, “I must say that my religious conservatism still prevails over everything else. I would rather not give more freedom to those who share your religion, Anne. Perhaps a king who will succeed me will have to do that.”

Anne’s husband was not ready for such measures. “Maybe, François.”

Ferdinand rejoined, “Unlike it is in France, the official recognition of heresy must be done in the Holy Roman Empire soon, and I’ve been thinking of this subject a lot. Carlos’ numerous burnings must be stopped as soon as possible. They alienated the German Protestant Princes from him, and the discontent in Germany and in the empire is growing at the moment.”

François nodded. “You will have to end the religious struggle officially.”

“That would be one of my first priorities,” stated Ferdinand.

Anne stood up and approached a window overlooking the Belvedere Courtyard. Made as a single enclosed space and designed by Donato Bramante, the long court linked the Vatican Palace with the Villa Belvedere in a series of terraces connected by stairs.

“It is beautiful here,” breathed Anne, “especially without Farnese.”

Ferdinand asked cautiously, “May I give you a piece of advice, Anne?” 

She pivoted to him. “Of course.”

Ferdinand formed his message in the most accurate way. “Years ago, François allowed you to worship your faith in private because of his tolerance and his feelings for you.”  

François frowned. “Where are you going with this?” 

Anne held Ferdinand’s gaze. “Your candor will not offend us.”

Ferdinand knew that she would not like his words. He looked at the fresco ‘The Baptism of Constantine’ by Gianfrancesco Penni. “You have six Catholic children with the King of France. No one can predict the future, Anne, and a bad day might come when your religion might create problems for you all. If you had converted into Catholicism at least for appearance’s sake after your marriage, at least some of the plots against you could have been avoided.” 

It was what François thought as well. “Anne, I shall not always be around to protect you. None of us is very young anymore, and we do not know when the Lord will call us home. My son, Henri, will take the best care of you and our children, but that may not be enough.”

Anne stared out. At this early hour, there were not many people in the Belvedere court. She ran her orbs along a series of narrow terraces at the court’s base, traversed by a monumental central staircase. “A Protestant queen on the French throne will always have enemies.”

“Yes,” chorused François and Ferdinand.

God, how can I abjure my religion? Sentiments of unease and distress twisted her insides like a reed. Adhering more to Luther than Calvin, she questioned even the basic doctrines in Roman Church, including the clergy’s exclusive right to grant salvation that could come only through an individual’s faith. How could Anne Boleyn, who had launched reform in England, accept the old faith again? Nevertheless, it would make her and her French children safer.

§§§

The door flung open. Dressed in sumptuous red robes, Pope Julius III entered with a slow, measured gait. Several years older than François, he was a man of sturdy built, not exceptionally tall, but above average, with a chiseled nose and hazel-green probing eyes. His mouth smiled, his orbs were clever and gay. There was no halo of evil sharpness about him.

Born Giovanni Maria Ciocchi del Monte, the Pope had made a career as a distinguished diplomat and in the pontifical Curia. Julius eyed the three persons in front of him. Each of them stood up, bowing their heads. Yesterday, the Conclave had elected him the Supreme Pontiff, and he had obtained this position thanks to King François and King Ferdinand.

The Bishop of Rome greeted, “I’m most delighted to see you all, my children.” 

In turns, François and Ferdinand knelt before the man, kissed his hand, and rose.

When a perturbed Anne sank to her knees in front of the Pope, Julius held her hand in his for longer than appropriate, while examining her with profound interest. “Mademoiselle Boleyn, as you were called years ago in France. Rise, my daughter Anne, and join your husband.”    

“Thank you, Your Holiness.” Anne walked towards François.

Now the guests all sat in their armchairs, each of them beholding the Pope.

Pope Julius ascended the dais and mannerly seated himself in his throne. “This morning is good for us, my friends. The first thing I did today when I woke up several hours before this audience was to ask Cardinal Giovanni Morone, who holds Your Majesties in high regard, to ensure that three official proclamations will be read in all public places in Rome today.”

François had a guess what was implied. “Elaborate please.”   

The Bishop of Rome explained, “According to the decrees, the excommunications of King François and all his family, of King Ferdinand and all his relatives, as well as of the Duke de Montmorency and his family have been declared null and void.”

With a collective gasp of delighted surprise, François and Ferdinand crossed themselves. Smiling at the two men’s apparent gladness, Anne’s reaction was more reserved.  

Ferdinand inquired, “Does Your Holiness mean that by the end of the day the entirety of Rome will be aware that François, Montmorency, I, and our families have never been heretics?”

The Pope smiled affably. “Yes, that’s correct.” He then added, “I prefer to address you as ‘Your Imperial Majesty’ – I’m withdrawing my support from Emperor Carlos.”

François’ grin was wide. “That would help our cause against that thug.”

A triumphant smile bloomed upon Ferdinand’s countenance. “I thank Your Holiness most heartily. The previous Pope was my brother’s fierce ally, and together they formed the diabolical plan of trapping François and my wife, Marguerite, in the city of Milan.”

“With the aid of Diane de Poitiers,” Anne interjected.

François hissed, “Together with King Henry of England.” Anne noticed his hatred.

Julius eyed the French royal couple. “There might be someone else in France who has been plotting against Your Majesties. In our archives, we found copies of some poorly destroyed letters, which Allesandro Farnese wrote to someone vitally important in your country – to his key agent. There is only one letter for the dead Madame de Poitiers and many others addressed to someone called ‘Our Dearest Madonna.’ Diane de Poitiers was only one of his agents.”

An unnerved François raked his eyes over the frescoes. “Farnese created a large network of murderers and spies at all courts. I’m not astonished that Diane de Poitiers had conspirators.” He balled his fists. “I gave Farnese the chance to govern Christian world after the siege of Rome, but he repaid to me for my kindness with treachery and more conspiracies against my family.”  

Ferdinand loathed the poisoned Pope with similar force. “We should have convened the Conclave many years ago. Then many horrible things could have been avoided.” 

Julius was also horrified with his predecessor’s crimes. “In this case, I cannot tell you ‘pay respect to the dead’. Despite his position, Allesandro Farnese had a perverted soul.”

Ferdinand and François nodded, pleased that this man concurred with them.

Anne’s mind worked in the direction of discovering who Farnese’s main agent in France could be. The conundrum was like a giant playground with acres and acres to play on, or like a chessboard where Dauphin Henri and her son Augustine often contended for supremacy in chess. Both Cardinal de Tournon and Diane de Poitiers were dead, and so were the Lorraine brothers. Can the other conspirators be Diane’s relatives? Are François’ councilors all loyal to him?

Ferdinand’s voice intruded upon Anne’s reveries. “François, your son Henri is certain that someone close to the House of Valois is betraying you – perhaps the former Pope’s agent.” 

François speculated, “I banished the Guise family and that of the Lorraine brothers from my court permanently. My sister Margot expelled Diane’s relatives.”

Anne surveyed the tapestry of Emperor Constantine’s wars against Licinius, Constantine’s colleague and rival. “As long as we have a traitor in our ranks, plots will continue.”

François swore, “I’ll find all Farnese’s agents at my court and have them executed.”

The Pope stressed, “If they committed crimes just as Diane de Poitiers did, they deserve Your Majesty’s righteous wrath. My realm is the Papal States, while yours is France. However, my son François, it is my duty to remind you that we all have one Father, and one God created us. So conduct your investigation, but be fair and just to your enemies.”

François liked the new Pope more than Farnese. He then recalled aloud from the Bible.

In Jesus, you are all children of God through faith, for all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is no male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.

Julius smiled benevolently. “Yes, my son, although it is often ignored.”

Anne did not form her opinion of the Pope yet. “The world is not ideal.”

Ferdinand also recalled the words related to the matter from the Bible.

Peter opened his mouth and said: “Truly I understand that God shows no partiality, but in every nation anyone who fears Him and does what is right is acceptable to Him.

The Supreme Pontiff measured Ferdinand with a penetrating stare. “Your Majesty, do the right thing for Europe and establish peace. Also, don’t forget the story about Cain and Abel. You and Carlos are like these two brothers, but neither of you should end up like them.”

Ferdinand dropped his head in torment. For so long, he had been torn between his anger with his brother and his residual filial feelings for Carlos. The grip of his depression upon him was strong, and every time his thoughts floated to Carlos, flashes of pain shot up and down his brain with lightning speed, as though a red-hot poker had been pressed to it. Holy Father, I beseech you not to admit the situation when I might need to kill Carlos to save my own life.

Julius’ soothing voice returned Ferdinand’s attention to the Pope. “My son Ferdinand, I can see that you are not someone who is capable of murdering your own brother as treacherously as Cain disposed of Abel and then lied about it to God. You have to finish this war in a way that will not lead to you will be cursed and marked for life. You know what to do.”

This was a good encouragement for Ferdinand. “Yes, I do.”

The leader of Rome enlightened, “I’ve already prepared the decree in which the Church officially condemns Emperor Carlos and his men for the siege of Milan. I have no grounds to excommunicate the current emperor, who is no longer as popular as he once was, and I shall not act like Allesandro Farnese. Yet, I’ll be vocal about my displeasure with his actions.” 

“Thank you, Your Holiness,” François uttered cordially.

Julius stroked his beard. “No one has the right to burn an anointed monarch. But as nobody was burned and the siege was lifted, I have no reason to deprive Carlos of the Lord’s grace.”

Julius loves entertainment, thought François, as he looked the Pope in the eye. Monty and Ferdinand both characterized him so. However, at least he uses canon law for his decisions. Pity that we cannot excommunicate Carlos. The Valois ruler hoped that the emperor would perish in battle, just as Ferdinand had mentioned it. François hoped that the war would end soon.

“The burnings in Rome are over,” stated the Pope. “Farnese burned more than a thousand men in the past year only in the city, so most people despise the Papacy. At present, religious settlement in the Holy Roman Empire is necessary; in years to come, in France too.”

Anne gasped, “Ah, so many!” 

The Pope nodded dolefully. “That was Allesandro Farnese’s doing.” 

“The demon of Rome,” she uttered with contempt. “As he is rightly called.”

Ferdinand shared, “Now I’m deliberating over the religious settlement with my German and Austrian councilors. The Council of Trent, which Farnese and Carlos started a year ago, alienated those inclined to new religious ideas from the Vatican. Its sweeping decrees on reform and Catholic dogmatic definitions, indeed clarifying many doctrines contested by the Protestants, are useful in combat against what Catholics call heresy, but it has enraged the Protestants.”

The embodiment of the Counter-Reformation, the Council of Trent had first been held in 1545 in Trent in northern Italy. Some bishops had urged for immediate reform, while others had sought clarification of Catholic doctrines. The compromise had been reached: both topics were to be treated simultaneously. However, the Council of Trent did not shine as a beacon to all the world due to the harsh persecutions of heretics by Emperor Carlos and the Farnese Pope.

“What are you offering, my son Ferdinand?” Pope Julius arched an inquisitive brow.   

Ferdinand directed his scrutiny at the tapestry of Constantine the Great on his deathbed. “In my opinion, the Council of Trent should gather from time to time along with some reform, which Your Holiness wants to pursue. Nonetheless, given the impossibility of religious unity in the Holy Roman Empire, we will have to create legal basis for the coexistence of Lutheranism and Catholicism in Germany, or we will have many conflicts in these lands soon.”

The Roman leader glanced at the same tapestry. “Emperor Constantine’s decision in the creation and proclamation of the Edict of Milan at the beginning of the 4th century declared tolerance for Christianity in the Roman Empire. It also breathed a new life into his lands.”

At the end of the audience, the guests knelt before the Pontiff and kissed his hand again. The kings climbed to their feet and stepped away, but the Pope’s voice halted Anne.

“Your Majesty,” Julius addressed with odd softness, looking down at her from his throne. “Imagine that I will die tomorrow, and then another Pope will be elected. Will he condemn the King of France for letting you keep your religion and excommunicate you both again? Or will the taint of your faith fall upon one or all of your children with François?” 

Anne was still kneeling beside his throne. “Do you imply that I should convert?” 

Julius touched her cheek with peculiar gentleness. “My daughter Anne, your husband and your offspring are Catholics. How many plots will François have to avert to safeguard you?” 

Anne rose to her feet. “Thank you, Your Holiness. For everything.”

A moment later, the three monarchs again bowed and exited.

Ferdinand would make a better emperor, inferred Pope Julius III. Carlos’ desire to burn François is utterly disgusting. Anne Boleyn is controversial. This meeting kind of amused him. He would wait for news about either Ferdinand’s or Carlos’ victory. Nonetheless, if Carlos had triumphed, there would be hell to pay for Julius and his cardinals, as well as for many others.

§§§

Anne, François, and Ferdinand exited into the Stanza della Segnatura, or the Room of the Signatura. Raphael, not his workshop, had himself decorated it. Once there had been the library of Pope Julius II, where the Signatura of Grace tribunal had been originally located.

The Queen of France approached Raphael’s fresco ‘Disputation of the Holy Sacrament.’ Created between 1509 and 1510, the great artist had produced an image of the Catholic Church presented as spanning both heaven and earth, as if ruling over the whole universe.

“It is so lovely.” Anne’s scrutiny darted between this fresco and another on the opposite wall. “This fresco represents Christianity’s triumph over the philosophical tendencies shown on ‘The School of Athens’ fresco painted on the opposite wall.” Her laugh flowed like a shining silver stream. “Yet, I think religion and philosophy can exist in harmony.”

François wrapped one arm around his spouse’s waist. “Religion and philosophy are like a seed and a fruit. Great philosophers and theologians are such thanks to philosophy. Both religion and philosophy wrestle with similar problems, and each of them is based on faith. What is good? What is a sin? What is the nature of reality? What is really the most important in life?” 

Ferdinand stood near Raphael’s fresco ‘The School of Athens.’ It represented knowledge acquired through reason, setting up a contrast between religious and philosophical beliefs.

“Raphael was a true genius,” opined Ferdinand. “In this room he portrayed the mankind’s movement from the classical philosophy to our modern religion and from the pre-Christian world to Christianity. Despite the evolution, philosophy and religion are inexplicably connected.”

Her husband’s hands still on her waist, Anne looked around. “The main theme of this room must be wisdom, and the harmony between Christian teaching and Greek philosophy.”

Ferdinand observed, “The spirits of antiquity and Christianity are brought into harmony.” 

François’ gaze slid to the fresco ‘The Parnassus’ by Raphael. It depicted the Parnassus, the dwelling place of the God Apollo playing on a lira, surrounded by muses and nine poets.

“My sister’s salon is called ‘Le Parnasus’,” stated the King of France with a jocund grin. “I know that you, Anne, and Margot spend a lot of time running your intellectual circles.”    

Anne gushed, “Soon Apollo will sing for our new baby.”

“What?” François turned her to face him. “How is that possible?” 

Her expression dropped. “Are you not happy, mon amour?” 

“I am.” The Valois ruler’s sense of disquiet worsened at the sight of his spouse. François had gained enough weight during the weeks they spent in Rome, but Anne remained alarmingly slim. “It is too soon, mon amour. Lorenzo was born in May, and now it is only October.”  

Ferdinand, who considered Anne his friend, was also worried about her. “Congratulations, but be careful. Margot and I talked to Amboise Paré, and he seems to be very competent.”

“Doctor Paré is an excellent physician.” Smiling, Anne attempted to assuage her husband’s concern. “He took the best care of me while I carried Lorenzo. He will do the same again.”   

Tightening his arms about his wife, François whispered into her ear, “You did not use the herbs which Doctor Fernel gave you to prevent conception. They used to be effective.”

She murmured into his ear, “I want your daughter, mon amour.” 

He said, “If I had known that you had not used the herbs, I would not have touched you.”

His consort sighed. “Forgive me.”

Ferdinand cleared his throat. “I did not hear anything, but we must go.”

Soon they exited into the Belvedere courtyard that connected the Apostolic Palace and the Villa Belvedere. After aiding his wife to climb into a chariot draped in cloth of gold, François and Ferdinand urged their stallions into a cantor; the knights bearing standards of the two kings followed suit. Heading towards the Quirinal Hall, the queen’s litter moved in the middle of the procession, but Anne could see her husband’s thoughtful expression from the litter’s window.

How can I convert into Catholicism? How can I? Anne’s heart wept at this thought, at the mere suggestion of her becoming again an adherent of the controversial Catholic Church that had accumulated wealth to such a remarkable degree that it was shameful, while the ordinary people – peasants and other commoners – could barely sustain themselves. How could Anne do so after the villainies that Pope Paul III had perpetrated towards her and her family?

François rode next to his wife’s litter. “Are you thinking of your possible conversion?” 

Anne was not surprised that he had figured out it. “I am not sure I can do it.”

“Even for our children and me?” There was no insistence in his voice. Yet, she discerned a plea in his tone layered with fear caused by the plots against her during the past years.

Regardless of anything, the safety of her husband and their offspring was Anne’s priority. Since their marriage in 1536, there had been several attempts on Anne’s life and on the lives of her children with François. Once Anne had almost lost François in Milan, and at the thought of her spouse’s demise or their offspring’s deaths, her soul writhed in black, perpetual pain. I can become a Catholic again only to protect François, our children, and the entire Valois family.

François articulated, “Anne, I’ve long accepted your faith. We are all Christians, and the religious divide is more a political thing than a spiritual one. But I’m worried that someone else might conspire against our family, and Lady Luck will not always smile upon us.”

Anne nodded. “You are right, husband.”

Within the space of a few heartbeats, the cortege stopped near the Palazzo Montmorency.      


November 20, 1546, Hever Castle, the county of Kent, England

The rays of bleak sun filtered through the open shutters. Morning had dawned a couple of hours ago, but it did not bring any warmth. It was raining since the middle of the night.

Princess Elizabeth beheld herself in a looking glass for a moment. In a fashionable gown of rose and black velvet, embroidered with diamonds and rubies, her long stomacher of red silk, the young lady looked every inch the true princess of the blood. Her youth shone like a beacon from her face and glowed in her body, Elizabeth’s freshness like a breath of regal, eternal spring.

Now the princess was in the private morning room. The paneling and the fireplace dated to the fifteenth century. Upon the stone of the large fireplace, where flames danced merrily, were carved the initials ‘T. B.,’ representing Thomas Boleyn who had owned Hever Castle for years before his departure from England and the English ruler’s gifting of the castle to Elizabeth.

Her governess, Lady Catherine Ashley née Champernowne, approached from the back. Kat slipped a superb oval-cut onyx and diamond necklace onto Elizabeth’s slender neck.

Kat Ashley enthused, “The jewelry matches the color of your eyes perfectly.”   

Elizabeth smiled. “Yes, it does. My mother’s taste is excellent.”

Her governess sighed. “The king has long stopped sending gifts to Your Highness.”

“I don’t need anything from that man. I do not consider him my father anymore.”

“Your fate depends upon his will, Your Highness,” Kat reasoned.   

Elizabeth scrutinized her reflection in the looking glass once more. Despite her nose ridged and her lips rather thin, she considered herself pretty, and her beloved mother had told her so during their short meetings in Boulogne. Most of all, the girl liked a pair of enigmatic and smart dark brown pools in the midst of her heart-shaped face. She was proud of her long, glossy hair that cascaded down her back, wavy and thick – a red-gold mass, like dangerous flames.

However, this time the princess grimaced. “My appearance is that of a true Tudor.”

Kat was confused as to her statement. “Isn’t it good that your filial bonds with the Tudors are so very obvious? No one can question your paternity.” She laughed as Prince Edward’s face floated before her mind’s eye. “Your brother Edward looks like a York. Some say that he took after King Edward the Forth. Others claim that he looks like some other York boy.”

Elizabeth tucked a string of hair behind her ear. “Edward has the pale blue Woodville eyes. This makes the king nostalgic as he always remembers his mother when he is with Ned.”  

“Lord Exeter also has the Woodville eyes,” remarked Kat.

“Exeter is the son of Princess Catherine of York, the sixth daughter of Edward the Forth by Elizabeth Woodville, my great-grandmother. Many of their descendants have such eyes.”   

Princess Elizabeth crossed to a window and stared out. The Hever gardens were ablaze with scarlet, orange, gold, and brown, the graceful ballet of leaves twirling in the crisp air. The drizzle was steady, and everything in the park was moist. The sky was a steel-gray canvas.

Melancholy enveloped Anne Boleyn’s daughter like a natural force. “Despite everything, my life proceeds as usual. However, I feel rebellious and, God forgive me, often challenge heaven with doubts why things, which happened in my and my mother’s lives, are so cruel.”

Kat leaned against a nearby wall. “Your Highness should not doubt the Lord’s will.”

“I do not.” Still standing near the window, Elizabeth breathed fresh, cold air. “Yet, since my separation from my mother all those years ago, loneliness has been my companion. I could have had a worse childhood if I had been declared a bastard and forgotten. To the king’s credit, he was generous to me, and throughout many years, he attempted to be a father to me. However, I erected an emotional wall between us because I could not forgive him for my mother’s woes.”

“During His Majesty’s visits to Hatfield he paid attention to Your Highness, but I saw that he wanted your love, not only your courtesy. Perhaps you should have tried.”  

“I did.” Lizzy contemplated the trees waving in the wind. “But I failed.”

After closing the shutters, Elizabeth strolled over to a desk and seated herself in an oak chair, whose back was adorned with the Boleyn coat-of-arms. Her fingers caressed the surface of the table: years ago, her mother had sat there and written letters of love to her father.

The princess touched the necklace on her bosom. “I shall thank Monsieur de Marillac for surreptitiously delivering my mother’s letter with her gifts to me. It was manufactured by some talented Florentine goldsmith, and my mama ordered it for me in Florence.”

Kat came to the desk. “Your Highness must be more careful with exchange of letters and gifts. If this becomes known, His Majesty will send you into exile somewhere else.”

Elizabeth leaned back in her seat. “It became more difficult to send letters to my mama after Margery’s death in Boulogne. Thanks be to God, Monsieur de Marillac is helping us.”

Kat noted, “I’m surprised that Lord Exeter allows Marillac to come.”

“Exeter has always favored Prince Edward, but he has been nice with me. I’m grateful to him for his help, for he risks finding himself on the receiving end of the king’s wrath.” 

Kat crossed herself. “Poor Madge! I was fond of her, but that fever took her life.” 

The girl emitted a sigh. “I miss Madge. She must be in paradise now. God rest her soul.”

Kat, who the princess trusted completely, had no idea about the real cause of Margery Horsman’s death. According to the legend spread by the royal physician, Margery had contracted fever and passed away in Boulogne. No one knew that the king had accidentally killed her.

“Leave, Kat,” dismissed Elizabeth.

Curtseying to her mistress, her governess departed the chamber.   

§§§

Pulling a drawer open, Elizabeth removed an unstamped sheet of paper and unfolded it. It was Anne’s letter from Rome, which the French ambassador Charles de Marillac had delivered yesterday. The girl’s heart somersaulted in exhilaration like a skilled acrobat.

Elizabeth, my own heart,

I’m aware that now you live at Hever Castle, where my siblings and I were raised. We had many blithesome moments in this place, but I’m unlikely to ever see it again.

I’ve been so worried about you since our separation in Boulogne. I pray that one day, you and I will be able to spend at least a few months together in France, but it is not possible now.   

In Florence, I gathered France’s Italian allies against that abominable Spanish fanatic with a protruding lip. Emperor Carlos hates the House of Valois and those who do not surrender to his supremacy. That is the main reason of his animosity towards my French family. After the siege of Milan, I’ve been the happiest woman since François returned to me alive.

Despite my afflictions, your half-brother Lorenzo was born healthy and strong. He is a marvelous mixture of his parents, although he took more after his Valois and Capetian ancestry. I’d want one of my sons to be more like me, but it is for the better that my boys bear more resemblance to the Valois and the Capets. The French have long accepted me as their queen, and I secured the succession, but we do not know what might happen tomorrow.   

We have been staying in Rome for several months, and now we have the new Pope. All the excommunications were declared null and void, no longer hanging over us like the sword of Damocles. At present, Lorenzo is Milan that is in the possession of the French again. However, the campaign against Carlos is not over, and the thug should be defeated soon.   

I believe it is better for you to stay at Hever, Lizzy. Your father’s temper and moods have become so mercurial and very violent that I urge you to stay as far away from him as possible. God bless you, my own heart. I know you shall ascend the English throne. I’ve always believed that you will be England’s greatest queen and usher the country into a Golden Age.

Your Aunt Marie prays for you and misses you a lot, just as your grandfather Thomas does. Aunt Marie also thanks you for taking young Catherine Cary into your household.

Your loving mother, Queen Anne

Elizabeth kissed the letter. She stood up and approached the hearth, then threw the sheet of paper into the fire, observing the flames take hold, tears prickling her eyes.

Returning to her chair at the desk, Queen Anne’s daughter stared into space. A tempest of remembrances surged through her mind, piling upon themselves one after another painfully.      

The scene of Margery Horsman, Catherine Parr, and Bess entering the tower room, where Anne had been kept after Boulogne’s capitulation to the English, was engraved upon Elizabeth’s memory forever. Her father lacing his hose and her mother re-arranging her skirts – these visions were nightmares for a well-bred girl who had been taught that everyone must respect royalty.

Bess’ negative sentiments towards her father had crystallized into her abject loathing for the king, stronger than her terror. Elizabeth had admired Anne’s sangfroid in those moments, appreciating her mother’s advice not to interfere so as not to enrage the monarch. How could the King of England force himself upon my pregnant mother? Her father had striven to extract vengeance upon the very woman who had been and would always be his life-long obsession.

After Henry’s capture in Boulogne, the King and Queen of England, as well as English lords had been conducted to the same citadel in the city where Anne had resided during the siege and her own captivity. The prisoners had been kept comfortably and separately from each other. Henry’s loud shrieks damning the French ruling dynasty were still ringing in Elizabeth’s ears.

Unlike them, Elizabeth and her governess Kat had been treated like guests of honor. The governor of Boulogne had accompanied the princess and all of the women from her household to Château de Bagatelle, located near Abbeville in the area safe from the possible occupation by the Imperial troops. As the Dauphin of France had requested no ransom for any of them, Elizabeth and her entourage had spent many wonderful months in the peaceful and luxurious castle.

“This calm time in France was my temporary repose,” Elizabeth told herself.

The invasion of France had caused irreparable damage. Queen Catherine Howard and Lady Jane Boleyn had been executed. Lady Margery Shelton had been accidentally murdered by King Henry. Queen Anne had been violated by the English tyrant. Elizabeth still remembered how she had stood near the Basilica of Notre-Dame de Boulogne watching the Duke of Suffolk die from afar, bereft of speech and movement; Kat Ashley had led Bess inside the cathedral.

Her brain crammed with abomination towards the man who had given her life. King Henry – I cannot call him my father – failed. He did not break my mother. He lost Boulogne, spent months in French captivity, and returned to England in disgrace. He even attempted to kill my mama, but His Grace of Suffolk took an arrow meant for her. Elizabeth mourned for Suffolk, and her horror was worse than humankind’s traditional terror of the world beyond the grave.

While living at Château de Bagatelle, Elizabeth had not worried about the monarch at all. Instead, she had waited for the news from Italy. One day the governor of Boulogne had delivered the tidbits of Prince Lorenzo’s birth in Florence. Elizabeth had rejoiced that her sibling had been so fortunate to pull through the afflictions the Tudor ruler had sent the baby’s way.

“You must be a very strong child, Lorenzo,” Elizabeth mused with a grin. “The Almighty preserved you against all odds. I’d love to see you and my other siblings again.”

The Tudor monarch had been liberated in July 1545 after the payment of the ransom for him, his queen, and the lords. Elizabeth had seen the king on a ship in the port of Boulogne, surrounded by Queen Catherine Parr, the Marquess of Exeter, and the Earls of Southampton and of Arundel. While they had been crossing the Channel, Henry had not spoken to his daughter, his eyes shooting daggers at her. In Dover, Exeter had informed Lizzy about her ejection.    

Elizabeth Tudor had then traveled from Dover to Hever Castle. The monarch did not wish to see his daughter anymore, but he had sent her to the place of her mother’s birth. Elizabeth did not miss her brother Edward, with whom her relationship had always been strained.

Questions circled the princess’ mind. Did King François know about Queen Anne’s infamy caused by his English archrival? What would happen if the Valois ruler learned the truth? Before King Henry’s invasion of northern France, Elizabeth had feared for her mother’s life, as well as of the consequences – possible French invasion of England. Despite her lack of respect to her father, Elizabeth loved England and hated to think of her countrymen’s sufferings.  

The sound of the cracking fire snapped Elizabeth’s attention back to the present.

After knocking on the door, Kat Ashley slipped inside. Pausing in the doorway, Kat swept a curtsey to her mistress. “A letter from your sister, Empress Mary, has just arrived.” 

Elizabeth’s heart almost jumped out of her chest. “Where is it?” 

“Downstairs,” answered Kat. “It was collected by Lady Catherine Carey.” 

“I’ll return to my bedroom. Tell my cousin to bring it there.”

“As Your Highness wishes.” Kat Ashley bobbed a curtsey and left.  

Elizabeth opened another drawer and extracted a diamond ring that also served as a locket. The cover, surmounted by the princess’ initial ‘E’ in diamonds in blue enamel, opened to reveal a hidden miniature portrait of Queen Anne Boleyn. Having been informed that young Lizzy was fond of rings, Anne had ordered this item for her in Florence together with the necklace.

The girl’s long and tapering fingers, which were admired in her household and at the Tudor court, took the ring and then opened it. At the sight of her mother’s lovely and exotic features, the princess dissolved into tears. She kissed the ring multiple times, as if this simple action could have brought her closer to Queen Anne. Then she slid the ring onto her finger.

“It looks awesome on me,” Elizabeth enthused. “I shall wear it to show off my stunning fingers and to feel closer to my mama.” Her fingers caressed the necklace at her throat.

§§§

Princess Elizabeth entered the bedroom that had once been occupied by her mother.

It was a small, cozy chamber featuring the half-domed ceiling to give a feeling of greater space and light. The interior was paneled in dark wood, also carved, the floors thickly carpeted. All the furniture was of mahogany, adding to the solemn grandeur all around. A large canopied bed, draped in crimson covers, stood alone one of the walls. A fire cracked in the fireplace.  

Her mind conjured vivid pictures: Anne sleeping in this bed, lounging in a chair by the hearth with a Book of Hours in her hands, dreaming of receiving a new letter from the Tudor ruler. At the last thought, waves of anger shot through Elizabeth, whose hands fisted at her sides.

Lizzy settled in a mahogany chair by the fireplace, staring into the flames.

“Your Highness,” began Lady Catherine Carey. “I’ve brought a letter for you.” 

When Elizabeth turned to her new maid, Catherine dropped into a curtsey.

“Give it to me,” instructed the princess.

“As Your Highness wish.” Catherine approached and gave the paper to the princess.

Anne’s daughter clasped it in her hands. “I have been prohibited from contacting my elder sister. I’m astonished that she wrote to me, for she did not do so since her escape.”

“I know not, Your Highness.”      

Elizabeth viewed Catherine Carey, Lady Knollys, from top to toe. Attired in a billowing modest gown of black brocade worked with threads of gold, she looked nice, but more like a matron perhaps due to her old-fashioned outfits. Apparently, she had not been at court for long. Her small aquamarine eyes were shy, but clever. Her cheekbones were high, her jaw line tight and beautifully smooth. Her long, red-gold hair was arranged in an elegant chignon.

Catherine Carey looks like the king’s daughter, Elizabeth observed. Her flaming hair and her aquamarine eyes reveal her true paternity. In one of her letters, Anne had asked the princess to take care of Marie de Montmorency’s estranged daughter. Anne had confessed that Catherine was an illegitimate Tudor girl, unacknowledged by the monarch because of her gender.

Mary Boleyn’s eldest daughter had been married off to Sir Francis Knollys in April 1540 on the Carey family’s orders as they had wanted to get rid of her. Knollys was not even a knight, and it was not a good marriage for the king’s daughter. The couple already had five offspring.   

 “How is your marriage, Mistress Knollys?” The princess put the letter in her lap. “Does your husband treat you well? Do you have enough for a good life? You have several children.”   

“Thank you for your care, Your Highness. King Henry extended to my spouse Francis the favor of making him the owner of the estate of Rotherfield Greys in 1538.”

“Is it where all your offspring are now staying, Catherine?” 

“Yes,” responded the confused woman. “The next one will join them soon.”

“What will you do after this baby’s birth? Will you return to serve me?” 

For the first time, Catherine’s expression brightened. “Of course, Your Highness.”

Elizabeth’s assessing stare was focused on her half-sister. “Despite my exile?” 

Catherine shuffled her feet slightly. “I’ll gladly share all your hardships.”

The princess voiced her conclusion. “You must know the truth, Catherine.”

An embarrassed Catherine was at a loss for words. The silent minutes passed slowly.  

“You are my half-sister,” Elizabeth broke the pause. “Despite your estrangement from your mother and my aunt, the Carey family must be fully aware that their long-dead son recognized your mother’s elder child as his on the king’s orders to obtain additional privileges.”   

The other woman cast her scrutiny down. Silence deepened to an eerie level.

The princess interrupted it once more. “I’m certain that the Careys have always loved your brother, Harry Carey, far more than you. Harry is William Carey’s real son and heir, unlike you. You and your brother have not been invited to the Tudor court for years because of my father’s feud with my mother Anne and my Aunt Mary, who both survived against his wishes.”

Catherine uttered in a tremulous voice, “Your Highness is astute. I was happy to marry Sir Francis Knollys. The Careys favored Harry, detesting me because of my ill paternity.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Elizabeth’s voice was sympathetic.

Catherine averred, “His Grace of Norfolk sent us money, taking care of his relatives and me as His Majesty’s forgotten daughter. But now he is gone, the Lord rest his soul.”

The princess grinned whimsically. “Norfolk helped my mother clear her name in England and had her enemies, including Cromwell, punished. For that, I shall forever be grateful to him and his elder son, the Earl of Surrey. But don’t mourn for those who will rise from their tombs.”  Anne had written to Bess about Norfolk and Surrey’s current sojourn in Brittany.

Catherine’s confusion increased. “What is Your Highness implying?” 

The answer was mysterious. “Never underestimate what you may learn from the past.” 

A more perturbed Catherine inquired, “Is my mother faring well in her third marriage?” 

“Be at ease: Aunt Mary has been well taken care of. My mother informed me that she is in love with her husband – the Duke de Montmorency, Constable of France. At present, they are all residing in Italy because of the ongoing war against the emperor. Every day I pray fervently that King François and King Ferdinand will win, so there can be peace in Europe.”

Elizabeth’s knowledge in politics astounded Catherine. “Can I write to my mother?”  

The princess pondered this. “You can, but don’t count on frequent contacts. Caution is a must in my situation, or I might find myself in the most distant corner of England.”  

Catherine’s heart hammered. “Thank you so much, Your Highness.”    

“Aunt Mary’s children with William Stafford – Eddie and Annie – died in Rome. You also have two more sisters – Maria and Christine, fathered by Montmorency.”

“I’d love to see them one day,” Catherine gushed. “But it is impossible.”

“My dream is to see my French siblings, but it will not happen as long as the king is alive.”

The girls shared glances of understanding, finding more similarities between them.  

Elizabeth confessed, “I summoned you to my household because my aunt and my mother asked me to do so. I do not regret it, for I need people who I can trust.”

Catherine recollected, “I was in London when Aunt Anne was imprisoned in the Tower.” 

“Did you see my mama there, Mistress Knollys?” 

“Yes, I did, Your Highness. Queen Anne was distraught, yet resigned to death.”

Elizabeth exhaled sharply. “Thanks be to God that she was spared.”

Catherine crossed herself. “My brother Harry and I were very glad.”

The princess stared into the flames. “My mama and Aunt Mary have always believed that one day I’ll rule England. I’d love to agree with them, but there is Edward. I do not wish ill upon my own brother.” She sighed. “Catherine, you will stay by my side, but you will tell nobody of your true paternity. But if you ever betray me, you will learn the torments of hell on earth.”

Catherine discerned a hard edge to Lizzy, which she had never seen before. “I swear on all I hold dear that my loyalty to Your Highness will be unwavering until my dying day.”

“Excellent.” Elizabeth smiled faintly, still half-turned to her. “Now go rest.”

After her departure, Elizabeth opened the letter from her estranged sister – Mary Tudor.

Bess, my dearest sister,

It has been ages since we last spoke. This letter must come to you as a complete surprise. I hope you will not throw it into the fire, thinking that I do not deserve to talk to you.

I’ve missed you so! Once I hated Anne Boleyn for stealing King Henry from my mother Catherine. Yet, even at that time I loved you, Lizzy, wholeheartedly. It took me years to realize that even if Anne had not appeared in our father’s path, someone else would have driven him away. Male heirs are the most important thing for our father, so he keeps changing queens.   

The king treated you well until your exile, which gladdens me. I fled England to escape an unwanted marriage, and for a long time, there was no Imperial ambassador at the Tudor court. I could not contact you, Lizzy. Only with the new alliance between England and the Holy Roman Empire, which proved to be worthless, the opportunity to correspond with England arose.

As you are aware, I’m married to Emperor Carlos. My son is little Juan of Austria; I’m also expecting a new baby soon. Now I’m staying with my husband in the Duchy of Mantua.

I suspect that Eustace Chapuys will break the seal, make a copy, and send it to my spouse. Yet, I count on his honor that he will ensure the delivery of this letter to the intended recipient.

I love you, Bess, and remember you well as a child. I was told that you had grown into a beautiful young princess. It is unlikely we will meet again, but I beseech you not to forget me.

Your loving sister Mary

As the sheet of paper fell onto her lap, Elizabeth burst into tears. She loved Mary! For years, Mary’s name was a taboo in England after her daring flight, so Lizzy had tried not to think about her. Yet, Elizabeth’s sisterly love for her flourished in the deepest recesses of her being.

Elizabeth’s mind drifted to the letters, which several months ago Queen Catherine Parr had given her at the Duke of Suffolk’s request. The queen herself did not know anything of their contents. The letters from Queen Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon to Maria de Salinas had proved that Catherine of Aragon’s union with Prince Arthur Tudor had been consummated. Mary has never been legitimate, Bess mused. Has such a thought ever popped into her head?

Mary had purposefully noted that Chapuys would read the letter, so she could not have said anything about her personal life. Was Mary happy with Emperor Carlos? Was it only a sense of duty that kept her in Mantua? Elizabeth felt guilty for her everyday prayers about the emperor’s devastating defeat, but she would not change her behavior for her mother’s sake. I shall write to Mary, the princess resolved. It must be horrible for her to watch the brothers’ war.  

Notes:

The new chapter is up! We hope you, our dear readers, are fine and well.

This chapter’s title refers to the main topic – the new Pope has just been elected. It’s Pope Julius III. Born Giovanni Maria Ciocchi del Monte, Julius III in history replaced Pope Paul III. He was a conciliatory figure between the French faction and the Imperial faction in the Vatican. Julius did not bring the resolution of religious conflicts in Europe. In history Julius made only reluctant, short-lived attempts at reform, mostly devoting himself to a life of personal pleasure.

Will Anne Boleyn convert or not? Well, there were too many plots against her and her French family that perhaps she should do so. Even if Anne becomes a Catholic again, she will do so for appearance’s sake and will always remain a Protestant on the inside. However, it does not mean that Anne will side with the Protestant faction during the religious wars in France, for she will be unable to support them completely, knowing that what they wanted could very much mean the end of the Valois dynasty on the throne. Protestantism could not be made France’s second official religion, regardless of what people such as Queen Jeanne of Navarre and Prince Louis de Condé together with Gaspard de Coligny, Admiral of France, fought for. It becomes clear when you make an in-depth research into the mid-16th century French society.

Anne is pregnant again, but who knows where it will lead her… She secretly corresponds with her daughter Elizabeth, and for understandable reasons Bess remains exiled from court. Bess was gifted by Anne a stunning ring which can be opened to reveal her mother’s miniature – it is Elizabeth’s historical ring, you may google it. Throughout her long reign in history, the ring was special for Elizabeth: its diamond initial concealed a secret compartment with a portrait of her mother Anne Boleyn. Here Elizabeth received this ring from her own mother.

We are not sure that Catherine Carey, Mary Boleyn’s older daughter, was fathered by Henry VIII. We made her Henry’s unacknowledged illegitimate daughter, which can be true or can be false. Actually, some contemporaries claimed that Catherine Carey was in fact an illegitimate child of Henry VIII, but there is no evidence to support this claim. It is said that Catherine was a witness to Anne Boleyn's execution, but that is simply not true, but she could have been in London according to some sources. We just don’t know, so these are our twists.

The information Apostolic Palace in Rome, as well as the frescoes and the four Raphael Rooms described in this chapter is correct. The description of the interior of Hever Castle was taken from the modern-day descriptions and a bit modified to fit into the Renaissance era.

Attention! We posted a prologue to the sequel “Chained by Blood and Power” (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We still have more than 30 chapters in CWL and will need a couple of years, perhaps less, to post them, but we decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 80: Chapter 79: Thickening Gloom over Italy

Summary:

The gloom over Italy, connected with the Habsburg brothers, is thickening. In Mantua, Emperor Carlos meets with his two sisters, quarreling with Empress Mary. In Milan, the anti-Carlos coalition wants to dethrone the emperor, while Juana of Castile has some presentiment.

Notes:

Attention! We posted a prologue to the sequel “Chained by Blood and Power” (CBP). Let us know your thoughts and thanks!

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 79: Thickening Gloom over Italy

November 30, 1546, Palazzo Ducale di Mantova, Duchy of Mantua, northern Italy

Strained stillness reigned in the Sala di Manto or the Apartment of Troy. A majestic fresco cycle by Giulio Romano illustrated the connection of the ducal House of Gonzaga with ancient Rome. The gilded furniture was brocaded in yellow, red, and black – these were the Duchy of Mantua’s colors. The light from the chandeliers gleamed off the polished mahogany doors.

The Duke of Alba interrupted the silence. “What will we do, Your Imperial Majesty?”

Emperor Carlos stood with his back to his chief general. His shoulders sagged as he beheld a small courtyard decorated with statues. It was linked with the imposing Castle of Saint George, which was built near the city’s lakefront and forming the northeastern part of the ducal palace.

“Where is my brother now?” Some of the resentful animosity surged up in Carlos.

The duke seated himself in a gilded chair. “In Milan with the French and his own army.” 

Carlos paced agitatedly. “I shall never forgive Ferdinand for his alliance with the Turks, and for the annihilation of thousands of my men near Milan. He is a damned heretic!”

The Habsburg brothers’ enmity saddened Alba, but his fealty to Carlos was unwavering, and so he would follow the emperor to the ends of the earth. “Pope Julius the Third declared the excommunications of King François, King Ferdinand, and Montmorency null and void.” 

Carlos halted near a window at the opposite side of the chamber. “François and Ferdinand together, or someone loyal to them poisoned Pope Paul. That is a crime against the Lord.” 

“That cannot be proved,” his subject noted.

The monarch’s laugher was tinctured with ire. “That Valois miscreant is a cunning fox. My treacherous brother has always been intelligent as well. They covered their tracks pretty well.” 

“That could also be done by the Boleyn family.” 

From the window, the ruler contemplated the lakes of Mantua shimmering in the afternoon sun. Mantua was surrounded on three sides by artificial lakes, created during the 12th century for the city’s defense. These lakes were Lago Superiore, Lago di Mezzo, and Lago Inferiore.

“It matters not who did the vile deed,” said Charles in a voice layered with anger. “Clearly, His Holiness was murdered by François and Ferdinand, which made them heretics and assassins of the descendant of St Peter. Now it is our duty to punish them for this villainy.” 

Deeply pious, Alba concurred. “No one is allowed to kill the Bishop of Rome.” 

A grimace twisted the emperor’s visages. “The worst is that my damned brother has not only turned against the House of Habsburg, but also the Catholic Church and Rome.” 

“Are you going to imprison King Ferdinand?” Alba’s voice was quiet and sad.

Carlos watched a boat sail in the distance away from one of the small islands. In his mind, this boat symbolized his permanently broken filial bonds with Ferdinand – they had sailed away from each other like two vessels. Nothing will fix my discord with Ferdinand. It is too late.

Mary’s betrayal also stings, Carlos hissed silently. She surreptitiously liberated my mother and delivered her to Ferdinand of all men. His fierce antagonism towards his sibling was fueled by the knowledge that at present, Juana of Castile was with Ferdinand in Milan. Juana’s place was at Tordesillas with Carlos ruling in her stead! He would never forgive Mary and Ferdinand for their conspiracy behind his back – their sins against him were irredeemable in Carlos’ eyes.

The emperor averred in a sibilant tone, “Ferdinand committed heinous villainies not only against my family, but also against all good Christians and the Vatican. I refuse to recognize him as my brother. As a heretic and one of the late Pope’s murderers, Ferdinand must stand trial and be burned together with François and his other allies like the worst criminal.” 

The Duke of Alba shivered at this. “Do you really… want to burn your own brother?”

The monarch raked his scrutiny over a series of frescoes portraying Achilles’ campaigns during the period when the Achaeans besieged Troy for years. “In Homer’s Iliad, in one of the Trojan skirmishes, the great hero Achilles was killed. Then a bloodthirsty battle raged around the dead Achilles. While Ajax held back the Trojans, Odysseus carried Achilles’ body away.” Carlos stilled for a moment, his lips lengthening into a grin. “Ferdinand might become Achilles.” 

Alba inferred, “Then François will be Odysseus taking your brother’s body from the field.” 

Fidgeting with the high, laced collar of his red satin doublet, the ruler stomped to and fro. “If my brother does not perish in battle, he will die in the flames near St Peter’s Cathedral in Rome. After our victory, we will have their Pope deposed and our own candidate re-elected.” 

Engaged in the conversation, they did not hear the door open. “If you win.” 

Emperor Carlos and the Duke of Alba turned to look at Margherita Palaeologa.

Born to William IX of Montferrat and his wife Anne d’Alençon, Margherita Palaeologa had married the late Federico II Gonzaga, Duke of Mantua, in 1530. Her husband had passed away in 1540. Since then Margherita acted as regent for her elder son, Francesco III Gonzaga, the current Duke of Mantua, during his minority, while also raising her six surviving children.

Margherita strode into the room. Clad in a gown of black brocade slashed with orange, she wore a short stomacher of white silk. A silver cross suspended from her neck on a gold chain. Her long, curvy, copper hair was tied in elaborate knots and braids, tucked neatly behind her head in the Italian fashion. Though rather plain, Margherita possessed strength and resolution.

Margherita stopped a few respectful paces from the emperor and bobbed a curtsey.

Carlos eyed her suspiciously. “My armies shall crush my treacherous brother.” 

“I absolutely detest the Habsburg brothers’ war,” Margherita said audaciously. “Everyone dislikes it, fearing that if one of you wins, the other will persecute allies of the vanquished party. No duchy, republic, or city-state in Italy was happy to see your troops besieging Milan and proclaiming another Catholic monarch – François de Valois – a heretic who must be killed.” 

The emperor countered, “François is a pagan because he is married to that Boleyn witch.” 

Margherita fired back, “The French king is a Catholic. Your hate blinds you.” 

Carlos narrowed his eyes at her. “What do these tirades mean, Madonna Margherita?”

The regent of Mantua stated, “Your Imperial Majesty cannot burn an anointed monarch. The role of King François and King Ferdinand in Pope Paul’s demise cannot be proved.” She leered. “Besides, that Farnese man was a malefactor despite being your once staunch friend.” 

The emperor eyed the tapestry of a triumphant Achilles dragging Hector’s body from the battlefield of Troy. “Ferdinand will not emerge a victor. It is in your interests to remain my ally.” 

Margherita remarked, “Anyone of you two might fall. King Ferdinand became extremely popular, and he is for peace. You led thousands of Imperial soldiers to Milan, making everyone frightened. Your brother came to rescue his wife and father-in-law, not to wage war.” 

Carlos’ irate orbs dashed to her. “Don’t forget that years ago, your late husband, Federico, was crowned Duke of Mantua and received the Imperial investiture from me.” 

“Everything changes,” opposed Margherita. “The Regency Council and I have decided that we ought to remain neutral. Leave Mantua! Later, we shall be loyal to the winner.” 

Shock blanched the monarch’s visage. “You cannot do this to your emperor.” 

“We can.” Margherita reiterated, “Leave within two months, Your Imperial Majesty.”

The emperor shouted, “You cannot be for the French, Madonna!”

Margherita reminded, “My late father – William the Ninth, Marquis of Montferrat – was Italian. However, my late mother was Anne d’Alençon from the House of Valois-Alençon. King François is my distant cousin, for we are both descended from Count Charles de Valois. I do not want any harm to come to him, but I shall stay neutral for my family’s sake.”

After her shallow curtsey to him, the regent of Mantua exited.

Carlos stomped his feet on the floor. “Damn her! Her husband owed me his throne!”

The Duke of Alba came to his sovereign. “We have no choice, Your Imperial Majesty.” 

The emperor’s gaze wandered to the fresco portraying the Sack of Troy. “Ferdinand and François will pay for everything. We shall leave Mantua and accelerate our campaign.”

§§§

Her hand upon her enlarged stomach, Empress Mary stood up from a gilded bed canopied with yellow and black velvet, its headboard adorned with the Gonzaga heraldry. Now she was about eight months alone in her pregnancy, which had been arduously stressful for her.

My relationship with Carlos cannot be patched up, Mary mused as she paced her bedroom. Not after he learned about his mother’s liberation by me. Although Mary had destroyed most of the letters from Francisco de les Cobos, one of them had somehow been delivered to him. Since their horrendous quarrel two months ago, Carlos had not spoken a single word to his wife.

She settled herself in an oak armchair adorned with bas-relief scenes, depicting the legend of Tristan and Isolde. “Carlos and I will never love each other, unlike Tristan and Isolde.”  

Her principal lady-in-waiting, Doña Leonor de Mascareñas, entered and curtsied.

As they were in private, Leonor addressed, “Mary, what are you going to do?”

“I may write to Flanders,” the empress answered. “To Felipe, Prince of Asturias. Carlos does not want to speak to me, but at least he has not prohibited me from any correspondence.” 

At her mistress’ gesture, Leonor eased herself in a chair next to the desk.

“Don’t send anything to Felipe,” admonished Leonor. “I’m sure that the emperor contacted him, complaining about your disobedience to him and the betrayal of their family.” 

The empress nodded sorrowfully. “In my husband’s eyes, Aunt Juana’s release upon my orders and my attempts to conceal it for a long time are the worst betrayals possible.” 

The shake of Leonor’s head was her confirmation. “Felipe considers his grandmother mad. You had a good relationship with him, but now he is likely to have changed his attitude to you.” 

Mary leaned back in her seat. “Felipe will always take his father’s side.” 

“Exactly, in particular because you delivered Queen Juana to King Ferdinand.” 

The tense silence was emphasized by the barking of dogs in the corridor. The Regent of Mantua, Margherita, was fond of these animals, and there were lots of them in the palace.

Mary scrutinized the chamber. The two walls were tapestried with Raphael’s works similar to those in the Raphael Rooms in the Apostolic Palace in Rome. The other walls were frescoed with Antonio da Correggio’s mythological series based on Ovid’s ‘Metamorphoses’. The heavy mahogany furniture was covered with the richest brocades in the Gonzaga colors.

Since their arrival in Mantua, they were lodged in their apartments in the Corte Nuova, or the New Court, which had been constructed in the 15-16th centuries to accommodate the private apartments of the ducal family. Overall, the rich ducal complex in Mantua consisted of several palaces, including the Corte Vecchia, or the Old Court, the Castle of Saint George, and the Domus Nova. Due to her advanced pregnancy, Mary had not examined everything yet.

Mary asked, “Did I act wrongly when I released Aunt Juana?”

Her maid shook her head. “You did what you thought was necessary.” 

“Ah,” groaned the empress, tears brimming in her eyes. “I hoped that Aunt Juana would be able to act as a mediatrix between Carlos and Ferdinand. Yet, Ferdinand was right when he told me months ago in Vigevano that it is too late for him to make peace with Carlos.”

Leonor crossed herself. “I do not wish any of the two brothers dead.”  

“Neither do I.” Mary made the sign of a cross. “That is why we traveled from Flanders to Spain and then to Italy. Our voyage was not in vain: Ferdinand will take the best care of Juana.” 

“If King Ferdinand triumphs over the emperor,” stressed her maid in doleful accents.

“Carlos,” the empress drawled, stiffening at the sound of her husband’s name. “If he wins, the consequences for Ferdinand and Juana will be horrible, as well as for me.” 

“Only now your child is saving you from His Imperial Majesty’s wrath.” 

Mary caressed her enlarged stomach, smiling as the baby moved. “Despite my husband’s loathing for me, he will love our baby, although it will not bring its parents any closer.” 

“I pray that your children will soften your spouse’s anger over time.” 

“If we have any time left, Leonor.” A sense of doom slithered at the back of Mary’s mind.

Leonor was visibly alarmed. “Do you have any presentiment, Mary?”

“Yes, I do, but concerning Carlos. Ferdinand will not kill Carlos, who might harm him.” 

Her lady surveyed the empress in consternation. “Do you think so?”

“Yes,” Mary repeated twice. “Knowing that Juana is with his brother, and especially after Pope Paul’s poisoning, Carlos started hating Ferdinand more than ever.” 

“Did King Ferdinand and King François do away with the former Bishop of Rome?”

Mary glanced up at the ceiling frescoed with the scene “The Lamentation of Christ” by Correggio. “As a Christian, I should say that I’m against Pope Paul’s death. Yet, I comprehend why Ferdinand and François had him poisoned. Farnese caused too much harm.” 

“His Imperial Majesty does not share this opinion.” 

The empress wrapped her arms around her stomach. “You can be as innocent as a babe, but Carlos will consider you a heretic and a traitor if you object to him.” 

“Do you want to lie down, Mary?” Leonor was concerned for her heath.

“I’ve rested for too long. Help me dress.”

Leonor swiftly assisted the empress in donning a billowing gown of crimson and blue satin passmented with gold. Mary was impatient to stroll through the palace for entertainment.

§§§

As the Gonzaga were famous patrons of the arts, Empress Mary wished to immerse herself into the cultural life of Mantua. Accompanied by Leonor and her two Flemish ladies-in-waiting, she wandered through many grand chambers and galleries, containing gorgeous art collections. The quarreling voices in the Sala del Manto, or the Room of the Mantle, halted her.

“Carlos, you cannot burn your own brother! It is fratricide – the worst crime ever!”

Mary recognized her husband’s incensed voice. “I can, and I will! Ferdinand is no longer a Christian, which is proved by his alliance with the Muslims and Pope Paul’s murder.” 

Then spoke a resolute female voice that belonged to Maria of Hungary, whom Mary knew from their meetings in Flanders. “Ferdinand made his bed and has to lie in it. I agree with Carlos: Ferdinand, whom we disinherited and cut off from the family, is a heretic and a traitor to us.” 

Before Mary could enter, Leonor held her back. “Don’t go inside.” 

The empress protested, “I want to learn who is defending Ferdinand.” 

“We will stay outside, then,” Leonor stammered, and the other maid nodded.

Flashing them a smile, Empress Mary entered the chamber with a measured gait.

A perfect hush ensued, putting an end to the family quarrel.

Emperor Carlos was surrounded on both sides by the two Habsburg women.

Attired in a high-necked Spanish gown of brown silk, Maria of Austria, Dowager Queen of Hungary, had a long, oval face. Her protruding bottom lip and her hazel eyes were similar to those of the emperor. Her thin nose sat positioned snugly between her high cheekbones. Of short height and rather rotund, Maria had never been beautiful, although in her youth she had been nice in an unusual way. There was an air of severe determination about Maria.

Maria of Hungary, as she was often called, had returned to her elder brother’s lands in the Burgundian Netherlands after her husband’s death in the Battle of Mohács against the Ottoman Empire in 1526. Her late spouse was King Louis II of Hungary and Bohemia, who was brother of Anna of Bohemia and Hungary, who, in turn, was King Ferdinand’s first wife. Following the death of their Aunt Margaret in 1530, Maria of Hungary had assumed the governance of the Netherlands. Maria was far closer to Carlos than to their youngest sister Catherine of Austria.

The empress flicked her scrutiny to the other woman. She must be Carlos’ another sister – the Queen of Portugal. A tall woman of slim build, Catherine of Austria had a narrow face, pale blue eyes, like those of Ferdinand and Juana, with long eyelashes and a pointed chin. Despite her many pregnancies, her figure still remained quite beautifully proportioned. Wearing a Portuguese hood studded with gems, Catherine was clad in a charming traveling outfit of blue brocade.

An Infanta of Castile and Archduchess of Austria by birth, Catherine of Austria was the posthumous daughter of King Philip I known as the Handsome by Queen Juana of Castile. All of her five older siblings, except Ferdinand of Austria, were born in the Low Countries and been raised by their late Archduchess aunt Margaret of Austria. Having grown up at the Royal Palace of Tordesillas with her mother, Catherine had married King João III of Portugal in 1525.

Maria of Hungary had arrived in Mantua over month earlier. As Mary Tudor had never had a good relationship with her, she stayed away from the regent of Flanders, remaining cold in rare moments when the woman visited her. Judging by her appearance, Catherine of Austria, their youngest sister, must have arrived a mere hours ago. Obviously, the arrival of these two sisters had been caused by the catastrophic situation in the Habsburg family – the brothers’ war.

“What are you doing here, Mary?” huffed Carlos. “Go back to your suite.” 

Nevertheless, Empress Mary strode over to them, her hand on her abdomen.

The emperor’s frown signaled his growing displeasure. “You must take care of our child.” 

“I’m doing so, Carlos,” defended Mary herself. “But I cannot die from boredom.” 

Maria of Hungary stepped forward. “Mary, obey your husband without questions.”

Ignoring her, the empress glared at her husband. “Carlos, you craved to defeat Ferdinand, then to declare him mad and imprison him for life. Now you are going to burn your own brother as a heretic in case of your victory, which is far crueler than what Cain did to Able.”

Emperor Carlos stifled his ire. “Ferdinand and François are heretics regardless of what their puppet Pope Julius the Third in Rome says. I’ll mete out a due punishment to them.” 

Catherine’s temper spiked. “I traveled a long way from Portugal to Italy to persuade you to make peace with Ferdinand. You two are brothers – you should not be at war.” 

Fury manacled Carlos’ heart again. “There can be no peace between Ferdinand and me.” 

Courageously, Empress Mary elaborated, “That is why I released Aunt Juana. I hoped that she would be able to reconcile the two of you, but I was mistaken.” 

When her husband pivoted to her, Carlos fisted his hands and compressed his lips together. His wife’s terror had never been so palpable and overmastering before, especially when he went menacingly over her. Then Carlos stepped back, and Mary was awash in relief.

His eyes narrowed to slits, the monarch hissed, “You committed the unforgiveable, Mary Tudor. You released my insane mother and brought her to my enemy – Ferdinand.” 

His spouse’s eyes coruscated with scorn. “Juana has never been insane! Our grandfather, Ferdinand of Aragon, invented this dreadful lie to rule her kingdoms in her stead. You, Carlos, embellished this lie and continued keeping her at Tordesillas for years until I interfered.” 

Catherine muttered, “Indeed, our mother is not crazy...” 

The empress glanced towards her. “Has never been.” Her gaze flew back to her husband. “Ask your brother who kept the truth from all of you because of his lust for power.” 

“My mother raised me at Tordesillas,” recalled Catherine, “until Carlos released me to make me Queen of Portugal. I remember her being melancholic, but never a lunatic.” 

Maria of Hungary put in, “I have no idea what is true about our mother. I do not remember her.” She pointed at the empress. “Mary, you had no right to deceive Carlos so awfully.” 

The empress felt a slight pain shooting through her middle. “Does Carlos have the right to fool the world and usurp Aunt Juana’s power when she is capable of ruling Spain on her own?”

At this, the monarch stepped to his wife and grabbed her hands. “Shut up, Mary!”

Mary sniggered. “Carlos, will you have me jailed at Tordesillas together with Ferdinand and Aunt Juana in case of your triumph? Will you declare us mad and aggressive?”

Catherine darted to them. “Carlos, do not be rude! She is pregnant!”

Maria soothed, “He will never harm his baby.” 

Carlos loosened his grip. “I can do many things to you, Mary.” 

The wrathful eyes of Empress Mary blazed like scarlet coals. “After our wedding night, I told you that I am not only a Trastámara, but also a Tudor. You seem to have forgotten that.” 

The emperor put a small distance between them. “I’ve never known the real Mary Tudor. However, Aunt Catalina taught you to be an unruly and disobedient wife.”

With him gone, the empress could breathe freely. “I could not allow Aunt Juana to spend the rest of her life at Tordesillas, in the most heinous loneliness one can imagine.” 

Catherine praised, “You did the right thing, Mary. You are so very brave!” 

Carlos spat, “Don’t pry into my affairs, Catherine. Return to your husband King João.” 

“I cannot,” contradicted Catherine. “Not when my brothers are at each other’s throats.” 

“Obey our brother,” Maria of Hungary instructed. “He is the head of our family.” 

Catherine underscored, “Carlos is not my sovereign! I am the Queen of Portugal!”

Empress Mary was beginning to like her husband’s youngest sister. “Indeed.”     

“Leave, my rebellious wife,” said the monarch coldly. “I have no desire to talk to you.” 

The empress arched a brow. “To let you plot the demise of your own brother?”

Maria of Hungary snarled, “Ferdinand betrayed the Habsburg family many times.”    

Carlos declared coldly, “Ferdinand will get his comeuppance soon.” 

Catherine flung her arms up. “You are not God to judge anyone, Carlos.”

The King of England’s eldest daughter briefly glanced at the frescoes depicting the story of Troy. “I wonder whether I might become like Aunt Juana – imprisoned and slandered.” 

Emperor Carlos paced hither and dither. “My own wife wants me dead!”

Empress Mary clarified, “I’m just thinking of what might happen to me.” 

“Don’t twist your wife’s words, Carlos.” Catherine approached the empress.

Stopping near the windows, the ruler could see only the dark lake outside. “Get out, you treacherous Tudor harpy. I cannot forgive you for your betrayals – at least not now.” 

A jolt of strong pain surged through the empress’ body. “Argh!”

Catherine supported her sister-in-law. “What is it, Mary?”

The empress felt blood trickling down her leg. “The baby… Something is wrong...” Waves of crippling pain assailed her. “I’m in premature labor. God help me and the child.” 

Maria of Hungary was now holding the empress, too. “I’ll fetch a midwife and physician.” 

Carlos dashed to his spouse. “I shall take her.” His voice was no longer hostile.

Commotion escalated like a cresting wave. The emperor carried Mary back to her rooms, her ladies-in-waiting following. The empress felt that her legs were now in sticky liquid, flowing out of her like crimson rivulets of agony – a clear sign of her child’s mortality.


December 15, 1546, Palazzo Reale, Milan, Duchy of Milan, northern Italy

The great hall was filled with French, Milanese, as well as Austrian nobles and diplomats.

At their entrance, the French royals were hailed like two angels descending on earth from heaven. In the light of King François’ afflictions and his miraculous salvation, François and his relatives were treated like saints in the Milanese lands. King François and Queen Anne strolled over to their two gilded thrones on a dais under a canopy of cloth of gold, embroidered with the Valois escutcheons. As they settled themselves into the thrones, all eyes were glued to them.

“My subjects,” began the monarch, “we welcome you all. Let’s wait for our friends.”  

Attired in a black-slashed doublet of asparagus silk, François embodied a dashing figure. His athletic build was accentuated by his black silk hose, which enveloped his legs, his girdle bespangled with diamonds. Over these habiliments, he was garbed in a mantle of cloth of gold lined with sable. The king looked like a man in blooming health, despite all his woes.

Anne was accoutered in a matching gown of asparagus silk, its bodies slashed with black satin and its ample skirts mostly black, wrought with gold. On her bosom glittered an oval-cut emerald necklace, and on her head there was a tiara of foliate scroll design, surmounted with twenty drop-shaped pearls, each in a mount embellished with rose and white diamonds.

The Milanese courtiers recognized the queen’s ducal jewels. One of these items was the stunning tiara that had belonged to Valentine Visconti and been gifted for Anne by François nine years ago at the beginning of their marriage. Upon his head, the Valois ruler wore a magnificent solid gold crown of diamonds, thirty emeralds and thirty rubies, which had four fleurs-de-lis and four crosses pattée, supporting two dipped arches topped by a monde and cross pattée.

“How are you feeling, Anne?” François bent his head to her.

“I’m as fine as I can be,” his annoyed spouse retorted. “However, after our return from Rome, Doctor Paré examined me and counseled me to be cautious during this pregnancy.” 

“You must be in complete safety,” he stated, his fingers laced with hers. “According to my spies, Carlos and his armies are preparing to march from Mantua on Milan. Therefore, soon you, your sister Marie, my daughter Margot, and Queen Juana will depart for Tuscany.” 

Her eyes widened. “Why? My sister and I can return to France with Lorenzo.” 

He shook his head. “No. You cannot travel in your condition.” 

“Why?” She knew the answer, but Anne countered, “I voyaged from France to Florence to sign the treaty with our Italian allies. I can travel to France or wait for you in Milan.” 

“No,” he repeated. “Staying in Milan is dangerous because we do not know the outcome of our campaign against Carlos. Traveling in your fragile health is out of the question. Françoise de Foix will take Lorenzo back to France, while your sister will accompany you to Tuscany.” 

Anne removed her hand from his. “You spoke to everyone save me.” 

François took her hand in his again. As she had lost a lot of weight, her wrist was thinner than ever before. “Mon amour, I’m happy to become a father again. The dramas you experienced in the past year weakened you. Yet, you conceived, so now we must be extremely careful.”

Anne was nonetheless cognizant of the wisdom behind his words. “You are correct, mon amour. I just wanted to give you another child as long as I can still bear children.” 

His grin was benign. “Your sister was older than you when she had her two daughters with Monty. Nevertheless, my Minerva decided not to wait and give me my Valentine.” 

“I want a daughter, too.” She fumbled for the Valois ring upon his finger. “We shall do as you wish – be at ease. Go fight and prove again to the world how great you are.” 

“I shall.” The ruler itched to kiss her, but they were not alone. “Will you miss me?”

“As always.” At last finding the ring, Anne caressed it, the massive sapphire cold against her skin. “My François, you are the king of kings for me, the greatest monarch on earth.”  

The herald’s announcement interrupted their conversation. Silence ensued.

§§§

Dressed in Italianate attire of auburn satin embellished with gold, Dauphin Henri of France slipped inside, his gait slow and regal, his eyes focused on the monarchs’ thrones. Henri carried in his arms the seven-month-old Prince Lorenzo de Valois, Duke de Maine and Duke of Milan.

Next proceeded Cosimo de’ Medici, Duke of Florence, resplendent in a doublet of red and green velvet passmented with silver. There was a crown of diamonds, rubies, and other precious stones upon Cosimo’s head. His wife, Leonor, was not with him: again pregnant, she mourned for her father – Pedro Álvarez de Toledo, the Spanish viceroy of Naples, had fallen in Milan.

Behind walked the Governor of Milan – Pier Maria de’ Rossi, Count di San Secondo. He had become a national hero of the Milanese people because thanks to his superb management of the city’s finance and food stock Milan had sustained the eleven-month siege.

They were followed by a multitude of Milanese and Florentine councilors, who mingled together. The Florentines had arrived in Milan a week ago together with Duke Cosimo. After bowing to his father and stepmother, Dauphin Henri approached Anne’s throne.

“Good day, Cosimo.” François got to his feet from his throne.

“The same to you, François,” responded Cosimo jocundly.

The king and the duke embraced heartily and exchanged pleasantries. Cosimo then walked to the ducal throne, installed upon a dais not far from the thrones of the Valois spouses.

Pier de’ Rossi dropped into a bow to his sovereign. “I’m delighted to see Your Majesty.” 

The King of France lauded, “Messer Pier Maria, you have been the most capable governor of Milan whom I could have appointed. I’d like to continue our partnership.” 

Rossi tipped his head. “My life is in Milan. I’ll gladly serve Your Majesty.” 

These talks were conducted in Italian, for all the participants knew the language.

François articulated quietly, “I hope that you, Messer Pier, don’t hold a grudge against me. If one of your small daughters had survived, she would have married my son Lorenzo.” 

“I know.” Yet, Rossi’s expression showed that he regretted his inability to become related to the House of Valois. “God called them home, but your son needs a bride.” 

The monarch stressed, “The bride with Sforza blood coursing through her veins.” 

Rossi dipped a nod. “Just as it was promised to the citizens of Milan years ago.” 

The herald’s declaration ended their discourse. Rossi joined the government officials.

King Ferdinand and Queen Marguerite of Bohemia, Hungary, and Croatia walked in. Their entrée was met by applause and ebullient cheers, for Ferdinand had also become a hero of Milan due to his well-known alliance with the Turks and his role in the city’s liberation.

The tale about the Greek fire, used to break the siege of Milan, had spread across Apennine peninsula and Europe like wildfire. The story had been embellished and expanded, becoming a favorite subject of artists and folk. It had been altered to include a far-fetched account of how before the battle Ferdinand had seen a blazing cross in the sky, which had blessed the Christians to seek aid from the Ottomans in order to save the ruler of France and the Queen of Bohemia.

The Muslims had left Italy according to the agreement with them. During François’ stay in Rome, Ferdinand had met with the Turkish Grand Vizier Rüstem Pasha in private and thanked him most heartily for all his assistance. The privileges in France and Ferdinand’s domains, which Sultan Suleiman had obtained in reward for his help, had all been documented and granted.

Their heads high, Ferdinand and Marguerite sauntered towards the Valois rulers.

Despite his German tastes, Ferdinand was clothed in an Italianate doublet of azure damask, slashed with gold and ornamented with sapphires. Over it, he wore an Imperial mantle of scarlet brocade trimmed with sable, signifying his ultimate intention to become the next Holy Roman Emperor. Upon his head, there was a crown of countless diamonds, rubies, and other gems.

His wife, Marguerite de Valois, was as fresh as a delicate mountain flower. Today she was dressed in an Italian gown of azure brocade slashed in the same way as her husband’s doublet was. The low-cut dress had a square neckline, while an amethyst and rubies necklace adorned her bosom – Ferdinand’s latest gift for her. Her own crown was similar to her husband’s.

Marguerite twittered, “I like our crowns of Bohemia, Croatia, and Hungary.” 

Ferdinand grinned. “Yet, Your Majesty wants an Imperial one.” 

“You deserve to be a new emperor,” she whispered as they neared the thrones.

François and Anne stood up. They embraced Marguerite and Ferdinand in turns.

Ferdinand noted, “Oh, little Lorenzo is here. Should we begin?”

François confirmed, “Yes, it is high time to do what I’ve planned for long.” 

Ferdinand and his spouse went to their gilded thrones next to those of their counterparts. Anne also returned to her own throne, where Dauphin Henri stood beside her with Lorenzo.

“Friends and comrades,” promulgated the Valois ruler. “The Duchy of Milan was liberated by my son, Dauphin Henri, and France’s best ally – Ferdinand von Habsburg, King of Bohemia, Croatia, and Hungary. We owe them huge thanks for our lives, freedom, and independence.”  

A round of cheers resonated through the chamber as they hailed their heroes.

“For Dauphin Henri of France and for King Ferdinand!”

They quietened down when King Ferdinand rose to his feet. “Dauphin Henri and I stopped my brother’s aggression. Thanks be to God, we freed you before the worst could happen.” 

A wave of hatred rushed over the assemblage that broke into cursing the emperor.

Ferdinand waved his hand for silence. “As King of the Romans and the second man in the Holy Roman Empire after Emperor Carlos, it is my task to ensure that there will be peace in Italy and in the entirely of Europe. Our war is not over, but I shall not act like Cain in the Bible.” 

The concourse viewed the emperor’s brother in reverent admiration.

Ferdinand continued, “Years ago, in my capacity as a Habsburg Archduke and King of the Romans, I proclaimed Milan the territory controlled by the crown of France. Today, I reconfirm this again, as well as my alliance with the House of Valois.” His gaze flew to Lorenzo. “I hereby acknowledge Lorenzo de Valois, Duke de Maine, as hereditary Duke of Milan.”

The response was everyone’s nods and cheers of their little duke.

Ferdinand eased himself in his throne. François neared the dauphin and took Lorenzo in his arms. The child glanced around curiously, not afraid of being among so many people.

Cradling Lorenzo, the French monarch twirled the infant around, showing the baby boy to the audience. “This is your new sovereign of Milan! Until my son Lorenzo reaches his majority, the duchy will be governed by Messer Pier de’ Rossi, whom you all know very well.” 

The entire gathering bowed and curtsied to the duke, their actions tinged with a mixture of gladness, admiration, respect, and servility. The baby boy’s regal calmness impressed them.

With an affable grin, François announced in a majestic voice, “My son and I are proud to be both a Valois and a Visconti on our paternal sides. Today we bless our ancestress, Valentine Visconti, God rest her soul.” He crossed himself and went on. “Long ago, I pledged that one day the Duchy of Milan would be ruled by descendants of both the Visconti and the Sforza.” 

“Yes, we remember this!” someone hollered.

“For the Visconti! For the Sforza!” the congregation chorused.

Pressing a gentle kiss to his son’s forehead, the Valois ruler averred, “Lorenzo shall marry Isabella Romola de’ Medici, who is daughter of Duke Cosimo of Florence and his wife, Doña Leonor Álvarez de Toledo. The wedding will take place when my son reaches sixteen.” 

The Duke de Montmorency appeared from the crowd, followed by his spouse Duchess Marie. Montmorency shouted, “Our sovereign complied with his promise! For Valois!”  

“For the House of Valois!” Dauphin Henri exclaimed. The others echoed it.

Duke Cosimo mannerly climbed from his throne and approached François.

Cosimo declared, “My daughter Isabella and Duke Lorenzo are truly a great match. I am a descendant of the celebrated Lorenzo Il Magnifico, who was my mother Maria Salviati’s maternal grandfather. Furthermore, my late father was the national hero of Italy – Giovanni dalle Bande Nere, whose mother was the illustrious Caterina Sforza, Countess of Forlì.” 

François underlined, “Milan will belong to descendants of the Visconti and the Sforza.” 

“As well as descendants of the Medici,” emphasized Cosimo arrogantly.

“And the Valois!” Montmorency would not let anyone forget his liege lord’s origins.

The whole concourse echoed like the choir in a cathedral.

As the infant was a bit tired from the noise, François handed his son to the dauphin.

Cosimo de’ Medici glanced at Ferdinand, who came to him with François.

The Duke of Florence affirmed, “Your Majesties, I reassert the main intention of our Anti-Carlos coalition to have Emperor Carlos dethroned for the sake of peace in Christendom.” His gaze was directed at Ferdinand. “Our King of the Romans must become our next emperor.” 

The approving screams of the spectators were absolutely deafening.

§§§

From the window, Anne observed snowflakes, dancing and twirling in the air and falling onto the Duomo square, rotating and swarming in circles until they got lost in a blur.

Anne’s gaze flicked to her husband. “When will Lorenzo leave Milan with Françoise?”

François approached the crib. “The day after tomorrow.” He took his son into his arms. “I regret that Lord Wiltshire returned to Venice, for he could also take care of you.”

Thomas Boleyn had departed to Venice to continue serving as the French ambassador. He had not told his daughters about his second marriage to his Venetian mistress and the birth of their son. One day, the discovery of these things would come as an utter shock to his relatives.

Her heart skipped a beat. “So soon? Why?”

“We are getting rather alarming reports from the borders of the Duchy of Milan with the Duchy of Mantua. Every day, more and more Imperial forces arrive there.” 

This magnified the queen’s animosity towards Carlos von Habsburg. The fabulous frescoes by Bartolomeo Suardi, who had been Francesco Sforza’s court painter, illustrated the subject of Madonna and the infant Jesus surrounded by saints, but their beauty did not placate Anne’s ire.

“So, the barbarians will plunder the local towns and villages again, won’t they?”

The monarch beheld the sleeping infant, his soul singing with serene gladness. “Lorenzo’s calmness is such a stark contrast compared to what Ferdinand, Henri, and I will endure soon.” 

Her heart leaden, Anne rose from her armchair and sauntered to her husband.

“Don’t run, wife,” he admonished. “Please, be exceedingly careful.” 

She bristled, “I am not a porcelain doll. This pregnancy will not kill me.” 

Melancholy splashed in his orbs. “Every day I pray that I die before God calls you home.” 

François embraced his queen, the baby Lorenzo sleeping in his father’s arms between his parents. His mouth capturing hers, he kissed his consort with feverish intensity, his lips warm, tender, and yet possessive against hers, his arms pulling her as tight as he could. They broke for a split second, but Anne’s mouth fluttered back to the king’s, like a dove to its nest.

As they finally parted, Anne whispered, “I want you, mon amour.”

“No, wife,” murmured François regretfully. “I shall not risk causing miscarriage.” 

In the past, the monarchs had made love at the early stages of Anne’s pregnancies. Doctor Fernel had permitted the spouses to perform conjugal duties after a fourth month of pregnancy. In such periods, their couplings were slow and gentle like a flowing spring, and only rarely swift like a rushing waterfall, in any case done in those poses that were safe for the child. However, this time Amboise Paré had categorically prohibited any intimacy for the spouses.

Sadness shadowed Anne’s countenance. “Yes, we must abstain from this now.” 

“For several months. Then we will make up for the lost time.” 

A moment later, Lorenzo stirred in his father’s arms. Quite a large child, the Valois prince had amber eyes and his father’s saturnine complexion, as well as a tuft of raven hair on his head, inherited from his mother. From the first day of his life, Lorenzo was a very temperamental little angel, who was slow to fall asleep and quick to wake up, always demanding attention.

As the child peered into the identical pair of his father’s orbs, François commented, “Our dearest Lorenzo is the first of our sons who does not have my long nose.” 

Anne observed, “Yet, Lorenzo’s appearance is more like yours than mine.” 

“He has your hair.” The king took his son’s small hand in his and squeezed it slightly. As the baby squeezed it back, François burst out laughing. “He will be a strong duke.” 

“An artistic one, too.” Anne grinned at their son as the baby veered his gaze to his mother. “We named him after Lorenzo Il Magnifico. We can call our son Laurent in French or Lorenzo like in Italian, but I like Lorenzo more. Our boy ought to live up to this great man.”

François planted gentle kisses onto the infant’s cheeks, making the infant giggle.

“Especially because his future wife is also a descendant of Il Magnifico and the Sforza.” 

“Was it the right thing to sign the betrothal agreement with Cosimo?” It was a good match, but she had done it during François’ absence, exercising the authority he had granted her.

Her husband ruminated, “It is the best possible marriage for Lorenzo, given that his bride had to be a descendant of the Sforza to ensure that the Milanese citizens will accept him as his duke in the future.” François was grinning at the baby boy who tried to reach out for to his face.

The queen speculated, “Now the populace loves the Valois, but their love is fickle. Being married into the Medici family that is powerful in Italy, Lorenzo will always have the support of the Duchy of Florence, which might become Grand Duchy of Tuscany in the future.” 

He predicted, “My best instincts say that Cosimo will succeed in his desired conquests.”  

She remarked, “The fewer people know about Cosimo’s plans, the better.” 

Suddenly, Lorenzo wailed in his father’s arms, hungry and in need for re-swaddling. Thus, the queen fetched Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant.

Françoise curtsied. “Your Majesties, I shall take the best care of His Highness.” 

“Thank you, Françoise,” the king said in the most affable accents. “Have you packed your and the prince’s things? You are leaving for Amboise very soon. You two shall be escorted by five thousand men, and as Milan is not far from Piedmont, you will be safe.” 

Françoise reported, “Everything is ready for our departure, Your Majesties.” 

Queen Anne spontaneously embraced the woman, one of her best friends.

“God bless you, Françoise,” Anne uttered as she disentangled from her.

Françoise intoned, “God bless Your Majesty during this new pregnancy.” 

The Countess de Châteaubriant and the ruler traded anxious glances. Françoise had not accompanied her mistress to Rome, having been shocked to learn about Anne’s condition.

The queen insisted, “Don’t dramatize the situation. All will be well.” 

Françoise avouched, “I shall pray for you and your unborn baby, Anne.” 

The monarch knew that the two women had long dropped formalities in private. He handed the baby to Anne, for only she could calm down the infant as long as they talked.

“I’ll pray for your victory, François,” Madame de Foix pronounced in most agitated tones. “God save you and your son Henri in this campaign against that Spanish scum.” 

François gathered his former mistress into his arms and held her for a long moment. It was a friendly embrace, not tinctured in hues of lust in the slightest. Yet, it was the first time in many, many years when Françoise was so close to the monarch, whom she still idolized. As they broke apart, an errant tear trickled down her cheek, and the countess rapidly scrubbed it away.

The monarch said, “God and the truth are on our side. We shall triumph over evil!”

Françoise took the child from the queen and, after curtseying, walked out.

Listlessly, Anne stared down at the carpeted floor. “I fear to lose you so much.”  

His hands on her waist, the king pulled her against him. “It will not happen.” 

She rested her head upon his shoulder. “What if Carlos tries to murder you?”

One hand wrapped around her waist, François put his other hand on her stomach. “It would be better for Carlos to perish in battle. It is highly likely that he will search for Ferdinand. But neither any of our generals nor I shall allow that thug to destroy his noble brother.”    

The queen’s fingers entwined with his. “I’m still worried about you.” 

“Shh! I shall come back to you and our children.” He kissed the top of her head.

His wife sighed. “I’ll wait for you like your loyal Penelope.” 

“Like my Minerva, too.” They melted into a passionate kiss.

§§§

The air in the apartments occupied by King Ferdinand was festive. Queen Juana and Queen Marguerite played piquet, and as usual, the younger woman was winning. As they lounged on auburn-brocaded couches between a marble table, Marguerite dealt twelve cards to Juana.

Marguerite made the remaining eight cards form the talon. “I can play masterfully because I was raised at the French court. The Knight-King himself was my teacher.”

Juana jested, “Son, your wife might squander all your money.” 

“Let Margot do so,” Ferdinand responded benevolently. “I can spend everything to make her happy. Anyway, soon I’ll learn to play better, putting an end to her victories.” 

Marguerite compressed her lips. “You will never be a better gamester than me.” 

For another hour, Marguerite and Juana were playing, exchanging jests and good-humored banter. Ferdinand was delighted that his mother and his wife had formed a friendly relationship during the months that had followed the battle of Milan. After the nightmare is over, my mother will go with us to Vienna. My offspring will all love their grandmother, dreamed Ferdinand.

Juana asked, “Son, was your trip to the Ottoman Empire pleasant?”   

Ferdinand shrugged. “The Muslims are strange: most of their rules and habits are beyond my comprehension. The East is quite full of mysteries and treasures of civilization. However, it is better not to be a woman there, or you might find yourself in some harem or in slavery.” 

His spouse sorted the cards in her hands. “That’s horrible! They treat a woman like a piece of furniture, even one of dirt. I would never have been able to be an odalisque in some harem.” 

“God forbid, my dear.” Horror manifested itself upon Juana’s visage.

Ferdinand shared, “It was interesting to see the East, but I longed to return to Europe.” 

His mother laughed. “Did you use their headdress… erm… a turban… there?”

He nodded. “I had to wear it for my audiences with Sultan Suleiman.” 

Juana chuckled. “You must have looked funny in it, son.” 

Ferdinand explained, “It is actually useful: it protects you from a blazing sun.” 

“We may commission a turban from the seamstresses for you,” riposted Marguerite.

He chuckled. “Just to make fun out of me, Margot.” 

The game in piquet was interrupted by the arrival of a messenger from Mantua.

King Ferdinand strolled over to the Italian man, ordering, “Give the letter to me!”  

Marguerite promenaded towards the man. “Now go to the kitchens and be fed well.” 

The page dropped into bows to each of the royals. Then he hastened out.

Ferdinand approached the ebony table that stood near the window overlooking the central square. He recognized the seal – it belonged to Catherine Habsburg, Queen of Portugal.

“It is from my sister Catherine.” Ferdinand unfolded the missive.

“My Cathy!” Juana’s heart was now beating faster and faster. “She is the only child whom they let me raise at Tordesillas, but even she was eventually taken away from me.” 

Marguerite put a hand upon her mother-in-law’s shoulder. “You will be with your son and your many grandchildren after the war. You will never be imprisoned again, Dona Juana.” 

Juana smiled at her daughter-in-law. “Thank you, Margot.” 

The three of them scanned through the letter, their countenances gloomy.

Ferdinand, brother!

I traveled from Portugal to Mantua so as to try and persuade Carlos to end the madness he started. Nevertheless, Carlos is too full of hostility because he considers you a heretic. I do not know what is true, but he blames you for the rumored murder of the late Farnese Pope.

Carlos resolved to have you burned. Every day I pray for you, not for him, although you are both my brothers. I remember you well, although we have never had a close relationship.

So far, I have to stay at the ducal palace in Mantua. Mary, Carlos’ wife, birthed a stillborn daughter and needs time for recovery due to her horrible birth ordeal. Our other sister, Maria of Hungry, left for Flanders at our brother’s insistence, and Maria is against you.

With his armies leaving Mantua, Carlos is preparing a trap for you. Be careful, brother!

Your sister Catherine, Queen of Portugal

The rightful Queen of Castile asserted before crossing herself, “My poor niece Mary! I’m relieved that my daughter Catherine is taking care of Mary following the tragedy. And I’m sad that my daughter Maria wishes her second brother dead, dancing to Carlos’ whims.”  

“Let her baby girl rest in peace. This is tragic…” The dead baby was the emperor’s child, but Marguerite had lost two children, so she felt deep sympathy towards the empress.

Ferdinand growled, “I offered Mary to stay with us, but she refused. She must have had a stressful pregnancy in Carlos’ company if he learned who released you, Mother.” 

“Mary is a woman of duty,” claimed Juana. “Regardless of her feelings for Carlos.” 

“Carlos!” Ferdinand threw the letter to the floor. “He showed all his brotherly love for me. Now he wants me dead as a heretic, just as he wants to have François burned.” 

Marguerite and Juana were both fully aware that Ferdinand had become one of the key plotters against the former Pope. The minor suspicion fueled Carlos’ loathing for his sibling.

The King of Hungary snarled like a furious mythological deity, “Carlos will not get what he yearns to have – my death.”  He then stomped out of the chamber.

“A trap for my father and Ferdinand?!” A scared Marguerite was shaking.

Juana hugged her briefly. “The Almighty sees everything: He will determine the outcome. We will travel to Tuscany for our safety.” An inexplicable presentiment chilled her heart.

While consoling her daughter-in-law, Juana of Castile stared out. The snowfall intensified, and the wind picked up, lifting white sheets of snow from the Duomo square and spreading them around. It seemed to Juana that the past of her whole family was being wrapped into layers of ice. A sense of doom blanketed her entire being like an opaque cloud, but Juana’s heart was light when she thought of Ferdinand. Will something happen to Carlos? Juana’s heart wept.

Notes:

The new chapter is up! We hope you, our dear readers, are fine and well.

This chapter’s title refers to the main topic – the gloom, connected with the unfolding drama around the Habsburg brothers, is thickening over Italy. The battle between the French allied with King Ferdinand and their other allies, and the Imperial forces will happen in the next chapter. Do you have any ideas how it might all end? Juana of Castile, the rightful Queen of Castile, has some presentiment… Someone will die, but who will meet their maker soon?

We thought that it would be enlightening to have one scene between Carlos and his two sisters who are still alive. Maria of Austria, Dowager Queen of Hungary, returned to her elder brother’s lands in the Burgundian Netherlands following the death of her husband, King Louis II of Hungary and Bohemia, in the Battle of Mohács against the Ottoman Empire in 1526. As she became the governor of the Habsburg Netherlands, it is highly likely that she was far closer to Emperor Carlos than Carlos was to their youngest sister Catherine of Austria, Queen of Portugal. Thus, we have Maria be on Carlos’ side, while Catherine secretly supports Ferdinand.

The information about Margherita Palaeologa, Dowager Duchess of Mantua, is historically correct. She was François’ distant cousin through her mother, Anne d’Alençon, and a descendant of Count Charles de Valois, father of King Philippe VI of France the Fortunate. The Duchy of Mantua and the House of Gonzaga were traditionally allies of the Holy Roman Empire, and Margherita’s husband – Federico II Gonzaga, Duke of Mantua who died in 1540 – was invested with the title of Duke of Mantua by Emperor Carlos personally. Under the current circumstances, the pragmatic Margherita prefers to stay neutral in case Ferdinand of Austria wins.

Some readers said in their reviews to the previous chapter that Queen Anne might have a miscarriage, but they will have to wait and see. What is true now is that Anne experienced a lot of stress during her pregnancy with Lorenzo, and she conceived again too quickly. Soon Anne will depart with her sister Mary/Marie de Montmorency, as well as Marguerite de Valois, Ferdinand’s wife, and Juana to Florence. Of course, all of them are worried for their loves ones, but I think Juana, who is between her two sons now, is in the worst possible situation.

Lorenzo de Valois, Duke de Maine in the peerage of France, is also the newly proclaimed Duke of Milan. Yes, he will marry Isabella de’ Medici in years to come because this marriage is a much-needed one for his future in Milan. François was a descendant of Valentine Visconti through his father Count Charles d’Angoulême – François was Valentine’s grandson and a great-grandson of Charles V of France. Cosimo de’ Medici, Duke of Florence, was descended from the Medici on both sides: his father was the famous condotierro Lodovico de’ Medici, also known as Giovanni delle Bande Nere, while his mother, Maria Salviati, was Lorenzo the Magnificent’s granddaughter; Cosimo was also a paternal grandson of Caterina Sforza.

The information about the palaces in Mantua and the city of Mantua with its magnificent lakes, as well as descriptions of the palace are correct. The House of Gonzaga included many prominent patrons of the arts, and you can try to learn more information about them.

Attention! We posted a prologue to the sequel “Chained by Blood and Power” (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We still have more than 30 chapters in CWL and will need a couple of years, perhaps less, to post them, but we decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 81: Chapter 80: The Battle of Marignano

Summary:

Queen Anne suffers another loss. Juana of Castile has a presentiment. Finally, the French & King Ferdinand face the Imperial forces at Marignano. King François and Dauphin Henri fight. The lethal drama unfolds between Emperor Carlos and his younger brother whom he hates.

Notes:

Attention! We posted a prologue to the sequel “Chained by Blood and Power” (CBP). Let us know your thoughts and thanks!

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

We shall respond to the reviews to the previous chapter soon! Thank you for your patience!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 80: The Battle of Marignano

February 24, 1547, Villa di Cafaggiolo, Barberino di Mugello, Tuscany, Italy

The damp morning was not cold. The firmament was spectacularly clear, yet monstrously endless and gray. The two queens strolled through the gardens laid out in classical symmetry, and terraced with the bare ilex groves and flowerbeds bordered with myrtle and statues.

Queen Anne and Duchess Marie de Montmorency, as well as Queen Juana of Castile and Queen Marguerite of Hungary had arrived at the Medici villa about two months earlier. As soon as the Imperial troops had started marching on Milan, King François and King Ferdinand had moved their families to Tuscany for their safety at the Duke of Florence’s invitation.

Cosimo’s wife, Duchess Leonor, currently resided at the villa. Leonor was in mourning for her father – Pedro Álvarez de Toledo y Zúñiga, the Spanish viceroy of Naples. General Toledo had led the siege of Milan, and every time his daughter had written to him so as to persuade him to cease serving Emperor Carlos, Toledo had answered that he would not switch his allegiances. Leonor had not approved of her father’s actions, but she loved him, and his death aggrieved her. Cosimo and François had decided not to tell her that François had killed Toledo to save himself.  

Juana of Castile lifted her scrutiny to the sky. “So cloudless. It’s odd.”

Her daughter-in-law, Marguerite, followed suit. “Why?”

“It is unusually clear for this time of year. Perhaps it is a good omen.”

Marguerite’s face lit up with a smile. “My father and Ferdinand shall win!”

However, ominous shadows clouded Juana’s visage. “Today is Carlos’ birthday. Now it is not raining in Tuscany, and if it does not in Milan, then my eldest son might decide to attack his brother and the French, thinking that his victory should coincide with his birthday.”

Despair flickered in Marguerite’s eyes. “No! Ferdinand cannot die!”

Juana slanted a gaze towards a row of Greco-Roman statues. “Carlos is a talented military strategist, and so are his generals. However, they are not invincible, unlike mythological heroes. Even Heracles and Achilles eventually were killed, if they existed.”  

“Achilles!” Marguerite’s heart swooped as she discovered the statue of Achilles among the busts. “He was killed near the end of the Trojan war by Paris, whose arrow shot him in the heel.”

Juana closed the gap between them. Taking her hand, Juana squeezed it, lending her moral support. “Margot, don’t think of Ferdinand’s possible death. You will not become a widow.”

Marguerite struggled against her misgivings. “How do you know that, Juana?”

Ferdinand’s mother pressed her other hand to her chest where her heart was beating. “I feel it with every fiber of my being that my son will die. I’ve already accepted it.”

“No! Not Ferdinand!” Marguerite’s hand flew to her mouth.

“Not Ferdinand,” repeated Juana several times to let it sink in. “Carlos.”

“Why?” Marguerite was both confused and hopeful.

For a long time, Juana was silent. She turned towards the Medici villa in the distance.

The magnificent and famed villa, which had been the most favorite abode of Lorenzo I de’ Medici Il Magnifico, combined the Gothic and Renaissance styles in its gardens and architecture. At first glance, the architecture of the palace, where the guests lived, appeared to be similar to that of a medieval castle rather than a villa or a palazzo, mostly because of a crenellated tower at the front, flanked by two battlemented wings and reinforced with bastions at each corner.

Yet, it was a favorite country house of the Medici family. Between 1443 and 1451, Cosimo di Bicci de’ Medici the Elder had the old castle transformed into an imposing fortified palace by the architect Michelozzo di Bartolomeo. Because of Cosimo’s yearning for a secluded life at his old age, the rebuilt palace had been designed according to the antique classic model. Cosimo himself had created farms, roads, gardens, and fountains with a forest within the area.

Juana bared her heart. “I’ve long been apprehensive. Every time I look at Ferdinand, I feel at peace. But when I think of Carlos, my soul twists and turns in pain.”

Marguerite wanted to believe her. “I cannot pretend I want the emperor alive. Ferdinand means everything to me: without him, I might submerge into total darkness.”     

“Do you love him so, Margot? This marriage set Ferdinand free from his captivity.”

Marguerite revealed, “After the transfer of Milan to France, my father told Ferdinand that he could depart to Vienna without marrying me. Instead, Ferdinand joined the French in the campaign against the late Farnese Pope six years ago and married me in Florence. Your son was against Farnese: unlike my father, he preferred to have another Pope elected back then.”

“I’m not surprised.” Juana had developed her religious skepticism many years before her confinement to Tordesillas. “You are a beautiful and sophisticated young lady.”  

Marguerite grinned at the remembrance of her wedding. “Ferdinand told me that he would have married someone else in any case after his first wife’s death. Just not to be alone because he did not want to have mistresses. Perhaps it was a joke. Over time, we fell in love.”   

“It was true,” a smiling Juana assumed.

They walked past grottos, which provided shade from the sun in warm seasons.

Ferdinand’s spouse inquired, “Are you really resigned to Carlos’ possible end?”

“Yes.” However, Juana’s world was breaking at the thought of the emperor’s death. “Many will suffer if Carlos triumphs. I might find myself jailed in Tordesillas together with Mary Tudor, Carlos’ wife, and perhaps Ferdinand, provided that my eldest son spares his brother.”

“My father and relatives,” started Marguerite, “might be captured and burned.”

Juana’s gaze rested upon the statue of Zeus. “Carlos imagined himself more powerful than the Almighty. He believes that he can dethrone and kill any anointed monarch who refuses to acknowledge his dominance in Christendom. The death of his wife, Isabella, destroyed all of the good and bright that once existed in Carlos’ soul – now only power and revenge remain.”

Marguerite eyed the statue of a defeated Cronus. “Everyone has their own destiny.”

“Your Majesties!” called Duchess Leonor of Florence. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Juana and Marguerite swiveled. Despite being pregnant, Leonor ran towards them.

Marguerite questioned, “Your Grace of Florence, what happened?”

Leonor stopped in her tracks. “Anne is having a miscarriage!”

Marguerite was horrified. “Oh my goodness!”  

Leonor beseeched, “Go help Anne! I beg of you! I shall not go to her room.”

Juana said, “Of course. Your Grace must stay calm for your baby.”

Leonor’s hand flew to her abdomen. “Her sister is with Anne.”

They hurried to the villa. At the entrance to the palace, they encountered Benedetto Varchi, who enjoyed the Medici patronage as a famous humanist, historian, and poet. Queen Anne’s distraught sobs echoed through the castle like the ear-splitting, liturgical tune.

§§§

The Queen of France had gone into premature labor. In the late afternoon, a stillborn baby of female gender emerged out of her womb. The quiet life at the villa was wracked by panic that later evolved into depression. Queen Marguerite of Hungary stayed with her stepmother during the birth ordeal, together with Marie de Montmorency as they had encouraged Anne to push.

Juana of Castile did not attend the labor, waiting in her suite. As she was admitted to the French queen whom Juana liked, she found Margot crying in the corner, while Marie sat on the bed trying to console Anne. Duchess Leonor was in her own rooms.

Anne was sobbing, her reddened hands shaking as her sister attempted to embrace her. The queen’s face was an ashen oval among tangles of crimson stains, which were too visible on the white silk sheets. The bed’s canopy of burgundy velvet and its hangings of the same color added to the lugubrious environment. Heartache was etched into a grimace that curved Anne’s lips, also revealed in lifeless dark pools, as though death had kissed her whole being.

“My poor baby girl!” Anne buried her face in her sister’s shoulder.

Marie gathered her into her arms. “You will have other children.”

The queen scrutinized her hands stained with the blood that had pooled out of her during the delivery. “Why is God cruel to me? François is in danger, and I lost his daughter…”    

Marie stroked her hair. “Anne, you conceived too soon after Lorenzo’s birth.”

Marguerite approached the bed and seated herself on its other side. “Anne, I’m so sorry that my little sister went to heaven.” Tears brimmed in her orbs. “My father will understand.”

An exhausted Marie assured, “François and you will cope together.”   

Anne folded her bloodied hands across her chest. “How will this war end?”

Juana eased herself into a gilded armchair. “Your Majesty,” she began before switching to a personal tone. “Anne! Your husband will return to you with my son, Ferdinand.”

Anne was still crying miserably. “I beseech the Lord only to let my François live.” Her hair was tousled in a loose half-braid, and she touched it, smearing her locks with blood.

Marguerite deluged into tears. “I cannot live without Ferdinand.”

Marie’s orbs were watery. “I’m worried for my dearest Monty.”

“You will all have your loved ones back,” Juana assured.

Silence ensued until Marguerite reiterated, “They will return.”

Juana stood up. “Anne, you must be cleaned, or you might catch infection.”

Marie and Marguerite assisted Anne in climbing out of bed. Two maids brought the new sheets. Marie and Margot walked Anne to her bed and helped her change into a nightgown of green silk. Anne’s eyes were staring into nothingness of her bereavement.

Marguerite covered her stepmother with a blanket. “Try to rest, Anne.”

Marie kissed her sister on the forehead. “God will protect them, sister.”

“We will receive good news,” promised Juana, not adding that it could not be good for her.

Anne touched her wedding ring and kissed it. The saints on the wall frescoes by Filippo Lippi and Fra Diamante, dating back to the time of Cosimo de’ Medici the Elder, were painted weeping, and she imagined that she felt their empathy. The queen closed her eyes, her lips and eyelids trembling like an unfeathered bird that had fallen from its nest. With effort, Anne forced herself to think about François and their happy future, but tears still flowed from her orbs.


February 24, 1547, the village of Marignano, Duchy of Milan, northern Italy

The heavens above the village of Marignano were a depressing gray. Yet, the sky’s canvas was streaked here and there with shades of deep cerulean blue, as if heralding something good that could emerge from the pitch-black Tartarus, into which the entirety of Italy had tumbled due to the enmity of Emperor Carlos against France, King Ferdinand, and their allies. It was several hours before the sunset, and the late afternoon was a little cold and humid.

Anne de Montmorency and Claude d’Annebault walked out of the tent they shared.

Annebault lifted his eyes to the vault of the sky. “At least, it is not raining today.”

Montmorency sighed. “It is still slightly humid.”

Annebault recollected, “The weather was so wet during the past two months that neither of the parties could engage the other. We have been trapped in Marignano for weeks.”

The massive rains in January and February had prevented any confrontation. The Imperial forces, which had left Mantua in late December, and their foes had waited in their large camps, pitched close to Marignano. None of them had sent any envoy to try and broker peace.  

Montmorency saw several men light up a campfire. “Our men’s patience is wearing thin.”

Annebault breathed out with vehemence. “I want to crush the emperor once and for all.”

They strode past numerous tents. The men attended to their daily routines, polishing their weapons. They all wore standard uniforms: garments covered with tunic displaying the Valois crest, and a leather vest, keeping heavy chain mails inside their tents. Silence charged with anticipation held them close together, each soldier at the ready to fight for their country.

Jacques IV de Brosse, Duke d’Étampes, neared Montmorency and Annebault.

Étampes dropped into a bow. “Monsieur de Montmorency, our spies noticed movements in the Imperial camps. They are assembling their men into formation.”

The Imperial forces were divided into three parts: one of them was camped southeast of Marignano, the second east of Marignano, and the third one south of the village.

Now the Constable of France was alarmed. “In each of the three of them?”

“Yes,” confirmed Étampes. “What will your orders be?”

Montmorency glanced towards their sovereign’s tent. “Now King Ferdinand is dining with our liege lord, and I shall talk to them. Monsieur d’Étampes, apprise everyone of the upcoming confrontation – they must put on their armor and extinguish the fires everywhere.”

Étampes inclined his head. “As you command, Monsieur.”

After the duke was gone, Montmorency and Annebault sprinted to the king’s tent.

§§§

Inside the Valois ruler’s tent, above which Valois standard floated proudly in the air, François and Ferdinand enjoyed an early dinner. François had lived here for two months, so the interior was quite nice. The rulers lounged in matching armchairs upholstered in blue velvet, a black marble table between them. The spacious tent was furnished with azure-brocaded couches and a bed draped in yards of blue silk. Aubusson carpets flowed throughout the area.

Conversing in French and Spanish alternately, François and Ferdinand exchanged opinions on a variety of subjects, sharing bits of their lives. After the servants had cleared the table, François offered to play piquet, and after three parties, Ferdinand flung his arms up, capitulating.

“Today is Carlos’ birthday,” Ferdinand recalled with a trace of melancholy.

François regarded him kindly. “Your filial bonds are broken, but Carlos remains your brother. His loathing towards you scarred your heart because you have a good soul.”

Ferdinand nodded. “Once I told Carlos that he used my affection for him against me despite all my immense loyalty to him. He laughed the matter off, as if my feelings were not serious.” He emitted a sigh. “Carlos was already too twisted by his thirst for power.”

François grabbed a deck of cards from the table. “When I was in Madrid in 1525, I could see that Carlos imagined himself God of Christendom.” He walked to another table in the corner, where he put the deck. “Carlos is God of the universe, while others are mere dust.”

Ferdinand dragged a disappointed breath. “Annoying dust under his royal feet.”

A moment later, Montmorency rushed inside his liege lord’s tent. Bowing to the two kings, out of breath, he notified, “They are preparing for an offensive.”

“Good,” François said calmly. “Finally, we will have our battle.”

Montmorency stressed, “Our men have long been impatient, Your Majesty.”

Ferdinand stood up, fierceness etched into his countenance. “Carlos wants to settle scores with us on his birthday, making himself a hero and caging you, François, and me with the goal to deliver us to Rome to have us burned as heretics. But my brother will not get his wish.”

“Never ever,” consented François. “We will not be his jailed birds to be burned.”

In a matter of minutes, all of the French marshals gathered in their sovereign’s tent. They included: Claude d’Annebault; Jacques d’Albon de Saint-André; Jacques de Brosse, Duke d’Étampes; as well as Charles de Cossé, Count de Brissac. Piero Strozzi, from the rich Florentine family of the Strozzi, was the ally of Cosimo de’ Medici and new Marshal of France.

Dauphin Henri barged into the tent in the middle of their deliberations.

“It has all been decided, then,” François closed the audience. “Henri?”

The dauphin nodded. “I shall be with you, Father.”

With a bow, Ferdinand asserted, “I shall have my armies prepared.” Then he exited.

The armies of François, Ferdinand, and their Italian allies would form up in three divisions: the vanguard, the central battle, and the rearguard. Each division would be a combined force of infantry, cavalry and artillery. According to their spies, those Imperial troops were stationed in the east were a bit weaker than the other two groups, and, hence, the Italian allies under Cosimo de’ Medici and Ercole d’Este, who had recovered from his wounds, would deal with them.

The French army would engage the enemy in the southeast of Marignano. The vanguard would be led by Charles de Cossé, Count de Brissac, the central battle by King François himself, and the rearguard by Jacques d’Albon de Saint-André. Just as it had been during the Battle of Milan, Montmorency would command the infantries of both François and Ferdinand, save those infantry echelons that were included in the vanguards. Dauphin Henri would stay with his father, with the other marshals and warriors from the Scots guard protecting both of the royals.

The commandment in King Ferdinand’s army would be carried out in the same way. They would attack the emperor’s troops somewhere east of the village. As it was not known where Emperor Carlos was right now, everyone expected some trap for François and especially for Ferdinand, in particular after the warning from Catherine of Austria, Queen of Portugal.

François addressed Montmorency, “My friend, you shall command our joint infantry, so you will stay in the central headquarters. If you see at some point that Ferdinand needs help, send someone from our reserve to him. I fear Carlos will endeavor to seize his brother.”

“In the midst of the battle?” Henri entered into the conversation.

Montmorency dipped a grim nod. “We shall not allow that to happen.”

Annebault concluded, “Perhaps that dog will apply some trick.”

François regarded Annebault. “Claude! You spent months with Ferdinand while you two journeyed to Constantinople. You are close to him. Take care of Ferdinand – he must live.”

Annebault and Montmorency nodded in compliance and approval.

Henri ranted, “I’m itching to dispose of Carlos with my bare hands.”

François approached him and put both of his hands upon his heir’s shoulders. “Son, you are a good swordsman, but Carlos is older and more experienced. I fought against him during the previous invasion of France, and I swear that it was difficult even for me to overpower him.”

The prince bragged, “I injured the Duke of Alba rather seriously in Picardy.”

“That you did, son.” The ruler patted his cheek. “You merited accolades, but both Carlos and Alba are extremely competent swordsmen. I treasure you too much, Henri.”

The dauphin acquiesced, “I shall be extremely careful, Father.”

“You will give me my burgonet,” instructed François. “No one should mistake you for me. Carlos might send assassins to me, and if he does, they will find the true King of France.”

Grudgingly, Henri consented, “I have another helmet, but I shall not leave your side.”

Nodding, François dismissed his marshals, the dauphin also left. His groom assisted him in putting on his new armor, made of steel gilt, and covered with bas-reliefs of battles and hunting subjects in the finest Italian fashion. His lance was of ebony inlaid with silver. His sword was beautifully inlaid with gold – the work of the Italian goldsmith and sculptor Benvenuto Cellini. A groom delivered the king’s burgonet, adorned with salamanders, from the dauphin’s tent.

Soon Jean du Bellay, Bishop of Paris and of Bayonne, arrived in the royal tent.

Clad in his armor, the ruler knelt by the prelate. “Your Eminence, bless me.”

Bellay began, “Lord of power and mercy, maker and love of peace, to know You is to live, and to serve You is to reign. Through the intercession of the archangel St Michael, who defeated Satan in heaven, be the protection of France and our king in today’s battle against the evil.”

François clasped his hands in a knot, his head lowered. “Lord, let us prevail today!”

The bishop made the sign of the cross over him. “I bless you, our Knight-King!”

The monarch climbed to his feet and then hurried out.

§§§

Outside, King François scrutinized his surroundings. Now encumbered in armor, all his knights were adjusting their helmets, pulling on gauntlets, and buckling on their swords.

At the sight of their sovereign, the assemblage chorused, “For King François!”

The French offensive was commenced by the vanguard under the Count de Brissac. At the monarch’s sign, Brissac led his men – cavalrymen, infantry, and artillery, each commanded by his sergeants – to seek out the enemy and secure ground in advance of the main force.

Together with the dauphin and others, François hastened to the rear of the gathering. After his careful examination of the men who all stood in formation, he mounted. As their all hopped into their saddles, the king spurred on his white stallion, caparisoned in blue velvet ornamented with fleurs-de-lis. The cavalry galloped away from the camp across the field, mostly free of snow and showing the brown ground trampled by thousands of hooves, their thunder deafening.

His destrier flying like a bellicose bird, the Valois ruler almost felt the points of hostile swords and spears in every part of his body. In a minute, the Imperial cavalry under the Duke of Alba hindered their advance, and the two forces slammed into each other viciously. French blades smashed against those of Imperial, German, and Swiss men from the emperor’s echelons.

Montmorency’s commands from the central headquarters were heard. “Our infantry! Move ahead! In the southeastern direction where King François has gone! Help our vanguard!”

François steered his beast towards Albon. “Monsieur d’Albon, ensure that my son Henri is unscratched. He is attempting to reach Alba. It might be perilous for him.”

Albon pledged, “No hair will drop from the dauphin’s precious head.” He rode away.

Montmorency ordered, “The infantry of King Ferdinand! Charge in the southern direction! Join your vanguard!” The Constable of France now spoke in accented German.

Swinging his sword in lethal patterns like Goliath, the ruler fought against his adversaries. His far-famed burgonet, decorated with salamanders, was recognized, so now many opponents labored to squeeze through the horde en route to their target. The king was encircled by his loyal men from the Scots guard; their leader, Count Antoine de Noailles, dispatched all those who dared get close to his liege lord. The Duke d’Étampes and Piero Strozzi were among them.

The Austrian general, Wilhelm Freiherr von Roggendorf, coordinated all their archers. They began firing flaming arrows in directions where the foe was concentrated. Walls of flaming arrows struck the horses of the enemy, but the horrid groans of the dying were unheard amidst the clangor of martial tunes. Local fires started in the field, and the French had to be careful.

“You Valois stronzo!” roared Pier Luigi Farnese, Duke of Parma. After Pope Paul’s demise, Pier had fled Rome to Mantua, where he had joined the emperor. “I hate you!”

A squad of mercenaries, led by Parma, rammed into the soldiers from the Scots guard, who safeguarded the monarch. The Italian adversary knocked several of the king’s defenders off their horses. As a result, Noailles, Étampes, and Strozzi were separated from their master.

“Protect King François!” the Count de Noailles entreated as he impaled someone.

The Duke d’Étampes was trying to make his way to the king. “At any cost!”

Strozzi’s weapons were crushing his rivals. “For the King of France!”

More mercenaries hastened to the Duke of Parma, who barked, “The stronzo is mine!”

Snarling like animals, the King of France and the Duke of Parma were dueling. They each endeavored to wound the horse under the other, but without any success. Their swords clashed and sprang apart, then clashed again, splinters flowing from their shields, which the combatants used for self-protection. Around them, cannons roared, arrows whizzed, and blood gushed.

Pier slashed at his opponent’s head. “I should have killed you a long time ago.”

“Likewise,” François replied in Italian. He directed at him a diagonal blow.

His expression ferocious like that of a hungry tiger, Pier rained blows fast and furious upon the man whom he hated most of all in his life. “Your Majesty poisoned Pope Paul, my father.”

The ruler reckoned that the rival’s strategy was wrong. The ire was getting better of Pier, and his blows were turning more chaotic. A composed François was simply blocking, biding his time. “You want to punish me for that devil Farnese’s death. Right, Parma?”

Pier aimed at the king’s chest. “You will burn in hell for the Supreme Pontiff’s murder!”

François deflected his assault, messier than the previous one. “Your father destroyed many innocents, one of them my son Charles. He must be in agony in the netherworld.”

Stronzo!” Pier lifted his shield to repel the other man’s overhead parry.

The laughing king raised his shield as well. “Do you know any other profanities?”

“Heretic! François de Valois, your minutes are numbered!”

“I did not poison Farnese, Parma. But I approve of what they did.”

Pier’s shout was hellish. “You damned French mongrel!” His horse rushed forward.

For a brief moment, weariness overcame the Duke of Parma, and he held his shield low. François spotted the opening Parma gave him and steered his destrier towards the opponent. The king smote Parma with all his might upon the top of his helmet. So awful was the blow that it split apart the helmet, causing the iron cap beneath it to cut deep into Parma’s bone.

Stronzo, damn you,” hissed Parma, his strength deserting him.

“Go to your demonical father!” François severed Pier’s head off the body.

Another enemy is dead, the Valois ruler noted for himself, a look of satisfaction splashing across his countenance. At times, my code of chivalry might be detrimental to me and my family. If he had the late Farnese malefactor deposed after the surrender of Rome in 1540, they would have evaded many pitfalls and perils. The siege of Milan had altered François: he would no longer be forgiving towards his enemies, and all those who threatened his dynasty would perish.  

Étampes was still dealing with Parma’s mercenaries. “Your leader is dead!”  

Noailles announced, “His Majesty is safe!”

Soon François, Noailles, Étampes, and Strozzi dispatched all of Parma’s men.

François ducked from an arrow. “Where is my son, Henri?” His head swiveled back and forth. Then he noticed Henri engaged in a duel with the Duke of Alba, but in this thick throng, he would not be able to get to his son. “Albon and Vendôme! Protect Henri!”

The French intoned, “Safeguard Dauphin Henri!”

Gracious Lord, protect my son Henri, the monarch prayed as he worked to plow through the horde. Take my life if it is necessary for peace. Henri can take care of my Anne, although I yearn to see her again. He felt that Henri, who displayed an outstanding military talent, would be able to repel most attacks on him. Nonetheless, the terror of losing another child – one of his two offspring with Queen Claude who were still alive – gripped him with its clammy hands.

In the next moment, another assailant attacked François most fiercely and hatefully. He was clad in the German white plate armor made in plain steel, but decorated with flutings.

“Who are you?” asked King François, surprised by the man’s resolve to kill him.

“I’m the Duke of Aarschot.” His rival rained ferocious blows on the ruler.

“You are an Imperial general.” François sidestepped a blow. “Your ancestors participated in the assassination of my own ancestor – Louis the First, Duke d’Orléans.”

Aarschot cried, “God let me kill another spawn of that Orléans!”

The king swung his blade again. “A bastard from the Burgundian House of Croÿ!”

This statement enraged Philip II de Croÿ, Seigneur de Croÿ, Count of Porcéan, and Duke of Aarschot. Steel hissed and screamed the abhorrence these two men felt for each other. They had never met before, but the mere fact of how they had been connected in the past through the crime committed by Aarschot’s ancestor – Jean the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy – made them mortal adversaries. They traded blow after blow until François caught the man in the side.

As the man went still, François muttered, “It is ironic that I killed him.”

§§§

The battle in the southeastern suburbs of Marignano was still raging like a tempestuous river. Heads and limbs were lobbed off, swords and lances penetrated human flesh and bone. Corpses of soldiers and animals littered the field, but the fighting mass was still significant.

Wielding his sword in deadly arcs, Dauphin Henri was holding back the Duke of Alba. My father’s warning about that accursed Spaniard’s swordsmanship was correct, the prince mused glumly. Nevertheless, Henri’s resistance was fueled by his bottomless loathing for Spain and for the emperor’s chief general. Henri parried and lunged, his destrier dancing around Alba’s.

“Your heretical Highness is a green boy!” The Duke of Alba cackled nastily as he swung an overhead blow at his rival. “You are weak, so you failed to kill me in Picardy.”

Henri ducked as he answered in accented Spanish, “Today I’ll finish the job.”

Alba paused, holding his sword aloft. “You are a wretched Valois!” He steered his blade towards the opponent’s helmet. “It is a pity you are not wearing your father’s burgonet today.”

Marshal d’Albon, whose rearguard was battling in the melee, was distracted by arriving enemies. Antoine de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, was encircled by several assailants.

Growls and snarls escaped the dauphin as Henri slammed his weapon towards Alba over and over again, but each of his attacks was diverted. “I’m proud of being a Valois! I would never serve a demon who imagined himself the Lord. I mean your master with a protruding lip.”   

This enraged Alba to such an extreme degree that his stallion bumped into the prince’s, and their shields clashed. Their weapons skewered their stallions, and now they were both unhorsed.

Henri held his sword at the ready. “You shall die now.” He also retrieved his poniard. His father and Montmorency had taught him to fight with both of these weapons.

Alba threw away his shield. “Emperor Carlos will have you all burned for heresy.”

Henri smirked. “Perhaps that half-Spanish, half-Flemish fake god is already dead.”

“To the death!” Alba sliced at the younger man’s head and then pressed him with a series of quick thrusts. “The House of Habsburg will triumph over the Valois!”

Henri parried. “The empire must be led not by Carlos, but by Ferdinand.”

As they traded more blows, Alba was astounded by the dauphin’s self-control. Despite his less competence and Alba’s provocations, Henri fought with precision and balance. The prince spun away from Alba’s thrust and slashed at the Spaniard’s side, but Alba sidestepped.  

A volley of flaming arrows was shot. Some of them hit the approaching divisions of the Imperial infantry, which had advanced forward from the reserve, while others hit soldiers.

“Fire!” yelled Wilhelm von Roggendorf in German. “Some burning is good!”

A grinning Henri taunted, “Perhaps one of such arrows injures Carlos.”

Alba hollered, “My master cannot be defeated!”

A moment later, King Ferdinand proclaimed in Spanish, Italian, and German, “Part of the eastern wing has been broken! My German Landsknecht, attack!”

Seizing the moment of Alba’s distraction, the French dauphin delivered a brutal kick aimed at the hostile general’s knee. Alba ducked, but while doing so he lost his footing. Instantly, Henri cut his blade at Alba’s legs and chopped off one of his ankles. As a shocked Alba howled with agony, Vendôme appeared and drove his sword deep into Alba’s throat.

“Well done, Your Highness,” praised Vendôme. “With Alba’s leg.”

Henri was catching his breath. “Alba was a difficult opponent. Only this could help.”

Albon appeared beside the prince. “Your Highness, are you all right?”

“Yes, I am.” Henri promulgated in Spanish, “Your general Alba is dead, you barbarians!”

“The Duke of Alba is dead!” chorused the Valois knights.

King François jeered, “The Dukes of Alba and of Parma are dancing tarantellas in hell.”

Nonetheless, the battle between the French and the Imperial warriors continued. One of Alba’s main followers assumed the command to prevent his comrades from panicking.

§§§

To the south of Marignano, the forces of Cosimo de’ Medici, Duke of Florence, and Ercole d’Este, Duke of Ferrara, were involved in the butcherly with the Imperial divisions of the Italian condottiero Ferrante Gonzaga. At present, the vanguards, central batteries, and rearguards of every party all mingled in the field, over which a sanguinary fog hung like a black coffin.

Cosimo sat on his horse draped in Medici colors. “Capture or kill Ferrante Gonzaga!”

At the helm of his cavalry, the Duke of Florence charged into battle with the reserve of his cavalry, like a possessed man. It had been a grievous mistake to assume that the Imperial forces stationed to the south of the village were weaker than the other enemy contingents.

Gonzaga yelled, “More infantry and cavalry from the reserve!”

The Imperial men launched a rampant offensive on the foe. The surviving Medici cavalry collided with Gonzaga’s cavalrymen. More flaming arrows pierced through the air, and all the men raised their shields over their heads. Then the fighting renewed with vigor.

Ercole d’Este was still not completely healthy. The severe wound, which he had received from Emperor Carlos months ago, had almost sent him along the River Styx, but Ercole had survived. Today Ercole was so furious that he joined his men despite the protestations of his generals. Ercole remained in the camp’s vicinity managing his arquebusiers.

Today wearing the very thick helmet for his head’s protection, Ercole enjoined, “Now!”

The artillery fire was effective: many of the enemy cavalrymen fell to the ground.

Ercole commanded, “My men! Prepare lances and spears! For Emperor Ferdinand!”

Cosimo dispatched someone. “For Emperor Ferdinand!”

Canon fire was heard. Hundreds lances and spears were hurtled across the field, followed by volleys of arrows. A shower of Ercole’s flaming arrows darted towards the foe, their accuracy eerily perfect – more of Gonzaga’s infantrymen and cavalrymen tumbled down.

One of the burning arrows struck Gonzaga in the throat. Dropping his reins, the condottiero reached up with both of his hands and reflexively labored to pull the arrow out. However, it was a mortal wound: Gonzaga toppled backwards from his horse, landing on the ground dead.

“Our general was shot!” one of Gonzaga’s men panicked. “God, save him!”

Cosimo’s menacing voice heralded, “Too late! Allies, ahead!”

Ercole was itching to join them, but he stayed near the camp. “Beat them all!”

They all heard King François. “The southeastern Imperial wing has been broken!”

Reinvigorated with joy, the echelons of Cosimo and Ercole pressed the adversary closer to the village. In the matter of minutes, the French arrived with Dauphin Henri as their leader.

§§§

King Ferdinand glanced up. The setting sun painted the gray firmament slightly pink and orange, which turned into a darker shade of blue. Are the blue spots on this gray canvas a good omen or not? The battle had already raged for several hours: Ferdinand knew that the emperor’s southeastern wing had been defeated, and that the fight in the south of Marignano went on.

At this stage, the vanguard, the central batteries, and the rearguard were all locked in the combat against the Imperial men. Carlos had prepared a trap for his brother! Ferdinand’s army, consisting of his Hungarian, Bohemian, Croatian, German, and Swiss men, was significantly outnumbered by Imperial knights, who had erected a human wall so that Ferdinand’s allies could not aid him. Ferdinand’s soldiers resisted the assault bravely, but they were tiring.

Surrounded by a mass of fighting men, Ferdinand sat on his destrier caparisoned in his own colors so that he could be distinguished from Carlos. His sword was cutting lives mercilessly as he parried, lunged, and blocked, often lifting his shield for defense. His horse moved into the heart of the battle, and he noticed the fallen standards of the Genoese and Sienese Republics.

“No!” Ferdinand automatically plunged his blade into his attacker.

Claude d’Annebault was near the King of Hungary since the beginning. He had seen how Don Álvaro de Sande, who had participated in the Imperial conquest of Tunis of 1535, had crushed the weaker Genoese and Sienese forces. Annebault disposed of two attackers as he made his way to Ferdinand, who was now protected by his generals – Philip the Contentious, Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg, and the condottiero Giovanni Battista Castaldo, Marquess di Cassano.

Giovanni Castaldo stabbed someone in the gut. “Die, you jackal!”

Palatinate-Neuburg said in German, “Pity that they could not be burned like in Milan.”

Ferdinand finished off his assailant. “We had an agreement with the Ottomans who only assisted us in lifting the siege of Milan.” He chopped off someone’s wrist.

Montmorency’s voice rang clear. “The southern enemy wing has been breached!”

Castaldo chuckled humorously. “We might win despite our troubles.”

“We are still outnumbered here,” Palatinate-Neuburg fumed.

Ferdinand beheaded a warrior. “Our Sienese, Genoese, and Venetian allies are gone.”

Castaldo discerned Venetian standard beneath a dead horse. “They are in heaven.”

Ferdinand lunged forward. “My brother might have prepared more traps for me.”

“Destroy all the traitors!” Emperor Carlos bellowed. It was the first time when he spoke during the battle. “Show them that there is only one ruler in the Holy Roman Empire.”  

Castaldo stabbed forward. “Finally! This is Your Majesty’s brother!”

“Carlos is disguised as a mere soldier,” inferred Ferdinand as he ducked and sidestepped. “It is his customary trick. I should have guessed that before. He has made his presence known to encourage his men to resist because the two wings of his armies were eradicated.”     

“Where are the French, then?” Palatinate-Neuburg glanced towards Annebault.

Annebault avouched, “They will come as soon as they can.”

“I can see the traitor Ferdinand!” Carlos roared with colossal hostility. “Encircle them!”

“Defend King Ferdinand!” instructed Castaldo. “He must live!”

Within the space of several heartbeats, a multitude of soldiers in the distinguishable livery of Emperor Carlos swarmed the entire area where Ferdinand had been spotted. Annebault, Castaldo, Palatinate-Neuburg, and several other loyal men from Ferdinand’s private guard tried to protect the monarch, but the onslaught was quick and vehement. Arrows flew like hail.

§§§

Holy Father, it cannot be my destiny to die here, Ferdinand lamented. My Margot and my children with my two wives… Carlos will not treat them well. He will also jail our mother again. These thoughts goaded Ferdinand into resisting the adversary with a tenacity he had not known he possessed. He slashed upwards and downwards in lethal arcs, for in the situation of being so greatly outnumbered, it was the most effective fighting style to reduce the number of opponents.  

“You have not lost your excellent skills in swordsmanship, Ferdinand.”

The King of Hungary recognized the Spanish baritone immediately. Pivoting, he stared at his elder brother who indeed wore nondescript armor to avoid recognition. The universe tilted as the hazel eyes of Emperor Carlos, hawk-like and narrowed predatorily, peered into the pale blue orbs of King Ferdinand, overflowing with both bafflement and anguish.

Carlos stabbed at Ferdinand’s head. “Why so depressed, little brother?”

This galvanized Ferdinand into action: he deflected the blow and said in Spanish, “Was it a trap for me, Carlos? To have us outnumbered on this wing and then appear in disguise?”

“Yes,” the emperor hissed between gnashed teeth. “You betrayed me so many times!”

Ferdinand parried. “Do you count my gifting of Milan to François as a betrayal?”

Carlos snarled, “Of course! You had no right to grant the Imperial domains to anyone.”

Ferdinand initiated a strong attack. “You annexed the duchy after the death of the childless Duke Francesco Sforza. Strictly speaking, François has more rights for Milan than you.”

With a howl of feral fury, the emperor persisted in his aggression. “François bewitched you! After he captured you in France, it was his plan to drive a wedge between us.”

“Maybe,” admitted Ferdinand. “However, he turned out to be a good friend.”

Carlos plunged his sword into someone and neared Ferdinand, wielding it in a dangerous pattern. “You even married Marguerite de Valois, daughter of that French miscreant.”

“Your Majesty!” Finally having finished off his opponent, Palatinate-Neuburg was able to approach his master. “Your Majesty!” However, the tip of the emperor’s blade caught him on the side and knocked him reeling. “Save King Ferdinand, for God’s sake!” Then he passed out.

A shaken Ferdinand hoped that his friend was breathing. “Philip…”

Carlos grinned nefariously. The hour of his ultimate vengeance on his treacherous brother had come. “One more, one less of your generals – it does not matter. They can never rival mine.”

Ferdinand leered. “I heard that now Alba is showing off his talents in the underworld.”

The emperor halted for a split second, then he wielded his blade forward. “Ferdinand, I loved you so much, but you betrayed me time and time again until you became a pagan.”

In an adroit motion, Ferdinand brought his blade up and crisscrossed it with his rival’s. The dam of his bitterness, which had accumulated inside him, broke. “Carlos, I was loyal to you for years, although you never appreciated that. You ejected me from Spain at first to Flanders, and then to Austria just because I was more popular than you were. I was a threat to you!”  

Blocking, the emperor screeched, “I did what was necessary for my reign.”

“No!” Ferdinand blustered. “For yourself! To grab more power!”

An incensed Carlos rained down on his brother a series of powerful overhead blows. Yet, a calmer, though more tired, Ferdinand deflected them all. The emperor planned that one of his mighty attacks would knock out the weapon from Ferdinand’s hand, but he miscalculated.  

Ferdinand thrust his sword forward. “You always lied to me, Carlos! About our mother, whose life you shattered by calumniating her and jailing her at Tordesillas so that you can rule in her stead. About François murdering Eleanor, as well as your mistreatment of him and his sons in your captivity.” He dodged another blow. “A good man never lies so abominably.”   

“War and monarchy are incongruent with kindness. You were a bad pupil, little brother.”

Ferdinand swiped at him from another angle. “You have no honor.”

“Those who have power do not need it.” Carlos was getting more and more furious.

Ferdinand noted sadly, “Isabella’s death destroyed all the good that was left in you.”

There was a detestable grimace on Carlos’ face. “There can be only one emperor.”

“The French!” Castaldo was trying to shoulder his way through the crowd to his master.

Turning his head, Ferdinand watched the approaching French infantry and cavalry ram into the Imperial divisions, overrunning them. The exemplary horsemanship of the French resulted in the swift shift in the battle in this area in favor of Ferdinand and François. Releasing blood-curdling screams, the cavalry with King François and Dauphin Henri at its helm plowed close-locked, sabering and trampling. More flaming missiles were released, and artillery fired again.

“King François!” Annebault exclaimed in French. “My liege lord is here!”

Overwhelmed by horrendous wrath, Emperor Carlos lashed out with his sword, swinging for Ferdinand’s chest. “I’m the emperor! You will not take my crown away from me!”

Ferdinand’s weapon was making high, proficient arcs towards the other man’s head. “You must be dethroned! You are dangerous for Europe! You bring only devastation and pain!”

Carlos’ new assault followed. “I warned you not to betray me.”

Indescribable rage billowed in Ferdinand while brandishing his blade towards his sibling. “How many times did you betray me, Carlos? After my release, I remained loyal to you, but you dispossessed me and all of my many children. Your nephews whom you professed to love!”

The emperor deigned to explain. “I had you arrested so that you did not interfere with my siege of Milan. I would have released you later, but you escaped and allied with the Turks.”

Ire was pushing Ferdinand forward. “You left me no other way out.”   

In the background, François barked, “Press them!”

Carlos felt his every muscle tense with his spiking temper. “You burned thousands of my men near Milan! You poisoned Pope Paul! You are a heretic, Ferdinand, not my brother!”

“You besmirched our filial bonds!” an indignant Ferdinand fired back. “My wife Margot was in Milan. I would have done anything to have her freed because we love each other.”

The emperor neared several dead horses. “She ensorcelled you.”

His brother backed away. “There can be true love between a Habsburg and a Valois. I’m aggrieved that you do not understand it.” The truth spilled out of Ferdinand. “Lust for power has totally corrupted you, Carlos. You loved only Isabella and your power and wealth. With her gone, only power and dreams of vengeance fill your chilly existence.”

Particles of red swirled about Carlos. “I treasured and trusted you, Ferdinand! I made you my deputy in the empire!” He would never forgive his sibling, he just could not.

Ferdinand riposted, “If you had adored me, you would never have offended me.”   

All around, the French and the others shrilled, “For Emperor Ferdinand!”

“No!” clamored Carlos. “The Imperial throne and crown are mine!”

The blades collided, steel hissing malevolently, the pale blue orbs glowering into the hazel pools of rage. In these moments, there was no empty space in the emperor’s consciousness – all was filled with the solid substance of abhorrence towards his younger sibling. Ferdinand swiped his weapon in a horizontal arc like flashes of silver, and he could have yanked the sword out of his brother’s arms if he did not stumble over the corpse of a horse and landed atop of it.

Glaring down at his brother, Carlos raised his sword savagely. “I planned only to imprison you in case of my victory, but I’ll be defeated. I shall not be the emperor, but neither will you.”

A resigned Ferdinand asked, “So, you are capable of fratricide, Carlos?”

All around them, soldiers clashed as the remnants of the Imperial army resisted. The sun had sunk over the horizon, but the sky was crimson, gold, and even cerulean – no longer gray. Weapons slashed and cut at knots of those who resolved to make their last stand. Red, red, and red waters inundated the battlefield, the din of the battle muffling the moans of the dying.

§§§

Transfixed by sudden doubt, Emperor Carlos stood above King Ferdinand, his sword aloft.

Visions of Ferdinand and him blazed through the emperor’s mind. The first meeting of the seventeen-year-old Carlos with the fourteen-year-old Ferdinand after Carlos’ first arrival from Flanders to Spain years ago. The departure of Ferdinand at first to the Low Countries and then to Austria against his will. Carlos’ inability to help Ferdinand defend Vienna from the Turks in 1529. The invasion of France of 1536 and their last meeting before Ferdinand’s capture at Chamerolles. Their meeting in Hainaut before Ferdinand’s arrest and then the siege of Milan.

After Ferdinand’s liberation in France, the emperor had not deprived his brother of his offices. He had enjoined that Ferdinand must not appear where Carlos lived. After Ferdinand’s triumph in Milan with the aid of the Ottomans and especially after Pope Paul’s assassination, their relationship had been shattered beyond repair. Ferdinand is not my brother – he is a traitor.

There was ancient heartache in Ferdinand’s orbs. “I would not have done that.”

Venomous odium sprang into Carlos’ eyes. “I’m not weak like you, Ferdinand.”

“Do it, Carlos. Spill your brother’s blood.” Ferdinand swallowed his breath.

“If only you did not ally with that Valois parvenu, becoming a heretic.”

“Your heart is made of stone, Carlos. You betrayed our mother and me in the vilest ways. You even betrayed your dearest Isabella, who loved you and wanted peace. Your wife, God bless her soul, would have been ashamed to see you now. Unlike you, François never betrayed me.”

“Damn you, Ferdinand!” The emperor waved his sword to make the killing blow.

King Ferdinand shut his eyes tightly. However, as he opened them, he was surprised to see Montmorency impale Carlos from the back, Montmorency’s sword penetrating the emperor’s body and sticking out of his stomach. Simultaneously, Annebault decapitated Carlos, his head rolling away from Ferdinand, eyes open and full of terror, blood pooling onto the earth beneath.

Annebault was awash in relief. “Alive! God be praised.”

Montmorency regarded Ferdinand, searching for injuries. Finding none, he extended his hand to the almost murdered monarch. “Your Majesty is not dead. That is all that matters.”

Taking it, Ferdinand scrambled to his feet. “Carlos wanted to dispose of me…” 

Montmorency stressed, “There was no choice: either you or him.”

Ferdinand nodded numbly as he surveyed the mutilated remains of Carlos. “I know.”  

A moment later, the King of France proclaimed, “Victory! They are all vanquished!”   

The whole battlefield shouted ebulliently in many languages, “Victory!”

François cried in a majestic voice, “For Emperor Ferdinand! For peace in Europe!”

“For Emperor Ferdinand!” repeated Wilhelm von Roggendorf.

Dauphin Henri hollered, “For France! For King François!”

The Count de Brissac summed up, “For Emperor Ferdinand! For King François!”

From the distance, Cosimo and Ercole chorused, “For their Italian allies!”

Ferdinand gazed up at the vault of the sky. “Dear Lord, forgive me for Carlos’ death.” Yet, before another rush of guilt, he whispered, “Thank you for my life.”

Annebault soothed, “Your Majesty, he would have assassinated you otherwise.”

“I hope you do not blame us.” Montmorency’s voice was tinctured with anxiety.

Ferdinand glanced between his saviors. “Of course, not. I owe you my life.” His scrutiny wandered to the emperor’s headless corpse, and he inhaled sharply. “It was the Lord’s will.”

François hollered, “Another Battle of Marignano where we have emerged triumphant!”  

“For Emperor Ferdinand! For King François! For their Italian allies!”

The din of these voices created a bit discordant notes as the cacophony of French, Italian, German, Hungarian, Bohemian, and other warriors hailed the two rulers and their allies. The darkening sky was blue here and there, as if the ashes of disaster had been blown away. The music of trumpeters mingled with enthusiastic cheers. Auspiciously, the new era dawned upon Christendom, and a better future without bloodshed stretched ahead like a golden path.

Notes:

The new chapter is up! We hope you, our dear readers, are fine and well.

The final battle against Charles/Carlos V, Holy Roman Emperor, takes place near the village of Marignano. Why did we choose they place? The battle of Marignano of 1515 resulted in the victory of King François I and in the conquest of Milan, which was lost later in the early 1520s. If you look at the map of Milan, you will see that Marignano is located close to the city. Carlos V was born on the 24th of February 1500, so the battle and his death happen on his birthday, which was done on purpose.

King François kills his two important enemies: Pier Luigi Farnese, the Duke of Parma and Pope Paul III’s elders son, and Philip II de Croÿ, Seigneur de Croÿ, Count of Porcéan, and Duke of Aarschot. They were both Imperial commanders, and Aarshot really participated in the Habsburg-Valois wars in history. We thought that it would be fitting to have François kill a descendant of Jean the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy, who in history killed François’ direct ancestor – Louis de Valois, Duke d’Orléans and the younger brother of King Charles VI the Mad. Dauphin Henri of France killed Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alba, in battle.

The duel between King Ferdinand and Emperor Carlos is the most dramatic one. They discussed everything and bared their hearts, and as always, Carlos tried to outwit his enemy. We never planned to have Ferdinand kill Carlos, not even in self-defense, for it would have broken Ferdinand’s honorable spirit and soul while also tainting him as Cain in spite of the fact that it would have been an act of self-defense. We had Carlos hesitate in his decision to kill his brother: although Carlos hates Ferdinand and is obsessed with his hatred, Ferdinand remains his brother, and by having Carlos hesitate we showed that there are still flashes of humanity in him.

In the end, Carlos decided to take down Ferdinand, understanding that he would be defeated. However, Carlos was punished for his misdeeds by Montmorency and Annebault. We deliberately made Carlos’ corpse mutilated – this will not be left unnoticed by Felipe II of Spain, Carlos’ son. Everything that transpired at Marignano and the way Carlos was killed will be remembered by Felipe and his family. Felipe’s future character arc might be quite surprising – Felipe will appear as he gets older, and he will be one of the main characters in a sequel.

Like many readers predicted, Anne Boleyn lost her child for understandable reasons. Well, we planned it, but Anne will have a few more kids – not many because she is not as young as she used to be years ago. Anne is being taken care of by her sister, her stepdaughter, and Juana of Castile. Perhaps as a mother, Juana felt that Ferdinand would remain alive while Carlos, who committed many mistakes and misdeeds, lost himself in the ocean of his bad emotions.

The information about Villa di Cafaggiolo, Barberino di Mugello, is historically correct. It was one of the Medici villas and actually the favorite abode of Lorenzo I de’ Medici Il Magnifico. The people who are featured or mentioned as Imperial generals and as Ferdinand’s generals really existed and served their masters, including the Duke of Bavaria who knew Ferdinand.

Attention! We posted a prologue to the sequel “Chained by Blood and Power” (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We still have more than 30 chapters in CWL and will need a couple of years, perhaps less, to post them, but we decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 82: Chapter 81: Emperor Ferdinand

Summary:

Ferdinand von Habsburg is new Holy Roman Emperor, and now he has to deal with the consequences of Marignano. Spain and the vast holdings of the late Emperor Carlos have a new master – Felipe II of Spain. In England, King Henry is continuing his tyrannical rule.

Notes:

Attention! The prologue to the sequel “Chained by Blood and Power” (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don't forget about our work "Entwined by a Golden Alliance" co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

We shall respond to the reviews to the previous chapter soon! Thank you for your patience!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 81: Emperor Ferdinand

February 28, 1547, Villa di Cafaggiolo, Barberino di Mugello, Tuscany, Italy

Propped on the pillows, Anne rested on a spacious bed made out of solid birch, exhibiting pecan veneers, its ornate columns decorated with inlays of marble. She veered her scrutiny towards the windows, watching clouds scurry across the canvas of the sky and birds fluttering about the gardens below. Her rooms were located on the second floor of the Medici villa.   

“Don’t be sad, Your Majesty,” affirmed Juana of Castile with compassion. She spoke in French, her accent thick. “All of your children with King François are hale and hearty.”

Anne observed, “Clouds are floating forward, towards the sunset of my life.”

Marguerite, her stepdaughter, contradicted, “Anne, it is not so – you have years ahead!”

Juana and Marguerite lounged on silver-brocaded couches by the bed.

The Queen of France had birthed a stillborn female child on the day of King François and Emperor Ferdinand’s victory at Marignano. François and Montmorency had arrived at the villa yesterday. The other French marshals remained in Milan, preparing to march back home in the coming spring. Dauphin Henri had asked his father’s permission to leave for France together with Marie de Bourbon, one of Anne’s ladies-in-waiting and the dauphin’s mistress.

The Battle of Marignano of 1547 was the most sensational event that had ever happened in the entirety of Christendom during the past several decades. As King of the Romans and the heir apparent to the Holy Roman Empire, Ferdinand had automatically succeeded his elder brother as a new emperor. There was already a tremendous uproar in Italy, and news was spreading fast.   

Feeling a hand on her shoulder, Anne turned to see Juana sitting on the edge of her bed. There was a significant age gap between them, but Anne had an understanding with her.

“I did not mean to startle you,” Juana began softly. “I want to say something.”

Anne’s expression was momentarily blank. “What, Your Majesty?”

Juana offered, “Can we drop formalities in private?” She sighed. “Moreover, I’ve not been the true Queen of Castile for too long, and my captors at Tordesillas did not treat me as royalty.” An odd laugh fled her. “Soon I shall be only the mother of Emperor Ferdinand.”

Marguerite was bewildered. “What does it mean, Juana?”

Her mother-in-law flashed a mysterious smile. “I’ll explain everything later.”

Juana took Anne’s hand in hers. “My dear, you have a wonderful husband who loves you more than life itself. You are his goddess – he worships you as much as he loves God.”

“Yes, he does.” A smile blossomed on Anne’s face. “I love him in the same measure.”

“I can see that.” Juana squeezed her hand. “Despite my many misfortunes caused by my power-hungry relatives, I still believe that life can be cruel and loving at the same time. Life is a gift and a treasure to be discovered and lived to the fullest. Life is also a challenge, and winning should be the ultimate goal for monarchs to reach their royal harmony.”

A pause stretched between them. Marguerite observed them with bated breath.

Anne regarded Juana. The mother of the Habsburg siblings had such a tragic life story, having been imprisoned for years until Mary Tudor – this surprised Anne a lot – had released her. Despite everything, Juana was full of zest for life and enthusiasm, while also possessing a sunny sense of humor. This strong woman had suffered so much and yet was not broken!

Anne heaved a deep sigh. “I know that life has given me a lot. Once I thought that it was over… when I watched my brother’s death from the window in the Tower. But the Almighty gave me a second chance at happiness: I married François and fell in love with him.”  

Juana smiled knowingly. “Then treasure what you have, Anne. You have a lot: actually, so much that most others dream to have the smallest part of your contentment.”

Anne read her musings well. “You did not have much happiness, but you survived.”

“I was content in my own way,” Juana replied wearily. “My late husband, Philip, loved me in his own odd way, which I’ve never understood. He gave me five children, although I could not raise them, except for my youngest daughter, Catherine, until she, too, was taken away.”

Marguerite asked, “How could you endure such horrible trials and tribulations?”

Juana glanced between the two younger women. “I always hoped that one day someone would come and rescue me. Always! I felt it in my bones that it would happen! I’m not very religious because most of my prayers for salvation were not answered throughout years. Until my niece, Mary, did the unthinkable and rescued me from the confines of my hell.”

Anne admired her former stepdaughter for this accomplishment. “Mary is a heroine! She went against her husband! Her mother, Catherine of Aragon, was also like a force of nature.”

“Indeed.” Juana wondered whether Anne had still hated her late younger sister, Catalina. “I survived against all odds, and at present, I’m with the best son I could have birthed and raised – my great son Ferdinand is a far better man than Carlos could ever be.”   

Marguerite summed up, “This is your reward for your woes, Juana.”

Juana returned to her couch. “I’m intending to spend the rest of my life with Ferdinand.”

Anne supplemented, “I no longer hate your sister, Catalina, and her daughter, Mary. We have nothing to compete for or share. The three of us are all the victims of that English tyrant.”

Anne Boleyn is a unique person, Juana of Castile thought. Over ten years ago, Anne’s life could have transformed into a pile of freshly chopped firewood that the King of England would have used to make a bonfire of her soul and perhaps even her body, if he had not been forced to spare Anne thanks to the riots in London. Like Juana, Anne was a survivor and a fighter, but the Queen of France could allow herself to experience the luxury of amorous emotion.

Juana’s mind floated to her deceased youngest sister. Dearest Catalina, you were a fighter through and through, Juana mused. God rest your soul! Juana found Anne, Catherine of Aragon, and herself similar in many aspects – each was a fighter and a survivor, possessing a brilliant intelligence that could rival that of most men. Furthermore, Anne, Catherine, and Juana, as well as Mary Tudor were all victims of their male relatives. Deep down, Juana blamed Anne for the mistreatment of her niece, Mary, and Catherine, but Juana would not voice her thoughts.

“Thank you, Anne,” Juana utterly gratefully. “Mary no longer loathes you either.”

It gladdened Anne to hear that. “Maybe one day, we will meet.”

“Perhaps.” Juana folded her hands in her lap. “Mary will remain in Mantua until the next summer. She had a dreadful premature labor and barely survived, as my daughter Catherine wrote to me. Like you, Anne, she lost a baby – her daughter with Carlos was stillborn.”

Crossing themselves, Anne and Marguerite chorused, “God rest her baby girl’s soul.”

Juana glanced towards the windows; the clouds were becoming thicker. “I do not think that Mary is saddened with Carlos’ death because their relationship was strained at best. After the period of mourning, Ferdinand and I will ensure that Mary will find a good husband.”

“Ferdinand will surely give her an ample dowry,” Marguerite opined.

Juana nodded. “Without a shadow of a doubt.”

Marguerite complained, “My father returned to Cafaggiolo, but my husband did not.”

“Ferdinand is our new emperor,” Juana declared. “Now his main family duty is to deliver his brother’s body to Spain. Carlos wished to be buried next to Isabella, who was interred in the Royal Chapel of Granada, the burial place of the Catholic Monarchs. Whether Carlos and Isabella will be later reburied is up to their son – Felipe the Second of Spain.”

Juana had been apprised of how Carlos had been killed by Montmorency and Annebault to save Ferdinand’s life. Yet, they had not informed her that the late emperor’s corpse had been headless until the doctors had stitched Carlos’ severed head back to his neck. After the corpse had been tended to and placed inside the gilded coffin, Ferdinand had taken it to Spain.

The Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg, who had heroically defended Ferdinand during the battle, had been seriously wounded. In total, François, Ferdinand’s, and their allies had lost more than forty thousand men; the Imperial troops of eighty thousands had been totally annihilated.

Marguerite characterized, “Ferdinand is so honorable! Carlos wanted to murder him during the Battle of Marignano, but he still pays his last respects to their brotherhood. I admire him!” 

“Me too.” Juana’s large smile was prideful. “Don’t worry about my son. Enough soldiers are escorting him to Spain. Moreover, Felipe and Juana, Carlos’ children, are now in Flanders, so Ferdinand will not see them. For some reason, only Maria remained in Madrid.”

Marguerite sighed. “My father says that Ferdinand will not return until June.”

“I agree with this estimate.” Juana tipped her head.

“Anne!”  Her stepdaughter’s tone was gentle, coaxing. “We will spend wonderful months at this villa while you are convalescing and resting – you need it a great deal. Surrounded by artists and philosophers, we will not notice how months will pass until Ferdinand’s return.”

“The more artists, the better!” These expectations improved Anne’s mood.

Juana revealed, “Ferdinand took to Spain the documents where I abdicated the thrones of Castile, León, and Aragon, as well as the Low Countries in favor of my grandson, Felipe. Soon Felipe will be crowned, and I’ll be free from the past, remaining at Ferdinand’s side.”

At first, Anne and Marguerite were silent before nodding their comprehension.

“Moreover,” Juana continued, “Ferdinand will deliver to Spain his proposal to split up the Habsburg family into two branches – the Spanish branch of the House of Habsburg and the Austrian branch. It has already happened unofficially because Ferdinand is the Holy Roman Emperor, but the official recognition of this is necessary. Felipe is intelligent – he will consent.”  

Marguerite exclaimed in an elated manner, “And we will be free, then!”  

Juana smiled. No one knew that every night she shed tears for her deceased son until she had none left and drifted to sleep. Her heart was delighted that her second son was alive and became the emperor. Yet, Juana mourned for Carlos – more for his soul, hoping that Carlos would not spend all eternity in purgatory or hell. Holy Father, I became skeptical – forgive me for this. If You exist, let Carlos be reunited with Isabella in heaven, Juana prayed silently.   

§§§

“Doctor Paré,” addressed Queen Anne, “will I be able to have more babies?”

Amboise Paré answered, “I think so. Women older than you – for instance, Madame de Montmorency – had children. Your Majesty needs to completely recover at first.”   

King François nodded. “I shall ensure that Anne has the best care possible.”

After François‘ return from Milan, Anne summoned Doctor Amboise Paré to her. Despite her recent miscarriage, she loved her husband and wanted his children. I wish to have another girl and another boy, or at least another daughter, she resolved. We already have four sons.  

Paré tipped a nod. “The special nourishment will re-balance the humors of her body. In several months, she will feel far better, provided that Her Majesty does not travel.”

“We are going to stay in Tuscany.” The monarch seated himself on the edge of the bed.

Paré eyed them. François had returned to his usual weight and was still athletic. Anne had been thin during her pregnancy, but after the miscarriage, she had lost even more weight.

Paré affirmed, “Madame, you are physically and emotionally exhausted. The ordeals of the past year had their toll upon you. I’m surprised that Prince Lorenzo was born healthy.”

Anne made the sign of the cross. “The Almighty protected our Lorenzo.”

François tipped an angry nod. Only the spouses comprehended what it meant: the prince had survived despite his mother’s forced intercourse with her former Tudor husband.

The physician asserted, “Your Majesty, I thank the Lord that you are still in a good health despite the siege of Milan. You are strong, but you should enjoy tranquility.”

The monarch confessed, “Truth be told, I’m tired and shall gladly rest in Italy with Anne.”

Amboise Paré touched upon the topic that could distress the spouses. “I insist that the queen should not conceive for at least another year. My recommendation is that you both abstain from marital relations for six months in order to ensure Her Majesty’s complete recovery.”

François caressed his wife’s fingers. “That would not be a problem on my part.”

Anne glanced at her husband from beneath her long lashes. When she had miscarried several years ago, their Milanese physician had recommended them a six-month abstention from marital relations. She had been worried that François would take a mistress back then, but he was always faithful to her. Now Anne did not harbor such terrors, so she simply nodded.  

Bowing, Doctor Paré smiled at the enamored couple and departed the room.

After taking off his boots, the king draped himself against Anne’s back and rested his chin upon her shoulder. “We will have many awesome months here. In the past Lorenzo Il Magnifico gathered a circle of various artists at this villa. A great patron of the arts himself, Cosimo is surrounded by poets, painters, writers, sculptures, and other creative people.”

The queen examined her room. The costly furniture was of cedar, ivory, ebony, and silver, dating back to the previous century, perhaps to the life of the famed Lorenzo I de’ Medici. The stunning frescoes of Christ, the Virgin Mary, and other saints by Fra Angelico adorned the walls.

Anne stroked his hair. “I’m impatient to be involved in all these cultural things. Now Cosimo and Leonor are both here. Will they reside in Florence or in Cafaggiolo?”

“Leonor is pregnant, due sometime in the summer. She is intending to stay at the villa and is welcoming our presence. Cosimo will be traveling between Florence and Cafaggiolo.”

She thought of the Percy spouses. “I’d like to invite the English ambassador and his wife.”

He embraced her tighter from the back, feeling how thin his queen was and sighing. “Once Henry Percy was your sweetheart, and you wanted to marry him. Should I be jealous?”

His wife swatted him on the arm. “Nonsense, husband.”

“Then why do you wish to see them, Anne?”

“I want to make peace with Jane Seymour. Once we were enemies and contended for the heart of that Tudor beast, who dragged both of us through hell on earth.” She paused, reigning in her hateful emotions. “Jane lost enough, and there is no reason for us to be enemies now.”

“I’ll tell Cosimo to invite the English ambassador to some intellectual debate.”

“Thank you, mon amour.” She kissed him on the forehead.

“I have more news,” he started, his lips making their voyage along her cheek, temple, and forehead. “Ferdinand’s eldest son, Maximilian, will come to Tuscany soon, and he shall stay here until his father’s return. We will see the future husband of our beloved Aimée.”

Anne was melting in his arms. “I heard good things about him.”

“Ferdinand told me that Maximilian took more after him than his first wife.”

“Very good.” She moaned as his lips were planting little kisses along her neck.

The monarch ceased his endearments. “Before his departure to Spain, Ferdinand proposed to have our son, Antoine, betrothed to his daughter, Archduchess Barbara of Austria.”

The queen strained her memory. “Isn’t Barbara several years older than Antoine?”

“Yes, she is. However, it is a royal marriage, but the children are still young.”

“Ferdinand’s second son – his namesake – is a bit younger than Maximilian. If Louise had not been betrothed to Emanuel Philibert de Savoy, we could have her engaged to Ferdinand of Austria. While I respect your uncle, Duke Charles de Savoy, I dislike his son.”

The king sighed into her neck. “Louise’s marriage to Emanuel Philibert is necessary for France’s alliance with the Duchy of Savoy. Louise herself would prefer to remain in France.”

Anne chuckled. “Yes, our daughter’s heart belongs to France.”

François remembered his late mother fondly. “Just as my mother’s did.”

Their gazes were directed at the windows. Outside, stormy clouds were skidding across the firmament. The flashes of lightning were incessant, the peals of thunder awfully loud.

Anne broke the pause. “François, what about the betrothals of Henri’s children?”

His conversation with his heir apparent replayed in the ruler’s mind. “I permitted Henri to decide these matters on his own, of course with my prior approval. We want Mary Queen of Scots for Prince François, Duke of Brittany, provided that the boy survives into adulthood.”

She throttled her impulse to laugh. “I’m not sure this would be a good marital alliance. Do you imagine both France and Scotland being ruled by the same monarch? Will the population of these two countries accept it? Will France be able to constantly finance the far poorer Scottish realm?” A chuckle erupted from her. “It is easier to imagine that England and Scotland can be united rather than that France and Scotland are governed by the same law and authorities.”

He neither concurred nor disagreed with her. “I need to give more thought to this.”

Anne reminded, “Mary Queen of Scots is related to the House of Guise. Do you want to give such power to the very family that turned against you and tried to kill me, which resulted in the death of your son, Prince Charles?” She crossed herself. “God rest your son’s soul.”

Thunder roared outside, and François shuddered. “When Claude de Lorraine escaped, his daughter, Marie de Guise, refused to give him refuge in Scotland, so he went to Spain.”

She felt sick at the mere thought of the Guises. “They are all still relatives. You banished the House of Guise from court permanently. You were lucky to preserve a good relationship the late Duke Antoine de Lorraine: I remember how profoundly the late duke was shocked with his younger brother’s treason, and I have no doubt that Antoine de Lorraine had no contacts with his brothers. Lorraine is now governed by Christina of Denmark on behalf of her son, Duke Charles de Lorraine, as his regent during his minority – therefore, Lorraine is our ally.”

The king confirmed, “Antoine was our true friend and ally.”

“Yes, and we shall preserve this alliance. But the children of the late Claude de Lorraine, including Marie de Guise, regent of Scotland, must already be aware that their relatives, who had escaped punishment for treason in France and fled to Spain, were killed in Milan.”

He snaked his arm along her waist. “I can see your point.”

The queen recalled the Guise family tree. “Claude de Lorraine had five sons: François, new Duke de Guise, and his younger brothers – Charles, Claude, Louis, and René. They are young now! Do you think that they will agree to live in the countryside for the rest of their lives?”

As if to confirm this, the heavens rumbled like a voice of dread, the lightning flashed.

“The Guises,” François drawled with distaste. “We must be careful with them.”

“Extremely careful.” A sense of premonition slithered down her spine.

He gathered her deeper into his arms. “Are you cold, mon amour?”

“I’m merely worried, François. Every time we discuss the Guises or if they are mentioned, I feel as if my heart had been ripped from my chest, leaving an aching, empty shell.”

He covered them both with a blanket. “Don’t think about them. I’m no longer as sure as I was before that Mary Queen of Scots should be betrothed to my grandson, François.”

A wave of relief washed over the queen. “Have Henri’s children betrothed to Ferdinand’s or some other princes and princesses, but not to anyone from the Guise family.”

“That makes sense. I’m certain that Henri will understand everything.”

“By the way, did Catherine de’ Medici have her child? She was pregnant.”

“Yes, she did. I have another granddaughter – Princess Élisabeth.”

François dozed off, despite the downpour of torrential rain pelting the windows.

As the queen’s mind floated to Catherine’s children, a feeling of unease swept over Anne. She was the dauphin’s friend, but she had never liked his wife, although they were friends with the Duke of Florence, Catherine’s distant cousin. I’d love for Augustine to rule France, Anne mused. He will become King of Navarre upon his marriage to Jeanne d’Albert, but he would make a great ruler of France. Anne would never say that aloud, but she harbored hope that one day, her Elizabeth would rule England while Augustine would be the master of the Valois realm.


March 10, 1547, Tower of London, the city of London, England

Encircled by guards and a group of nobles, the old woman exited the Beauchamp Tower. She looked neither terrified nor resigned. Snowflakes swirled around her in whimsical patterns.   

“It is cold,” complained Agnes Howard née Tilney, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. Garbed only in a long shirt of white cotton, which was normally used for a low-ranked prisoner, she shivered. “Thank His Majesty for arranging my execution in such awesome weather.”  

Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, discarded his ermine cloak. “This is for Your Grace.”

Agnes regarded him with a toxic blend of gratitude and suspicion. “Why is the man who masterminded the plot against my relative, Kitty, courteous to me?”   

Exeter growled, “I’ve never been your enemy.”

A blast of wind chilled Agnes, and this time, she grabbed the cloak. “Why did you weave intrigues against Kitty, then?  She was so young and deserved to live a long, good life.”

“She betrayed her husband with Culpeper,” returned the marquess. “I had to act.”

“Ah, you play the role of a dutiful subject.” She donned the cloak with relief.

Exeter nodded. “I’m the king’s man and always do my duty.”

The Earl of Southampton interfered, “Lord Exeter, don’t treat that old harpy gently.”

The Marquess of Exeter glowered at Southampton. “I’m Lord Chancellor and the chief minister – I know what to do. What if your own mother had found herself in a similar situation?”

This thought horrified Southampton. “I’m sorry, sire.”

In the short silence that followed, Agnes scrutinized Exeter. He was not her captor: months ago, she had been arrested at her household at Lambeth by Southampton and his men, and Exeter had never interrogated her. Southampton and Francis Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, had passed a large part of their every week in her prison, bringing with them, at different times, Archbishop Cranmer and Protestant prelates, who strove to prosecute her as a witch.

The main charges against Agnes were high treason and witchcraft. She was accused of conspiring with the dead Queen Catherine Howard to lure King Henry into matrimony by means of dark sortilege, and of her lies about Kitty’s clandestine affair with Francis Dereham some time before her wedding to the monarch. I knew about Kitty and Dereham, but when I learned about her wedding to the king, it was already too late, Agnes bemoaned silently.     

Agnes arched her grizzled brow. “What if His bloodthirsty Majesty sends you to Norfolk, where the rebellion is growing larger? Lord Arundel has failed to squash it so far.”

In Exeter’s expensive and large cloak, Agnes looked like a wealthy, old creature. She had lost much weight during her imprisonment. Her cheeks were hollow, withered with anxieties and malnourishment. Her long white hair was combed straight down on each side. Nevertheless, there were sparks of ebullient energy and inner strength in her green eyes.

I admire Agnes Howard, Exeter thought. Every Howard displays sangfroid, fearlessness, or amusement in the face of mortality. Many women, especially of her advanced age, had fits of ranting and screeching, bursting into tears and pleading with the authorities for their lives. The executed Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury, had behaved exactly in this fashion. Yet, Agnes had always remained arrogant, cold, and calm during her days in the Tower of London.

Agnes read his musings. “Don’t compare me to Lady Salisbury, God rest her soul.” She crossed herself. “I’m a Howard through and through. Not even death will change it.”

“I can see that.” He then noted, “Your Grace seems to know everything about the current happenings in the country. Where did you get money in the Tower to pay to your spies?”

She made an innocent face. “Let an old lady such as myself take my secrets to the grave.”  

Southampton leered at her. “I’ll be with you on the scaffold, Lady Norfolk.”

Agnes jeered, “Lord Exeter’s manners are better than yours, Lord Southampton.”

“You treacherous harpy,” Southampton hissed. “You–”

Exeter interrupted harshly, “Enough. Have respect to the oldest nobility in the realm.”

Southampton could not withstand Exeter’s glare. “I apologize.”

The Earl of Shrewsbury, who had been silent before, prodded, “Let’s go to the scaffold.”

Exeter berated, “I’m without my cloak and endure the cold. You are dressed warmly.”

“My health is more delicate than yours, Lord Exeter,” Shrewsbury shot back.

The whole situation amused Agnes. “My lords, I must say I’m quite eager to die.”  

As they passed through the courtyard, a man dressed in a woolen coat pushed through the thick lines of halberdiers. Sobbing loudly, he threw himself at the condemned woman’s feet. He was William Howard, Baron Howard of Effingham, and Agnes’ eldest son.

Before the guards could drag him away, Exeter raised his hand. “Let them have a minute.”

Southampton and Shrewsbury traded glances, thinking that Exeter was too soft.

As the soldiers went away, Agnes instantly embraced her son for the last time.  

“At least I see someone I love,” she cried, burying her head in his chest.

“Mother, I love you so,” William sobbed, pressing her tighter to him. “You are thin.”

“I’m beyond all cares. The Almighty is calling me home. I spent many years on earth.”

Her son choked out, “Mother, it is all so unfair.”

“Yes, but what can I do?” Pulling herself together, Agnes whispered, “Your elder brother, Thomas, is with your nephew, Surrey, in France. They will come back after the tyrant’s death.”

A baffled William wanted to look at his mother, but she enfolded him into her arms tighter.

“They will find a way,” Agnes murmured, her voice so very quiet that it vibrated in her breast. “Ally with them later and safeguard Princess Elizabeth. It is the duty of every Howard.”

He said in a whisper, “There is Edward before Bess Tudor in the succession.”  

She murmured, “You never know… She might become England’s first queen regnant.”

Exeter’s voice intruded upon their talk. “Your Grace, we must go.”

As she parted from her son, Agnes kissed his cheeks and blessed him with the cross.

“Farewell, my beloved Mother,” lamented the Baron of Effingham.

“My dearest son! God bless you!” exclaimed Agnes.

William was forced back by the guard, sobbing his mother’s name. Agnes remained stoic.

The Duchess of Norfolk turned to Exeter. “Thank you for your kindness, my son.”

“Peace be with you, Your Grace.” This endearment in gratitude for his permission to say goodbye to her son caused Exeter’s vitals to twist. He did not approve of this execution.

Agnes Howard was escorted to the gateway of the Middle Tower. A huge crowd gathered on Tower Hill, expressing their strongest sympathies to the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk – the second woman during the past three months murdered on their sovereign’s orders.

As she was led to the scaffold, a Franciscan friar proceeded to the prisoner.   

“It is time to repent, Madame,” began the churchman sternly. “Do not perish in sin.”

In her customary haughty manner, Agnes continued, “I did not have my last meal, for there will be greater provisions for innocents in paradise. I spoke to my chaplain who absolved me.”

As the monk stepped aside, the procession continued towards Tower Green, with Exeter at its helm. The sight of the old brave duchess elicited cries of compassion and disapproval from the spectators whose faces literarily paved the area. Not an eye was dry.

It was an early hour, and the fog had cleared off. The rain had ceased, but the air was a bit damp, and it was snowing a little. The morning was gloomy, and the sky seemed especially gray today. A flock of crows and ravens, attracted by their instinct, wheeled around overhead.  

A squad of halberdiers left the procession near the scaffold draped in black. Preceded by the Marquess of Exeter, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk ascended the scaffold with her head held at a regal and intrepid angle, her chin rebelliously high. The wrinkled and exhausted face of Agnes embodied transcendental joy, her typical Howard arrogance, and superb composure at the thought of her upcoming end. The Earls of Southampton and of Shrewsbury climbed after her.

The executioner addressed, “Your Grace, please forgive me, but I must do my job.”

Agnes answered, “It is not your fault, my son. Keep me in your prayers.”

“I shall.” The man felt moisture under the black leather mask covering his face.

Exeter neared Agnes. “Madame, you should kneel. You will feel nothing.”

She recalled, “My Anne once asked for a French executioner from Calais.”

“It’s him,” Exeter responded. The executioner nodded.  

Agnes gazed Exeter in the eye. “Did you make that ulcerated tyrant commute my sentence to beheading by the French steel? Thank you – you are a better man than the king.”

Southampton and Shrewsbury exchanged anxious glances of incredulity.   

Exeter confirmed, “Yes, I did, out of my respect to your rank.” His scrutiny veered to the two earls. “Don’t spy upon me. You will not report anything new to our liege lord.”

As Agnes stood in the center of the scaffold, a collective groan of compassion arose from the spectators. Many women burst out crying, and prayers were uttered. Several months earlier, the Countess of Salisbury and her sons had stood there, and everyone remembered them well.

Having given his cloak back to Exeter, Agnes advanced to the rail. “I pray that you all bear me witness I die a true Christian woman. I shall be saved by no other means save the mercy of God, and the merits of the blood of His only son, Jesus Christ. If ever in my life I neglected the Lord’s word and loved myself more than the Creator, my death is a punishment for my sins.” Her voice rose. “I beseech you to pray for England and for Princess Elizabeth.”

Many fervent responses rang in the air like a clap of thunder. It sounded like an anathema to the King of England, whose brutality had long become the most appalling legend. The bloody executions of the Poles, when even the small son of the late Henry Pole, Baron Montagu, had been decapitated, were engraved on their memory. It had taken the axeman four strikes to behead the Countess of Salisbury, so the people were relieved that Agnes would not suffer so.

Her head bowed, Agnes Howard knelt next to a heap of straw, her hands clasped as if in prayer. The executioner stationed himself beside her. As Agnes began praying in Latin, no one reprimanded her, and the throng also prayed, half of it in Latin and the other in English.   

The Marquess of Exeter prayed in Latin in his mind. Because of Pope Paul III’s villainies, he was no longer as ardent and staunch in his Catholic beliefs as he had once been. Yet, he was not a Protestant either, his views fluctuating between Catholicism and heresy. Dear Lord, I beg you to forgive me for my inability to stop King Henry’s oppression, or he will kill me like others.

After the prayer, the Duchess of Norfolk appealed, “Send me to heaven!” 

“God be with you, Madame,” responded the executioner.

Agnes clasped her hands into a prayerful knot. “Lord, to You I commend my spirit!” As she saw steel descending onto her, her last words were, “God bless Princess Elizabeth!” 

The sword flashed and met the human flesh. One of the wisest heads that ever sat on female shoulders in England had been chopped off with one clean strike. Lamentations in her honor echoed through the air.  The severed head rolled over the platform, leaving a bloody trail.

§§§

The Earl of Southampton grabbed Agnes’ head. “Behold the head of a traitor!” he shouted. “Every traitor to the king will suffer a worse fate than that of this harpy. His benevolent Majesty commuted her sentence. Yet, no commoner will be as lucky as the Duchess of Norfolk.”

The Marquess of Exeter was disgusted with Southampton’s lame attempts to ingratiate himself into the royal favor. “The snowfall is beginning. We need to leave.”

Within the space of a few heartbeats, the snowfall became so intense that the scaffold was white. Several crying women, Agnes’ former maids, collected her head and her remains so as to put them inside a simple wooden coffin that had been prepared yesterday at Exeter’s behest.

Before the nobles could leave, the audience broke into shouts against the king.

“Two months earlier, the innocent Pole family were all executed!” 

“Just as the Poles were without sin, this old lady was innocent too!” 

“The Dowager Duchess of Norfolk demonstrated such courage!” 

“God bless the Poles and Her Grace of Norfolk!” 

“The last remaining Plantagenets were killed by the king!” 

“Our monarch is a tyrant killing the old English nobility!” 

“Ah, God! Our king murdered Queen Kitty Howard!” 

The Marquess of Exeter agreed with them, but it was his job to shut them up. “Everyone who has been condemned by King Henry is a traitor to England and the House of Tudor. No one has the right to question his decisions. His Majesty’s commands must be obeyed.” 

The halberdiers compelled the grumbling people to disperse. Then Exeter, Southampton, and Shrewsbury descended the scaffold to see a distressed Archbishop Thomas Cranmer.

Shrewsbury enquired, “Your Grace, is everything all right?”

Cranmer mumbled, “Yes, my lord. Good day.” Then he scampered away.

Southampton leered. “The executions frightened him.”

“Let’s go,” commanded Exeter, impatient to leave this place.

On the way from the Tower Green, the Marquess of Exeter thought of King Henry. Once Henry had been the merry Duke of York, with whom Hal Courtenay had grown up thanks to the courtesy of the late Elizabeth of York. Like Suffolk, Exeter had assumed that Henry VII’s second son would make a better king than solemn Prince Arthur, who had excelled in studies and been knowledgeable, but who had never been athletic and disliked outdoor activities.

In fact, Prince Arthur could have been a better ruler. That was Exeter’s conclusion despite his years of being a member of Henry’s inner sanctum and the monarch’s close friend. Now he was the chief minister and Lord Chancellor! Exeter had climbed higher than Wolsey, Cromwell, Suffolk, Hertford, and Norfolk – they were all dead, save Hertford and Norfolk, in whose death Exeter did not believe. Yet, Exeter had never been in more peril from his sovereign than now.

Exeter, Southampton, and Shrewsbury, together with their pages, mounted. They could not leave by water as the River Thames was frozen. They rode slowly because of the snowfall.

“My Cathy,” the name of his beloved slipped from Exeter’s lips. No one heard him.

The marquess had left Nonsuch Palace a week earlier, having gone to London to oversee the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk’s execution. At court, he never stayed alone with the queen, for if someone had learned about their erstwhile romance, their lives could be forfeited.

As a haze of red enveloped him, Exeter tightened the reins, unconcerned by blasts of wind blowing into his face. The monarch continued bedding Catherine Parr regularly, angry with her for the lack of pregnancy, yet not intending to annul their matrimony so far, which was Exeter’s dream. Jealousy consumed Exeter so much that it was getting more difficult to control it.

These days, treasonous thoughts tumbled through Exeter’s head, tangled with his fiercest emotions. If only Henry died and Prince Edward – my son – succeeded him, I would become Lord Protector during his minority and would restore England to stability without bloodshed. I would marry Cathy, then! Nonetheless, the iron-hearted ruler was alive and bedded his wife and his mistresses, Philippa Bassett being his favorite whore. The Creator was sniggering at Exeter.


April 1, 1547, Nonsuch Palace, near Cheam, Surrey, England

If King Henry did not sit in an ornately carved throne, he would have collapsed. Roving his eyes over the wall hangings portraying scenes from the Norman conquest of England, the ruler envisaged Emperor Carlos impaled on a sword, sticking out of his body, in a pool of blood.

“Emperor Carlos was killed at Marignano,” reiterated the Marquess of Exeter.

Bone-cracking headache pounded in the king’s skull. “What?”

Exeter prayed that there would be no outburst of rage on his liege lord’s part. “Emperor Carlos fell on the battlefield of Marignano right on his birthday. Another piece of sad news is that the late emperor’s daughter, Infanta Maria of Spain, passed away of grief in Valladolid.”

The monarch slumped into his throne. “And the new emperor?”

“On the 24th of February 1547 after Carlos’ demise, his brother Ferdinand von Habsburg – also King of Bohemia, Hungary, and Croatia – succeeded his brother as Holy Roman Emperor. The next King of the Romans will be elected within six months, and obviously he will be Ferdinand’s eldest son – Archduke Maximilian, who is betrothed to Princess Aimée of France.”

Emperor Ferdinand,” drawled Henry with scorn and amazement.   

Exeter watched his sovereign blanch, purple, and redden. Unlike the English ruler, he had the opposite attitude towards the changes in the Habsburg family landscape. Ferdinand was not warmongering and advocated peace. Only in peace, countries could prosper and scan new horizons of accomplishments in economy, culture, science, and even religion, Exeter ruminated.

“What of Carlos’ son Felipe?” stammered Henry, still possessed by the shock.

“The Spanish Habsburgs are in deep mourning,” answered Exeter, putting on a sorrowful face. “During the past several months, three of them were torn apart from the world of the living: Emperor Carlos, Infanta Maria, and the child your daughter, Dowager Empress Mary, lost.” He sighed. “Prince Felipe and his sister, Juana of Austria, shut themselves up in St Trudo’s Abbey in Bruges, in western Flanders, to grieve and pray for the souls of their relatives.”

At last, the king recovered his wits. “Did Felipe succeed Carlos as his heir?”

“Prince Felipe may be proclaimed Felipe the Second of Spain, Aragon, Naples, Sicily, and so on, as well as Lord of the Netherlands. Queen Juana of Castile is now in Italy. As long as Juana does not abdicate in Felipe’s favor, she will be considered the mistress of all these lands.”

“Ah, Juana ‘La Loca’. Ah, ah, ah!” Henry tittered. “She turned out not to be insane.”

“Seems so, sire. Some settlement between Felipe and Ferdinand must happen. Most likely, the Habsburg dynasty will be divided into the branches of the Austrian and Spanish Habsburgs.”

The ruler’s mind floated to his eldest daughter. “Where is Mary now?”

Exeter was surprised to see the shifting emotions across his sovereign’s face. The man still had a semblance of some paternal feelings! The minister informed, “Dowager Empress Mary is staying in Mantua together with Ferdinand’s sister, Queen Catherine of Portugal.”

“If Mary comes back to England, I’ll use her for another alliance.”

Mary would not return until her father was dead, Exeter knew that. “She is convalescing after the birth ordeal. She is also in mourning for her late husband.”

“Mary lost everything by supporting Ferdinand. Carlos sent to me many angry letters about her disobedience and her attempts to sway him to peace. I’m certain that Felipe will never allow her to obtain the custody of her only son – Juan of Austria. So, Mary is alone in the world.”

Exeter pitied the girl. “Will Your Majesty interfere?”

“What can I do?” Henry shrugged. “This is not my realm.”

The royal chief minister broached another issue. “I’m trying to ensure that Marie de Guise, Dowager Queen of Scotland, agrees to have the little Queen Mary betrothed to Prince Edward.”

The monarch demanded, “Work harder, my friend.”

Exeter distinguished a threat in this statement. “I shall, sire.”

“Did you dispatch more soldiers to Norfolk, Hal? That uprising must be finally squashed.”

It was another reason why the marquess could not sleep well. “I sent Southampton with his men there. The joint forces of the Earls of Arundel and of Southampton will defeat them.”

The sovereign of England rose from his throne. “I want them all dead for treason.”

Exeter bowed in obeisance. “I passed your commands on to Arundel and Southampton.”

King Henry stomped across the room and exited. Now Exeter could breathe freely.  

§§§

Reaching the queen’s apartments, an incensed King Henry tore open the doors and barged inside. At the sight of him, his wife’s ladies-in-waiting jumped to their feet and curtsied.

“You are dismissed!” bellowed the monarch. “All of you!” 

The handmaidens scurried out of the antechamber. The others, including Lady Bess Holland and Lady Anne Parr, exited the bedroom, bobbed awkward curtsies, and then ran away.

Henry lumbered over to the bedchamber. “Catherine! I am here!” 

Upon entering, the ruler marveled at the picture of meek loveliness. Clad in a fashionable gown of purple damask ornamented with amethysts, Queen Catherine Parr froze in an elegant curtsey, her scrutiny downcast, and her visage pale, as if all the color had been vacuumed out.

The spacious bedroom fitted the seventh consort of the Tudor ruler perfectly well. The sumptuous interior was of moderate grandeur, with expensive mahogany furniture sitting on thick Aubusson carpets, and with a large bed canopied with yards of silk in all colors. The walls were swathed in red brocade, here and there adorned with the panels showing Juno and Neptune.

Lewd demons clawed through King Henry. All mine, skin almost translucent, submissive, beautiful. Scared – she must know who I am. He demanded from Catherine absolute obedience and deference to him. Women could not be allowed to become too independent growing aware of themselves and of the power that they could wield over men. He would not repeat the same mistakes as he had done with Catherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn.

“Rise, Madame,” his cold voice permitted.

Catherine strengthened her spine, her orbs lowered. “Your Majesty…” 

Henry neared her. “Can this pallor be attributed to your pregnancy, Cathy?”

She shook her head. “No, sire. I’ve not missed my courses yet.”

He circled his spouse. “So, they come regularly. Did you consult my physicians?”

The queen released a sigh. Every time he asked her the same questions. “Yes, I did. They don’t think that I’m incapable of bearing children, saying that we need to keep trying.”   

Henry stopped behind his consort. Snaking his arm around her waist, he whispered into her ear, “The institution of marriage is undermined because some monarchs such as that Valois mischief-maker permit women to rule alongside him. No amount of persuasion can make me agree with François that women should be both pretty and intelligent. The main quality in a wife, especially in a queen, is her breeding potential. Do you hear me?”

Fright rushed through Catherine, chilly and biting, dousing her into anxieties, petrifying her. Her husband had never beaten her or handled her roughly, but the savagery etched into his features and an air of brutality about Henry terrified her. Since their return from France, colossal quantities of bitterness and wrath were amassing within the confines of his beastly heart, and one day, they would explode. Gracious Lord, I beg you to protect me from my own husband.  

His hand tightened around her waist. “It is not easy to be a queen, especially mine.”

For a split second, his consort saw a human being in him, so she answered softly, “Having many responsibilities, Your Majesty is beleaguered with threats and enemies.”

He grinned wickedly as he turned his wife around in his arms. “What about your duties?

“What?” A sense of nervousness was building up within her.

“You owe me a son,” the monarch ground out, pressing himself to her.

Catherine felt his arousal through the layers of her skirts. “I pray for a male child.” That was falsehood because she prayed for the annulment of their matrimony every day twice.

“Well,” he said slowly, brushing his mouth against hers, “once I spotted you, my beguiling little witch, among that dead adulteress Kitty’s ladies. I was instantly charmed by you.”

“Really?” she queried in trepidation.

“Yes, dear Cathy,” the king replied with a sliver of gentleness. “You were Lord Latimer’s widow when I first saw you at Hatfield as my late son Edmund’s governess. I wanted to make you my mistress, but then I invited another woman to warm my bed. I did the right thing because you and I did not have carnal relations before our wedding, so God must bless us with a son.”

“Hopefully, it will happen soon.”

His mouth was drawn in a grimace. “I received bad news. You will help me forget.”

Catherine swallowed her disgust. “Should I undress as usual, sire?”

The Queen of England eyed her husband. Attired in a doublet of crimson silk passmented with gold and bedecked with Tudor escutcheons, Henry looked like a powerful monarch with an aura of blood red cloaking him. Now his face was rather more wrinkled than at the time of their wedding, but he was slimmer because the illness in Boulogne had resulted in his significant loss of weight. I do not want the king, but I have to endure our intercourse as his spouse.

“That would not be necessary, Cathy.” He rapidly unlaced his hose.

The ruler scoped his spouse into his arms and carried her to the bed. As he released her for a moment, Henry pulled his hose down to his knees and settled himself on the bed. Then he steered a nonplussed Catherine to him, pulled her skirts up, and set her down on his manhood.

“Ride me,” ordered Henry. “Move as if you were in the saddle.”

Catherine knew that a woman could dominate intimacy with her partner, for she had often experimented with Exeter during their rendezvous. Throwing her head back not to look at the man whom she did not love, she let him thrust into her, increasing the rhythm, as if catching the current of a river. Groaning, the king was mindless with hunger, his arms enveloped passionately around her neck as his spouse rocked hard against him back and forth, up and down.

Henry shot her a disgruntled look. “Not enough.”

“What is wrong?” She risked a glance at his flustered face.

In a swift motion, they found themselves on the floor, with Henry resting atop of her. He began slamming into her even harder and faster, with a lustful ferocity. As pain rippled through his leg where the ulcer troubled him again, he labored to have the torturous sensations dissolved in a lake of pleasure that was gradually submerging him entirely.

“You must give me a son,” growled Henry. “A healthy son, not a weakling!”  

It is not very pleasant, moaned the queen silently. Lord, give me a child so that the king spends time with his mistresses instead of me. It was the first time when she beseeched the Creator to give her the ruler’s baby. Her union contained no virtues; the only man she loved could not be with her. Her motherhood would not be of free choice, of love, of physical ecstasies, and not even of primitive passion, but perhaps the child would fill the void in her soul.

Since she had laid her eyes on Exeter, Catherine dreamed of having his baby. A child of her mutual love for Courtenay! Yet, she would welcome the king’s child because there would be her blood in its veins. However, most of the Tudor kids were stillborn or frail. Would she miscarry if she conceived? Or would her baby have a crown of thorns upon its innocent head lest it was born sickly? Any unsuccessful pregnancy could become the harbinger of her demise.

Holding her down by her shoulder blades, the ruler pounded into her with all the finesse of a bull, grunting loudly. The queen felt the warmth of the carpet beneath her that chilled her, and the walls seemed to be closing in on her, as if she were in a deadly trap. Henry shuddered and spilled his seed into her, and Catherine felt tainted, tainted to the depths of her soul.

The king climbed to his feet and laced his hose. The pungent odor of the rotting flesh from his ulcer hit Catherine’s nostrils, and she compelled herself to hide her repugnance.

Henry tittered. “A woman’s place is at her husband’s feet, especially if he is a monarch.”

“Yes, my lord.” Sitting on the floor, Catherine re-arranged her skirts.

“I would prefer you to be more active in bed, Cathy. That is my order.”

“As Your Majesty wishes.” She contemplated her fingernails not to look at him.

“But if your womb is cursed…” His hissing voice was low. “Pray that it is not so.”

The king strode to his quarters to summon his wanton mistress – Lady Filippa Bassett.

Depleted of her strength, yet full of helpless rage, Catherine Parr pounded her fists into the floor and wept. Her handmaidens flocked to their mistress, but she sent them away, save her sister Anne Parr, Countess of Pembroke, into whose arms the queen launched herself headlong as soon as they remained alone. Only Anne Parr brought Catherine a sense of relative peace.   

Notes:

The new chapter is up! We hope you, our dear readers, are fine and well.

Ferdinand von Habsburg is now Holy Roman Emperor. He inherited this title automatically as King of the Romans, who was promoted and in fact made Carlos’ deputy in the Holy Roman Empire by Carlos himself. Now Ferdinand has to deal with the consequences of the battle of Marignano, in which Carlos fell, so he went to Spain and would see his brother’s son.

Juana accepted her son’s death, but she is of course in mourning for Carlos. We hope you like the communication between Anne Boleyn and Juana. We killed off Infanta Maria of Spain, Felipe’s sister, because Archduke Maximilian of Austria will marry Princess Aimée of France, not Maria, so we had no place for her in this long epic and in a sequel. Anne and François discussed some more alliances and the House of Guise, important future antagonists.

Spain and the vast holdings of the late Emperor Carlos have a new master – Felipe II of Spain. He cannot become King of Spain and Lord of his many lands automatically as Juana of Castile is alive and is no longer jailed at the royal palace of Tordessillas. As a result, there will be some settlement between Ferdinand and Felipe in the next chapters. Juana abdicated because she wants to spend the rest of her life with Ferdinand in Vienna. Perhaps Mary Tudor, Carlos’ widow, will be given a second chance at happiness, like Anne received it after her departure from England.

In England, King Henry is continuing his tyrannical rule. The vengeful Henry cannot forget that Agnes Howard, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, was probably aware of Kitty Howard’s affair with Francis Dereham. We hope that you like our portrayal of Agnes, who is a guest character in this chapter. The Marquess of Exeter is not pleased with the executions of the Pole family and that of Agnes Howard, but he cannot prevent Henry from killing them because Exeter can be arrested and murdered as well. Henry knows of Carlos’ death, and it will also have consequences.

Catherine Parr is not happy in her marriage to Henry, but there is little she can do about it. Will she have a child with Henry? Or will their marriage be annulled because of the lack of her pregnancy? Catherine and Exeter are in love, and we must say that they have an interesting character arc in later chapters, though also a tragic one. Everyone pays for their crimes and mistakes in this fiction. As for Henry, he will die in chapter 87 in an usual manner.

Attention! We posted a prologue to the sequel “Chained by Blood and Power” (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We still have more than 30 chapters in CWL and will need a couple of years, perhaps less, to post them, but we decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 83: Chapter 82: An Accidental Murder

Summary:

Queen Anne and King François remain in Italy. Catherine de’ Medici, Dauphine of France, and her accomplices do something very bad, with unexpected results. Shadows of doom are closing in around Catherine as Dauphin Henri was given the diary of Diane de Poitiers.

Notes:

Attention! The prologue to the sequel “Chained by Blood and Power” (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don't forget about our work "Entwined by a Golden Alliance" co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 82: An Accidental Murder

April 20, 1547, Villa di Cafaggiolo, Barberino di Mugello, Tuscany, Italy

The sun shone down onto the emerald trees and the green lawns. The air was filled with the scent of spring. The balmy stillness was punctuated by the gentle swish of water in fountains in the gardens where Queen Anne of France and Duchess Marie de Montmorency strolled.

Anne breathed the flagrance of blossoms. “I feel like a bird that can fly anywhere – to France and to any part of Europe, excluding England ruled by my former tyrannical husband.”

Smiling at her sister, Marie answered, “Freedom can’t be absolute.”

“Especially not for a queen,” accented Anne with a hint of sadness.

“We will be more or less free from the past only when that Tudor beast finally dies.”

The Queen of France directed her gaze at the statue of Zeus, which she had found in the midst of a row of marble antique statues. “The righteous wrath of the Almighty will descend onto that monster from heavens when he least expects it, sending him to the netherworld.”

“Is there something I do not know, sister?” Marie was suspicious.

Anne and Marie halted near the statues. To the right from them there was an herbal garden.

The queen regarded the statues of the Greek god Zeus again. “Sometimes, I think I can be entirely liberated from the confines of my fears only after Henry Tudor breathes his last.”

“I’m not astonished after what that beastly madman did to you in Boulogne, Anne.”

“You will not tell anyone, will you, Marie? Not even your husband?”

Marie stepped to her sister and enfolded Anne into her arms. They froze in this pose for a long moment: two siblings who loved each other and knew one another’s secrets, who had lost a lot and been almost broken by the selfishness of the Tudor ruler before finding peace and happiness again in France. The Boleyn girls were different, yet so much alike in many aspects.

As they parted, Marie chided, “How can you admit a thought that I can betray you?”

A shamefaced Anne nevertheless remarked, “You adore Monty. Doubtless, there are no secrets between the two of you. But my disgrace should not be known to others.”

“Of course not.” Marie expelled a sigh of sorrow. “Does Dauphin Henri know the truth? He and his army released you from your English captivity in Boulogne.”

“No, Henri doesn’t. Françoise de Foix is aware of everything because she was in Boulogne when it all happened. Queen Catherine Parr, the Duke of Suffolk, – God rest his soul – and the Marquess of Exeter also know about their liege lord’s act of violence against me.”

Bafflement painted Marie’s face. “Surprisingly, Suffolk sacrificed himself for you.”

The queen’s gaze drifted to the statue of the ancient god Dolus. “For years, Charles Brandon was like Dolus for me – the dark spirit of trickery and guile. Brandon strove to destroy Henry’s obsession with me by any means, including telling him about my fake affair with Thomas Wyatt. However, Suffolk’s plots did not work until Henry grew tired of me.”

Mary admitted, “I was sad to learn about the death of Thomas Wyatt.”

A diplomat and an illustrious poet, Sir Thomas Wyatt had passed away at his family’s Allington Castle in 1542. After the downfall of the Boleyns, he had been jailed in the Tower of London for allegedly committing adultery with Anne, having been spared later only thanks to his father’s friendship with Thomas Cromwell. Wyatt had spent his last several years in seclusion, although he had been restored to the royal favor after 1540, but for a short time.

“I regret Wyatt’s death as well. I never had any amorous relationship with him, although Thomas pursued me and promised me to separate from his wife so as to marry me.”

“Wyatt loved you, Anne, just as some others did.”

The queen chuckled. “I enjoyed flirting with men, fueling their desire for me.”

Marie burst out laughing. “Oh, yes, that you did, sister! Wyatt was so enamored of you that I’m certain he would have gone to any depths just to be with you, but if you had wished that.”

“Well, I did not.” Anne added with a giggle, “Although I liked his sonnets penned for me.”

“More than François’ poetry for you?” Marie’s intonation was teasing.

Her sister smirked. “No, my husband’s poetry is the tenderest and finest.”

Both sisters thought of twists and turns in their lives. The sun-drenched landscape before their eyes was a glorious picture of nature, too great a thing not to appreciate its beauty.

The queen’s mind meandered back to Suffolk. “Charles Brandon is often on my mind. He seized the chance to bring me down and was guilty of George’s death. However, he was kind to my dearest Elizabeth in England and during my captivity in Boulogne, letting her meet with her siblings.” She smiled with a sort of tragic admiration. “Suffolk’s heroism when he took Henry’s arrow meant for me… This picture still stands before my eyes. I forgave him for everything.”

Marie remembered what her spouse had told her. “Monty says that François wants to erect a monument in the Duke of Suffolk’s memory in Boulogne. Perhaps to spite Henry.”

“Only partly. François admires Suffolk’s sacrifice, and he already asked his sister to commission some talented architect, most likely Philibert de l’Orme, to build this monument.”

“I’d like to see Henry’s face when he learns about it.”

The sisters tittered as they envisaged the furious countenance of the English monarch.

“Anne, tell me the truth. Did you really recover emotionally from that horrible assault?”

“More or less.” Anne closed her eyes for a split second. “As much as I could.”

“Surely, François does not blame you for that.” Marie’s voice was uneasy.

The Queen of France breathed with the serenity of her immortal affection for her husband. “On the contrary, François blames himself for my torments, saying that it was his husbandly duty to safeguard me. He was most gracious and became more overprotective of me.”

“That I did not doubt.” Marie’s scrutiny was latched on to the statue of Zeus. “You are our king’s French Hera. François would not pardon Henry for desecrating your matrimony and love. Tell me, sister: will His Majesty endeavor to extract vengeance against the tyrant?”  

Anne remained silent, but Marie could read the response in Anne’s two black pools. They were now far blacker than the lowest pits of the underworld, blessed by Hades, and overflowing with immeasurable animosity that could be quenched only with Henry Tudor’s blood.

Marie inferred, “You must be planning something.”

Anne’s answer was mysterious. “François started one thing, but we need more time.”

“Despite his natural impulsiveness, the Valois Zeus is smart and conniving. Even when he is enraged, he can be more cunning than Dolus. I believe the punishment will be severe.”

A sanguinary fog blanketed Anne’s vision. “Henry will shed tears of blood.”  

The Duchess de Montmorency surveyed her sister. Good rest and tranquility at the Medici villa, coupled with the gentle care and attention of François and Marie, allowed Anne to make her physical recovery. Anne had gained enough weight back, so her clothes no longer hang on her like wings on a grand sort of bird, and her unhealthy pallor was now gone. My sister is a fighter – she will be cope. I do not blame her and François for their decision to get rid of Henry.

The Boleyn girls walked towards the distant part of the park with a series of arbors.

§§§

Finding Benedetto Varchi in one of the arbors, Anne and Marie joined him there. The sun climbed higher in the sky, and the sisters welcomed the cool shade and their intellectual talk.

Today Marie enjoyed asking provocative questions. “Do you prefer living in the Duchy of Florence? Or do you want to restore the Florentine Republic, Messer Varchi?

Varchi was an audacious risk-taker in everything. “I’ve always been and shall always be a supporter of liberal values. His Grace Cosimo de’ Medici is aware of this despite our friendship.”

Benedetto Varchi had defended the temporarily revived Republic of Florence during the siege of 1530 by the Mediceans and the Imperial forces. After the city’s surrender, he had been exiled, but Cosimo had called him back, having given Varchi a pension and commissioned him to write a history of the city. It was the book ‘Storia Fiorentina’ in sixteen volumes.

Like many artists and humanists patronized by Cosimo de’ Medici, Varchi often appeared at Medici palaces and villas. Always dressed in black, he had brown eyes and short black hair, his complexion swarthy, his manner stern and simultaneously frank. A Renaissance humanist interested in botany and alchemy, Varchi was a notable member of the Accademia Fiorentina, occupied with studies of linguistics, literary criticism, esthetics, and philosophy.  

Anne stressed, “Cosimo is a proponent of enlightened absolute monarchy. Those who once wanted to subvert the Medici rule in Florence and revive the Republic may find common ground with Cosimo thanks to his intelligence, pragmatism, and affection for his people.”  

“It took me quite some time to understand that,” confessed Varchi with a hint of shame. “Yet, everyone should be allowed to publish their opinion on any subject freely.”

Marie opined, “Only few people sharing such values are ready to fight for them.”

“Most people are conservative.” Anne slanted a glance towards a bed of roses. “And not ready for things progressive and innovative. Any major shift in history of a nation or country is met with drama and occasional opposition because human beings are naturally afraid of changes. Should they put aside this irrationality, civilizations would progress at a quicker pace.”

“Yes, but reality is different.” Varchi gazed towards the same flowerbed. “In monarchies, citizens do not comprehend that freedom of speech and decision-making is a natural birthright of man. Without freedom, humans wither like a rose plucked from the garden.”

Marie’s lips curved in a grin. “Are your views welcomed by Cosimo?”

Varchi guffawed. “Only as long as they remain words. They will not go further.”

Anne recalled what Cosimo had told her about this man. “Messer Varchi, you are writing a book about the history of Florence. Are you reflecting these things in it?”

“Yes, I am.” Varchi turned thoughtful, drumming his fingers rhythmically along the bench where they were seated. “Every nation goes through the cycle of modifications, including their government. Some societies transform into tyrannies, others mature into republics, while others become monarchies. At present, Florence must exist and function as  a hereditary monarchy.”

Anne and Marie stared at the humanist in confused astonishment.

Varchi explained at length. “Florence would have descended into anarchy if no competent ruler such as Duke Cosimo appeared. Historically, the Republic of Florence was governed by a council called the Signoria, which consisted of nine members. The head of the Signoria was the gonfaloniere elected every two months in a lottery, as was the Signoria. The Medici has long controlled all these elections, starting from Cosimo di’ Bicci the Elder.”

After a brief pause, Varchi resumed speaking. “Over time, the old ruling structures became too corrupt and outdated. Voters generally favored policies that enhanced their own well-being with little consideration for that of future generations or for long-term positive outcomes. For the city’s prosperity in future, Florence needed a strong leader like His Grace Cosimo.”  

Anne speculated, “One of the most fundamental obstacles to effective governance is the short cycle between votes in Republican states such as the Sienese and Genoese Republics. In Venice the government mechanisms are more pragmatic: the Doge is elected for life.”

Varchi admired the queen’s brilliant mind. “Frequent elections cause instability. I know about Cosimo’s plans for Florence. Hopefully, his descendants will be as clever as he is.”

Usually staying out of politics, at times Marie welcomed such discussions. “We all evolve, including political systems. Who knows what will happen in centuries to come.”

Varchi commented, “If the republic works, it delivers growth and fundamental freedoms in a way that no other system can. Sadly, it failed to do so in Florence, so it had to go away, for now at least. However, when the current system fails, it will be replaced by another system capable of doing a better job for the population. The same will eventually happen in France.”

Anne feared to imagine that one day, someone could want to depose the Valois monarchy. Her children were princes and princesses of the blood! “It is unlikely to occur in France.”

The humanist read her terrors with ease. “Your husband’s dearly departed friend, Leonardo da Vinci, said, ‘Nature never breaks her own laws’. Evolution of everything is one of its laws.”

The queen smiled at him in sadness and comprehension. “As I’m feeling much better now, so I’m itching to attend the celebrated meetings of Florentine humanists and artists.”

Varchi leaned back against the arbor’s wall. “Many yearn to resume our regular gatherings at Cafaggiolo. His Grace Cosimo has been telling everyone that the Queen of France needs peace and quiet. My friends are impatient to meet with the Knight-King who brought Italian art and architecture to France, and with Your Majesty. You and your husband are a famed couple!”   

Anne was flattered. “We patronize many artists at our court.”

Marie recollected, “I had my own cultural circles in Rome as well.”

Benedetto Varchi recalled, “Once this villa was a favorite meeting place for many Italian intellectuals thanks to Lorenzo Il Magnifico. Duke Cosimo is following in his footsteps.”

In half an hour, the Boleyn sisters left the garden and returned to the villa.

§§§

Marie and Anne were surprised to discover a cavalcade in the central courtyard. Standard of Ferdinand von Habsburg waved in the air as the breeze blew from the valley of the River Sieve. Servants were unloading trunks from chariots, each draped in Bohemian colors.

King François stood conversing with a young man – Maximilian von Habsburg, the new emperor’s eldest son and his future successor to the Holy Roman Empire. Of athletic build and height taller than average, now aged twenty, Maximilian cut quite a handsome figure in his dark brown outfit ornamented with pearls, his black damask cap festooned with a white feather.

At the sight of the Boleyns, Maximilian approached them and dropped into a bow.

The Valois ruler neared them. “Let’s welcome our future son-in-law.” 

Maximilian surveyed the two women, his eyes fixing upon Anne. He addressed the queen in excellent, but accented, French. “I’m delighted to see Your Majesty hale and hearty. Margot, my stepmother, told me magnificent things about you and my bride, Princess Aimée.”

Anne greeted him with a smile. “Your Highness, I’m happy to see a fine young prince such as yourself. We will gladly welcome you into our family when time comes.”

“We will wait for as long as necessary,” Maximilian assured. After Infanta Maria of Spain’s recent death, he became more interested in marrying a Valois princess.

François characterized, “Aimée resembles my wife in many ways.”

Nonetheless, Anne added, “But our girl’s character is… more delicate than mine.”

A sense of awareness colored Maximilian’s visage. “That I was told, too, Your Majesties. I shall treat her as the rarest and most beautiful flower on earth, the most exotic one.”

“We believe Your Highness,” the monarch answered truthfully.

Marie put in, “My niece, Aimée, is a nymph of music.” Maximilian smiled, nodding.  

François and Anne viewed Maximilian. With his pale blue eyes, his dour complexion, and his brunette hair, the young man looked much like his father and his grandfather, Ferdinand of Aragon. Yet, in spite of his muscular built and his imperial bearing, Maximilian had a peculiar air of gentleness – of something soft and natural – about him, which even his noble father lacked. It was attractive and a latent power, which could be applied to endear others to him.

Maximilian looks and acts exactly as Ferdinand described him, Anne and François mused as they traded glances of satisfaction. The fact that he was a decade older that Aimée did not worry them, for Ferdinand usually kept his promises, unlike his late brother. Moreover, a young man needed to spend some time enjoying the pleasures of bachelorhood, and Maximilian still had a few years of freedom before he could become a loyal husband, just as his father was.

“Should we go inside?” Anne gestured towards the villa.

They entered the castle where the servants welcomed the Habsburg guest. In the great hall they met Duke Cosimo of Florence, who bowed to the Archduke of Austria and then ordered to prepare a dinner for all of them tonight. Their mood was as sunny as the day itself.


May 8, 1547, Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, close to Paris, France

Dauphine Catherine stood near the wooden crib where her daughter, Princess Élisabeth, slept. A sigh of frustration fled her: when she had conceived again during her short sojourn in Italy, she had hoped it would be another son. The child had turned out to be a daughter named so by Queen Marguerite of Navarre because this name was unique in the Valois family.

“Why are you not a boy?” asked Catherine, as if the baby could understand her.

Yesterday, the Medici woman had arrived at Saint-Germain from Amboise so as to visit her children. Most importantly, today it was a long-awaited day of her punishment for King François and Queen Anne for all their sins, especially for the assassination of Pope Paul III.

Princess Élisabeth stirred and opened her brown eyes, staring at her mother. She had her father Henri’s color and form of eyes. A tuft of dark hair and a swarthy complexion attested to the mixture of the girl’s Valois and Medici ancestry. The child seemed to be healthy and curious.

“Argh!” wailed Élisabeth, lifting her little hands.

“Charlotte!” roared Catherine. “My daughter needs something.” 

The dauphine had to call several times until the governess appeared. She was Charlotte le Sueur d’Esquetot, the wife of Charles de Cossé, Count de Brissac. After the execution of Diane de Poitiers, both of Diane’s daughters and their families had been banished from court. Françoise de Brézé, who had once served as a governess to Dauphin Henri’s offspring, had been replaced. Marguerite of Navarre had chosen Countess Charlotte de Brissac, as she trusted her.

Charlotte entered the nursery while leading Prince François and Princess Claude.

“Madame la Dauphine,” began Charlotte as she curtsied. “We strolled in the gardens.”

“Take care of my daughter,” commanded Catherine while surveying her two children.

Charlotte strode over to her and took the infant Élisabeth. “The little one is hungry.”

“Take my daughter to her wet nurse.” The dauphine’s voice was colored with annoyance.

Silent and gloomy, as if scared, François and Claude stepped deeper into the room. The girl made an awkward curtsey, and the boy bowed, their expressions strained.

“Your Highnesses, Madame la Dauphine is here,” their governess encouraged.

After bobbing a curtsey, Charlotte departed the chamber, carrying the infant.

“François and Claude!” Catherine beckoned them to her. “Come to me, my darlings.”

Nonetheless, the princess and the prince remained silent, sharing confused glances.

Her temper exacerbated, Catherine scrutinized her two eldest offspring.

Clothed in green damask, at his four years Prince François looked less frail than during the first year of his life. However, his skin was sickeningly white, and his eyes were vacant, as though there were no coherent thought behind them. At the age of three, he was rather lean and of short stature; Queen Anne’s male offspring were taller at a similar age. My astrologers were right: François will never be a healthy prince. He did not inherit Henri’s or my intelligence.

Claude’s eyes flashed. “We enjoyed a hide-and-seek-game, Madame.”

Catherine let out a small smile. “Did you like it, my dear?”

“Yes, I did,” answered Claude quickly. “Especially with Charlotte. I like her more than our previous governess. We are friends, and I want her to always be with us.” 

“I’m glad, Claude.” Catherine’s gaze slid to her eldest son. “Did you play, François?”

The prince’s scrutiny was downcast. “I watched Claude and Charlotte.”

“Finally, at least one word,” the dauphine snapped with disgust.

Claude defended her brother. “François will learn to be more active.”

Catherine trained her eyes on her daughter. “Will he?”

“I’ll teach him,” Claude declared, her chin lifted almost rebelliously.

The dauphine liked Claude far more than François. Catherine despised weak people, prone to hesitation and vulnerability. After her survival in the Florentine convent in her childhood where she had been besieged with her ladies, Maddalena and Lucrezia, Catherine had spent a lifetime stiffening her spine and forging onward through whatever life dealt her.

In contrast to her brother, Claude was a radiant girl, but she, too, was sickly. The worst was that the princess had a club foot, although Claude still enjoyed outdoor games. Clad in a nice gown of blue velvet in the Italianate style, she glanced her mother in the eye with an audacity that could be attributed to an older girl. Her three-year-old daughter possessed a nimble mind, exhibiting both Valois and Medici traits in her character and appearance. At least Claude is not afraid of me, unlike François. She has a defect, but she is clever and has a character.

Catherine regarded the prince. “François, do you like outdoor activities?”

François muttered absently, “I do not know.”

“What do you like and want?” His mother’s voice was insistent.

“Do not be angry with him, Mother,” pleaded Claude.

Catherine smiled at her daughter approvingly. “Claude, you have a personality.” Her gaze flew to the boy. “François, stop being so colorless, or you will disappoint your father.”

At last, François gazed at his mother. “Papa is always gentler with me than you are.”

This worsened Catherine’s irritation. “No! You merely see me rarely.”

“When will our papa come?” Claude missed Dauphin Henri wholeheartedly.   

Catherine replied, “Now he is on his way from Italy. He is a hero of France!” 

The Medici princess compelled herself to smile. A turbulent void hurt her like a thousand deadly needles. She was aware that her husband had taken Marie de Bourbon as his mistress, now traveling with his new lover back to France. A white-hot rage seized Catherine: the woman to whom Henri, according to his confession, felt deep affection was the former bride of the late King James V of Scotland. I’ll annihilate that damned Marie as soon as I can.

Claude clapped her hands. “Our papa is the best!” 

“Papa! I want to see him,” admitted François.

A moment later, Charlotte returned to the room. The children rushed to her.

“Charlotte!” chorused François and Claude, both beaming.

The governess curtsied. “Madame la Dauphine, now Princess Élisabeth is being fed. If you let me take your children to the other princes and princesses, they will be happy.”

“Do they communicate with Queen Anne’s children?” Catherine detested this perspective.

Charlotte was slightly afraid of the dauphine. “Yes, Madame.”

“We love them very much,” François supplied. Claude nodded.

Claude limped to her mother. “I especially adore Princess Louise.”

“I see.” The Dauphine of France then shook her head. “No, Charlotte. Take them all to the gardens again because they enjoy it a lot.” She looked around. “Where is my son Alexandre?”

This question was answered in the next moment. Françoise d’Humières, Dame de Contay, entered, leading by the hand a somber Prince Alexandre Édouard, Duke d’Anjou. A sturdy and plain woman in her late fifties, she was another governess of Dauphin Henri’s three sons. Contay was dressed in a strict gown of black damask, her half-gray hair arranged in a bun on the nape of her head. Her affectionate hazel eyes contemplated her favorite little charge.

Prince Alexandre smiled when his gaze fell on his mother. At the age of two, he was quite a tall and robust toddler, with his grandfather’s chestnut locks and the long Valois nose. His oval and naturally pale countenance resembled that of his father, Dauphin Henri. Among Catherine’s offspring, Alexandre always missed her more than his siblings. Catherine had never paid any attention to Prince Charles, Duke d’Orléans who was Alexandre’s twin and elder brother.

Contay curtsied. Catherine approached, smiling at Alexandre.

“Your Highness,” lisped the prince as he bowed to his mother.

“You are all dismissed,” instructed the dauphine.

Claude beheld her mother who stood with her silent brother Alexandre. She did not like this spoiled boy. “So, are we going to the park with my brother François?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” confirmed Charlotte. “As your Mother wishes it.”

“I want to play on the lawn,” Claude enthused. “It is green and warm outside.” 

In a moment, Charlotte led Claude and François out of the nursery.

“Let’s take a seat, son,” prodded Catherine, smiling at Alexandre.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the prince said as he followed his mother across the nursery.

Françoise de Contay amended, “Your Mother is Her Highness, my prince.”

Alexandre objected hotly, “She is my queen anyway!”

“Dearest son.” Catherine was pleased to hear such things from her favorite child.

Dauphine Catherine settled herself in an oak chair that was decorated with leaves, vines, and flowers. Looking at Alexandre, she said, “Your father’s name – Henri – would suit you.”

Alexandre wondered, “I can change it, can’t I?”

“You can when you grow up.” The dauphine would have approved of this.

Contay itched to leave, fearful of Catherine. “Should I stay, Madame?”

“I want to be alone with my son,” the dauphin’s wife expressed her wish.

“As Your Highness commands.” Contay curtsied and hastened out.  

Prince Alexandre stood beside his mother’s chair. He smiled at her with both his lips and his Medici brown eyes. To her utmost joy, Catherine could see intelligence in the eyes of her third son, who was healthier than his two elder brothers. Alexandre is my greatest treasure, she mused gleefully. His siblings had been sent to the gardens because none of Catherine’s offspring should not be in the same place where a crime would be committed very soon.

The dauphine bent down and kissed the toddler. “If only you had been my firstborn.”

“I love you, Mama.” Alexandre’s smile broadened.

“I adore you, too. You are my favorite child, and I would want you to be king.”

The prince shook his head. “But François and Charles are older.”

Once more, the dauphine rejoiced in another evidence of her third son’s early precocity. If only her desire for Alexandre Édouard to be monarch of France could materialize in the future… Catherine did not want his elder brothers to die young or without male issue, but she adored her Alexandre so much that she could not thrust aside the dreams of Alexandre’s kingship.  

All of a sudden, a series of ear-splitting shrieks pierced the Children’s Wing of the château. It signaled that the new crime Catherine’s ladies-in-waiting had perpetrated had just occurred. The nursery’s walls, swathed in red brocade, strengthened Catherine’s vindictive mood.

“What is it, Mother?” Alexandre looked confused.

“I don’t know,” the dauphine lied, but her eyes blazed maliciously.

“I’m terrified.” The prince’s bonny features were tinctured with fright.

“Don’t be! I’ll defend you from all perils, even from death itself if necessary.”

His visage turned almost mystical. “I’ll live a long life, won’t I?”

Catherine prayed that it would be so. “Yes, my dearest.” She hugged the toddler.  

§§§

Her head held imperiously, Dauphine Catherine strutted through the hallway, the train of her low-cut purple damask gown sweeping after her. Her loyal Italian handmaidens – Maddalena Bonajusti and Lucrezia Cavalcanti – trailed behind her, each clad in gowns of yellow and red brocade. These days, Catherine wore the color purple more often to stress her royal status, while her loyal maids preferred to be dressed as true servants of their Medici mistress.

Horror-stricken courtiers crowded outside ‘the children’s presence chamber’, as years ago the room had been nicknamed by the late Elizabeth Boleyn, Countess of Wiltshire.

Catherine approached one of the crying servants. “What is going on?”

The woman sobbed out, “They are dead… All dead…” 

The dauphine’s heart hammered in evil jubilation. “Who?”

The shocked woman could barely think. “All of them!” 

Catherine shared looks with her ladies, the meaning of which only they could decipher.

An instant later, the governesses of King François and Queen Anne’s children walked out. Louise de Montmorency – Anne de Montmorency’s elder sister and the governess of their sons – was stoic, but a sliver of unease was etched into her features. In contrast to her, Jacqueline de Longwy, Countess de Bar-sur-Sein – she was the governess of Princess Aimée and Princess Louise – was shaking, supported by her husband – Louis de Bourbon, Count de Montpensier.

Louise and Jacqueline curtsied briefly, while Montpensier bowed.

“What is happening?” Catherine demanded. Maddalena and Lucrezia breathed deeply.

Jacqueline sobbed, “Oh, God! The children and Madame Françoise de Foix!” 

The Count de Montpensier offered, “My dear, let me help you.”

Louise appealed, “Monsieur de Montpensier, escort your wife to your quarters. Princesses Aimée and Louise will ask about their governess soon – she ought to calm down.”

Montpensier promised, “Madame de Montmorency, we shall take care of the girls.”

The dauphine and her maids arched their brows, then schooled their faces into blankness. Why were they speaking about Aimée and Louise if the wretched girls must be dead?   

Jacqueline was escorted away by her husband. The throng was growing.

Impatience gripped Catherine with its sticky hands. “Will someone explain something?”

Louise de Montmorency let out a sigh of grief. “As usual at this time of day, I took Princes Augustine, Jean, and Antoine to the presence chamber to listen to Princess Aimée playing on the lute and lyre. Nevertheless, we discovered on the floor Madame de Foix and the three children of the late King Henri of Navarre and Madame Anne d’Étampes. Then Princess Louise appeared.”

The assemblage’s expressions were colored with grievous anticipation.

Catherine, Lucrezia, and Maddalena gaped. How could such a fatal mistake happen?

Tears trickling down her cheeks, Louise de Montmorency continued, “We took the princes and princesses out of the room. They were so scared, except for Prince Augustine. Thanks be to God that Prince Lorenzo is too small to walk and did not come there.”

Catherine questioned in a deliberately confused manner, “What? Three children of King Henri of Navarre and Madame d’Étampes? Madame de Foix? Did you fetch a doctor?”

Maddalena interfered, “How could they all just die?”

Lucrezia interposed, “Maybe they are not beyond help.”

A tide of grief washed over Montmorency’s sister. “Now the physician is in the chamber. He is still examining them, but he confirmed that God had called them home.”

Many women broke into weeping. Many nobles assembled in the corridor.

“Why were they there?” a disappointed Catherine queried.

Louise worked hard not to lose her control. “Three illegitimate children of the late King of Navarre. God, how could this disaster happen?” She paused, her eyes watery. “Queen Marguerite entrusted Jacqueline and me to raise them alongside the other royal children. And now…” 

Catherine did not care about her accidental victims. “Why did they die?”

“If only I had known,” Louise whispered. “I shall go to them and the physician.”

The dauphine and her maids followed the governess into the chamber.

Clad in a rose velvet gown, Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant, and three small corpses lay on the couches. In his silver attire, the eldest son of Anne de Pisseleu and King Henri of Navarre – Arnaud d’Albert – was as pale as a gravestone. His younger siblings – Celeste and Raphael d’Albert, both dressed in green silk – reclined on a nearby couch, as if they were asleep.

Deities of mortality were dancing morbidly in this lofty room. The interior’s furniture draped in multicolored silks, the marble statues and tapestries of Zeus and Hera, as well as gilded Venetian candelabrums – all these riches looked incongruent with this funereal scene.  

On a marble table near the couch, where Celeste and Raphael lay, stood a platter with cakes – most of them had been eaten. Having checked the pulse of every victim again, a doleful Doctor Chapelain went to the table and scrutinized the platter with cakes before smelling them.

The offspring born out of Henri d’Albert’s love for Anne de Pisseleu were dead. Only the little Yolande d’Albert, whom her mother kept at court as her favorite child, was still alive.

Louise forced herself to speak. “Why did they… die so suddenly?”

His scrutiny fixed on the cakes, Chapelain voiced his verdict. “They were all poisoned.”

“How is it possible?” Louise could not believe in that. “All the food is always tasted in the kitchens twice before being served to anyone of the royal family.”

The physician answered, “I know not, Madame. The poison was either carried to the room, or some tasters are traitors.” He leaned over the platter with cakes. “I’ll try to find out what kind of poison was applied, using this sample. But this thing really kills quickly.”

Dauphine Catherine inwardly shuddered in terror. “Are you competent enough to make such conclusions about poisons? Maybe it signals the outbreak of some epidemic.”  

All those in attendance crossed themselves as fright overpowered them.

Doctor Chapelain elaborated, “I served the late Madame Louise de Savoy and saved her from several attempts of poisoning arranged by the late treacherous Constable de Bourbon.” He sighed. “Those cases compelled me to begin studying alchemy and poisons to preserve Madame Louise’s life. Neither Doctor Fernel nor Doctor Paré understands a lot in poisons, but I do.”  

Catherine was now petrified with dread. “Could some infectious illness kill them?”   

The physician’s gaze drifted to Françoise and then to the murdered children. “I can see the symptoms of smallpox on their skin, but it must be the reaction to the poison. I’ll prove that.”

Louise recovered from the shock enough to speak. “Doctor Chapelain, you must take these cakes for analysis and then journey to Amboise so as to report the case to Queen Marguerite.”

“I shall.” Chapelain’s expression contorted in endless anguish. “I served King Henri for years and attended him on his deathbed after my master had been poisoned. I could not save him and watched him slowly perishing in agony for days.” Tears streamed from his eyes in rivulets of pain. “Now I’m powerless to salvage his three children, whom he loved wholeheartedly.”

“The little Yolande is alive.” Louise was now sobbing. “Thanks be to the Lord.”

Dauphin Catherine felt sick with ire to the depths of her entire being. Crossing herself for form’s sake, she mumbled, “God rest the poor darlings’ souls and that of Madame de Foix.”

Putting on sorrowful masks on their faces, Catherine and her conspirators exited.

Catherine heard Louise de Montmorency say. “The dauphine is such a sinister woman.”

Now the number of spectators near the entrance was larger than a mere minutes earlier. Not paying any heed to them, the dauphine and her entourage headed to her quarters.

§§§

The rest of the day passed in a horrendous blur. The Count de Montpensier, head of the royal offspring’s household, arrested cooks, tasters, and all those suspected of the poisoning. More than fifty people were apprehended, and the messenger was dispatched to Amboise.

Maddalena Bonajusti opened the door and peeked her head into the corridor. As soon as she saw Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli at the other end of the hallway, she beckoned him to her. Clad in a Florentine doublet of beige silk with puffed and broad sleeves, the poisoner looked more frightened than a patient who had just been apprised of some lethal diagnosis.

“Quickly!” Maddalena prodded. “We dismissed everyone.”

As Montecuccoli entered the antechamber, Catherine de’ Medici descended upon him like the fury of Zeus. She slapped him hard several times across his face, the force of her blows so significant that Montecuccoli stumbled backwards and would have lost his footing if his mistress, Lucrezia, did not support him. Then the count tumbled to his knees before Catherine.

Montecuccoli whined, “Forgive me, Your Highness. I added the poison to the favorite cakes the Boleyn whore’s children eat every day. I used the concoction that would make them think as if they had died of smallpox, for this poison’s victims have such symptoms.”

“They have them,” the dauphine said in a sibilant voice. “However, we are unlucky that Doctor Chapelain knows a plenty of things about poisons, unlike his colleagues. Moreover, he tended to Henri d’Albert on his deathbed. The situation is becoming extremely perilous for us.”

“I did everything you ordered,” Montecuccoli defended himself.

Catherine interrogated, “Why did that Foix woman and the monarch of Navarre’s brats go to the presence chamber where that Boleyn harlot’s brats were expected to be?”   

The count explained in an agitated voice, “I learned that they had arrived in the room half an hour before Anne’s children came there. It is an awful coincidence!” 

“A hellish one,” Maddalena commented.

Catherine recalled, “Françoise de Foix liked Anne de Pisseleu’s children.”

Lucrezia clarified, “Indeed, the late woman frequently played with them.”

After her arrival together with Prince Lorenzo from Italy, the Countess de Châteaubriant had stayed at Saint-Germain-en-Laye. Françoise devoted her time to Anne’s offspring, but she did not forget about the royal bastards who were also being raised at the château.

“That Foix slut had a kind heart,” Catherine assessed. “Benevolence and mercy are weaknesses which might cost a lot, even your life. I care not that Françoise is dead.”

Montecuccoli was still on his knees. “Sadly, the queen’s children are still alive.” 

The dauphine paced to and fro. “I want them dead with every fiber of my being.”  

Lucrezia asked, “What should we do, then?”

Catherine enjoined, “Sebastiano, you will travel to Amboise and have Queen Marguerite of Navarre poisoned. Ask Monsieur de Montgomery to help you – he is loyal to my cause.” Her fists clenched. “Later, I’ll invent another plan how to dispose of those pagan brats.”   

Montecuccoli was now calmer. “Your Highness! My loyalty to you is unwavering.” 

Stopping near the window, the dauphine looked out, contemplating the dark firmament – more opaque than her heart. “I know, Sebastiano, but you started making bad mistakes.”

Maddalena hissed, “François, Anne, and Ferdinand destroyed Pope Paul! We must avenge his death! How could you fail to kill those dratted pups of Anne and François?”

Montecuccoli was filled with desperation. “I beseech you to forgive me! My poor master, His Holiness, was murdered! His soul is begging for vengeance, I can hear his voice!”

Catherine turned to him. “One of Pope Paul’s commands was to kill Queen Marguerite of Navarre. At the time, she was the only person who could rule France as regent, so we postponed her death. Now France is at peace, and Marguerite can finally go to hell.”

Lucrezia was relieved: her lover kept the dauphine’s favor. “Sebastiano, you should use poisoned perfume. Marguerite likes roses, and in summer she keeps some of them in her study.”

Montecuccoli nodded. “I’ll get rid of that Navarrese queen. Anything else?”   

The Medici eyes glistened. “Not now. We must be careful.” She pointed an irate finger at the count. “We must at least somehow avenge the Pope’s assassination.”    

Maddalena assumed, “That would be our first step to extract our vengeance.”

“Yes.” Catherine dismissed, “Leave my sight, Sebastiano.”

Montecuccoli climbed to his knees. “I shall depart to Amboise in an hour.”

When the other ladies returned to the antechamber, Catherine retired to her bedroom.

Catherine settled herself on the edge of her bed canopied with lavender silk. “Now they are arresting many people. Even Marguerite’s death will not stop these arrests.”  

Maddalena lowered her voice. “What should we do?”

Lucrezia responded instead of their mistress, “Let’s wait and pray for His Holiness’ soul.”

The dauphine tipped her head. “For us as well.” Her fingers stroked the silver of her locket where she kept potions for her husband. “I’ll visit the Ruggieri brothers. They must be charlatans in many things! None of their potions worked for Henri. However, they can still see something about the future, so I desperately need their aid. So, we will travel to Paris soon.”

Lucrezia and Maddalena chorused, “Yes, Madonna Caterina.”

The Medici princess reclined on the bed. An indescribable terror seized her, a revolting conviction that although living, she was dead insofar as the casual daily things went. Snakes of foreboding coiled around her throat, their venom penetrating her very skin and bone, pricking and jabbing at the dauphine from all sides. What is this? Why do I feel so? She had no answer.


May 20, 1547, castle of Grinzane Cavour, Grinzane Cavour, Piedmont, northern Italy

Dauphin Henri and Marie de Bourbon promenaded through the park, laid out in terraces and groves. The sun blazed down upon them like flames of passion in the cloudless firmament. The heat was so intense that they could imagine their clothes were on fire until they found refuge in a small arbor, entwined with blossoming wild vines, with a comfortable bench inside.

As they seated themselves on the bench, Henri kissed her hand. “Marie,” he called softly.

“Henri,” his mistress drawled his name like a tender verbal caress. “My Henri! I’ve never thought that I would spent idle days with you in a lovely place such as Italy.”

A frown plucked at his brow. “I associate Italy with bloodshed and dismembered corpses.”

She uttered compassionately, “It’s over, mon amour. Emperor Carlos and the Farnese devil are dead.” She stroked his locks. “Emperor Ferdinand will keep the peace in Europe.”

“That he will. I’m just exhausted from all the nervous and physical strains.”

“Yes, you are. You fought in Picardy for months. Then you led your armies to Milan and rescued your father allied with Emperor Ferdinand. Then you battled at Marignano.” 

The dauphin was fascinated with his paramour. “Do you consider me a hero?”

His paramour exclaimed, “Most definitely. You are a hero of France and Milan!” 

With his father’s permission, the dauphin had departed from Milan bound for France two weeks after the victory at Marignano. Together with him were returning several French marshals and noblemen, including Count Charles de Brissac, Jacques d’Albon, and Duke Jean d’Étampes. The prince’s friend, Duke Antoine de Vendôme, had left for France immediately after the war at Henri’s behest, heading to Château d’Anet in order to retrieve the diary of Diane de Poitiers.  

While Antoine had rushed to France at a breakneck speed, Henri was still journeying at a slow pace with his friend’s sister. Many nobles and generals had seen Marie and Henri’s affair in Italy, knowing that Mademoiselle de Bourbon was his new maîtresse-en-titre. The lovers had made several stops, one of them at the picturesque town of Grinzane Cavour at the medieval castle owned by the Italian nobleman Pietrino Falletti, one of King François’ allies in Piedmont.

Breathy silence ensued, cold due to the prince’s gloomy demeanor, as if cooling off the air.

The dauphin glanced towards the fortress in the distance. “As soon as I begin to remember all that horror and chaos, I still cannot quite believe that it all happened to me.”

Marie ventured, “Do you still think of Diane de Poitiers? You loved her for years.”  

In response, the dauphin enveloped his paramour into his arms, his mouth moving against Marie’s with sensual entitlement, his hand cradling her head. The kiss was possessive and strong, yearning for something more than a simple physical contact – something soul-stirring, pure, and glorious. Pushing the fabric of her neckline away, Henri kissed her throat and across the delicate hollow near her collarbone, before trailing his lips down to her breast until Marie stopped him.

“Henri, someone might see us.” Her breathing was erratic.

His eyes were almost black with hunger. “Let them see and envy us.”

His lack of response to her previous question goaded her to ask, “What about Diane?”

Henri’s took her lips prisoner, and his embrace tightened, heating their bodies and hearts far more than the sun’s blaze. Suddenly, time and place did not matter: need curled rampant and sleek through them, swirling up to ignite an overmastering salaciousness that rippled to the ends of their fingers and toes. Gripping her on either side of her waist, Henri deepened their kisses until they probed all the depths possible and impossible, while Marie unlaced his hose.

When she lay flat on the bench, Henri pushed up her skirts and eased himself into her. She threw her head back, making appreciative noises as he penetrated as deep as he could get. The rapacious slam of his hips against hers hit her everywhere and all at once, the blood in their veins boiling and ready to combust. With each and every new breath, the world was tinged with more colors, flames of desire licking and leaping up the walls of their beings, consuming them.

In the aftermath, the prince drew his mistress closer, draped along Marie’s body atop of her. When his mouth closed over hers again, it pushed them higher as they became one again. The sounds of someone’s distant footsteps jerked the lovers back to the present. Their breathing coming in uneven pants, Marie re-arranged her skirts and hair, while Henri laced his hose.

The dauphin gazed in the direction from where the noise was coming. A gardener came to an alley of maples and elms, where he stared to manicure flowerbeds with the utmost care.  

Henri huffed, “A mere gardener is a hurdle for our pleasure.”

“Am I only a source of pleasure for you, Henri?”

He cupped her face with his palms. “No.”

Her heart hammered with nascent hope. “Do you know that I love you?”

“I do.” Lifting one hand, he stroked her cheek with his thumb. “It’s complicated for me, Marie. In truth, I would wager I feel something far deeper for you than raw affection.”

There was an understanding in her voice as Marie spoke. “It must be difficult to trust a woman after someone whom you worshipped betrayed you in the vilest way imaginable. It is even more difficult to fall in love again. You don’t yet know the true depths of Diane’s treason.”

A downpour of ghastly silence petrified Henri. Even birds seemed to cease chirping.

As his mind drifted back to Diane, Henri felt as if her ghost could chill him to the core, covering his universe into the dense layers of snow. Only a year had elapsed since her execution. His heartache had long subsided, his loathing for the dead woman fueled by the knowledge that he needed to learn everything about all the crimes the villainess had committed.

He smiled at Marie de Bourbon cordially. The emptiness that had formed at the revelation of Diane’s appalling true face was filled with Henri’s fiery passion for Marie and the awesome warmth his Bourbon mistress provided him with. Diane manipulated me like a snake controlled with dark magic. What I felt for Diane was the unhealthy obsession of a boy whose traumatized soul needed a female touch and whose active imagination invented all other sentiments.   

After the emotions had settled down, Henri could see everything clearly. He had realized the nature of his feelings for Diane soon after her death when the pieces of her criminal puzzle were only beginning to fall into place. Perhaps her diary would gather all of them together.

His train of thought detoured to his spouse. The dauphin rejoiced that now he had another daughter, even though he would not have named his daughter Élisabeth. Since Henri had parted his ways with Catherine in Soncino in the summer of 1546, he had written to her from time to time in polite tones not because he missed her, but out of his guilt for his former neglect of her. Why any remembrance of Catherine makes me shudder, as if she could tear my world apart?

Thrusting these thoughts aside, Henri rested his cheek against Marie’s. “I no longer love Diane. She stopped being my goodness even before I learned about her treachery.”

A tide of joy swept through Marie. “Then I’m the happiest woman on earth!” 

“Give me more time,” he murmured against her lips. “You are healing me from the past.”

“You have all the time you need, Henri. Just do not leave me, please.”

I do not care that Henri is a married man, Marie de Bourbon mused. I want to be with him and have his children. She had a secret, and only the Queen of France, her mistress, was aware of it. Frightened of uncertainty over the conflict against the late emperor, Marie had lost Henri’s unborn child in Cafaggiolo two weeks before Anne’s own miscarriage. She had begged Anne not to share the sorrowful news with the dauphin because the young man was already too nervous.

Now Marie laughed at herself how she had been happy years ago when King François had suggested her as a bride for James V of Scotland. Nonetheless, her heart had not fluttered when she had met James in Picardy in 1536, and she had been relieved that he had married Madeleine de Valois, having prayed that the frail princess would not die young, but to no avail. Shortly thereafter, Dauphin Henri had become Marie’s secret object of worship from afar.

The dauphin brushed his finger along her cheek. “I have no such plans.”

Her smile rivaled the sun’s brightness. “I’m dreaming of being with you forever, Henri.” A tear trickled down her cheek. “I feared so much that you could be killed in battle.”

Everything stilled around them, all but for the exquisite caress of his thumbs upon her skin. With a tenderness that almost shattered them both, Henri bent his head and kissed her.

He then rose to his feet. “We should go.”

The lovers sprinted through the gardens, laughing jauntily. The glare of the midday sun became more intense, and without any breeze, there was no respite from the day’s swelter.

Henri and Marie paused in the shade of a tall oak, leaning against its trunk. Their scrutiny briefly detoured to the castle. Erected in the 14th century, the castle represented a massive keep that had a U-shaped structure with a series of turrets, both square and rounded. As it had once belonged to the Marquis of Busca, the family’s heraldry adored the façade and the front door.

“This place,” started Marie with a grin flourishing across her visage, “is not like French luxurious château which I’m accustomed to. Yet, I find it refreshing and pleasant.”

“Me too.” Henri’s hand touched her shoulder. “We have tarried here for two weeks.”

“Will the owner of the castle object if we stay here for another week?”

There was a mirthful glint in his orbs. “My father is the sovereign of Piedmont.”

She mimicked his tone. “How can they throw out a hero of France and Milan?”

They laughed again, and they laughed even harder when they spotted Pietrino Falletti who was nodding at them nearby. The castle owner bowed to them and then hurried away.

Henri’s spirits were soaring. “You see we have his approval.”

§§§

Upon entering the fortress, the lovers met Antoine de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme.

Antoine’s tired countenance was tinctured with something akin to consternation. His outfit was dusty, and his riding boots were splattered with mud. Evidently, he had just arrived.

Bowing, Vendôme blurted out, “Your Highness, we must talk urgently.”

Marie frowned at her brother. “Antoine, you will not greet your sister, will you?”

“Later, ma chérie,” uttered Vendôme absently. He then extracted a small volume from his bag and handed it to the prince. “This is the diary of Diane de Poitiers.”

Henri’s heart was wrapped in the chains of presentiment. “Did you read it, my friend?”

Antoine viewed the dauphin with sympathy. “Yes, I did. Your Highness will be deeply shocked, but you must know everything, just as Diane herself said before her death.”   

The dauphin’s features contorted in hatred. “What else did that harpy perpetrate?”

“At least, you do not love your wife,” muttered Vendôme in lingering disbelief.

An agitated Dauphin Henri raced through the corridor past many rooms. After arriving in Sala delle Maschere, or the Masques Hall, he landed onto a red-brocaded couch. He clasped the leather volume in his hands, his orbs flying for a split second to the ceiling decorated with panels featuring animals and allegory images. Taking a fortifying breath, the prince threw himself into reading, the contents of the diary battering him and burning him with flames of horror.

Notes:

The new chapter is up! We hope you, our dear readers, are fine and well.

This chapter and the next few chapters will be closing the Italian storylines. Anne and Marie, her elder sister, spend nice time together at the Medici villa. The information about Benedetto Varchi is more or less historically correct, and he was indeed one of the many artists patronized by Cosimo de’ Medici, at first Duke of Florence and later Grand Duke of Tuscany. One of my readers suggested that a monument in honor of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, can be erected in Boulogne as he saved Anne’s life by heroically sacrificing himself.

The accidental murder at Saint-Germain-en-Laye is the last crime of Catherine de’ Medici and her conspirators. I confess that we planned the murder of three out of four bastard children of Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly and King Henri II of Navarre together with Françoise de Foix. Catherine and her Florentine handmaidens attempted to get rid of Anne’s children with François, both princes and princesses. However, fate has a bizarre sense of humor: instead of them, the poor offspring of Anne de Pisseleu and Henri d’Albert with Francoise de Foix were killed. The profound grief of the Duchess d’Étampes will be showed in later chapters.

Maybe Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli tries to dispose of Marguerite de Navarre, but we can disclose that he will fail. Shadows of her discovery are closing in around Catherine and her accomplices because Dauphin Henri was finally given the diary of Diane de Poitiers by his friend, Duke Antoine de Vendôme. Henri will be shocked with Diane’s crimes, and Catherine’s fate will be decided in the next several chapters. Catherine is aware of her husband’s affair with Marie de Bourbon, but she might not have enough time to act against her rival. Henri feels real passion and deep affection for Marie, and perhaps he is falling in love with her.

Dauphine Catherine meets with all of her children, save Prince Charles, Duke d’Orléans. King Henri III of France was named Alexandre Édouard at birth, and in the future he will change his name, like he did in history – there are hints at this in this chapter. Alexandre Édouard was Catherine’s favorite child, so we showed a special connection between Catherine and him, and he was indeed Catherine’s healthiest son. Prince François, Duke of Brittany, is as sickly as he was in history and not very intelligent, with Princess Claude also having a club foot. We swapped the year of birth for Claude and Catherine’s new daughter, Princess Élisabeth, because we need Élisabeth to be a bit younger to make our plan for her realistic. Françoise d’Humières, Dame de Contay, was indeed one of the governesses of Catherine’s offspring in history.

Attention! We posted a prologue to the sequel “Chained by Blood and Power” (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 84: Chapter 83: Villainesses Trapped by Each Other

Summary:

Dauphin Henri and Marguerite, Dowager Queen of Navarre, are dealing with the recent horrible discoveries. Anne de Pisseleu is completely heartbroken. King Henry is getting more brutal and savage, his queen has news for him, while Exeter’s hatred of Henry grows.

Notes:

Sometimes I fear you might be bored or growing bored with this story... It turned out to be longer than we had initially planned... We are aiming to post 2 more chapters in October.

Attention! The prologue to the sequel “Chained by Blood and Power” (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don't forget about our work "Entwined by a Golden Alliance" co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

Attention! Yesterday, we updated our epic ‘Entwined by a Golden Alliance’ (EGA)! We are intending to start updating EGA regularly in November.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 83: Villainesses Trapped by Each Other

June 11, 1547, Château d’Amboise, Amboise, the Loire Valley, France

The castle clock struck midnight, and courtiers had retired to their rooms a few hours ago. In the courtyard connected with the kitchens stood a cortege consisting of splendidly caparisoned stallions and chariots, where luggage was loaded – they belonged to Dauphin Henri.

“I’m shocked, nephew,” uttered the Dowager Queen of Navarre. “I still cannot believe it.”

“You read that harpy’s diary,” responded Henri. “We will launch a special investigation.”

At this late hour, the corridors were empty. Accompanied by guards, Marguerite and Henri strode through the hallways, with Count Charles de Brissac and Duke Jacques d’Étampes trailing after them. The dauphin’s party had arrived at Amboise a couple of hours earlier; the Duke de Vendôme had taken his sister, Marie de Bourbon, to their castle in Vendôme.

Their footsteps echoed through the vaulted rooms. The corridors and chambers, adorned with paintings of battles as well as famous Italian and French cities, were illuminated by an array of flickering torches. Tapestries, portraying religious scenes and dramatic episodes of history, decorated the walls. Salamanders were engraved upon the walls, ceilings, and fireplaces.   

Marguerite emitted an audible, bereft sigh. “The diary does not show all of her villainies. She killed the hapless illegitimate children of my late husband and Françoise de Foix.”

The prince growled, “Diane and Catherine were in criminal alliance for years.”

Her heart swooped. “From the moment they murdered the late Dauphin François.”

A tide of visceral hatred ripped through the dauphin. “Eventually, Catherine trapped Diane, putting the blame for the traps they organized with Emperor Carlos and Henry of England for my father and Anne onto Diane de Poitiers.” He laughed tragically. “However, Diane did her best to ensure before her execution that I would learn everything about their evil deeds from her diary.”

“Catherine entrapped Diane,” surmised the dowager queen in a quiet voice layered with horror and opaque amazement, “but in her death, Diane entrapped Catherine.”

They passed through several chambers, adorned with Flemish and Italian wall hangings, as well as paintings of Giovanni Bellini, Leonardo da Vinci, Filippino Lippi, Raphael, Titian, Jean Clouet, and other artists. Their fantastic beauty did not soothe their exasperated nerves.

Catherine de’ Medici, Henri hissed the hated name inwardly. The main enemy of France and my relatives has always been close! Since reading the dairy of his dead mistress, sentiments of his disbelief and consternation alternated with his immeasurable abhorrence towards the very woman whom he had been unfortunate to marry years ago, and who caused such irreparable damage to his family. Henri began thinking that he was cursed to have her as his wife.

Henri labored to sound nonchalant, but to no avail. “In Diane’s death there is the end of Catherine. I’ll have each and every of the Medici Gorgona’s accomplices killed.”

His aunt snarled, “We shall use the cruelest method of execution.”

“Precisely. Father will decide the fate of that Medici demonness.”

Marguerite concurred. “So far, we must act quietly, for there are traitors in our ranks. We must capture them all, but if they sense the smell of danger, they might escape.”   

“All of them,” echoed Henri in an atrocious manner. “Everyone will die.”

She surveyed her nephew. “Montecuccoli must be here now.”

Brissac intervened, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

They stopped near the study, where the Queen of Navarre usually worked on state affairs. Marguerite and Henri nodded, then motioned for Brissac and Étampes to proceed.  

Opening the door, Brissac and Étampes entered. No one was astonished to see the dim light from a candle in the room and the face of the Count de Montecuccoli who held it.  

Brissac spat, “Our spies were right that you would come to the study at night.”

Étampes ground out, “Simple logic. You will not try to put some poison into the Queen of Navarre’s food or drink in the daytime. You committed this mistake at Saint-Germain.”

A terrified Sebastiano de Montecuccoli was trembling like a leaf in the cold wind. Yet, the poisoned bouquet of roses was clasped in his hands, and everyone noticed it.

“The roses,” observed Brissac. “They might be poisoned.”

“Capture that Lucifer!” ordered the dauphin. “Have him chained and put to the rack!”

“No!” Having recognized this voice, Montecuccoli was shaking his head in disbelief. How could his mistress’ husband learn anything? “No!” He tightened his grip on the bouquet.

Brissac and Étampes hastened to the poisoner, who endeavored to run away, only to be subdued by guards, who swarmed the study and surrounded the count from all sides.   

“The flowers,” Étampes forewarned. “Be very careful.”

Montecuccoli threw the bouquet into the face of a guard, who smelled it.

Sniggering, the count apprised, “You will be dead in less than an hour. There is no cure.”

A scared guard tumbled to his knees and prayed, “God save me!”

“Not even Satan will help you,” Montecuccoli leered. “All of my poisons are lethal.”

The poor man was escorted out of the study. In a handful of moments, Montecuccoli was manacled and encircled. The bouquet lay on the floor, and Étampes discarded his doublet to touch it, then he wrapped the venomous thing into it and handed it to his page.   

Marguerite and Henri, who had remained outside for their safety, stepped inside. The study was paneled in mahogany and decorated with portraits of Capetian and Valois dynasties. Their countenances contorted in white-hot rage, they beheld the apprehended count.

“How? How do you know?” Montecuccoli muttered.

The dauphin’s brown pools were now tempestuous lakes of animosity. “Montecuccoli,” he snarled in a brutish voice. “Once you served as secretary to my late brother, Dauphin François. I remember his last days well. Once during a tennis match with me, François was so thirsty that he asked you to bring him a glass of water, where you must have put some deadly poison.”

Montecuccoli could not confess. “Figments of your imagination, Your Highness.”

Marguerite shrilled, “These flowers!” She pointed an angry finger at Étampes’ doublet, in which the bouquet was wrapped. “These flowers would have sent me along the River Styx if I had enjoyed their flagrance. You brought them to my study at midnight so that no one discover you.” Her voice rose to a crescendo of fury. “You poisoned my husband in Carcassonne!”

Henri added, “As well as Uncle Henri’s children and Madame de Foix. Moreover, you were aware of the Guises’ conspiracy against Anne, when my brother, Charles, was killed.”

The Count de Brissac pledged, “I’ll give that monster a beastly treatment in the dungeons. He will reveal all of his villainies after I mete out to him the most inhuman torture.”

The dauphin endorsed, “Make that scum suffer, Monsieur de Brissac.”

“Keep things quiet,” enjoined Marguerite. “We must unmask all traitors.”

Brissac and Étampes would work in secrecy in order not to scare away Catherine’s allies.

“Montecuccoli!” Henri stabbed an irate finger at the count. “I swear on my immortal soul that every traitor to my father and our country will be burning in eternal hellfire. Your beloved Madonna Caterina will be one of them – her status of being my wife will not save her.”   

Marguerite could not endure another moment of looking at this monster anyone. “Rivers of blood will be spilled, but we will unearth all your treacheries and punish all traitors.”  

“That Satan is mine,” Brissac spewed. “He will enjoy my hospitality in his cell.”

The Count de Brissac pushed Montecuccoli forward with all his might. Whimpering, the count tried to attack the guards, but they held him tight and dragged him out of the study.

§§§

Dauphin Henri embraced Dowager Queen Marguerite, and they froze in this pose for a long time. There were no tears or lamentations on their parts, for they pulled themselves together in the face of the possible peril from Catherine and her other mysterious accomplices.

The Duke d’Étampes endeavored to lift their spirits. “Your Majesty and Your Highness, it is a difficult time for you both, but you will cope. We must be strong and careful.”

Henri pressed his aunt to himself. “Montecuccoli will confess under torture.”

Marguerite’s arms snaked around his back. “That blackguard poisoned many, including my nephew, François, and my husband Henri. There are other crimes Catherine and he perpetrated, making it look as if their victims had died of illnesses, just as it happened to François and my illegitimate half-sister, Jeanne d’Angoulême, and her daughter, Françoise.”

The dauphin recalled from the diary. “Mary Boleyn’s Stafford children: Annie and Eddie. They were thought to have died of stomach ailments, but Montecuccoli poisoned them in Rome. He also murdered Lady Elizabeth Boleyn in Venice and tried to dispose of Anne’s father.”

“The Doge of Venice Francesco Donato,” Marguerite supplemented. “Catherine and her ladies also butchered the English ambassador Nicholas Wotton.”

At last, the prince disentangled himself from his aunt. “Dear God, we trusted Catherine and her Florentine circle in France. Montecuccoli accompanied Lady Wiltshire on her journey to Italy because she could not speak the Italian language, but we had no idea who he really is.”

Étampes interposed, “No one could suspect Madame la Dauphine.”

“Catherine!” Henri’s heart was beating madly in insane alarm. “Aunt Margot, is she still at Saint-Germain-en-Laye? Her presence is dangerous for the children! I must go there!”   

“Calm down,” Marguerite recommended composedly. “The demonness left Saint-Germain after the deaths of Henri’s three offspring and Madame de Foix. Obviously, it was an accidental murder: Catherine attempted to kill my brother and Anne’s children, but providence spared them. Catherine will not try again in the near future, out of fear to be discovered.”  

Étampes tipped his head. “I concur. Nevertheless, the princes and princesses ought to be taken away from the château. Where is the dauphine now?” 

Henri clenched his fists while pacing. “Where is she?” 

Marguerite divulged, “Catherine sent to me a note that she would go on pilgrimage to some monastery. We believed her before, but I fear she might be plotting.”

The prince’s pacing became far more agitated. “Her ladies, Lucrezia and Maddalena, have always been too close to her. They must be her partners in crime.”

Étampes offered, “Brissac and I will make Montecuccoli confess.”

The Duke d’Étampes bowed, left the study, and headed to the dungeons.

Henri’s mind floated to his relatives. “At present, my father and Anne are at the Medici villa in Tuscany. Is it safe for them to stay there? Are other Medici involved?” 

The dowager queen assured, “I’m certain that Duke Cosimo of Florence knows nothing of his relative’s crimes.” After a thoughtful pause, she added, “Nephew, Cosimo prevented the annulment of your union with Catherine several years ago, it does not mean he is our enemy. For Cosimo, Catherine is his cousin so he attempted to rescue her from disgrace.”  

“The prestige of their merchant family!” The prince was sniggering until his lungs ached. “After Catherine and her maids are arrested, they and other traitors will be executed. The Medici name will be dragged through the mud, and they will never wash it away.”

Marguerite insisted, “Not every Medici is like Catherine. Duke Cosimo is an honorable man, and he will condemn his cousin for her horrible viciousness. I’ll write to Italy.”

Henri tended to agree with her concerning the assessment of Cosimo. “Regardless of our opinion of Cosimo de’ Medici, the King and Queen of France must be warned.”

She went to a rosewood desk piled with papers and scrolls. As she seated herself in an armchair adorned with ivy leaves, she grabbed a quill and a sheet of paper.

Not lifting her orbs from the letter, Marguerite said, “I’ll dispatch messengers to Italy.”

The dauphin examined with the portraits of his deceased brothers – Dauphin François and Prince Charles. Inside of him, curling and dodgy rats of guilt were twisting, growing, twisting again and curling along the walls of his heart and soul. A blade of remorse for not admitting even a thought of Catherine’s possible involvement in their deaths pierced his gut. Yet, how could Henri suspect his wife of being so evil, even though she had always repelled him?

Forgive me, dearest brothers, Henri lamented, his eyes watery. Forgive me, for Heaven’s sake. I shall avenge your deaths. One of those women who killed you is already in hell. The other will join her soon. Veering his gaze away from the portraits, he stared out, for the shutters were not closed. A full moon shone in a cloudless firmament, like a silver cross in the heavens above.

“What does the full moon mean?” inquired Henri absently.

Marguerite was composing a letter to her brother. Pausing, she regarded her nephew. “The moonless night has lasted for too long, but it is about to end, Henri.”  

“With Catherine’s incarceration.” He again gazed out, as if mesmerized by the moon.

“Exactly. Take a deep breath – life will not always be dark.”

She took a quill and dipped it into an inkwell before continuing to scribe. Although she kept her emotions in check, inwardly she was a tangle of shock and despair. Yet, as regent of two countries, she had to be strong and maintain a calm façade like her late mother had taught her. The demise of Emperor Carlos had not ended the sinister times for the Valois.

They would have to conduct the meticulous investigation against Catherine de’ Medici and her conspirators. The Dowager Queen of Navarre did not tell her nephew that after the much-desired arrest of the Medici woman, they would face a dilemma. What to do with Catherine – to have her prosecuted or executed, or to have her jailed for the rest of her life? No French king or prince has ever killed his wife. Catherine has children with Henri, Marguerite ruminated in her mind. That harpy deserves capital punishment, but… François and Henri will decide.

“Done.” Marguerite finished the letter for her brother.

Henri approached the desk. “Aunt Margot! Please send it first thing in the morning.”

“Certainly, nephew. Now go try to rest for some time.”

He dipped a nod. “I shall, but do you really think it is possible now?” 

The queen stood up. Putting her hands upon his lean shoulders, she articulated, “Henri, you rushed from Piedmont to Amboise as soon as you read Diane’s diary. You traveled so fast that you are exhausted. Now Brissac and Étampes are dealing with Montecuccoli, and given that the damned poisoner is highly likely to endure an awful amount of pain before he gets broken and confesses, we will not know anything about Catherine’s whereabouts are at least until dawn.”

Fingers of fatigue grabbed Henri. “Anyway, we must retrieve the children from Saint-Germain. Let’s move them to Château de Chenonceau, which my father gifted to Anne.”

“It’s an excellent idea,” she assented.

As Marguerite and Henri departed the study, several guards went with each of them to their apartments. Their minds were too feverish to be turned off, so they would not sleep well.

§§§

As the first streaks of dawn colored the sky, a heartbroken woman stirred on her bed. Her eyes fluttered open to stare at the canopy of green silk embroidered with rhombuses, which she associated with whimsical patterns of cruel fate steering people into the most expected and fatal territories. The silk sheets beneath her body felt like a thousand tiny hands tearing her apart.   

“Henri,” she whispered the name of her beloved. “You left me, and so did our children.”

She was Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly, Duchess d’Étampes. Once the powerful maîtresse-en-titre of King François, with whom she had been obsessed for years. Then a discarded paramour who had seduced the deceased Prince Charles, Duke d’Orléans, and unexpectedly conceived his child. Later, she had become a maîtresse-en-titre of King Henri II of Navarre, with whom she had experienced an unselfish, mutual love and whose four offspring she had birthed.   

Tears flowed out of her eyes like rivulets of torment. Henri’s demise had hit Anne so hard that she would never recover from it. Only the knowledge that the ruler of Navarre had adored her absolutely, even though he had also loved his wife, warmed her fragmented heart. However, with the deaths of their children – Arnaud, Celeste, and Raphael – Anne’s universe cracked.   

Why, God? Why are You so cruel? Anne de Pisseleu searched for an answer. Why did You take not only Henri, but also our three offspring? Why? They were small and innocent! From the wall frescoes, biblical saints seemed to be weeping together with the duchess. Anne had no language by which to express the paralyzing pain in her soul. Salty torrents deluged the sheets and pillows as Anne was writhing on the bed as if in the throes of mental agony.

“I want to die!” Her heart-wrenching cry rose to a scream. “To die!”

Her maids heard her from the antechamber, but nobody came, knowing that she would dismiss them. The door to the bedroom opened, and Dowager Queen Marguerite walked in.

“You will survive, Anne,” commenced the queen in the voice of a prophet. “You still have two children: Charlotte, Prince Charles’ daughter, and Yolande, my husband’s daughter.”

Anne covered her face with her hands. “I have no desire to live…”

Marguerite approached the bed. “You can find it – you are strong.”

“No.” Anne burst out into a fit of weeping, unashamed of her distress. “I cannot.”

The Albert widow waited until her late spouse’s paramour calmed down a little.

“I sent for your sister, Madame Péronne de Pisseleu. She will come to Amboise soon.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. Now I need Péronne more than ever.”  

“I’m so sorry, Anne.” Marguerite’s voice was softer than a sigh. “I promised Henri to take care you and your children, but I failed most miserably. I shall never forgive myself.”

At last, Anne glanced at the other woman. “It is not Your Majesty’s fault.”

The queen informed, “We arrested the Count de Montecuccoli in the dead of night.”

The duchess’ visage conveyed her bafflement. “What did he do?” 

Easing herself on the bed’s edge, Marguerite whispered, “I’ll tell you.”

While the queen spoke, Anne de Pisseleu looked more and more horrified.

“Montecuccoli killed Henri and our poor children,” the duchess pronounced in a sibilant voice. “I must watch him being executed by écartèlement – torn apart by many horses.”

“He shall endure these torments. At first, we ought to ferret out as much information from him as possible. He will remain in the dudgeons for now, together with Jacques de Montgomery, who was also captured because he, too, turned out to be Catherine’s accomplice.”

Anne’s hand flew to her mouth. “My dearest Charlotte is still at Saint-Germain…”

Marguerite stood up. “In an hour, Henri will depart to Paris to put an end to Catherine’s bloody drama. Montecuccoli confessed under torture where they are now. I’m going to Saint-Germain-en-Laye so as to take all of the children to Chenonceau for their safety.”

The duchess rose from the bed. “I can go with Your Majesty. Please!”

“No. To find out all traitors, we should behave as if nothing had happened, or they will disappear or cover tracks. The arrests of Montgomery and Montecuccoli will be kept secret.”

The duchess trusted the queen. “Will they all be punished?” 

“Most definitely. There is a lot of work as complex as one a goldsmith performs on the most intricately designed tiara. If we do not act with excessive caution, someone might escape.”

Anne donned a robe of golden brocade over her matching nightgown. It was when she noticed that the dowager queen was fully dressed in a riding habit of brown damask.

“As Your Majesty wishes,” the duchess complied.

A moment later, the nurse brought the baby girl aged a year and a half. She was Yolande d’Albert, the only illegitimate surviving child of the late King Henri of Navarre. The infant was swaddled in the blanket of tawny velvet emblazoned with the duchess’ own heraldry.

Anne neared the nurse. “Give Yolande to me and leave.”

The old woman handed the slumbering girl to her mother, curtsied, and hastened out.

Marguerite approached the duchess. She beheld Anne cooing to the girl who had her late husband’s hazel-green eyes and his brown hair. There were no negative feelings within Margot towards her murdered spouse’s mistress and this child. I blame myself for the deaths of Henri’s three offspring. They were born out of wedlock, but Henri loved their mother and them.

The dowager queen underscored, “For Yolande and Charlotte! You must cope, Anne.”

Now Anne’s orbs were on her. “Yolande is the only thing left out of my love for Henri.”

At this, no jealousy stirred in Marguerite. “I know.”   

The duchess placed her daughter on the bed. “Sleep here, my little darling.”

“Come!” Marguerite prodded over to the window, where the shutters were open.

Obeying, Anne stopped at Marguerite’s left, sullen and tearful.

“Look outside,” Marguerite half-enjoined, half-pleaded. “There is a great beauty even with sorrows, anxieties, and tribulations, which the Lord sends to our paths for a reason.”

The joy of summer reigned in all its glory. The awakening sky was tinted with a shade of blue. The foliage in the park was verdant green. Trees and flowerbeds, full of lilies, lilacs, roses, dahlias, eglantine, and acacias, were dotted here and there along wide pathways.

Anne stared out into the gardens. “But how can I survive through these tragedies?” 

The queen swallowed her rising sob to preserve her royal dignity. “While being married to the late Duke Charles d’Alençon, I suffered six miscarriages. Only my late mother, Louise, knew and François knows about my misfortunes. Henri was aware of this, too.”

The duchess regarded Marguerite with sympathy. “It must have been dreadful.”

“It was.” Marguerite sighed. “My first husband was an undereducated dolt who laughed at my adoration for the arts. He blamed me for my inability to produce his male progeny.”  

Anne de Pisseleu had heard about the discord between Marguerite and her first spouse, but without such details. “François and Madame Louise would have made him respect you.”

The queen observed gardeners work on flowerbeds. “Alençon and I were married for about fifteen years. Because of his hostility towards me, François and my mother threatened Charles with dispossession. Eventually, François made up his mind: Charles and I separated – I moved back to my brother’s court, whereas Charles resided in his estates.” She let out a morbid laugh. “He released me from the marital bondage by dying soon after the Battle of Pavia.”

After a moment’s dithering, Marguerite admitted, “I feared to fall for Henri of Navarre. He penned poems for me, clumsy but so sincere. Henri awakened in me the desire to be happy, and we got married. For a while, we were content together, but our son died in infancy. I had two miscarriages, only Jeanne survived. The noble-minded Henri never blamed me for anything.”

Such candor surprised Anne. “My deepest sympathies, Madame!”

The dowager queen eyed the gardeners tending to a hedge. “I accept them, but not for the failure of my marriage to Henri.” Anguish billowed up through her to lodge in her throat. “It’s my fault. Like my mother, I dedicated myself to France, losing the only man I’ve ever loved.”  

Guilt speared through Anne. “If I had not appeared in Henri’s life, then–” 

Marguerite interrupted, “Someone else would have filled the void in our dearest Henri’s heart, which my abandonment of him in Navarre created. I’m glad you made him happy.”   

Admiration colored Anne’s visage. “Your Majesty is truly a great woman.”

“I shall give you several pieces of advice, Anne. First and foremost, take care of your two daughters. Second, Françoise de Foix – God rest her soul – is dead, so Queen Anne will need a loyal companion upon her return to France, and I recommend that you befriend her.”

The duchess frowned. “The queen loathes me.”   

“You two have nothing to compete for. You will always have the protection of the Valois family due to your bonds with Charlotte, but it would be better for you to ally with Anne.”

“Only if she wants it.” Indeed, the two Annes had long ceased being enemies.

The French monarch’s sister delivered another important message. “Finally, your husband! Monsieur d’Étampes is quite a good man, one who has proved himself a loyal subject and earned my brother’s favor during the latest Italian campaign.” She raised her voice, making an emphasis on every word and speaking in a personal manner. “Anne, you still have a life ahead, and to live it well, you ought to find purpose and consolation. Jean de Brosse may help you with this.”

“How so?” Anne was blown away by the befuddling turn of events.

Marguerite claimed, “I’ve observed Monsieur d’Étampes, and it is not difficult to realize that the duke has feelings for you despite everything. You should get to know him closer.”

A perplexed Anne kept staring out. The sun made vegetation seem greener, and blossoms more colorful.  “Jean must despise me for my affairs. And I prefer to be faithful to Henri.”

“Anne!” Margot called. When the younger woman flicked her scrutiny to Marguerite, the French king’s sister said evenly, “Henri loved you and would not want you to suffer in perpetual gloom. The Duke d’Étampes is childless due to your estrangement, and he needs an heir. From what I’ve gathered, he is not a libertine, and you can have a family with him.”

“I don’t know…” Anne’s countenance was that of someone figuring out a conundrum. 

“Think about it.” Then the dowager queen spun on her hills and exited.

Her inner tumult rising like a sea wave, the Duchess d’Étampes returned to the bed, where her daughter rested. Melancholy plunged its claws into Anne, but Yolande opened her eyes and giggled. Anne smiled ever so slightly, feeling that her daughter’s laugh was rousing her back to life. Embracing the infant staring at her mother with her father’s puzzled eyes, Anne cried, hollow and lonely, the pictures of her contentment with Henri d’Albert inundating her head.


June 22, 1547, Otford Palace, the village of Otford, Kent, England

“I must see the French ambassador!” shouted King Henry balefully.

The presence chamber was of moderate size, its walls tapestried with scenes from the lives of various Archbishops of Canterbury. The assemblage’s gazes were glued to the ruler.

Attired in a red satin doublet lavishly embroidered with rubies, the English monarch was seated in a gilded throne beneath a canopy of purple velvet. Queen Catherine Parr occupied the place to his left. Her brother, the Marquess of Northampton, stood to the queen’s right.     

The royal court had relocated to Kent only a couple of days ago. Some nobles would arrive a bit later, but most of them would wait until the court went to some larger castle.

At present, the Tudor court resided at Otford palace, also known as the Archbishop’s Palace. Since the 8th century, the castle was one of the many manors owned by the Archbishops of Canterbury. It had been rebuilt in 1515 by Archbishop Warham to be better than that of the initially Cardinal Wolsey’s Hampton Court. Archbishop Cranmer had surrendered the palace to the crown in 1537. Still, the manor was not as comfortable as most other royal residences.

The herald declared, “The French ambassador Charles de Marillac!” 

All eyes swiveled towards the entrance to the room.

Despite being an experienced diplomat with unparalleled self-control, Charles de Marillac always felt rather nervous before audiences with the mercurial King of England. The passing of Emperor Carlos and the current uprising in Norfolk had made the ruler particularly intemperate. When Marillac looked into the small Tudor aquamarine eyes, he frequently imagined seeing his death in them. That Tudor barbarian cannot execute me, for I’m a diplomat. Or can he?

His expression impassive, Marillac strolled across with a slow, confident gait. Stopping in front of the thrones, he swept a bow, displaying his elegant manners.  

“Your Excellency,” began the monarch in accented French. “I’ve decided that England will not have any diplomatic relations with France for the time being. Leave my kingdom.”

This surprised Marillac, and he inquired, “Is Your Majesty intending to declare war on my country? What should I tell my sovereign?” He regretted that he would not be able to assist Queen Anne in communicating with Princess Elizabeth in case of his ejection.

“Perhaps yes, maybe not. That remains to be seen.”

“I see.” The diplomat almost laughed. England could not afford any war!

“Where is your buffoon of a king now? Is he still celebrating the assassination of Emperor Carlos in Italy?” Whatever he did, Henry’s mind kept drifting back to Carlos.

“With all due respect,” commenced the ambassador, “Your Majesty is mistaken.”

Henry blustered, “There are rumors that the French generals beheaded the late emperor. No one can desecrate a monarch’s body. It is a transgression against the Almighty!”

Marillac was well aware of the circumstances under which Montmorency and Annebault had taken the life of Carlos von Habsburg. King François had shared with him a detailed account of the battles in Italy. While they had labored to hide the emperor’s beheading, someone must have seen a headless Carlos before his head had been stitched back to the body. I’m so glad that Ferdinand became the emperor! My master is his ally, and they triumphed together.

Henry pressed, “So, is that true, Marillac?” 

“I know not, Your Majesty,” the diplomat lied.

The king’s eyes narrowed like those of a snake about to attack. “Did François kill Carlos? Or did Ferdinand commit fratricide, just as Cain viciously destroyed Abel?” 

“Neither of these two things is true, sire.” The diplomat then narrated the story that most people in Italy knew. “Seeing that his armies were about to be defeated, the late Emperor Carlos attempted to dispose of the new Emperor Ferdinand. Duke Anne de Montmorency, Constable of France, and Marshal Claude d’Annebault saved Emperor Ferdinand at the last moment.”

“Does Ferdinand have such poor fighting skills?” Henry cackled with nasty laughter.

“I would never call Emperor Ferdinand weak,” retorted Marillac, ire simmering beneath the surface. “He is a professional soldier and a noble-minded ruler, unlike his brother.”

Ominous silence prevailed as everyone awaited the explosion of the Tudor temper.  

King Henry regarded the audacious foreigner. It scratched at his nerves that he had failed to vanquish François, that he had not destroyed his enemy’s happiness with Anne. According to Henry’s spies, François was currently spending tranquil months with his consort in Tuscany. Rage overwhelmed Henry, its scotching flames making it impossible for him to breathe.   

There was gossip that the Queen of France could be sick, perhaps even lethally, and Henry hoped it was true. Another rumor was that Anne had lost a child in the winter of 1547, and Henry was full of malice, delighted that another of his former wife’s babies fathered by François could have died. It inflated Henry’s ego that Anne could miscarry another man’s child.

Henry recalled the day when he had forced himself on Anne in Boulogne. Her familiar and intoxicating smell, her very nearness, her feminity enhanced by her pregnancy, even her hostility towards him – these things had aroused Henry to the acme of his red-hot desire. The encounter with a pregnant Anne had been one of the most awesome moments in his life, perhaps due to the singularity of this experience. He often dreamed of that intimacy with his former consort.

The Tudor ruler regretted that he had not claimed Anne as his every night during her captivity. She had been within his grasp every minute and hour, but he had lost so much time in vain while he could have enjoyed her body and charms. Maybe Henry would have caused Anne’s miscarriage if he had compelled her to have intercourse with him continuously. It is such a pity that Anne’s son, Lorenzo, was born healthy. That brat should have bled out of her!   

The monarch bombarded the diplomat with questions. “What is that vicious Ferdinand doing now? Is he still in Spain? Was Carlos buried? Is Ferdinand not terrified of being in his late brother’s domains where one of Carlos’ loyal servants might extract vengeance against him?” 

Marillac was not astounded with the king’s hatred for Emperor Ferdinand. Henry’s alliance with Carlos had resulted in their failure to conquer France. Furthermore, France’s monarchs were both alive! Having overshadowed the previously widely discussed siege of Milan, the victory of Ferdinand and François over Carlos at Marignano was becoming a real legend in the entirety of Christendom. Henry Tudor will never forget his disasters in Boulogne, Marillac inferred.

The ambassador answered, “I beg your pardon, but I can’t disclose anything.”

“Will François continue his alliance with Ferdinand?” The ruler’s voice was brutal.

Marillac nodded. “Most definitely. They are allies and friends.”   

“More marriages between their children, Your Excellency?”   

“Perhaps, but it will be decided later. His Imperial Majesty is still in Spain.”

His Imperial Majesty,” Henry drawled with distaste. “It does not suit him.”

Marillac’s disdain for the man threatened to boil over, but he kept himself in check. “It was God’s will that King François and Emperor Ferdinand won the Battle of Marignano.”  

The hostility in the air was palpable. The courtiers half-expected that their liege lord would attack Marillac in a fit of rage, just as it had once happened to Antoine de Castelnau.

The King of England was barely holding onto his temper. “Leave my sight, Marillac. Pack your things and depart within a week. Or you will find yourself in the Tower.”

“Gladly, Your Majesty,” responded the diplomat in cheerful tones.

How good it will be to leave England, Charles de Marillac was relieved. My master will be upset that I was expelled from the Tudor court, but I’m happy. He was a clever and collected man, one who played all sorts of cunning games easily, but even Marillac’s patience had its ends. After the defeat in Boulogne and his humiliations in France, Henry had transformed into a total despot. They had other spies at the English court to send messages to Princess Elizabeth.

After a bow to the monarch, Marillac strutted over to the door and exited.

§§§

The Imperial ambassador Eustace Chapuys emerged from the crowd; a shell of his former self. Slowly, he neared the thrones and bowed slightly, for his back was hurting awfully. His health was deteriorating at a quick pace after he had received news of the emperor’s demise.

“Your Majesty,” rasped Eustace Chapuys, swallowing a lump in his throat. “I’m in the deepest mourning for the most illustrious Emperor Carlos. His death has hit me too hard. I can no longer fulfill my responsibilities of an ambassador due to my bad health.”

There was a look of sympathy on the queen’s countenance. Others were indifferent.   

The king gritted out, “Your dead master, Emperor Carlos, was not great! He was killed by two French commanders! Where was Carlos’ once celebrated martial talent at Marignano and Milan? Did his protruding lip preclude him from giving the right orders to his generals?” 

The diplomat crossed himself. “The Lord rest the soul of my master.”

Henry spat in indignation, “That dratted Carlos might have been loved by idiots such as yourself, but he does not deserve to be mourned for. It is such a bloody shame for a king to fall in battle as headless! Carlos ended up worse than some wretched criminal butchered in a tavern.”

Chapuys had spent years at the English court, resenting Henry for mistreating Catherine of Aragon. He had rejoiced when Mary Tudor had married the late emperor, and England had been allied with the Habsburgs again. It was a huge mistake on my unfortunate master’s part to marry Mary and ally with Henry. Damn, Henry is more of a pagan than François and Ferdinand are.

“Sire, it pains me that even spectacular generals such as my sovereign might be deceived and killed. If Lady Luck does not smile upon you today, you can be crushed.”

The ruler’s laugh was acrimonious. “Carlos did not only lose the battle: he died not as a brave warrior, but as a cur in black disgrace. His body was dismembered by his foes.”  

The queen and Exeter traded glances. This did not bode well for the diplomat.

The ambassador’s heart constricted in anguish. “If those dogs really did that to Emperor Carlos, I beseech God to curse them. François and Ferdinand will burn in hell!”    

Henry deliberately poured a heavy dose of malice onto the ambassador’s wounds. “A small error, Chapuys! Ferdinand and François will continue ruling, while Carlos will be rotting in his coffin. I’m certain that Prince Felipe – he is still Prince of Asturias because Juana of Castile is free and the Queen of Spain – will create a magnificent tomb for his weakling of a father.”

Chapuys hissed, “Those Juana and Ferdinand merited all the worst.”

Most of the expressions in the chamber turned spiteful. Few grieved the emperor’s death: contrariwise, the story of his misadventures amused courtiers and commoners alike, being told from mouth to mouth. Mary Tudor was still viewed as a traitor to England.

Henry shot back acridly, “Carlos will be forgotten in history.”

Chapuys counterattacked, “Wasn’t Your Majesty checkmated in Boulogne by Dauphin Henri who is far younger and less experienced in state and military affairs than you?” 

“How dare you?” bellowed the ruler. “I can send you to your master right now.”

Eustace blanched. “I’m a foreign diplomat!”

The king got to his feet. “Felipe and his sister, Juana, shut themselves in some monastery in Flanders to mourn for their father. They have not met with their Uncle Ferdinand yet.”  

Catherine’s troubled gaze veered between her brother, Northampton, and Exeter. However, they shook their heads, signaling to her that she should not do anything.   

The monarch stomped to Northampton and drew the sword out of his scabbard. Then he headed to Chapuys, menacingly towering over the ailing man who could barely stand straight.

“Silence, you Savoyard!” Henry closed the gap between Chapuys and him. “If you retire from my court, you cannot even return to Savoy because it has been occupied by the French for years. You are homeless, without a sovereign. You might become headless, too, very soon.”

Grabbing Chapuys’ trembling shoulders, Henry pressed the blade to the man’s throat. All of Henry’s fury towards the late emperor for dying and for not defeating François was now directed at Carlos’ ambassador. However, Chapuys stared into his eyes intrepidly.

The ruler’s behavior elicited gasps of consternation. Yet, no one interfered.

Henry’s countenance twisted into abhorrence. “Shame on your liege lord and you!”

The diplomat muttered, “I do not treasure my life, Your Majesty. I have nothing to live for! I’ll gladly join Emperor Carlos in heaven, where he must be now with Empress Isabella.”

“Go away,” advised the ruler with animosity. “I release you from your duties at my court. When Felipe comes to his senses, he will send another ambassador to me.”  

Chapuys mumbled, “Thank you. I wish you well.”

As the king let go off him, the former Imperial ambassador bowed. Then Chapuys limped away, his cane scratching the floor as he walked and exited as quickly as he could.  

I’m all alone, Eustace Chapuys bemoaned silently as he paused in the corridor. Emperor Carlos is dead. Mary Tudor, who I always defended, betrayed me and ignores all of my letters. She betrayed the emperor by supporting Ferdinand and rescuing Juana. Mary’s actions had shocked the diplomat to the core like a downpour of icy water upon one’s skin, and he was sure that Catherine of Aragon was spinning in her grave in stinging shame for her daughter.

Mary had been granted such a great chance when Carlos had married her! How could she choose Ferdinand over her husband? What had she thought about when she had liberated Juana of Castile? For the first time in his life, Chapuys despised Mary, blaming Juana for Mary’s metamorphosis into a creature that repelled him. Chapuys’ loathing for François, his Boleyn harpy of a wife, and Ferdinand was as immense as his desire to die as soon as possible.

§§§

The herald announced, “Sir Henry Fitzalan, Earl of Arundel!”   

His head held high, Arundel walked with the gait of a prince – slow, measured, pompous. Ornamented with diamonds and emeralds, his doublet of emerald and black velvet was slashed with red stain, wrought with threads of gold.  His straight, copper hair flamed from beneath a cap of black and green satin, plumed with three crimson feathers. His hose of black silk highlighted his muscular legs; his girdle of tawny velvet was studded with massive sapphires.

Arundel did an excellent job in Norfolk, King Henry assessed. He feels as if he were a god, but I’ll curb his sense of superiority. Even Exeter did not behave so conceitedly! Out of all the nobles now present at his court, the monarch favored Exeter more than anyone else.

The Earl of Arundel approached the thrones and genuflected. “Your Majesty!”

The king permitted, “Rise, Arundel. I’m both happy and unset to see you.”

“Have I displeased you, my liege?” Arundel climbed to his feet.   

Exeter nodded at Arundel, who was his ally, implying to be cautious.

Henry castigated, “It took you many months to defeat those rebels in Norfolk. Courtenay dispatched Southampton and his men to you so that your joint armies could deal with them.”

Arundel narrated, “There were more than twenty thousand rebels in Norfolk. Half of the province demanded that the crown restore their chantries. Like Robert Aske’s men years ago, they were quite well-organized in bands acting like armies against my forces.”

The ruler compared the Pilgrimage of Grace and the new uprising. “The Norfolk insurgents could not be as professional as Robert Aske’s men were. That rebellion in the north was initiated by those who had experience in fighting against bellicose Scots.” He shrugged. “And those men from Norwich? Who are they? Just bandits from some towns and villages!”   

Nodding, Arundel cast his scrutiny down. “Yes, sire.”

“Perhaps you lack military experience,” assumed the king. “Arundel?” 

I am young and not a good soldier, the Earl of Arundel fumed silently. Nonetheless, I’ll not be insulted by that old king, whose one leg is already in the coffin. He was a good statesman, politician, and courtier, who had become a royal page at the age of fifteen, having attended the Anglo-French summit in Calais in 1532 and been recommended by Courtenay. Like Exeter and some others, he entertained the thoughts of how he would amass power after Henry’s death.   

Although Exeter was older, he and Arundel had found common ground because they were both as cunning as foxes, skilled at weaving deadly intrigues in subtle ways. Arundel was one of those who had assisted Exeter in collecting credible evidence against the late Queen Catherine Howard in her affair with Thomas Culpeper. Arundel was also a staunch Catholic.

The earl shrugged. “Only Your Majesty can judge.”

Henry was satisfied with his modest response. “I’m delighted that you and Southampton complied with my orders and punished all the insurgents regardless of their gender and age.”

“I did my duty.” Arundel’s tone was tinctured with coldness and pride.

Silence settled as everyone recalled the inhuman executions of those pilgrims years ago.

The uprising in Norfolk was large, but not nearly as serious as the Pilgrimage of Grace. The populace in Norwich, Wymondham, Attleborough, Morley St. Botolph, Hethersett, and other places had grown angry at the ruthlessness with which the royal commissioners had been dissolving the chantries. The yeoman farmer Robert Kett, who had been part of Arundel’s army, had offered to lead the mutineers instead of resisting them, having betrayed the crown.

Kett and his forces, joined by many recruits from the area and the surrounding countryside and numbering some twenty thousand men, had stormed and captured Norwich Castle and then marched east, swarming Mousehold Heath. In the winter of 1547, the rebels had vanquished the troops under Arundel. Kett’s riots had ended in May 1547 when the mutineers had been crushed by the forces under the joint leadership of the Earls of Southampton and of Arundel.

Later, Arundel had meted out the dreadful punishment to all the rebels, just as Suffolk had done in the aftermath of the Pilgrimage of Grace. All those who had not fallen in battle had been hanged, drawn, and quartered in Norwich, and the number of those executed men amounted to more than eight thousand men. Half of them had lost their families upon the king’s orders, but Southampton had been rather reluctant to comply with this order – Arundel had done so.

The ruler stated, “Lord Arundel, I wish to reward you for your services. Several years ago, I made you a Knight of the Garter. Today, I’m appointing you Lord Chamberlain.”

Arundel exclaimed, “Your Majesty is most generous!”

In an outburst of subservient joy, the earl genuflected in front of the king once more. As he rose, the monarch dismissed him with an imperious wave of his hand.

Arundel put in, “Your Majesty, as your loyal subject, it is my duty to report to you the case of treachery. Lord Southampton did not want to execute women and children.”

The king furrowed his brows. “What? Southampton sabotaged my order?” 

The earl stressed, “I did what Your Majesty enjoined – not Southampton.”

His eyes shooting daggers at Arundel, the Marquess of Exeter interjected, “Your Majesty, I’m pleading with you to let me investigate the matter on my own.”

“Wait, Hal,” said Henry, his scrutiny on Arundel. “Go on, Lord Arundel.”

Arundel strove to destroy another rival. “Southampton fought bravely against the rebels, but he refused to execute their families because it was unchristian, according to him.”   

Exeter glared at his ally. The gathering gasped, expecting new arrests.

The herald pronounced, “Sir Thomas Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton!”

His expression as arrogant as Arundel’s, Southampton entered in absolute, ghastly silence. His head pivoting back and forth, as he crossed to the thrones, bewildered by the dangerous hush. Southampton was appareled in unostentatious clothing: a doublet of black velvet slashed with brown satin, its placard embroidered with diamonds, matching his hose and cap.  

Southampton stopped and paid obeisance to his liege lord. “Your Majesty is this palace’s sun!” Puzzled by the king’s severity, he inquired, “Is something wrong?” 

Henry’s glare impaled his subject with its fierceness. “Traitor!”

A confused Southampton blinked. “What?” 

The royal chief minister interposed, “Your Majesty, we need–”

“Hal,” warned the monarch. “I trust you, but don’t enrage me.”

A despairing Exeter swallowed convulsively. “I beg your pardon.”

The monarch hollered, “Guards! Arrest that worm Southampton for treason.”

The courtiers plunged into a fearful trance. They watched Southampton being surrounded, manacled, and escorted out of the room with cries, “Your Majesty! I’m not guilty!”

Exeter and Arundel’s glowers intersected like blades. The two men comprehended that they had just transmuted into adversaries, for Southampton was also Exeter’s ally. The king’s brutality is becoming more and more terrifying, the Marquess of Exeter noted to himself with fright and contempt. Henry had lost the last vestiges of humanity! Gradually descending into beastly madness, the ruler was all too eager to dispose of anyone who could threaten his power.

All of a sudden, Queen Catherine Parr paled and trembled, as if she were in ague. She got to her feet unsteadily, but as a wave of dizziness seized her, she wobbled.

“Cathy?” King Henry stood up abruptly. “Are you all right?” 

“Your Majesty,” Catherine whispered before slumping into her husband’s arms.

“Call for my physician!” the monarch clamored. “My wife is ill!”

The Marquess of Northampton moved closer. “Your Majesty, the queen is not ill – she is pregnant. She learned about it in the morning and wanted to tell you tonight.”

Henry’s visage brightened, like that of a child when they were gifted a new toy. Looking at his spouse who went limp in his arms, he enthused, “God has blessed my marriage!”

Whisperings arose as the king carried the queen out. Northampton followed.

Exeter schooled his face into blandness with effort. God, Cathy is not expecting my baby as it should have been! If she miscarries like his other wives, the king might be inclined to get rid of her on phony charges. His jealousy was superseded by a calamitous terror of losing her due to the ruler’s growing volatility and savageness. Now Exeter was ready to even accept another man’s child into his family, just to have his beloved Catherine safe and by his side.

Notes:

The new chapter is up! We hope you, our dear readers, are fine and well.

This chapter and the next one are both focused on the consequences of Dauphin Henri’s discoveries after Henri read Diane de Poitiers’ diary. As we can see, Henri rushed back to France while sending away Marie de Bourbon for her safety. Sebastiano de Montecuccoli was stopped before he could have harmed the Valois family, although the poisoned bouquet killed a guard. Now Henri and Marguerite de Navarre have to find Catherine de’ Medici and her conspirators.

This chapter’s original title – ‘Villainesses Trapped by Each Other’ – refers to the fact that Catherine entrapped Diane, but in her death Diane entrapped Catherine and their accomplices. Catherine’s forged letters helped her frame Diane for the poisoning of King Henri II of Navarre, although Montecuccoli poisoned the Navarrese ruler, but this resulted in Diane’s condemnation and execution on her lover Henri’s orders. Ironically, in the end it was Diane’s diary that brought Catherine and her gang down, and we shall see what shall happen to them soon.

Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly evolved from the conceited and power-hungry mistress of King François into the paramour of King Henri whom she really loved and with whom she had four children. Anne changed a lot! Marguerite feels guilty for her failure to protect Henri’s bastard children, recommending that her former rival does certain things to start a new life. Anne still has two daughters, and her Charlotte will have an interesting character arc. Marguerite and her first husband – her cousin Charles de Valois, Duke d’Alençon – were married for years, but they never had children, and Margot’s mentioned miscarriages are a product of fiction for drama.

In England King Henry dismisses Charles de Marillac from his court in his outburst of hatred of France and Anne. It is Eustace Chapuys’ last appearance, and given Mary Tudor’s actions, Chapuys cannot be well-disposed towards her; of course, Chapuys is mourns for Carlos and loathes Ferdinand. The described rebellion happened in history during Edward VI of England’s reign, but we moved it several years forward. The Earl of Arundel was pitiless to the insurgents because Henry enjoined to have them all punished most severely. Exeter is more than shocked with Henry’s growing brutality, as well as with Catherine Parr’s pregnancy.

The information about Otford palace is historically correct. Henry VIII and his court rarely visited it, although there are accounts of Henry’s stay at Otford during his court’s progress.

Attention! We posted a prologue to the sequel “Chained by Blood and Power” (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 85: Chapter 84: Ignominy of Madame Serpent

Summary:

Catherine de’ Medici is given a glimpse of the future by her astrologers. Then Madame Serpent is arrested by Dauphin Henri, who hates her absolutely. In Italy, Anne, François, and the Medici family are horrified with the discovery of her crimes, just as the whole of Europe is.

Notes:

Attention! The prologue to the sequel 'Chained by Blood and Power' (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don't forget about our work "Entwined by a Golden Alliance" co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 84: Ignominy of Madame Serpent

June 29, 1547, Rue du Four, the city of Paris, France

The sinking sun painted a deep crimson tint across the cerulean blue expanse of the sky. The evening coolness was starting to drain the heat from the streets, still overcrowded with the Parisians who were hurrying home. Most streets and lanes were not that dirty, but they stank of human sweat, wastes, and foul air, for the humidity and heat were rather unbearable.

Garbed in hooded cloaks, the French dauphin and the Duke de Vendôme stood between two buildings. Their gazes were glued to a two-storied house with a tin roof on the opposite side of the lane. They were encircled by guards, all clad in similar nondescript clothing.

“Your Highness,” called Antoine de Bourbon. “Are you sure it is here?”

“Shhh,” Henri whispered. “Don’t address me so, my friend.”

Antoine apologized, “I’m sorry. I should have been more careful.”

The prince recalled, “This place was mentioned by the Montecuccoli devil.”

“After hours of his brutal torture,” Count Charles de Brissac informed; he was in charge of the Italian poisoner’s interrogation. He also accompanied the dauphin to the capital. “At first, Montecuccoli resisted, accusing you of mistreating him despite all his loyalty to France.”

Henri growled like a wolf, “What a jackal! How did you make him speak?” 

Brissac revealed, “We had that criminal whipped harshly several times, but he kept silent. However, after I had applied the breaking wheel to him three times, Montecuccoli broke down.”

Antoine noted, “The Spanish Inquisition often uses this method.”

“Exactly.” The prince nodded. “It is a form of capital punishment, and the convicted might be bludgeoned to death. Is that demon still alive? We may need him for more nice parleys.”

They laughed at the dauphin’s sarcasm. Brissac then responded, “The dose of pain to make him talk was huge, but not enough to kill him. He is still breathing and is chained to the wall.”

The prince’s scrutiny was concentrated on the building where his wife had been reported to have spent several weeks. “When we return to Amboise, I shall personally use each and every method of torture to learn the names of all the traitors who conspired against my family.”

Brissac and Vendôme traded anxious glances, and so did soldiers around them. In spite of his reserved temperament, these days Henri’s mood swings were intense and severe.

Silence ensued, deadly and charged with unspoken ruthlessness.

I would gladly have killed that Medici creature, Dauphin Henri hissed in his mind, his fists clenched into tight balls inside the pockets of his cloak. I’m itching to send Catherine to Lucifer so that she can kneel in front of the devil and beg him for mercy for her failures to kill my relatives. His imaginings concerning Catherine, whom he cursed every hour, were twisted and colored in the opaque hues, always connected with the deviltry of Satan and all his cohorts.

There was an infinite abyss in the prince’s soul, fiery like the smoke of a burning city. This summer was black for Henri, beginning to shine only when the face of Marie de Bourbon floated before his mind’s eye, and the golden rays of Marie’s loveliness and perfection touched his skin. In other moments, the air in his lungs was composed of rage, and he expelled it into the universe with every breath. He would be cleansed of this filth only if he captured the Medici demonness.

Henri’s glare pierced the small house in the distance like a thousand arrows. “That wife of mine, who I’ll forever regret marrying, will belong to the netherworld soon.”

Antoine stammered, “Are you going to kill… her today?”

“I would have done it myself with the utmost eagerness.” The prince crossed his arms over his chest. “But my father is the King of France, and only he can decide, if to do it at all. It might be better to let Catherine rot in some prison, starving and being tortured every day or week, so that she can endure the inhuman agony continuously. It would be worse than quick death.”

Brissac questioned, “What if her body is torn apart by horses?”

“Or if she is hanged, drawn, and quartered?” Antoine asked. “These are not easy deaths.”

A wave of sadistic gladness rushed through Henri as he envisaged Catherine’s torments. “The more profound and longer that dratted woman’s sufferings will be the better.”  

My hatred of Catherine is everlasting and immeasurable, the dauphin mused. Now he was a spider crawling after his prey, ready to attack the Medici woman in the most terrific shapes and have her wrapped into the web of doom. Her devious games would be over soon! Henri, her husband who had never wanted to have her as his wife, would put an end to Catherine’s crimes. Ironically, Henri, whom she had worked to make king, would be the one to bring her to justice.  

The dauphin speculated, “Christianity replaced the paganism of ancient civilization thanks to Jesus. Yet, Catherine believes in seers. Perhaps she is a witch who must be burned.”

“You do not believe in witchcraft,” the Duke de Vendôme commented, and Henri nodded. “These are tales of the Church to make people live in fear and serve prelates well.”  

Brissac concurred. “It is a ruse to manipulate the uneducated folk.”

“Certainly.” The prince tensed when it suddenly seemed to him that the door of the house was opening, but then he realized that he was imagining things. “That witch must believe in them, for she has listened to her astrologers for years. Or did they supply her only with poisons?”   

Vendôme shrugged his shoulders. “Montecuccoli and the Ruggieri brothers must be those who experiment in alchemy. They also produce poisons and test them on human beings.”

An appalled Brissac assumed, “They must have killed hundreds to perform such tests.”

“All of them innocents.” Henri inhaled fiercely. “Just as my brothers were.”

A funereal silence, yet vigilant for any movement and word, stretched between them. They silently gave tribute to the late Dauphin François and the late Prince Charles de Valois.

§§§

In the meantime, Dauphine Catherine de’ Medici paced the chamber where her astrologers kept poisons, portions, herbs, and their magical charts, as well as human skeletons. Attired in a high-necked gown of black satin, she resembled a black crow eating the carrion rapaciously.

“I’ve been here for three weeks,” the Medici princess huffed in Italian. “But I cannot make you give me what I need – the best poison for the children of François and Anne.”

Her Florentine astrologers – Cosimo and Lorenzo Ruggieri – gathered in the corner. They stared at the table with detailed charts that depicted planets and constellations. At present, they were middle-aged men in their fifties, each dressed in black. Their wrinkled faces, concentrated and intelligent, were marred with overwordly severity. The Ruggieri brothers were the subject of many dark legends in Paris, and reputed masters of the occult, black magic, and witchcraft.

Catherine approached them. “I can no longer stay at this house, for it does not suit my high station. Everyone thinks that I’m on a pilgrimage, but I must return to court.”

Cosimo, in France known as Côme Ruggieri, lifted his eyes from the charts. “Madonna Caterina, if we obey, you will not succeed in killing any of the French monarchs’ offspring.”

“I have to destroy them all! I must!” The dauphine’s orbs full of hatred were blacker than a moonless night. “On the Feast of St Bartholomew over a year ago, that Boleyn whore poisoned Pope Paul the Third in the Sistine Chapel. I was informed about all the circumstances of his assassination.” Her voice rose to a shriek. “It is our sacred duty to avenge His Holiness!”  

Lorenzo joined the conversation. “It was the Almighty’s will.”

A pensive Cosimo shifted one of the skeletons that lay in front of them to the other side of the table. “Your Highness, when we were younger, we thought that we could change fate. You saved us in Florence from the Inquisitors, and so in gratitude we served you most loyally and assiduously. We killed many for you and created a grandiose collection of poisons.”

Catherine resumed striding back and forth, like a caged wildcat. “Together with my friend, Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli.” She pivoted to them. “Where are you going with this?”

Lorenzo announced, “The older we were becoming, the more firmly we understood that it is impossible to fight against destiny. You cannot get rid of Queen Anne and her progeny.” He cast a glance at a chart. “Even though I see that one of them might die very young.”

Cosimo took one of the personal horoscopes they had prepared. “This is Queen Anne’s chart. This unique woman will die as a celebrated queen, but you will outlive her.”

The dauphine did not believe it. “That slut cannot have a long life.”

Cosimo continued reading the French queen’s horoscope. “Her Majesty will live for much longer than her husband, but they will rule France together for another decade or so.”

“No!” Catherine’s fists clenched. “No! You must be wrong!”

“We are right,” insisted Cosimo most vehemently. “The king’s violent death will break her. Afterwards she will live for vengeance and for her eldest son, Prince Augustine.”  

Catherine’s glower dashed to three skeletons that lay on another table in the corner of the room. She hissed the name she loathed more than anything else, “Augustine! I want him dead! I want all of her children poisoned, as if they had never existed. They are rivals for my offspring.”   

Lorenzo rummaged through a pile of their many charts until he found something. “Prince Augustine’s horoscope reveals his future. He is a God-chosen king for his war-ridden country, one who will emerge, oddly, from rivers of bloodshed. His fate is connected with yours.”

Cosimo supplemented, “We did not voice the truth before.”

“How dare you conceal anything from me?” Catherine blustered. “My sons must rule!” 

Closing his eyes, Cosimo spoke in all too familiar whimsical patterns.

A young man holds a bloodied sword, his spirit ruthless, cold, and crafty. He will have to become like this to survive. The crown is upon his head – the crown tainted with blood.

The dauphine was confused. “What does that mean?”  

Cosimo inhaled sharply. “I have visions and voice them.”

“Augustine,” snarled Catherine. “It must be him! I must dispose of him!”

Lorenzo put in, “Your own darkness is very, very close, Madonna Caterina.”

Cosimo declared bluntly, “You will see three shrouds for each of your three sons, but not now – in many years to come. Augustine de Valois will eventually ascend to the throne.”

Catherine resumed pacing. “No! My husband will succeed that heretical François. My son François is sickly, but I also have my sons Charles and Alexandre, who is especially healthy.”

“They are all destined to die young,” Lorenzo reiterated.  

Cosimo apprised, “Your blood, Madonna Caterina, will course through the veins of some of Augustine’s descendants. You will have another daughter in the future.”

“Another daughter? Not a son?” Catherine was frustrated. “And when?”

Lorenzo nodded. “We can see another princess, one who will tie you to the French throne.” His orbs were rooted to the floor when he delivered, “Neither of your sons will leave any male heirs. All of them will die! These things are set in stone and cannot be altered, Madonna.”  

The dauphine stopped near the table with the skeletons. “Your gibberish is making me quite inclined to have you both killed. Your bodies can be used for experiments.”

A composed Cosimo asserted, “Our painful deaths are written in the stars.”

There was not a shadow of fear on the astrologers’ visages – only resignation.

The Medici woman stabbed an angry finger at them. “You are both charlatans!” 

“Our potions worked in the end,” Lorenzo responded. “Dauphin Henri changed his attitude to you after the execution of Madame Diane de Poitiers. He summoned you to Italy, where you spent weeks with him and conceived Princess Élisabeth. When did we deceive you?”  

“Henri must love me!” Her heart collapsed at the thought of her husband’s new mistress.

Cosimo’s voice, now deeper than a mere moments ago, resonated through the air.

The sword penetrates his skull. He has no eye, but he is alive as he says his goodbye.

The princess let out a laugh. “What is it? It sounds like a poem.”

With a hint of irritation, Cosimo retorted, “This is what I see.”

“Ah, blood gushes!” She snickered at him. “Oh, I’m so frightened!”

Lorenzo opined, “What Cosimo sees is truly horrible.”

Cosimo pressed his hands to his temples, as though headache were shooting through them. “I have visions of these disastrous things happening. These tragedies cannot be averted.”   

The dauphine demanded, “Jokes apart, how can I dispose of that English strumpet and her male progeny? Sebastiano has many poisons, but he is making mistakes.”

Cosimo tipped his head. “We have such concoctions, but it is too late.”  

“Why?” A prickle of premonition crawled across her skin.

Lorenzo divulged, “Madonna Caterina, we examined your and Queen Anne’s horoscopes for the next fifteen years. I apologize, but I see you living in pitch-black darkness somewhere. In the queen’s case, her great happiness shall end in the tragedy shattering her spirit.”

She quizzed impatiently, “Will the harlot die soon after the king?”

Cosimo emphasized, “King François and Queen Anne are soulmates. Their horoscopes and charts are linked in many ways. Some of them are easily comprehensible and some inexplicable. They are two halves of one whole: only together their souls can breathe and live.”

Catherine blurted out, “Then I shall get rid of my father-in-law.”

Cosimo apprised, “Queen Anne will outlive her husband by many years.”

“How dare you?” It was not what the dauphine wanted to hear.

Lorenzo crossed to a table. He grabbed some paper and unfurled it, showing drawn lines to their patroness. “This is the newest horoscope of King François. It does not contain any signs of trouble throughout the next decade, just as Dauphin Henri’s horoscope does not. Finally, the darkest lines crisscross on their charts, ending abruptly. On each of their horoscopes!”

Cosimo’s voice was like a roar of water, churning and moving in swirls.

Blood flows from his wounds. He falls and dies in all his glory. The sounds… the music is playing in the background, a mourning dirge for all those who die on the same day.  

Catherine’s soul pulsated with evil excitement. “What are you describing?”  

Cosimo sighed. “Madonna Caterina, visions come and go.”

Lorenzo affirmed, “Like Virgil’s Aeneas, François and Anne founded a new branch of the Valois dynasty in France. Prince Augustine will become King of France.”

Cosimo flung his hands up, as if surrendering. “No one can avoid their destiny.”

Lorenzo folded the charts. “We were afraid to tell you everything. If the prophecy of Augustine’s inevitable accession had been revealed before today, you would have killed us.”

A lurid light entered Catherine’s orbs. “You are an ungrateful lot of ruffians! I should have allowed those Florentine inquisitors to execute you years ago, you scumbags.”    

As she darted to the door, Cosimo’s baritone halted her.

France drowns in oceans of crimson. Darkness reigns, but the sun dawns and triumphs.

A blend of puzzlement and rage written across her countenance, Catherine beheld them as angels outstretching their arms and embracing the fire consuming her all over. These words, just as all other prophecies, reverberated through the dauphine’s head, skin, and bones.  

“Charlatans!” Catherine dismissed their words as baloney.   

“Wrong,” Lorenzo contradicted. “All will come true years later, Madonna Caterina.”

Cosimo promulgated, “Goodbye, Your Highness. Darkness is awaiting you.”

Leering at them from the doorway, the princess taunted, “Without my money, you will both become beggars in the Parisian streets. You shall die in poverty, without roof and home.”

“Death is extremely close to my brother and me,” Cosimo parried. “But not to you.”  

The dauphine hollered, “Maddalena and Lucrezia!” She stomped out and into the corridor.

Her handmaidens rushed down the stairs and stopped a few respectful steps from her.

“Your Highness!” Maddalena and Lucrezia chorused.

Catherine questioned in French, “Are my things packed? Give me my cloak.”

“Yes, they are,” Lucrezia confirmed. “I shall take your bag.”

Maddalena was near her mistress. “Let me help you, Madame.”

Lucrezia was already holding the dauphine’s bag and their own ones. The ladies assisted Catherine in putting on a cloak of black velvet embroidered with gold thread. As they exited the house, they felt a breathing of something perilous in the air and on their skin, alarmed. Shadows of the blackest gloom mantled Catherine, and a sequence of tremors from the terror of their prophecies shivered along her spine, as though muttering something like a roaring sea.

§§§

The folds of the evening enveloped Paris, and quietness settled upon the streets. Most of the civilians had already made their way home. Oil lamps and torches were lit inside the houses. Followed by her maids, Catherine was halted near the astrologers’ home by a familiar voice.

“Where are you going, Madame Serpent? Are you plotting another crime?”

Pausing fearfully, Catherine and her ladies-in-waiting emitted a collective gasp of horror.

Henri! How can he be here? a scared Catherine wondered. Madame Serpent? Only Diane referred to me so… Fetters of primeval, paralyzing fright seized her, like a tight fist closing its hand around her lungs. He could have called her so only if he had found some paper proving her associations with Diane, or if one of her accomplices had confessed to their misdeeds.

The three women were deadly quiet. Urgent footsteps were getting closer. The astrologers’ warning about darkness nearing Catherine buzzed in their ears. Vendôme and several other men formed a circle around them. Henri’s wife stood with her back to her captor.   

The prince jeered, “Not happy to see your husband, Madame Serpent? Isn’t it how that Poitiers perfidious slut labeled you, while you called her Madame Mistress?” He tittered. “Diane is burning in the netherworld, while your descent into hell is only starting, Catherine.”

At last, the Medici princess swiveled to her spouse, her motions slow, all too slow. The amber Valois pools full of perpetual animosity and cosmic repugnance, and the hazel Medici orbs, overflowing with icy-cold waters of shock, bafflement, disbelief, and mortal dread.

Brissac ordered in the background, “Go arrest the Ruggieri brothers!”

Malice painted itself on Henri’s visage as he gestured towards his wife and her maids. “It is the darkest irony of fate that the three female incarnations of Lucifer are apprehended by the very man whom they worked hard to make king. Today is the Feast of St Peter and Paul.”

“He knows!” A frightened Lucrezia realized everything. “Oh, my dearest Sebastiano!”

Catherine’s brain regained its ability to function. Did Montecuccoli fail to kill Marguerite de Navarre and was captured? Did they break him under torture? In her husband’s eyes, she discerned a broad ditch of life and mortality, bent in an arc, the latter being closer to her.

The prince jeered, “That Italian poisoner is currently having a wonderful time with various torture devices at Amboise. You three are on the verge of a crimson abyss.”   

Lucrezia was close to a nervous breakdown. “I do not want to die!” 

Vendôme manacled her hands. “But you shall, together with your other partners in crime.”

Maddalena let them shackle her. “Lucrezia, do not show your weakness.”

The dauphin was then handed a leather-bound volume by his page. “You trapped Diane by shifting onto her the blame for the crimes you two committed and for your own villainies. Yet, Diane sealed your fate: Diane’s diary contains the detailed account of your evil escapades.”    

Did that whore write a diary? Furious amazement manifested itself on Catherine’s face. Despite her unstoppable nature and her incredible ability to always accomplish her goals, she had still imagined her demise from time to time, just because her secrets were very dangerous to keep them. However, how could the dead Diane become the reason for her downfall? Catherine had never hated her rival more than she loathed Madame de Poitiers at this very moment.

Henri opened the diary and flicked through its pages. “You are the true Medici murderess! This interesting thing has enlightened me like a divine messenger, my most criminal wife.”

“I’m a Medici through and through.” There was a peculiar pride in the dauphine’s tone.

“You are, may God curse you! I just cannot comprehend for what sins I’ve been tied to you by the bondage of our accursed marriage, for I never wanted to take you as a wife.”

With a feverish glint in her orbs, Catherine supplied half-regretfully, half-angrily, “Henri, we could have governed France together! I desperately craved to make you the greatest monarch who has ever sat on the French throne. We would have purged this land from heresy together.”

Henri’s glare burned her, like the red-hot chains on a burning gridiron in the netherworld. “You destroyed many innocents, including my brother François and my uncle, Henri of Navarre. You knew that the Guises would attack Anne, so you are guilty of my brother Charles’ murder.”   

“It was necessary,” stressed the dauphine. “The heretics deserve a lethal punishment.”

The prince’s roar was like that of an incensed tragedian. “What did you do, damn you? You, so far the Dauphine of France, conspired with Carlos and Henry of England – both of them mortal adversaries to our family and country. You lured Anne to Boulogne with my brothers. My father went to Milan where he could have died during the siege or be killed by that dead Spanish thug. All because of your forged letters! With God’s abounding grace, we rescued them.”

“It is such a great pity.” There was no repentance in the Medici princess.

His glower turned more sanguineous and bloodthirsty. “After your death, Catherine, the screams of your never-ending agony will be heard in the whole universe. Take her away!”   

Catherine’s hands were now shackled. “It is not an end, husband.”

Vendôme oversaw the guards escort the three prisoners to a chariot draped in black, which stood at the other side of the street. The Machiavellian harpies, who had made the French court the nest of their abominable deeds and intrigues for years, were finally captured.

I’m swimming in abject darkness. Henri watched his wife climb into the chariot. Catherine is the diabolical darkness, but now she is gone. Do I feel so because we are still married? Oh God! The evening mirrored the dusk in his inner realm, which seemed almost physical, as if only so much light were admitted into him as to allow him to see the ghosts of his fragmented life.

The prince swung around to see the manacled astrologers – alive, unlike their victims.

Hateful vitriol slipped out of the dauphin’s mouth. “So, you are the infamous and revolting seers from Florence who came to my family’s realm to wreak havoc and kill my relatives?” His voice dropped to a hissing whisper. “You will both regret that you were born, you jackals.”

Lorenzo admitted, “We should not have served Madonna Caterina.”

“It matters not.” Henri’s anger poured out of him in a dreadful tempest. “The wicked who know not God and obey not the gospel of Jesus Christ shall be cast into eternal torments. Not the heretics who are declared pagans by the corrupt Popes like Farnese, but miscreants like you.”

All of a sudden, Cosimo spoke with force so great that everybody trembled.

They both tumble to the floor, the father’s wounds countless. His son heroically dies later.

Cosimo looked at the dauphin. “Your Highness and your father have horoscopes that are so very similar at the end of your lives. You shall both die violent deaths in years to come.”

Vendôme clamored, “Shut up!” At the sight of his friend’s distress flashing across Henri’s countenance, he nearly implored, “Don’t listen to him, Your Highness! It is absurd!”

Cosimo continued, “Man’s destiny is fixed by God, not determined by what they want, do, or don’t do.” His voice rose an octave. “You will be happy for quite some time as well.”

“Enough!” Henri grinned as if they were lunatics, but he remained chilled to the core.

“Prince Augustine,” Cosimo pronounced emphatically. “After all the trials and tribulations, he will usher France into a Golden Age, which will be later destroyed and again rebuilt.”

The guards, who stood nearby, looked paler than whitewashed walls.

Lorenzo prophesized, “Several generations of the Valois family will drown in blood.”

Vendôme swore, “These mad blackguards shall suffer!”

Dauphin Henri observed his friend and several guards lead the Ruggieri brothers away.

The prince enjoined, “Keep your mouths shut.” They did not believe the prediction.

The tale of Louise de Savoy crushed against the dauphin’s skull like an insane ape trying to escape its cage. ‘Your son will become a great King of France, but his crown will be bloody on his last day. His fourth son will restore peace for a long time, but he will also end up in a similar way’. These were the words of the old woman who had predicted François’ accession at the time when King Charles VIII and the future Louis XII had been alive and could have had sons.

Henri de Valois glanced towards the chariot occupied by his spouse and her ladies. What is it? These seers must be wrong and mad! He would not think of all these stupidities. Now he had to deal with the prisoners. Motioning for the guards to follow him, the prince stomped away.


July 25, 1547, Villa di Cafaggiolo, Barberino di Mugello, Tuscany, Italy

Queen Anne of France entered the bedroom of Duchess Leonor of Florence. Leonor rested upon a mahogany bed, its headboard gilded and its canopy yellow and red – the Medici colors.  

Leonor’s husband frequently lived in these apartments, not retiring to his own quarters for the night, just as François acted. This villa was not Leonor’s favorite one, but as Cosimo liked it, they often stayed here. The chamber had long been refurbished with gilded furniture and parquet flooring, as well as white and emerald-brocaded couches. The wall frescoes portrayed various cities of Tuscany, where Cosimo dreamed of creating his Grand Duchy under the Medici.

“Your infant son is so bonny, Leonor!” Anne eased herself in a gilded X-shaped chair.

Leonor flashed a resplendent smile. “We are both faring well. Thank you, Anne.”

Anne glanced wistfully at the crib where the newborn Medici baby boy slept. “Thank you for making François and me Garzia’s godparents. We appreciate it a lot.”

“We hope you will make us godparents of your next child.”

The queen gazed in the direction of a window. The sun shone in the firmament, but not in her soul. “I pray that I’ll be able to give my husband more children. At least one girl.”

“The Almighty will answer to your prayers for another baby.”

Anne veered her gaze back to the duchess. “You are most kind.”

Two weeks ago, Duchess Leonor had given birth to her forth son with Cosimo de’ Medici. The boy named Garzia had been christened with Queen Anne and Empress Marguerite standing as his godmothers, and with King François and Archduke Maximilian of Austria acting as his godfathers. Since their wedding in 1539, Leonor was almost annually pregnant, for it was her mission to ensure that the legitimate male Medici line would not go extinct.

Years had elapsed since Anne had first come to Florence to make a treaty with the House of Medici, powerful in the Apennine Peninsula. Despite Leonor’s initial allegiance to Spain and her Spanish roots, the bonds of friendship had formed between both women years earlier.

Leonor’s hands fidgeted with her nightgown’s collar. “François and you are most gracious to remain friendly with me and Cosimo after the revelations of our relative’s crimes.”

“Catherine de’ Medici…” The sound of this name splashed down on Anne like a bucket of arctic water. “She is so hypocritical and very evil that she manipulated all of us for years while–” As terror seized her, she broke off. “She and that thug Farnese… They killed so many!”

At present, the entirety of Christendom was aware that Dauphine Catherine de’ Medici was the vilest female malefactor who had ever stepped upon this earth. It shocked everyone to the deepest recesses of their beings that a princess had masqueraded herself as a harmless creature neglected by her husband, for many years while weaving terrible schemes. It was impossible for any royal person to get themselves into a more degrading ignominy than Catherine’s disgrace.

The scandal around Dauphin Henri overshadowed Emperor Carlos’ demise at Marignano, which was now mentioned on rare occasions. At present, every royal family could be worried about their safety. The precedent of such diabolical falsehoods, as well as multiple assassinations and regicide attempts within the French ruling dynasty chilled monarchs, nobles, and commoners like ice. Everybody waited with bated breaths for the outcome of this sensational drama.

Catherine was incarcerated in the Grand Châtelet – an ancient fortress built by King Louis VI of France on the right bank of the Seine River in Paris. Numberless arrests of her accomplices and suspicious people were occurring in France every day. According to Henri and Marguerite that Catherine is being treated like a common prisoner, Anne rejoiced maliciously. I’d love to see her chained to the wall in her small cell, and guarded by squads of soldiers day and night.

Leonor looked even gloomier than a leaden sky. “That demonness tried to dispose of you and your sons... That is inhuman! Catherine is a mother herself! How could she do this?” 

The queen assumed, “She must be possessed by warped and insane lust for power. There can be no other explanation of Catherine’s heinous transgressions. Catherine and Diane together perpetrated all these evil deeds to make Henri King of France or at least François’ only heir.”

“Ironically, Dauphin Henri had Diane de Poitiers executed, but her diary later exposed all of Diane and his wife’s misdeeds. Henri then arrested Catherine de’ Medici in Paris.”   

A rush of warmth towards her stepson flooded Anne. “Henri loves his father and siblings more than power. He saved the House of Valois from the extinction that could have been caused by Catherine, proving that he is an honorable man through and through.”

Leonor tipped her head. “Indeed. Are all of your offspring safe now?” 

“Yes. Henri and my husband’s sister are trying to find out all of Catherine’s accomplices.”

In a voice layered with compassion and remorse, the Duchess of Florence supplied, “I feel guilty for Cosimo’s interference with Dauphin Henri’s annulment several years ago.”

With an air of amicable softness, the Queen of France affirmed, “Neither you nor Cosimo was aware of Catherine’s plots. François and I know that you are as horrified as everyone else is, and we blame you for nothing. Cosimo’s attempts to stop the annulment are understandable.”

Leonor huffed, “We believed that we merely helped our relative to avoid disgrace. If only we had known at the time who we were defending, we would never have acted so.”

Leaning forward, Anne took the duchess’ hand in hers. “Your loyalty to your family shows you and Cosimo as people who care for your relatives and the prestige of the Medici dynasty.”

Leonor squeezed her hand. “Catherine’s atrocities besmirched our honor forever.”

“No,” the Queen of France disagreed. “Neither François nor I think so. And that is what we are answering to numerous letters we keep receiving from other rulers.”

“Thank you, Anne. Cosimo and I are happy to be your allies and friends.”

The queen maneuvered the discourse to a pleasant subject. They discussed their marriages and children, including the betrothal of Prince Lorenzo of France to Isabella de’ Medici.

Anne stood up. “I’ll visit you in the evening again, Leonor.” She then exited.

§§§

The sun blazed down so fiercely that the gardens shimmered in its blinding light. It seemed that the verdant foliage and leaves on the trees could suddenly turn dry, each of them impatient for a cooler afternoon to come. Giorgio Vasari, who was patronized by Cosimo de’ Medici, as well as found refuge from the heat in an arbor Queen Anne and Archduke Maximilian.

His features concentrated, Vasari worked on his painting ‘La Pietà.’ It was a representation of the ‘Lamentation over the dead Jesus Christ’ in his idiosyncratic style, yet it was dominated by traditional biblical themes. Clad in a black damask doublet and matching trunk hose, Vasari preferred modest outfits. The dourness of his looks – hazel eyes and black hair – was accentuated by a pronounced nose and a strong chin, framed by a neat and short brown beard. Spectacularly educated for an artist, Vasari’s countenance displayed high intelligence and firmness.

Born in Arezzo, Vasari had long relocated to Florence. He was a far-famed Italian painter, architect, and writer, who had travelled extensively as he had worked in Florence, Rome, Naples, and his native Arezzo. Thanks to the patronage of the Medici family, Vasari’s popularity was growing at a breakneck speed, and he specialized in large-scale commissions, running a busy workshop. A socially active person, Vasari cultivated friendship with many cultured people.  

“Why are you painting, Messer Vasari?” inquired Maximilian curiously.

The artist answered, “God wants me to hold a brush in my hand.”

Anne quizzed, “Are you interested in the arts, Maximilian?”

“Yes!” exclaimed the archduke. “My late mother, Anna, was a great patron of the arts, just as my stepmother Margot is. When my father allowed me to have my own residence in Vienna, I commissioned new paintings, sculptures, and architectural projects. However, all the works were stopped when my late Uncle Carlos had my father arrested, and we fled to Bohemia.”  

Ferdinand’s children with his wives would stay in Bohemia until their father’s negotiations with Felipe of Spain were over. Ferdinand had permitted only his eldest son, Maximilian, to go to Italy so that the French sovereigns could meet with their future son-in-law.

Anne knew of his misadventures. “It is almost over, Maximilian.”

Maximilian smiled at the French queen, growing fond of Anne. “When my father returns, I’ll be elected the next King of the Romans, and we will be crowned together.”

His youthful, regal snobbism amused her. “It will be brilliant, won’t it?”

“Of course. We shall celebrate it.” Maximilian looked satisfied.

Now drawing the head of Jesus on the canvas, Vasari intervened, “Your Highness, thank the Lord that you are not receiving the body of Emperor Ferdinand – God send him a long life. Just as the Virgin Mary received the body of Christ after it had been lowered from the cross.”

Ferdinand’s son asserted, “My father and his allies won the war against Carlos. Our fair and equitable Lord proved to the entire world who deserved to be Holy Roman Emperor.”

The artist grinned festively. “I’m delighted that now we have peace.” His gaze slid back to the painting. “Art flourishes only in the times of peace, and in those centers of civilization where wealth and leisure become combined to create sublime beauty to please the eye.”

Maximilian outlined his plans. “I’ll continue making Vienna a center of the arts.”

Vasari eyed his canvas again. “I wish you best of luck.”

The emperor’s son observed the unfinished work. “The body of Jesus looks like the flesh in pale shades, almost gray. It contrasts in a fine way with the other characters, rich in color and looking very much alive, despite Christ’s death after all His torments.” He crossed himself. “The composition is fabulous with all its asymmetries and its unconventional elegance.”

The artist commended, “Your Highness has the eye for a lofty beauty that can be found only in the arts. I’ll never leave Tuscany, but Vienna will benefit from your patronage.”

“Hopefully.” Maximilian then complimented, “Messer Vasari, your style is notable for its sophistication, but at times it looks somewhat artificial. It must be Andrea del Sarto’s influence.”

“As well as Rosso Fiorentino’s,” presumed Anne.

Giorgio Vasari started painting Maria Maddalena, who was kneeling and holding the feet of Christ. The figure of St John supporting the crucified Jesus, whose crown of thorns lay on the ground, was completed. These days, Vasari worked more often on his other projects, using his team of assistants for these purposes, but this ‘Pieta’ had long been on his mind.

A sullen Vasari was almost denting the brush into the canvas as he recalled, “At sixteen, I came from Arezzo to Florence, where I joined the circle of Andrea del Sarto. It was an awesome time when I met my friends and Messer del Sarto’s pupils such as Rosso Fiorentino and Jacopo Pontormo. Michelangelo befriended me, too.” He released a sigh. “Del Sarto and Fiorentino are in a better world, beautifying it with their talents. At least, Pontormo is still with us.”  

“Michelangelo is also alive, God bless him.” Maximilian admired this man.

Vasari tipped a nod. “I’m happy to work for His Grace Cosimo, who knows how important art is on this sinful earth. Thanks to him, I’m now teaching many young artists.”

This popular man is shrewd, Anne remarked to herself. The Duke of Florence patronized many artists out of his love for the arts, and in order to cultivate the magnificence of the Medici dynasty, literally proclaiming that his reign was Florence’s new Golden Age. Cosimo was giving the Florentines a new unparalleled cultural revival after the death of Lorenzo Il Magnifico.

Il Rosso was a great man,” Anne opined. “I mourned for him when he died in France.”

“Fiorentino’s works at Fontainebleau must be absolutely gorgeous.” Vasari wished to look at them, but he would not find the time to travel anywhere outside Italy.

Anne’s gaze drifted to a row of statues nearby. “It is my favorite palace in France.”

Maximilian noted, “Messer Vasari, you are a man of different talents.”

Vasari shrugged. “But I’ll be more remembered not as an architect and a painter.”

“How then?” Anne’s eyes darted between Vasari and the archduke.

The artist predicted, “As an art historian!” At the sight of their amazement, he elucidated, “I’ve been working on my own collection of artistic biographies – I call it encyclopedia. It is a book containing stories of the world’s notable painters, and dedicated to Duke Cosimo.”

The queen clapped her hands. “Bravo! That is such a great project!”  

Maximilian was impressed as well. “Excellent! I already want to read it.”

“I can show you a draft.” Finally, Vasari put the brush aside.

“That would be amazing!” Maximilian boasted, “I’m a man of diverse interests, ranging from the arts to military affairs, music, history, religion, geography, to hunting.”  

Vasari laughed. “Your Highness is as versatile as I am.”

Anne recollected, “I know from our discussions that you are the first who used the term ‘Renaissance.’ The modern triumph of culture symbolizes the rebirth of humanity.”

The artist intoned in most elated tones, “And in such a stunning form!”

Anne listened to Maximilian’s exchange with Giorgio Vasari, at times saying something. She liked Ferdinand’s son: handsome, outgoing, and charismatic, Maximilian had a humanistic education and admired the arts more than Emperor Ferdinand did. The father and his eldest son had a lot in common, for instance their adherence to religious tolerance. My Aimée is a delicate flower, and Maximilian seems to be someone who can take good care of her, Anne surmised.

§§§

As the Valois spouses entered the study, King François went to a desk. He almost tumbled into a gilded curule seat where Duke Cosimo of Florence always worked. The study was paneled in dark oak, with bookshelves bearing a significant number of volumes. A row of matching curule chairs stood along two walls, while marble tables with sculptures lined the other walls.

After breaking his son’s seal, François scanned through Dauphin Henri’s letter.

My beloved Father,

All of my siblings, Aunt Marguerite, and I are hale and hearty, now safe from the nefarious plots of that demonical woman whom I’m ashamed to have as my wife.  

The news of Catherine’s villainies shocked all of my siblings. Louise and Augustine have been the bravest, displaying royal dignity. Augustine’s rational coldness is most surprising, and his intelligence shines, too. Poor Jean is scared, while dearest Aimée is putting on a courageous face. A frightened Antoine is trying to find mortal support from Augustine and me, and we assured him of our safety. Lorenzo is too small to understand how serious the situation is.

My son François has gotten sick again, as he often does. Claude has been horrified and withdrawn. Charles, who was neglected by Catherine more than his siblings, has not yet noticed the permanent absence of his mother. Alexandre Édouard is accustomed to being Catherine’s favorite and is anxious without her. Élisabeth is too small to know what is really happening.

My cousin Jeanne… It is not easy for me to call her Queen Jeanne of Navarre, for it pains me to think of her father’s death. Jeanne is shaken, yet pleased that we appended the murderess of her father. She and Augustine are becoming closer, for now they are united in their sorrows.  

I’m staying at Chenonceau; Aunt Margot is in Amboise. We arrested hundreds of people – nobles, members of the Estates-General, prelates, grooms, and servants from our palaces. At least half of them served that harpy, but we must eradicate all the weeds for our safety.

Stay calm in Italy and rest well. Aunt Margot and I control everything.

Your son Henri

François clasped the letter in his hand so tightly that his knuckles whitened. His heart was divided into halves: one of them burned like poison with his perpetual hatred for Catherine, God, and himself, and the other writhed in agony for all the losses the monarch had sustained because of his daughter-in-law’s viciousness. Helpless, he slapped the letter down upon the desk.

Afternoon light soaked into the room through the windows. After the receipt of the news of Catherine’s arrest, François had plunged into chasmal depression. Currents of darkness are swarming me, François lamented. Catherine filled our lives with her pain. If a subtle suspicion regarding Catherine’s role in their family tragedies had crossed his mind years ago, the king would have brought the situation to heel, but Catherine was such a consummate actress.

A tide of animosity towards Catherine ripped through the ruler of France. “That damned she-devil destroyed my two sons! My precious boys! She deserves eternal torments of hell!” 

“She does.” Anne stepped to the desk. “It is all so awfully horrendous.”   

“Yes, it is, and I blame myself for that.”

“Why, mon amour? No one could guess what Catherine did and planned.”   

Her husband wished to imagine that it was all a nightmare, from which he would wake up soon. “I forced Henri into this marriage years ago because Pope Clement the Seventh offered me an alliance against Carlos and an ample dowry. However, the Pope died soon, and Catherine came to me stark naked, for her dowry was not paid. We accepted a murderess into our family!”

The queen knelt by his side. “At the time, you needed new allies against the Habsburgs. No one could guess that Catherine’s soul is as dark as the blackest night.”

An errant tear trickled down his cheek. “Wife, if only I had not allied with Clement…” 

She lifted her hand to his cheek and tenderly brushed the tear away. “Didn’t you tell me many times that no one can resist their fate? How could you predict the future?”

“As a father to Charles and François, I failed most spectacularly.”

“Nonsense.” Anne caressed his face while fighting back her own tears. “You were a good father to all of your offspring. It is not you – it is God who called them home.”

François rested the back of his head against the frescoed wall behind him. “The Lord? You say our Lord, who is supposed to be fair and benevolent to His Children, allowed that Catherine became my son’s wife, pretended an offended wife suffering from the bad Madame Mistress for years, and duped us while killing or scheming to kill many people behind our backs.”

Anne’s heart was breaking on his behalf. “Husband of mine! A long time ago, you told me that I would never recover from the trauma caused to me by Henry Tudor, if I did not let go off the past. You said that I was my own worst enemy while I kept pushing you away.”

“You! My Anne! My queen and my own heart!” A smile broke through the gloom of the monarch’s countenance. “You are the love of my life. I remember every minute of our life.”

She clasped both of his hands in her hands. “Both Madame Serpent and Madame Mistress are the saddest part of our past. One of them is dead. The other will be punished soon.”

“How could the Creator admit such horrors?” It was perhaps incorrect of him to say that.

“I know not.” To diminish his vulnerability, Anne labored to pour into François some of her strength. “We cannot find God’s will in the stars, some natural phenomena, or circumstances, which we consider a divine act. At the same time, we can discover it in the Scripture.”

“Where did the Almighty say that it is permitted to kill innocents?”

The queen persisted, “It is the Lord’s will that men be saved, redeemed, and not perish. Nonetheless, those who don’t repent cannot be absolved, and Catherine is one of them.”

His expression evolved into sheer torment. “That is such an insignificant consolation.”

Anne still stayed on her knees next to her husband’s chair, squeezing both of his hands in hers. “Death comes to everyone, but it is not the end for our souls. Although our physical bodies are dying, our spirits are being renewed every day for all those who still live, while those who were called to heaven watch over us, safeguard us, and pray for us. Your sons, Charles and François, as well as Henri of Navarre are among them. We will see them eventually.”

Once again, François let out a wan smile. “Don’t churchmen speak so this out of habit?”

Straining her memory, his consort quoted a passage from the Bible.

Good people pass away; the godly often die before their time. However, no one seems to care or wonder why. No one seems to understand that the Lord is protecting them from the evil to come. For those who follow godly paths will rest in peace when they leave the earth.

He recognized it. “The prophet Isaiah said that.”

Her knees ached, but she did not stand up. “Because the Almighty’s children are people – made of flesh and blood – the Son also became flesh and blood. For only as a human being could He die, and only by dying, could He break the power of the devil who had the power of death. Christ suffered for our sins on the cross, and it is far, far worse than our pain in death.”

The monarch’s hand raised and caressed her chin. “Mon amour, you are more pure-hearted than any Pope and any other ecclesial man. Kindness in one’s heart shines like a sun.”

Anne pressed his hand to her breast. “You are my very soul, husband.”

François hoisted his wife to her feet while he simultaneously climbed to his own feet.

He enfolded his arms around her waist. “In the moments of despair, I would prefer my heart to be like a marble statue carved in the lofty style of Michelangelo. But if it had been so, I would have lost you.” He pressed her hand to his chest. “My heart is beating for you.”

Duke Cosimo’s cough secured their attention. “I’m sorry for intruding.”

François smiled at his friend. “It is good to see you, Cosimo.”

“Cosimo!” Anne took a step back from her husband.

The Duke of Florence crossed the study to the table, his mind on his accursed relative who had shattered the peace in France and shamed the Medici family. “Any regicide attempt, failed or accomplished, is a grave crime, an irredeemable sin that cannot be washed away and, hence, is unpardonable. Therefore, that woman, Catherine the Bloody, must be executed.”

“Yes,” the Valois couple chorused.

Cosimo’s face was as stormy as the rain-dark clouds as he hissed, “From the moment such horrible sinners as Catherine – I’m ashamed of calling her my cousin – are touched by the flames of hellish fire, their torments are not only without intermission, but likewise without end.”

Anne quoted a passage from one of the religious books she had read a long time ago. “The smoke of their torment shall ascend up in the sight of the blessed forever and ever, and serve, as a most clear glass before their eyes, to give them a bright and most effective view.”

François sighed. “Perhaps. If only I could believe in this!”

“Forgive me, François,” Cosimo uttered with apparent remorse. “If I had at least admitted a thought that Catherine is capable of such barbarities, I would never have defended her when you tried to get her union with your son annulled. I swear that I did not know anything.”  

François had not doubt of this. “Cosimo, your honor is commendable.”

“I’m quite an authoritarian ruler,” acknowledged Cosimo. “But I’m not a murderer.”

“Our alliance is and shall be strong,” stated François. “Nothing has changed for us.”

Cosimo was obviously relieved, although he was already aware that their friendship was intact, and none of their treaties would be revoked. “It gladdens me to hear that, François.”

The two men embraced each other like brothers, reconfirming their relationship.

The duke snapped his fingers. A page came and gave him a missive, then left.

“This is for you,” Cosimo began, “from Emperor Ferdinand.”

The king broke the Habsburg seal and quickly read the missive.

François, my friend,

I’ve been thunderstruck by news from France that reached me in Seville. I’m struggling to believe that someone could be as evil and disingenuous as Catherine de’ Medici. Thirst for power corrupted her soul far more than it did my late brother’s, twisting it completely.

I’ve been thinking of my beloved wife, mother, and children all the time. My long absence was necessary. I hope that now you are acquainted close enough with Maximilian.

I had waited for several weeks in Madrid before my nephew, Felipe, and my niece, Juana, arrived from Flanders. We gave the late Emperor Carlos a lavish funeral alongside his beloved Isabella in the Royal Chapel of Granada, just beside the tombs of our grandparents, the Catholic Monarchs. Felipe and Juana are in deep mourning for their father and their sister Maria. Felipe knows that Carlos had been beheaded, and that his head was stitched back to his corpse later.

Despite Felipe’s hostility towards me, we agreed to divide the Habsburg holdings between the two of us. Now there are the vast lands ruled by the Spanish branch of our family, and those controlled by the Austrian branch, which I shall head as long as I live. My mother abdicated in her grandson’s favor, and so Felipe is preparing for his coronation as King of Spain. 

I’ll depart for Italy after the coronation and will reach Italy by the end of this summer.

Ferdinand von Habsburg, Holy Roman Emperor

“Ferdinand will return soon,” notified the ruler of France. “The Habsburg family was split into two branches of the dynasty, just as Juana and Ferdinand proposed to Felipe of Spain.”

The queen’s expression brightened. “Thanks be to God! There will be no wars in Europe.”

Cosimo nodded. “Ferdinand will ensure the peace across the continent.”

François predicted, “King Felipe the Second of Spain will never forget what happened to his father. He is young, but already a lord of vast and rich lands, although his realm might face bankruptcy due to Carlos’ substantial debts. As Felipe grows older, he will become dangerous.”   

The Valois monarch handed the letter to the Medici duke, who gave it to the queen after himself reading it. A worm of worry wriggled inside each of them, but now they were too exited and thrust all disturbing thoughts aside. They forced bleak smiles, but a sensation of unease was lurking behind their eyes, as strong as gusts of wind interspersed with sheets of rain. They would have to be vigilant and attentive to the policies of the new Spanish ruler in years to come.

Notes:

The new chapter is up! We hope you, our dear readers, are fine and well.

This chapter is focused on the drama of Dauphine Catherine de’ Medici. She was arrested in Paris by her own husband, Dauphin Henri. Yes, she was apprehended by the very man who she worked hard, together with her accomplices, to make him King of France or at least the only heir to the throne. All of Catherine’s conspirators will be executed, but she may have a different fate, about which you can learn in a prologue to the story ‘Chained by Blood and Power.’

We hope you liked Henri’s dramatic conversation with Catherine. For attentive readers the conversation between Catherine and her astrologers may be interesting as it gives a glimpse of what can happen to King François, Queen Anne, their children, especially Prince Augustine, in many years to come. Henri’s fate is hinted at by the astrologers, who mentioned it during their short exchange with the French dauphin. The Ruggieri brothers really served Catherine in history and came to France with her from Florence. What are your thoughts about how François and Henri might die? Eventually, Augustine de Valois will ascend to the throne of France.

Meanwhile, in Italy everyone is shocked with the discovery of Catherine’s evil deeds and treachery. As always, we added some cultural scenes – the scene between Anne, Maximilian of Austria, and Giorgio Vasari (information about him is historically correct). Cosimo de’ Medici, Duke of Florence, and his wife, Leonor, were not aware of Catherine’s villainies, so they were sure they were defending her when Henri attempted to get his unwanted marriage to Catherine annulled before the birth of Prince François, Duke of Brittany. In the future, Isabella de’ Medici and Lorenzo de Valois will indeed marry, just as their parents are planning.

Attention! A while ago, we posted a prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 86: Chapter 85: Secret and New Romances

Summary:

King Henry made his last revisions to his will, and he decided who would become Princess Elizabeth’s husband. Queen Catherine Parr meets with her siblings. Mary Tudor, Dowager Holy Roman Empress, is a grieving widow, but now she is enjoying her time with someone else.

Notes:

Attention! The prologue to the sequel 'Chained by Blood and Power' (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don't forget about our work "Entwined by a Golden Alliance" co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 85: Secret and New Romances 

August 10, 1547, Palace of Beaulieu, near village of Boreham, Essex, England

“What about Mary Queen of Scots?” growled King Henry of England.

The Marquess of Exeter answered, “Marie de Guise, Dowager Queen of Scotland, says that she cannot consent to this betrothal without the approval of Scottish Parliament.” 

“Will she get it?” Henry’s dream was to have England and Scotland united.

Today, the monarch accepted his visitors in bed. His ulcer again troubled him so much that he could barely walk. He hated his bed draped in yards of crimson and blue silks, like his prison. Thomas Wendy, his physician, insisted that the ruler stay bedridden. At present, the Tudor court resided at the royal palace that the king had named Beaulieu after he had purchased it from Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, in 1516, having refurbished it later.

His reddish brows furrowed, the ruler beheld the Marquess of Exeter. To the royal chief minister right stood Lady Honor Grenville, who now was head of the Hatfield’s household and had arrived to court for a short time to meet with her daughters – Philippa and Catherine.  

“I apologize, but I do not know.” Exeter had done everything to persuade Marie de Guise, but she would not relent. “I doubt the French made any alternative proposal for the young Queen of Scots. The whole of France is preoccupied with the scandal around Catherine de’ Medici.” 

Henry sniggered. “That Medici girl turned out to be such a talented villainess.” 

Exeter shook his head in disbelief. “She perpetrated many villainies.” 

“That is all horrendous,” Honor Grenville proclaimed.

The king hissed, “Regrettably, Catherine did not getting rid of François and Anne. While I’m horrified that someone can pretend so masterfully for years, I hate that they are not dead.” 

Exeter and Honor traded glances. The same words hovered over their lips, unspoken: ‘The king’s aversion towards Anne Boleyn and François de Valois stems from his obsession with her and his inability to have Anne.’ There was huge uproar caused by the revelation of Catherine’s crimes not only in continental Europe, but also in England, with everyone gossiping about it.

Honor offered, “Maybe our Prince Edward can be betrothed to Infanta Joanna of Spain.”    

“No!” objected Henry rather hotly. “What are you saying, Lady Honor? Do you want that spawn of the previous disgraced emperor to turn my kingdom back into a Catholic hell?” 

Exeter shook his head at Honor, signaling that she ought not to risk exacerbating the Tudor temper. After the Earl of Southampton’s execution, as well as those of the Poles and that of the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk, everyone walked on eggshells around the mercurial monarch, as though their sovereign had transformed into an incensed Minotaur ready to tear them apart.

“But Mary Queen of Scots is also a Catholic,” Honor stressed.

“That is different,” the king parried. “If England can be united with Scotland through my son’s marriage to little Mary, we can turn a blind eye to the bride’s beliefs. Mary Stuart might be forced to worship her religion only in private, just as Anne Boleyn was permitted by François.” 

Exeter noted, “That would still be dangerous for our Church reform.” 

As Honor slanted a suspicious glance at him, Exeter’s countenance remained inscrutable. The marquess knew that Honor wondered whether his beliefs had changed. Truth be told, Exeter, surprisingly even for himself, was currently interested in Jean Calvin’s teachings more than ever before, having ordered some Protestant books from Germany. I’ve evolved into the mixture of a Catholic and a Lutheran, although once I was the Pope’s agent, which I do regret now.

Yesterday, King Henry had made the final revision to his will and testament. It confirmed the succession with Edward Tudor, Prince of Wales, being Henry’s heir apparent, and Elizabeth next in this line. The descendants of Princess Mary Tudor, Duchess of Suffolk, followed them. There was no mention of Dowager Holy Roman Empress Mary. The will appointed sixteen executors, also declaring the Marquess of Exeter as Lord Protector during Edward’s minority.   

“Perhaps,” Henry acquiesced. “But we could try.” 

Honor managed an apologetic smile. “I beg Your Majesty’s pardon for displeasing you.” 

Softening a little, the monarch said, “I’ll travel to Hatfield as soon as I get better. I miss my Ned a lot, but I know that you, Lady Honor, are taking excellent care of my beloved boy.” 

“Certainly.” Honor raised her chin proudly. “He is my darling grandson.” 

Henry snarled, “Elizabeth will remain in exile at Hever Castle. That wayward girl, who I love despite everything, must learn obedience before I summon her to my presence.” 

Honor was delighted that the princess would not return to Hatfield anytime soon. “Any subject is obligated to submit themselves to their sovereign, including princes and princesses.” 

The king sighed: he adored his headstrong daughter with Anne. “I strive to teach Lizzy a lesson. I assume she wants to spend time in her mother’s ancestry home.” 

The chief minister was astounded with this display of Henry’s paternal affection for his daughter. “I’m being regularly informed about Princess Elizabeth’s life. She is hale and hearty!” 

“Good.” Henry grimaced as a wave of pain surged through his leg. “Let her think alone.” 

Exeter asked, “Did Your Majesty decide anything about your daughter’s engagement?” 

Honor tensed. “Is it Prince Eric of Sweden?” 

“No.” The ruler’s discomfort in his leg was growing. “Elizabeth is very fond of England, and she told me many times about her desire to live here. So, she will marry Exeter’s son.” 

Honor’s orbs widened. “What?” 

The king nodded. “Young Edward Courtenay is a suitable match for Elizabeth.” His gaze flew to his advisor. “Hal, prepare the betrothal contract to sign it as soon as possible.” 

Exeter’s only legitimate child with the late Gertrude Blount was Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon. Born in 1527, Edward was several years older than Princess Elizabeth, and a second cousin to her. Eddie is a secret half-brother to Prince Edward, the marquess speculated.

Inwardly exhilarated, Exeter maintained a neutral façade. “As you command, sire.” 

“Ah, I see.” A profoundly irritated Honor figured out Exeter’s game.

Victorious, yet not dazzled with his success, the Marquess of Exeter planned the future of those few Yorks who were still alive. If Prince Edward, God forbid, dies young without issue, Princess Elizabeth will ascend to the throne. In this case, my legitimate son Eddie will become her King Consort. Either children of Elizabeth or those of Exeter’s bastard son, Prince Edward, would rule. In any case Exeter’s descendants would revive the Yorks’ power in the country.   

Henry burst out laughing. “Hal, my old friend! We shall be related soon.” 

Exeter’s triumphal grin threatened to break through the wall of his outward blandness. “Eddie – I call him so – is a gentle and kind soul, and he has a stellar education.”    

The king gave a firm nod. “I approve of this match.” 

Exeter scarcely believed that he had convinced Henry not to marry his daughter off to a foreigner. “I’ll be hugely honored to have Princess Elizabeth as my daughter-in-law.”

Shifting his large body on the bed, the monarch moaned, “Fetch Doctor Wendy! My God, I need his herbs again, but if they don’t help, he will pay.” The pain in his ulcer was unbearable.  

Lady Honor Grenville curtsied, while Exeter bowed. Then the minister hastened out of the room to find the physician. Honor remained with her liege lord, wishing for Henry to die today.

§§§

Sir William Parr, Marquess of Northampton, strutted through the corridors of the palace. As the queen’s brother, he was becoming more and more prominent at the Tudor court.   

“Good day, Lord Northampton!” Everybody bowed and curtsied to him.

Nodding at them, Northampton walked with confident gait, dressed in expensive red and white velvets. Pleased with their attention, he did not display any arrogance, cautious and alert.     

Of lean build and medium height, Northampton had hazel-gray eyes, a long nose and wide lips, not handsome and yet not ugly. He had a quick mind and strong Protestant convictions. However, many families sought his hand in marriage for their daughters because of his proximity to the monarch and his bachelorhood. In 1543, his union with Lady Anne Bourchier had been annulled on the grounds of her adultery, and he had obtained his former wife’s lands and titles.   

Upon entering the queen’s bedchamber, Northampton concentrated his orbs on the object of his constant worries – Queen Catherine Parr. Seated at a table full of leather-bound volumes, his sister looked elegant in a gown of golden brocade ornamented with diamonds and sapphires, which were also woven through her long, brown hair streaming down her back in curly waves.

The Queen of England was working, her quill creating text while she was writing various theological arguments. The stately interior suited Catherine’s dignified countenance. The room was decorated with some objects d’art and mahogany, ornately carved furniture. Swathed in biblical tapestries, the walls had mouldings painted in light tones to showcase the details of classical decorative motifs. The scarlet-and-gold carpet lay upon the floor.

My sister appears to be at ease, observed Northampton. Yet, it is a mask. She is as tense as a warrior preparing for battle lest she miscarries and the king wants to kill so as to remarry. Mortal dread for his sister’s fate seized him, as usual at this thought. Despite his ambitions, Northampton loved Catherine and regretted that she had been forced to marry their sovereign. If the earl had been present in Boulogne, he would have fought tooth and nail for her freedom.   

The queen’s ladies-in-waiting curtsied to her brother. His another sister – Lady Anne Parr, Countess of Pembroke – smiled at him; she was the queen’s principal maid-of-honor.

Queen Catherine lifted her scrutiny. “Ladies, leave us.” 

All of her handmaidens present here obeyed. They loved the queen for her maturity and dignity. They watched over their mistress’ health closely, fearing that she could miscarry.

Before Lady Elizabeth Holland could leave, the queen spoke. “Lady Holland, be strong. But give your sorrow words, for the grief that does not speak knits up the heart and might break it.” She sent Bess a faint smile. “His Grace of Norfolk is with God and angels.” 

Bess lamented, “Thank you, Your Majesty. You are so benevolent!” 

My Thomas is not dead, Bess Holland thought as she brushed away her faux tears. He is waiting for his hour to return from France with Surrey. They will come back in triumph! When the tidbits of Norfolk’s demise during the siege of Paris reached Bess, she had been distraught, having cried for her lover for many days. Until Charles de Marillac had brought her a message from the Duke of Norfolk, in which he had asked his mistress to feign her grief for him.

Norfolk’s mistress respected the queen a lot. She bobbed a curtsey and exited.

§§§

The Parr siblings remained alone in the chamber, glad to be able to speak in private.

Clad in a rich gown of taupe-colored damask bedecked with silk flowers, Lady Anne Parr had a strict appearance that belied how warm she was to her loved ones, including her siblings. With chocolate eyes, a pointed chin, and copper hair, Anne was not very pretty, yet clever. Three years younger than the queen, Anne was the wife of Sir William Herbert, esquire of the king’s body, who had been elevated to Earl of Pembroke after Catherine’s marriage to the monarch.   

Looking at her brother with a smile, Catherine greeted, “Dearest William!”   

Northampton inquired, “How are you feeling, Cathy?” 

The queen’s hand went to her slightly protruding stomach. “We are both well, brother.” Now she was five months along in her pregnancy that had so far been progressing smoothly.

Anne Parr assured, “Brother, I’m taking the best care of our sister.”    

Northampton added, “Tell me if you need anything.” Anne nodded.

Catherine articulated in the most exalted tones, “I’m glad you have come. Let’s discuss the current version of my ‘Lamentations of a Sinner.’ What would you say to this?” 

An immensely educated person, Catherine Parr was also deeply pious. Her intelligence allowed her not only to immerse herself into various books and literature, but also to write on the subject of religion. However, she differed compared to her six predecessors, Henry VIII’s other queens: Catherine was the first Queen of England to publish her own work, which Anne Boleyn, who was known to be a great patroness of the arts, had not done in England and France.

Catherine’s ‘Psalms or Prayers’ had been published anonymously in 1544, during her widowhood. She had published ‘Prayers or Meditations’ in 1545 under her real name thanks to Queen Catherine Howard. Sympathetic to Lady Parr who had been the late Prince Edmund’s governess at the time, and knowing about the king’s change of heart towards Catholic doctrines, Kitty had presented Catherine’s work to Henry, who approved of its official publication.

Frightened by the monarch’s violent tendencies, Catherine’s instinct of self-presentation helped her get resigned to be a conventional wife. She found consolation in her books, which would be published and circulated throughout England with the king’s permission with the aim to advance the Almighty’s word and His teachings in radical Protestant ways.

Despite her loveless and difficult marriage to Henry, Catherine was grateful to him for one thing. The king supported her interest in religious matters, which exceeded that of his previous wives. He had read all of her writings and given her his detailed comments. As she was now composing ‘The Lamentation of a Sinner,’ they frequently deliberated over her work, and in such moments, Catherine viewed her husband as someone who was more than a tyrant.

Anne seated herself beside her sister. “His Majesty is interested in this book.” 

Northampton settled himself onto a tawny-brocaded couch near a window. “Our liege lord allows you to write about Protestantism because he wishes to fully reform the Church.” 

Catherine smiled. “But isn’t it good that Henry strives to eliminate the last vestiges of the wicked Catholic Church in England? He dissolved the corrupted monastic houses and chantries, though with unnecessary ruthlessness. Nowadays we use the Book of Prayers in English, and soon Mass will be abolished.” Her grin widened. “I heartily welcome all these changes.” 

Northampton was not that optimistic. “King Henry is as volatile as an untamed beast.” 

Anne shrugged. “England is unlikely to become a Catholic country again.” 

“There is no way back,” Catherine agreed.

Northampton objected, “Prince Edward is growing fast. From what I heard about him, he still loves Latin more than English. He prays in English without protestations, but he does so only because Lord Exeter swayed the boy – somewhat – to the reformed faith.” 

At the mention of Exeter, Catherine’s heart hammered. “At Hatfield, I watched how hard Lord Exeter endeavored to make the prince receptive to prayers in English.”    

Northampton stood up. He crossed the room and helped himself to some of the wine from a decanter on a nearby table. “Hal Courtenay is my friend, but I’ve never believed that he is a Protestant. Nevertheless, I suppose that Hal’s belief in the Catholic Church was shaken by the crimes of that demon Farnese, the former Pope, and if it is true, it will be good for England.” 

Anne quizzed, “Is there some important news to share, brother?” 

Sipping his drink, Northampton eased himself across from his sisters. “If King Henry dies soon, Prince Edward will succeed him with the Marquess of Exeter as Lord Protector.” He spoke quietly, for such things could be construed as treason lest they were overheard.

The queen rejoiced. “That is excellent!” 

“Why?” Anne then remarked, “Lord Exeter’s arrogance is overbearing.” 

Northampton explained at length. “Hal is an extremely competent administrator and a skilled soldier, although he did not participate in most of the king’s wars. Before his promotion to his current positions, he administered the west of England in His Majesty’s name for years with great results. He served as head of the royal children’s household at Hatfield.” 

Hal, my beloved, Catherine Parr called silently. Forgive me for carrying another man’s child, and for my marriage to the Tudor monster, although it is not my fault. Memories tumbled through her brain and embedded themselves into her heart. Exeter and his feverish, expert kisses, which had made her quiver in the most delicious ways like a delicate bell being struck.

Catherine’s heart pulsated with her love for Exeter and simultaneously with her fear for their future. During their passionate rendezvous at night at Hatfield, Exeter had reveled in their conversations about literature, the arts, the monarch’s children, governance, and politics. Neither of her long-deceased husbands had been interested in seeing a smart facet to her personality, and Exeter’s admiration for Catherine’s intellect was one of the reasons why she had fallen for him.

Part of Catherine had always doubted that Courtenay was a true Protestant. Nonetheless, Exeter had read all of her theological works, and he had discussed each of them with Catherine with more eagerness than her conversation on these topics with Henry were. During their rare meetings with Exeter in the king’s presence, for Catherine avoided her former lover like fire, she always noticed his interest in Protestantism, even if Exeter was a secret Catholic.

Northampton’s voice intruded upon Catherine’s musings. “After becoming the royal chief minister and Lord Chancellor, Hal is continuing to administer his estates and the west of England outstandingly. I applaud Exeter for his ability to combine his many posts while accomplishing impressive results. As Lord Protector, Hal will be a talented leader of the realm.” 

Anne agreed with her brother’s characterizations. “Exeter is not warmongering. If he rules during Prince Edward’s minority, the country will be in highly capable hands.” 

The queen stressed, “Until Prince Edward comes of age.” 

Their brother’s expression evolved into agitation. “The Prince of Wales is too in love with Latin. He pretends well because his teacher, Exeter, counseled him to do so.” 

“Lord Exeter is a calculating fox,” said Anne Parr. “Devilishly intelligent and resourceful, he can weave any intrigue and then backstab you in the least expected moment.” 

Despite her feelings for Exeter, Catherine could not deny the truth. “Indeed, Lord Exeter is a plotter. Part of me still cannot forgive him for what he did to Kitty Howard.” 

Northampton’s penetrating stare was latched on to the queen’s face. “Really, sister?” 

A jolt of worry spiked down the queen’s back. Does my brother suspect about my affair with Hal? They had been excessively careful to keep their liaison secret in order to preserve her reputation and out of absolute necessity to survive after her wedding to the English ruler.

Anne opined, “I saw Prince Edward only a few times as His Majesty keeps him at Hatfield, away from court, out of fear that his only son might catch some infection. The boy’s arrogance and presumptuousness at such a young age irritate me, while Exeter adores him.” 

Northampton speculated, “Prince Edward is now eight. With Exeter as Lord Protector, the country will prosper in peace for quite many years. However, we do not know what will happen. I like Princess Elizabeth who is more suitable for the throne than her brother.” 

“There is the legal order of succession,” the queen stressed. “No one can interfere with it.” 

The siblings both nodded. None of them would ever go against this divine rule.

The queen refocused on her religious works. “Do you want to hear something?” 

They dipped their heads. Catherine read aloud an excerpt about confession and repentance, conversion and prophecy. She wrote in the first person and recounted her own experience without autobiographical or topical details, unlike Dowager Queen Marguerite of Navarre.

“It’s all great,” Anne praised. “Only Queen Marguerite’s writings might rival yours.” 

Catherine noted, “Though not my experience in rulership as I’m lacking it.” 

Anne averred, “Dowager Queen Marguerite of Navarre proved herself as a capable regent of France. King François is fortunate to have such a smart sister, for she brilliantly governs France during his absences. Now she also rules Navarre in her daughter’s name.” 

The queen commended, “Marguerite is an exceptional woman.” 

Northampton moved the topic back to his queenly sister’s writings. “Cathy, you write so well. But why with such a degree of self-debasement? You are not an awful sinner such as that dead Farnese murderer and the imprisoned Dauphine Catherine de’ Medici.” 

Catherine’s orbs veered to the tapestry depicting St George – the patron saint of England. “One might say that it would not be appropriate for the monarch’s wife to write such things in a different tone. Nonetheless, we are all sinners and should beg the Lord for absolution.” 

Anne did not understand that either. “Not you, sister.” 

Catherine Parr rose to her feet and walked to the window. Night was falling, mirroring the darkness in her inner realm. She had begun to think that her matrimony with the Tudor ruler was God’s punishment for her liaison with Exeter, pouring her desire for absolution into theological words. I do not regret being with Hal Courtenay, who eventually fell in love with me.

Her brother approached the queen from the back. As she turned, Northampton hugged her.

“The king is not healthy, and he is aging fast,” Northampton whispered into her ear. “You will not have to wait for years until you are free to marry your beloved Hal.” 

A scared Catherine wanted to pull away, but her brother pressed her to him.

“Your secret is safe with me,” Northampton promised. “I love you, sister. How can I cause you any harm? I’ll do everything to keep you out of harm’s way, and so shall Exeter.” 

The queen murmured quietly, “Hal and I... How did you learn about it?” 

He whispered, “It’s my special brotherly observation. Others do not know.” 

“And Hal?” The mere sound of this man’s name caused Catherine to tremble.

Northampton stroked her hair, saying into her ear, “He does not know that I know, and he pretends masterfully. I understood watching your gazes at him, so be careful, Cathy.” 

“I shall.” Indeed, sometimes her eyes wandered to her lover in public.     

“Do you have secrets from me, William and Cathy?” Anne Parr came to them.

Northampton and the queen parted at last, looking at their sister adoringly. The marquess embraced both of his sisters affectionately. They were one of the few siblings at court who were all devoted to one another most sincerely and did not use each other for self-advancement.


  August 20, 1547, Palazzo Ducale di Mantova, Duchy of Mantua, northern Italy

Two sumptuously caparisoned horses galloped along the shore of one of Mantua’s three lakes. Water shimmered with clear sparkles of sunlight, as if small diamonds were cascading into it. They were Dowager Empress Mary and Philip the Contentious, a titular Count Palatine of the Rhine and ruling Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg. Their mood was elated as they breathed and chattered merrily, their laughter pealing all around like a dozen clear bells.

“You ride so well, Mary!” Philip commended. “You are the best horsewoman!” 

Mary purred like a shy girl, “You are exaggerating, Philip!” 

“No, I am not!” The breeze carried his voice to her ears. “You are the best of the best!” 

They communicated in the Spanish language, which they both knew very well.

“Oh, Philip! These are such lovely songs of praise that they sound a bit artificial.” 

“No, they are real.” His voice was colored with umbrage. “Do you still distrust me?” 

Without answering, Mary spurred on her beast; Philip followed suit. He cried after her time and time again, a plea in his voice sounding like that of a man dying from thirst in desert. However, she raced forward and forward along the lake’s coast, plunging deeper into despair, leaving him behind for a moment, only to discover that he caught up with her the next moment.

I so want to spend more time with Philip, Mary thought as she urged her mount forward again. Yet, most men lie to their wives and mistresses, using their affection to their utmost benefit and advantage. It was not the first time when they had left the ducal palace without any escort. After his recovery from his wounds he had incurred during the Italian wars, Emperor Ferdinand had sent the Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg as his ambassador to the Duchy of Mantua.   

Remembrances tumbled through her head. The gloomy winter day when she had lost her baby girl was engraved upon her mind forever. After her quarrel with Emperor Carlos and his sister, Dowager Queen Maria of Hungary, Mary had gone into premature labor and sustained such complications that she had almost perished. For two days, she had struggled to bring her child into the world with little progress – these memories were colored with sanguinary hues.   

“No! I cannot do this!” Mary had writhed in agony on the bed. “I’m dying!”

Her own screams of pain echoed through Mary’s ears. Carlos and Maria’s another sister – Catherine Habsburg, Queen of Portugal – and Mary’s chief lady-in-waiting, Dona Leonor de Mascareñas, had stayed by Mary’s side all the time, encouraging her to go forward and wiping sweat from her brow. The Imperial physician had even prepared to cut Mary’s abdomen open so as to extract the baby out of her womb. Eventually, Mary had survived, unlike her child.

For days, Mary had existed in an unreal world of fever and hurt. After she had opened her eyes in a couple of weeks, Catherine and Leonor had informed her that Carlos and his army had been removing themselves from Mantua because the duchy’s regent had decided to remain neutral during the war of the Habsburg brothers. Mary had never seen Carlos alive again, but Catherine had sworn that the emperor had been distraught over the loss of their daughter.

The rupture in Mary’s marriage to Carlos seemed to be permanent before the tragedy. Her husband had not forgiven her for the liberation of Juana of Castile and for bringing her to Ferdinand. In Carlos’ opinion, Mary was a treacherous wife who had awfully betrayed him. Yet, Carlos did not want me dead! He was worried about me despite everything, a surprised Mary ruminated. There was still humanity left in him. But he almost killed Ferdinand at Marignano!

Since then, Mary mourned the losses of her baby girl and her spouse. Questions circled her mind. What if Carlos had not fallen at Marignano? Would he have eventually forgiven her? Or would she have been imprisoned at the palace of Tordesillas together with Juana and perhaps even Ferdinand? Nevertheless, now Mary would never obtain answers to these questions.   

The dowager empress wore black in mourning for Carlos and prayed for his soul, but she also felt free. Free from the bondage of the loveless marriage into which she should never have entered! Following Queen Catherine’s departure back to Portugal, Mary felt lonely. A sense of loneliness that had long seized Mary had grown too acute after Leonor’s departure to Spain to take care of Mary’s son with the late emperor – Juan now known as Infante Juan of Spain.

After Philip’s appearance at the court of Mantua, Mary Tudor reveled in his company. Since then her life had meandered into a different direction, and a zeal for life began pulsating through her entire being. Philip the Contentious deserves his byname, Mary smiled to herself. He says that it is enough for him to have the happiness of kissing my hand, but he wants more.

“Mary, please!” Philip shouted against the wind. “Let’s take a break from horse racing.” 

“Here!” Slightly tired, Mary slowed her horse into a walk. “It is a lovely place.” 

They steered the animals into a halt on the lake’s shore. Mary and Philip beheld panoramic views, opening onto Mantua and the surrounding plains. In the reflection of the water in the lake, the city rose like a water-girt mirage of rearing walls, domes, spires, and towers. Their eyes flitted between a cerulean-blue skyline blending with the water and the city’s charming gulfs.

Several times, Mary and Philip had ventured out of the city to explore the region. To avoid bad rumors about Mary, she and Philip had always been accompanied by Margaret Palaeologa, Dowager Duchess of Mantua and the duchy’s regent during her eldest son’s minority. Famous for its lakes, Lombardy was ringed by a multitude of stunning villas and villages, while boasting beautiful lakes such as Como, Garda, Sirmione, and Maggiore, which they had all visited.

Mary dismounted, sliding into Philip’s arms. Yet, she instantly stepped back.

“We should not be so close,” she chided. “I’m a widow who is still in mourning.” 

Philip tipped his head. “Will you do so for the rest of your life?” 

Her cheeks flushed. “Our relationship is becoming too personal, and I’m not sure that I like it. I allowed you to address me by my name in private because–” She lapsed into silence, trying to find an explanation. “Because you are my cousin Ferdinand’s close friend.” 

He verbalized her thoughts. “You have been lonely, Mary.” Her eyes glittered with anger, but he added, “Have been lonely for many years due to your family drama that was started by the King of England a long time ago. When Emperor Carlos was alive, you were still alone.”

The horses were grazing grass near the lake, from time to time drinking water from it.

Mary stared into the distance, contemplating a flock of birds flying over the surface of the water. “I do not deny that I needed a friend after the deaths of my husband and my child.”  

“Do you want to be as free as a bird, Mary?” 

She veered her scrutiny back to him. “Is that possible?” 

He stepped to her. “Happiness and freedom depend upon your choices.”  

Mary increased the distance between them. She stopped beside a nearby tree and leaned against its trunk. “Philip, you are a man of fine intellect, and an interesting conversationalist with whom I can discuss a plenty of things. But don’t pry into my life more than appropriate.” 

Philip looked both hurt and shamefaced. “Mary, I’ve never meant to embarrass or distress you. A friend is someone who understands your past, believes in your future, and accepts you just the way you are. That is exactly what you need after all your trials and tribulations.” 

Indeed, she wanted to be surrounded by such people. “I’m the widow of the late disgraced emperor who almost murdered his own brother. My future is highly uncertain.” 

His heart constricted at the sight of Mary’s anguish. “That’s not true.” 

Despair billowed through her, spilling out of her mouth into words. “What can I count on? I cannot return to England, for nobody will welcome me there.” Tears prickled her eyes. “My beloved son Juan… Once I had an amicable relationship with young Felipe, new King of Spain, but now Felipe views me as a traitor to him, so I’ll never see my son again. I’m all alone!” 

The dowager empress had written to Maria of Hungary, who had long ago departed to the Burgundian Netherlands. After months of silence, three weeks ago Mary had received two short letters from both King Felipe II of Spain and his aunt, Maria of Hungary. Both Felipe and Maria had accused Mary Tudor of betraying Carlos and their entire family, while also banishing her from their lands and prohibiting all of the widow’s contacts with Mary’s son Juan.

The Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg was aware of her afflictions because Mary had already told him about these letters. “They will treat your son as a true Habsburg prince. It might be a small consolation for you, given that Juan will be raised separately from you in Spain.” 

“Juan and I will never meet.” Mary blinked away the tears, pulling herself together. “They will teach my son that I’m a treacherous mother who betrayed the Spanish House of Habsburg.” 

“I’m so sorry for your misfortunes, Mary. If I could do something for you, I would.” 

“Thank you very much for your empathy, Philip.” 

His smile warmed her fragmented heart. Philip assumed, “They will never forgive Emperor Ferdinand either. Even his interference on your behalf is unlikely to improve the situation.” 

“I know.” Against her will, tears suffused her eyes again. “But I cannot accept it.” 

“You must, Mary. Or you will be unable to move on and build a new life.” 

“Is that really possible for me?” Mary contemplated the distant outlines of the ducal castle. “I’m as far away from happiness as this palace is from us. I do not even have a place to live.” 

Philip glanced in the same direction. “You are wrong. When Ferdinand sent me to Mantua as his ambassador, he asked me to look after you during his absence. Our new emperor had to travel to Spain to meet with his nephew and niece, but he intends to secure your future.” 

Offended, she snapped, “Doubtless Ferdinand is a compassionate and wise man. So, you befriended me to fulfill the emperor’s request and perhaps ingratiate yourself into his favor.” 

“I do not need it. His Imperial Majesty and I have been friends for years. We are brothers-in-arms: we fought together against the Ottomans during the siege of Vienna of 1529, as well as in Hungary, Bohemia, and Milan. I would gladly give my life for Ferdinand.” 

Mary’s features softened. “You almost did that at Marignano, Philip.” 

“Emperor Ferdinand deserves the staunch loyalty of his subjects.” 

Turning around with her back to him, the former empress wrapped her arms around the tree’s trunk. “Although Carlos was my husband, I’m not blind. I’m relieved Ferdinand survived, for I feared that Carlos would harm him.” She sighed. “Given their enmity, one of them had to go away. In all fairness, if Carlos had killed his own brother, it would have had far-reaching and dreadful consequences for Aunt Juana, me, and Europe. Unlike Carlos, Ferdinand is for peace!” 

Suddenly, Philip was just behind her. “That horror is over, thanks be to God.” 

Her heart thumping like a drumbeat, Mary swiveled to him abruptly. Her breathing erratic, she was bewitched by Philip’s deep violet pools, the rare color of his eyes still astonishing for her to see. He was very close, too close – one motion, and she would be locked in his arms.

Philip of Palatinate-Neuburg struck Mary as a handsome man, benign and honest, his gaze without a trace of slyness. His chiseled features were complemented by his ash blonde hair, upon which sat a brown cap plumed with a white feather. Slim, long-limbed, and relatively tall, Philip was clad in German, strict black attire wrought with threads of silver. In contrast to Ferdinand, during their stay in Italy Philip did not wear local sumptuous garments.

Unlike Carlos’ imperial bearing, Philip was a simpler man, maybe due to the difference in their ranks and personalities. Where Carlos was strong-willed, imperative, and uncompromising, Philip’s demeanor was courteous and often soft, almost never commanding. Philip does not have a protruding jaw, Mary observed, involuntarily comparing him to her dead husband. He is of Ferdinand’s age and only three years younger than Carlos, but he is not married. Why?

She would not mind waking up someday to such a face as his. Yet, holding Philip’s gaze, Mary berated herself for these musings. She restrained herself from laughing aloud: how could she compare Philip and Carlos who were opposites? Moreover, it made no sense to think of Philip because he was Ferdinand’s subject and her friend. However, Mary kept staring at Philip in an effort to parse out what he thought or felt, as if her very life depended upon it.

The expression in his orbs intense, Philip confessed, “Mary, I’m so very delighted to be your friend. You are an amazing woman! Ultimately the bond of all companionship, whether in marriage or in friendship, is a frank thing, and I’d love to talk to you for the rest of my life.” 

A quavering smile twisted her mouth into a half-grin, half-torment. “In everyone’s life, at some point in time our inner fire goes out. I’m afraid my fire was extinguished forever.” 

His stare impaled her with its penetrative interest and its sensual heat. “This fire will burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. You can rekindle your spirit.”  

A moment later, Philip enfolded Mary into his embrace and kissed her deeply, his tongue pushing between her lips to fence with her tongue. Stunned at first, she let him in, tangling her tongue around his, wet and luscious. A moan escaped her, and she blossomed in the sweetness of this intimacy, tender and yet enthralling enough to cause the blood thicken in her veins.

What am I doing? Mary’s thoughts rolled into a single idea – to feel alive at least for a brief moment. Dreams of a brighter future, though vague, resurrected in her brain. Perhaps she experienced these sensations because Mantua was such a beautiful and romantic place: the birthplace of the Roman poet Virgil, this was where Romeo heard of Juliet’s death.

Finally, Mary pushed her admirer away. “We need to return.” 

Now Philip was blushing like a boy. “I’m sorry. I did not want to hurt you.” 

“Don’t apologize.” These words slipped from her lips before she could stop herself.

Her immediate instinct was to flee, so the dowager empress rushed to her horse and hopped into the saddle. The duke mounted and kept apace with her as she galloped towards the city. The afternoon was closing into a thick fog around the lakes, but it was still luminous, the sun coming through it and illuminating their moving silhouettes. They quickly journeyed to the ducal palace.

§§§

Mary and Philip reached the Piazza Sordello, from where the entrance to the part of the larger palace called the Corte Vecchia, or the Old Court, was available. After the late emperor’s demise, Mary had relocated from the Corte Nuova, or the New Court, to the Courte Vecchia.

To their surprise, a cavalcade under Habsburg standard was arriving at the central piazza right now. After a line of lords, knights, and esquires came Emperor Ferdinand who sat astride his stallion caparisoned in red, yellow, and white damask. Appareled in a modest outfit of beige velvet ornamented with his personal heraldic signs, Ferdinand looked like a German monarch.

The retinue was not huge. The monarch was guarded by arquebusiers and knights. At the helm of them rode Ferdinand’s general Giovanni Battista Castaldo, Marquess di Cassano.

Philip dismounted and assisted Mary in climbing down from her saddle. Their horses were swiftly led away by a groom. Standing near the entrance, Mary and Philip waited.

“So many armed men,” observed an astounded Mary.

Philip speculated, “It was not safe for His Imperial Majesty to travel without many guards. Only God knows what Felipe of Spain and Maria of Hungary have on their minds.” 

Mary sighed. “But they would not harm Ferdinand.” 

“Nothing coming from Carlos and his line can surprise me, Mary.” 

A moment later, Margareta Palaeologa, the regent of Mantua, swept out of the palace. She was followed by a line of her councilors, who all prepared to welcome the new emperor.

After making a curtsey, Margareta greeted them in Italian, “Good afternoon, Your Imperial Majesty and Your Grace.” Despite Mary’s widowhood, she still addressed her as empress.

“Your Grace!” chorused Mary and Philip as she curtsied and he bowed.

Margareta addressed Mary. “The emperor must have come to Mantua to see you.” 

At first skeptical to this statement, the dowager empress believed that it could be true at the sight of Ferdinand flashing her a broad smile. Her cousin was delighted to see her, and Mary’s heart somersaulted in joy at the thought that at least one Habsburg adored her.

The entire procession halted. The emperor dismounted near the palace with the spectators’ acclamations and the fanfares of trumpeters. Ferdinand strode towards Mary and the others.

Margareta lowered herself into a curtsey, her eyes downcast. “Your Imperial Majesty,” she began in confident, yet subservient, tones. “Welcome to Mantua.” 

Ferdinand’s expression was impenetrable when he responded, “Thank you, Your Grace. I shall not stay here for long because I’m bound for Tuscany. I came here for two reasons.” His gaze oscillated between Mary and Margareta. “First and foremost, it is good to see my cousin – Dowager Empress Mary. Second, the Duchy of Mantua owes me the collective oath of fealty.” 

The dialogue proceeded in Italian in the same way as Ferdinand had started it.

The regent and her advisors all inclined their heads in unison. Of course, Ferdinand had not forgotten that Mantua had been his dead brother’s ally before taking neutral side in their war.

Margareta assured, “We shall all take the oath of vassalage to Your Imperial Majesty.” 

Ferdinand enjoined, “Tomorrow in the morning. I must leave in a few days.” 

“Certainly, Your Imperial Majesty,” pledged Margareta as she looked the emperor in the eye. “Tomorrow at midday in the Palazzo del Capitano, better in the Hall of the Weapon Room.” 

Ferdinand dipped a nod. “What an excellent choice. The Diet of Mantua took place there in 1459.” He had been here before, and remembered the palace and the duchy’s history well.  

Margareta smiled with reserve, studying the monarch closely. “Indeed.” 

The emperor figured out her worries. “Your Grace of Mantua! Let bygones be bygones. At present, there is peace in both Italy and the Holy Roman Empire: none of duchies, city-states, and republics will gather enormous armies in these lands. Now you can be calm.” 

The advisors nodded. That was exactly what everyone had long desired to accomplish.

Margareta exclaimed, “The Lord bless Your Imperial Majesty!” 

“God bless Italy and Mantua,” intoned Ferdinand with a good-humored grin.

Philip interjected, “It is nice to see Your Imperial Majesty in an elated frame of mind.” 

Ferdinand sent his friend a smile. “And very tired, too. We shall talk later tonight.” 

Philip bowed in obeisance. “As you wish, my liege.” 

The emperor breached the gap between Mary and him. Ferdinand hugged her heartily.

As they broke apart, Mary uttered, “Your Imperial Majesty, it is an honor to see you.” 

“Ferdinand,” the emperor corrected, his voice quiet. “In private for you both.” He glanced between Mary and Philip, something roguish flickering in his eyes. “I hope you two have had a pleasant time while I was away. Philip wrote to me about some nice outings on the lakes.” 

A blush stained Mary’s cheeks. “His Grace of Palatinate-Neuburg is excessively talkative.” 

Margareta regarded the dowager empress with apparent interest. “I’ve tried to make Her Imperial Majesty’s stay as comfortable as possible. My best doctors oversaw her recovery.” 

“Thank you, Madonna,” responded the emperor. “Where are my rooms?” 

The regent of Mantua led Ferdinand, Mary, and Philip, as well as numerous members of the Imperial guard, to the palace. As Carlos had preferred to stay at the Corte Nuova while in Mantua, Margareta had commanded to have Ferdinand lodged at the Courte Vecchia.   

§§§

Long after dusk, the emperor summoned Mary to his presence. The meeting was scheduled in the Hall of Pisanello, located inside the Captain’s Palace, part of the Courte Vecchio. In these quarters, Antonio di Puccio Pisano known as Pisanello – a 14th-century distinguished painter patronized by the Gonzaga family – had created a majestic cycle of Arthurian paintings.  

Mary entered and picked her way towards Ferdinand. No longer dressed officially, her cousin lounged in a gilded X-shaped chair, spinning a half-full goblet of amaretto in his hand.

As she approached, Mary automatically curtseyed, but Ferdinand shook his head.

“This is not necessary in private, dearest cousin.” 

“You are the Holy Roman Emperor.” His title still sounded new to her.

Ferdinand leaned back against his seat. “It matters not. Not for you.” 

Mary liked the lack of formality between them. “I appreciate it.” 

As he gestured towards a nearby chair, she seated herself there comfortably.

The emperor emptied his goblet and then set it at the table. “At last I can relax after many months of living in continuous tension in both Spain and Flanders.” 

She perused him: Ferdinand looked as exhausted and thin as he had been when they first met in Vigevano. “Did you expect Felipe’s assassin to stab you, God forbid?” 

He grimaced. “Why not? They both hate me and you for Carlos’ death.” 

Her brows furrowed. “Was Felipe really so bellicose?” 

Ferdinand did not want to remember his meeting with his nephew. “He and his sister are grief-stricken. I did not kill their father and did not even try, but their hostility is immeasurable.” 

“And unfading,” she inferred, thinking of her son Juana.

“I presume so.” Her sullen expression let him read her mind. “You want to see little Juan at least once more. Forgive me, Mary, but I cannot help you on this occasion. According to the official papers signed by Felipe and me, the Habsburg dynasty was split up into the Spanish branch and the Austrian one. Your son belongs to the Spanish family.”    

“I seem to be like your sister Eleanor who never met her daughter after leaving Portugal.” 

Leaning forward to his cousin, the emperor ran his fingers comfortingly over hers. “There are things we cannot change and must only accept. I saw your son in Madrid.” 

She bombarded him with questions. “How is my Juan faring? Does he speak well?” 

“The boy is well taken care off. My sister Maria is devoting much of her time to him.” 

“That is what I thought she would do. Does King Felipe love him?” 

“Yes,” claimed Ferdinand. “I saw displays of brotherly feelings on Felipe’s part. He adores the child as the last thing that remains from his late father. But you never know what will happen in the future – take Carlos and me.” He let out a sigh of grief. “Who could imagine that one day we will be not even at each other’s throats, but that Carlos could be ready to burn me?” 

Impulsively, Mary reached out for his hand. “Let Carlos sleep in peace. You did your duty to him: you buried him next to Isabella in Spain. You did your best not to harm him.” 

Ferdinand’s nerves were like the shrouds of a ship torn by the tempest. “The scene of my brother’s death… I often have nightmares, imagining Carlos lifting his sword over me.” 

Mary swallowed past the tight muscles in her throat. “I frequently wake up in the dead of night from heinous dreams about my last quarrel with Carlos and my birth ordeal.” 

“My deepest sympathies for your loss, cousin.” His voice was as light as breeze, but there was the sharpness of worry lying beneath his even tone. “Did you recover completely?” 

“Physically yes. Mentally no.” She looked down at her stomach.

The emperor caught her gaze. “You should forget. I, too, lost a few children, one of them during the siege of Milan because my wife barely survived in childbirth, like you.” 

“I’m sorry, Ferdinand. You understand me well.” 

His scrutiny was fixed on her eyes, sympathetic and yet serious. “Mary, you are still young and have a life ahead. My mother and I want you to come with us to Austria after my coronation in Rome. We have quite splendid courts in Vienna and Innsbruck, which are both cultured and full of interesting people, ranging from wealthy aristocrats to low-ranked nobles.” 

Her heart sighed and sped. “I’ll go with you most eagerly.” 

“If you will become fond of someone, I’ll give you an ample dowry and bestow upon you some significant title. Many German, Bohemian, Austrian, and Hungarian nobles would want to marry the dowager empress, but this time, you should make your choice not under duress.” 

“You think I can be happy?” Her voice sounded cracked.

Ferdinand nodded, slowly but confidently. “After my first wife’s death during my captivity in France, I thought I would never be whole again. I loved Anna of Bohemia dearly, let her soul rest in peace, although we were in an arranged marriage.” A smile lit up his visage. “However, the Creator had other plans for me. I found my soulmate in my second spouse – Margot.” 

Mary smiled at him. “I’m happy for you, cousin.” 

The monarch rarely expressed his feelings openly. Yet, there were things he needed to tell her. “Is the human heart large enough to accommodate more than one love in one’s life? There is substantial evidence of such a possibility – just look at me and Margot de Valois. But you, Mary, did not love Carlos despite your mourning for him, which you keep out of kindness and pity.” 

The blood drained from her cheeks. “Neither of us loved each other.” 

Ferdinand chuckled. “What do you think of my friend Philip?” 

Oh Philip. Does he feel something for me? Mary wondered curiously. We are not strangers after spending three months in Mantua. I feel comfortable and peaceful with him. Unexpectedly, she soaked, like the earth in the universal deluge, in the memories of their today’s stroll along the lakes and their kiss. Their kiss initiated by Philip! The rampant heat rising deep within her, Mary sighed, thinking that it was only her young body reacting to another man’s nearness.

Carlos had been an experienced lover. Mary was cognizant of the truth: a man did not need to feel affection for a woman to have intercourse with her, while even a woman, despite the Church’s teachings, could enjoy beddings without deep feelings on her part. Physical attraction was enough in many cases. She was grateful to her late husband for making at least their bedding experience wonderful. Yet, Mary would never be audacious enough to in extramarital affair.

“So, you like him,” the emperor surmised. “You do! Don’t deny it!” 

She shook her head fiercely. “I’ve known him only for a few months.” 

He leaned forward again, touching her hand with his own. “Philip is a good man, Mary and in fact Carlos’ opposite. He is immensely charmed with you.” His lips curved in a grin. “He is someone with who your father once negotiated a possible marriage, but you ran away.” 

The widow was grateful to have something as mundane as her sleeve to fidget with her free hand. “I remember it. You are not forcing me into another union to get rid of me, are you?” 

“How could you think so low of me?” His tone conveyed his disbelief.

“I don’t,” she breathed. “I do not know why I said that.” 

“In Austria, Philip of Palatinate-Neuburg often comes to my court.” 

“I’ll try to be friends with him. He is a nice person.” 

“Excellent.” Ferdinand was pleased. “I’m inviting you to my coronation in Rome, where you will meet with my wife and mother, as well as the French monarchs.” 

The dowager empress wanted to be reunited with Juana of Castile. Mary was also intrigued by Ferdinand’s French spouse, thinking of her own future and maybe with Philip of Bavaria. Her sentiments towards the prospect to meet with her former stepmother were conflicted. Mary no longer hated Anne, but the fear to look into those dark, hooking eyes and to remember how Anne had mistreated Mary in England persisted. I do not want to skip Ferdinand’s coronation, but I’m not sure I want to see Anne Boleyn. She would have to decide what to do next.  

Notes:

The new chapter is up! We hope you, our dear readers, are fine and well.

King Henry VIII is ill again, so he made his last revisions to his will and testament. You wondered who would become Princess Elizabeth’s husband – Henry’s daughter with Anne will marry Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon. We need Bess Tudor to remain in England because her “half-brother”, Prince Edward of Wales, will have quite an interesting fate. Soon we will learn who will become Prince Edward’s fiancée. As you can probably imagine, Honor Grenville and the Marquess of Exeter might have a clash because Honor is upset with Elizabeth’s betrothal to Eddie Courtenay, Exeter’s son, and she knows what Exeter wants to accomplish.

Catherine Parr, Queen of England, is still pregnant, but maybe she will have a miscarriage. Catherine was an immensely intelligent and well-educated woman. She was fluent in French, Latin, and Italian, and she was the first woman in England to have her books published under her own name and also anonymously. In history, Catherine Parr was frequently characterized as a ‘motherly figure’ or ‘saintly nurse,’ but in this fiction she is pregnant and, hence, cannot take care of her ailing husband. We hope that you like the family scene with Catherine and her two siblings – the Earl of Northampton and Anne Parr, Countess of Pembroke.

Mary Tudor, Dowager Holy Roman Empress, is a grieving widow, but as Ferdinand rightly said, she is mourning for the late Emperor Carlos out of pity and kindness. Mary will be given a second chance at happiness after what she suffered at the hands of her English father and her first husband. Ferdinand sent Philip the Contentious, Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg, to Mantua for a reason – to let Mary and Philip get acquainted and become close. Unfortunately, Mary is highly unlikely to see her small son, Infante Juan of Spain, in years to come, and Ferdinand explained why he cannot help her on this occasion. We will see more of Mary and Philip soon.

Attention! A while ago, we posted a prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 87: Chapter 86: Closure of the Florentine story

Summary:

Ferdinand gives François the proof of the Marquess of Exeter’s work for the late Pope Paul III. Anne and François have a good time with Ferdinand, Marguerite, and Juana in Tuscany, thriving in Tuscany’s artistic environment. Jane Seymour reconciles with Anne.

Notes:

Attention! The prologue to the sequel 'Chained by Blood and Power' (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don't forget about our work "Entwined by a Golden Alliance" co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 86: Closure of the Florentine story

September 20, 1547, Villa di Careggi, near Florence, Tuscany, Italy

“For Emperor Ferdinand!” proclaimed King François as he raised a goblet to his mouth.

The entire assemblage echoed in most ebullient tones, “For Emperor Ferdinand!” 

Bringing his cup to his lips, Duke Cosimo de’ Medici affirmed, “For peace in Europe!” 

A multitude of enthusiastic toasts was made, and numerous cups emptied. Four long tables stood in the rectangular shape along the perimeter of the terraced gardens overlooking the villa’s upper-storey and ornate loggias. Stewards rushed here and there across the lawns, carrying platters of victuals, as well as decanters full of wine, cognac, and amaretto.

Emperor Ferdinand and King François sat at the main table located on a dais under canopy of purple velvet. To the French ruler’s right was Queen Anne; to Ferdinand’s left was Empress Marguerite, François’ daughter. Juana of Castile occupied the place to her son’s wife’s right; now she was known merely as mother of Emperor Ferdinand after her abdication.

Duke Cosimo and Duchess Leonor sat at the same table, to the right from the kings. Most of the Italian nobility were present, except for Ercole d’Este, Duke of Ferrara, whose health had again worsened due to his slow convalescence from his old wound.    

“For Empress Marguerite!” Ferdinand climbed to his feet. “For my wife!” 

A flushing Marguerite remained seated. “For my great husband!” 

The gathering echoed as they drank, “For Emperor Ferdinand and Empress Marguerite!” 

As they quietened down, the emperor declared, “For King François! I hereby confirm that the Austrian House of Habsburg is allied with France and the House of Valois.” 

“For France and the Valois!” Queen Anne proclaimed.

The French ruler joined, “I want to thank Emperor Ferdinand and Archduke Maximilian, new King of the Romans, for all the good they have done and will do for Europe.” He paused, looking at his future son-in-law. “For our friendship and collaboration in peace!”

Maximilian cried, “For my Father! For the great Emperor Ferdinand!” 

The guests gushed, “God save the Holy Roman Emperor and the King of France!” 

Cheers resonated in all directions, like the voice of Poseidon echoing from the cliffs over their heads. More toasts were offered: to the kings, to their Italian allies, the commanders of their troops who had triumphed at Milan and Marignano, and at last to the royalty. The luxurious medieval villa was thronged with many guests dressed in rich garments of Italian, German, and French fashions. A bright sun shone down from the heavens upon the world.

A week ago, the coronation of Emperor Ferdinand and Empress Marguerite had taken place in Rome. In 1508, Pope Julius II had recognized the right of German monarchs, elected by the prince-electors, to use the Imperial title. Yet, Ferdinand had opted for receiving the Imperial regalia from the Supreme Pontiff himself, which symbolized a new era without wars and his role as both protector of the Catholic Church and peacemaker between Catholics and Protestants.  

Many nobles from Europe, save Spain, had attended the coronation. Ferdinand’s eldest son Maximilian had been elected and crowned King of the Romans as his father’s designated heir to the empire. Juana of Castile had been there as well. Then Ferdinand and François had returned to Tuscany with their wives. They intended to spend a short time in Florence before departing home – Ferdinand to Austria and François to France. At present, Cosimo and Leonor resided at the Medici historical villa in Carregi, where Lorenzo de’ Medici had passed away in 1492.  

As Juana stood up, everyone lapsed into silence. Her persona, mysterious and maligned by her power-hungry relatives, awakened immeasurable interest across the entirety of Christendom. Like her powerful son, Juana was dressed in the Austrian fashion: a black brocade embroidered dress with pendant sleeves, trimmed with white lace, and a high golden-brocaded collar. Her presence at Ferdinand’s side and her abdication were sensational in everybody’s eyes.

Holding a goblet near her mouth, Juana regarded the guests. “For peace in Europe! Let it be long-lasting!” She repeated the same in Italian, German, French, and Latin.

Everyone echoed, “For perpetual peace!” 

Nevertheless, in these moments of universal jubilation, Ferdinand and Juana were united in their bereavement. Their faces impenetrable, they sipped a bit of their wine while smiling stiffly. Ferdinand and François had triumphed over Carlos, but the late emperor’s death had devastated his brother and mother. François, Anne, and Marguerite figured out their gloomy thoughts.

Marguerite interrupted the uncomfortable pause between them. “Ferdinand, you spent some time in Spain and Flanders. I expected you to return at the beginning of summer.” 

Ferdinand sighed at his wife’s rebuke. “Politics demanded my attention.” 

“The bloodshed is over,” Anne asserted. “At least for now.”   

François nodded, somewhat sullenly. “Only God knows what will happen next.” 

Ferdinand assured, “As long as I am the emperor, there will be peace. Moreover, my duty is to end the decades of religious and political unrest in the German Protestant states. One of my first actions will be to order a general Diet in Augsburg, at which the various states of the empire will discuss the religious problem and its solution. I’ll grant some freedoms to the Protestants.” 

Maximilian requested, “Father, will you allow me to govern?” 

The emperor began eating boiled salmon and shrimps. “Of course, son.” 

François twirled a goblet in his fingers. “There is no organized Protestant movement in France so far, but it is will form. Sooner or later, I’ll have to make concessions.” 

“You will not avoid that.” Ferdinand was chewing his food.

Anne enjoyed the dishes of pheasant. “I’ve made up my mind to convert.” 

François stared at his consort in silent approval. The others gaped at her.

“What?” Marguerite paused, her platter still full of roast eels with lampreys.

“Yes,” confirmed Anne. “At least for form’s sake. I want my family to be safe.”  

Juana collected all kinds of fishes on her platter. “The Lord is in your soul, not in all those standard rituals the Church teaches people to worship. You either have kindness and moral code in yourself, or you do not.” She spoke very quietly so few could hear her.

Ferdinand and François nodded at the emperor’s mother. So did their spouses.

“Grandmother,” addressed Maximilian. “I need to think about it, but it sounds wise.” 

Juana asked, “Tell us, son, where is the former regent of Spain now?” 

Ferdinand laughed. “While in Spain I dealt with Francisco de les Cobos who was stealing from the treasury in the most brazen ways. My sister Catherine, Queen of Portugal, returned from Mantua to Lisbon, and I met her on her way there. Unlike my other sister Mary of Hungary, Catherine does not blame me for anything and will come to us to Vienna next year.” 

Juana’s grin was wide. “I’d love to see Cat.” She quizzed, “And Cobos?” 

Ferdinand sipped wine. “I had Cobos apprehended in due course. When my nephew, King Felipe of Spain, arrived in Madrid from Flanders, I showed him the papers proving the numerous cases of embezzlement on Cobos’ part. Felipe then ordered to have Cobos executed.” 

Juana shoved a piece of sturgeon into her mouth. “Good that Cobos is out of the picture. He frequently toughened the conditions of my imprisonment at Tordesillas, perhaps even without Carlos’ knowledge. Mary and I barely escaped from him after she had released me.” 

“Mother, forget it,” advised Ferdinand. She nodded at him.   

Maximilian’s heart ached for the old woman. “You will have a new life with us.” 

The former Queen of Spain smiled fondly at her grandson. “Thank you, Max.” 

Anne was served a dish of sauce-drenched meats. “Where is Dowager Empress Mary now? I saw her at the coronation in Rome and wanted to talk to her, but we had no time.” 

Ferdinand answered, “My friend, Philip of Bavaria, is escorting her to Vienna.” 

François examined the table loaded with victuals. “Is a new romance blooming?” 

“God be praised,” Juana purred. “Mary ought to start her life afresh.” 

Anne regretted that she had not seen her former stepdaughter in private. “She is still young, and despite all her afflictions, she may find happiness.” The others tipped their heads.

For another hour, the guests were eating and chatting festively. Everybody was rapaciously reaching for an unlimited assortment of viands brought by servants. There were dishes of meats, fishes, salads, and even pies dressed in gold leaf! The Medici family spared no expense for the celebrations, showcasing their wealth and the new era of prosperity for Tuscany.  

§§§

Florentine artists gathered at one of the tables. Among them, there were Agnolo Bronzino, Benvenuto Cellini, Pierino da Vinci, and Giorgio Vasari. Cosimo, Anne, and François relocated from their table to the artistic table, as it was labeled jestingly by the Queen of France, feeling comfortable with Cosimo’s intellectuals. The magnificent Valois court was thronged with artists. In addition, the notable villa where they currently resided had once been the site of the Platonic Academy founded by Cosimo de’ Medici the Elder who had died here in 1464.

The French monarch offered a toast. “To the Golden Age of culture in France!” 

“To the Golden Age of Florence,” Cosimo supported eagerly.

“For greatness of culture!”  Anne proclaimed. The queen missed her sister Marie, who had departed with Montmorency to France, impatient to be reunited with her two daughters.

Goblets were drained and refilled. They all broke into animated chatter.

The servants brought two paintings covered with purple velvet. As the covers were lifted, the spectators gasped in impressed awe. These were the stunning portraits of King François and Queen Anne by Bronzino. It was Anne’s second portrait by this painter, for Bronzino had created the painting of her and her two children – Louise and Jean – during her first stay in Florence.

Bronzino portrayed François to mid-thigh level with a poniard in his hand. His features still handsome and fierce, the King of France wore polished suit of his fancy golden armor that stood out against a background of crimson velvet cloth. Under the armor, as can be seen from the sleeves, his outfit was of white, blue, and golden silk, heraldic colors of the House of Valois. On the shelf behind François, to the right, was his famous burgonet adorned with salamanders, while on the left there were the batons of command of France, Piedmont, and Milan.

Shining in all the glory of her mature loveliness, the Queen of France was depicted sitting with her hands folded in her lap. Against the black background, the moon in the upper left-hand corner contained the inscription ‘AR’ – ‘Anna Regina.’ In the same place in her husband’s painting, the inscription ‘FR’ meant ‘François Rex.’ The Valois coat-of-arms was displayed in ring on her left forefinger. In a gown of elaborate brocaded violet velvet, with its massed bouclé effects of gold weft loops, Anne embodied the loyal, brave wife and the womanly virtue.  

Cosimo explained, “These portraits were painted during the sojourn of our French friends in Tuscany.” His gaze flew to Bronzino. “Our most talented portraitist made a great job.” 

Giorgio Vasari beheld both portraits with a critical eye. “Bronzino, bravo!” 

The sovereigns of France had already seen these works before the public display of them.

François commented, “These two portraits were created as companions for each other, for Anne and I are inseparable until death do us part.” 

Anne asserted, “François is a great warrior, and I’m his queen.” 

François laced their fingers together. “My courageous French Minerva!” 

Staying at the main table, Ferdinand laughed. “Indeed.” 

Vasari began, “Messer Bronzino, you have my profound respect as the best portraitist in Italy. The expressions on the faces of the king and queen, as well as their poses reflect the moral qualities of amazing rulers: valor, bravery, pride, wisdom, and honor.” 

Benvenuto Cellini assessed, “These works are excellent examples of Bronzino’s skill.”  

Agnolo Bronzino behaved modestly. His gaze flicked to the Valois ruler’s portrait. “When we look at His Majesty, we see illustrious magnificence, benevolent chivalry, and firm power in him. His shining armor and the painting’s reds are reminders of battle and heroism.” 

François admired his wife’s depiction. “And my queen?” 

Bronzino continued, “I chose to paint Her Majesty in the classic style used by Raphael and Leonardo da Vinci – the model sits next to the window opening on a landscape. Yet, I used the black landscape and added the moon to the composition in order to reflect that His Majesty as the sun of France, and his queen as the moon of his realm and his life are always together.” 

Anne felt tears in her eyes. “Thank you, Bronzino.” 

Vasari supplemented, “The sun and moon are splendid and inseparable.” 

Pierino da Vinci entered the discourse. “The sun is a symbol of rebirth, strength, and power. The moon is the sun’s goddess, highlighting cosmic events and divine epiphanies.” His grin was large and infectious. “Did Your Majesties have a divine epiphany in Milan?” 

A bonny, short of height, lad of eighteen summers, Pierino da Vinci had black hair, green eyes, and skin paler than most Italians had. This sculptor was the nephew of Leonardo da Vinci.

Anne squeezed her husband’s hand. “That we should always be together.” 

François caressed her fingers. “Messer da Vinci, you look like my dearly departed friend Leonardo. I saw some of your statues, and I think you have an awesome talent in sculpture.” 

Da Vinci blushed. “Your Majesty is most kind.” 

Cosimo gazed between Anne and François. “I’m pleased that you both like these works.” 

François glanced at Bronzino. “Would you like to go to my court, Messer Bronzino?” 

Bronzino grinned. “Your Majesty asked me years ago, and I had to refuse in spite of my respect to France and the Valois family. I’ll never leave my beloved Florence.” 

“I need Bronzino by my side, François.” Cosimo would not let Bronzino leave.

“We understand,” Anne said a bit sadly. Then she quizzed, “And you, Messer Cellini?” 

A sturdy man of average height, Benvenuto Cellini had a strong countenance. His hazel eyes had a merry and sensual expression, while his pointed chin showed determination. His attire was a mixture of French and Italian fashions, and there was a toque of azure velvet upon his head, full of curly brown hair. For a few years, Cellini had worked at Fontainebleau and Paris, where he had taken some of his female models as mistresses and sired bastards.   

Cellini answered graciously, “I’ll return to France if Your Majesties have commissions for me.” He slanted a gaze at his patron. “But only if His Grace does not object.” The truth was that he felt envious because of Cosimo’s close friendship with Vasari and Bronzino.

“I don’t mind,” Cosimo said. “Benvenuto, your escapades in France are infamous.”    

Cellini’s lips curved in a lascivious manner. “There are no better women than our Italian and French beauties.” He hastily added, “Of course save Duchess Leonor.” 

Cosimo and François howled with laughter. Anne and the artists grinned.

“You may go with Anne and François,” permitted Cosimo.

Nodding his thanks, Cellini outlined his wishes. “I’d like to create more statues of royals!” 

“That can be arranged.” François smiled at Anne, who nodded at him approvingly. The King of France remembered his favorite of Cellini’s works manufactured for him. “Messer Cellini, I love your Salt Cellar. Everyone admires this part-enamelled gold table sculpture.” 

Cellini jested, “We need your statue made out of gold, Messer French Mars!” 

Always taciturn, Da Vinci reminded, “Messer Cellini, we have the emperor’s statue.”    

Cosimo enjoined, “Show us the portrait and statue of Emperor Ferdinand and Empress Marguerite! Bronzino and Cellini performed a lot of work during the past few months.” 

Excited silence fell over the park, like an ax, chopping off all sound.

§§§

The servants brought the portraits of Emperor Ferdinand and Empress Marguerite. Because of Ferdinand’s absence, he could not pose, so Bronzino had used his old painting.

Once more, the assemblage gasped in joyful amazement.

On the portrait, Emperor Ferdinand was seated in a curule gilded chair, which served as a symbol of political or military power since ancient Rome. Unlike the tastes of his late elder brother Carlos who had preferred to be depicted as a warrior, Ferdinand needed a conservative representation of himself as a ruler clad in rich brown German robes, contrasting with the red carpet and gold tapestry behind him. The background was a landscape of Vienna.

Like her husband, Empress Marguerite was depicted in a curule gilded chair. Her face ceremonious, she held the Bible in her hands. In spite of her love for French fashions, which she wore in Austria, for this occasion the empress was attired in a German dress of tawny brocade trimmed with rhinestones. The landscape behind her was Viennese, too, to match her spouse’s portrait. French artists would call it cold, yet it conveyed the sober formality of German courts.

Ferdinand and Marguerite approached the table where the paintings were delivered.

“That is exactly what we need, Margot,” the emperor told his spouse.

Marguerite nodded. “For the purpose of glorifying Your Imperial Majesty.” 

He riposted, “Don’t we also promote you as my wife who accepted German habits?”

“Yes, we do.” Marguerite took his hand in hers. “You and I are two halves of one whole.” 

Ferdinand laughed. “Somehow we are a less romantic couple than your father and Anne are.” His scrutiny drifted to the Valois spouses. “We are not the French sun and moon.”  

François smiled at them. “You are Austrian compasses for the future.” 

“Imperial compasses,” corrected Juana who came to them with Maximilian.

The ruler of France jested, “Of course, Your most powerful Majesty.” 

The emperor joked, “Glad to hear that from Your most chivalrous Majesty.” 

Kissing his wife’s hand, François cried, “I’ll always be the Knight-King!” 

Maximilian interposed, “These portraits are great, but they are a bit gloomy.” 

Ferdinand’s orbs dashed to his heir. “Son, they cannot be like French portraits.” 

“I know, Father.” Maximilian, young and posh, loved French and Italian vibrancy.

Bronzino elucidated, “Your Imperial Majesties! It might seem that your poses show some stiffness, but this impression is wrong. The way you are seated and your somber faces reflect the concept of majesty as it has always been in Imperial iconography, especially in Austria.” 

The emperor said, “Thank you, Messer Bronzino. All is done very well.” 

Giorgio Vasari spoke. “The German and Austrian styles are far less flamboyant than Italian and French ones. Yet, they show the eminence of royal sitters in a more impactful way.” 

“I cannot disagree.” The Valois monarch’s eyes were glued to Vasari. “Yet, the rational combination of vibrancy, flamboyancy, and heroic topics has the same effect on the viewer.” 

“True,” said Cosimo. “I prefer a combination of these styles.”

Juana noted, “Son, you are so strict on this portrait.” 

Ferdinand arched a brow. “Am I not serious in life?” 

Marguerite swatted the emperor on the shoulder. “Ferdinand should be merrier.” She loved her husband dearly, but sometimes, she wished him to be more like Frenchmen.

The emperor drawled in a singsong voice, “Marguerite, Margot. I can be different.” 

Cellini eyed the emperor and empress with a crooked grin. “Definitely, His Imperial Majesty is not as official with his wife as he is with us. He broke the chains in his brother’s prison, escaped, and saved his father-in-law and his wife from Milan.” 

Cosimo deciphered a shade of sorrow in the emperor’s orbs. “Cellini, watch your tongue.” 

François measured Ferdinand with an apologetic gaze. “It’s Cellini.” 

“I’m sorry,” blurted out Cellini. “I mean only well.” Nervously, he gulped wine.

The emperor soothed, “It is all right, Messer Cellini.” 

Maximilian stepped to his father. “Father, you are the most distinguished hero.”   

Ferdinand patted his heir’s shoulder fondly. “Son, always remember this: world can praise good and bad things, but history is the testament to your true character.” 

“I shall,” pledged an unusually serious Maximilian.

Anne maneuvered to the emperor’s statue. “Messer Cellini’s another work! Bring it!” 

Cosimo and Leonor, who now sat next to him, chorused, “Now!” 

The gathering watched several sturdy men deliver the statue of Emperor Ferdinand. It was a full-length marble and portrait statue of Ferdinand shown as a monarch and the commander of armies, commemorating his victories in Italy. Ferdinand was clad in shining armor, carrying an imperial baton and raising his right hand while addressing the troops.

“Messer Cellini,” started Ferdinand. “It’s amazing! I shall take it to Vienna.” 

Cellini answered, “I’ll be most honored, Your Imperial Majesty.” 

Young Da Vinci elaborated, “The bas-reliefs on Your Imperial Majesty’s armor have an allegorical and political agenda: they allude to Mars, god of war, and remind of ancient statues.” 

“Classic traditions of sculpture,” Anne remarked.

Juana commented, “Your facial tranquil expression has been idealized, son.” 

“Yes, it was,” accented Ferdinand. “But it is how it should be.” 

Anne asserted, “I like Cupid riding a dolphin as support for the statue.” 

Maximilian remembered statues he had seen at the Vatican. “Just like in Roman statues.” 

Cellini elaborated, “Cupid reveals his mythical connection to the goddess Venus.” His gaze raved over the empress. “The connection with Her Imperial Majesty.” 

Ferdinand smiled widely. His consort looked smug and satisfied.

Marguerite stepped back and examined her husband from top to toe. “This statue shows a standard pose of a Roman orator. The right leg is taut, while the left one is relaxed, as if the statue were moving forward. This stance creates diagonals between tense and relaxed limbs.”    

François bragged, “It is all French education, Ferdinand.” The emperor laughed.

Ferdinand admired his consort’s erudition. “The overall style of this sculpture is closer to ancient Hellenistic idealization than to the realism of Roman portraiture.” 

The feast continued into the late evening. More dishes were served, and musicians played. Dancing commenced, but none of the monarchs and dukes participated, leaving it to the nobles. Finally, all the royals retired to the villa where the Florentine ducal couple showed Cosimo’s exclusive collection of bronzes, marble statuettes, curios, medals, and miniatures.


September 28, 1547, Villa di Careggi, near Florence, Tuscany, Italy

As Queen Anne exited the villa into the gardens, a breeze flicked her loose hair around her face. The late afternoon sun was mild and gentle, warming the faces of those people who had assembled in the gardens to attend a regular meeting of Accademia Fiorentina, founded on the orders of Duke Cosimo de’ Medici in 1541. The chief subject of their discussion was what should constitute the basis for the Italian language, including volgare or the common tongue.

Clad in attire of golden silk with a bejeweled collar, Cosimo of Florence presided over this gathering of intellectuals. Cosimo lounged in a gilded throne at the table full of various Italian delicacies and wines. To his right sat his spouse, Duchess Leonor, clothed in a brocaded silk velvet fabric gown with its loops of gold-wrapped thread and white pile arabesques.

“Anne!” called Cosimo with a cordial smile. “Come!” 

Leonor nodded. “Join our interesting discussion.” 

“Good evening!” As Anne crossed the lawn, everyone bowed and curtsied.

The queen settled herself in a bronze chair to the duke’s left. Cosimo resumed questioning humanists and linguists about their projects, acting as a demanding patron. The twelve founding members of the Academia were present, including Baccio Baccelli, Pier Fabbrini, Paolo de Gei, Bartolomeo Benci, Antonio Francesco Grazzini, Gismondo Martelli, Michelangelo Vivaldi, and so on. Anne had spoken to all of them, but she knew Grazzini better than other artists.

“Antonio,” addressed Cosimo. “How is your work on the vocabulary?” 

Grazzini was proud that his patron had tasked him with writing the first vocabulary of Italian words. “In the process, Your Grace. I can show it to you next week.”

The duke inclined his head. “Yes, please. The sooner the better.” 

Benci, his rival for the love of the Florentines and their patron, promulgated, “Messer Grazzini, don’t forget that the language of Boccaccio and Petrarch should be considered a model for literary Italian. It should be reflected in your work. Do you support me, friends?” 

All the others in attendance chorused in collective approval.

Grazzini confronted, “Boccaccio’s and Petrarch’s language forms are too complicated for undereducated commoners. We need something simpler and clearer for masses.” 

Leonor concurred. “Not every commoner speaks Latin.” 

Despite the assemblage’s protestations, Cosimo uttered, “Antonio is right.” 

Anne opined, “Any writing style should be flexible and without affectation.” 

The ducal couple and the others bobbed their heads in agreement.

While the two rulers conversed, Leonor apprised, “The English ambassador is here.” 

At this, Anne looked around. “Lord Northumberland was absent for too long.” 

Leonor shrugged. “In response to our invitations, he always apologized and said that his family needs his attention. However, he met with Cosimo in Florence a few times.” 

“Family is top priority.” Percy must have avoided Anne deliberately.

The duchess gestured towards the table where the Percy spouses sat. “There!” 

Nodding her thanks, the Queen of France stood up. As she strolled through the park, the din of the linguistic debate was growing louder. Temperamental like a hundred artists, Grazzini started a literary quarrel until Cosimo redirected the parley. As he was ranked as one of the great masters of Tuscan prose, Grazzini had grown overconfident of his importance.

§§§

Queen Anne discovered the English ambassadorial couple at a distant table, as if they were striving to hide there. His expression animated, the Earl of Northumberland was involved in a lively conversation with Gian Giorgio Trissino, who was one of Cosimo’s favorite people in the ducal inner circle. In contrast to her husband, Percy’s spouse seemed ill at ease.

During her stay in Tuscany, Anne had already met Trissino. A tall, burly man, Trissino had a wide face, his features comprised mostly of hard angles. His emerald orbs, always nonchalant and curious, sparkled between sharp brows; his brown hair was neatly cut short. Trissino wore vibrant colors – today his sumptuous attire was of red and azure velvet. A famous humanist, poet, dramatist, diplomat, and grammarian, Trissino was full of himself.

At the sight of Anne, they all stood up. His gaze piercing the Queen of France with its heat, Percy swept a bow to her. Trissino also bowed, while Jane Percy sketched a curtsey.

“Take a seat,” encouraged Anne. “I’d like to join your talk.” 

Gian Trissino enthused, “Our most glorious Queen of France!” 

“We are glad to see Your Majesty,” said Percy with undisguised enthusiasm.

Jane’s scrutiny was rooted to the grass. “As Your Majesty wishes.” 

Trissino continued the conversation about literature, which organically floated to his famous tragedy ‘Sophonisba,’ published in 1524. A Carthaginian noblewoman who had lived during the Second Punic War, Sophonisba was legendary because she had poisoned herself to avoid being humiliated in a Roman triumph after Carthage’s defeat. This inspired many artists to paint her, as well as compose tragedies and dramas in a similar style.

After taking a goblet of wine from a passing servant, Anne stated, “Messer Trissino, I admire your ‘Sophonisba.’ It was translated into French by Mellin de Saint-Gelais.”

Trissino gulped wine from his cup. “And what does Your Majesty think of it?” 

The queen affirmed, “It’s a masterpiece! Some claim that it is a dull work because of its blank-verse nature, but I don’t quite concur. If you had written it otherwise, Sophonisba’s drama would have been lost for the reader. It is good that you retained the historical Roman and Carthaginian characters. No wonder it has become a model for other tragedians.” 

The Countess of Northumberland was staring into space, silent like a tomb.

Trissino was flattered. “I’m most delighted! I created it for Pope Leo the Tenth – a son of Lorenzo Il Magnifico. It was acted in Rome and received a great response from an audience.” 

Drinking wine, Henry Percy entered the conversation. “Along with Cleopatra, Sophonisba furnished more dramas than any other.” He refilled his cup and continued, “I love your work, Messer Trissino. I also admire the way Petrarch told her story in his epic poem ‘Africa’.” 

Trissino set his cup at the table. “Petrarch’s speech, given in the form of a medieval sermon, demonstrates the first stirrings of interest in antiquity prior to the Renaissance time. Petrarch was right when he made this poem’s design based on Virgil’s Aeneid.” 

Anne tipped her head. “He intentionally did so, to increase Sophonisba’s importance.” 

Percy could not tear his gaze away from his former sweetheart. “The illustrious Boccaccio included her life in his ‘De mulieribus claris,’ his account of Famous Women.” 

As their conversation swiveled to Greek tragedies, the French queen watched Jane. A rush of sympathy went through her. Anne realized that it must be difficult for her former rival to be in her presence, for Percy slanted glances of interest at her. Moreover, not knowledgeable in the arts, Jane had nothing to say. Harry Percy is well educated and clever. Once he charmed me with his intelligence. What is his marriage to Jane like? Did they find common ground?

Anne surveyed Jane, who sat with her profile turned to her. Now older, her once rival was still pretty and plain, the lack of sophistication evident in her whole being. To Anne’s surprise, Jane was dressed in a fashionable Italian gown of sapphire blue brocade, a triangular-shaped stomacher studded with gems and massive black and white pearls in abundance.

Sensing Anne’s intense gaze, Jane pivoted to her. “How can I serve Your Majesty?”

Anne proposed, “Should we speak in private?” 

Unwillingly, Jane consented, “As Your Majesty wishes.” 

“Are you sure?” The English ambassador studied Jane and Anne in turns.

“Yes,” the two women chorused.

Within the space of several heartbeats, Anne and Jane were away from the two men.

§§§

Anne and Jane sauntered through the gardens in silence. They passed fountains with Greek statues installed inside them, where water splashed like a musical accompaniment.

 “Lady Northumberland,” the queen spelled out, for it sounded unnatural to her. “Cosimo sent you many invitations for intellectual debates, but it is only today that you have honored us with your presence. I hope that you and your son are feeling well.”

They halted near the fountain decorated with the figures of handsome youths and svelte maidens. Neither of them wanted to talk to the other, but it was necessary.

“Your Majesty,” Jane commenced in the most polite accents. “I’m most grateful for your care about me and my son, Lord Alan Percy. My boy is hale and hearty, thanks be to God.” 

Anne inferred, “Your marriage was smooth until I came to Tuscany.” 

“You think,” started Jane, the dam of her heartache breaking, “that it is easy to be married to a man who is still in love with you? Percy adores you absolutely: it is enough to look into his eyes to see the truth. You have always stood between us like a gigantic shadow.”  

“I’m sorry,” the queen pronounced sincerely.

Suddenly, Jane felt ashamed of her indecorous behavior. “Your Majesty, I should not have been so blunt – I beg your forgiveness. Nowadays I rarely visit the ducal court because my son takes all my free time, although I did not frequent it even before Alan’s birth.” 

Anne gave a nod. “Children are the light of our lives. I’m happy you have a child.”

Jane let out a tiny grin. “I’m glad you have a loving family in France.” 

The queen sought for a trace of their erstwhile enmity in Jane. “Your life was not easy with that Tudor beast. At least you are now out of England, for it is dangerous to be there.”

Jane’s face turned wan. “We will not return to England anytime soon. I’m relieved that my brother, Edward, was banished from the Tudor court. Unlike Edward who climbed to the office of Lord Chancellor, my other relatives were ejected soon after King Henry had our marriage annulled. It is better to lose power than to be killed by that monster Henry.” 

Turmoil rose within Anne. “Sometimes, I’m afraid for my daughter’s fate.” 

Jane nodded. “My husband says that Princess Elizabeth is in exile.” 

“Yes, at Hever Castle.” The queen and her estranged eldest daughter still exchanged letters, but now rarely following Marillac’s ejection from England. “Nonetheless, I’m relieved that Lizzy stays away from Henry. Her arrival in Boulogne angered him too much.” 

Jane had no clue as to the many awful things that had transpired in Boulogne. “Henry was expelled from France in shame.” She tittered. “Harry and I rejoiced in his defeat.” 

The queen smirked: the Percy spouses reveled in the King of England’s misfortunes as much as she did. “France’s wars are over, for now. My husband and I are together again.” 

“Your Majesty’s romantic story is legendary,” commented Jane with a hint of envy. “I wish you all the best with King François, who is apparently different from King Henry.” 

Anne noticed a flame flickering in the other woman’s gray eyes – hot and bitter, like burning salt. “Say whatever your heart wishes to extract out of its depths, Lady Percy.” 

Pushed forward by her personal situation, the Countess of Northumberland took a breath and proceeded. “Your Majesty, there is no longer any animosity towards you on my part. When you were the Queen of England, I was sure of your guilt of those alleged crimes leveled against you by Cromwell. I was a different person back then.” Her gaze was fixed upon her husband in the distance. “Now I just want to make the best out of my marriage to Harry Percy.”

The queen finished, “But it is impossible when I am around.” 

Losing her boldness, Jane cast her scrutiny down. “Yes; I apologize.” 

Anne felt as if the water in the fountain were whispering to her about Jane’s unhappiness. “I wished to see you in order to make peace with you, Lady Northumberland.” 

Jane gazed her in the eye. “I would like that. I wish you happiness.” 

The queen asserted, “I wish you well. Your husband is a kind man.” 

Frankness spilled out of Jane’s mouth. “Yet, I am not good enough for Harry to love me. No woman can be better in his eyes than you. I’m saying this not to blame you, but to remind myself of my circumstances. I’ve long accepted that Harry’s heart will belong to you forever.” 

Guilt seized Anne; she had long forgotten Percy. “The more obstacles you face, the more challenges you handle, and the closer you are to your goal. So, be content with your son.” 

Grudgingly, Jane bit out, “Thank you for advice, Your Majesty.” 

Queen Anne saluted to Empress Marguerite who she spotted in an alley of cypresses. Jane Percy curtsied to Queen Anne, who smiled at her before joining her stepdaughter.

Jane stood motionless like a statue. It feels so good not to be Anne Boleyn’s foe. However, I hope she will keep away from Harry, or my marriage might crack. Northumberland behaved like an honorable husband: for months, he had rejected the Duke of Florence’s invitations, staying true to his word not to do anything to embarrass his wife or hurt her. At last, the Percy spouses had come to Cosimo’s villa when they could no longer reject his hospitality out of politeness.  

However, Jane was cognizant of Harry’s amorous sentiments towards the Queen of France, which were omnipresent in his inner realm. She did not blame Henry Percy for his obsession with Anne, for many men felt so for this exotic woman. Love was not an affair of reason to be defined and measured by logic and calculation. Even though Jane did not comprehend why Percy’s feelings for Anne remained unfading, she was relieved that he behaved as a gentleman.

Turning her head to the fountain, the countess thought that her life swerved into rampant waters whenever Anne appeared. Part of Jane envied Anne that the queen could feel a devouring, all-encompassing passion towards several men in her life. Nevertheless, Jane was tied to the man who would never fall for her. To her fear and even grief, Jane was developing feelings for Percy despite all her attempts to remain indifferent. I ought to guard my heart better!

Jane gazed at the sky; sunset hour was approaching. “God save me from unrequited love.” 

On the way back to the guests, Jane’s mind meandered to Mary Tudor, Dowager Empress and the King of England’s eldest daughter. Mary had been present in Rome at the coronation of Emperor Ferdinand, yet now her former stepdaughter was not at Carregi. Jane prayed for Mary, for the hapless woman must mourn the loss of the deceased Emperor Carlos. It would be nice to see Mary again. She and I both suffered enough. I wonder what now she thinks of Anne.

§§§

As a bout of melancholy struck him, Emperor Ferdinand found his refuge in an arbor in the park’s depths. Entwined with roses and other blossoms, the arbor warranted a perfect calm away from the bustle of the festivities. Sitting on a marble bench, the ruler observed the sun sinking behind the hills, the firmament turning from gray to blue, to yellow, orange, and reddish.

“Soon the sky will fade to black. In about half an hour, not more.” 

Ferdinand flicked his scrutiny to François, who stood at the entrance to the arbor.

“Indeed,” the emperor agreed. “During the past months, I’ve often watched sunsets.” 

The King of France crossed to the bench and eased himself next to his ally. “That is what I thought. You are remembering the demise of your brother in the moments when the sun hangs like a blood-red ball over Marignano. I hoped that you recovered emotionally a little.” 

“How can I?” Ferdinand saw no sense in pretending in front of François, with whom he had gone through many trials and tribulations. “For years, I wanted to live in Carlos’ glow, for he was a sun for me – I adored and admired him, willingly living in his shadow.”

“Until these shadows swallowed you completely,” deduced the other man.

“Yes.” Ferdinand’s voice was dripping with anguish. “They almost destroyed me.” 

François empathized with Ferdinand’s misfortunes. “Our siblings are with us from the dawn of our lives to our inevitable dusk, just as I’ve been with my sister Margot. I pray that all of my children and grandchildren will have close relationships, just as my sister and I share.” 

“You are lucky, François. Among the Valois, no brothers and sisters waged wars against each other, although some cousins were adversaries. In contrast to your family, my ancestors were often at each other’s throats fighting for power. Take my grandmother, Isabella of Castile: her brother, King Enrique the Forth of Castile, persecuted her, and eventually they became foes.” 

“Yes.” The Valois ruler’s expression evolved into chagrin. “Nonetheless, my missteps allowed Catherine de’ Medici, that murderous harpy, to become a member of my family.” 

This time, Ferdinand experienced profound sympathy to his fellow monarch. “It is not your fault. Once you return home, you should have her executed and then forget her.” 

“But you cannot get rid of your own pain and guilt over Carlos’ demise.” 

Ferdinand glanced at a nearby bed of roses, imagining that their thorns were prickling his soul as if in punishment for his brother’s brutal death. “I cannot, and I never will.” 

François followed his gaze. “The same is fair to say about me.” 

For some time, the two monarchs were quiet, grappling with their sorrows. The lawn was tinted with floating shadows moving from the dark recesses of the descending evening. Some distance away a nightingale was singing to its mate, filling the silence with a dulcet melody.  

Ferdinand broke the pause. “I shall give you something.” 

“What?” Absent-minded, François listened to the nightingales’ twittering.

The emperor produced a pile of parchments from his doublet’s pocket. “An hour ago, I took it for you from my study, but I was distracted and then came here.” 

François stretched out his hand and was rewarded by the letters placed into it.

Ferdinand smiled whimsically. “Pope Julius discovered them in the Vatican’s archives. It will help you make someone from England do something that has long been on your mind.” 

The French monarch clasped the papers in his hands. “How can you know it?” 

The emperor elaborated, “We are friends and relatives, François, so I know you enough. While we were in Florence before the Battle of Milan, I spent some time with Anne as we discussed the coalition against Carlos. From her references to her captivity in Boulogne and from the fear I deciphered in her eyes every time she and I mentioned Henry Tudor, I surmised that the King of England did something heinous to her. As we touched on the topic of marital fidelity between jokes, I noticed the colossal guilt in her eyes, and all became clear to me.”

François exhaled sharply, suddenly too angry to stay motionless. He jerked to his feet and paced the arbor, his blood boiling with his ferocious animosity towards Henry. “I do not blame Anne for anything. However, that Tudor demon has no right to live! As a man and husband, I cannot condone what he did to my wife.” He sighed. “I ask you to keep it secret, Ferdinand.” 

“Sit down, François. Anne does not know that I guessed everything.”    

The Valois ruler landed onto the bench. “What are these papers about?” 

The emperor began, “Allesandro Farnese was killed by the Boleyns – technically. Yet, we were all in conspiracy against him because we had to stop his plotting in order to save you and my wife. At times, life maneuvers you into a territory alien to you, where you must drop your code of chivalry, putting it aside temporarily or forever, in order to protect your loved ones.” 

“I’m not accusing you of that Farnese thug’s murder. Contrariwise, I approved of what Anne, her relatives, and you did together. Farnese merited a worse death than poisoning!” 

Ferdinand recalled the recent happenings in England. “King Henry the Beast executed countless prisoners, even women and children, after the uprising in Norfolk. Years ago, he murdered thousands of Robert Aske’s men. He also killed the Pole family and many others.” His voice dropped to a hiss. “If someone had forced himself upon Margot, I would have killed him regardless of the villain’s station. It would have been my right as a man, husband, and king.” 

An astonished François questioned, “You consider it my right, don’t you?” 

“In this situation, my answer is a yes, although I’m usually against doing things that go against the Lord’s will, for example dethroning monarchs and committing regicides.”

“You might be ruthless, Ferdinand.” 

“And so might you, François.” The emperor glanced into his eyes. “Carlos taught me a lot, although I’ll never resort to extreme measures like this unless I have no choice. I also know that your misadventures in Milan altered you, even though others cannot see it yet.” 

François blinked before confirming, “There is a darkness in me I was not aware of before.” 

“It is not that monstrous darkness, unlike that of Henry Tudor. It is a darkness stemming from your desire to cleanse the honor of your family and to protect your relatives.”    

The two monarchs traded glances of solidarity and comprehension. Since the invasion of France of 1536, their relationship had undergone a larger-than-life transformation from enmity into alliance, camaraderie, then friendship solidified by their woes caused by Carlos. As rulers with serpentine paths to their survival and triumph, François and Ferdinand understood each other perfectly well, sometimes able to realize what the other would do or think beforehand.

François contemplated the darkening firmament that matched his souring spirits. “Thank you, Ferdinand. I may share some disturbing things only with few people, including my wife and sister. But you understand me too well as my friend in misfortunes and joys.” 

“I treasure this, François,” said Ferdinand sincerely. “You and your relatives will always have a true friend and ally in me and my eldest son. As long as I rule the Holy Roman Empire, the House of Valois and the Austrian Habsburgs will be in alliance. In due time, Maximilian will succeed me as emperor, and he will be your friend as well. Your daughter Aimée’s marriage to Maximilian will further connect our families, just as my union with Margot tied us.”  

François jested, “We are lucky, then! The Habsburgs from Austria do not loathe us.” 

Ferdinand nervously drummed his fingers across the bench. “Carlos’ demise has warranted that you and I will be Felipe of Spain’s sworn enemies for the rest of our lives.” 

“We shall cope,” assured François, but his mood plummeted further.   

The emperor glanced at the letters in the other man’s hands. “Will you read them?” 

François strained his eyesight to scan three missives. It was not entirely dark yet.

“Hmm,” hummed François, cocking a brow as he scanned through one of the letters. “I would never have imagined that the Marquess of Exeter was Farnese’s agent. At least he seems to have been more harmless than Thomas Culpeper who butchered many people. But now it is obvious how Exeter managed to trap Culpeper and have him exposed as the Pope’s agent.”

The emperor was certain of his decision to give his relative the tool against Exeter. “Ironically, Lord Exeter eventually betrayed Farnese. There is no reference to Pope Paul the Third’s order to murder anyone in any of the copies of Paul’s missives for Exeter. It appears that Culpeper was Farnese’s slaughtering machine in England, while Exeter collected information.” 

The King of France verbalized what his English spies had reported to him. “Being the most prominent figure at the Tudor court and future Lord Protector, Exeter is currently taking more interest in religious reform. He is highly likely to have been affected by Farnese’s evil deeds. That is why Exeter betrayed him and Culpeper, and it is a good sign – he has conscience.” 

Ferdinand nodded. “Now you can blackmail Exeter into doing what you and Anne both want. You have not changed your mind to capture Calais from the English, have you?” 

“Of course not.” François had already sent Annebault and Montmorency ahead to Calais. The two men had left for France bound to Calais soon after Ferdinand’s coronation.

The French ruler squeezed the letters up in his hand. His gut brightened as the conversation with his wife when Anne had confessed to having been raped by Henry in Boulogne resurfaced in his mind. He pushed off from the bench and strolled ahead before he paused, staring into the thickening gloom. A smile curved his lips as François spotted his Anne and his daughter with their ladies strolling along the garden path twisting through a wonderland of trees.

Ferdinand’s voice sounded muffled. “You and I share mysteries which no one needs to know, except for our wives and a few others. These secrets must die with us.” 

François swung around to face him. “They are all safe with me.” 

The emperor discerned his bafflement. “I have no secrets from Margot. She knows every nook and cranny of my heart; even Maximilian is less informed. My wife encouraged me to give these letters to you, for Anne confided in her about Henry’s villainies.” 

“We are allies in everything,” stated the Valois ruler confidently.

Ferdinand nodded sagely. “And friends as well. Are we not?” 

François smiled benignly. “We are.” 

Their discourse was interrupted by the arrival of Empress Marguerite and Queen Anne at the arbor. At the sight of the parchments clasped in François’ hands, Anne quirked an eyebrow, whereas Marguerite nodded at her husband approvingly. They briefly discussed Pope Paul III’s communication with the Marquess of Exeter, and the emperor suggested François’ best course of action. The swiftly falling evening would conceal all their secrets until Doomsday.

Notes:

The new chapter is up! We hope you, our dear readers, are fine and well.

This chapter is centered around the closure of Italian storylines and includes the last scenes in Italy. We hope you like seeing Anne, François, Ferdinand, Marguerite, Juana, and Maximilian celebrating in Florence together with Cosimo de’ Medici, Duke of Florence, and his wife, Leonor. All the information about Cosimo’s intellectuals and the other Florentine artists of the time (such as Giorgio Vasari) who are featured in the first large section in this chapter is historically correct, for Cosimo was a great patron of the arts, as was his Spanish duchess.

We decided to give Jane Percy née Seymour, Countess of Northumberland, a chance to reconcile with Queen Anne of France. Jane feels insecure in her marriage to Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, because Percy still loves Anne despite the significant improvement in his relationship with Jane. It is highly realistic that Jane could start developing feelings for her second husband, but her love for him if she falls for Percy will remain unrequited. We will have some more scene featuring Jane and Percy in years to come, but not many.

Emperor Ferdinand and Empress Marguerite were crowned in Rome off-screen. We think that Ferdinand would have opted for an official coronation in Rome to signal to the whole world that his reign will bring a new era of peace and prosperity to the Holy Roman Empire. It is mentioned that Mary Tudor, Dowager Empress, and Queen Anne met off-screen, but they did not have a heart-to-heart conversation – we will give Mary and Anne a chance to reconcile in the future, and there will be more scenes between Mary and Philip of Bavaria sometime later.

Ferdinand gave François important letters which his spies found in the Vatican’s archives. Now François has the proof of the Marquess of Exeter’s work for the late Pope Paul III. Yes, Exeter was Paul’s agent, but now his religious views, ironically, are somewhere between Catholicism and Protestantism, for his previously unshakeable Catholic beliefs were affected by Allesandro Farnese’s abominable actions. Ferdinand and François are on the same page as to the fate of Henry VIII of England who might be brought to justice by Anne and François.

Attention! A while ago, we posted a prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 88: Chapter 87: Winds of Farewell and Dismay

Summary:

King Henry has a frank conversation with Princess Elizabeth. Edward, Prince of Wales, is at court. Lady Honor Grenville and Exeter’s paths are diverging. After Queen Catherine Parr’s miscarriage and the loss of Calais, the Marquess of Exeter finds himself at a stalemate.

Notes:

Please don’t forget to read our previous chapters and review them! Let us know what you think, for we appreciate your comments and they also inspire us to keep going!

Attention! The prologue to the sequel 'Chained by Blood and Power' (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don't forget about our work "Entwined by a Golden Alliance" co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 87: Winds of Farewell and Dismay

October 10, 1547, Hever Castle, Kent, England

At suppertime, Princess Elizabeth Tudor sat at a long table overflowing with dishes before her. Crossing herself, she said, “Thank you, gracious Lord, for letting us have this meal on St Edward’s Feast day. Let my brother, Prince Edward, have a long and glorious life.” 

The girl’s confessor offered thanks for the feast. The princess reached out for the victuals, their nature less elaborate than that of all those delicacies served at court. Although the king financed his exiled daughter’s household handsomely, the princess led quite a modest life. Servants brought dishes of meat and poultry spiced with nutmeg, pepper, and garlic, as well as some fish and simple broth; watered wine was provided for the princess.

“Does Your Highness want something else?” inquired Lady Catherine Knollys. She was Elizabeth’s illegitimate, unacknowledged half-sister. “There are more dishes in the kitchens.” 

Elizabeth shook her head. “No. I desire nothing else.”    

Catherine whispered, “Thank you so much for arranging my contact with my mother.” 

They spoke quietly. Before Marillac’s departure, Elizabeth had exchanged correspondence with Queen Anne once a month, but now no contact was possible. Catherine had received only one letter from her mother, Duchess Marie de Montmorency. All they knew was that the war in Italy had ended, Emperor Carlos was dead, and the French monarchs were now safe.

“Enjoy your meal, Your Highness.” Catherine curtsied and went out.

While eating in silence, Elizabeth thought of her half-sister. So far, Catherine had proved herself as a nice and loyal companion, and a sort of camaraderie had developed between them. At present, the princess employed Catherine’s husband, Sir Francis Knollys, in her household so that the spouses, who were in love, could be together. Catherine had a son last year, and now she is pregnant again. It must be difficult to give birth to so many children for your husband.   

“Good evening, daughter of mine. You seem to be thoughtful, aren’t you?” 

Elizabeth nearly jumped out of her skin at her father’s voice. She swiveled towards the sound of the voice – King Henry stood at the doorway, his eyes latched on to her face.

Elizabeth jerked to her feet and swept an enticing curtsey. “Your Majesty.” 

The English ruler notified, “I’ve come without a big entourage. Only my guards and Lord Arundel are with me. Tomorrow I’ll depart for Hatfield and then for Essex.” 

The monarch entered the dining hall slowly as he was limping considerably. Although he regained the ability to walk after the inflammation of his ulcer had subsided, he walked more slowly. Having lost much of his excessive weight during his illness in Boulogne, Henry had put it on back again. Dressed in a red velvet doublet passmented with gold, now the king looked far older than before: his face had deep wrinkles, and his red-gold hair was laced with white.

“Your Highness!” Catherine walked in again and curtseyed. “Your Majesty…” 

Henry studied the young woman, who apparently was Elizabeth’s lady-in-waiting. Hidden under a richly-embroidered French hood upon her head, Catherine’s red-gold hair was exactly of the same color as the king’s, and her features vaguely resembled someone from Henry’s past.

Elizabeth revealed, “This is my cousin – Lady Catherine Knollys née Carey.” She briefly wondered whether her father was aware of the girl’s true paternity.

“Mary Boleyn,” hissed the king as he surveyed Catherine with disdain.

The monarch knew that Catherine was his bastard daughter. He had never been interested in her fate and never acknowledged his child with Mary Boleyn, his former mistress. Henry’s animosity towards the Boleyn sisters was too strong, superseding any paternal sentiments that this sudden meeting with his biological daughter could awaken in him.

Henry narrowed his eyes at Catherine. “The Boleyn sisters are both whores. Your mother is ‘That great whore infamous above all,’ as François labeled her all those years ago.” 

Neither Elizabeth nor Catherine corrected him, both seething with indignation.

The princess encouraged, “Go rest, Lady Knollys. Others will serve us.” 

After a reluctant curtsey, an inwardly distressed Catherine scurried out.

§§§

His entire being twisted with a mix of loathing and longing, Henry scanned the great hall, where he had once dined and supped with the Boleyns. Nothing changed since the days when he retired to Hever Castle with the aim to woo Anne: the linenfold paneling on the walls, the high-vaulted ceiling, the fireplace surmounted by the Boleyn coat-of-arms, as well as massive, dark mahogany furniture. I cannot stay here for long. Memories are too painful, so I must escape.

Henry approached the table. “Don’t be astonished: age is catching up with me.”    

Elizabeth said sincerely, “I wish Your Majesty a long reign.” 

He took a seat at the other side of the table. “My health is declining steadily. My courtiers and ministers are waiting for my death to grapple for power at court. Nonetheless, Hal Courtenay will not allow them to wreak havoc as he will be Lord Protector of the realm.” 

She was not comfortable with this situation. “Is it Your Majesty’s final decision?” 

He explained, “Most of my old councilors are either dead or disgraced themselves. Only the Earl of Hertford or the Marquess of Exeter can lead the realm during my son Ned’s minority. Hertford was banished permanently. Thus, Hal is the most competent candidate.” 

“Is that why Your Majesty betrothed me to Lord Exeter’s son?” 

Two black pools stared into the aquamarine orbs, which were weary and irritated. Not receiving anything from France and Italy, Elizabeth had been apprised by her father that he had signed the betrothal contract between her and young Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon.

“Lizzy,” began Henry with a gentleness that she had not heard in his voice for too long. “You need a husband! There are two options: a foreign prince, for example Eric of Sweden, or a high-ranking English lord, better with royal blood coursing through his veins. As my daughter you deserve all the best.” He paused to let it sink in. “You and I have not enjoyed an affectionate relationship for years, but I want to arrange your future before I’m gone.” 

Elizabeth lost her appetite. “Who can guarantee that Lord Devon is a decent match?” 

He leaned back in his seat. “You should have a family. Or are you now determined to leave England and be a queen somewhere else, Bess? If it is so, I can renew negotiations with Sweden. However, you told me many times about your desire to live in England.” 

Her heart pulsated with her love for their homeland. “I am English through and through! I desire nothing else but to live home, to serve our realm in all the ways I can, and to give my life for England if necessary. I was born a girl, but I have a strong soul loyal to England.” 

Silence stretched between them, meaningful and contemplative.

Henry truly loved Elizabeth! Even his obsessive hatred of Anne could not annihilate the connection between him and their daughter. Indeed, Anne’s exile from England on his orders all those years ago and Henry’s actions in Boulogne towards Anne ensured that the royal father and his daughter would never be close. Yet, the monarch attempted to take care of the princess.

The monarch admired his phenomenal daughter immeasurably. Elizabeth was endowed with profound courage, unparalleled intelligence, obvious pragmatism, personal charisma, lovely appearance, as well as unshakeable will and inner strength. Elizabeth would make a great king if she had been a boy, Henry told himself what he had always comprehended. However, England could not be ruled by a woman! Prince Edward was the king’s heir, despite his flaws.

The ruler averted his gaze from Lizzy. In Elizabeth’s enigmatic black eyes, the king saw Anne’s dark orbs full of the perpetual animosity with which the French queen had glared at him after he had claimed her body as his property against Anne’s will in Boulogne. Elizabeth looked like a true Tudor, but her eyes and manners reminded Henry too much of Anne, which was why he felt ill-at-ease in the girl’s presence. Doubtless Lizzy loathed him after Boulogne.

“How strange it is,” he broke the silence. “Had Anne birthed my son, I would never have been led to believe that she betrayed me with those men. But she gave me you.” 

Elizabeth sipped from her goblet. “Yes, I am a mere girl, one who must be incarcerated in some remote castle in the countryside to produce a brood of children for my husband.” 

“It is a woman’s role to bear as many sons as her womb can.”  

“I’ve never thought so.” She set her goblet at the table. “There were illustrious cases in history when women excelled in affairs which are considered purely male. Take Queen Isabella of Castile, Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, and Queen Marguerite of Navarre as examples.” 

“And your mother.” He then barked with repugnance, “Queen Anne! She helped François expel the invaders from France many years ago. Recently, she also aided Emperor Ferdinand and Dauphin Henri to win the campaign against the late Emperor Carlos.”  

A sense of immense pride settled in Elizabeth’s chest, such a bubble of excitement. I adore and admire my mother with every fiber of my being. Anne had not governed France as regent like Marguerite of Navarre, but King François listened to his consort’s wise counsel and welcomed her assistance to him and his sister. Anne had done many things for France and François which few women imagined possible! Her mother had accomplished the unthinkable!  

“I regret that Carlos is dead,” Henry grazed.

His daughter balled her fists under the table. “Do you know something about my mama?” 

Without answering, the king called for servants. Soon a dinner was served for him hastily, and he grumbled that it lacked variety and splendor to which he was accustomed. Nonetheless, Henry was eating rapaciously, while the Earl of Arundel assumed the role of his cupbearer.

“You are dismissed, Arundel,” shouted Henry at the end of the meal.

“As Your Majesty wishes.” Arundel tipped a bow and left.

The ruler dipped a piece of meat into the thick sauce that surrounded his portion of beef mixed with mutton. “Arundel would do anything to earn a bit more of my favor.” 

“What about my mother?” Elizabeth asked again.

“You can no longer correspond with her because I expelled that fox Marillac.” 

The princess eyed the ring on her left hand, which contained Anne’s small portrait and which Marillac had gifted to her. Fearing that her perusal of this thing would attract her father’s attention, she veered her scrutiny back to him. “Does Your Majesty have any news?” 

Her insistence angered him, but he responded at last, “François and Anne left Italy after the coronation of Ferdinand and Marguerite, François’ daughter. They must be in France now.” 

She was awash in relief. “Emperor Ferdinand will establish peace in Europe.” 

“He is most eager to do so.” Henry declined a cup of wine from a servant. “Ferdinand promotes himself as a peacemaker of all kinds. Peace will reign for quite some time, but only until Felipe of Spain, who is a personal enemy to François and Ferdinand, becomes older.” 

This worried Elizabeth. “Felipe will try to retaliate in the future.” 

“If Carlos’ son were not a Catholic, you could marry him.” 

“No!” Her stomach lurched. “Never a Catholic Spaniard!” 

His visage turned black with ire. “You allow yourself too much, you wayward girl! Only I can decide your fate, and you will do whatever I order. No objections will be accepted.” 

“Have I protested, sire?” queried the princess, feigning her neutral position and ignoring her rising exasperation. “I’m your most loving and complaisant daughter.” 

He slammed his fist into the table. “No! You are as disobedient and untamed as Mary is! You arrived in Boulogne and defied me many times while we were there.” His brows drew into a forbidding line. “Your sister Mary lost everything because of her foolish stubbornness. She could remain Holy Roman Empress as Carlos’ wife for the rest of her life, but now she has to gather crumbles from Ferdinand’s table of victories, living at his court in Vienna.” 

It was a few months since Elizabeth had received a letter from Mary. “I wish her all the best, for she had a rough time due to the Habsburg brothers’ war. I pray for her.”  

“Don’t follow in her rebellious footsteps,” he advised in the strictest tones. “Mary betrayed her husband by supporting Ferdinand, and she lost the Imperial crown.” 

Elizabeth’s opinion was different, but she did not voice it to avoid a collision. According to her mother, Mary had liberated Juana from Tordesillas, which evoked a sense of admiration in Elizabeth. The English princess hated the previous emperor for his schemes against her mother and François – so, Elizabeth rejoiced in Ferdinand’s victory. My mother would never have been safe if Carlos had won. Mary would have been severely punished for her noble deed as well.

Her father’s voice snapped the princess out of her reveries. “In spite of the rupture in our relationship, you are my daughter, Bess. I can punish you, but I still love you. I’ll always have to deal with your spirited nature. After I’m gone, Hal Courtenay will govern the country, and you will live in peace for a long time. Hopefully, later Edward will treat you well.” 

Her pulse pounded in her throat. “Why should he not?” 

“You have never been close with Ned,” he remarked with alarm.

She could only sigh. “I love my brother, but we are very different.” 

“Today is the Feast of the great King Edward the Confessor. I wanted to be at Hatfield on this occasion, but I could not travel quickly.” He heaved a sigh before stressing, “Your brother will succeed me, and you will have to obey him. You should be closer to him.” 

“I shall try,” the princess conceded.   

The ruler rose to his feet and lumbered over to his daughter. He hoisted her to her feet and peered into her eyes with a blend of paternal affection and odd worry he could not explain.

“Elizabeth,” Henry pronounced with obvious fondness. “In order not to leave England, you ought to marry Hal’s son – Edward Courtenay. I met this young man: he is a gentleman suited more for books than for court. Eddie does not have a potential to be a brilliant politician, unlike his father, but he seems to be capable of understanding that mysterious and fierce soul of yours.” 

Puzzlement manifested itself upon her countenance. “Your Majesty–”

The monarch continued, “You treasure your independence. The Earl of Devon is a type of man who will give you freedom in marriage that no king would allow his wife to have.”

“I do not know him. I’m not even sure I need to marry.” 

“Get acquainted with Lord Devon. If you dislike him, I’ll break the engagement.”     

“Why does Your Majesty need this marriage?” 

“I love Hal dearly. He has been my most loyal friend and subject for years, just as Charles Brandon once was.” A hard edge entered his voice. “However, Exeter is a York on his mother’s side, which makes him a possible contender for the throne. He has never committed treason, and I do not strive to dispose of him. On the contrary, I trust Hal to lead England until Edward comes of age. But I must ensure that he will never turn against the Tudors.” 

Elizabeth figured out the king’s clever strategy. Her father had executed the Pole family, save Reginald Pole who had long lived in Rome. At present, the Marquess of Exeter and his son were the only two Yorks in England, and if they were linked with the Tudor family through Elizabeth’s marriage, they would always serve the Tudors well. That is a smart approach on my father’s part. Nevertheless, I do not wish to marry, especially a stranger, she speculated.

As if reading her mind, Henry soothed, “We need this union for our safety. However, I told Exeter that if you develop a dislike of his son, I’ll find a foreign match for you.” 

“Thank you.” That was uncharacteristic for her father to leave a way out for his pawns.

The monarch stroked her air. “No one can predict what will happen in the future, Lizzy. You cannot forgive me for many things, but I want you to be safe without me. Exeter has a great influence over my son, which will ensure a friendship between Ned and you.”    

Elizabeth blinked in sheer amazement. “Father,” she addressed him for the first time in years. Her voice was layered with the affection that still lived in the deepest recesses of her soul. “Despite everything, I’ve always loved you! After all, you gave life to me.” 

At this, Henry smiled placidly. “God bless you, my courageous daughter!” 

The monarch embraced her heartily, and Elizabeth responded in kind. In these moments, the past with all grievances – the king’s mistakes and cruelties – vanished as though consumed by the fires of time. As they parted, Henry planted a gentle kiss upon her forehead.

“Be England’s heart if you do not desire to leave it, daughter of mine.” 

The ruler swung around and trudged over to the door, his gait heavy as bolts of pain were shooting through his leg. He paused and lingered a cordial gaze on the girl, then walked out.

“I’ll be England’s everything,” vowed the princess. “Queen or not.” 

Tears prickled her eyes as a sense of foreboding overmastered her. Elizabeth looked at the Boleyn coat-of-arms that hung over the stone hearth, her mind drifting back to Queen Anne. Some love stories were destined to be tragic, just as her mother’s romance with her father was. Perhaps my parents must serve as an example of something. The princess was relieved that they had just accomplished a shaky peace, for it could be her last meeting with the king.

§§§

King Henry and the Earl of Arundel left Hever Castle at first light. The ruler did not travel on horseback due to his ailing leg, being transported in a sumptuous litter swathed in red cloth of gold. As it was snowing, and the roads were frozen, the cavalcade moved at a slow pace.

From the litter’s window, the ruler beheld the distant towers of Hever Castle. He had not slept well at night because his mind was on Anne and Elizabeth. Scenarios of what could have been if Anne had stayed his queen tumbled through Henry’s head like windblown papers. Like those love letters that he had written to Anne before their mutual affection had eroded like water over the rocks. Nothing can be changed. Anne stopped being mine years ago.

“Anne married François,” he reminded himself. “She bore his sons, not mine!” 

Suddenly, everything around him began repelling the king. Including the lovely double-moated castle, which was located in the Kent High Weald and was surrounded by breathtaking winter scenery. Henry’s love for Anne had transmuted into his life-long enmity that would transcend death, time, and any distance. Only the ghosts of younger Anne and Henry strolled through the alleys in the Hever gardens, where in a pond their romance had drowned.

“Anne chose François over me,” snarled the ruler. “She betrayed me in the vilest way.”

Nobody heard the king’s conversation with himself. However, Anne Boleyn is the love of my life, Henry’s inner voice bemoaned, for he could not deny the truth to himself. She, not Anne Bassett who gave me my son Ned. The treacherous Anne Boleyn is also someone who I hate the most in my life. Swooning in relief when the castle disappeared from sight, he redirected his musings to the pregnant Queen Catherine Parr who could soon increase Henry’s progeny.

§§§

From the window of her bedroom, Princess Elizabeth watched her father’s cortege depart. In grave silence, she stood near the window with her governess Lady Kat Ashley behind her.

“Are you now doing better, Your Highness?” 

“Yes and no.” Unbidden, tears slid from Bess’ orbs. “I might never see my father again.” 

Her governess made the sign of the cross. “The Lord bless England!” 

Pulling herself together, Elizabeth proclaimed, “I am England, and I shall always be!” 

“And what about the marriage of Your Highness to the Earl of Devon?” 

“I must think about this proposal, Kat. There is a great deal of truth in what my father told me yesterday. However, I’m not willing to marry just someone and maybe no one at all.” 

“Your Highness is a princess of the blood. It is your duty to your family and country.” 

Anne’s daughter bristled. “Kat, don’t lecture me about my responsibilities.”    

Predicting her charge’s outburst, the governess curtsied and exited.  

The princess cast her gaze towards the park silvered by snow. “Farewell, Father.” 

Elizabeth approached a chest of drawers. Pulling out one of them, she extracted a ring. It was a massive, yet elegant, diamond and ruby ring – one that was stunning and memorable. The cover was surmounted by Anne’s initial ‘A’ in diamonds in red enamel. Inside there was a locket with Elizabeth’s miniature portrait. This ring had surreptitiously been manufactured by a skilled goldsmith at the behest of Queen Catherine Parr, who had a maternal attitude to Elizabeth.

At the very beginning of her exile, the Marquess of Exeter had secretly allowed the French ambassador to visit Hever on condition that only gifts and letters would be exchanged. After the expulsion of Charles de Marillac from England, it became impossible, so the ring remained with the princess. Elizabeth had rather conflicted sensations towards Exeter: the marquess always was courteous to her while favoring Prince Edward, but he let her correspond with her mother.

I want to present this ring to my dearest mother, Elizabeth dreamed. I’ll always be grateful to Queen Catherine and Lord Exeter for their kindness. For months, both Catherine and Exeter had risked their necks, assisting Elizabeth in keeping in touch with Anne. The princess had no clue that Exeter had become so benevolent towards her under Catherine Parr’s influence.

After wrapping Anne’s jewelry into red velvet, Elizabeth put it back into the drawer. She seated herself at her desk in the corner and summoned Lady Catherine Knollys. The two sisters reveled in each other’s company: Elizabeth because she felt lonely, and Catherine because she admired her half-sister, also her first cousin, and was pleased to be Elizabeth’s confidante.


November 15, 1547, Palace of Beaulieu, near village of Boreham, Essex, England

“Make way for His Highness Prince of Wales! Make way for Prince Edward!” 

The hallways were lined with numerous nobles who had assembled to greet the king’s heir apparent. His expression of powerful arrogance, Edward Tudor strutted past them all, nodding with equal hubris, as they curtsied and bowed to him. The boy did not know them, but it amazed, flattered, and satisfied him to an extraordinary degree to see them all so subservient to him.

Clad in rich garments of golden brocade embroidered with diamonds, Edward looked like a young prince in all his majesty, still childish but regal. With his strawberry blonde hair beneath a toque of golden silk, the prince could be admired as a young sun, perhaps one of future glory, yet clearly more of excessive superiority, which he displayed since his childhood. His appearance resembled his York ancestry far more than his Tudor lineage, as everyone thought.

He was followed by his grandmother, Lady Honor Grenville, and his governess – Blanche Herbert, Lady Troy. It was the first time when Edward had been taken by the king to such a large palace from Hatfield, where he had been ensconced for years due to his father’s terror that he could catch infection at court at a young age while his body was not strong enough to fight it.

“Behold our most beloved Prince of Wales!” declared Honor. Although now she was older, she was still an imposing woman, her tall height and her thinness accentuated by a black gown wrought with threads of gold. After her second husband’s death, she wore only black.

Edward looked straight ahead, from time to time saying, “Excellent obedience!”   

A boy of almost nine, Ned believed in the exclusivity of his highest station: he was the only male heir to the English throne, and one day, he would lead the realm with others dancing to all his whims. These were his fundamental beliefs, which were the result not even of Exeter’s influence, but of the convictions that his grandmother, Honor, had cultivated in the boy.

The Earl of Arundel cried, “Our new sun is dawning! The court is shining!” 

Edward halted beside him. “I’m the sun of this country – you must all remember this well. Only my father and I can decide how many stars will shine in the sky.” 

Taken aback, Arundel dropped into a bow. “Your Highness’ word is the law.”  

Honor, who stood behind her grandson, regarded the gathering with a sense of appalling condescension. “Don’t forget what His Highness has just said. Never forget this!” 

Everybody nodded, many concealing their annoyance with the prince’s behavior.

Prince Edward continued his ceremonious promenade through the hall. On the way to the king’s chambers, every corridor was crowded with courtiers, whose goal was to show themselves to their future liege lord and to ingratiate themselves into his favor as early as possible.

Only for a moment, the prince stopped, and his expression evolved into pure boyish joy. His gaze fell onto two people: a teenager and a young man. One of them was William Paulet, the eldest son of the Marquess of Winchester; the other was Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon. They had spent a lot of time with the prince at Hatfield, and Edward had befriended both of them.

Four years older than Edward, William Paulet boasted a pair of merry blue eyes and light red hair, matching his attire of ruddy damask. Paulet was as one of Edward’s many pages.

“Your Highness, good afternoon,” commenced Paulet with a bow.

The king’s son informed, “William, I’m delighted to see you. Tomorrow, expensive fabrics from France and Flanders will be brought to my rooms. Come and help me choose something.” 

Paulet was beyond himself with jubilation because he was gradually forming a very close relationship with the ruler’s heir. “Your Highness deserves all the luxuries in the world.” 

Edward chuckled. “Most definitely. I’m England’s golden sun!” 

Those who heard this conversation were not surprised. In spite of Hatfield Palace being Edward’s residence, his adoration for opulence and demands of indulgence from everyone were well known. The king had been pampering and spoiling his only surviving male child.

The Earl of Devon chimed in, “Does Your Highness want to talk about books?”

A tall, lean man of eighteen, the Marquess of Exeter’s only legitimate son had blonde-red hair, like his ancestor Edward IV’s. Devon’s attractive, chiseled face was framed with a stubble of the same color. His pale blue orbs – the so-called Woodville eyes – glowed with his thirst for knowledge. Unlike his father, he did not exhibit the famous York arrogance. Clad in a doublet of black velvet, its sleeves of white silk, Devon looked more modest than many other lords.

The prince veered his orbs to Devon, of whom he was quite fond. “Gladly, Lord Devon. In particular ‘Benefizio di Cristo,’ which you marvelously translated from Latin into English.” 

Devon was relieved. The prince, for whom he had contradictory feelings, was interested not only in outfits, but also in books, though rarely. “Intellectual debates are exciting and useful! We should exercise our minds in ways that increase our ability to study all disciplines.” 

Edward chided, “Oh, you will be buried with books if it is possible, Eddie.” 

Devon smiled. “I have a vehement passion for reading and learning.” 

“You will find common ground with my sister, then,” the prince predicted.

Exeter’s son was thrilled about his betrothal to Princess Elizabeth his father had arranged for him. “I wish to get to know Her Highness properly when she returns to court.” 

Edward huffed, “She will come with that annoying Kat Ashley and her lectures to me that I must study more than I do. I love my sister, but Lizzy is too focused on studies.” 

“Isn’t that good?” Devon was intrigued by Elizabeth Tudor.

“Not when it is too much.” Edward wrinkled his nose. “My sister is an educated bore!” 

The nobles laughed at the prince’s joke about his sister, but not because they agreed with him. Most of them admired Elizabeth, but she was a girl, one who was no longer available on the marriage market because of her engagement to Exeter’s son. Among them, there was William Cecil, who had recently started his career in the service to the Marquess of Exeter.

“Your father, King Henry, needs Your Highness,” Honor pointed out.

Turning his head away from them slowly and mannerly, Edward and the others headed to an adjacent corridor. The prince paused as they encountered young Henry and Charles Brandon – the late Duke of Suffolk’s sons with the deceased Catherine Willoughby.

“Your Highness!” the two boys exclaimed as they sketched bows.

At the king’s behest and out of Henry’s affection for his dead friend, they had joined the prince’s household as pages. Henry Brandon, the current Duke of Suffolk, was the spitting image of his late father – quite tall for his age, blue-eyed and blonde-haired, attractive and athletic. His younger brother Charles was of short height and fat, with brown eyes and a hooked nose. Henry wore green brocade attire slashed with black silk; Charles’ costume was of blue satin.   

Edward liked them. “Tomorrow I expect you both in my chambers in the morning.” 

“Gladly!” the Suffolk boys chorused, glad to be favored by the ruler’s son.

“Serve your prince well!” Honor liked the Suffolk boys more than other boys.

“Until our deaths,” pledged Henry Brandon, new Duke of Suffolk.

In another hallway, Prince Edward halted at the sight of the Dudley family. Lord Admiral and a member of the Privy Council, Sir John Dudley and his many sons bowed to the Prince of Wales. Nonetheless, Edward outright refused to acknowledge their presence, for his grandmother had assured him that they were all supporters of the most radical religious reform, which Edward was taught by Honor to detest and by Exeter to respect, much to his persisting confusion.

Finally, the Prince of Wales entered his father’s apartments with Lady Honor. Among the Dudleys, young Robert Dudley loathed the monarch’s only son absolutely. John Dudley nearly dragged away Robert, who was as if rooted to the spot by his hatred of Edward.

§§§

Doctor Thomas Wendy advised, “Your Majesty ought to stay in bed for another week.” 

This recommendation caused the Tudor temper to spike. “Damn you, Wendy! Your herbs and other remedies can only ease my pain! I can have you boiled alive for your incompetence.” 

As Prince Edward and Honor Grenville entered, the smell of herbs hit their nostrils.

The bedchamber was spacious, two of its walls made of gleaming oak and the other ones decorated with Flemish biblical hangings. With the timbered ceiling and ebony furniture, there was both a rustic and luxurious air about the room. King Henry was bedridden, the physician was bandaging both of his ankles, while Queen Catherine Parr sat by her husband’s bed.

“Be careful, Master Wendy!” roared Honor. “Ah, my beloved son is now here!” 

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesties and Your Highness,” mumbled the doctor. A terrified Wendy gathered his things into the bag and bowed before he stormed out.

Henry enthused, “My beloved son! I’ve been waiting for you!” 

Honor swept a curtsey. “Your Majesties, I wish you both all the best.” 

“Thank you, Lady Lisle.” Privately, the queen was not well-disposed towards this woman.

Edward neared his parent and flourished a bow. “Your Majesty, I pray for your health twice a day.” That was true: the prince adored the man who he believed to be his father.

A benign smile graced Henry’s countenance. “Come and seat here with us.” 

The prince strolled over to a well-carved chair. He settled himself in it beside the queen.

“Lady Honor, leave us,” dismissed the monarch.

An irritated Honor Grenville performed a curtsey and hastened out.

The Queen of England leaned back in her seat, her hand resting on her enlarged abdomen. “How are you today, Your Highness? Are you enjoying your father’s court?”   

Edward’s gaze oscillated between Catherine and Henry. “I like it so much!” A blithesome laughter erupted from him. “It is far merrier here than it is usually at Hatfield.” 

Henry wholeheartedly adored Prince Edward, who was his golden Tudor boy. Henry loved Edward more than he could feel for his daughters just because Edward was his much-treasured male heir. However, the monarch wanted his obviously intelligent son to be more dedicated to studies. I wish you had been more serious, my boy, like your sister Elizabeth, Henry fretted.

Prince Edward was receiving the best education possible for a Renaissance prince. While Exeter had lived in Hatfield, he had chosen for the prince a team of tutors and even taught Edward history and other subjects. Thanks to Exeter and the linguist hired by the marquess, Edward could speak Latin, Flemish, as well as relatively good French and Spanish, and now he was learning Italian. Yet, his language skills could not be compared to his sister’s talents.

As years went by, Edward’s inclinations to outdoor activities and to an idle lifestyle were growing. Since Exeter had started sparring matches with the prince on wooden swords, the boy was sometimes reluctant to have any lessons until he was permitted to play with the small oak sword that the monarch had gifted to his son. Exeter was the only person capable of swaying Edward in the right direction, but now the king needed the marquess at the Tudor court.

The ruler hoped that Lady Honor Grenville, who now was in charge of Ned’s education, would direct his son towards intellectual things. Nevertheless, Honor spoiled the prince more, making sure that her grandson preferred athletic games, communication with his relatives and friends, and any other pastime to studies. A while ago, Henry had arranged for John Cheke – a humanist scholar in the tradition of Erasmus – to become a tutor to Edward, but his son had refused to be taught by Cheke under Honor’s influence and against everyone else’s advice.

A chagrined King Henry could nevertheless see himself in Ned. In his childhood, Henry had been supposed to start a career in the Church at a young age when Arthur Tudor, Prince of Wales, had been King Henry VII’s heir apparent. In those days, young Henry had enjoyed being outdoors, improving his riding skills and exercising with weapons with Charles Brandon and his other childhood companions. Lady Margaret Beaufort and Elizabeth of York, Queen of England, had lavished Henry with their affections and permitted him to do pretty much everything. In the same way, Henry had spoiled his own son. We should be stricter with Ned, the ruler concluded.

The king’s expression evolved into the utmost strictness. “Ned, your calm days at Hatfield may end anytime. You must be ready to assume the heavy burden of ruling.”     

The prince regarded his father with concern. “Your Majesty will live a long life.” 

“We all pray for your recovery, sire,” the queen interjected.

Henry’s scrutiny detoured to his legs. He was covered with a red satin blanket, so now his bandaged legs were hidden. Yet, the pain in his two non-healing ulcers was still present.

“Edward,” the monarch pronounced with immense affection. “When God calls me home, you will succeed me. We do not know when it happens, but you must be prepared.” 

Tears brimmed in the boy’s eyes. “I do not want to lose you, Father!” 

The ruler’s heart ached. “Maybe the Almighty will be gracious, letting me live for several more years. To see the birth of my new son.” He glanced at Catherine’s stomach.

Queen Catherine lowered her gaze to conceal her fear. She was about six months along in her pregnancy. Being closely watched over by her ladies and by trained royal midwives, she still expected a miscarriage every day due to the tragic childbearing histories of the king’s previous wives. If I give birth to a stillborn son or miscarry, God help me to get an annulment, not to be killed by the king. Catherine had already discussed many scenarios with her siblings.

“When will he arrive?” Edward was secretly upset with the prospect of having a brother. He remembered the frail son of Queen Catherine Howard, whom Ned despised.

“In several months.” The monarch prayed that his consort carried a son.

“Perhaps it will be a girl,” Catherine hypothesized.

“No, Cathy,” amended her husband with a hint of severity. “It must be a boy.” 

Despite his ailing health, the king still craved carnal pleasures. Though bedridden, Henry allowed his mistresses to straddle and ride him with abandon, for in this case he did not need to move his damaged legs. Their mouths and young bodies satisfied him in all ways, even when on some days he was incapable of performing full intercourse, much to his shame. Two days ago, Philippa Bassett had become a witness of his failure, and, hence, Henry intended to set her aside.

“As Your Majesty wishes,” the queen complied.    

Henry surveyed Edward. “How many hours did you study today, son?” 

“Half of the day,” responded the prince. “Languages, history, and geography.” 

“Excellent.” The king rubbed his chin. “I want you to study as much as possible.” 

Edward recalled, “Ut ager quamvis fertilis sine cultura fructuosus esse non potest, sic sine doctrina animus.’ Lord Exeter taught me something from Cicero, but I dislike this quote.”  

Catherine translated it into English from Latin, which as a reformer she abhorred. “A mind without instruction can no more bear fruit than can a field, however fertile, without cultivation.” 

“That’s right.” Henry furrowed his brows, like earth freshly ploughed. “But why again in Latin, Ned? Did Hal give you Cicero’s quotes only in Latin or in English as well?”  

 The prince figured out what his parent wanted to hear. “In both languages.” 

“You use our new Prayer Book in English.” The ruler’s gaze darkened further. “However, do you pray in our native tongue in your mind? Tell me the truth, son.”

“Only in English,” Edward lied. “Just as Your Majesty commanded me to do.”    

“Thanks be to God.” The king’s anger abated. “I’m relieved, then.”

The queen added, “Cicero also said that ‘the cultivation of the mind is a kind of food supplied for the soul of man.’ The more Your Highness learns about the world, the easier it will be for you to lead our nation. Education guides God’s children to divine light.” 

The prince had a lukewarm attitude to Catherine largely on the back of his grandmother’s detestation of the king’s wife. “I promise to be a good student in everything.” 

Henry’s lips curved in a grin. “That is what a glorious prince would say!” 

Edward smiled: his parent would not scold him. “I’ll do anything to please you.” 

“Cathy,” the ruler addressed. “Give your book ‘Lamentation of a Sinner’ to Ned. He will understand many things only when he grows up, but he can start reading your work now.” 

“Gladly, Your Majesty.” This was the queen’s first sincere smile in many hours.

“Wife, go rest to your apartments,” permitted the king.   

Catherine stood up. “Have a pleasant afternoon.” She curtsied and departed.

In an hour, the monarch sent his son away. It was a time for evening prayer, and Henry wanted Edward to attend it together with the courtiers in the palace’s chapel. That would aid the Prince of Wales to start preparing for his future leading role in ceremonies and official events.

§§§

The afternoon shadows were creeping across the leaden autumn firmament. An array of candles was lit up in the study, where the king’s chief minister worked since early morning.  

“We must talk, Hal.” Lady Honor Grenville closed the door behind her.

The Marquess of Exeter let out a sour smile. “Can we start on a positive note, Honor?” 

She crossed to a walnut chair. “If you wish so, the future Lord Protector of our realm.” 

“His Majesty is not dead yet.” He could discuss anything with this woman.  

Her grin was malignant. “Not yet. But his ulcers are troubling him more and more.” 

Honor and Exeter chatted volubly as ever, telling versatile stories of things now happening at court. The aristocrats were still focused on two sensational events – Catherine de’ Medici’s crimes and Emperor Carlos’ demise. Yet, the air in the study, paneled in oak that was varnished to a warm glow, was thick with disquiet. Not everything was smooth between Honor and Exeter.

At last, Honor demanded, “Did you convert to Protestantism, Hal?” 

“Not exactly. However, I admit that my Catholic beliefs were partly shattered.” 

“Because of that Farnese Pope? He was but one man! There is a new Pope now.” 

His expression was a challenge. “It matters not. I concur with the reformers that abuses such as the sale of indulgences by the Catholic clergy and other kinds of corruption undermine the Roman Church’s spiritual authority. Like Luther, I reject the doctrine of transubstantiation, for the all-seeing Christ is present everywhere, and I support Calvin’s concept of predestination.” 

Her gaze flicked to his desk with books. “You are reading lots of nonsense.” 

The royal chief minister got to his feet and then came to the desk. Taking Martin Luther’s ‘Ninety-five theses’, he recommended, “It is a highly enlightening book. Give it a try!” 

“Never ever!” Honor spat. “I have a Catholic heart, and it shall never change.” 

He placed the book back onto the table. “It is up to you.” 

“I begin to fear that you will teach Edward, who loves you so much, all this heresy.” 

“I’m trying to make him tolerant of other religions, but it will not be easy.” 

Honor examined her rings. “Hal, that is hilarious! Several years ago, you convinced Ned to pray in English while also telling him that it is good to pray in Latin in his mind when no one hears him and cannot report anything to the king. What are you going to tell him now?” 

Exeter returned to his seat. “I shall manage to handle my son.” 

She corrected, “Ned is England’s prince in the first place!” 

He folded his arms over his chest. “There shall be no changes in the religious policy under my protectorship. All what Cromwell and Hertford achieved must be preserved for the sake of peaceful co-existence of the reformers and Catholics in the country. I shall counsel Edward to act in the same way when he is old enough to take the reins of government into his hands.” 

Honor was barely holding her ire in check. “In this case, you might become a morally misguided compass for my grandson. Perhaps you should not communicate with Ned.” 

The glint of a lion entered his eyes. “Be careful. Don’t you dare imply that you will turn Ned against me, for you will not succeed.” His lips thinned. “You may be his grandmother, but I spent enough time with the prince at Hatfield and formed a solid bond with him.” 

“I can destroy it and you, Hal,” she threatened.

“Honor,” he uttered with evident distaste for the first time in years. “We do share several deadly secrets. If your intrigues make me fall, you will follow me. That I promise you.” 

Her glare could kill him. “Why did I save you from your mad wife’s knife years ago?” 

Exeter was tired of this. “What else do you want to discuss?” 

“The betrothal of Princess Elizabeth to your legitimate son, Eddie. You ensured that your descendants through either Elizabeth or my grandson Ned will rule England.” 

“His Majesty will not cancel this engagement, Honor.” 

“God send my grandson a long, long life!” Honor hoped that her wish would come true. Anger colored her cheeks. “When Ned grows up, he might crush you, Hal. Just imagine: King Edward, your blood son, expels you – truly a brilliant politician – from court.” 

Chill seized Exeter. “That will never happen.”

“I’ll talk sense into our future King Edward. I assure you, Hal.” 

At this very moment, Exeter and Honor realized that their paths were diverging.

“Don’t become my enemy, Honor. For Ned’s sake.” It was almost a plea.

“That depends on your behavior, Hal. You are not invincible.” 

A moment later, the door flung open. Lady Philippa Bassett barged inside.

“Lady Mother!” called an overjoyed Philippa. “The king has just cast me aside.” 

Honor rolled her eyes. “Couldn’t it wait until my return to our apartments?” 

Philippa smiled at the chief minister. “I yearned to share this news with you, Lord Exeter.”  She had long begun to consider the long-widowed Exeter an outstanding match for herself.

Philippa’s attraction to him amused Exeter. “You are lucky, Lady Philippa. I’m certain that your resourceful mother will quickly find a husband for you. But it cannot be me.” 

Aware of her daughter’s dreams of Exeter, Honor was exasperated. “I shall never allow my second daughter to fall prey to your charms. Especially not now!” 

Unfazed by the reprimand, Philippa settled herself in a chair in front of Exeter. From time to time touching the bodies of her violet taffeta gown with a bejeweled stomacher in a seductive manner, she went on talking about accomplishments of the Marquess of Exeter. Yet, she was not captivating her target – Exeter even yawned. A dejected Philippa eventually fell silent.

“I wish to retire. You should do the same, my dearest Bassett ladies,” Exeter proclaimed. He whistled nonchalantly as he made up a story. “New lovers will entertain me.” 

“Don’t be rude, my lord,” grouched Philippa, insulted.

His sarcasm literally pushed Honor to her feet. “Hold your tongue back, Hal.” 

The door crashed opened. The Earl of Arundel appeared on the threshold, out of breath after running through corridors. “Lord Exeter, His Majesty demands that you come right now.”  

An annoyed Exeter stood up. “What happened?” 

Only now, Arundel noticed that Exeter was with the Bassett family, so he bowed to them. If he was bewildered by the two women’s presence in Exeter’s study, he did not show that.

Arundel delivered agitatedly, “The French have taken Calais!” 

“What?” chorused Honor and Philippa with apparent shock. “How?” 

In contrast to them, Exeter remained calm. “Something else?” 

Arundel notified, “Queen Catherine Parr has just miscarried a male child. His Majesty is so angry that it has all happened on the same evening. Everyone is afraid of approaching him.” 

The royal chief minister blanched, as if seized by a lethal illness. The capture of Calais was unexpected, for the English spies had not warned him – Exeter would have to replace them. The tidbits of Catherine’s miscarriage sent Exeter into paroxysm of terror for his beloved. Exeter’s gaze flew to the two women. You are both elated now: a potential rival to our Ned died in my Cathy’s womb, he observed with loathing towards them, but he would not quarrel with them.

In the most equanimous accents, Exeter said, “Let’s go to the king.” 

With a flash of his lavender damask doublet, the Marquess of Exeter was gone. In a few heartbeats, Honor and Philippa exited into the corridor to find commotion escalating there.

§§§

Several people gathered in the antechamber to the queen’s bedroom. A tearful Lady Anne Parr, Countess of Pembroke, carried out of her sister’s bedroom bloodied white sheets.

The monarch demanded, “What caused the disaster, Lady Pembroke?” 

Despite the physician’s prescription to stay abed, the ruler had rushed to his wife’s quarters after her miscarriage. An incensed Henry could not compel himself to console Catherine, whose heart-rending sobs, echoing through the air like a phantom’s ominous wail, exasperated him to such a colossal degree that all he wished was to strangle his consort with his bare hands.

The Marquess of Northampton and the Marquess of Exeter were also in attendance. For them and Anne, each of the queen’s sobs was like a wave of agony Catherine was experiencing.

A frightened Anne Parr curtsied, keeping her scrutiny downcast. “Her Majesty received very sad news. Lady Anne Brandon, Dowager Duchess of Cleves, passed away of fever, as did her daughter with the late Duke of Suffolk – I mean little Lady Sibylle Brandon.”

“My sister,” began Northampton, sighing. “She was distraught because the late Lady Anne, Duchess of Suffolk, was her friend. We fetched Doctor Wendy, but it was too late.”  

Henry crossed himself. “God let them sleep in peace in heaven.” 

“The Lord rest their souls,” intoned Anne while crossing herself.

The king’s gaze fell onto the blood-stained sheets. “Take them away! I cannot see them!”  Henry clamored. “Throw them out of the window! I do not wish any reminders of this calamity! And make your sister shut up! Catherine failed in her duty to give me a prince!”

Scared out of her wits, Anne lowered herself in a shallow curtsey and fled.

Northampton chose his words carefully. “Your Majesty, I’m sorry for your loss.” 

Henry lumbered across the room to the queen’s brother and grabbed him by the shoulders.

Shaking Northampton, the ruler snarled, “Your damned sister is no longer young, although she is still quite pretty. She had only one chance to produce my son. But she failed!” 

“Your Majesty, Cathy is not guilty,” defended Northampton.

The king intimidated, “Do not forget the fates of Southampton and the Poles.” 

When he was released, Northampton nearly lost his footing. “Forgive me, sire.” 

“Hal!” bellowed Henry. “I must speak with you right now.” 

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Exeter’s voice sounded muffled and distant.

The sovereign of England limped out of the antechamber, followed by his chief minister. A throng gathered outside, their faces tinged with anticipation of their liege lord’s wrath.

When the nobles could not hear them, King Henry commanded, “Hal, you shall journey to Calais and take it back from the French. You will depart tomorrow. Do you understand?” 

Exeter paled. “There must be several thousand French soldiers in Calais now. The English garrison was not strong, and so it must have been easy for the French to defeat them. However, due to the bad weather and the poor state of our armies, it will be difficult to cross the Channel.”   

The aquamarine eyes narrowed predatorily. “Valid arguments, but Calais must be mine.” 

“I shall go there,” capitulated the minister.

Henry’s inner beast was now fully awake. “After your return with victory, you will ensure that my accursed and barren wife will disappear from my life. I do not care about your methods, Hal: order Archbishop Cranmer to annul our marriage, or have that Parr creature arrested and executed on some phony charges, but I must become free.” His voice dropped to a hiss. “Free to remarry.” The ruler could not say aloud that his virility was swiftly fading.

The king prodded towards his quarters. His councilor trailed after him like a ghost.

Inwardly quaking with mortal fright, Exeter maintained a cold façade to avoid suspicions. His entire life was like the clock going continually in the wrong direction. Confused as to which path to select, he arrived at a stalemate, with two doors at the end – his sovereign’s death, or his own demise and perhaps Catherine Parr’s execution. Holy Father, what should I do now?

Notes:

The new chapter is up! Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, our dearest readers! We hurried to edit this chapter tonight and then to post it as a gift for these two important days. We wish you, your families, and all your loved ones all the best in the coming 2023 year!

Slowly, but surely, we are moving towards the end of King Henry VIII of England’s life. We thought that Henry and Princess Elizabeth, his daughter with Anne, deserved to meet again, which can be their farewell meeting, by the way. They needed to have a frank conversation that allowed us to show all the tremendous complexity and even toxicity of Henry’s relationship with Elizabeth and how it evolved in this fiction and in history – we hope you like our approach to their meeting and to the relationship between the Tudor father and his daughter.

We showed that Henry always loved and still loves Elizabeth. We believe that deep down he loved her in history as well, although it is really difficult to make conclusions about Henry’s relationship with his daughter following Anne’s unjust historical execution. In this chapter, we gave Henry and Elizabeth some sweet moments and the closure of their personal story within this epic. He explained why he had signed the betrothal contact between Elizabeth and Exeter’s legitimate son – Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon – we decided to call him Eddie Courtenay or Eddie in this fiction so as to distinguish him from Edward “Tudor”, Prince of Wales.

Later Henry is back at court, but he is again bedridden since his ulcers keep troubling him. He knows and feels that it is high time for him to summon his son to his presence and to his court. Prince Edward of Wales is a spoiled and pampered boy, one who strongly believes that he is England’s sun and the center of the entire universe, which is largely the fault of Henry, Exeter, and Honor Grenville. Edward is not a likeable character, we know this, but to be honest, he was never planned to be a nice character, and his later actions might make you hate him.

We wanted to show Prince Edward with his “father”, King Henry, because there will be no other scenes featuring Henry and Ned. Catherine Parr’s relationship with Edward is so far more or less neutral, but it might change as Honor detests her. Most importantly, now the paths of Honor and Exeter are diverging irrevocably, and they might become enemies. Who knows what will happen in the future and how Honor might influence the boy if she decides to try and change Edward’s attitude to Exeter who is currently adored and relied upon by Edward.

Finally, we learn that the French conquered Calais off-screen, although it was mentioned in the previous chapter. In this epic, it is King François of France, not Henri II of France, who retakes Calais from England. At the very end, we see that Catherine Parr suffered a miscarriage as she was distressed following the death of Anne Brandon, Dowager Duchess of Suffolk (Anne von Cleves actually) and her little daughter – sorry, but we don’t need Anne von Cleves again in our plot. Now Exeter has to go to Calais and must do something to save his beloved Catherine.

Attention! A while ago, we posted a prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 89: Chapter 88: The End of the English Minotaur

Summary:

The life of the English Minotaur is nearing its end as he is brought down by his visible and invisible enemies. Finally, secrets are unveiled, and the ugly truth is revealed to a dying Henry. Utterly helpless, bitter, and furious, Henry can change nothing at this stage.

Notes:

We hope that the 2023 year started on a positive note for you, our dearest readers. We are starting it with the death of King Henry VIII of England, which, we know, has long been expected by all our readers.

We hope that you like Henry’s death and are satisfied with the manner of his death. Please let us know your thoughts and leave a review! This chapter is very, very important and opens the Edwardian era in England while also opening the final period of François I’s reign.

Attention! The prologue to the sequel 'Chained by Blood and Power' (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don't forget about our work "Entwined by a Golden Alliance" co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 88: The End of the English Minotaur

January 8, 1548, Château de Calais, the city of Calais, regained French territory

The Valois standard proudly floated in the air above the medieval castle that had belonged to the English only a few weeks earlier. A cold, biting wind blew from the Channel, moaning among the snow-covered branches of the oaks and other trees that dotted the gardens. The snow blanketed the château’s courtyard, sparkling white and blinding, like an afterglow of happy life.

Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, stared into the flames in the hearth. “Where is Anne?” 

A lazy yawn escaped his son’s mouth – Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. Their eyes were scratchy from the lack of sleep, for they were tired after their hasty journey from Brittany, where they had spent almost two years in exile. They had lived in luxury at Montmorency’s castle.

Now the father and his son were in a small chamber with the walls swathed in Flemish arrases of hunting scenes. They had been led here by Constable Anne de Montmorency, whom they had thanked heartily for the outstanding hospitality in his estates in Brittany.

“Father, have you forgotten that my cousin is the Queen of France? At present, she must be more imperious than ever, for King François vanquished the late Emperor Carlos.” 

“Together with Emperor Ferdinand,” supplemented Norfolk.

“Ah, the duo of François and Ferdinand has become legendary in Christendom.”   

His father beheld the fire licking over the logs in the hearth. “At one side, it is beneficial for England that Emperor Carlos is gone. With François and Ferdinand allied, England would be able to reconcile with France, but only if King Henry is out of the way.” 

Surrey tumbled into an oak chair. “Does something worry you?”   

The duke turned to his son. “In the future, Felipe of Spain might retaliate against François and his uncle Ferdinand. Then England would be facing uncertainties of all kinds.” 

The earl yawned again. “Right now that means nothing because we are not home.” 

“I swear that we will return to England in triumph.” 

“What is your attitude to the capture of Calais by the French, Father?” 

Norfolk crossed to a chair beside his son and seated himself in it. “England may survive without this territory, in particular because it historically belonged to France.” 

“I’m quite indifferent.” Surrey then tittered. “Imagine how angry Henry must be now.”

The duke howled with laughter. “I’m glad we are not on the receiving end of his wrath.”  

The door opened, and the Queen of France entered. “It is good to see you both again.” 

The two men climbed to their feet and dropped into respectful bows.

After closing the door, Anne sauntered towards them. “Was your journey smooth?” 

An awestruck Surrey eyed her. “It was quite fine, Your Majesty.”  

“Your Majesty,” greeted Norfolk cordially. “My niece, if you let me call you so.” 

“I would, Uncle Thomas.” The queen halted in the middle of the room.

Her relatives contemplated her like a vision of messiah. Clad in a fashionable gown of gold and white tissue, raised with pearls of silver damask, with an elegant Florentine diamond tiara set on top of her head, Anne represented the world of royalty and power, which contained something both larger-than-life and incredible. Around her neck, she wore a necklace of pearls and onyxes, matching her eyes, which now glittered with gladness at seeing her English family.

Norfolk was delighted to meet Anne in all her glory after all those years. Anne looks older and wiser. She has aged well, ever-elegant and slender but with enough good meat on her, which François must like. A sense of immense pride settled over the duke: his niece was the triumphant Queen of France who had proved that the Howard women could accomplish the unachievable.  

Scrutinizing her, Norfolk queried, “Are you really well, niece?” 

Surrey added, “There were rumors that Your Majesty was ill in Italy.”  

For a split second, Anne’s visage darkened as she recalled her miscarriage. “I was unwell, but my sickness passed. I’m all right now and ready to deal with all the dragons in the world.” 

“As strong as ever!” Norfolk commended. “I hope your husband is healthy.” 

The queen nodded. “Yes, François is hale and hearty, unlike Henry.” 

Surrey’s eyes glimmered with hope. “Is Henry Tudor dying?” 

“Not yet.” A mysterious smile quivered at the corners of her mouth. “However, given the ongoing reports from England, his death might occur anytime.” 

“God be praised!” gushed Surrey. “I’ll write a new poem upon our return home. I penned many sonnets while in Brittany, and I should have them published as soon as possible.” 

She praised, “Henry, you have a great talent in poetry, like my husband.” 

Unlike his son, Norfolk registered that enigmatic tone and grin of hers, colored with hues of expectation of something either monstrous or prodigious. “Are you scheming again?” 

The queen dodged his question. “How can I? François would not like that.” 

The duke noted, “You need nobody’s approval to do what you desire.” 

Anne said benignly, “Let’s finally greet each other as relatives.” 

The Valois queen permitted the Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Surrey to embrace her.

The queen’s uncle said with anguish, “I’m still mourning for my sister Elizabeth. It is bad that she was not buried at Lambeth with our ancestors. Yet, her tomb in somewhere in Venice.” 

Anne’s soul writhed in grief at the memory of her mother’s murder. “God rest her soul! My father had her interred in some Catholic church where he is also building his own tomb.” 

“Will Catherine de’ Medici be punished?” Surrey wanted to know.

“Of course.” At the sound of this name, abhorrence pulsated through her whole being.

The three of them made themselves comfortable by the fireplace.

Norfolk thought of his former ally – the Earl of Wiltshire. “Does your father want to stay in Venice and in service to King François? Is he not planning to return to England?” 

Anne apprised, “In his recent letter Lord Wiltshire confessed that he got married.” 

“What?” Norfolk’s eyes widened in amazement. “When?” 

Surrey was equally shocked. “Isn’t he too old for such things?”  

Norfolk’s mind drifted to his mistress – Bess Holland whom he missed a lot. “Son, when you reach my age, you will find out that a man can still be a man if he is in good health.” 

The queen figured out his thoughts. “Bess is fine, Uncle Thomas. She is waiting for you.” 

“Me too,” the duke drawled with a smile. “What about your father?” 

Anne shared the tidbits that had startled her and her sister. “Lord Wiltshire married a great great-niece of the Venetian Doge Messer Francesco Donato. Lucia Donato birthed his son Ludovico.” Her countenance was now screwed up in distaste. “My father gave the boy an Italian name, although I assume that it could have been done by his much younger wife.” 

“Hmm,” Norfolk grumbled. “You and Mary must be furious.” 

The queen regarded the tapestry depicting the wedding of King Henry VII to Elizabeth of York. “Yes, we are angry! He wanted a male heir and remarried after my mother’s death.” 

A bemused Surrey whistled. “Wiltshire should become the Earl of Venice, then.” 

“That boy will be considered an Italian aristocrat,” Norfolk hypothesized. “He will not be accepted in England unless Elizabeth becomes a queen regnant and forgives her grandfather.” 

Then the conversation veered to the political situation in England. Both Surrey and Norfolk were outraged with the execution of Lady Agnes Howard, Dowager Duchess of Norfolk.

“Now the Marquess of Exeter is here,” notified the Queen of France. “We fully intend to form an alliance with him so that my daughter Elizabeth is safe and you can return home.” 

Norfolk’s brow arched. “How will you accomplish that?” 

Her grin turned more mysterious than ever. “Don’t worry about it.” 

Surrey ranted morosely, “Our future depends upon it, Your Majesty.” 

“Patience, cousin,” mock-chided Anne. “All will be well.” 

As Anne talked enthusiastically about Princess Elizabeth, Thomas Howard observed her. A calculative glint in her black eyes heralded something akin to the advent of a new era in England. Norfolk regretted that Elizabeth Tudor was not the first in the line of succession, but he could do nothing. Anne and François have devised some stratagem against Henry, deduced Norfolk.

Norfolk folded his arms across his chest. “It will be very useful if you ally with Exeter. His son’s betrothal to Elizabeth is not the best option, but not the worst one.” 

Anne asked, “Uncle, will you protect Elizabeth from all possible perils in England?” 

“As long as I live,” avouched Norfolk. “I would love for her to be Queen of England.” 

Surrey lamented, “But there is Prince Edward.” 

The queen flung her arms up in frustration. “Unfortunately.” 

The duke commended, “Anne, you have done exceptionally well! Four male children with King François! I just regret that Prince Augustine is not your spouse’s heir apparent.” 

Anne would not impersonate a saint before her uncle. “Precisely my sentiments, although I have an affectionate relationship with Dauphin Henri and wish him all the best.”    

Her uncle rubbed his chin. “Life is as unpredictable as a sea.”

She nodded at him. “Yes, God’s words are mysterious.”  

The Earl of Surrey outlined his dreams. “If Princess Elizabeth and Prince Augustine rule in England and France, respectively, then two monarchs with Howard blood will preside over the Golden Ages in our two countries. That would be so very glorious!” 

The Howards asked her about miscellaneous things, and Anne shared her knowledge.

§§§

King François circled Hal Courtenay, as though the Englishman had been an objet d’art.

The ruler spoke in English with a charming French accent. “Ah! You are Lord Chancellor of England and King Henry’s chief minister! Yet, another of that Farnese devil’s many agents!” 

Queen Anne said in a singsong voice, “Who could have imagined this?” 

The sovereigns of France accepted their English visitor in the presence chamber. The fine tapestries of battles and historical events involving the Plantagenet and Tudor kings matched to perfection the bellicose, yet humorous, mood of Anne and François. However, their verbal fight against the English minister was not happening as the man kept silent, as if he had been mute.  

Having arrived this morning, Exeter was admitted to the French couple. Anne and François knew that Exeter had sailed from Dover to Calais only with two thousand men, for their northern neighbor could not afford assembling large forces neither in financial nor in any other aspects.

This autumn England was gripped by so serious an epidemic of influenza that fit men were difficult to find, as if the Creator were punishing the Tudor realm for King Henry’s awful transgressions. Surprisingly, Exeter had crossed the Channel with his men easily due to the lack of storms. Upon their arrival, they had discovered that Constable de Montmorency and Marshal d’Annebault had struck swiftly across the frozen marshes on the city’s seaward side.

By doing so, the French army of fifteen thousand had quickly seized the entrance to the harbor and the fort that commanded it. The English had failed to reach Calais, which had been bombarded by Annebault’s artillery to such effect that it had surrendered within a week. Lacking any natural defense, the English control of Calais had depended on fortifications maintained and the local garrison, but due to France’s wars in Italy, nobody had anticipated an attack on Calais.  

They have entrapped me, Exeter thought when the king circled him again. Exeter had seen François in the past when visiting France. Now Exeter contemplated the contrast between King Henry and his Valois nemesis: unlike Henry who had aged considerably due to his illness and after his captivity in Boulogne, François looked younger and was in blooming health.

At last, the monarch stopped and glanced into Exeter’s eyes sardonically. “Has a cat got your tongue, Monsieur Exeter? Quieting your mind is the doorway to a peaceful soul.” 

Anne quizzed sarcastically, “Can you have it after being Farnese’s accomplice?”

François jested, “History will have to record that the greatest tragedy of our enlightened era was not the clamor of despots such as Henry Tudor, but the appalling silence of his servants such as Sir Hal Courtenay who has for years pretended to be loyal to the Church of England.” 

The queen applied the same strategy of psychological intimidation coupled with taunting him. “The mighty Marquess of Exeter danced to all the criminal whims of that Farnese Satan.” 

Finally, Exeter stated, “I never killed upon the late Pope’s orders. Never ever!” 

“What an excellent beginning,” jeered François. “So, you have a tongue and can speak.” 

The rulers seated themselves in throne-like armchairs upholstered in golden brocade. They observed their guest with leering grins. Exeter maintained a calm exterior, as always.

The king played with his rings. “So composed even when you are cornered?” 

Exeter answered with sincerity and almost nonchalance, “I’ve never been a panicking type. Or I would not have survived in my sovereign’s court for so long.”    

Anne pointed out, “And you would have not climbed to the acme of power.” 

The Englishman permitted himself a dry smile. “Naturally, Your Majesties.” 

The discourse was led in English because François had begun the audience in this way.

“Sit down, Lord Exeter.” The queen gestured towards a chair in front of them.

The monarch dipped a nod. “Consider it a friendly meeting.” 

Exeter eased himself in a wooden chair adorned with fine carvings. “With all due respect, Your Majesties, I would not call it an amicable conversation.” 

François gestured towards a table in the corner where a pile of letters rested. These were secret messages from Pope Paul III to the Marquess of Exeter, codified and later deciphered.

“These letters,” started François, “prove your connections with Allesandro Farnese. We are aware that you only collected information for him. Yet, you also worked with Thomas Culpeper and must have known everything about the man’s dreadful murders at his master’s behest.” 

Exeter glanced between the royals. “I suppose that someone from the Vatican gave these missives to you after you had disposed of Farnese and the new Pope’s election by the Curia.” 

“Perhaps.” The queen then asserted, “If Henry learns the whole truth, he will order to mete out to you the most agonizing death. He will also blame you for the loss of Calais.” 

The king sneered, “Another dead chief minister, just like Cromwell and Wolsey.” 

Exeter felt that it was high time to bare his heart. “Yes, I was Farnese’s agent for some time. However, my hands are not in the blood of those innocents whom he destroyed.” His voice took on a higher octave. “On the contrary, I saved the world and England of that unholy butcher Culpeper who was so very dangerous that I feared for my own life when in his presence.” 

Anne’s heart ached at the remembrance of her executed cousin Kitty Howard. “Lord Exeter, you wove intrigues against Queen Catherine Howard. What did she do to you? She was so young and harmless!” She accused further, “You brought her, Jane Boleyn, Francis Dereham, and several others to their early graves together with Culpeper. You are a cold-blooded killer!” 

Exeter challenged, “Didn’t Your Majesty plot against Cardinal Wolsey and Thomas More? And where are they now?” His audacious glower flew between the king and queen. “It is also clear that Emperor Ferdinand and the two of you arranged Farnese’s death. You did the right thing because the Pope was too evil to let him live leading the Holy See and the Papal States.”   

“Exeter,” hissed Anne. “Don’t forget who you are speaking to.” 

The monarch’s lips compressed in a pensive line. My initial conclusion was correct: Exeter betrayed Farnese in the end. Exeter did not kill for Farnese whose bloodthirstiness sundered him from the late Pope as implacably as only death can. François was well informed that Exeter had ordered many religious books from Germany, which additionally confirmed his inferences. This man seemed to have a conscience despite his schemes, which every politician had to invent.

François both respected and disliked the strength and principles of their guest. “Affairs of foreign countries are none of your business. Or do you wish to rot in our captivity until you learn French gallantry enough to communicate with royalty? I might not allow you to leave Calais.” 

The prospect of imprisonment frightened Exeter. “What do you want from me?” 

At this, the King of France rose to his feet. He went to a black marble table, from where he grabbed a bottle full of brown liquid. Then he strolled back to his chair.  

François twirled the bottle in his hands, his lips curved in a nefarious grin. “This is one of the most effective poisons from the Count de Montecuccoli’s collection.” His countenance contorted in animosity as he spelled out, “Soon Montecuccoli and all those whom we imprisoned will drown in oceans of blood and will meet Lucifer in the netherworld.” 

Anne’s scrutiny was glued to the tapestry depicting the Norman conquest of England, just as they would accomplish England’s freedom from Henry’s tyranny. “This lovely thing kills at a moderate pace. Several drops of this marvel ensure that your victim dies within a few hours.” 

“Something like the Medici or Borgia poison,” conjectured Exeter.

The French ruler revealed, “Sort of. It contains hemlock, strychnine, belladonna, arsenic, and other components. Montecuccoli and his apothecary created it among hundreds of other venomous concoctions.” His grin turned lethal. “This poison must have a highly special target.”  

“We want Henry dead,” the queen verbalized what had been on their minds for months.

Inwardly, Exeter laughed half-morbidly, half-blithesomely. The sovereigns of France are yearning to have King Henry poisoned so as to retaliate for the ignominy he did to Queen Anne in Boulogne. Out of tact, Exeter would not hint at it. Only Suffolk, Catherine Parr, Elizabeth, and some French knew the truth. As a man Exeter understood François’ motives perfectly well.

Once more, François turned the bottle around in his fingers. “His iron-hearted English Majesty has long warranted a rendezvous with the devil in hell. You, Monsieur Exeter, must send him there, or the Pope’s letters will be delivered to your sovereign. In this case, you will die in utter disgrace and agony, whereas your family will be attained and become penniless.” 

With a diabolical grin upon her visage, Anne suggested, “Henry is suffering from never-healing ulcers. So, let him die as if his ulcers: take this magnificent poison from Catherine de’ Medici’s collection and add to those herbs and oils, which Doctor Wendy uses for his patient to alleviate Henry’s pain. Then Henry will pass away quietly in the dead of night.” 

This is the best way to annihilate that beast, the queen mused, her eyes blacker than wings of crows feasting on carrion. This will not rouse anyone’s suspicions. God, my Lizzy must never learn anything. Because of the mortification Anne had suffered at his hands in Boulogne, she hated her former husband more than the Greek Goddess Nemesis loathed her sworn foes. Yet, at the thought that Elizabeth could condemn her mother for her father’s demise, Anne shuddered.

Anne and François had thought out everything beforehand. After careful consideration, they had concluded that Exeter was the best candidate for killing Henry. For some time, they had had no clue as to how to force Exeter into perpetrating the deed until Ferdinand had provided them with the incriminating materials. Despite being English by birth, Anne had encouraged her spouse to capture Calais so that Henry would be humiliated during the last months of his life.

“The choice is yours,” summed up a gleeful François. His heart hammered harder with malignant joy at the thought of his Tudor counterpart’s end. “What will you do?” 

Exeter let out a smile. “No blackmail is needed, Your Majesties.” 

François arched a brow. “Has Henry’s cruelty made your life utterly unbearable?” 

Anne ventured, “It must be exhausting to live in constant terror to be murdered.” 

“It is.” Exeter could freely acknowledge that he was weary of his fears. “I was against the invasion of France, just as most other councilors were. However, what could we do? England and the people will know no peace as long as Henry Tudor rules. His executions of some notable families in England and his pitiless murders of those rebels in Norfolk were horrendous.” 

Anne mourned the loss of the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. “Agnes Tilney!” She crossed herself. “Let her soul rest in peace. You treated her well before the execution, Lord Exeter, and for that I thank you.” Despite being in Italy, the French monarchs regularly gathered intelligence.

“Lady Norfolk was very brave,” recalled Exeter while also crossing himself.

François pressed, “Any other reasons why you are so eager to commit regicide?” 

The Marquess of Exeter grinned whimsically. They had no idea that he had first fantasized about his liege lord’s violent demise after the English Minotaur had compelled Catherine Parr to marry him. With the growing number of deaths on Henry’s orders after their return from France, Exeter’s desire to see him dead had been magnifying steadily. Their French Majesties can’t even guess that soon my son Ned will ascend the English throne, Exeter ruminated wordlessly.

The marquess answered, “I have my own reasons.” 

“Lust for power,” François named it. “You will become Lord Protector of the realm during Prince Edward’s minority. You will govern for at least seven-eight years.” 

Exeter said truthfully, “I cannot deny that.” 

The bottle still held in his hand, the monarch continued, “You want to be tied to the Tudor dynasty. That is why you arranged your son’s betrothal to Princess Elizabeth.” 

“That too.” The English chief minister saw no sense in pretending.

Anne’s temper flared. “My daughter should not marry just someone.” 

To her surprise, the Marquess of Exeter regarded Anne with sympathy. “I do agree with Your Majesty and understand your concern regarding your daughter’s future. Nonetheless, this marriage is beneficial for you and Elizabeth.” His voice slowed down, getting deeper. “She can marry some high-ranking English lord who will be able to take care of her when Edward grows up. Or Elizabeth might have another fate: she may leave England permanently if Henry or later Edward secures a foreign match for her. Or she can remain unmarried and childless forever.”  

Silence filled the air as François and Exeter both stared at Anne.

Elizabeth will become Queen of England, Anne silently repeated over and over again. I feel it with every fiber of my being. Lizzy needs to have a few children. If the princess had departed from her home country so as to enter into matrimony with some foreign prince or monarch, she was highly unlikely to ever come back to England. And Lizzy wished to live only in England, as she had written to Anne many times. Furthermore, the English people could view any marriage of their queen to a foreigner in an unfavorable light, especially if her husband was a Catholic.

Moreover, Anne did not wish her dear daughter to transform into a childless spinster over the course of time. Nonetheless, she would not allow forcing her girl into marrying someone who could hurt or even abuse her. The princess had already suffered enough at her father’s pitiless hands! On the other hand, Elizabeth’s marriage to a York descendant was an important strategic political move. Truth be told, Anne comprehended why Henry had established this arrangement.

At last, the queen stated, “I care about Lizzy’s happiness above all things.” 

Exeter divulged, “It is mentioned in the marriage contract that Elizabeth has the right to cancel the betrothal. This was done by King Henry, which amazes me, to say the least.” 

“How interesting,” François drawled. “That monster still has some paternal feelings.” 

Shrugging his shoulders, the English guest speculated, “Her Highness has a domineering and freedom-loving spirit. She is born for leadership roles – I’ve observed this for years. She will be able to find happiness in marriage only with a man who agrees to be her partner equal to her in all things, or someone who consents to remain in the shadows of her glory.” 

The queen asked, “What type of man is your son?” 

“The second one,” Exeter stated with certainty. “Eddie is not a politician: he is a strong man, but he has a gentle soul not suitable for intrigues. I think Elizabeth should get acquainted with him and get to know him closely as friends, and if she happens to dislike Eddie, no one will force her to wed my son. By the way, this union would cement our alliance.” 

“That all remains to be seen.” Anne needed more time to digest the information.  

Exeter proposed, “After Henry’s death, Elizabeth may come to live in France for a year or so. I may send my son as part of her entourage so that you can meet with him.” 

Anne stressed, “Eventually, only Lizzy can decide.” 

“No objections on my part.” Exeter wanted this union to proceed for his purposes, but he could not antagonize the queen. “Her Highness and Your Majesty will decide together.” 

In the monarch’s opinion, it was a rational approach. “We will discuss this matter a bit later.” He leaned slightly forward, stretching his hand towards Exeter. “Henry must die at first.” 

Exeter took the bottle from the other man’s hand. “His minutes are numbered.” 

Anne tilted her head. “Will you marry Dowager Queen Catherine Parr, then?” 

The blood drained from their new English ally’s features. “Your spies?” 

This was a surprise for François. “What?” 

The queen elucidated, “Lord Exeter, you looked like a ghost of ghosts during that wedding ceremony in Boulogne. I glimpsed Catherine’s and your despondent gazes thrown at each other from time to time. You are both be skilled at feigning your indifference, for your very survival depends on it. On the day of that preposterous wedding, both you and she were more emotional.” 

The Marquess of Exeter emitted a grievous sigh. “I love Catherine Parr and would have married her if that queen-killer did not interfered. He broke our hearts!” 

François bobbed his head. “That is a compelling reason for you to wish Henry gone.” 

Exeter resolved to be candid. “Henry tasked me to dispose of Cathy after her miscarriage by any means, even if I have to manufacture some charges against her.” 

Anne gasped in horror. “Oh God! No!” 

“Henry is a beast far worse than Minotaur,” spat François.   

The marquess eyed the bottle in his hand. “I shall have him poisoned upon my return.” 

The three of them traded sanguine glances. Their hatred for Henry blazed in their frames, faces, orbs, filling every ounce of air they pulled into their lungs. Irida, the Goddess of strife and discord, laughed together with the bellicose Athena as they discussed details of their crafty plan, as well as the political situation between England and France in the aftermath of Henry’s demise.

§§§

After the meeting with Exeter in private, the French royals invited the Howards. While Anne and François lounged in their throne-like chairs, their guests were seated in front of them.

King François declared, “The Governor of Calais and the English inhabitants will return to your misty island. Those who wish to remain in the city are most welcome to do so. I’ve issued the edict proclaiming Calais ‘a reclaimed land’ to commemorate the restoration of our rule.”

The Marquess of Exeter and the Duke of Norfolk were both sad that the city of Calais was no longer in the English hands. The Earl of Surrey cared more about their return from exile and seeing his spouse and their offspring than one small piece of land lost on the continent.

Norfolk beheld the Valois ruler. A famously tall man whose face had only a few wrinkles around his eyes, François carried his saturnine, sensual handsome looks in a highly distinguished manner. Immensely regal in a vibrant green attire the placard and sleeves of which were wrought with gold, the monarch was hale and hearty. François’ chestnut hair was seen from beneath his black silk toque, and only few streaks of gray on his temples were interspersed in it.  

François and Anne look marvelous together, observed Norfolk. An inward grin colored his universe as the spouses entwined their fingers. At times, Anne and François slanted glances of deep devotion towards one another. Norfolk was happy for his niece who had found happiness with another monarch against all odds, but he was astonished that François remained faithful to his wife for so long, which was obvious based on the picture of the family serenity before him.

Exeter tipped his head. “Later, England will sign a treaty with France, in which Calais will be recognized as a French possession without the payment of any purchase price.” 

The king speculated, “England’s future rulers might revive their claims to the city. Yet, no Frenchmen will agree to give it back without a fight. I would not want a new war.” 

The discourse took place in English, just as it had been from the beginning.  

“England would not win,” remarked the monarch’s wife.

Exeter shook his head. “As the future Lord Protector of the country, I assure you that all I care about is to make our homeland thriving in peace. Nonetheless, I cannot guarantee what Edward, the Prince of Wales, will do when he comes of age and I step aside.” 

“That is understandable.” The Valois ruler would never allow an English monarch, even if his stepdaughter Elizabeth ever ascended the Tudor throne, to re-conquer Calais.

The two Howard men stifled their discontent rising inside of them. They reckoned that not Exeter, but Norfolk as the highest ranked peer of the English realm, ought to be Lord Protector, despite Exeter’s old nobility and his Plantagenet blood. Nonetheless, now Norfolk and Surrey depended upon their friendship with Exeter who would aid them to reclaim their former station.

Surrey noted, “Your Majesty and Lord Exeter speak as if the king had already died.” 

His expression and eyes blank, François glanced between Norfolk and Surrey. “The news is that His despotic Majesty moved to Whitehall, and that the latest journey had its toll on him. Henry is bedridden and tended to by his physicians, but his condition is not improving.” 

Surrey rejoiced, “God should take his sinful soul to hell, finally!” 

Anne advised, “Uncle and cousin, you can both stay in Calais lest Henry breathes his last soon. In this case, you will be able to depart to England upon the receipt of the happy news.” 

François suggested, “Or you can go back to Brittany if you want.” 

Norfolk’s suspicions increased. “We will stay here; thank you.” 

The English chief minister certified, “As soon as I take the realm into my hands, you both will return to England. All your titles and lands will be reinstated to your names.” Exeter gazed at both of the Howards in turns. “His Majesty did not have your family attained, perhaps because Your Grace was presumed dead. Lord Surrey, your eldest son is so far the Duke of Norfolk.” 

Surrey asserted, “This title rightfully belongs to my father.” 

Norfolk surveyed his son affectionately. “But the boy was a duke for some time.” 

Naturally easy-going, Surrey chuckled. “I’ll write a poem about my son’s brief glory!” 

This caused them to laugh, but Norfolk beheld Exeter and the monarchial couple in silence.

The Marquess of Exeter offered, “Your Grace, you will become Lord Chancellor, just as you were before the invasion of France. Each of you will have your old offices back.” 

Surrey exclaimed, “That would be so good!” 

The duke questioned, “What will you do in the religious area, Lord Exeter?” 

Exeter selected a frank approach. “I admit that now my beliefs are rather conflicted. I used to be an ardent Catholic, but Allesandro Farnese’s crimes horrified me too much.” 

The Valois sovereigns nodded. So did Norfolk and his son.

The chief minister averred, “I’ll leave everything in England’s religion as it is now.” 

Anne would not announce her decision to convert to Catholicism in their presence in order to avoid any arguments. “There will be peace in England only if there are no persecutions.” 

François inquired, “Is Prince Edward a staunch Protestant?” 

Exeter’s answer was neutral. “His Highness is being raised as such.”

Norfolk was not certain that the restoration of England back to the fold of Rome would be a correct move. Taking into account the villainies of the dead Pope and his many agents, Norfolk surmised that the English populace would probably not welcome any attempt to have the nation restored to the Vatican and even to have some Catholic doctrines reestablished. I’ll remain a Catholic in spite of everything, but I no longer know what to do with the Church of England.

When Anne jested about the mortality of every royal person, including herself, the Duke of Norfolk deciphered a secret in the depths of her eyes. The same thing – a living abhorrence for Henry and a sense of malicious triumph – flickered in the orbs of François and Exeter. They must be planning to get rid of Henry, Norfolk inferred in his mind, taking delight in the sunniness of his growing expectation to regain what he and Surrey had been deprived of.  However, why were Anne and François hell bent on committing regicide, and how was Exeter implicated in this?   


January 28, 1548, Whitehall Palace, the city of London, England

“How are my legs?” demanded King Henry. “Why do I still feel this pain?” 

Doctor Thomas Wendy braced himself against the ruler’s possible outburst of anger. “Your Majesty, I’ve applied the best anesthetic oils and herbs. They will ease your discomfort.” 

The physician finished the bandaging of the ruler’s ankles after he had cleansed the ulcers. Just as the deceased Doctor Butts had done, Wendy had tried every remedy against the malady, but nothing was helping. Perhaps his liege lord’s body humors were permanently messed up.

The monarch yelled, “Lies! Go away! I shall sign your death warrant tomorrow!” 

Terrified out of his wits, the doctor bowed and scampered out of the chamber.

The Earl of Arundel approached the bed set upon a dais, where the king rested. His visage tinctured with all hues of exasperation, Henry signaled Arundel to tuck a blanket around him.

The ruler praised, “It was the right decision to make you my Lord Chamberlain.” 

A pleased Arundel sketched a bow. “Your Majesty is most gracious.” 

“Where is Hal?” Henry’s mood swerved into blackness as he remembered about his chief minister’s return to London yesterday. “Is he preparing a written report for me why he failed to retake Calais from the French? I expect him to come to me first thing in the morning.” 

As the king’s relationship with Exeter was now strained at best, Arundel smiled nastily at their sovereign’s displeasure with the chief minister. “I shall tell Lord Exeter everything.” 

“Now leave and fetch Lady Jane Radclyffe.” 

“She will be here in a few minutes.” Then Arundel swept another bow and exited.

The ruler looked around. Nothing had changed in his apartments at Whitehall since the palace had been refurbished after Anne Boleyn’s exile and before his marriage to Jane Seymour. At present, the interior irritated him: the beige-colored walls, some of which were decorated with tapestries of hunting and outdoor activities, typified the dull colors of Henry’s current life, for he associated them with his ill health. I hate my bedroom because it reminds me of Jane!

For the first time in years, Henry thought of Jane Seymour. He had once married her off to Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, in order to punish Jane for her failure to give him a son. He had been gleeful when receiving news from Italy that Jane had not managed to integrate into the sophisticated Florentine society, and that the odd couple had been childless for quite some time. Yet, that Seymour harpy eventually gave Anne’s former sweetheart a son, the king fumed.

A huge bubble of rage formed in his veins. Anne Boleyn had birthed François’ four sons! Not one, but four boys! Henry remembered their names: they were Augustine, Jean, Antoine, and Lorenzo de Valois. On top of the above, Jane Seymour had succeeded in birthing a healthy male child in her second marriage, and Henry knew that the boy’s name was Alan Percy. A jealousy far darker and vindictive than that excited by love, gripped Henry’s soul; the jealousy of both Anne and Jane to their husbands, mingled with a visceral loathing towards them all.

Damn Anne and Jane! Their sons should have been his! Their bodies could have produced all those five sons for Henry! Yet, they had done so for two other men! Questions tumbled and flickered across Henry’s mind. Why hadn’t they produced Henry’s male progeny? Why had his son Edmund with Kitty Howard been frail and died young? Why had many of his wives suffered miscarriages? Certainly, it was these women’s fault, never Henry’s! The egocentric King of England refused to consider himself a man less virile than François de Valois and Henry Percy.

“Only Anne Bassett was my true wife,” Henry murmured to himself as he envisaged the dead blonde beauty. “She gave me my Edward! I’ll be buried next to her at St George’s Chapel.” 

Then Henry pushed thoughts of death aside with all his mental might. As usual, Henry would recover, even though he would limp for the rest of his life. During Exeter’s absence, he had spoken to Archbishop Cranmer about the annulment of his union with Catherine Parr, but the churchman had beseeched the monarch not to do so again, having said that the people already viewed all his marriages badly. However, Henry did not care what the folk thought of him.

I must try to sire another son, the monarch resolved. What if I become bedridden? What if I lose my male prowess completely? At the remembrance of how he had failed to claim Philippa Bassett as his several times, a wave of embarrassment overcame Henry. Once more thrusting these musings aside, he thought of his new infatuation who he had spotted during the court’s recent progress to London – Lady Jane Radclyffe, sister of Henry Radclyffe, Earl of Sussex.

The door opened slowly, and Jane Radclyffe tiptoed inside. “Your Majesty requested my presence.” She did not want to be close to the ruler, but her brother was forcing her to.

Henry smiled broadly. “Come here, sweetheart. Seat and play for me, as usual.” 

During the past two weeks, the king frequently summoned the girl to his rooms without a chaperone. Although it went against all rules, he did not pay any heed to this, for Henry’s whole life was a perfect example of how standards could be defied and rules broken for his sake. The gossip that Henry would soon marry Jane Radclyffe flooded the Tudor court like a deluge.

The king seriously considered marrying the Earl of Sussex’s sister. She was much younger than him, but it did not matter. His worry about the age gap between them was but a transient alarm, for Henry assumed that he would surely charm Jane Radclyffe who would fall for him. Surrounded by all the glorious peculiarities and components of the royal world, his new young consort would be able to cast aside every shade of darkness, every trouble, and every ignoble fancy. Jane Radclyffe is fit for such a high station, Henry told himself. I should marry her.

His eyebrow inched up. “Will you obey me, Lady Radclyffe? Be bolder!” 

The girl rushed to a chair by the bed; she had brought the lute. Jane began playing one of Henry’s songs written years ago, the sound of her youthful voice punctuated with the king’s laughter as he endeavored to sight-sing the words, but with age, Henry’s voice coarsened.

“Now perform ‘Pastime with Good Company’, my sweet and pure Jane.”  

As Jane changed the tune, her voice soared gently over the melodic music of the lute. She detested the old king’s attention to her, but she remained strong and stoic.

Pastime with good company

I love, and shall until I die

Grudge who will, but none deny,

So God be pleased, thus live will I.

For my pastance:

Hunt, sing, and dance,

My heart is set!

All goodly sport,

For my comfort,

Who shall me let?

Henry snorted with laughter. “I was young when I composed it. Too young…” Instantly, a tide of melancholic yearning for eternal vivacity washed over him before ebbing swiftly.

Jane Radclyffe is only sixteen! enthused the monarch silently. However, at this age she is already bleeding. The younger the bride is, the stronger her body is for childbearing. Jane was petite and delicate, but her hips were wide enough. Henry admired the curve of this girl’s long neck, which reminded him of Anne Boleyn’s swanlike neck, as well as the white flesh of Jane’s shoulders, revealed by a square-cut neckline of her brown gown ornamented with onyxes.

Onyxes! They were as deep black as the color of the French queen’s eyes. Why did all in his life tend to be floating back to Anne? A cavalcade of memories flashed before his mind’s eye: Anne playing for Henry the same song and many others on the virginals, the lute, and even the lyre, which she had taken to England from the Valois court. The memory of Anne’s voice, of her orbs and her trademark Boleyn smirk caused Henry to fluctuate drastically from perpetual animosity to immense desire. During his matrimony with Anne Boleyn, Henry’s soul had been a fountain of generous affections, and it flowed out towards her even after Anne’s ejection.

The monarch shifted on the bed, and a distinct grimace of pain warped his countenance. Strangely, now the ulcers under the bandages were burning like a profusion of candles, which were placed upon oak tables around the chamber and illuminated it well. Henry felt as if the skin beneath his bandages were all on fire, silently cursing Doctor Wendy’s medical herbs.

Youth must have some dalliance,

Of good or ill some pastance.

Company methinks them best,

All thoughts and fancies to digest.

For idleness

Is chief mistress

Of vices all:

Then who can say,

But mirth and play,

Is best of all

“You have won my heart.” Absorbed in memories again, Henry verbalized his thoughts of Anne, for his whole being was still wrapped in the chains of his obsession with her.

Jane was afraid of this, pausing. “Your Majesty?” 

Slightly annoyed, he commanded, “Go on! Now! Don’t make me wait!” 

A series of jocund sounds trickled from the instrument as her fingers moved artfully. As she contemplated the monarch, Lady Radclyffe was startled that there was that earnest expression on the monarch’s visage that was never seen except in the eye of the dying.

Company with honesty,

Is virtue, vice to flee.

Company is good and ill,

But every man has his free will.

The best ensue,

The worst eschew,

My mind shall be:

Virtue to use,

Vice to refuse,

Thus shall I use me!

The monarch commended, “Ah, my sweet Jane! Dare I indulge in the blissful dream that you like me? This dream is gilding these moments with the hues of heaven!”

The girl’s shoulders tensed, but she forced herself to respond, “As you wish, sire.”

The song was finally over, and Jane was now tuning the lute in her hands.

“Argh,” Henry whimpered as the discomfort in his wounds disturbed him too much.

She asked, “Does Your Majesty want me to call for Master Wendy?” 

The Tudor temper spiked. “No! Get out of here!”  

Jane Radclyffe bounced to her feet, curtsied, and escaped, relief inundating her to the brim.

“What is this?” the king wondered torturously. “Why this pain?” 

The more the burning sensation intensified, the more acutely Henry felt as if his body were being scorched by the colossal blaze of a cruel sun. Even the air he breathed seemed hot, too hot, making a bonfire out of his lungs as he inhaled and exhaled sharply, then more shallowly. He experienced difficulties with breathing and tremors in his hands, his skin turning clammy while his pulse was getting increasingly rapid and thready. The king needed to call for help, but his tongue also burned, and his hands barely moved, cold and dewy with the damps of death.

The monarch made muffled sounds. “Wendy…  Come…” 

The door opened quietly, and the Marquess of Exeter slipped inside.

Henry called, “Hal…” His voice was barely a whisper, his strength fading.

His hands balled in fists, Exeter halted near the bed, observing him like a hawk that spotted a prey. A myriad of emotions flashed across Henry’s visage: confusion, ire, and a plea for aid.

“Hal…” The king was gulping the air through his mouth. “Too hot…” 

Finally, his chief minister inquired, “Astonished that I’m not helping you?” 

The aquamarine glare pierced his subject, but words barely came out. “Hal… dare…” 

Exeter seated himself on the bed’s edge. “Does it burn, Your Majesty?” 

A shower of shock hit Henry together with a horrible guess. “What... Hal…” Nonetheless, the nerves of his throat were so affected that his vocal cords barely worked.

The chief minister’s orbs swiveled back and forth to the door. They were alone.

Exeter bent his head low as he glared into his sovereign’s eyes. “I was told that it must burn awfully. You must be honored: Catherine de’ Medici killed many people with this poison.” 

A shaken and furious Henry tried to lift his hand in order to hit the man, but to no avail.

“It paralyzes slowly,” disclosed Exeter. “It usually happens in about three hours after the poison is administered inside the target’s body. The lethal concoction was in Wendy’s oils.” A wicked grin distorted his mouth. “I’ve disposed of all witnesses. They all – including Wendy – will think that you died of infection or something like this. The truth will be hidden forever.” 

The monarch bathed in perspiration. “W…  wh… why?” That was all he could say.

The marquess neared his face to Henry’s. “You caused the irreparable damage to England, your wives, and your subjects, as well as the woman I love – Catherine Parr. She reciprocates my feelings, and I shall marry her.” He laughed cynically at the sight of the king’s disbelief. “I’ve not forgiven you for the Duke of Suffolk’s murder in Boulogne either. Charles was my friend.” 

His acrid grin widening, Exeter confessed, “I’ve conspired with King François and Queen Anne.” His voice dropped to a half-whisper. “We all want you dead and gone from our lives. If I were in François’ shoes, I would not have forgiven you either for what you did to his wife.” 

Sheer consternation mingled with insane rage rippled through the dying man. Nonetheless, he could neither swallow nor articulate anything, for the choking sensation of the blood in his throat was so powerful that Henry could barely make a half-breath. His ankles burned like coals as the poison was gradually destroying all of his internal organs, his blood fully envenomed.   

Exeter whispered with cosmic sarcasm, “You consider Anne Bassett your favorite wife just because she gave you a male heir. What an utter fool you are!” He swatted the ruler playfully on the shoulder. “Prince Edward is not your son – he is mine. Anne and I had an affair before you took her to your bed, and later we renewed it. I loved Anne, but you took her away from me, and I suffered in silence, loathing you all the time. She got pregnant with my child. My Ned!” 

At this fateful moment, King Henry looked like the most miserable creature, deprived of everything in his life. He could no longer speak or move, detrimental flames slithering across his body. Inwardly, he was screaming in agony as his poisoned flesh sizzled like that of a slave’s under the branding iron. Yet, one thought was a million times more exterminatory than anything else: Henry was destined to die within mere moments, leaving his throne to a bastard.

A victorious Exeter promulgated in a quiet and vicious voice, “Your era is over, Henry the Beast. My son – a true York – will rule. Be at ease: I shall treat Elizabeth very well.” 

“I hate you, traitor!” Yet, Henry’s words remained unspoken, but his eyes expressed them.

The minister let out the chuckle of a winner. “I’ve avenged everyone. Farewell, our evil Tudor Minotaur. Have a good company with Lady Death, just as it is said in that song.” 

The marquess shot to his feet, smirking at his victim one last time, and then hurried out.

Everyone had betrayed him! The Tudor ruler felt that he was irresistibly impelled on to the fulfilment of his destiny, without any volition of his own, and his fate was to die a duped and betrayed old man. God, why are you punishing me so harshly? Henry thought, his inner being writhing in torment. Why did you let Anne and François triumph over me by murdering me? How can Ned be not my son? The tormenting sensations were crushing the English monarch like a giant hand of monstrous fate bearing down on both shoulders.

Henry was howling in silent despair, for his vocal cords produced no sound, and he was encompassed by a thick haze of mortality. The hoarded agonies of his grief over the heinous ending of his existence penetrated Henry’s dying form like a dagger, exactly where he was most vulnerable – his ego and pride were ruined. The king’s life-long sensation of his own might and glory were annihilated by the axe of Exeter’s confessions, and Henry’s very soul rebelled against the hand that bound him in thralldom to the victory of Anne, François, and Exeter over him.

“I hate you all!” England’s master wanted to scream, but he could not.

Henry was smothering groans or perhaps something worse. They have won, he reflected with immense bitterness. The burning sensations were now more horrendous in his stomach and chest. Most of the ruler’s vitals were blazing luridly in a conflagration of poison and his mental desperation. Visions, all of them associated with Anne Boleyn, flickered through his brain, and the king wailed wordlessly in horror that he was killed by Anne, François, and Exeter.

“Anne!” the monarch hollered in his mind. Then his heart stopped.

King Henry VIII of England was dead at last, his soul flying to face the Lord’s judgment.

§§§

The Marquess of Exeter hurried through the corridor, his gait urgent, his face stony. At this hour, he did not meet many people. Those whom he encountered bowed and curtsied to him with a blend of awe and servility, for everyone was aware of Exeter’s exclusively powerful future.

Upon entering the queen’s quarters, the chief minister regarded the ladies-in-waiting.

“Queen Catherine?” Exeter asked briefly, his heart beating in excitement.

Lady Bess Holland answered, “Her Majesty is with Lord Northampton.” 

He smiled. “It is good that she is not sleeping.” 

Exeter walked directly to the queen’s bedroom. Bess and two other maids stood with their mouths hanging open, thinking that something must have occurred.

Opening the door, the marquess greeted, “Good evening, Madame.” 

The Marquess of Northampton and Queen Catherine Parr sat at a mahogany table piled with papers. Among them, there were Catherine’s new chapters in her manuscript ‘Lamentations of a Sinner.’ As her husband no longer wished to see his consort, Catherine spent all the time with her siblings, discussing her writings and other topics, as if preparing to be separated from them forever because of her possible departure from the world of the living on the king’s orders.  

A befuddled Catherine got to her feet. “Lord Exeter, what are you doing here?” 

Northampton stood up. “How can we assist you, my lord?”

There was a short pause as Exeter surveyed the monarch’s widow. Her features pallid and visibly sharper due to her loss of weight, Catherine Parr looked unhealthy. In a gown of creamy brocade wrought with threads of silver, its neckline cut high, she was still beautiful in Exeter’s eyes. An aura of sadness tinged with distinguishable fright surrounded her from all sides – terror that she could be executed. I love you madly, Exeter said to himself. I’ve rescued you, Cathy.

Exeter stepped forward. “All will go back to normal, Cathy. Don’t be afraid.”     

Catherine expelled a bitter laughter out of her. “I’m waiting for guards to appear and arrest me. His Majesty consulted with Archbishop Cranmer, who tried to persuade him not to annul our marriage in order not to anger the English populace. So, the king will have me accused of high treason, just as it happened to Queen Anne, and I might be beheaded soon.” 

Northampton feared the same. “No, sister! It will not come to that.” 

She contradicted, “How can my husband rid of me, then?”  

“You are safe,” Exeter assured. “Your life will be different from now onwards.” 

Northampton quizzed, “What are you implying, Lord Exeter?” 

Exeter declared fortnightly, “You must know about Cathy and me.”  

“I do,” said Northampton, for they were now alone. “I regret you two cannot be together.” 

Exeter stepped to the woman he loved and knelt. “Will you marry me, Cathy?” 

Her eyes widened fractionally. “What?” 

Exeter repeated, “Will you become my wife, Cathy? I love you so much that I can sell my soul to the devil just to be able to look into your eyes and to hear you calling my name.”  

A shiver slid down her back. “Hal, I’m a married woman.” 

Northampton had long suspected that the chief minister would do something to protect his sister. He discerned the truth in Exeter’s orbs, and relief inundated him at the thought that now they were safe. “Such love deserves respect, Hal Courtenay. You have my consent.” 

Tears prickled her eyes. “Don’t hurt me by promising me what I want to have but cannot.” 

Exeter climbed to his feet. “I’ll make you happy!” 

Within the space of a few heartbeats, Lady Anne Parr entered, short of breath.

As Anne closed the door, she darted to them and skidded to a halt next to her sister. “You will not believe it! The English Minotaur is dead! His ulcers finally killed him!” 

The Marquess of Exeter smirked, for his beloved’s sister called the deceased ruler exactly as King François had labeled him in Calais. “The king is dead, long live King Edward!” 

Northampton and Anne Parr repeated it, neither of them grief-stricken.

Hal killed the Tudor beast, Catherine surmised wordlessly. Hal must have thought out everything. They will not suspect him, and there will be no proof. If some rumor spreads, he will throttle it easily. Horror seized her at the thought that her beloved had perpetrated regicide to wrest her away from the very brim of doom where her miscarriage had dragged Catherine. Her stab of anguish over his immortal soul was softened by Catherine’s admiration for the Marquess of Exeter. She would pray for his atonement during all the days she would spend on earth.

The chamber was full of King Henry’s ghosts, as if saints from the Old Testament depicted on the tapestries had recalled him back from the realm of the dead. A rarely kind Henry, an angry Henry, a pitiless Henry, a salacious Henry, a kind Henry, and an ailing Henry – they were all here now, dancing like evil phantoms. Some of these Henryes were younger versions of him – an athletic and handsome Henry, a pious Henry, and even a kind Henry. The announcement of the monarch’s passing echoed through the palace, filling each and every vacant space, and it did no demoralize, but rather reinvigorated the spirits of most courtiers, tired of their late liege lord.

Notes:

The new chapter is up! We hope that the 2023 year started on a positive note for you, our dearest readers. We are starting it with the death of King Henry VIII of England, which, we know, has long been expected by all our readers.

Henry breathes his last on the 28th of January 1548 at Palace of Whitehall – at the same place and on the same date as he died in history, but a year later than his historical death. The life of the English Minotaur has finally reached its end! We hope that you like this chapter’s title and its allegorical meaning. Most people, in particular fans of Anne Boleyn, are not too fond of Henry, but there are those who like him for their own reasons. This chapter must be a gift for the first group of people, while the second one might be sad that Henry is gone in such a brutal and ironic fashion. Our portrait of Henry was a bit biased, and that we made Henry too dark in some chapters, perhaps darker than he could be in history, but the plot required it.

The city of Calais was taken by the French, and it will not return to the crown of England. The Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Surrey will come back to England. Exeter has no choice but make a move against Henry, for if Exeter does nothing, his beloved Catherine Parr might be killed and even he can lose his own life. Of course, Exeter yearns for his bastard son Edward to become King of England and to rule for him as Lord Protector for a number of years. Anne and François have no idea that Edward “Tudor” is Exeter’s son, but perhaps Elizabeth Tudor, who may choose to marry Exeter’s legitimate son, will somehow become Queen of England in the future.

From the beginning, we planned that Anne and François would become those who would bring Henry Tudor down. At first, it seemed to be a wild idea, and we were thinking hard how to make this plotline plausible. Therefore, we made Henry force himself on Anne during her captivity in Boulogne during Henry’s attack in France, according to real history. Given Henry’s conspiracy with Carlos V against the Valois, and given everything else that Henry did over the course of this story, the circumstances moved Anne and François to a point when they resolved to dispose of Henry. The fact that the Marquess of Exeter has quite many reasons to kill Henry caused us to have Exeter allied with Anne and François in their quest to bring Henry down.

Henry’s death is ironic from many standpoints. First of all, Henry dies from both his ulcers and Catherine de’ Medici’s poison added to Doctor Wendy’s herbs. Second, the Marquess of Exeter comes to a dying Henry with the goal to reveal the entire truth. Henry is shocked to learn how grievously he was deceived! Only a few minutes before his death Henry understands that he is leaving his throne to the bastard “Prince” Edward who is Exeter’s biological son, and that Anne, François, and Exeter killed him. Third, Henry is angry because he is absolutely helpless to change anything, and he has to die knowing all these things. Next, Henry dies before he can take another wife, and so his dreams of begetting another son are annihilated. Finally, Henri understands that he still feels something for Anne, and his thoughts are about the sons of Anne and Jane Seymour.

We hope that you like Henry’s death and are satisfied with the manner of his death. Please let us know your thoughts and leave a review! This chapter is very, very important and opens the Edwardian era in England while also opening the new era in France. By the way, just to let you know, the song ‘Pastime with Good Company,’ also known as ‘The King's Ballad’ (‘The Kynges Balade’), is an English folk song written by King Henry VIII at the beginning of his reign.

Attention! A while ago, we posted a prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 90: Chapter 89: A New Perspective

Summary:

Don't forget to review!

Mary Tudor, Dowager Empress, is in love and marries again in Vienna. In France, François and his son Henri allow Catherine de’ Medici to live because of her children, and Catherine is incarcerated, her accomplices are executed. Henri and Anne are worried by some bad predictions.

Notes:

We hope that you like Mary Tudor’s marriage to Philip of Palatinate-Neuburg. In France, Catherine de’ Medici is allowed to live and is incarcerated, while her accomplices were executed.

Attention! The prologue to the sequel 'Chained by Blood and Power' (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don't forget about our work "Entwined by a Golden Alliance" co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 89: A New Perspective

August 15, 1549, Augustinian Church, the city of Vienna, Austria, Holy Roman Empire

On the Feast of Assumption of the Virgin, the weather was resplendent. A small crowd of nobles, dressed in the German style of modest richness, gathered in the square near St. Augustine parish. Located next to the Hofburg Palace that was one of the Habsburg residences in Vienna, the church had been built by Dietrich Landtner and consecrated in the 14th century.

Her head held high, Mary Tudor stood between Juana of Castile and Emperor Ferdinand. Empress Marguerite stood beside her husband; a year ago, Marguerite had birthed Archduchess Joanna of Austria, and now she was six months along in her new pregnancy.

Juana jested, “My dear Tudor lioness, you seem to be hesitating.”  

“Dearest, fly on the wings of happiness,” advised Empress Marguerite.   

Mary dragged a deep breath. “I’m simply nervous.” 

Juana smoothed a gray strand of hair that had come loose from her headdress. “It is all right to be anxious after all your afflictions. Yes, you are a Tudor and a Trastámara, but now you do not need to prove your courage – you should simply overcome your fears and start afresh.”  

Emperor Ferdinand, who stood beside them, did not interfere in their female talk.

“I want to be happy!” Mary’s heart somersaulted in her breast.

The sun shone tenderly upon the thick mane of Mary’s hair, cascading in waves down her back. Like the others, Mary wore German fashions: a gown of cloth of gold tissue, with fur-lined oversleeves over full, striped, slashed undersleeves caught up with a reasonable amount of jewels. Her girdle of knotted cord had a tassel at the end, and a diamond necklace glittered on her bosom.

Marguerite queried, “Mary, do you love Philip of Bavaria?” 

Mary envisaged Philip’s face, and an impish grin curled her lips. “Most definitely. Philip has proved me time and time again how different he is from my late father and husband.” 

Since her departure from Italy after Ferdinand’s coronation in Rome over two years ago, Mary had lived in Austria. Just as Ferdinand had promised, he was taking the best care of his widowed cousin: he had elevated Mary to Duchess of Salzburg – a city in north-central Austria situated in a level basin on both sides of the Salzach River near the northern foothills of the Alps. Mary was given this title in her own right and received estates in Tyrol and Linz.

Mary no longer viewed herself as Dowager Holy Roman Empress – this title had left her devastated like a colossal tempest. Even the sound of her former mighty title caused her to squirm in anguish at the remembrance of the emptiness she had experienced during her loveless marriage to Carlos. At present, Mary preferred to be addressed as Lady Mary Tudor or Duchess of Salzburg.

While staying at the Habsburg court, Mary had befriended Empress Marguerite. Mary and Juana had stood as godmothers to Joanna of Austria, who was betrothed to Francesco de’ Medici, eldest son of Cosimo de’ Medici, Duke of Florence. The Imperial couple usually traveled between Vienna, Innsbruck, and sometimes Graz. Mary also spent some time in her own castles.

I got accustomed to my new life in Austria, Mary thought. She nevertheless was still devoted to the traditions of her late mother’s homeland – Spain. In Austria, the center of the court’s universe were the emperor and empress, who were presented as inapproachable stars who were far above the mundane life, their persons exalted in a mystical manner, just as it was at other courts.

In contrast to the extravagant Valois court, as well as the more relaxed and less procedural Tudor court, the courts of Austria and Spain possessed strictness and old ceremoniousness. Mary’s half-Spanish soul welcomed this a great deal: her upbringing had eased her adaptation to her new life, and, like Ferdinand, she had accepted most of conservative German customs.

Ferdinand fondly called Mary ‘a gem of Vienna.’ Together with Marguerite and Juana, she presided over festivities and ceremonies at court, honing her skills in the German language. Many Austrian, German, Bohemian, Hungarian, and some Spanish nobles had contended for Mary’s hand in marriage, asking the emperor to court her, but Ferdinand had left this personal matter entirely to Mary Tudor. She had danced and spoken to many nobles, not accepting gifts.

Yet, Mary’s heart had not leapt at the sight of any man save Philip the Contentious, Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg. After he had accompanied Mary from Rome to Vienna, Philip regularly visited the Imperial court to conduct various affairs with Ferdinand, but more to see Mary. To her surprise, she had retained her interest in Philip, which had deepened over time to a point that she could fly into a fit of temper if he had not visited the Viennese palaces for too long.

Memories tumbled through her head. A ballroom adorned with garlands of flowers, hordes of dancing and chatting courtiers, and Philip of Palatinate-Neuburg inviting her to dance. Mary and Philip linking hands and performing a stately allemande. A streak of tantalizing fire arrowed through Mary at the memory of how Philip had confessed to loving her as they had danced. I love Philip! Mary was confident of that. It does not matter that he is a staunch Lutheran.

Looking towards the church where Philip awaited her inside, Mary bared her heart. “I did not think that I could ever fall in love after watching my father change his queens and after my union with Carlos. Philip has altered my perception of the world and men.” 

Ferdinand grinned. “I told you that Philip is different from your father and Carlos.” 

Mary surveyed her cousin. “And you were right, Ferdinand. You are my beloved family!” 

Her relatives smiled at the bride’s statement most cordially.

The emperor assured, “We will always be here for you, Mary.”  

The ruler’s mother stressed, “Our filial bonds and loyalties are unshakeable.” 

Tears prickled Mary’s eyes. My father cut me out of his life and almost broke me. He did not consider our blood ties something to treasure. He was interested only in sons. The news of Henry’s passing in the winter of 1548 had found Mary in her castle in Salzburg, and she had not been hurt. Yet, a small part of her mourned the loss of the erstwhile young Henry who had once viewed Mary as the pearl of his world, but those days seemed as distant as the dimmest stars.

Marguerite lamented, “We will miss you when you move to Bavaria.” 

Ferdinand noted, “Mary and Philip will often visit Vienna.” 

Mary nodded. “Certainly, we will.” 

Juana prompted, “Then make the final step to your contentment and marry His Grace.” 

“Yes!”  Mary grinned. “Lead me to my new life, Ferdinand.” 

“Give me your hand, Mary,” invited the emperor with a smile.

“Thank you,” murmured Mary. “You are the most suitable person to give me away.” 

“Who else could be better?” Stepping aside from his wife, Ferdinand took his cousin’s hand.

Marguerite riposted, “Don’t be so full of yourself, husband. Maximilian can do this!” 

Juana remarked, “The emperor ought to walk our gem of Austria down the nave.” 

The sounds of their festive collective laughter inundated the square.

“We should go,” the ruler urged. “Philip has been waiting for too long.” 

Smiling at his friend’s fiancé, Ferdinand went ahead, leading Mary a step behind him. The empress and his mother, as well as his closest entourage, followed them.

§§§

Mary’s heart sped as they entered the church. Although its façade was inconspicuous, the somber Gothic interior was ornate with tall columns, carved wooden benches, and the gilded altar. The procession strolled down the nave, their footsteps marking the beginning of her new life.

They sauntered inside the Loreto Chapel, located to the right of the main altar. There was the so-called Herzgruft, or ‘the heart burial vault,’ with the silver urns surrounded by statues of saints containing the hearts of members of the Imperial Habsburg family of previous generations. This church deserved to be called a masterpiece of funerary art history.

The emperor caused Mary to stop for a moment. The others halted as well.

As if guessing her misgivings, Ferdinand commented, “Mary, banish all your sad thoughts from your head. Today your new life full of love and good things is starting.” 

Juana supported, “We scheduled your wedding for the Feast of the Virgin’s Assumption on purpose. Today it is the day of your ascendance to your own heaven on earth, my dear.” 

Marguerite slanted an affectionate glance at her husband. “Love finds those who do not look for it and sticks to them the hardest. Ferdinand and I know a lot about this.” 

“Yes,” supplied the emperor as he kissed his wife’s hand.

At last, the small party slipped inside St George’s Chapel, whose history dated back to the mid-14th century, and where the Knights of the Habsburg Order of St George had gathered.

Mary heard her pulse thundering in her ears as she beheld Philip of Palatinate-Neuburg. His eyes sparkling as their gazes locked, Philip looked overwhelmed and impatient to make Mary his wife. He was accoutered in an austere, brown, fur-lined houppelande over a patterned doublet and a black plumed hat. A girdle of emerald velvet, enriched with precious stones, encircled his waist. His doublet’s collar was decorated with that of the Order of the Golden Fleece.

I shall become his duchess, Mary remarked to herself. I’ll have my own small realm to govern alongside Philip. Unlike Carlos, he will not isolate me from politics. Nonetheless, she would have married Philip even if he had belonged to the lesser nobility. After the death of his elder brother Otto, Philip had become the sole ruling Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg. During their long courtship, Philip had frequently asked for Mary’s counsel as to his ducal affairs.

Archduke Maximilian of Austria, Ferdinand’s eldest son, stood next to Philip. Unlike the bridegroom, Maximillian wore more ostentatious attire of cloth of gold of bawdekin, the placard and sleeves of which were wrought with flat gold. In contrast to Maximilian, the Imperial couple and Juana were all garbed in matching red and black habiliments worked with silver.

Behind them were Ferdinand’s several children with the late Anna of Bohemia and Hungary, although not all of them were present. They were his eldest daughters – Archduchesses Magdalena, Catherine, Eleanor, Margaret, and Barbara, as well as his second son, Archduke Ferdinand. The emperor’s eldest daughters – Elizabeth, Anna, and Maria – had married and left Vienna for their husband’s lands. The emperor’s offspring with Marguerite de Valois did not attend the ceremony.

A euphoric Philip cried, “Our Duchess of Salzburg! You are like the brightest star shining from the dark firmament down at all of us! Unfortunately, I’m not a poet.” Mary did not want to be referred to as ‘Your Imperial Majesty,’ wishing to forget her first marriage.

The bride purred, “All that matters is that we are both here, Your Grace.” 

Philip smiled broadly. “Madame, you could not have said better.” 

Maximilian interjected, “Do not dull, my friends! Your court in Palatinate must be merry! I composed a sonnet in honor of you both, and I’ll share it during the festivities.” 

The emperor commented, “Aimée and you, Max, would make a great couple.” 

Marguerite chortled. “My sister will play on the lyre like a goddess and sing your poems.” 

Archduke Maximilian remained unmarried. Princess Aimée of France had turned eleven this year, so the emperor’s heir still had the chance to enjoy several years of bachelorhood.

Ferdinand escorted Mary directly to Philip and locked their hands.

“Now let our Mary become Philip’s nymph,” proclaimed the monarch.

“I’m most delighted to be here,” confessed Mary, her gaze joyful.

Philip looked equally festive. “And so am I.” 

As a priest appeared, the bride and bridegroom knelt and joined their hands under a canopy of black and yellow silk – the Habsburg colors. Only the close family members attended the wedding. The Imperial couple, Maximilian, and the other Archduke Ferdinand stood as witnesses.

Some Bavarian nobles were here as well. Most of them were members of the Schmalkaldic League, although it was not important anymore in the light of the recent Augsburg Peace. Among them, there was Andreas Osiander – a German Lutheran theologian and Protestant reformer who had assisted in demolishing Catholicism within the lands of Palatinate-Neuburg.

§§§

Beeswax candles blazed like stars in waning daylight that would soon change into the night when Philip and Mary would finally become one. It was quite a sensational wedding in Europe: a Catholic princess was marrying a Lutheran prince. Nonetheless, as the Imperial family were Catholics, the ceremony was conducted in accordance with the Roman rites and canon law.

As the priest’s voice droned on, neither Philip nor Mary listened to Mass.

Mary is the love of my life, Philip mused as he glanced into her eyes softly. Gracious Lord, I thank you for helping me conquer Mary’s heart. She is my greatest gift. Before Philip had dallied with some noblewomen, mostly widows, but he had never been a womanizer. For too long, he had avoided matrimony and ignored his late brother’s demands to take a wife, for he had always desired to marry for love, not for duty. As a result, Philip had lived for many years as a bachelor.

Ironically, King Henry VIII of England had once negotiated with his brother, Otto, the alliance through Philip’s union with Mary. However, Mary had fled to Spain, and Philip had not been disappointed because he had not been acquainted with her at the time. Philip had first seen Mary at Vigevano in the Duchy of Milan, where she had brought Juana of Castile. The bravery of Mary, who had liberated her jailed and mistreated aunt, had impressed Philip profoundly.

Their romance had become possible thanks to the emperor. Having noticed his friend’s attraction to his cousin, Ferdinand had further encouraged their contact. After the war against the late Emperor Carlos had ended, Ferdinand had sent Philip as his special ambassador to the Duchy of Mantua, despite his ducal rank, in order to let Philip get to know Mary and to protect her from the wrath of the Spanish Habsburgs. I’ll be grateful to His Imperial Majesty forever!

Philip entangled their fingers together as he whispered, “Mary…” 

The former empress murmured dulcetly, “Philip…” 

The Imperial family chuckled at this expression of their mutual devotion.

You did not want to be with me at first, Philip’s orbs spoke as they contemplated each other. I had to fight for your heart against the shadows of your father and husband. His vanquishment of those ghosts had transmuted his entire universe into a realm of hope and serenity. While Philip had courted Mary in Vienna, his yearning for her had transformed into a relentless desire to have a family with her. The prevailing charm of their relationship was manner, that indescribable charm, that, like sunshine in the summer landscape, gilded and vivified the whole.

His brother had died without issue, and Philip had no children of his own. Therefore, Philip needed a son to inherit the Duchy of Palatinate-Neuburg, but he did not want just to sire as many heirs as possible. Mary was not barren: her son with Carlos, now known as Infante Juan of Spain, lived at the Habsburg court in Madrid. In spite of his longing to have a child with Mary, Philip would be content even if they grew old together because his love for Mary was strong.

The priest asked, “Will you have this woman to be your wedded wife to live together after God’s ordinance in holy matrimony? Will you love, comfort, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, be faithful to her as long as you both shall live?” 

Philip’s gaze turned more affectionate as the arrows of Cupid shot him right through the heart. “I shall. I, Philip, promise to respect and cherish Mary like nobody else.” 

Of Ferdinand’s age, Philip and the emperor were several years younger than the King of France. With few wrinkles around his eyes and his mouth, Philip was in his mid-forties. Yet, Carlos had been only slightly younger when they had married. To Mary who was now a little over thirty, the duke was attractive and, fortunately, not as broad as the late English monarch had been.

Maybe I’ll have another baby, Mary dreamed wordlessly. Anne Boleyn gave King François several children when she was older. The emperor’s spies in Spain kept Mary informed about her son’s life, but the pain that she would probably never see Juan again tortured her every day.

“I declare you husband and wife,” pronounced the priest.

Mary and Philip surveyed two doves positioned on the top of St Paul’s statue. At present, they were like these birds – a perfect whole tied to each other permanently.

“Congratulations!” affirmed Empress Marguerite, exchanging glances with her husband.

Like his consort, Emperor Ferdinand remembered their own wedding in Florence. “Philip, I’ve given you the jewel of the Austrian Habsburg family. Treat her as the empress of your heart!”

Philip bowed in obeisance and confirmation. “Don’t doubt it, Your Imperial Majesty.” 

“I don’t.” Ferdinand supplemented, “Mary will be a capable co-monarch for you.” 

Mary regarded her cousin cheerfully. “I hope so.” 

Philip kissed Mary’s hand. “Mary is my queen, wife, and co-ruler!” 

Andreas Osiander exclaimed, “God bless the bride and bridegroom!” 

Juana and Ferdinand’s children intoned, “For the Duke and Duchess of Palatinate-Neuburg!” 

As they exited the chapel laughing, Mary was smitten by a sense of incredible exhilaration. Perhaps few could understand her sentiments. Having experienced a lot of heartache during her father’s reign in England, Spain, Flanders, and Italy, she had lost faith in happiness and her chance at love, believing that she had been doomed to never know the sweet taste of true love, the soothing touch of her beloved’s lips over hers, the ambrosial kiss of mutual passion.

Sauntering down the nave, Mary was filled with ethereal lightness that splashed across her countenance, accelerated her footsteps, and widened her grin. This feeling was more cherished by her than one that was so desired by choreographers of a nice court dance. Philip, her new husband, was Mary’s matrimonial temple, and she prayed that he would not disappoint her in any way.

“I adore you, Philip,” the Duchess of Palatinate told her spouse.

The duke answered, “I love you more than my next breathe, Mary.”   

As they exited the church, the glorious blaze of the morning sun blinded the couple and the small assemblage, its rays stretching the arms towards them. Mary’s laughter swelled grandly on the breeze, and her heart thrilled with rapture like one that angels from paradise could feel. The collective laughter of the newlyweds rang through the air like the intoxicating chanson of freedom, and it seemed to Mary that every human being was singing a hymn of her rebirth in chorus.


September 16, 1549, Château de Chenonceau, Loire Valley, France

Morning light leaked into the study through the windows that overlooked the stunning ornate gardens. Everything in the room was paneled in rich wood the color of light mahogany, matching pieces of polished, ornately carved furniture to perfection. The lofty walls and the vaulted ceiling were frescoed with scenes from ancient works of Virgil, Homer, Horace, and Ovid.

The King and Queen of France, Dauphin Henri and Dowager Queen Marguerite of Navarre sat at a table piled with parchments, scrolls, ledgers, and quills. Since the return of the royal couple from Calais and Italy, the four of them governed the country. While François and Anne were mostly involved in international affairs, Marguerite and the dauphin together administered the internal policies – this was the most effective sharing of functions for them all.

At present, the Valois court resided at Château de Chenonceau in the Loire Valley. In 1535, King François had seized the castle from the Bohier family for unpaid debts to the crown. Several years ago, the ruler had bestowed it upon his wife, Queen Anne. After the poisoning of Françoise de Foix and the late Henri of Navarre’s illegitimate offspring at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, the ruler of France had transferred the household of the Valois children to this castle.

Anne de Montmorency was also seated at the table. His wife, Marie de Montmorency, was the French queen’s chief lady-in-waiting. Their daughters, Marie and Christine, were being raised with the Valois children. Montmorency’s sons with Madeleine de Savoy, who had been executed for treason – they were François, Henri, Charles, Gabriel, and Guillaume – were also members of the princes’ households, with François and Henri being Prince Augustine’s companions.

Montmorency broached the subject that worried the entirety of France. “Your Majesties, I’d like to again request that Catherine de’ Medici is put to death in public.” 

King François shook his head. “Monty, that harpy will always be imprisoned.” 

With a sigh of frustration, Dauphin Henri stressed, “Until her dying day.” 

Montmorency persevered, “That demoness is dangerous as long as she lives.” 

Dowager Queen Marguerite fidgeted with a quill. “I agree with Monty.” 

“She deserves all the worst,” concurred Queen Anne.

Henri’s tortured orbs looked over them like a bunch of thorns. “Don’t you think that I do not want to be free of that she-devil? Most of all I wish to marry my beloved Marie de Bourbon. But I shall never traumatize my children so dreadfully – I love them too much.”    

The monarch drummed his fingers along the table agitatedly. “My grandchildren are the only reason why their mother is still breathing. Once they grow up and begin to understand the gravity of her crimes, we will discuss the matter of Catherine’s execution again.”   

The dauphin nodded. “Thank you, Father.” 

François permitted a wan smile to grace his features. “Son, I can do anything for you and my family. Even it means Catherine’s survival for some time.” 

Montmorency, Marguerite, and Anne sighed. Presentiment slithered into their veins.

§§§

François and Henri peered at each other as their minds floated back to the drama around ‘the Florentine demoness,’ as Catherine was labelled in the Valois realm and in Europe.

In the winter of 1548, the sovereigns of France had come back to their kingdom from Calais. During their triumphal entrée into Paris, they had been welcomed like the most legendary heroes of the era. Thousands of citizens had traveled to the city in order to catch a glimpse of their king who had prevailed against all odds. The whole country had celebrated the return of their much-loved Knight-King, also thanking him for restoring Calais to the French ownership.

The jubilation had been overshadowed by the scandal around Catherine de’ Medici. Having convened the Estates-General, François had greeted members of French Parliament and announced his new reforms of the economic and fiscal systems. The ruler had apprised that each and every person suspected of having been his daughter-in-law’s accomplices would be prosecuted.  

Poets called the first month after the king’s arrival ‘The bloody days of justice.’ More than five hundred men of different ranks, all accused of conspiracy against the House of Valois, had suffered punishment. Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli and Jean de Montgomery, as well as Catherine’s ladies-in-waiting – Maddalena Bonajusti and Lucrezia Cavalcanti – and her Florentine astrologers – Cosimo and Lorenzo Ruggieri – had been executed by écartèlement, which was dismemberment by four horses, at the Place de Grève in front of bloodthirsty crowds.

The royal family had also attended those executions. Their countenances warped in tremors of eternal hatred, François and Henri had observed how Montecuccoli and Montgomery had been torn to pieces by four horses galloping into four different directions. The cruel écartèlement was a traditional French manner of execution reserved for regicides, which was the only right way to send those villains who had murdered two Valois princes to the netherworld.

All of the other accomplices – those who were proved to have conspired with the dauphine and those who were suspected of that – had been disposed of. François and Henri had insisted that no one should be spared, although some of the arrested people, perhaps some servants, could have been innocent. No mercy had been shown at all. I killed all of them, François mused without compunction. I had to make my relatives safe. Paris had been drowning in treacherous blood for two weeks. Those days had been tinged in hues of dark satisfaction for the Valois family.

The French population had welcomed the destruction of the numerous enemies of the ruling dynasty. Given Catherine’s dreadful crimes, the brutality displayed in the capital had not harmed François’ reputation of the chivalrous Knight-King. The sovereigns of France had received letters of support from many rulers, even Felipe II of Spain, who had also expressed their condolences on the deaths of the late Dauphin François and the late Prince Charles, Duke d’Orléans.

After the end of Catherine’s posse, the royals had traveled to Château de Chenonceau.

In an anguished voice, Dauphin Henri declared, “I shall never forget the meeting with my children at Chenonceau after the executions in Paris, about which they learned from servants.” 

The ruler murmured dolefully, “How can this moment be forgotten?” 

Marguerite continued, “I expected Catherine’s offspring to display understanding.” 

François added, “To be less resistant towards my decision of Catherine’s death.” 

Anne pointed out, “Yes, but they are too small to comprehend everything.” 

Henri contemplated the fresco of Virgil’s Aeneas reunion with his descendants, Romulus and Remus, in the underworld. “Catherine rarely visited them, but they love her. To know that their father sent their mother to her grave would have made them hate me until Doomsday.” 

The king and the dauphin traded glances of infinite suffering.

Remembrances of this encounter after the happenings in Paris blazed through their minds. Henri and François had gathered the children together. Each of them tragically solemn, Prince François, Princess Claude, as well as the twins Prince Charles and Prince Alexandre Édouard had been thunderstruck; only the one-year-old Princess Élisabeth had not been brought there.

A boy of four, Prince François had never before looked more pathetic. “My mother cannot die! How will I live without her?” Tears had suffused his eyes. “I might die with her!”  

The three-year-old Princess Claude had sobbed, “Her Highness is our mother regardless of what she did! We cannot stop loving her! If you kill her, we will not forgive you!” 

François and Henri had approached the distraught creatures, who had backed away from them, tears flowing out of their orbs like salty rivers. The king and the dauphin had deciphered in the children’s orbs such colossal despair that their souls had writhed in throes of mental agony.

“Grandpa and Father,” Claude had hissed. “You cannot deprive us of our mother!” 

The monarch had explained softly, “Claude, your mother committed crimes against France and our family. She killed my two sons – your Uncles François and Charles.” 

The dauphin had spelled out, “My daughter, your mama destroyed my brothers and tried to kill your grandfather, our sovereign.” He had slanted a glance at his father. “She also attempted to dispose of Queen Anne and your uncles – Augustine, Jean, Antoine, and Lorenzo.” 

The king had stated, “Regicide is a horrible crime.”    

Prince François had sobbed out, “We have never seen Uncles François and Charles.” 

Princess Claude, momentarily confused, had affirmed, “We love Augustine, Jean, Antoine, and Lorenzo, living together and playing with them every day. But our mother cannot be so evil!” 

Henri had noted, “We cannot place Augustine, Jean, Antoine, and Lorenzo in peril.” 

However, Prince François had broken into heart-rending sobs. “My mama! She will be torn to pieces by horses! That is what servants whisper about her! I’ll not survive!” 

Princess Claude had snapped, “You cannot do such an awful thing to our mother!” She had glared between her adult male relatives. “If you murder her, we shall hate you forever!” 

Prince Charles, who had been silent so far, had intervened, “I want my mama!” Normally, he was outspoken, but on that occasion, he had been too shocked. “Don’t want her dead!”

Prince Alexandre, who like his twin was a boy of three, moaned, “Please no!”

The twins Charles and Alexandre were different. Alexandre was more robust and healthier, and his mood was quite stable. However, Prince Charles often had terrible mood swings, which frightened others, and his health was not as robust as it had seemed after his birth.

For some time, the King of France had watched his son trying to calm all of his children. Yet, Henri’s words had only driven them into a deeper state of depression.

The ruler had stated, “Henri, I’ll let Catherine live if we have her imprisoned for the rest of her life, provided that you agree to sacrifice your freedom. Your marriage cannot be annulled, and even if we accomplish it, your offspring will become illegitimate. The choice is yours.” 

Dauphin Henri had consented, “Father, my children are precious to me.” 

The monarch had asked again, “Are you sure, son? Think again.” 

Henri had nodded. “I cannot cause my little darlings such pain.” His gaze had drifted to the weeping Charles, Claude, and François. “I love you all more than I loathe your mother.” 

The king had stressed, “Grandchildren! Your father is sacrificing his life for you.” 

Prince François had choked out, “Thank you.” 

Princess Claude had brightened. “Jailed? What does that mean?” 

“Mama,” had muttered Charles, scrubbing his tears away.

“I want my mama!” Alexandre lisped. “She loves me.” He remembered how Catherine had been kind to him – kinder than to his siblings – when she rarely visited their household.

Henri had elucidated, “Your mother will be incarcerated forever. You will never see her again. When I succeed your grandfather – may the Lord send him a long reign – I shall not release her, for there is nothing that can absolve her evil soul for what she did to all of us.” 

Catherine de’ Medici was still confined to her small, dirty, damp cell at the Grand Châtelet in Paris. Upon the orders of her husband and the king, one of her legs and one of her hands were chained to the wall, restricting her mobility completely so that she could not escape and even move inside her dungeon. The jailors treated her like the lowest wretched prisoner who had perpetrated a crime worthy of capital punishment, but whose sentence had been commuted.

I want that beastly Jezebel of a wife dead, Dauphin Henri grumbled silently. His animosity towards his spouse would never fade away – it was embedded solidly into the fabrics of his entire being, just as his love for his offspring was. Henri had visited Catherine at the Bastille only once in order to enjoy her most miserable state, and she had promised that she would always plague him. In response, Henri had slapped his wife across her face and stormed out.

The monarch contemplated the fresco of Romulus murdering Remus in cold blood. “Henri, I adore my grandchildren. Nonetheless, deep down I’m afraid that they inherited Catherine’s traits through her blood. Every day I pray that they will be honorable and kind in adulthood.” 

The prince confessed, “Sometimes, I have the same fear when looking at them.” 

Anne caught her husband’s melancholic gaze. “Their characters are only being shaped now. If we raise them with the right values, they will become good people.” 

Marguerite shivered from her nephew’s bad thoughts. “I do not even wish to think that your three sons, Henri, can be capable of killing each other, like Romulus and Remus.”

The dauphin’s chuckle was bitter. “No, they are not. In the first place, it is so because let’s be honest: nobody expects that my frail son, François, will live into adulthood.” 

The king discerned grief in the dauphin’s brown pools. “Don’t torment yourself, Henri.” 

Montmorency empathized with the prince. “Your Highness, listen to His Majesty.” 

Marguerite, however, quoted, “As Socrates sagaciously said, ‘for anything that men can tell, death may be the greatest good that can happen to them.’ It will be as God wills it.”  

“I’ve voiced what we all know,” contradicted Henri with resignation. “Charles may become King of France, provided that he remains healthy. Or Alexandre and Augustine.” 

Everyone’s orbs flew to the Queen of France, who sat silent and thoughtful.

Anne asserted, “Horace claimed that ‘pale death beats equally at the poor man’s gate and at the palaces of kings.’ He was perfectly right: anyone can die of anything anytime.”  She paused to collect her thoughts. “Only the Almighty decides who will rule or not.” 

François quizzed, “Do you remember what else Horace said about death?” 

As the others nodded, Montmorency verbalized the great Roman writer’s words.

I shall not wholly die, and a great part of me will escape the grave. Cuts off so many years of fearing death. One night is awaiting us all, and the way of death must be trodden once.

Montmorency underlined, “As long as that Gorgon is alive, she will pose a threat to us.” 

François allayed, “Now Catherine is guarded like no other prisoner. All of her accomplices are dead. When my grandchildren grow up a little, maybe their reaction will be different.” 

“Hardly,” the Constable of France muttered.

“Indeed, Father.” Henri’s sigh was so deep that the others felt it across the table. “From one side, the demoness’ imprisonment is an excellent thing. Life in such horrible conditions, in shame and beyond any capacity to regain what she lost, is the most torturous punishment for her.” 

Marguerite’s scrutiny flew to the fresco portraying Tartarus. “Homer’s Tartarus is worse than the hell of any Christian, and so is Catherine’s incarceration.” 

Anne quoted, “According to Horace, ‘We are but dust and shadow.’ That woman, fanatical and cruel beyond belief, will always remain in the most opaque shadows.” 

François stood up. “Enough of her! Or my spirits will plummet.” 

Marguerite climbed to her feet. “You are right, brother.” 

“Should we go meet with the Spanish ambassador?” Anne rose as well.

The king’s mind drifted to politics. “Yes. Now.” 

The dauphin took one of the ledgers. “I’ll continue working.” 

Nodding at his son, François invited, “Monty, let’s go with us.” 

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Montmorency then stood up.

The monarch and the two queens, as well as the duke exited.

Dauphin Henri scanned through the ledgers, but his musings churned. He did not believe seers, but the words spoken to him by Catherine’s astrologers were still ringing in his ears like sharp, clanging bells. He had shared them only with his Aunt Marguerite, who had encouraged him not to think about such things, but he had noticed her shock and fear.  

They both tumble to the floor, the father’s wounds countless. The son heroically dies next.

This prediction was continuously tearing his skull apart, like the most horrendous headache, from which Henri could not find any cure. Could someone still wish for his father and his deaths? Why had those astrologers declared that François and he would depart from the world of the living in this gruesome fashion? Would they fall on the battlefield? Now peace reigned in France!

Henri’s brain reproduced their other prophesy: ‘Prince Augustine! After all the trials and tribulations, he will usher the county into a new Golden Age, which will later be destroyed and again restored by one of his descendants.’ Henri wanted to succeed his father and become King of France, but the dauphin also respected the Almighty’s will and trusted the Creator.

The prince said to himself, “Augustine would make a great king if God wills it.” 

§§§

The Valois spouses and the monarch’s sister, as well as Anne de Montmorency, Constable of France, entered the presence chamber. The Flemish ambassador already expected them.

King François began sardonically, “Good morning, Monsieur de Granvelle. Why are you gloomy? Isn’t the weather nice outside? Or does our merry court disgust you as always?” 

Now forced to use a cane, Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle was older than the king. Having spent many years at the Valois court, he had not grown to respect the French. After the demise of Emperor Carlos, Granvelle despised the House of Valois above all things, praying that one day, Felipe of Spain would avenge what King François and Emperor Ferdinand had done to his father.

That damned Valois pagan, fumed Granvelle wordlessly. How much I wish that he and that accursed Ferdinand were killed at Marignano. Clad in a doublet of orange satin, like inquisitorial flames, he furrowed his brows before schooling his features into indifference.

The diplomat performed a reluctant, yet not shallow, bow. “Your Majesties, I’ve requested an audience to discuss the possible marriage of His Majesty King Felipe of Spain to Queen Jeanne of Navarre. We also want to offer you a new trade agreement beneficial for our kingdoms.” 

In 1543, Felipe II of Spain, the only surviving male heir of Emperor Carlos and his consort Isabella of Portugal, had married his first cousin – Maria Manuela, Princess of Portugal. However, in 1545 his wife had passed away several days after having given birth to their son, Carlos.

Ferdinand II of Aragon had invaded Navarre with Castilian troops in 1512, having annexed part of the small, mountainous kingdom to Spain with an ambiguous status. Years later, Emperor Carlos had suggested ending hostilities with King Henri II of Navarre by marrying Felipe off to his only heiress, Jeanne. However, the House of Valois had categorically repudiated this offer, and for years, Navarre’s independence was safeguarded and guaranteed by France.

After Henri II of Navarre’s death in 1546, Dowager Queen Marguerite governed Navarre as her daughter’s regent. There were no wars in France and Navarre, so both countries waited until Jeanne was prepared to rule on her own, although she already helped her mother in many cases. Marguerite and Jeanne visited Navarre twice a year so that her subjects could see their queen.

As his proposal was met with silence, Granvelle continued, “My sovereign wants to procure peace with France and Navarre. This marriage would provide a dynastic solution to instability in Navarre, which is now ruled by Your Majesty Queen Marguerite as regent.” 

“That Flemish accent,” spat François, irritated. “You still have it.” 

Lifting his chin proudly, Granvelle touched the collar of the Order of the Golden Fleece around his neck. “I’ve always been and shall always remain Flemish through and through.” 

Marguerite huffed, “Don’t you want to leave for Flanders?” 

Anne put in, “After all, you hate everything in our country and us, although we have treated you well, Monsieur de Granvelle, disregarding your attitude to us.” 

“In the most diplomatic way,” Montmorency chimed in.

Grenville glared with endless animosity at the man who had killed his master at Marignano. “Montmorency, you are a murderer of Emperor Carlos! You will burn in hell!” 

Montmorency shrugged. “At least, I rescued Emperor Ferdinand.” 

François jested, “Your Flemish soul has resisted the French gallantry. Yet, I’ve heard that Felipe of Spain is a great patron of the arts. Did your master refuse to let you leave our country because your rudeness is even worse than Spanish gloominess?  

Anne’s mouth twitched in mockery. “Ah, Monsieur de Granvelle! Such unpardonable lapse of manners! Don’t you know that manners are a mirror in which we see our portraits?” 

Marguerite spoke sardonically. “Monsieur de Granvelle does not understand simple truths. The measure of good manners is how you treat those who do not have any.” 

Granvelle regarded his late sovereign’s enemies with hostility. “No one has the right to kill a foreign monarch. At least your poets do not pen sonnets about the tragedy at Marignano.” 

The king attacked, “Was it right that Carlos wanted to have me burned?” 

In spite of his desire to cry ‘Yes!’ the ambassador remained silent.

Since the battle of Marignano of 1547, Anne de Montmorency and Claude d’Annebault were absolutely adored by the French nobles and populace. For many years Emperor Carlos had been considered a sworn enemy to the nation, so everybody rejoiced in his demise. Montmorency and Annebault were hailed as heroes of France and saviors of Emperor Ferdinand. However, François had forbidden his artists writing anything derogatory about Carlos. Regardless of their negative sentiments towards the late emperor, it would reflect badly upon the Valois dynasty.

The monarch stated with finality, “Carlos fell in battle.” 

Granvelle riposted, “Your Majesty, it was the assassination of a foreign monarch. It–” 

“Enough with this nonsense,” François cut him off. “As for your proposal, you may remind your master that my niece, Jeanne, is betrothed to my son, Augustine. Their marriage will happen in five years. Then Augustine and Jeanne will rule Navarre together.” 

Marguerite cried vehemently, “Navarre will never be ruled by a Spaniard!” 

Anne jested darkly, “Emperor Carlos left Spain with a debt of about thirty million ducats. Shouldn’t your master focus on his realm’s financial troubles instead of developing his rapacious appetites for more territories? Does he want more lands to have them drown in debt?” 

François, Marguerite, and Montmorency snickered in unison.

Everyone was aware of Spain’s almost bankruptcy, as well as the instability in Flanders and Felipe’s other domains. Although Felipe was not involved in any campaigns, his realm was not solvent despite the gold and riches from the New World flowing into his coffers. Most of them were allocated to the needs of his courts, as well as the repayment of Spain’s old obligations.

The king regarded the diplomat with an air of superiority. “Felipe is neither Ferdinand’s nor mine friend. The lack of stable relationships with us harms Spain, although commercial relations between our countries have not ceased. Thus, despite his personal enmity with Ferdinand and me, Felipe is ready to swallow his pride for the sake of his vast holdings.”    

Anne laughed acridly. “How commendable!” 

Everyone, save a furious Granvelle, burst out laughing.

Marguerite asked forthrightly, “Does he want an alliance?” 

Granvelle barely stifled his anger. “Yes, His Majesty does.” 

“Not through Jeanne’s union with Felipe,” the king replied with finality. “There is no crisis of succession in Navarre. Pay more attention to what you say, Monsieur de Granville.”   

Marguerite advised with artificial politeness, “Our dear Burgundian friend, write down your offer regarding the new trade agreement and give it to my secretary. We shall consider it.” 

Grenville conceded, “As Your Majesties wish.” 

The monarch kissed his wife’s hand. “Should we go to our children, wife?” 

“Of course,” the Valois queen answered. “Let’s make Jeanne and Augustine laugh when we tell them about this. After all, they have spent the whole morning practicing languages.” 

The ambassador utterly abhorred Anne. “I wish them all the best.” 

Marguerite taunted, “From your mouth lies sound worse than the sound of broken lute.” 

“But he cannot play,” supplemented Montmorency.

Grenville bowed stiffly. “Your Majesties.” He despised them all wholeheartedly.

Without a backward glance, the royals and the constable strutted towards the exit.

§§§

“This man has no shame!” Queen Marguerite exclaimed as they turned into a corridor.

Queen Anne was seething as well. “Grenville shall never get what he wants.” 

“Why should we even discuss it?” an annoyed François enquired. “Let’s not spoil our mood. We have long resolved that Augustine will wed Jeanne once he turns fourteen.” 

Marguerite wondered, “Does Felipe of Spain really want this alliance?” 

Her brother speculated, “I think so. For some time, for it would be beneficial for him.” 

“Write to Ferdinand,” suggested the ruler’s sister.

“Naturally.” François did not believe that Felipe would ever forget his father’s death. “The enmity between the Spanish Habsburgs and the Valois will not die anytime soon.” 

Anne assumed, “However, they might ally in the distant future though.” 

They reached another hallway adorned with statues of heroes from Homer’s Iliad, where a group of courtiers gathered. Among them, there was a new English ambassador to France – Sir Nicholas Throckmorton. The Marquess of Exeter, who now governed the Tudor realm as Lord Protector during the minority of King Edward VI, had sent him to the Valois court.

At the sight of the royals who halted beside them, everyone dropped into bows.

Nicholas Throckmorton commenced, “Good morning, Your Majesties.” 

His manners impeccable, the English diplomat had a pleasant countenance with noble brows, smart and good-humored eyes, as well as his head full of strawberry blonde hair. Dressed in a doublet of brown satin, puffed high at the shoulders, sleeves slashed to reveal his yellow shirt, Throckmorton was far more liked by the French than Sir Nicholas Wotton.

The King of France affirmed, “Sir Nicholas, send our sincere greetings to His Majesty King Edward and Lord Exeter. Thank the Lord Protector for signing our new treaty.” 

The Treaty of Troyes of 1549 had been signed between England and France a year and a half ago after the ejection of English forces from Calais. It established the alliance between the two realms and recognized French ownership of the city without France’s payment to England.

Throckmorton answered graciously, “I shall pass everything on to them.” 

The Valois queen inquired, “When will my daughter, Elizabeth, come?” 

The ambassador notified, “Lord Exeter ordered to assemble the magnificent retinue for Her Highness and to prepare for her upcoming journey to France. She will be able to stay with Your Majesties for as long as she wishes. The Earl of Devon will arrive with her.” 

Anne’s whole being radiated joy. “That is amazing!” 

Marguerite was happy for her sister-in-law. “All will be well, Anne.” 

François asserted, “We will be most pleased to welcome Princess Elizabeth at our court.”

Throckmorton elaborated, “Her Highness will depart with her entourage soon after King Edward comes to court, which is currently living at Greenwich Palace.”  

Edward the Sixth, Anne snarled silently. The mere sound of this name makes me angry. She dreamed of her dearest Lizzy becoming Queen of England, detesting the boy without having ever seen him. It was enough for Anne to know about King Edward’s excessive arrogance and his propensity to self-indulgence and merrymaking instead of being concentrated on his studies.

After her father’s passing, Exeter had given Elizabeth permanent lodgings at court. For the most part, she had lived at court during the past year and a half, also often visiting Hever Castle. According to her letters, Lizzy and Exeter’s son, Edward Courtenay, had found common ground because they were both fond of books and education. Exeter stayed true to his word: there was no pressure on his part on the Tudor princess to make any decision concerning the betrothal.

The Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Surrey governed England together with Exeter with Norfolk as Lord Chancellor and Surrey as his chief advisor. Thanks to the Howards’ alliance with the Marquess of Exeter, now the English court was in equilibrium, although no lowborn men, hardworking and smart such as Cromwell and Wolsey, were allowed to build a prominent political career. Exeter and the Howards reckoned that the leadership belonged only to old nobility.

The diplomat regarded the royals. “Lord Exeter also sends the promises of his friendship for as long as it is possible.” He lowered his voice. “As long as he controls the realm.” 

Anne, Marguerite, and François tipped their heads. Marguerite was aware that her brother and her sister-in-law had the late King Henry poisoned, and why they had acted so.

François admitted, “That’s understandable, Sir Nicholas.” 

Throckmorton whispered, “Hopefully, King Edward will favor the alliance with France.” 

“Indeed.” François shared somewhat doubtful glances with his female relatives.

The ambassador swept a bow. “How else can I serve Your Majesties?” 

Marguerite jested, “Just don’t be like that loathsome and boring Granvelle.” 

“Never, Your Majesties.” Throckmorton could not help but snigger.

A collective laughter erupted from them. Granvelle was not liked at court at all, just as no Spaniard was. At the same time, France’s alliance with Emperor Ferdinand was popular among the French, although he was also a Habsburg. Ferdinand’s role in the salvation of the Knight-King made everyone consider the late emperor’s brother a noble knight and Carlos’ victim.

On the way to a presence chamber, Marguerite broached a worrisome subject, “Brother, you are generous to the descendants of Claude de Lorraine. Why did you permit François de Lorraine, the current Duke de Guise, to marry our niece, Anne d’Este? I was against it!”

Queen Anne shivered. “Husband, you made a mistake.”

King François stopped and pivoted to the two women. “It is necessary to try and heal the rift between Claude’s descendants and our family. Do you understand?”

Anne and Marguerite shared anxious glances and sighed.

The monarch strode away towards the presence chamber, and they followed.

The King of France had approved several marriages for the members of the House of Guise. The marriage of Claude, Duke d’Aumale, to Louise de Brézé, the daughter of Louis de Brézé, Seigneur d’Anet, and Diane de Poitiers, which had taken place in 1547. Now the ruler permitted the marriage between François de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, with Anne d’Este, who would arrive in France soon. The private ceremony would take place at Château de Joinville.

The latter union was aimed at improving the horrible relationship between the Houses of Guise and of Valois. On condition that Duke François de Guise and Anne d’Este would live in the countryside and would not come to court without special summons. During all this time, the House of Lorraine, which included the descendants of Antoine, Duke de Lorraine, and ruled the Duchy of Lorraine, remained neutral. The Lorrainers did not participate in any of the Guises’ plots.

§§§

The day ended in the royal nursery where the most recent addition to the Valois family was wailing at the top of his lungs. Prince Louis, Duke d’Alençon, had been born in the summer of 1549, the fifth son of King François and Queen Anne. Louis’s birth had been widely celebrated.

After the nurses had re-swaddled and fed the infant, the little Louis was sleeping in the arms of his mother. “François, just look at our son! He resembles me, not you!” 

The king sat on an ochre-brocaded couch next to his wife. Looking at their son, he uttered in a little sad voice, “This boy looks like my ancestor whom I’ve always revered – Louis de Valois, Duke d’Orléans and the younger brother of King Charles the Sixth who was mad.”

Anne recalled, “Poor Louis was murdered in the most brutal way upon the orders of his Burgundian cousin who caused many troubles to France. The Hundred Years’ War…”

François emitted a sigh. “Jean the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy… He is also my ancestor, but I curse him. I’ve always ordered Masses for Louis and Valentine Visconti, his wife.”

Anne placed a kiss on the baby’s cheek. “Their love story and lives were tragic.” 

“Indeed. Valentine and Louis were both blue-eyed and blonde. So, not all the Valois have a swarthy complexion, mon amour. Augustine might have inherited their features with my eyes.”

Prince Louis, who was only three months old, was a chubby infant with rosy cheeks, his eyes blue. Like Augustine, he had some blonde hair on his head, but a pallid complexion.

Anne spoke. “I’m glad that we honored your ancestor who had such a grievous fate. Louis and Valentine deserve to be remembered, so we will name our next daughter Valentine.”

“Yes, it would be good to have a daughter with this name.”

The queen asked, “You are no longer afraid for the future of the dynasty, are you?” 

The king leaned forward and captured her lips with his. Pulling away, he averred, “Thanks to you, mon amour, my fears disappeared a long time ago – after Antoine’s birth.” 

The queen’s mind drifted to the Capetian dynasty. “King Philippe the Fair of France known as the Iron King had many sons, but none of them had a long life and left male heirs.” 

The monarch shook his head. “Anne! The Lord and we will protect our children.” 

Anne nodded at her husband. Looking at their son sleeping in her arms, she felt at peace. A sense of triumph overcame her, stronger than even the one she had felt when her other sons were born. I regret that Henry the Beast cannot know that, Anne told herself. Yet, her victorious feeling had been superseded by sorrowful disbelief when Anne remembered the prophecies of the Ruggeri brothers who she had briefly met in Paris that only two of her sons would have long lives. 

Notes:

The new chapter is up! Please let us know what you think of this chapter, and don’t forget to leave reviews so that we can discuss twists and turns in this chapter.

We hope that fans of Mary Tudor, Dowager Empress, are happy to see her remarried. She wishes to forget her first loveless marriage to the late Emperor Carlos, although she is of course sad that she is unlikely to see her son, Infante Juan of Spain, anytime soon. We planned to give Mary a second chance for happiness with Philip of Palatinate-Neuburg, who was one of her suitors in history and some shows. We hope that you like the romance between Mary and Philip in this fiction, although we showed their relationship largely off-screen and jumped to their marriage.

Juana of Castile will spend the rest of her life in Vienna with Emperor Ferdinand and her family. Later we will see Anne and François of France traveling to Vienna as they will bring their daughter, Aimée of France, to Austria for her wedding to Archduke Maximilian of Austria. Infanta Maria of Spain, Maximilian’s historical wife, died in the previous chapters in this alternate reality because we just don’t need her. Later, we shall see the children of Emperor Ferdinand with his two wives – Anna of Bohemia and Hungary, and Marguerite de Valois of France.

Catherine de’ Medici is incarcerated at the Bastille, which was a famous French state prison and a place of detention for important persons charged with various offenses. Those who read the prologue to a sequel to CWL ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ know that Catherine will be jailed for a long time before she is released and even becomes an ally to Anne and Augustine de Valois. There will be more information about Catherine’s imprisonment in the years to come. We hope that the episode with Catherine’s children begging to spare their mother’s life help you understand why she remains alive and incarcerated. Moreover, we have long decided that we need Catherine alive during the religious wars because they would not have been interesting without her.

Catherine’s accomplices were executed by écartèlement, which was often applied in France at the time to whose who were accused of regicide. Anne Boleyn briefly saw the Ruggeri brothers in Paris before their executions, and she gets bad predictions from them, so even though Anne now has another son, she cannot help but feel worried. Jeanne and Augustine will get married when he turns fourteen, as it was decided a long time ago. Elizabeth Tudor will soon come to France, and we will have some wonderful scenes between Anne, Bess, and other French characters. There will be enough drama in the remaining chapters of CWL, so stay tuned.

Château de Chenonceau belongs to the crown of France and Queen Anne in particular. You may google it – it is truly a magnificent place. The Augustinian Church where we have Mary Tudor marry Philip of Bavaria in Vienna is a parish church located on Josefsplatz, next to the Hofburg, the winter palace of the Habsburg dynasty in Vienna.

Attention! A while ago, we posted a prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 91: Chapter 90: The Mother and Daughter Reunion

Summary:

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Elizabeth Tudor is reunited with her mother, Queen Anne. Elizabeth has formed a close relationship with her half-siblings, except for Augustine. Bess’ fiancé – Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon – is now in France, just as the Dudley family members are now. In Tuscany, the Percy spouses think of going back to England.

Notes:

Attention! The prologue to the sequel 'Chained by Blood and Power' (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don't forget about our work "Entwined by a Golden Alliance" co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 90: The Mother and Daughter Reunion

June 5, 1550, Château de Chenonceau, near Chenonceaux, Loire Valley, France

The bluish and gray light of dawn filtered into the Queen of France’s antechamber. No one was sleeping at this early hour because the queen’s labor had finished less than an hour ago. It had lasted for about two days, and panic had escalated within the walls of the whole castle.

“How is my wife?” asked King François, his visage immensely worried.

Doctor Amboise Paré answered, “Your Majesty, the queen lost a lot of blood.”

The monarch shuddered at the thought of Anne’s probable demise. “But why was it so? None of her previous labors and pregnancies had been as difficult as this one was.”

Paré explained at length. “Her Majesty is no longer young. Although her monthly courses are still coming, she should not conceive again, or her life might be placed in grave peril.”

“It means that Valentine is our last child,” François concluded.  

Feeling unwell, Queen Anne had spent most of her pregnancy confined to her suite, so the Valois court had been staying at Chenonceau for months. Contrary to custom, Doctor Amboise Paré had attended the queen’s delivery because Anne’s life had been hanging in the balance during her ordeal. Her sister, Marie de Montmorency, and Marguerite of Navarre had not left the queen’s side. Fortunately, Anne had given birth to a healthy baby girl before passing out.

Paré noted, “Your Majesty, I beg your pardon, but there are ways to prevent pregnancy –herbs and withdrawal, even though the Church is against these methods.”

The king nodded. “My wife and I will be extremely careful from now onwards.”

A moment later, Dowager Queen Marguerite of Navarre exited the bedroom.

Marguerite reported, “Anne briefly regained her consciousness, but now she is asleep.”

Paré inquired, “Did Your Majesty give the queen some sleeping draught?”  

The monarch’s sister approached. “Yes, Monsieur Paré. We did as you said.”

The physician was relieved. “Queen Anne will sleep for many hours.”

The ruler glanced at the mural depicting the goddess Hera with her offspring fathered by Zeus. “Thank you very much for what you did for my wife and family, Monsieur Paré.” 

“Everything will be well.” Paré strove to ease his liege lord’s concerns. “I recommend that after your spouse’s recovery, you abstain from conjugal relations for six months.”

François nodded. “I shall do anything for Anne. Her health must be safeguarded.”

Marguerite put a soothing hand on her brother’s shoulder. “Naturally. She is our Anne!” 

At last, the king let out a smile. “Yes, she is Anne Boleyn. That means everything.”

Smiling at the royals, Amboise Paré bowed and went out into the antechamber.

Marguerite said, “I’ll go make an announcement about Valentine’s birth.”

François surveyed her with worry. “Thank you, sister. You also need to rest.”

Marguerite observed, “I’m not the only one who looks like a tottering edifice now.”

The king’s orbs twinkled. “I shall stay with Anne for some time.”    

§§§

His heart still leaden with terror, King François entered his wife’s bedchamber. The room had already been cleaned, and most of the ladies-in-waiting had left to let their mistress rest.

Her features exhausted, Queen Anne looked fragile like a crystal figurine, resting upon a huge bed with a canopy of ruby red and gold brocade. At Château de Chenonceau, the queen’s quarters were decorated in burgundy and gold, from the wall tapestries depicting mythological scenes to beddings and upholsteries of the finest, costly furniture made of dark oak.

François seated himself by the bed in an armchair adorned with foliage leaves and with the tapering, fluted legs. He watched his wife’s chest fall and rise as she breathed calmly. Anne’s dark hair, which had no streaks of gray, cascaded in waves down her shoulders, gently framing her face, making her pallor and traces of fatigue stand out even more. The king’s heart tightened: he had never seen his Anne so vulnerable! Gracious Lord, do not take my Anne from me…   

He grabbed her hand and kissed it. “Mon amour, you must live for me!” He kissed it again. “For our children who need their mother! We all need you!” Tears moistened his orbs.

Duchess Marie de Montmorency spoke quietly. “Your Majesty, Anne will cope.”

François turned to his sister-in-law. Marie stood next to the gilded crib where the newborn princess lay; she remained with the queen in case Anne awoke and requested something.

The monarch strode over to the crib. “How is our daughter, Madame de Montmorency?”

“The little princess is healthy and asleep.” Marie admired the infant.

The king stopped near the crib. Little Valentine did not look like her parents at all: she had taken more after her Howard relatives. All of a sudden, the infant’s eyes fluttered open, and Valentine’s hazy, cerulean blue eyes stared at her father in amazement. The baby girl had a pale complexion, her small and delicate countenance framed by a tuft of flaxen hair.

Elation rushed through François. “She is so bonny!”

Marie commented, “Valentine has taken after our late mother, the Lord rest her soul.” She crossed herself. “Being French, she will look like a classical English beauty when she grows up.”

“And like you, Marie.” He dropped formalities.

“Indeed, Your Majesty.” Under his intense gaze, Marie reflexively lowered her scrutiny.

“Thank you for taking care of Anne. We are lucky to have you in France.” The king took his daughter in his arms and cradled the baby. “Valentine is our last child.”

Marie smiled gently. “Little Princess Valentine will give you and Anne a second youth and a lot of happiness, like our beloved daughters allow Monty and me to feel.”

Nodding, François handed the child to his sister-in-law. “She needs to be re-swaddled.”

Marie rocked the baby girl who began crying. “I’ll take the princess to her wet nurse.”

“It would be better for Valentine to live in the nursery, for Anne should recuperate.”

“Don’t worry about your daughter. We will take excellent care of her.”

After Marie had taken Valentine way, the ruler returned to his wife’s bed.

Once more, François clutched his wife’s hand in hers. “I love you, my Anne.”

Anne did not stir, but it seemed to the monarch that his consort smiled at him. François was silent, thinking of the endless years when he had searched for his true love, in which he had lost faith until the ruler had fallen in love with Anne Boleyn. Throughout the huge gulf of time, François had been drowning in a sea of loneliness in spite of having had many mistresses. Until he had met and married his Anne! We shall always be together, my wife, he swore mentally.  

§§§

Princess Elizabeth Tudor strode through the hallway, followed by her French half-sisters – Princess Louise and Princess Aimée of France. Their ladies-in-waiting mingled together behind them. Those French and some English courtiers whom they encountered all bowed and curtseyed to the three sisters. After Elizabeth’s arrival at Chenonceau at the end of the spring, everyone had already gotten used to seeing the three of them almost inseparable. 

Louise affirmed, “The gracious Almighty spared our mother’s life!”

Aimée cried joyfully, “I’ve long wanted to have another sister!”

Louise bristled. “Is it not enough for you to have me, Aimée?” 

Aimée apologized, “My darling sister, I’ve not intended to discomfit you.”

“Our mother is alive!” Elizabeth gushed jocundly. “God be praised!”

The three sisters spoke in French, for Elizabeth knew this language exceptionally well.

As they walked, Elizabeth Tudor was able to scrutinize the profile of her sisters. During her stay in France, she had established a close relationship with both of them.

Elizabeth had grown fond of Louise and Aimée, who both reminded her of their mother each in their own ways. Although Louise strongly resembled the late Louise de Savoy, Elizabeth saw a lot from their mother Anne in Louise, including Louise’s intelligence, her headstrongness, and her untamed nature. Only a year younger than Louise, Aimée was a bit less mature while also lacking their mother’s inner strength, but Aimée’s musical talent was like that of Anne.

They are both clever, Elizabeth of England thought about her half-sisters. However, Louise is like a female warrior queen who needs just a sword and chariot to charge into battle. Aimée is like a delicate flower to be held with the lightest touch possible and to be watered abundantly. As Aimée was a more traditional girl with a conservative mindset, Louise and Elizabeth were overprotective of her, much to Aimée’s annoyance. The Valois girls cherished their friendship with Elizabeth, and they had told her that they would have wanted to meet her years ago. 

The three sisters had a penchant for sumptuous clothes. Today Louise’s outfit was of azure brocade slashed with black satin and wrought with gold; her brown hair streamed down her back from beneath a diamond tiara. Aimée’s gown of crimson damask, adorned with precious stones, accentuated her exotic and exquisite features. Unlike them, Elizabeth wore an English splendid gown of cloth of silver, its sleeves trimmed with white lace, and cut not as low as French gowns usually were; Elizabeth’s red-gold hair was arranged on the nape of her head.

Elizabeth said, “Dearest sisters of mine, you will both be married soon.” 

“Yes, we will.” Louise did not want to think of the Duke de Savoy’s only son because she disliked her betrothed, like her mother did. “We have a duty to our family and country.”

They turned to the corridor adorned with statues of Apollo and Aphrodite, where they encountered the Montmorency boys – François, Henri, Charles, Gabriel, and Guillaume. The Constable of France’s sons each had a small age gap of several years between each other. The eldest were François and Henri, so Aimée and Louise often interacted with them because they were members of their brother Prince Augustine’s entourage as his friends and pages.

At the sight of François de Montmorency, Louise’s heart raced in her breast. The princess did not understand her attraction to the constable’s heir, who looked dashing in his green silks, and she was frightened of her own feelings. Louise had glimpsed a sparkle of interest in the eyes of the young François as he dropped into a bow, just as his brothers did. I should not think of this young Montmorency, Louise prohibited herself silently. But why am I interested in him?

As they pivoted to a nearby hallway, Louise immediately felt awash in relief. As Elizabeth slanted a warning gaze at her, Louise became inwardly ashamed of her brief attention to François de Montmorency. As always less attentive, Aimée had noticed nothing, much to Louise’s relief. Louise found it easier to discuss her personal problems and things with Elizabeth rather than Aimée because Louise and Elizabeth had more in common. Louise should be very careful with her feelings, the English princess contemplated her sister’s personal situation in her mind.

Aimée opined, “Louise, don’t make rash conclusions about your future husband.”

Louise sniggered. “Emmanuel Philibert de Savoy is a philanderer who lives to continue his quest of pleasures. Moreover, he also hates the House of Valois for the occupation of Savoy.”

Aimée murmured, “I hope that Archduke Maximilian of Austria will not loathe me.”

“Be at ease, sister,” Louise attempted to console, regretting that she had disturbed Aimée’s inner peace. “From what we know, Maximilian and Emmanuel are very different.”

“In any case,” started Aimée, “we shall have to do our duty soon.”

At present, Louise was thirteen, while Aimée was twelve. Louise’s wedding to the Duke de Savoy’s son would happen in three years; Aimée had another four years of unmarried life ahead.

Elizabeth admired their undeniable sense of duty. “The life of a princess and her duty are intrinsically connected. The golden rule is to learn to fulfill your duty to your family without feeling any pain and with dignity, especially if you have to do something you detest.”

Louise switched to English and whispered, “Lizzy! For so long you were doing your duty to your late father. You know perfectly well that its fulfillment often comes with grief.”  

Elizabeth uttered in her native tongue, “Survivors are brave and strong-willed heroes!”

Aimée empathized with their Tudor sister’s afflictions. “We do our duty every day.”

Elizabeth stressed, “And multiple times over. There are also different kinds of duty. One of them is to rise above the deceptions and temptations of the mind and to find the right path.” 

Aimée commented in English, “I can do this with ease. I do not have your mutinous nature, sisters, but I’m not a flower only to be cherished, and I’ll not break under pressure.”

Elizabeth commended, “You are strong in your own way, Aimée. It is not necessary to be fierce to win battles in life and politics – you should simply have wisdom and cunning.”

Aimée sighed. “I’ll need them at the Imperial court.” She was fearful of her planned fate because the Austrian and German culture and court were rather different from the French ones. “I’m preparing for my future in a way that it will be satisfying for me and my husband-to-be.”

Louise released a sigh as her mind again drifted to her Savoyard fiancé. “I feel the same, our musical nymph. I’m not sure that I’ll find common ground with Emmanuel.”

§§§

The three princesses halted as Marie de Montmorency with the little Valentine in her arms walked out of the queen’s apartments. Their maids, including Lady Catherine Carey née Knollys, stopped just behind them. Lady Knollys smiled at her mother – Duchess Marie de Montmorency.

I’ve come to France to meet with my estranged mother, Catherine Knollys thought. During Elizabeth’s stay in France, the Boleyn mother and daughter were cordial with one another. Marie and Catherine were truly happy to finally be reunited, but Catherine’s brother, Sir Henry Carey, remained aloof in their mother’s presence. Marie’s daughters with Montmorency also liked their English sister and brother, but they did not spend much time together. God, thank you for letting me meet with my beloved Harry and Cathy again, Marie enthused silently.

Aimée exclaimed, “This must be our sister Valentine! Show her to us, Aunt Marie!”  

“Shhh,” Marie said in a hushed voice, cradling the infant. “She has just fallen asleep!”

Louise quizzed, “Where are you taking her, Aunt Marie?” 

“To her wet nurse,” replied Marie. “She will be hungry soon.” 

Elizabeth asked, “How is our mother, Queen Anne? Is she beyond danger?” 

“Yes, according to the doctor,” said Marie, praying that the physician was right.

The princesses crossed themselves in unison, each of them immensely relieved.

Louise studied her newborn sister in her aunt’s arms. “I can see nothing from the Valois and Boleyns in her. Our sister looks like Lady Elizabeth Boleyn, God let her rest in peace.”

Once more, the princesses blessed themselves with the cross. Louise and Aimée had spent a great deal of time with Elizabeth Boleyn after her relocation to France; yet, Elizabeth barely remembered her. Their late grandmother’s murder in Venice was still raw in their memory.

Marie apprised, “Your mother is sleeping, but King François is with her.”

After Marie had left with the infant, two other ladies-in-waiting walked out. The princesses resolved to return to their everyday business and would see their mother sometime later.

§§§

Princess Elizabeth went outside the castle unchaperoned and searched for her half-brothers. The morning sunlight warmed the gardens, organized into twelve squares and bordered by apple trees, as well as rose bushes, covering overall more than a hectare of land. Elizabeth found Prince Augustine in the distant part of the park as he was receiving a lesson of fighting on rapiers from Dauphin Henri. Jean, Antoine, and Lorenzo stood nearby watching.

“Good morning,” greeted Elizabeth as she approached them.

“Your Highness!” Jean bowed ceremoniously, feeling awkward in her presence.

Antoine and Lorenzo, who were younger and far more energetic than Jean, rushed to their sister with shrieks of euphoria. Disregarding the protocol, Elizabeth hugged them in turns. Then they disentwined themselves from their collective embrace and continued their observation.

Augustine lunged at Henri with his rapier. “Elizabeth Tudor will not hug me.”

“Just as Augustine de Valois would not act so,” Elizabeth riposted.

Dauphin Henri retorted, “No chatting please! Concentrate!”

“Today congratulations are in place,” Elizabeth noted.

“Indeed.” Henri lunged forward, feeling that he was finally happy. Marie de Bourbon had miscarried their child a few months ago, but his sister’s birth healed his heart wound somewhat.

Antoine stated proudly, “Our sister was born! As always our mama coped!” 

“Focus, Augustine!” Henri avoided Augustine’s blow. “We will talk later.” 

In spite of being far younger than Henri, Augustine was only a head and a half shorter. Augustine advanced towards Henri who stepped back before commencing a new assault on his pupil. Augustine dodged a blow and crossed his rapier with Henri’s again, each swing precise and graceful as Augustine nimbly moved while fighting with his half-brother. They were now practicing the blows King François and Dauphin Henri had showed to Augustine.

Antoine envied them. “When I grow up, I want to be like you both.”

“I’ll teach you to fight, Antoine,” promised Henri as he sidestepped.

Always pious, Jean crossed himself. “God protect my brothers from harm!” 

Lorenzo was amused, but he did not like war. “I love our father’s songs and poems more!” 

Augustine wielded his rapier at a sharp angle. “Of course, Enzo. You were named in honor of Lorenzo Il Magnifico and should live up to this great name as a patron of the arts.”

Lorenzo flung back, “I’ll be skilled at fencing as well.”

Henri performed another lunge. “You will, Enzo, and so will Antoine.”

Among her siblings, Augustine intrigued and even almost mystified Elizabeth the most, for he possessed the most complex and unpredictable character. A teenaged Augustine was more mature than most of his coevals. His incredible intelligence, regality, and sangfroid, or perhaps lack of emotion – all uncharacteristic for his age – impressed Elizabeth immeasurably.

After her arrival, Elizabeth had quickly befriended the easy-going Lorenzo and Antoine, as well as the shy Jean, but she still struggled to find the right approach to Augustine. Every time Elizabeth labored to get closer to Augustine, he danced away from her like a soldier avoiding a sword strike, as if she were dangerous for him. Will you ever become my friend, Augustine? the Tudor princess wondered as she observed Augustine being lectured to by Henri.

Elizabeth comprehended why Dauphin Henri was so close to Augustine. The two brothers both had a frigid and reserved demeanor. Augustine was impeccably polite and courteous, but he kept Bess at arm’s length, just as he did with his other brothers, save Henri. Although Lizzy was six years older than Augustine was, she was unable to predict Augustine’s behavior.

Their countenances fully concentrated as if the rest of the world did not exist, the blades of the dauphin and the prince collided again and again. Elizabeth discerned a semblance of a smile hovering in the corners of Augustine’s mouth, and every time Augustine eluded a blow or figured out one of Henri’s tricks, his eyes sparkled. How can someone be as dispassionate as Augustine? the temperamental Elizabeth mused. My eldest brother is like a great conundrum.

Augustine was accoutered in purple silk, embroidered with pearls, even during his sparring match. Unlike him, Henri wore an unostentatious black doublet and matching hose. Lizzy’s gaze flew to her other siblings: Jean was clad in an outfit of brown satin without any ornamentation, Antoine and Lorenzo were both garbed in rich red damask passmented with gold. Three of her four brothers shared tastes for luxurious and eccentric clothes and things, just as she did. 

As Henri began showing his brother a series of new blows, everyone observed them.

Now Henri stood behind Augustine. “Turn around and make a circular blow!”

Augustine’s eyes were fixed on the rapier clasped in his hands. “Should I spin quickly?” 

“Do this at a slow pace at first,” advised Henri.

“Henri!” a worried Jean called. “Please, step aside not to be hurt!” 

The dauphin allayed, “Jean, it is not war. Don’t worry about me.”

Jean’s brows knitted in the tiniest frown. “I would better go to Louis to the nursery.”

Elizabeth smiled at the remembrance of her small brother who was only year and a half now. “I would gladly accompany you there, Jean. I’ve missed Louis a great deal.”

Dauphin Henri joined, “I want to see our little Louis, too.”

Jean, Henri, and Elizabeth exchanged smiles. They paid to the infant prince more attention than his other siblings did, although sometimes Augustine could spend hours with the boy.

Antoine jested, “Enzo should write a poem about our family when he is older.”

Lorenzo pledged, “I’ll write many poems! Like father and another Lorenzo.”

As Henri put a distance between them, Augustine pivoted. “I have no doubt, Enzo.”

Antoine teased, “Are you intending to tell me something, my cold brother?”

Augustine directed his impenetrable orbs at Antoine before quickly staring back at Henri. “In the future I have to watch over you closely, Antoine, for you are too hotheaded and rash.”

Elizabeth chimed in, “I cannot disagree, Augustine.”

Finally, Augustine grinned at her. “Antoine is the most hot-blooded of us all.”

Antoine jested sarcastically, “At least, I have emotions, Augustine.”

Most of my mother’s French children do not look like Boleyns, Elizabeth repeated silently what she had long noticed. They are all Valois or Capets, except for Aimée and Louis who both look like my mama and Valentine who resembles Aunt Marie. As the Boleyns had been banished from the Tudor court in Lizzy’s early childhood, she did not remember Elizabeth Boleyn well. Part of Elizabeth was jealous that their late grandmother had lived with her siblings in France.

Indeed, the saturnine complexion of Antoine, Jean, and Lorenzo manifestly marked them as Valois. Augustine was a mixture of a Capet and a Valois, as Anne had once pointed out when Elizabeth asked why Augustine had blonde hair. As Augustine made diagonal blows, the green Savoy eyes of the seven-year-old Antoine glittered with enthusiasm, while the black Boleyn orbs of the four-year-old Lorenzo appeared to be spellbound with fascination. In the meantime, Elizabeth sympathized with the ten-year-old Jean who was scared of all kinds of weapons.

Jean would make a devout priest or a cardinal, the princess surmised. It was impossible to count how many times she had seen Jean with theological books and illuminated manuscripts and praying. Elizabeth regretted that her siblings were all Catholics, but she knew that they could not have been raised worshipping any other religion. Antoine may become a military man, for he loves swords and fighting. Lorenzo is a poet and knight, and his tender soul detests violence.

After the end of their contest, Henri and Augustine departed the garden. Elizabeth and her younger brothers went to pick up flowers, and, surrounded by them, she was overcome with a sense of peace, feeling the Creator’s reassurance that her trials were over, at least for now.


July 5, 1550, Château de Chenonceau, near Chenonceaux, Loire Valley, France

Princess Elizabeth of England entered her mother Queen Anne’s quarters. Lady Catherine Knollys, who had long become a great friend to Bess, accompanied her. Her another close maid of honor was Lady Marie Dudley, who was a member of Elizabeth’s entourage that had traveled to France because her ambitious father – Sir John Dudley, Lord High Admiral – offered her to serve the young princess in order to ingratiate themselves into Elizabeth’s favor.

The French ladies, who were now in the antechamber, put aside their embroideries. They stood up and curtsied to the eldest daughter of their mistress, who often came to visit her mother.

Charlotte le Sueur d’Esquetot, Countess de Brissac, stepped forward. “Your Highness,” she began. “The queen was churched and now is with Madame de Montmorency.”

Elizabeth inquired in French, “Madame de Brissac, is my mother feeling well?” 

Charlotte grinned. “Yes, but Doctor Paré says that she needs plenty of rest and sleep.”

The princess smiled broadly. “Once my mother’s health improves more, we will be able to stroll in the gardens with my brothers. Perhaps we will also have picnics together.”

Charlotte assured, “You will enjoy the last vestiges of the summer sun when Her Majesty is permitted to leave her bed. The court is not moving anywhere anytime soon.”

“King François is quite a traveler.” Françoise d’Alençon took her embroidery and resumed sewing. “For years, our court used to be nomadic as we wandered from one place to another.”

Françoise d’Alençon was Dowager Duchess de Vendôme; her late husband, Charles de Bourbon, had died many years ago. Her eldest son, Antoine de Bourbon, was at present Duke de Vendôme and a close friend to Dauphin Henri of France. At the age of sixty, Françoise was a plump and gray-haired woman with a wrinkled face, but her blue eyes conveyed vitality. Françoise served Queen Anne and was a friend to both Anne and Marguerite of Navarre.

These days the House of Bourbon was in favor with the King of France and the dauphin. Thanks to Antoine’s fealty displayed during the Italian wars, and his friendship with Dauphin Henri, the conspiracy of the long dead Duke Charles de Bourbon, known as the treacherous Constable de Bourbon, with the late Emperor Carlos as well as the Milan plot of the deceased François de Bourbon, Count de Saint-Pol and de Chaumont, were already forgotten. Moreover, Françoise’s daughter Marie de Bourbon was currently Dauphin Henri’s maîtresse-en-titre, much to Françoise and her relatives’ disappointment, but Henri could not marry her.

Elizabeth recalled, “Once the English court was also rather nomadic.”

Charlotte notified, “King François and Queen Anne intend to move to Amboise.”

The princess dipped her head. “My mother told me about that, Madame de Brissac.”

Duchess Marie de Montmorency walked out of the bedchamber and swept a curtsey.

“Aunt Marie!” Elizabeth’s warm greeting signaled that Marie could rise.

Marie straightened from the curtsey. “Her Majesty will be delighted to see Your Highness. We discussed Princess Aimée’s lessons with her Austrian tutors for a long time.”

Elizabeth was aware of her sister’s language classes. “I’ll raise my mother’s mood.”

“No doubt, Your Highness.” Marie stepped to her daughter.

The princess supplied, “Lady Knollys, you have my permission to spend the day with Aunt Marie and your brother, Sir Henry. Tell him that I want to play cards with him again.”  

Catherine Knollys nodded gratefully. “Thank you very much, Your Highness.”

Elizabeth swung around to her second handmaiden. “Lady Dudley, you may also spend time with your brothers – Lord Robert and Lord Ambrose. I’ll not need your services today.”

“I’m very grateful, Your Highness,” Robert Dudley’s sister responded.

Then Princess Elizabeth crossed the antechamber and entered her mother’s bedroom.

§§§

The English princess found Queen Anne in her bed reading a book. To her huge relief, now her mother looked less pallid and stronger than she had done during the first two weeks that had followed her difficult labor. Elizabeth often visited her baby sister Princess Valentine.

“Mother,” she called in a voice laced with affection. “How are you today?” 

Anne lifted her joyful gaze to her daughter. “I’m most happy to see you.”

Elizabeth shut the door behind her. “If you are tired, I can come later.”

“No, Bess! Please, seat with me.” Anne put aside her book on a bedside table.

Elizabeth Tudor was a wonderful sight to behold. A nymph of almost seventeen, she had a comely face with irregular, yet attractive, features, her skin swarthy, her orbs black like a raven’s wing and enigmatic like the eyes of a sphynx. Her tall, slim figure was attired in a fashionable gown constructed of blue silk woven with a pomegranate pattern. The triangular foreparts at the front of her skirts and undersleeves were made of cloth-of-silver tissued with gold.

This awakened in the Queen of France immense pride and admiration. I remember Lizzy as a bonny infant in my arms. Anne’s heart sang the hymn of her love for her eldest daughter. She has grown up into such a beautiful princess! Since their reunion, Anne was overwhelmed with ethereal happiness. For years, she had dreamed of their meeting, but it had been impossible in Henry’s lifetime except for their moments in Boulogne, but now they were together.

The princess crossed to the bed and eased herself in a chair upholstered in red velvet with gold trim. “What were you reading? Another Italian book or something else?” 

The queen showed the leather-bound volume – Virgil’s ‘Aeneas’ and said, “I’ve read it many times and love it so! This book is a harrowing tale of how Aeneas, one of the survivors from Troy, led an expedition to build a new city in Italy. Well, all royals dream of glory.”

“Haven’t you found your glory in France, Mother? King François treats you in the best possible way, and few monarchs do so with their wives. In fact, François and you rule alongside his sister Marguerite and Dauphin Henri. You have accomplished many feats!”

Anne confirmed, “I’ve never been as loved in France as I am right now.” After a pause, she added, “Partly thanks to my nominal conversion to Catholicism.”

Elizabeth was sad that her mother had changed her region. “It grieves me that you are no longer a Protestant, or at least not officially. However, I understand why you acted so.”

The queen put the book on the bedside table. “I despise appalling corruption in the Roman Catholic Church. I loathe those fanatics who are obsessed with their mission to eradicate both the Protestants and the Lutherans. But I had to convert for my family’s sake.”

Her daughter nodded in understanding. “There were too many plots on your life.”

“Exactly. To prevent anyone from plotting against me and my French children, I sacrificed my beliefs. I went against my conscience, and I shall forever be begging God for absolution.”

“The Almighty is in our hearts, Mother. We pray to Christ, but in different ways. I’m a Protestant, but there is only one God regardless of how we call ourselves.”

This statement sent a wave of relief washing over Anne. “It is important for me to hear that from you.” She lowered her voice. “I confess, only to you, that although I do not have any prayer books in English and other literature that might be considered heretical, I pray in English.”

The princess gasped. “Really, Mother?” 

“I do, Elizabeth. When I attend Mass with François and our courtiers, or if I pray in my own chambers, I silently pray in my native tongue because I still have the heart of a reformer.”

Elizabeth inquired, “Does King François know this?” 

“He does, but my husband does not mind at all.”

“Yesterday, King François and I had a religious debate. We were alone in his study, so no one could hear us. I was surprised that despite being a conservative Catholic, his opinion largely coincides with mine – we are all created by the same Lord, to whom we serve differently.”

Anne enthused, “François is the most enlightened ruler, forward-looking and progressive. Yet, the French society is not ready for even minor Church reforms.”

“However, sooner or later the French Protestants will demand more freedoms.”

“Nowadays, there is no organized Protestant movement in France, although there are many evangelicals and humanists interested in new ideas. François will decide all problems later.”

“One step at a time,” the princess characterized her stepfather’s approach. “It is wise.”  

“Nobody knows yet how we will have to modify the policy of religious tolerance.”

Elizabeth reckoned that Anne’s position in the Valois realm was completely secure. “The whole of France is devoted to you, Mother. In their eyes, you are their new Jeanne d’Arc or their French Minerva, as King François calls you. You saved the country at first during the invasion of France many years ago, and then during the siege of Milan when you helped form coalition of the Italian allies against Emperor Carlos. You also gave several sons to the King of France.”

“People’s love is fickle.” Anne’s gaze drifted to the windows where the sun shone brightly, like ribbons streaming through the crowns of trees in the park. “No one knows what will happen in the future. At the very least, I made peace with French Catholics.”

Elizabeth’s orbs flicked to the lofty and vaulted ceiling. It was frescoed with scenes from Virgil’s Aeneas at Anne’s behest during the complete renovation of the château.

I’m very happy for my beloved mama, the princess mused. My father smashed her life into pieces, and he did not deserve her forgiveness. Thanks be to God that King François loves my mother so deeply. Years ago, Elizabeth had been jealous of her mother who had remarried and produced a large progeny with Henry’s rival king. It was so because of Elizabeth’s knowledge since her childhood – King Henry had accused Anne of crimes the queen had not perpetrated.  

Elizabeth’s gaze veered to the queen. “Mother, your life is like that of Aeneas. After the fall of Troy, survivors left the destroyed city to seek a new home. Like them, you were ejected and went to France where you found your destiny and married King François.”

“François and I often compare my life with that of Aeneas. This book is his symbolic gift.”

The princess looked at the book on the bedside table. “I should have guessed that.”

Anne’s fingers caressed the volume, as if it were her husband’s face. “The ancient Romans believed that among their ancestors were the legendary Trojans, who under Aeneas’s leadership sailed from Troy to Italy and settled in Latium where Rome was built later.”

“Maybe Augustine or one of my younger brothers will continue the Valois dynasty.”

It was Anne’s secret, cherished dream. “If it is God’s will, I may become the founder of the new Valois dynasty with Boleyn blood. Dauphin Henri cannot remarry because Catherine de’ Medici is imprisoned for life, while the health of Prince François, Duke of Brittany, remains very fragile. Thus, the crown may eventually fall upon Augustine’s head, although Prince Charles and his twin brother Prince Alexandre are robust, so one of them can produce a healthy son.”

Elizabeth confessed, “I do not wish ill on Henri whom I empathize with due to his bad personal situation, and I do not wish ill on his sons.” She smiled as she imagined Augustine. “Yet, my eldest brother is the true Iron Prince who can bring France to greatness.”

“I, too, think that Augustine may become a French Augustus Caesar.”

The princess supplemented, “My unique brother may usher France into a Golden Age.”

The queen studied her daughter closely. “Just as you can do in England.”

Elizabeth usually tended to thrust aside thoughts of her possible queenship, but they kept assaulting her regularly. “I’m the second in the line of succession. My brother Ned is healthy and expected to live a long life, but I’m worried about England’s future during his reign.”

Anne recalled the recent reports from her homeland. “Now everything is well because Lord Exeter and my Uncle Norfolk govern England together. Yet, things might change when Henry’s spoiled son, who seems to be all too interested in entertainments, comes of age.”

The princess glanced towards the window. A bank of clouds assembled on the horizon, concealing the disk of sun. “I’ve never had a close relationship with Ned, not even when we both lived at Hatfield, because he likes praying in Latin. I can barely stand his presumptuousness.”

Damn King Edward! Anne cursed in her mind. I fear that he will not treat Lizzy well in the future. How can we prevent that? Although a large part of Anne believed that Elizabeth would ascend the English throne, her mother’s duty was to ensure that her daughter would be safe and influential at the Tudor court during Edward’s reign. Anne’s mind drifted to the Earl of Devon: Elizabeth’s marriage to Exeter’s son would provide the princess with much-sought security.

Elizabeth’s voice intruded upon the queen’s musings. “After my return to England, I shall try to befriend Edward. I’ll make another attempt, just as I promised my father.”

Anne’s heart dropped to her feet. Since Henry’s death, she prayed that her daughter would never learn how her tyrannical parent had really died. “Did Henry ask you about that?” 

“Yes, he did. When I lived at Hever Castle, the king came to me a few months before his death at Whitehall. He recommended that I marry Lord Devon and patch up my relationship with Edward. He was right, but I’m not sure that it is possible to become Ned’s friend.”

“King Edward,” pronounced the queen with apparent distaste. “How could Henry sire a healthy son? All of his wives, including me, failed except for Anne Bassett.”

Elizabeth glanced fiercely towards the window. The clouds had scurried away, and the sun was slowly sinking. She willed away the tears that bit the corners of her eyes at the thought of her deceased father. Memories of their last meeting at Hever blazed through her mind, replaced by flashbacks of her distant meeting with Anne at Greenwich Palace before their separation all those years ago. Forgive me, father, Bess said wordlessly. But I’m far happier without you.

“I loved the late King of England,” Elizabeth forced words past her tightened throat. “He loved me as well in his own way, and at times I could see that. Yet, he loved Edward more just because of his male gender.” A sigh fled her lips. “In childhood, my father tried to re-conquer my affection that vanished after your exile, but I could not forgive him for our estrangement.”    

Anne sighed. “Those years were difficult for us both, but at least we could correspond.”

The princess continued gazing unseeingly away. “Your letters were like a breath of fresh air for me. My heart was bleeding like a raw wound every time I had to burn them to avoid being detected. I longed for all news of you from France as long as I remember myself.”

“These are precisely my sentiments, Elizabeth. None of my children with François could fill the void in my heart that formed after Henry had torn us away from each other. I love all of your brothers and sisters, but they could not replace you. I’ve always adored you, my dearest.”

Bess flicked her gaze back to her mother and bared her soul. “I’ve always remembered your face and your melodious voice singling lullabies to me. I’ve always loved you, too!” 

“Come closer to me.” Anne gestured towards the bed.

The princess stood up and seated herself on the bed’s edge. “Now we are together.”

Anne smiled cheerfully. “I wish you could spend another year with us.”

Elizabeth’s hand flew to her mother’s and clasped it affectionately. “I’m delighted that you are recovering from your ordeal, Mother. We were all so afraid to lose you!”

The queen squeezed her hand. “I shall not be pregnant again. Never.”

“Why?” Her daughter was not knowledgeable about childbirth.

“This might be fatal for me next time. François will never endanger my life again, and I’m not young anymore. We have five sons and two daughters, and that’s enough.”

Elizabeth howled with acrid laughter. “I was told that my father’s outbursts of fury after getting tidbits of my brother’s births were horrible. It served him right, I must say.”

The queen sniggered. “I would love to see them. Out of spite.”

They examined frescoes depicting battles during the Trojan war. They covered most of the years of this mythological confrontation, in particular the campaigns of Aeneas and Achilles. Oddly, they reminded them of King Henry’s wives struggles for a son and their crowns.

“Mother, let’s not talk about my father anymore. May he rest in peace!”

“God rest Henry’s soul,” Anne intoned. The queen and the princess crossed themselves.

“I’m rather unwilling to marry because I cannot forget my late father’s awful treatment of his wives. I do not want to be ruled by any man, and now I’m also afraid of childbirth.”

The queen labored to convince her otherwise. “It is sheer happiness to hold your own child in your arms, Lizzy. Furthermore, you will need to continue the Tudor line and have heirs.”

The princess remembered the prophecy of the astrologer who had predicted her ascension. “Perhaps it will happen, but maybe not. I do not hate my brother and do not wish him dead.”

Leaning forward, Anne traced the fine line of her daughter’s cheek. “I believe that you will be England’s first queen regnant, and that you will usher the country into a Golden Age.”

Elizabeth enjoyed her mother’s touch. “If it is God’s will.”

They stared into one another’s eyes. They dreamed of two Golden Ages – one in England if Elizabeth succeeded Edward and one in France provided that Augustine was destined to inherit the French throne. Nonetheless, a spear of presentiment struck Anne and Elizabeth in the heart, as if something catastrophic was about to occur before this dream could come true.

Tears pricked Elizabeth’s orbs. “I am so afraid, Mother. I do not know why.”

“Don’t be, my jewel of England. We are a source of strength for each other.”    

Anne gathered her daughter into her arms, and Elizabeth responded in kind. In a frenzy of exhilaration, they were locked in their tight embrace for a long moment. It was the connection of the two creatures who desperately needed and loved one another through time and distance. Filial bonds, solid like rock and strong like the love of Christ for His people, linked them.

As they finally parted, the princess requested, “Call me Bess, not Lizzy.”

Queen Bess,” Anne savored the sound. “Our good Queen Bess! Our Gloriana!” 

“I like this so much!” Nevertheless, Elizabeth prohibited herself from thinking about her ascension, for it would mean Edward’s untimely demise. “I’ll write to Lord Exeter that I’ll stay here for longer because I can hardly imagine my separation from you, Mother.”

“So, do you like Lord Devon? He has been an excellent companion to you at our court.”

“Yes,” admitted the princess. “In fact, tonight he and I will play piquet.”

In an hour, the Duchess de Montmorency returned to her sister’s bedroom. Marie gave the queen the herbal drink Doctor Paré had prepared for Queen Anne, and then Elizabeth departed.

§§§

On the way to her apartments, Princess Elizabeth met the Earl of Devon.

“Good day, Your Highness,” Devon began, bowing low. “I hope everything is fine.”

Elizabeth paused. “I’ve been very well because I’ve just visited my mother.”

“I wish Queen Anne speedy recovery, Your Highness.”  

The princess viewed her fiancé from top to toe. Handsome and dressed in brown damasks slashed with crimson, Edward Courtenay was garbed in less ostentatious fashions than French and English aristocrats. The golden chain exhibiting the Courtenay arms dangled from his neck. His narrow girdle was of silver, exquisitely wrought and studded gems; young Edward did not like clothes lavishly ornamented with precious stones, although it was fashionable.

“My mother feels very well, Lord Devon; thank you for asking.”

Devon looked at the princess with obvious admiration. “I’m glad to hear this.”

She wondered whether he would invite her somewhere. “Something else?” 

As if he could read her mind, the earl pronounced, “Your Highness, I’ve recently received a message from my father. I shall have to return to England within the next few months because there are a number of things I have to do back home. I desire to spend more time with you, of course if Your Highness does not object. Would you want to stroll in the gardens now?” 

Elizabeth consented, “Gladly, but Kat will accompany us.”

The princess never stayed alone with any man, although Devon was considered her fiancé because of the betrothal agreement that King Henry had signed for them shortly before his death. Elizabeth’s reputation had to remain untainted under any circumstances.

He smiled. “As always. Lady Ashley loves you and takes the best care of you.”

The princess smiled at the sight of her governess approaching them. “Kat! We need you!” 

Kat Ashley dropped into a curtsey. “Are you going for a stroll or a horse ride?”     

“Just to the gardens,” said Elizabeth and Devon in unison, smiling.

Elizabeth glanced between Kat and Devon. “We can go now.”

“Of course, Your Highness and your lordship.” Kat smiled slyly at the two of them.

Soon they exited the castle and encountered the Dudley boys. John, Ambrose, and Robert all swept gallant bows to the Tudor princess. Before diving into the park as they headed towards the maze of bushes, Elizabeth glimpsed Robert Dudley’s ardent stare that was fixed upon her, virtually proclaiming his love for her, and the Earl of Devon noticed it as well.

Elizabeth also caught the Earl of Devon’s heated glances directed at her. Devon’s attention flattered her more than Dudley’s, perhaps because she adored her intellectual debates with Devon. Her heart soared like that of a maiden in the throes of her first crush, and she grew so astonished with the strength of her emotions that she blinked and closed her eyelids, as if they were a shutter. I like Lord Devon. However, is it love? Elizabeth wondered, confused.


August 10, 1550, Palazzo Compagni, city of Florence, Tuscany, central Italy

The summer weather was unbearably hot. The drought was starting to have a catastrophic effect on Tuscany, and everyone prayed that a downpour of rain would bless the parched earth.

Jane Percy, Countess of Northumberland, sat on a terrace of the palazzo. In front of her stood a marble table with a goblet of water. While she was protected from the sun’s glare, the air was so stuffy that every breath felt like her nostrils were burning. Her robust son, Alan, liked playing outdoors, but now he could not spend much time outside. Jane and her husband resolved to take him to their country villa near the town of Versilia, a popular Tuscan sea destination.

A servant girl exited the palazzo and crossed the lawn to her mistress. She curtsied and handed a parchment to the countess. “Madonna Jane, this letter is for you.”

“Thank you, Antonia. You may go,” Jane dismissed in Italian.

“Let me know if you need something else.” The girl bobbed a curtsey and walked away.

“Mary Tudor!” Jane cried in jubilation as she recognized the seal.

Jane Percy was aware of her former stepdaughter’s marriage to Philip, Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg. Jane had initiated their contact over a year ago, and since then they maintained regular correspondence. After breaking the seal, the countess scanned through the letter.

Lady Northumberland,

I heartily pray that you and your family are all hale and hearty.

I had a miscarriage last year, and now I’m three months along in my new pregnancy. Our dear child will arrive in six months. My beloved Philip will love a baby of any gender and wants us to grow old together. Philip says that he will adore me even if we remain childless, but it is my duty to give my husband a male heir because he needs a son to inherit the duchy.

Philip has proved himself as a good and reliable husband to me repeatedly. To him I am not only his wife, but also his councilor and co-ruler. Philip frequently travels to the Imperial court in Vienna and Innsbruck, and if I stay at home, he always makes me his regent.

So far, our different religions have not caused me inconvenience. The Duchy of Palatinate-Neuburg is a Lutheran one, but as a duchess, I have to attend public ceremonies with my spouse when the Church services are conducted in German. Philip permitted me to have my Catholic confessor who conducts Masses for me in my private chapel, and our subjects have accepted it. Our children must be Lutherans, for otherwise they will not be able to succeed Philip in due time. However, there is only one God, and it does not matter how you worship Him.

I beg of you to pray for my unborn baby. If it dies again, I’ll not survive. It pains me that I’ve been separated from my son Juan and will perhaps never meet him again. Dear Madame Jane, I always keep you in my prayers, wishing you and your family all the best.

Mary von Wittelsbach, Duchess of Palatinate-Neuburg and of Salzburg

“These German and Austrian titles,” Jane said to herself. “I’m glad Mary has them.” 

Jane was sad that Mary had miscarried, just as it had happened to her two years ago. The young Alan Percy was highly likely to remain the only son of the Northumberland spouses. In the meantime, Queen Anne had birthed a healthy daughter a couple of months ago, and Jane still remembered how sullen Henry Percy had been upon the receipt of this news. My husband’s gloomy mood concealed his envy to the King of France, an offended Jane recollected silently.  

“God bless Mary!” Jane crossed herself three times. “Let her unborn child live!” 

It surprised Jane that Mary had become tolerant of new religions. Years ago, Catherine of Aragon’s daughter had fled to Spain in order not to wed a heretic. Paradoxically, at present Mary was happily married to the German Lutheran Duke who, to Jane’s sheer delight, appeared to treat her former stepdaughter better than most men of the time treated their wives.

My husband has become receptive to heresy as well, Jane thought as she put Mary’s letter upon the marble table. The Farnese Pope’s crimes affected many former ardent Catholics. Jane herself would never abjure the true faith, and her source of constant worry was that her son’s reformer tutor, whom Percy had hired, was now teaching Alan to pray in both Latin and English.

“Jane, isn’t it too hot to be here?” the Earl of Northumberland asked.

Attired in burgundy and blue silks, Henry Percy was squinting his eyes against the glare of the sun. He crossed the lawn and entered the terrace, then seated himself in front of his spouse.

Jane smiled at him. “It feels much worse inside the palazzo.” 

Percy wiped beads of perspiration from his brow. “Do you miss England, Janey?” 

“I do.” A wave of nostalgia swept over her. “I’d like to see my sisters and even Edward.” 

“Well, that tyrant is dead, so we can go back if you wish.” 

“To our Protestant homeland?” She frowned at the remembrance that the Lord Protector of the realm was promoting the Church reform in England. “I am not certain that I want it.” 

“We have lived in Italy for quite many years. Lord Exeter extended my appointment as the English ambassador to the Duchy of Florence for an indefinite time. Nonetheless, I am no longer young, and one day Alan will succeed me as the Earl of Northumberland.” 

“Do you trust those people who are managing our estates in England?” 

Percy glanced towards the palazzo that shimmered in the sunlight. “Yes, I do. I’d like to stay in Florence for longer and love Italian culture. Yet, we are English, and Alan is an English lord who will need to serve at court of King Edward the Sixth or Queen Elizabeth.”   

Jane took her goblet from the table. She sipped some water, and it went down her throat, warm from the heat. “Don’t you believe that King Edward will have a long reign?” 

“Oh, you mean this,” laughed Henry Percy, pointing at the heavens. “God will decide the boy’s fate. None of King Henry’s sons lived for long, and the tyrant’s bastard, Henry Fitzroy, died at seventeen. If King Edward has a similar fate, Princess Elizabeth will succeed him.”

She accused, “You want Queen Anne’s daughter to become Queen of England.” 

He rolled his eyes, his visage bored. “Jane, your jealousy is irrelevant.” 

“Is it?” Nothing changed: Henry Percy still loved his boyhood sweetheart.

Ignoring her reaction, the earl spoke. “It appears that Lord Exeter is displeased with King Edward’s inclination to excessive indulgence and entertainment, which is worrisome.”   

“Good that there are no English spies here. Your words might be constructed as treason.” 

Percy rubbed his chin. “It is critical for us to consider all scenarios and to be pragmatic. It will be easier for us to find our place at home if Elizabeth rules England. However, we can return now because the country has been under Exeter’s protectorship for several years.” He paused and sighed. “But nobody knows what will occur when King Edward comes of age.” 

Jane did not like politics, but she asked, “Have they found a bride for the boy-king?” 

“For some time, Lord Exeter tried to negotiate the betrothal of King Edward and Mary Queen of Scots with Marie de Guise, Dowager Queen of Scotland and regent. Nevertheless, now it is rumored that she wants her daughter to be raised in France, but I doubt that King François will sign any treaty with any member of the Guise family. I was also informed that Norwegian, Danish, and German princesses are being considered for Edward as of late.”   

A frown marred Jane’s forehead. “So, a Protestant bride?”

Henry Percy surveyed her strictly. “Wife, you must finally accept that England will not be restored back to the fold of Rome. God help us if it happens because if it is done, Protestants will be persecuted and burned, and England might drown in blood and tears.”

The countess sucked in a deep breath. “You are right, but I am a Catholic.” 

“Try to be tolerant,” he advised softly. “Times are changing.” 

His wife switched to another topic. “When will we go to Versilia?”

“Tomorrow in the morning, Janey, but only if our things are packed. Duke Cosimo and Duchess Eleanor together with all their children left for one of their villas on the seaside.”  

“They did, Harry. It is difficult for Alan to live in this heat, so I’m concerned about him.”

The Earl of Northumberland stood up. “Then it is settled. We need to rest well tonight.” 

His countess sipped more water from her cup. “I’ll come to our rooms soon.”

Nodding, Henry Percy sketched a bow and strode away towards the palazzo. Staring after him, Jane emitted a sigh because their matrimony was confined within the circuit of Percy’s mental wanderings from her, his wife, to Anne Boleyn. The Creator’s will was that Henry Percy and Jane Seymour had become friends and now shared gentle companionship, taking delight in their son and their mutual fidelity, but Jane still dreamed to conquer her husband’s heart.

Notes:

The new chapter is up! Please let us know what you think of this chapter, and please don’t forget to leave reviews so that we can discuss twists and turns in this chapter.

We hope that fans of Elizabeth Tudor, Princess of England, are happy to see her reunited with her mother, Queen Anne of France. We made a time jump and showed Elizabeth in France in several months after her arrival when her mother has just had her last child, Princess Valentine. Anne and François of France have a large progeny, but not all of them will have long lives because of the French religious wars in the later chapters of CWL and in a sequel to CWL. François will never risk Anne’s life by impregnating her again, and they don’t need more kids.

During the months of her stay in France, Bess has formed a close relationship with her half-sisters – Louise and Aimée of France. Elizabeth has also become a friend to her half-brothers, except for Augustine whose personality almost mystifies Bess and who keeps Bess and everyone else at arm’s length. You will have the chance to see Bess and Augustine as friends in the future, but it will take time for them to become close. Moreover, their relationship will be very complicated in years to come fluctuating from them being allies and friends to them being rivals and enemies much because of the inevitable wars in France and their religious differences.

Elizabeth and Anne have an extremely close relationship, and the princess is worried for her mother. They were estranged for too long and could not meet while Henry of England was alive, so they deserve their happy reunion. Elizabeth is afraid of men and marriage given that she witnessed the horrible treatment of her late father’s wives at Henry’s hands. In the meantime, Anne will do her best to ease her eldest daughter’s fears because as Anne correctly says that Elizabeth should have children and secure the Tudor line. At present, Bess is betrothed to Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon, who is in France while the Dudley family are also there, so we will see some interesting moments between Bess and Robert, as well as Bess and Edward.

Jane Percy neé Seymour, Countess of Northumberland, has a marriage based on friendship and fidelity with Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland. They have never been in love, but they are quite content with their son, Alan Percy, and together. Soon we will see them coming back home to England, but they will not appear often in this story. The Percy couple will support Elizabeth Tudor, Anne’s daughter, which is foreshadowed in their scene. Jane and Mary Tudor, Duchess of Palatinate-Neuburg, keep in touch, and we learn that Mary miscarried and is now pregnant again – we promise that Mary Tudor will have a few children because she deserves it.

Château de Chenonceau belongs to the crown of France and Queen Anne in particular. You may google it – it is truly a magnificent place. We will have more scenes set there. Palazzo Compagni is a real historical castle in Florence, but it was not of course owned by a Percy.

Attention! A while ago, we posted a prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 92: Chapter 91: A New Protestant Alliance

Summary:

Please don’t forget to review!

Edward Seymour and his family are happy in the countryside. The French royals formed a new Protestant alliance. Augustine de Valois and Jeanne of Navarre are getting closer, while Dauphin Henri is happy with Marie de Bourbon. Elizabeth Tudor is enjoying her visit to France.

Notes:

Attention! The prologue to the sequel 'Chained by Blood and Power' (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don't forget about our work "Entwined by a Golden Alliance" co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 91: A New Protestant Alliance

July 15, 1550, Berry Phomeroy Castle, the village of Berry Pomeroy, the county of Devon, England

“Are you happy, Ned?” inquired Anne Seymour, Countess of Hertford.

Her husband, Edward Seymour, replied, “More than I was when I had power.” 

His hand draped around her waist, the Earl and Countess of Hertford stood beneath a tall oak. Their silhouettes glistened like lightning in the rays of the sinking sun. In these moments of tranquility, they observed their offspring play in the gardens with their governesses. The green lawns were neatly trimmed in front of the red brick manor with the steeply pitched roof, multiple overlapping, decorative timbering, and front-facing gables of varying heights.

At present, they resided in the 15th-century Berry Pomeroy Castle. Herford had purchased it from Sir Thomas Pomeroy two years ago after the family had run into financial difficulties.

Four years had passed since Hertford had lost his offices and been banished permanently. Since then, the Hertford family traveled between their many estates, raising their children. Their offspring were healthy: two Edwards, Anne, Henry, Margaret, Jane, and Catherine. They had lost only one child – their eldest son – before Anne had become a lover of the late King Henry VIII.

Reserved by nature, Herford kissed the top of his wife’s head. “I love you, Nan.” 

Anne regarded him affectionately. “My devotion to you is immense, Ned.”

“When did you fall for me?” He lifted his hand to her face.

Imitating his motion, she raised her own hand to his cheekbones. Her slender fingers traced wrinkles beneath his eyes and then the line of his frown that created a deep furrow between his brows. “Sometime between my tenure as the late king’s mistress and Jane’s departure to Italy.”

“The same happened to me.” His finger slid down her cheek. “You do not look old.” 

“My beloved liar, I’ve aged.” Anne compressed her lips. “The worries for your fate when you were the English chief minister exhausted me.” A grin creased her mouth. “All the cares for our children are also taking their toll on me, although I do not mind having another baby.” 

At thirty-eight, Anne Seymour was less slender than at the time of their marriage all those years ago, but her forms, clad in burgundy damask, were appealing. Now surrounded by some wrinkles, her hazel-green eyes shone with a soft confidence that comes with maturity, and her adoration for him. Anne’s brown hair was concealed under a bejeweled headdress.

Hertford briefly kissed his spouse on the lips. “That can be arranged, wife.” 

“Tonight, then.” A salacious glint entered her eyes. “You are quite an unselfish lover.” 

Her husband riposted, “A very talented one who has been faithful to you for years.” 

She looked a bit offended. “You know that I was with that Tudor tyrant only because you wanted to stay afloat at court when we feared that Jane would not give him a prince.” 

“Your liaison with him brought me deep, abiding sorrow.” 

Her orbs melancholic, she entreated, “Forgive me for that, my Ned.” 

“Nan, I beg your pardon for my affair with the late Anne Bassett.” 

He pressed his forehead to hers, his fingers resting upon her shoulders.

“Everything has long been forgiven,” she whispered against his lips.

For years, the Earl of Herford had been the second man in England only after King Henry. Their family had obtained enormous wealth and exercised a great power at the Tudor court as one of the most powerful clans in the country despite the banishment of Edward’s other siblings. Nevertheless, for the most part Edward and Anne had felt as if they had been walking on hot coals, especially during the unsuccessful Anglo-Spanish invasion of France of 1546.

The spouses comprehended that Edward had been extraordinarily fortunate to escape with his life after the return of King Henry from Boulogne. Back then, all the odds had been against them: Anne of Cleves had almost been murdered, sadly only to die a few years later together with her only daughter, while the assassin of Francis Bryan had not been found yet, and the alliance with German Protestant states had been broken. The monarch had lost Boulogne and spent months in French captivity, and the huge ransom had been paid for Henry and his lords.

At present, Anne and Edward treasured the peace in their family. They were still rich and had connections with other nobles, although it was clear that they would not be permitted to return to court anytime soon. Now England was governed by the Marquess of Exeter as Lord Protector, with the Regency Council and the Duke of Norfolk acting as Lord Chancellor. The Howards swarmed the Tudor court after the old Norfolk’s sensational return from France.

His arms tightened around his wife. “Don’t you miss the royal court?”

“No,” she responded unhesitatingly. “I do not want to walk on eggshells again.” 

His mind drifted back to his former rival. “However, there is peace in England. Regardless of my personal enmity with Lord Exeter, I must admit that he is a brilliant politician. Since he installed himself as Lord Protector, there have been no executions, and the state treasury is full. Now England is allied with France, the Austrian Habsburgs, and the German Protestant States.”

“He has not tried to demolish the reformed Church.”

“He will not even try,” predicted Hertford. “Exeter is no longer an ardent Catholic, as my spies informed me. Second, he will not risk losing the favor of the English government.”

She deduced, “King Edward will decide what to do next when he grows up.” 

King Edward,” Seymour growled with a blend of alarm and anxiety. “That extremely spoiled boy who looks like a York and has more arrogance than ten descendants of the Houses of York and Tudor may have altogether… Young Edward is intelligent, but too self-indulgent.” 

“You would prefer Princess Elizabeth to rule.” 

Hertford looked up at the darkening sky. “Years ago, I did not think so – but now I do. But Her Highness will become a member of the Courtenay family after her return from France.” 

“Do you think that she will consent to marry Lord Devon?”

“She shall,” Edward assured without a shadow of a doubt. “Why? Young Eddie Courtenay will remain in her shadow, even if Elizabeth ever ascends the throne. Their children will have the mingled blood of the Tudors and Yorks – the second union between the Red and White Roses.” 

“That is true. Nevertheless, King Edward is young and healthy.” 

The face of Edward Tudor flashed in the earl’s mind. “I’ve never liked this boy! There is something in him I do not understand, as if something was terribly wrong.” 

Why do I keep having such thoughts about King Edward? Seymour was confused with his own sentiments. He is only eleven and may grow into a capable ruler, for he is intelligent. Yet, his gut feeling told the Earl of Hertford that something was amiss, but he had no opportunity to get to the bottom of what could be hidden if there was any secret at all. Eventually, he discarded his inexplicable feelings, which seemed to be mere guesses or products of his suspiciousness.  

Anne smoothed Hertford’s curls from his forehead. “You are imagining things, Ned.” 

Their discourse was interrupted as their children ran to them as they played a hide-and-seek game. The laughter of their ten-year-old son Edward and their daughters’ giggles floated on the air towards them, and their little son Henry’s hearty chuckle added to their merriment.

A smile graced Anne’s expression. “It is far better to be here with all of you.” 

Hertford noted, “But our children will have to serve at court sooner or later.” 

“Do not become a power-hungry jackal again, husband. Or I’ll fall out of love with you.” 

He enfolded his spouse into his arms once more. “No, you shall not, Nan.” 

Soon the sun sank behind the horizon, and the shadows of the evening enveloped the park. Turning to their offspring, they watched their governesses try to calm down the boys and girls. Unlocking their embrace, Edward and Anne went to the children who wanted either to hug their parents or to play. The Hertford spouses were content: their wealth was more than adequate to keep their many manors and their lifestyle grand, so they reveled in their marital bliss.


July 30, 1550, Château de Chenonceau, near Chenonceaux, Loire Valley, France

The Valois royals slipped into the presence chamber, adorned with statues and hung with expensive tapestries. They were nervous before their meeting with Protestant ambassadors.

Duke Anne de Montmorency, Constable of France, and Claude d’Annebault, Admiral of France, followed. Behind them proceeded Marshal Jacques d’Albon, Seigneur de Saint-André, and Marshal Charles de Cossé, Count de Brissac. Next walked Piero Strozzi, who had been appointed Marshal of France in gratitude for his assistance in the Italian campaign against the late Emperor Carlos. As time went by, the contents of the Royal Council had changed.

François paused, and everyone halted, their expressions anxious.

“Now they want a new alliance,” the monarch grazed. “However, they were rather willing to believe that France was responsible for those massacres, so the Protestant dukes abandoned us in the hour of need. My daughter Margot and I were under siege in Milan for many months, but none of them offered to renew our alliance and crush the emperor together.” 

Queen Anne emitted a sigh of disappointment. “Yes, they deserted us like rats fleeing the sinking ship. Later the Protestant leaders watched from afar who would win the war.” 

Dowager Queen Marguerite apologized, “Brother, I’m sorry for the failure of our old alliance. I tried to persuade the ambassadors that we were not responsible for those massacres.”

The king shook his head. “It is not your fault at all, sister.”

Anne speculated, “They believed that we abolished the policy of tolerance in France. They had a reason to think so, while we had no proof of our innocence back then.” 

Montmorency and others waited in silence at a distance.

Marguerite recalled, “During the awful siege of Milan, I corresponded with some German dukes. They hinted at their fear of repercussions from Carlos if he prevailed.”    

The king frowned. “They would not have sent their soldiers to save me.”    

Marguerite surveyed the tapestry portraying the Sack of Troy. “At the time, the situation seemed hopeless for us. Ferdinand had been imprisoned for quite some time before he escaped.”

François caught his sister’s gaze. “Yes, they were afraid of Carlos.”

The ruler swallowed convulsively at the memories of the long siege of Milan. The horror of being caged, like a lion for gladiator games in an ancient Roman amphitheater. The never-ending fright of dying without ever seeing his beloved wife and his other relatives again. His daughter Marguerite’s tragic childbirth. The visceral fear for his family’s future in case of his demise and Carlos’ victory. François would never be able to forget these dreadful days.

I should leave these memories in the past, the king told himself. But I cannot. Although they were about to reestablish the Protestant coalition, François did not trust them. The safety of the French realm, which had common borders with the lands controlled by King Felipe II of Spain, depended upon France’s treaties with England and the Austrian House of Habsburg.

François interrupted the pause. “If Ferdinand and my son Henri did not rescue me, I would have died. Then Carlos would have burned all the heretics in his domains, and later the German Protestant and Lutheran princes would have drowned in blood.” 

Anne crossed herself. “Thanks be to God that it did not happen.” 

Montmorency interjected, “The Lord saved us from the late emperor.” 

The other councilors tipped their heads and crossed themselves several times.

Anne had a bitter taste in her mouth from what she perceived as the betrayals of France by the Protestant leaders. Her initially political marriage to King François had been the very reason why the Franco-Protestant union had been formed. Despite her conversion to Catholicism, she would always remain a Protestant in her heart. I’m so very angry with German dukes!   

Anne snapped in indignation, “They did not even try to help you!” 

François jested, “Politics is a crafty lady, mon amour.” 

“A chilly one,” Anne concurred. “Nonetheless, they supported France during the previous invasion. They should have taken the accusations of you and our family of those massacres with a pinch of salt. Do they really want to ally with us, given my conversion to Catholicism?”  

A year ago, Queen Anne of France had been baptized as a Catholic at Notre-Dame de Paris Cathedral. Jean du Bellay, Bishop of Paris and of Bayonne, had performed the official ceremony. Anne’s conversion had a significant influence over the whole of Europe, and the French nobility welcomed the queen’s decision, in spite of their hatred of the late Pope Paul III.

Everyone comprehended that Anne’s actions had been triggered by the Vatican’s attacks on her family. Many suspected that Anne had become a Catholic only for appearance’s sake to ensure her family’s safety. For Anne, it was an important step to be reconciled with the Catholic faction at court. Furthermore, if it was God’s will for one of Anne’s French male descendants to ascend the Valois throne, their ancestress’ associations with heresy should not taint them.

François stated, “The balance of power in Europe shifted after Carlos’ death. We are allied with Ferdinand, so it is now more beneficial for them to be our friends.” 

Piero Strozzi entered the conversation. “Please be at ease, Your Majesties. Emperor Carlos has been dead for several years, and Emperor Ferdinand is religiously tolerant.” 

“Indeed, Monsieur Strozzi,” said François. His wife and sister nodded.

Claude d’Annebault bragged, “Monty, you and I had the honor of killing that bastard with a deformed lip. By doing so, we saved his honorable brother Ferdinand.”

“Yes, it was indeed a great honor,” Anne de Montmorency admitted.

Jacques d’Albon joined, “Monty and you, Claude, did the right thing at Marignano.” 

The monarch eyed the saviors of Ferdinand. “You salvaged Europe from Carlos!”  

Everyone laughed. Then the Valois royals exited with their entourage.

§§§

The great hall was thronged with diplomats, all dressed in austere German fashions.

Surrounded by his relatives and entourage, the monarch of France sauntered over to three massive carved thrones under a canopy of cloth of gold, embroidered with the Valois heraldry. These were thrones for François, his queen consort, and his sister Marguerite, who gave official audiences and receptions as France’s ‘Holy Trinity,’ although Dauphin Henri’s involvement in government affairs made them ‘Holy Quartette,’ as their subjects labelled them.

Everyone dropped into bows, lower than necessary in accordance with the protocol.

“Welcome to Chenonceau!” François seated himself in his throne.

Anne and Marguerite eased themselves in their thrones on either side of the king.

“Today is a great day,” continued the monarch. “We shall revive our friendship.” 

The congregation cheered the ruler who waved his hand for silence.

François resumed speaking in a high voice. “Despite our misunderstandings in the past, it is high time to move forward and ensure that the entirety of Christendom will prosper in peace.” 

Marguerite chimed in, “In peace given to us by my brother and Emperor Ferdinand.” 

Acclamations of approval rang out like an echo of the triumph of the two rulers in Italy.

Thanks to Queen Anne’s considerable investments, the château had undergone substantial renovation after coming into her possession. The lofty ceilings and the walls were frescoed with scenes of Zeus and Hera’s triumphs over mundane affairs and their enemies, as though Anne had long ago predicted that François would have his foes vanquished. The initials of the ruling couple – the gilded and entwined ‘A&F’ – were scattered here and there on the walls.

His countenance like that of a victorious general, François attracted all gazes to him. Some ambassadors remembered the younger French king well. Now François looked older, but he was far from being ancient, so they expected him to rule in years to come. His mature handsomeness, his imperial dignity, and his golden-brocaded attire accentuated the king’s regality.

A Swedish ambassador spoke in accented French. “My sovereign, King Gustav of Sweden, has always supported Your Majesty and France. Nevertheless, we apologize that we were unable to lead our forces to Milan because of the continuing conflicts and disputes in our country.” 

François knew that, but he remarked, “The siege of Milan lasted for eleven months.”

The Swedish man informed, “Peasants in Småland, which is one of our provinces, rebelled, demanding lower taxes and the abolition of our Lutheran reform. My king did not kill any of them. It was a horrible uprising, though less dangerous than the English Pilgrimage of Grace.” 

François uttered, “We are delighted to have Sweden as our friend.”

The envoy gushed, “Your Majesties, my master has the highest opinion of you!”

Nodding absently, the ruler veered his gaze to the ambassador who represented the Elector of Saxony. “We welcome an envoy from the former leader of the Schmalkaldic League.”

The diplomat from Saxony affirmed, “Your Majesty! My master, His Highness Johann Frederick, was horrified by the previous emperor’s villainies towards you and his own brother, Emperor Ferdinand, as well as the crimes of that demon Farnese Pope.” He ended with, “In the name of my sovereign, we sincerely apologize for not aiding France during those troubles times, for we were afraid of possible punishment from the late Emperor Carlos.”

The assemblage all tipped their heads in acknowledgement and regret.

François sighed with exasperation. “Fear is like a forest: you lose yourself in it.” 

Another diplomat stepped forward. He represented the kingdom of Denmark-Norway that was ruled by King Christian III from the Oldenburg dynasty. “My country is far from Italy. Yet, our king and everyone else in Europe feared the outcome of the Habsburg brothers’ war.” 

“Thank you for your honesty,” said the monarch sincerely.

The expression of the Elector’s envoy evolved into guilt. “Given that France is a Catholic country, we believed that you were responsible for those massacres of Protestants in Provence.” 

Ire simmered in François’ veins. “I would never have done that regardless of their beliefs.”   

Marguerite reminded, “I invested a great deal of time and effort into trying to convince you all that my brother is not capable of such atrocities, but you did not listen.” 

Anne was inwardly furious, too. “Faithless and unreliable are those who say farewell when the heavens darken. Didn’t we prove to you that the Protestant coalition is important to us?” 

Most diplomats looked a little embarrassed. The ambassador from Hesse was manifestly arrogant, pleased and proud that his sovereign – Philip I, Landgrave of Hesse – had preserved his friendship with the Valois dynasty, which was why the betrothal of Prince Jean, Duke de Guyenne, to Christine of Hesse, one of the landgrave’s daughters, was preserved.

“Catherine de’ Medici,” hissed the Swedish man. “Diane de Poitiers! It is their entire fault! Those two Catholic demonesses forged the documents with Your Majesty’s seal.” 

François tipped his head. “Indeed. But they paid for their crimes.” 

A diplomat who represented Duke Ulrich of Württemberg emerged from the crowd. “Your Majesties, will that ungodly Catholic witch meet her master the devil soon?” 

The king dismissed, “Catherine’s fate is our internal matter.”

The man quickly changed the subject that was also sensitive. “Queen Anne converted into Catholic faith. Does it mean that the religious tolerance in your country will be abolished?” 

François professed, “Nothing will change! For now, this policy keeps our people in unity.”  

Anne answered honestly while also challenging the concourse, “Would you not convert if there are continuous plots against you resulting in the deaths of your loved ones?” 

Her husband averred, “God and our faith are not in rites but in our hearts.” 

These utterances confirmed that the Valois queen’s repudiation of her former beliefs had been nothing more than a charade for form’s sake, so the envoys smiled.

Marguerite promulgated, “My brother is the most Christian Catholic monarch, and so is Emperor Ferdinand, May God bless them both and give them a long reign!” 

The diplomat from the Duchy of Cleves exclaimed, “His Imperial Majesty is so different from his late brother! His Highness Duke William of Cleves, also Count of Mark, was happy to learn about the victory of Your Majesty and Emperor Ferdinand at Marignano.” 

Taking his wife’s hand in his, François grinned affably. “Ferdinand is our friend. Are your masters satisfied with the Augsburg treaty that was passed thanks to Ferdinand?”

The ambassadors cried joyfully in unison, “Yes!”  

“For Emperor Ferdinand!” shouted Montmorency and Annebault together.

“For Emperor Ferdinand and for King François!” roared the Protestant envoys.

The Peace of Augsburg of 1549 was a special treaty between Emperor Ferdinand and the Schmalkaldic League, signed in the city of Augsburg. The religious settlement had long become necessary in the empire, so Ferdinand had given it to the German rulers and the populace. The document had made the legal division of Christianity permanent, permitting rulers to choose either Lutheranism or Catholicism as the official confession of their state.

Cuius regio, eius religio,” said an envoy from Joachim II Hector, Elector of Brandenburg. This was the main principle of the settlement. He translated, “Whose realm, his religion! We, Protestants, have fought for our rights for decades! Now we can freely choose our religion!” 

Anne, François, and Marguerite traded glances. They intended to cultivate their friendship with the Austrian Habsburgs, and to ensure that the Schmalkaldic League would not start any new wars against Catholics so that the peace in the Holy Roman Empire would be long-lasting.

François stressed, “Remember what Emperor Ferdinand granted to you in his generosity! Now everyone should be tolerant towards every religion even if you dislike something.” 

The audience’s nods were tinged with quiet reluctance because they loathed Catholics.

The ambassador from Brandenburg capitulated, “Your Majesty is correct.” 

Anne rejoined, “Declaratio Ferdinandei, or Ferdinand’s Declaration, illustrates clearly the emperor’s benevolence to his Imperial subjects. It exempted knights and some of the cities from the religious uniformity, allowing both Catholics and Lutherans to live together.” Her voice rose as she asked, “Would the late Emperor Carlos let you have anything like this?”

Marguerite answered instead of the diplomats, “Of course not! Treasure what you have!” 

The throng tipped their heads, all those in attendance knowing that it was true.

“Now it is time to sign our new treaty,” the monarch summed up.

Then Michel de l’Hôpital, new Chancellor of France following Guillaume Poyet’s death, brought a parchment. L’Hôpital advocated the peaceful coexistence of Catholics and Protestants in all countries. Within the next several minutes, the Treaty of Chenonceau was duly signed and stamped with the Valois seal, and this was welcomed by murmurings of joy and laughter.

§§§

Upon the return to his suite, Duke Anne de Montmorency found his wife, Marie, with their daughters. Sitting on a green-brocaded couch, Mary was teaching young Christine and Marie the rules of etiquette, for now both girls spent a lot of time with the royal children.

The antechamber was equipped with furniture decorated with classical elements such as columns, pediments, and cornices. Some pieces, including a table and cabinet in the corner, were adorned with panels of an almost jewel-like quality. The walls were tapestried with scenes from the mythological lives of Penelope and Odysseus, making the Constable of France feel as if he were the greatest ancient hero who had traveled across the globe to be with his wife.

I still cannot believe that Marie fell in love with me, Montmorency thought as he paused in the doorway. In silence, he watched his wife and their daughters with a smile on his face. In her bedroom featuring ebony furniture and a large bed canopied with red silk, Duchess Marie de Montmorency sat in a high-back chair upholstered in crimson velvet. Both clad in blue brocade, Marie and Christine de Montmorency lounged in matching chairs beside their mother.

Duchess Marie looked stunning in a silver damask gown. Queen Anne’s sister had aged well: she had only a few wrinkles on her face, hands, and neck; her blonde hair had not faded into grayness yet. Attired in a high-necked gown of azure brocade that matched the color of her cerulean eyes, Marie was more attractive than the Madonna from some Italian masterpiece.

Montmorency heard his spouse lecture. “A proper lady does not spend her whole morning in the gardens with a man, even if he is a small prince, if they are unchaperoned.” 

The dark-haired and brown-eyed Christine was seven and strongly resembled her father. “But Mama, please! I like playing with Lorenzo and Antoine. They are so merry!”

In contrast to her sister, the eight-year-old Marie had a contemplative personality and her mother’s blonde hair with cerulean blue eyes. “It was an honor for us to become friends with our Valois cousins. Augustine is clever and so unpleasantly cold. Aimée is shy and loves music. Lorenzo is hotheaded, and Louis is too small. Jeanne of Navarre is too old to play with us.”

Christine concluded, “This leaves us with Antoine and Louise.” 

Montmorency made his presence known by coughing. “I am back!” 

“Papa!” the girls chorused as they ran into his embrace.

“My darlings!” Montmorency hugged both of his girls at the same time. “Today, you are up early! Your mother has spoiled you both by allowing you to sleep late into the day.”

Montmorency disentwined himself from Christine and Marie, looking at them fondly.

Christine gushed, “I’m lazy and want fun! I play the virginals and the lute well.”

Marie bragged, “I’m better than you in studies, especially languages.” 

Christine amended, “But no better than Augustine, Jeanne, Louise, and Aimée.” 

The Montmorency girls, as they were referred to at court, spent most of the time with the offspring of the French monarchs. They were also close to Jeanne d’Albert, Queen of Navarre, in spite of their age gap. Thanks to their influential and rich parents, Marie and Christine de Montmorency were receiving a stellar education befitting princesses of the blood.

Duchess Marie entered the discourse. “You two are smart, my girls.” 

“Yes!” Marie the Younger chuckled airily. “And we love each other.” 

Christine exclaimed, “We do! And we also adore our royal cousins!” 

The Duke de Montmorency settled himself on the couch next to his duchess. “Marie and Christine, my girls! Why don’t you play with Dauphin Henri’s children? Even though Prince François is sickly, his sisters Princess Claude and Princess Élisabeth are clever with the latter also being vivacious. Prince Charles with Prince Alexander enjoy outdoor games.”   

“That evil woman,” huffed Marie. “I mean Catherine de’ Medici! She is their mother!” 

Christine nodded. “I tried to talk to them, but they keep us at an arm’s length.” 

Duchess Marie assumed, “The dauphin’s children have been very sad since their mother’s arrest. My sister Anne and Dowager Queen Marguerite are taking good care of them.” 

Montmorency requested, “Daughters of mine! I ask you both to befriend Their Highnesses, especially Prince François, Duke of Brittany, who now is third in line to the French throne.” He regarded both Marie and Christine strictly. “Do you understand me?”

The Duke and Duchess de Montmorency observed their daughters nod their heads.

“We understand, Father,” Christine answered.

Marie pitied the offspring of the imprisoned Medici woman. “We shall.”

Soon the governess led the girls out of the room to join their cousins for a lesson.

Montmorency kissed his wife’s hand. “You are joyful today.” 

Mary clasped his hands in hers. “I’m always happy when we are together.” 

He feigned doubt. “Really? I’m lucky to own your heart.”  

She teased, “You are such a bad liar, Monty. You know that I told you the truth about my feelings when we lived in Rome.” Her hand squeezed his. “Didn’t I prove my love for you?”

“Many times, my dearest wife, in particular when we are alone.” 

His arms cradling her closer to his chest, Montmorency kissed his wife thoroughly. Marie responded with fervency, her fingers curling in his still thick, but graying hair. The familiar ache flared into life low in her belly. Following her love confession to her husband, their intimacies were more elaborate and intense than ever, although they had long become passionate lovers.

Marie cupped his face tenderly. “I regret that I can no longer give you any children.” 

He kissed her on the nose. “Don’t feel so. That is not necessary to enjoy our marriage.” 

She rearranged her hair. “Little Valentine and Louis are Anne’s last children.” 

Montmorency looked complacent. “And we have our beautiful daughters!” 

Nodding, Marie supplied, “My English daughter Catherine is happy to be reunited with me, but my son Henry needs more time to accept me. Sadly, they were raised without me.” 

“Henry will come around. Is Lady Knollys King Henry’s daughter?” 

She sighed.  “Yes, but he never acknowledged her because she was a useless girl for him.”       

Montmorency had long ago guessed the truth, but they had never touched upon this topic before. “That immoral bastard deserves to be remembered as the worst English king!”

“I agree with you. England is much better off without that monster.” Despite their affection and trust, Marie would never confide in her husband how Henry VIII had really died.

“At present we are allied with England for the first time in years.” 

Her arms snaked around his neck. “My hero of Calais, you are too talkative!” 

Montmorency’s mouth started devouring his spouse’s, his arms tightening ardently around her waist. Hot desire swept over them like a tidal wave, and the duke carried Marie to their bed.

§§§

The vast magnificent park was divided into several gardens. Queen Jeanne of Navarre and her two ladies-in-waiting strolled through Queen Anne’s garden, named so after the Queen of France. They crisscrossed the eight triangles of lawn decorated with curving scrolls of santolina shrubs. Jeanne had spent the whole morning with her mother and their Navarrese councilors.  

Jeanne’s heart thumped like a drum when Prince Augustine, Duke d’Angoulême, appeared in view. Ah, Augustine is coming! she enthused in her mind. My Lord, he is my fiancé! When Augustine reached Jeanne, her whole world tilted, as if the sun were about to tumble down from the sky. As always, she discerned nothing behind blankness in those amber eyes. Nonetheless, he had such an overwhelming effect on Jeanne that she wondered why she was not blushing now.

Augustine paused in front of her and flourished a gallant bow. “Your Majesty.”

Jeanne sank into a curtsey. “Your Highness.” 

Her maids curtsied to the prince before they stepped aside to give them privacy.

“Not working on ledgers and books?” Augustine’s gaze was neither curious nor interested.

His unemotional voice both intrigued and irked Jeanne. “I’ve grown rather tired.” 

“Ah, I see. So, governance is an annoying thing for Your Majesty, isn’t it?”

With effort Jeanne tore her orbs away from him and glanced around blindly. “You know perfectly well that I’m a responsible queen and devote enough time to my mother’s lessons of rulership. However, the list of my duties is growing at such an insane pace that I can barely get accustomed to this. I’m not complaining, but I often find it hard not to crumble.” 

Practice, the master of all things.” His cold demeanor camouflaged his sympathy to her.

At this, Jeanne turned her head to him. “Octavianus Augustus said that.” 

His eyes sparkled for a split second. “He did.” 

The Queen of Navarre shot her fiancé a look that conveyed admiration and simultaneously irritation. “Your Highness is the living incarnation of the illustrious Roman Emperor Caesar Augustus. Smart, cold-blooded, pragmatic, and staying away from indulgencies of all kinds.”

A semblance of a grin curved his mouth. “That is quite a compliment, Madame. I cannot help being natural. You have summed up my character in just a few words.” 

Finally, there is a smile on Augustine’s face! Jeanne gushed silently. I like his rare smiles. He is always so serious. At eleven, Augustine was taller than his coevals, having inherited his tall height from his royal father. Augustine was the finest young copy of King François, but he did not have the monarch’s easygoing and outspoken spirit. Augustine was a secretive and aloof prince, shining in the rays of his arctic regality. Despite his young age, the boy was called the Iron Prince, the Inflexible Prince, and the French incarnation of Roman Augustus.

Nevertheless, Augustine had a penchant for extravagance in clothing, just as his parents did. As if wishing to stress his royal position, he preferred to wear purple garments, as well as those made of golden rich fabrics. Today the prince was clad in a doublet of golden and silver brocade and matching hose, over which was thrown a mantle of purple velvet.

Today clothed in green silks, Jeanne of Navarre looked nice with her long, brown hair flowing down her back. Somewhat resembling her mother, her bonny features were accentuated by a pair of hazel-green Albert eyes. With her intelligence and strength, she had all the attributes of a great queen. Although his inner world was hidden like the proverbial currents under still water, Augustine enjoyed their communication. I miss the simplicity between us in childhood.

The Queen of Navarre teased, “Finally, some emotion, Monsieur d’Angoulême.” 

“No,” he objected. “Emotions are a hindrance to success in life.”  

She protested, “But they let us live our lives to the fullest!” 

Augustine surveyed his fiancée thoughtfully. “Says someone interested in Protestantism.”

Jeanne snapped, “Not as much as you are interested in politics.”

His gaze turned a shade darker, as if some mysterious feeling had just entered those pools of frozen brown water. “May it be my honor to achieve great prosperity in Navarre, and then to enjoy the reward seeing the results of our reign! Provided that you do not break our betrothal.” 

Now she radiated delight. “I like when you speak about our joint rule in Navarre.” 

“It will be my duty to govern alongside you,” he commented dryly.

Jeanne gasped. “Why does Your Highness say such things about our engagement? Neither you nor I can reject it because we have a duty to our countries and families.”

Some new emotion splashed across the surface of Augustine’s gaze. “We repudiated Felipe of Spain’s proposal, but you might want this marriage to proceed.”

“What?” She blinked in total confusion as to why he had uttered that. “My beloved father would have turned in his grave if I had permitted some Spaniard to rule our small kingdom.” 

“That sounds encouraging,” drawled Augustine. “Should we not call each other by our first names, just as we did when we were younger? You used to be less formal with me.”

His lukewarm voice caused the young queen to relax. “Gladly.” 

“Jeanne,” the prince addressed personally, yet in a tone as impassive as his features were. “A monarch can find their country destroyed upon his accession, but he can bequeath it to their subjects made of marble and gold, just as Augustus Caesar did in Rome.” 

Augustine bowed and walked away towards the castle with a measured gait.

Jeanne heard one of her maids say, “He is like Philip the Forth of France!” 

The queen came to her handmaidens. “Perhaps Augustine is even more inflexible.” 

In the meantime, the prince reached a raised green terrace, punctuated by ornamental basins, and giving amazing views over the yew, spindle, box, and laurustinus bushes.

Jeanne is interesting, Augustine thought. Who am I to her? A boy? Secretly, he wanted to grow up quickly and was ashamed of his youth, for Jeanne had reached a marriageable age and was now eighteen. Nonetheless, his parents and his brother Henri told him that age difference did not matter in royal marriages, and that they would have enough time to produce a large progeny.

Sighing, Augustine examined his surroundings. Climbing roses adorned the walls of the terrace, and flowerbeds emphasized the rigorous geometry of the garden replete with blossoms and flagrances. Admiring the work of his mother’s architects in the castle and the park, he liked his life at Chenonceau more than at Saint-Germain-en-Laye. However, when he recalled why the Valois princes and princesses now resided in the Loire Valley, blood boiled in his veins.

“Catherine de’ Medici,” the prince hissed. “My father and Henri are too lenient to her.” 

Prince Augustine strode towards the château to attend his history and language classes. He would be late for the class because he had spent more time with Jeanne than anticipated.

§§§

The Italian maze was planted at Queen Anne’s behest with two thousand yew trees, which shone in the bright sunshine. The firmament was a cerulean blue dome completely covering the earth. Dauphin Henri entered a clearing inside this maze. Having worked the whole morning on his ledges, Henri had not taken part in the meeting with the Protestant ambassadors, although he approved of this new union. France needs as many friends as possible, the dauphin mused.  

“Marie!” Henri promenaded through the maze. “Diane!” 

The prince was searching for his mistress and his bastard daughter with his late mistress who had been executed upon Henri’s own orders. During all this time, his cousin Marie de Bourbon remained his only love interest, although young beauties worked hard to entice him.   

Stopping under a yew tree, Henri called, “Marie! Diane!”

“Henri!” his paramour answered. “We are near our favorite gazebo! Come to us!” 

His heart thumping against his ribcage, the prince dived deeper into the maze. The trees flashed before his eyes as he raced down the well-trodden path, overwhelmed with his eagerness to see his beloved woman and his daughter. Henri knew the maze very well because he, Marie, and Diane frequently strolled here, sometimes playing a hide-and-seek game.

Henri walked to the center of the maze, where a raised gazebo offered an elevated view over the park ensemble. His breath caught in his throat: Diane was running after Marie, both of them laughing blithesomely. The dauphin was immensely grateful to his mistress for raising his orphaned illegitimate daughter as her own child, and Diane loved Marie very much.

When the girl saw her father, Diane rushed to him. “Papa! Papa!”

Henri enveloped her into his arms. “My dearest and loveliest girl!”   

A grinning Marie approached him. “I’m your beautiful girl too, right?” 

He smiled at his paramour with a rare fondness that only a few people, save his close relatives, could ever see on his part. “I love you both too deeply to describe it.” 

Diane pressed herself to her father. “Papa, you are everything to me.” 

“And you to me.” The prince’s arms enfolded her into a tight embrace.

Marie’s laugh flowed through the hot air like an amorous melody her heart was singing. “You two make a more wonderful picture than Michelangelo’s great masterpieces.” 

Henri disentangled himself from his daughter. “He is your favorite painter.” 

Diane tugged at his sleeve. “Marie and I learned some of Michelangelo’s poems.” 

“Read me one of them, my dear.” Henri smiled: his daughter adored poetry!

Diane curtsied elegantly and began reading her favorite poem by Michelangelo ‘Love lifts to God.’ The girl was a product of his affair with the late Diane de Poitiers, but Henri adored their daughter madly. While his legitimate offspring with Catherine de’ Medici largely avoided him since their mother’s arrest, Henri enjoyed his warm relationship with Diane de Valois.

Aged eight, Diane possessed exquisite features, azure eyes, well-formed lips, and flawless skin. Although she looked much like her late mother, there was no icy air about her. Diane was attired in an expensive gown of white satin, and her blonde hair was arranged on top of her head.

A smile illuminated Henri’s face when his daughter finished. Thanks be to the Lord that although my girl and her accursed mother look identical, they have different such personalities. Diane was brought up together with the legitimate Valois children, dressed and educated like a princess of the blood. The girl did not blame Henri for her mother’s execution.

Diane lifted her chin high. “Are you pleased, Father?” 

The dauphin stroked his daughter’s hair. “Yes! You have an excellent memory, Diane.”

She promised, “I’ll study as hard as possible to make you proud of me.” 

Henri hugged her again. “That’s my girl!”

Diane requested, “Can I now go to Aimée? Soon she will play on the lyre and sing. Louise will be there, and perhaps Charlotte as well.” Out of all the royal children, Diane was closer to Aimée and to Anne de Pisseleu’s bastard daughter Charlotte de Valois. Diane de Valois loved all of her cousins and her half-siblings, but most of them remained distant from her.

Henri’s gaze flicked to his mistress. “Of course, Diane.”

“I know the way back.” The dauphin’s daughter curtsied and sprinted into the maze.

Henri pulled Marie de Bourbon into his arms. He kissed her with a force of emotion that, now fully unleashed, towered above him. Their kisses and couplings were different: sometimes, they were gentle, while in other cases they could ravage each other’s bodies with feral intensity.

Ceasing the kiss, he invited, “Let’s go to the gazebo.” 

Marie smiled contentedly. “Yes, I’d like to enjoy the views.” 

Marie and Henri went to the building dressed in living wicker. Inside, a nymph carrying the child Bacchus stood at the top of a cedar trunk; it was crowned with a statue of Venus. The gazebo was surrounded by a bower, dotted with vases and planted with boxwood and ivy, and it displayed on its left side the monumental Caryatids, which were draped female figures used for support instead of columns and created by the sculptor Jean Goujon.

“Henri, I have news,” commenced Marie. “I’m with child again.” 

His jocund emotions revealed on his face, the dauphin asked, “Are you sure, ma chérie?”

Her smile dropped like a stone into the water. “Are you not overjoyed?”  

“Happy?” His voice was layered with festivity. “I’m the happiest man on earth!” 

He twirled Marie around and pulled her close, laughing. His eyes lit up in excitement, and she smiled at his reaction. Marie was more precious to Henri than a collection of the most expensive artworks in the world. She had restored his faith in female honor and kindness because Marie’s pure feelings for him were truly unselfish. The fire of their passion had long consumed Henri’s whole being, slowly wrapping his heart into a cocoon of spiritual devotion.

The truth about his sentiments towards Marie dawned on Henri. “I’m so sorry that I cannot marry you. If I only could…” He sighed in frustration. “I love you, mon amour!” 

Her eyes filled with tears of joy. “What? How can it be real?” 

His arms were like a massive stronghold around her. “Yes. Do you believe me?” 

“I do, my Henri!” She kissed his cheek. “Your words are just so unexpected!” 

His obvious joy awakened in Marie a sense of peculiarly tender happiness, which grew when the dauphin asked, “Are you feeling unwell, Marie? Did a royal physician examine you?” 

His paramour disentwined herself from him. “I’m fine. Doctor Paré is watching over me.”   

A nonplussed Henri inquired, “Why are you behaving so?”

“I have no right to demand anything, and I’ve never wanted any riches and gifts from you. All I’ve ever dreamed of having is your love, but I wonder whether I can keep it.” 

“What do you mean, Marie? I’ve been sincere and respectful towards you.” 

Marie regarded the statues of Hercules and Apollo outside the gazebo. “As I’m pregnant, you will dally with other women, perhaps younger than me.” Her hand flew to her stomach.

Henri embraced her again. “I shall not betray you.”

She could not resist his nearness. “Do not give promises you cannot keep.” 

He bared his heart. “These feelings are new for me, Marie. What I felt for Diane de Poitiers was unhealthy obsession. But now I do love you more than I imagined possible.”    

“I am a Bourbon, but it matters not because I love you!” Only her brother, Duke Antoine de Vendôme, did not take a calculating approach to her affair with the dauphin.  

Having settled themselves onto a bench inside the gazebo, they conversed for a long time. Henri assured her that he would acknowledge their child as a Valois, and their romance would continue after the baby’s birth. Their hot embraces interrupted their conversation.

You love me now, Henri, Marie ruminated, admiring his handsomeness. However, you have no obligation to be faithful to any mistress. You will have others, even if you do not take to your bed anyone during this my pregnancy. Four years older than him, Marie was still young enough and pretty, but many women, seductresses and more experienced in matters of the heart, would surely attempt to charm the dauphin who was now estranged from his jailed wife permanently.

Her Bourbon relatives were not pleased at all that Henri had resolved to remain married to the Medici murderess because of his legitimate children’s pleas. Marie de Bourbon wanted to marry Henri, but not to get the status of a dauphine. She did love the king’s son wholeheartedly, which had prompted Marie to disregard her high station that would allow her to secure a great match. Instead, she had given herself to Henri, not regretting her decision in the slightest.

§§§

The fingers of Princess Aimée plunged at the strings of her Grecian lyre, which her mother had gifted to her on her previous birthday. Her song, performed in a sonorous voice, was an amazing accompaniment to the musical tune. Following the siege of Milan King François was inclined to writing poems and songs about the despair of two people in love separated by fate.

As Love and Hope together

Walk by me during the long siege,

Link-armed the ways they travel

The most loyal companions to me,

They dazzle me – they are a marvel!

They sing not, but they do smile

At me in these dark times of ordeal.

Three people sat on silver-brocaded couches in the presence chamber. They were Princess Elizabeth of England, Princess Louise of France, and the Earl of Devon, Elizabeth’s fiancé. The walls, swathed in tapestries of Orpheus and Eurydice’s lives, added to the artistic atmosphere. The bastard daughter of Anne de Pisseleu and the late Prince Charles – Charlotte – was absent.

Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon, commented, “People rarely have a great musical talent such as Princess Aimée displays. Her voice is splendor woven of gold in the silken air.” 

Her expression dreamy before her features regained blandness, Elizabeth Tudor thought of those beautiful poems and songs composed by her French stepfather in her dear mother’s honor. She often discerned an expression of distinctive adoration for one another in their eyes, reflected in them like golden roses. May God send such a great love on my path! Elizabeth dreamed, but would it come true? Her gaze detoured to Devon before it fixed on Aimée.

Elizabeth purred, “This is incredible! Aimée is even imitating Greek customs!” 

Louise of France pointed out, “She can play on the cithara, lyre, and flute.” 

Devon quizzed, “Can she sing ancient Greek songs?” 

“Yes, and in Greek,” responded Louise. “However, now Aimée is focusing on learning the German language. Our father’s French songs sound worse if they are translated to German.” 

A distracted Aimée demanded, “Stop chatting if you want me to continue.”

“We are sorry,” Louise pronounced apologetically.

Devon uttered, “We beg your pardon, Your Highness.” His French was almost flawless.

Still annoyed, Aimée resumed playing. The dulcet tune was getting more melancholic.

Hope leaving, Love commences

To practice on the flute of my world,

And as Love sings and journeys

With lingering, tired, yet quick, foot,

From Boulogne to Milan, to sheer hell

Back and forth, back and forth, 

Spirit of despair seizes my soul.

Aimée paused for a split second, sighing. Sadness also painted Louise’s countenance. The King of France’s daughters feared to imagine what their parents had survived through during the sieges of Boulogne and Milan. Then Aimée’s fingers plucked the instrument’s strings again.

Despair fills me to the very brim,

Twisting my insides and limbs,

Until in singing, purple garments

Comes royally and grandly, at call –

Comes limber-hipped, faint Hope

To see my Anne again in France.

It is free stepping, straight, tall –

And it is singing and lamenting,

The sweetest, deepest pipe of all.

The spectators and Aimée all smiled, for the next couplet was a jocund one.

My future, uncertain and frail,

Is now full of my nascent hope,

As I cherish the light in each draught,

The darkness in each storm and night,

My Anne’s black eyes flash,

And I burn with love and smile.

As Hope can overcome feeble ones

Earnest and brave, it makes

Me survive the hells of the siege

As I dream all the time of my reunion

With the greatest Queen Anne of mine.

“Bravo!” the audience chorused, applauding Aimée’s performance.

Aimée’s lyre was still clasped in her hands. “It is a bit doleful, but amazing.” 

A moment later, Jacqueline de Longwy, Countess de Bar-sur-Seine, entered. She served as a governess of the French princesses; her husband was head of the Valois children’s household. Aimée and Louise smiled at the woman they loved – Jacqueline was clothed in a gown of blue brocade like the outfits of the princesses who had also opted to wear a dress of this color today.

Jacqueline curtsied. “Your Highnesses, I’m sorry for intruding.”

Louise invited, “Jacqueline, come to us! We are having a music afternoon.” 

“I would gladly stay with you.” Jacqueline strode over to the couches where they lounged. She reminded, “But Princess Aimée is going to have a lesson of German and Austrian history.” 

Aimée wrinkled her nose. “Out of all classes, I dislike history the most.” 

Jacqueline pointed out, “You should know everything about the Holy Roman Empire!” 

“History is boring.” An annoyed Aimée stomped over to a table and put her lyre there.

Louise commended, “You have excelled in the German language, sister.” 

“Yes, I have,” agreed Aimée with a smile. “My German is better than yours!”

Always competitive, Louise boasted, “But my Spanish is better than yours!”

Their governess, Lord Devon, and Princess Elizabeth laughed at them.

Over a year ago, Queen Anne and King François had hired several competent tutors from Austria. Since then Louise and Aimée together studied the German language, as well as Austrian and German etiquette and dances. Louise would not want to marry into the Imperial family, but she strove to seize the opportunity and learn another language and the rules of continental courts.

Aimée surveyed her sisters in turns. “Now I should go.” 

Louise stood up. “As always, I’m joining you, sister.” 

Elizabeth rose to her feet. “We are about to leave for a ride.” 

Devon rose as well. “We still need to find Lady Ashley to accompany us.” 

Louise jested, “Lady Ashley watches you like a sentinel, though in a fond manner.” 

Elizabeth’s laugh pealed out. “That’s my beloved Kat.” Then they all exited.

They watched Dauphin Henri, his visage unusually terrified, sprinting through the hallway like a flying arrow. His friend Antoine de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, and his mother Françoise d’Alençon, Dowager Duchess de Vendôme, followed. Antoine briefly nodded; Françoise paused and curtsied. Then appeared Queen Anne and King François who hastened down the corridor.

“What’s wrong?” asked Elizabeth Tudor. Her sisters and Devon had the same question.

Prince Augustine appeared from a nearby corridor. Pale and deadly quiet, he approached and bowed. “Marie de Bourbon has just miscarried, and her life might be in danger.”

“Oh God!” gasped Elizabeth, Aimée, and Louise in unison.

The Earl of Devon released a sigh. “I hope that Madame Marie will recover.”

Elizabeth glanced at her betrothed. “We will have to skip our ride today, my lord.”

“I understand, Your Highness,” Devon assured, receiving Elizabeth’s grateful smile.

Louise noted, “Poor Henri! He is so unlucky to have so much misery.”

“I hope that Marie will live,” Aimée joined. “She is so kind and loves Henri!”

Indeed, our brother Henri has suffered in his personal life, Augustine thought regretfully. Yet, deep down he was relieved that Henri would not have any other legitimate male heirs. His mother Anne had once confessed to Augustine that she dreamed of him inheriting the French crown, admitting that she felt guilty for her desires. Augustine, too, had a similar secret wish in spite of his love for Henri and his elder brother’s legitimate sons with Catherine de’ Medici.

Notes:

The new chapter is up! Please let us know what you think of this chapter, and don’t forget to leave reviews so that we can discuss events, twists, and turns in this chapter.

We have given you a glimpse into the lives of Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, and his family following their banishment from the Tudor court. We have not decided yet whether in the future we will have Edward Seymour play an active role in England’s politics. Perhaps you can give us some ideas about Edward and Anne’s future if they are ever allowed to return to court.

Anne and François of France, as well as Marguerite of Navarre, have now again formed a new alliance with the Protestant dukes and countries. Perhaps this time it will last for longer than it did before when they broke it during the siege of Milan and before the Habsburg brothers’ war. Of course, Anne, François, and Margot are not happy that they were abandoned by their Protestant allies, but the German Protestants will play some role in France’s politics. Anyway, France is now allied with the Habsburgs of Austria, England for some time, and the whole of Italy.

Duchess Marie de Montmorency, Anne’s sister, is happy with her family and loves her husband. We are starting to show more of Augustine de Valois, Duke d’Angoulême. He will marry his first cousin Jeanne d’Albert, Queen of Navarre, in several years, but their marriage will not be an easy one. Marie de Bourbon does love Dauphin Henri wholeheartedly, and he has been faithful to her for a number of years, but she is right that his fidelity will not last forever, and eventually Henri will take new mistresses. What is most important is that Dauphin Henri will not have any other legitimate male heirs as the imprisoned Catherine de’ Medici remains his wife.

We are showing Elizabeth Tudor with her sisters Louise and Aimée of France again. Given that Elizabeth is closer in age to Augustine, Louise, and Aimée, she will be shown mostly with them. We hope that you liked the contrast described between Elizabeth, Louise, and Aimée. I think Louise is more like her grandmother Louise de Savoy, or at least we tried to portray her like this. We strove to make Aimée a pretty, interesting, and clever girl, one interested in music, but she does not have the personality of a fighter and survivor unlike Louise and Elizabeth.

We will show the competition between Eddie Courtenay, Earl of Devon, and Robert Dudley. These two men will each have their own roles in Elizabeth’s life. Devon and Dudley are rivals for the heart of our beloved Elizabeth, and we will see her choosing between them. Maybe she will marry Devon, maybe not, but Robert Dudley will not come anywhere out of her life for long. At the same time, Robert Dudley will be featured more in our future sequel to CWL.

Aimée’s song of her parents, Anne and François, was written by Lady Perseverance in the form of a poem. The information give about the mentioned Peace of Augsburg of 1549, which was signed between Emperor Ferdinand and the German Lutheran & Protestant princes, is historically correct with the difference that in real history it was concluded in 1555 at the Imperial Diet of Augsburg of 1555. The descriptions of Château de Chenonceau, which in this fiction belongs to Queen Anne, is a magnificent place, and its descriptions more or less correct.

Attention! A while ago, we posted a prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 93: Chapter 92: The Courtship of a Princess

Summary:

Courted by Edward Courtenay, Elizabeth Tudor finds herself torn between him and Robert Dudley. King François and his English stepdaughter are on good terms, and he gives her his counsel. Elizabeth is getting to know her siblings and celebrates her birthday in France.

Notes:

Attention! The prologue to the sequel 'Chained by Blood and Power' (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don't forget about our work "Entwined by a Golden Alliance" co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 92: The Courtship of a Princess

August 10, 1550, Château de Chenonceau, near Chenonceaux, Loire Valley, France

Princess Elizabeth Tudor sauntered through the hallway, decorated with marble sculptures of ancient heroes. Her governess, Lady Catherine Ashley, was just behind her, as always dressed in a strict black gown without any ornamentation. Elizabeth paid no heed to anyone except for her fiancé who walked by her side with his hand tenderly keeping Elizabeth’s in his larger one. Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon, was garbed in a brown velvet attire adorned with jewels.

All curious courtiers who encountered the couple bowed and curtsied upon seeing them.

“Your Highness is a true flower of beauty,” complimented the Earl of Devon.

Henry VIII’s daughter chortled. “I can live for a few months on a good compliment.”

Devon squeezed her hand in his, entwining their fingers. “Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around. Don’t you think so?”

“I do.” Elizabeth’s breathing was caught in delicious breathless surprise. His voice was so silky, caressing her whole being! “Being trusted is a greater compliment than being loved.”

“I understand why Your Highness feels so.” Her tyrannical father was the reason.

The princess sighed. “Thank you, Lord Devon.”

Catherine Ashley reveled in the picture of their growing friendship. “It is warm and sunny outside. Are Your Highness and you, Lord Devon, eager to go for a ride outside?”

“Yes,” chorused the couple, smiling at one another.

The three of them exited the castle and went to the royal stables, where they met Ambrose Dudley, who was one of the many brothers to Robert Dudley and served as captain of the Tudor princess’ personal guard.  They left the château accompanied by a contingent of guards. They stopped for a moment to enjoy the magnificent castle that was surrounded by the elegant gardens and spanning the Cher River – Gothic columns over the water forming a bridge.

Devon pronounced, “All travelers visiting France should go to the Loire Valley to enjoy the opulent and majestic architecture. We do not have anything like this in England.” 

Elizabeth concurred. “Yes, we don’t, so we should develop our own culture.” 

“Hmm,” he made an odd sound. “Does King Edward look like a future patron of the arts?” 

She sighed, and he shrugged. The English boy-king was interested in other things.

“There are many ancient châteaux and retreats of kings and queens in the Loire Valley.” 

“I was told that Château de Fontainebleau is also gorgeous.” 

“My mother says the same. King François is going to spend next spring there.” 

“But I’ll not see it. I must return to England soon.”  

“Duty is more important than anything else.” 

“Naturally, Your Highness.” Devon emitted a sigh of chagrin. Did she want him to depart? He would prefer to have a less formal communication with her, but she was a princess, so he had to always be both courteous and official with her. “Should we continue our ride?” 

A smile curved Elizabeth’s mouth. “Of course, Lord Devon.” 

The earl assisted the girl in climbing into her saddle. His hands touched hers carefully, with care, and they both felt warm at this simple physical contact, but Elizabeth quickly averted her shy gaze. The tantalizing, magnetic waves went through every living cell in her whole body. Literally lost in each other, they did not see Kat grin at them and Ambrose Dudley frown.

After everyone mounted, the princess urged her horse forward. Placing herself at the helm of their small procession, she galloped with the wind until she herself blended with it, breathing the intoxicating flagrance of freedom. Soon they dived into the nearby, familiar woods.

“Your Highness!” called Catherine Ashley, out of breath. “Please slow down!” 

Ambrose Dudley shouted, “Your Highness, be careful!” 

Devon laughed. “Her Highness is the finest horsewoman! She enjoys the ride!” 

An elated Elizabeth cried, “My hands are as skilled at managing the horse as they are with musical instruments.” Yet, she tightened the reins and slowed the beast into a walk.

The others followed suit. Now they were making their way through the woods. The forest was green and lush, silence interrupted by the animals’ noises and the chirping of birds. The air was fresh, the weather sunny; their delight turned infectious when they reached a large clearing.

“Let’s dismount,” proposed Elizabeth, but it sounded like an instruction.

As they complied, the princess hopped down from the saddle on her own. After consigning her horse to Dudley, she signaled Devon to go to the other side of the meadow, the shake of her head asking her governess not to follow them. In any case, Elizabeth and Devon would remain in the same meadow, and so the rules of proper behavior would be complied with.

Elizabeth and Devon halted under a group of branchy, old oaks. As she leaned back against the tree’s trunk, Bess peered at the man who she was betrothed to, her expression blank.

What does Princess Elizabeth really feel for me? Edward Courtenay wondered. I’ve fallen so hard for her! During their meetings, Bess was polite, rarely allowing herself to display her joy. Her hair came undone from the tight braids after their quick ride, falling like red-gold silk across her shoulders, and Devon warded off the impulse to entangle his fingers into her tresses.

Elizabeth interrupted the pause. “King François often hunts in this forest.” 

Devon responded, “I attended some of His Majesty’s hunts more out of politeness. Unlike most noblemen, I prefer to spend my time reading and administering my estates.” 

In contrast to him, the princess adored hunting. “I may have a penchant for hunting, just as my mother did at a younger age, but I was rarely allowed to participate in it.” 

“Your Highness was too young for such activities. As you have a long life ahead, you will have plenty of opportunities to enjoy hunting in all of English royal forests.”

“Provided that Edward will permit me to live at his court.” 

“Why such words?” Devon was aware of Bess’ lukewarm relationship with the boy-king.

Elizabeth spotted a squirrel running across the meadow. “Ned is very selfish.”

“My father will be Lord Protector for several more years, so your life will be peaceful.” 

The princess glanced back at him. “I did not always have a positive attitude to Lord Exeter. However, I understand that now the Tudor realm is in capable hands. I’m also grateful to him for his kindness to me as he let me communicate with my mother risking his own life.” 

Devon disliked King Henry. Nevertheless, the obese tyrant, as he and Exeter called the dead man in private and in their minds, was Elizabeth’s father, and so Devon treaded carefully around the matter. “My father is a seasoned courtier, but he does have a conscience.” 

A smile brightened her expression. “I’ve had the chance to see that.” 

They had no idea that the Marquess of Exeter had poisoned the previous King of England after he had conspired with the sovereigns of France. All those who could suspect anything had been dealt with – grooms and servants – and were no longer in the world of the living.

She steered their conversation into a different territory. “Have you ever talked with any of French artists? The Valois court is thronged with numerous intellectuals.” 

Devon nodded. “Certainly! I admire the works of François Clouet who created wonderful portraits of the French rulers. Now he is painting Queen Jeanne of Navarre.” 

Elizabeth had met this painter a couple of times. “My beloved mother has two portraits painted by the celebrated Agnolo Bronzino. Later Monsieur Clouet created her portraits.” 

“Master Holbein died, so now the English court needs new talented painters.” 

“Definitely.” To Elizabeth’s disappointment, Edward was highly unlikely to devote his attention to culture. “Can Lord Exeter invite some painters from the continent?” 

The earl grinned at this suggestion. “I shall speak to my father about it.” 

“The German portraitist Gerlach Flicke, the Flemish portrait-painter Hans Eworth, and the young Flemish sculptor Steven van Herwijck! They can come to England and glorify the Tudor dynasty! Together with John Bettes the Elder, whose style is reminiscent of Hans Holbein’s.” 

Devon’s smile was broad. “Do you want to invite them all?” 

“Yes!” These words poured out of Elizabeth in a torrent of enthusiastic words. “Given the differences between French, Italian, and English cultures, it would be far better to find competent painters at home or invite Italian painters offering them lucrative commissions. Foreign artists ought to be selected with caution. Most English nobles want to have themselves painted, so portraiture that is done in both full size and miniature will become far more popular.” 

Devon shared his own aspirations in this area. “We need more national artists. I agree that Flemish or German artists are more likely to create works suitable to our culture and traditions. As for foreign painters, they may use French or Italian artistic traditions.”

“My mother’s portraits by Il Bronzino are true masterpieces, in particular his tremendous attention to the detail of costumes. In my opinion, English portraitists should possess their own highly decorative style, but it should not be as flamboyant as Italian and French styles.”

He predicted, “Your Highness will surely become a great patron of the arts.” 

She was eager to try and assemble as many painters as possible at one of her residences, perhaps at Hever Castle. “I shall write to some painters in Flanders. Maybe they will accept my offer to work for me.” Income generated in her estates was enough to finance such projects.

Devon knew that Exeter would approve of that. “Your Highness can easily accomplish it. Like you, I happen to know John Bettes whose works you once saw.” 

“Actually, it was Lord Exeter who showed them to me.” 

“Ah, I see.” His mouth lengthened in a grin. “I have some as well.” 

For a moment, Elizabeth and Devon retired into the universe that sequestered them in this meadow. He took her hand in his, his fingers combing through hers. He leaned forward slightly, as if to kiss her, but nothing followed as he would never permit himself such boldness.

Lord Devon is quite handsome, Elizabeth observed as she gazed into his eyes. We share interests in studies and the arts. Most importantly, he does not have a domineering personality. Despite her fears of matrimony, she could not deny that she dreamed of finding immortal love as strong as the mutual amorous sentiments between François and Anne were. Anne’s example of rising like a phoenix from the ashes of her former life burned by Henry inspired the princess.

What did she really feel for Exeter’s son? Elizabeth had been courted by the Earl of Devon in England, and she had spent with him a considerable amount of time in France. Her feelings were tangled like the branches of oaks above them, but she was attracted to this young man, unable to describe her emotions in words. Her interactions with Devon left the princess elated.

Kat’s voice rose over the clearing. “Do you want to go to the village?” 

Elizabeth removed her hand from Devon’s. “Should we go, my lord?” 

Courtenay released his breath slowly. “Of course, Mademoiselle.” 

The princess requested, “Write me from time to time after your departure.” 

A smile warmed his countenance. “I shall. Very often.” 

She proposed benevolently, “Call me Bess when we are in private.” 

“Call me Eddie, then.” His elated heart thumped, as if it was about to burst.

Their small gestures of affection were witnessed by a doleful Ambrose Dudley and a joyful Kat Ashley. Dudley and the princess’ governess exchanged their mutually suspicious glances from time to time, for neither of them liked the other. Robert would have been angry and caused a scandal now, Ambrose thought. My brother should forget Princess Elizabeth.

Soon the cortege reached the village of Chenonceaux. Overlooking vineyards in the Loire Valley, the medieval village had centuries ago been constructed around the ancient Romanesque Church of Saint-John the Baptist. The narrow streets were lined with nice, half-timbered houses with carved window-frames and flower-decked balconies. As their sudden arrival awakened the civilians’ interest which Elizabeth wished to avoid, she commanded to return to the castle.

§§§

Princess Elizabeth went to the François I gardens without her ladies. She wandered through the garden paths offering picturesque views on the west façade of the château. In this part of the ensemble, the park was designed as five panels of lawn, grouped around a circular basin and punctuated with globes of boxwood. Elizabeth found French and Italianate parks magnificent.

Soon the princess found herself in the eastern part of the vast king’s park, which faced a walkway overlooking a deep moat. Much to her surprise, she discovered King François working as a gardener as he was taking care of a flowerbed of roses, a watering pot and scissors clasped in his right and left hands, respectively. Around them, countless roses bloomed in trellises.

“Your Majesty,” began Elizabeth. “Good day! Why are you tending to these roses?” 

François briefly shifted his gaze from the pot to her. “Your Highness, it is nice to see you.” He continued watering the flowers. “The sundown of my life is approaching fast. The gardening lets me feel closer to nature, and when strength begins leaving me, I’ll still be able to do this.” 

They always spoke in French. François was astounded how well his stepdaughter had mastered his native tongue, and he often complimented Elizabeth on her language skills.

Today François was clad in a wide-necked doublet of gray satin with paned sleeves under a dark gold jerkin. His shirt had a tiny frill edged in black at the neck and wide, black ruffles at the wrists. It amazed Bess how stark the contrast between François and her own late father was at a similar age. Slender and athletic, François was still vigorous. He is so different from my father!

The monarch put the pot onto the grass before he applied the scissors to several plants. “I’m not a boy anymore, but I’m still full of strength and energy. Yet, I know that I’m entering the autumn or perhaps winter of my life, and there will be no other summer.” 

“Aunt Marie says that little Valentine has given you and my mama another youth.” 

He laughed. “That is true. Our little girl has reinvigorated our spirits.”  

The king walked to a nearby bed and watered more roses, and she followed him.

“Can the Knight-King renege on his word?” she asked out of curiosity.

He placed the empty pot beside the bed on the ground. “Under some special circumstances, I can if it suits France’s interests. I’ve never been as fickle as some of my fellow monarchs were, but sometimes, you have to do things which are inconsistent with the code of chivalry.” 

It was a thinly veiled insult towards King Henry of England. “My late father was a volatile and cruel man whose mood changed as quickly as the wind can within just one day.” 

François peered into Elizabeth’s orbs with profound interest. Elizabeth blinked: his intense stare was like a wallet of secrets. However, as a sly man with clear aptitude for intrigue, the king maneuvered to where he needed them to be by flashing a disarming grin for his stepdaughter. I pray that Elizabeth will never know that Anne, Exeter, and I had her father poisoned.

Did the King of France regret what he had done to his former English archrival? Although he considered regicide the gravest crime possible, François could not feel guilty in this particular case, despite his desire to experience at least a shred of contrition over Henry’s murder. François could not condone the ignominy that the Tudor tyrant had perpetrated towards Anne during her captivity in Boulogne. After his death, the Almighty would judge François for this misdeed.

François touched upon the topic of his dead English counterpart. “I always viewed Henry as someone whose character and word could not be trusted.” He sighed. “If you are royalty, you cannot completely rely on anyone save some of your relatives, if they deserve your trust.”    

Elizabeth’s mind drifted to her brother Edward. Could she trust him? “Perhaps.” 

The ruler fathomed out her musings. “Don’t worry. King Edward will not be dangerous until he starts ruling on his own. Moreover, if something goes wrong in England, God forbid, you can always come to my kingdom and stay here as long as you need.”

“I’m very grateful to Your Majesty. I love your country – it is truly beautiful.” 

“France is the best country on earth for me! Please address me by my name in private.” 

“Gladly.” She hastily added, “It would be a great honor for me if you treat me likewise.” 

“It is then agreed, our English nymph whose red-gold hair is like flames of fire.” 

His compliment endeared her to him. “The Knight-King is skilled at flirting with ladies.” 

His whole being exuded light when François thought about his wife. “Years ago, I was extremely skilled at such things until I married your mother and fell in love with her.” 

“She became enamored of you as well.” 

He cut several roses from the flowerbed. “Not as quickly as I became of her.” 

Elizabeth characterized her mother. “My mama is the most unique woman on earth! Many men were smitten with her after her arrival to England from France, including my father.”

“Anne was raised at my cultured court that is the most enlightened one in the entirety of Europe.” François left the scissors and the pot near one of the beds. Taking the small bouquet of flowers he had made from the roses he had just cut, he apprised, “This gift is for Anne.” 

“That is so sweet of you! Every time I visit my mother I find a bouquet of roses in a vase on her bedside table. Now I know that you, François, deliver these flowers to her.” 

“Elizabeth,” he purred in an affectionate tone. “Anne is the love of my whole life.” 

A frisson of excitement surged through the girl. “I’m absolutely inexperienced in matters of the heart, but I’m aware that you and my mother adore each other.” 

“Your difficult childhood shaped you into a strong, educated, fearless, and fierce girl who is mature and wise beyond her age. You would not have become who you are in any other case.” 

Her mind dashed back to her spoiled brother Ned. “The more you are pampered, the worse person you will become. Some children might become spoiled brats.” 

Again, he comprehended her thoughts, but said nothing. “Should we take a seat?” 

Nodding, Elizabeth and François stood up. In a minute, they reached a small garden where tall rose bushes and lavenders were cut into low and rounded cordons, marking out pretty patterns. They entered an arbor entwined with grape vines, where they settled themselves onto a marble bench, to their right offering a view on the orangery designed by Bernard Palissy.

The princess proceeded to bare her heart to her stepfather. “François, I’m so happy to be with my mother again. There were moments when all I wanted was to die because of the way my father treated me. Only Anne’s letters and the presence of Margery Horseman, God rest her soul, and my governess, Kat Ashley, filled my life with joy. I was also fond of my late stepmothers – Queen Kitty Howard and Queen Anne of Cleves, the Lord let them rest in peace.” 

“Anne said that you are friends with Henry’s last queen – Catherine Parr.” 

“Yes. During my exile at Hever Queen Catherine and the Marquess of Exeter helped me exchange messages with my mama until Charles de Marillac was sent away.” 

François glanced towards the orangery. “Monsieur de Marillac is back to England.” 

“Now it must be easier for him to live at the Tudor court.” 

His smirk was acrid in response. “It is.” 

Her train of thought journeyed to the former Lady Parr again. “My stepmother’s marriage to Lord Exeter after the king’s death surprised me, but I wish them happiness.” 

“Don’t you miss your father, Elizabeth?” 

Bess answered with a sigh, “Not really, given his treatment of me and my mother. Despite his accomplishments, King Henry squandered much of his life pursuing his obsessions.”   

François speculated, “As Socrates rightly said, ‘To find yourself, think for yourself.’ Many rulers don’t do so, leaving state affairs to their councilors in order to entertain themselves. Henry acted so in his youth while Cardinal Wolsey governed England as his chief minister.”

Elizabeth inhaled sharply. “There are many lessons his reign can teach his successors.” 

François ruminated, “If you ever ascend to the Tudor throne, you cannot let others see you as a Boleyn girl. Anne’s fate became tied to France after our marriage, while you will have to stress again and again that you, Elizabeth, are your father’s daughter a true Tudor. This will be necessary for you to ensure that all the changes introduced by Henry in England will not be lost.” 

“You sound as confident as my mother does about my eventual accession.” 

“I would want that to happen, Elizabeth.” 

She arched a brow. “Despite the fact that Catholics consider me illegitimate, François?” 

“Yes, for Anne.” He paused, letting it sink in. “You are legitimate only in accordance with the English law. Don’t forget that Archbishop Cranmer annulled your father’s first marriage later than your patents’ secret wedding. Your enemies in England must remember that.” 

Elizabeth’s mind detoured to Maria de Salinas’ letters from her Spanish masters. “What if I can prove that Catherine of Aragon and Arthur Tudor were intimate at Ludlow?” 

François directed a penetrating stare at his stepdaughter. “Is that so?” 

The princess then told the ruler everything about the letters, which the Duke of Suffolk had asked Lady Catherine Exeter to give Bess while on his deathbed in Boulogne.

After her tale was over, the ruler commented, “It changes everything. Keep these letters.” 

“I shall.” Neither he nor she voiced their condemnatory thoughts of Catherine of Aragon.

The monarch continued, “In spite of my conservative Catholic beliefs, I do not think that England should make a step back to the past and to be restored to the fold of Rome.” 

Her curiosity was immeasurable. “Why, François?” 

Her amazement made him smile. “I’ve always cultivated things and policies progressive and intellectual.” He leaned closer to her, as if intending to whisper a secret. “For a ruler, it is often better not to look back, although it is necessary to learn from mistakes. For a nation, any step back to the past that was demolished may result in a horrible suffering and bloodshed.” 

Elizabeth appreciated his advice. “Any step back might lead to disasters.” 

“I disagree with Niccolo Machiavelli that it is much better for a ruler to be feared rather than loved: subjects need to love and fear their king equally, for tyrants might be deposed and lose everything, even their lives. Otherwise the king cannot be secure on their throne.” 

“Loved and feared equally,” repeated Bess thoughtfully.

For a short time, they sat in contemplative stillness. The afternoon sun was hot, and the heat was unbearable. Water splashed in a nearby fountain among blossoms and exotic shrubs.

At this moment, Anne Boleyn’s daughter thought of the Earl of Devon. Should she marry Lord Exeter’s son? What did this very decent man feel for her? Would he remain in the shadows of her glory in their matrimony? Could her attraction to Lord Devon grow into something else?

The monarch seemed to be reading her thoughts. “I married all of my wives, including your mother, out of duty. I was lucky to fall in love with Anne and even more fortunate that she reciprocated my feelings. Such things happen rarely, perhaps only in the ideal world.” 

Elizabeth dived into her girlish dreams. “Love is a God’s gift. Not everyone is destined to experience it, but I wish to. Nevertheless, I do not want any man to have power over me.” 

“You are so much like Anne. You two have a lot in common.” 

She grinned back at him. “I’m proud of this.”  

François took her hand in his and squeezed it. “Bess, I’m not your father, but I want you to be happy. You suffered too much because of Henry’s callousness.” A sigh spilled out of him. “But if you become Queen of England, it will be your duty to secure the succession.” 

Elizabeth bobbed her head. “Or the country would might into civil war.” 

The French ruler nodded. “Exactly. The English people are less likely to accept a foreigner as King Consort than a Plantagenet descendant. The children from your marriage to Lord Devon would symbolize the second and final unification of the Houses of York and Lancaster.” 

She smiled half-gently, half-sadly. “Yes, Lord Devon is partly a York.” 

François unlocked their hands. “This union would be beneficial for you. I’ve watched Lord Devon: he is your father’s opposite, and he is not pretending that he is bewitched by you.” 

She shook her head despairingly. “I still don’t know what to do, François.” 

“Only you can decide,” insisted the king, and his stepdaughter dipped a nod.

“Papa! Papa!” the cries of Antoine and Lorenzo interrupted their discourse.

The boys were running towards the arbor, with their governess, Louise de Montmorency, following them. Leaving his stepdaughter, François stood up and strode to his sons.

§§§

A smiling King François approached both of his sons. He then squatted and embraced both of the laughing boys, who wrapped their arms around their father’s back.

Out of breath, Louise de Montmorency stopped several respectful paces from them. “Both princes are a great credit to France, and I swear that I’m doing my best to raise them.” 

The ruler disentwined himself from the collective hug. The boys flanked him.

Lorenzo averred, “Augustine is the cleverest of us! He is the best credit to France!” 

Antoine tipped his head. “Augustine the Cold is more important than any of us is.” 

“Save our brother Henri,” Lorenzo amended. “And his children.” 

François glanced at his sons in turns. “You all mean the whole world to me.” 

Louise could now breathe more easily. “Your Highnesses are so quick and mischievous that an aging woman such as myself finds it hard to run after you.”    

The king asked, “How are you faring now, Madame de Montmorency?” 

The Constable of France’s sister responded, “I’m good, Your Majesty.” Her gaze oscillated between the giggling boys. “I love our princes as if they were my own children.” 

Antoine quizzed, “And how are your three sons and your daughter, Madame?” 

“They are all doing well; thank you for asking.” Louise missed her offspring, including her daughter, also Louise, from her first marriage. They were in their estates, save Odet de Coligny, Archbishop of Toulouse. Her second husband, Gaspard de Coligny, had passed away about thirty years ago, and Louise did not remarry, having dedicated her life to raising the Valois progeny.

The king proposed, “I can appoint someone else to help you.” 

Louise consented, “That would be useful, Your Majesty.” 

François nodded and looked at his sons. “Why did you make your governess pursue you?” 

Lorenzo removed his hand from his father’s before pressing it to his mouth, as if to conceal a naughty grin. “We were in the gardens, and I almost drowned in a fountain.” 

The king’s expression changed into horror. “What, Enzo?”    

Antoine confirmed, “He wanted to swim in one of the fountains.” 

Louise elaborated, “The princes intended to refresh themselves in a fountain. The gardener distracted me a little, and they disappeared. It took me a while to find them.” She crossed herself. “They stood near the edge of the fountain and were about to jump into it.” 

Lorenzo complained, “I was dragged away from the fountain!” 

The governess chided, “Your Highness, I had to act so for your safety.” 

The monarch nodded gratefully. “You did the right thing, Madame de Montmorency.” 

Antoine defended himself and his brother. “The fountain is shallow!” 

The ruler stepped back from his sons, his gaze silently remonstrating with them. “You are both princes of France, and your station does not let you behave so recklessly. Most importantly, you should never do anything that can potentially harm you in any way.” 

“It is too hot!” Lorenzo reiterated. He was sweating.

Antoine glanced up at the cloudless sky. “The sun is boiling us alive.” 

François applied another tactic. “You both are too rambunctious, like I was in childhood. But don’t you understand how much your mama and I are afraid to lose you?” 

Now Antoine and Lorenzo looked shamefaced as they chorused, “We do.” 

Their father wagged his finger at them. “Never do anything like that again.” 

The boys promised in unison, “We will not.” 

Louise pledged, “I shall watch over them more closely.” 

Taking the bouquet of roses from the bench, Elizabeth stood up and exited the arbor.

“Brothers,” the princess addressed with a smile. “How about taking the flowers your father picked up for our mama and going to her rooms? She will be delighted to see us.” 

Lorenzo was happy to see his sister. “Bess! Let’s go to our mother!”   

Antoine added, “Let’s pick up some amaryllises and tulips for our mama.” 

François encouraged, “Antoine and Enzo, go with your sister and governess.” 

After François had gone to the château, Elizabeth, the princes, and their governess went to another part of the park. While picking up more flowers, they laughed and chattered merrily as Bess told them about English royal gardens. For a moment, Elizabeth imagined that one day, she would be surrounded by a few children of her own, and she liked this fantasy.


September 7, 1550, Château d’Amboise, the town of Amboise, the Loire Valley, France

The French court had long ceased being as profligate as it had once been, while still being truly magnificent. Nonetheless, there were special occasions when this rule did not apply. On the birthday of Princess Elizabeth, the Valois family arranged sumptuous festivities. The court had recently relocated to Amboise, but most of the royal children remained at Chenonceau.

A huge crowd of courtiers swarmed the spacious and high-ceilinged great hall. Hundreds of them laughed and chatted jocundly, while eating rapaciously all kinds of French and Italian delicacies cooked for the celebrations. Beneath a profusion of gilded chandeliers, the nobles contemplated the Tudor princess who sat between King François and Queen Anne. As the candlelight danced across the frescoed walls and ceiling, new intrigues were also woven by various factions. From the gallery above, the orchestra played chansons of Claudin de Sermisy.

The monarch offered, “Elizabeth, give a try to this wine from my collection.” 

“Gladly.” The princess took a full goblet from a servant, who bowed and walked off.

The queen elucidated, “The vineyards of Chenonceau produce majestic wines.” 

Elizabeth savored the taste on her tongue. “It’s wonderful!” She shone in her resplendent gown of cloth of gold, and a diamond necklace glittered on her bosom. 

François bragged, “You don’t have anything like this in England.” 

Grinning, Bess noted, “I’m in awe from Monsieur de Sermisy’s chansons.” 

Her stepfather’s brows shot up. “What about Clément Janequin?” 

“I adore his works, too.” The English princess nodded. “His chansons are so loved and widely sung that the Parisian printer Pierre Attaingnant printed five volumes dedicated to them.”   

François lauded, “You have such great awareness of French music!” 

The musicians commenced playing chansons of Sermisy and Janequin alternately.

The monarchs of France and Princess Elizabeth were seated at the main table under a canopy of white, blue, and golden damask, adorned with Valois heraldic ornaments. Marguerite of Navarre occupied the place to Anne’s right, just beside Queen Jeanne of Navarre and Prince Augustine. To Anne’s left, holding his lover’s hand, Dauphin Henri sat with his beloved mistress Marie de Bourbon, who had recovered from her miscarriage several weeks ago.

The Montmorency spouses, with the constable’s four sons, sat at the opposite side of the main table. Two eldest children of the deceased Philippe de Chabot were at court – Eleonore de Chabot, Count de Charny, and François de Chabot, Marquis de Mirebeau. Claude d’Annebault and his wife, Françoise Tournemine, with their son Jean, were also present there.

All the tables, which stood in a form of quadrilateral, moaned under the weight of victuals. The parade of meals was enormous: boar meat, swan, roast tongue, legs of pork, roast beef, toast venison, goose, pheasant, partridge, venison, poultry, quail, duck, pigeon, turkey, and ham, each of them spiced with ginger, clever, saffron, pepper, cardamom, and sweetened with sugar.

“England is our home country,” said Anne with a tinge of nostalgia. “Its culture is different from French one. However, there is a certain charm in England that France lacks.” 

François feigned his umbrage. “You said many times that France is your ultimate home.”  

Anne was drinking her wine. “France and you mean everything to me.” Setting the empty cup at the table, she continued, “But England is the country of my birth.”

Elizabeth was proud that her mother had not forgotten it. “Maybe you will visit it again.” 

“Perhaps if you become Queen of England,” Anne commented.   

Elizabeth sighed. “Now you have me by your side, and I am a piece of England.” 

Her mother stuffed her mouth with ginger-spiced goose. “The best piece of England!” 

François assembled a blend of fish and vegetables onto his platter. After Amboise Paré had told him that a rich meat diet aggravated gout, the monarch had ceased eating meat, although he had never suffered from this illness. “One day you will be crowned, Elizabeth.” 

The princess almost choked on her sturgeon. “You both think so, don’t you?”    

“We do,” chorused Anne and François. The queen uttered firmly, “We feel it.” 

Augustine glanced at Bess from across the table. “My sister would make a good queen.” 

Elizabeth was relieved not to see the usual icy expression in her brother’s eyes. “The Iron prince has just changed his tune, hasn’t he? It must be a marvel when you warm up to someone.” 

Augustine popped some cheese into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed it. “Bess, life never becomes a habit to me – it is always a marvel.” He then sipped his watered wine.

Jeanne of Navarre laughed. “I like our cold Augustine quite a lot.” 

Marguerite of Navarre tilted her head, a chalice of claret in her hand. “I’m glad that you two have a friendly relationship. Soon you will get married and rule Navarre together.” 

“Yes.” Augustine nodded at his aunt, also his future mother-in-law.

Jeanne eyed the tapestry of the Goddess Artemis with bow and arrows, flanked by a deer and stag. “I’ll shoot Augustine if he keeps his coldness towards me after our wedding.” 

Augustine sipped more wine. “Your arrows, Jeanne, will ricochet off my icy body.” 

The spectators burst out laughing at Augustine’s sharp wit.

Anne hypothesized, “Or perhaps a Cupid’s arrow will strike you in the heart, Augustine.” 

François supported, “The question is who of you two will release it.” 

Both Augustine and Jeanne shared ambiguous glances, then continued eating.

Servants delivered more victuals, including turkey, peacock, and venison pates, as well as legs of lamb daube, capon in aspic, roast swan, sugared almonds, and olives.

François addressed his stepdaughter. “Elizabeth, we have gifts for you.” 

Elizabeth enjoyed a leg of lamb daube. “Which ones, François?” 

“You will like them.” Anne was eating a dish of roast swan spiced with cardamom.

“Bess, let’s drink for you at first,” Marguerite interposed.

Queen Anne brought a goblet to her lips. “To my English daughter!” 

The courtiers echoed festively, “To Princess Elizabeth!” Many goblets were drained.

Interrupting his discourse with Marie de Bourbon, Dauphin Henri offered, “To an alliance between France and England!” He drained his goblet, and so did the others.

Overwhelmed with joy, Elizabeth sipped some amaretto. “Thank you! All of you!”

§§§

“Now bring our gifts!” King François focused his scrutiny on his stepdaughter.

Anne de Montmorency averred, “They are wonderful.” His wife and sons nodded.

Queen Anne gazed towards the table at the other side of the great hall where many artists sat. She hollered, “Messer Cellini, now we will see what my Elizabeth thinks of your talents.”   

Draining the contents of his cup, Benvenuto Cellini howled with laughter. “It is impossible to think that Her Highness will not like it.” He had come to France from Florence in 1548.

Princess Elizabeth asked, “What is this?” 

“Patience, my own heart.” Anne flasher her daughter a mysterious smile.

Hush ensued. Two men brought something wrapped in purple velvet. At the nods of Anne and François, they took the cover away, and a collective gasp of awe resonated.

The waist-length statue of Prince Elizabeth was made out of the finest sandstone, mostly of pietra serena. It represented King Henry’s youngest daughter as the Roman Goddess of peace – Pax. The statue’s features resembled Elizabeth’s, her gaze contemplative and fierce at the same time. Cellini depicted the princess with olive branches, a cornucopia, and a gilded scepter, while Elizabeth’s hair and ornaments of her gown in ancient style were gilded.

“This is amazing!” The picture of her own statue produced a sense of wonder and pleasure in Elizabeth’s breast. “I’ve never had my own portrait, statue, or bust before.” 

The French monarch grinned. “If you patronize many artists, they will create many works, including your portraits and busts to cultivate your reputation and that of the Tudor dynasty.” 

The princess admired the statue. “Undoubtedly.” 

Augustine opined, “Good that the statue is not made out of terracotta. While it is popular as a less expensive substitute for marble, the statue of a princess should not be cheap.”

Marguerite chimed in, “My brother and I asked Messer Cellini to use sandstone, marble, or calcareous stone. Your Highness’ drawing, created a month ago, was useful.” 

Jeanne added, “The one made when you and Augustine played chess.” 

Elizabeth recalled how she and her brother had spent the whole day battling in a chess contest. “You, Augustine, summoned Monsieur Cellini to create the drawing of a thoughtful Elizabeth, as you labeled it. Now I understand why you persuaded me to have it.” 

Augustine finished off his goblet. “For your gift, Bess.”   

Benvenuto Cellini approached the royal table and flourished a bow before focusing on the Tudor princess. “Their Majesties wanted Your Highness to be portrayed as a deity of peace. The worship of the Goddess Pax was organized during the rule of Caesar Augustus.” 

Elizabeth commented, “The Pax Romana, which spanned roughly two centuries, resulted in increased and sustained inner peace and stability within the Roman Empire.”

Augustine opined, “Countries can prosper only in peace.” 

Jeanne remarked, “The origins of the Goddess Pax are linked with Caesar Augustus.” Her orbs flew to her betrothed. “You and Elizabeth are tied in a mythological sense.” 

At last Dauphin Henri entered the conversation. “The daughter of Jupiter and Justice, Pax was often associated with spring. Your Highness is as young and fresh as spring.” 

Elizabeth granted them a captivating smile. “You have made me very happy!” 

Cellini jested, “Pax had a temple called the Ara Pacis in Rome. Will there be a temple for Your Highness in France or England?” He gestured towards the table of artists. “There are many great architects in this room. Should we ask one of them to construct such a temple?” 

An explosion of laughter was the expected result. All eyes were riveted on Bess.

Elizabeth replied with dignity, “We are all Christians regardless of our religion.” 

François nodded. “Indeed.” He gazed towards the table of the artists. “Le Primatice!” 

A man of average height in his mid-forties, Francesco Primaticcio, also known as Bologna or Le Primatice, stood up. His gait quick, like that of a man on a mission, he strode towards the royal table. Primaticcio was an imposing man with a high forehead, liquid-black eyes, a brown beard, and an olive complexion hinting at his Italian origins. Following Rosso Fiorentino’s passing in 1540, Primaticcio had assumed control of the Fontainebleau project.

Primaticcio swept a bow. “Your Majesties! Your Highnesses!” 

Several grooms delivered to the royal table some painting. Like Elizabeth’s statue, it was covered with purple velvet, also ornamented with the Valois coat-of-farms.

“My son!” began the King of France affectionately. “Look what we have for you.”    

A groom removed the cover. It was the painting of a teenaged Augustine sitting in a curule chair, and garbed in a patrician Roman purple toga, with four painters standing before him as they showed him their artworks. In masterfully presenting an ancient example of patronage of the arts, Primaticcio cultivated and extolled the image of an enlightened prince in Augustine.

An impressed Jeanne enthused, “Augustine looks like a mighty Roman Emperor!” 

“And a great patron of the arts,” Marguerite supplemented.

Augustine stated, “I’d like to patronize many artists, but I’m also interested in military things.” His gaze went to Primaticcio. “Will you portray me as a knight, Monsieur Primaticcio?” 

Primaticcio answered, “With pleasure!” 

“Caesar Octavianus,” suggested Montmorency. Primaticcio nodded.

Bess characterized, “I’m fond of your style, in particular of your illusionistic treatment of subjects, exaggerated musculature, and active, elongated figures, Monsieur Primaticcio. Surely, they will keep their influence over French art in many decades to come.” 

“Your praise is invaluable in my eyes,” Primaticcio avouched.

The monarch declared, “Le Primatice and Cellini, I have more commissions for you.” 

Primaticcio and Cellini chorused, “Thank you, Your Majesty.” 

After a series of bows, Primaticcio and Cellini returned to their table.

Queen Anne raised her goblet for a toast. “On the 28th of August, our Augustine was born. We celebrated it at Chenonceau, but now I’d love to congratulate him once more.” 

King François stood up and clinked goblets with his consort. “To our unique Augustine!” 

Dauphin Henri stood up. “To our Navarrese Caesar Augustus!” Although the prophecy of Augustine’s accession to the French throne was gnawing at Henri’s mind, he thrust it aside. He did not refer to his brother as ‘French Augustus,’ for Augustine would become King of Navarre.

Jeanne climbed to his feet. “To my future husband!” 

Elizabeth joined, “To the future monarch of Navarre, my brother!” 

Augustine proclaimed, “To France, the House of Valois, and the Albert family!” 

Cups were emptied and refilled. Loud applause and congratulations echoed.

§§§

When Anne lifted a cup to her lips, Elizabeth spotted the elegant ring she had gifted to her mother. It was a diamond and ruby ring, the cover of which was surmounted by Anne’s initial ‘A’ in diamonds in red enamel, and inside of which there was Elizabeth’s miniature portrait.

Bess murmured, “I’m so happy that you wear this ring, Mother.” 

Anne saw a similar ring on her daughter’s finger. “Just as you wear mine.” 

François added, “Now you have the miniatures of each other inside these rings.” 

“Always together,” chorused Anne and Elizabeth, smiling at one another.

Bess’ eyes wandered to the table where the English party was seated. The Earl of Devon conversed with William Cecil, who had come to France with Devon and served the Marquess of Exeter. The princess’ gaze lingered on Robert and Ambrose Dudley, who conversed while eating a mixture of pork, beef, and roasted venison. Why isn’t Robert Dudley merry? Bess wondered.

In a minute, Edward Courtenay emerged next to the royal table.

Devon dropped into a bow and told his betrothed in French, “Your Highness, birthdays are a fresh beginning, and a time to pursue new endeavors with new goals. Congratulations!” 

Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed. “You are being most generous, my lord.”

“I’ve spoken the truth.” Devon extracted a wrapped object from a pocket of his doublet. “Please, accept this medallion as my modest gift. It was manufactured by Messer Cellini.” 

François and Anne shared approving glances, and Bess noticed them.

The earl unfolded a medallion of Princess Elizabeth in honor of her current birthday, with a bust of Bess on the reverse and a figure of the Goddess Pax setting fire to a heap of arms in front of the temple of Janus in the Roman Forum. The medallion was signed with the artist’s name.

Elizabeth praised, “You have a dainty taste in decorative arts, my lord.” 

“Now examine your gift,” advised Anne. “You will see yourself as the Goddess Pax.” 

Elizabeth turned the medallion over in her hand, noticing that the engraving of Pax indeed resembled her face. “You knew that Monsieur Cellini would portray me on his works as Pax.” 

François confirmed, “Precisely, Bess. Don’t you desire to bring peace to England?” 

Anne tipped her head. “Ruling in peace is a goal of every monarch.” 

“Of course.” Devon fathomed out that the French royals wanted Elizabeth to be queen. He saw that Bess wondered why he wanted to marry her. “May I invite Your Highness to dance?”   

Leaving the medallion on the table, Elizabeth got to her feet. “Of course.” 

As Devon escorted Elizabeth to the room’s center, the sovereigns of France watched them with profound attention. Robert Dudley could not tear his lustful gaze away from Elizabeth.

§§§

The courtiers lined up along the inner rectangle inside the four tables. The Earl of Devon stood in front of Princess Elizabeth, next to Dauphin Henri and Marie de Bourbon. Then moved the Montmorency couple and the Annebault spouses. As the tunes of a solemn pavane rang out, Devon and Elizabeth found themselves in the midst of the luxuriously attired crowd.

None of François, Anne, and Marguerite danced tonight, discussing the current art projects at Fontainebleau. Jeanne and Augustine were involved in a conversation about politics.

Making advancing and retreating steps, Devon and Elizabeth moved back and forth.

Elizabeth quizzed, “When are you going back to England, Eddie?” 

Devon’s heart raced at this personal reference to him. “In a month or so.” 

Now they spoke in English. Most dancers could not understand them.

“Is it connected with the ongoing revolts in Devon, Cornwall, and Norfolk?” 

“Bess, you are too astute to conceal anything from you.” 

“Lord Exeter will not kill the mutineers when the riots are squashed, will he?” 

Devon led her forward by the hand. “You are corresponding with His Grace of Norfolk. He must have told you that the Regency Council is against harsh measures.” 

Elizabeth curtsied. “Yes, the Duke of Norfolk keeps me informed.” 

Devon stepped back. “My father has always been for peace. He now writes that he himself intends to travel to those places where insurgents are now fighting against Protestants. After all, he administered the west of England for years before he became King Henry’s chief minister.” 

For a few moments, they were divided in the dance. After curtsies and steps, the gentlemen regained their places. The men went forward en se pavanant, strutting like peacocks, their heads held at a ceremonious angle. Meeting Marie de Montmorency in the dance, the Earl of Devon saluted to her before they took several steps backwards and returned to their previous places.

Devon faced Elizabeth again. “I’m sad that the people of Devon are rebelling.” 

The princess dropped a curtsey. “Well, this town is your home and seat of power.” 

“It is not only because of this.” He sounded somewhat offended.

“You are a Catholic. Don’t you feel solidarity with those insurgents?” 

Devon objected, “I’m not a radical Catholic. Crimes of the late Pope Paul the Third caused my father and me to reconsider our views. We are proponents of tolerance.” 

His candor warmed her soul. “Only tolerance may keep our nation in unity.”    

The solemn pavane sparkled a melody of deep, plaintive tenderness pulsating through the air. Alternating curtsies, retreats, and advances, couples glided across the chamber. Devon and Elizabeth led the procession, at times surrendering this role to Henri and his mistress.

The earl confessed, “It is difficult for the people to abjure the old faith.”  

Once more, they got separated, which caused both the Earl of Devon and Elizabeth to sigh in disappointment. Devon performed a bow to Marie de Bourbon who appeared in front of him. Meanwhile, Elizabeth curtsied to Dauphin Henri who was nearby and sent her a smile. By the end of the pavane, most guests grew so bored that they all wished for a more animated dance.

A stately, but more spirited, courante began with a nine-measure strain of courante played twice. Many figures and step-sequences were repeated by the dancers. Elizabeth and Devon were now performing fast running and jumping steps, just as everyone else did. Jeanne and Augustine joined them. Both the Italian and French courante was in vogue at court.

Elizabeth took a step with the left foot. “I want to ask you something, Eddie.” 

Devon imitated her movements. “I shall eagerly answer, Bess.” 

Her steps with the right foot were as graceful as those with the left one. “Do you want to wed me because there is a chance, though a small one, for me to ascend to the English throne?” 

Devon stumbled for a moment, as if hit by an oceanic wave. A few heartbeats later, Robert Dudley, who danced with some French beauty, appeared, almost bumping into the earl. Robert frowned at the sight of Lord Devon, and then Dudley danced away with the woman who, Devon knew for a certainty, was his rival’s mistress. Robert Dudley is exceedingly eager for pleasures, Edward Courtenay mused as he danced with Duchess Marie de Montmorency for a short time.

In the meantime, Robert Dudley could not tear his gaze away from Elizabeth Tudor. To his surprise, Bess spent enough time with Devon in private, and Dudley was jealous. It pains me that Bess seems to have chosen Devon over me, Robert contemplated the situation. How can I just give Elizabeth to Exeter’s son? No, I cannot! Ambrose Dudley was the keeper of all Robert’s secrets and advised his love-struck brother to get rid of his dream to be with Elizabeth.

Robert again had his paramour as a partner on the dancefloor. This tall, slim brunette was Philippes de Montespedon, Princess de La Roche-sur-Yon through her marriage to Charles de Bourbon, Prince de la Roche-sur-Yon and a cousin to the House of Valois. Philippes’ eyes were the color of a summer sky, reflecting her fascination with her handsome English lover. Philippes moved gracefully every time trying to press her red-brocaded form closer to Robert.

“They must be lovers,” whispered Marie de Montmorency to the Earl of Devon, as they danced together. “My lord, you have my and my sister Anne’s support in everything.”

Devon smiled at Elizabeth’s aunt. “Thank you, Madame de Montmorency.”

While dancing with Claude d’Annebault, Elizabeth let her assessing gaze travel between Dudley and Courtenay. As usual, the Earl of Devon wore an unostentatious gray and red doublet slashed with white satin. Robert’s doublet was of scarlet satin, his hose of white crossgartered with scarlet from his tiny sandals to his knees. Robin is always eccentric, Bess observed silently.

In the next moment, Devon met Elizabeth in the dance again with Robert being nearby.

“Be careful,” Dudley snarled, although his gaze was licking across Bess’ flushing face.

Elizabeth chastised, “Lord Robert, perhaps you are too full of wine.” 

Devon and Elizabeth danced in a light duple time, making similar steps and double steps first to the left and then to the right, moving to the front, to the side, and to the back of the hall.

Bess performed double straight steps. “So?” 

Devon answered honestly, “I would never have married you for power.” 

At the end of the courante, a pantomimic gesture denoting love followed. As the couples halted, the ladies turned their backs on their advancing partners. It represented a refusal of their suit, so the cavalier had to make reverences to prove their worth. The women giggled at the sight of their men bent on their knees, as though entreating to be taken back into favor.

Devon looked up at his betrothed. “You don’t have to do what you dislike.” 

His touch sent a wave of heat through an agitated Elizabeth. “It is difficult for me, Eddie.” A sigh tumbled from her lips. “How can I feel anything after my father mistreated his wives?”

“Bess, do what you feel will be right for you, Bess.” 

She appreciated the lack of pressure on his part. “That I shall do.”

Now it was over. The couples bowed and curtsied, then some left the dance floor.

As the tunes of an allemande rang out, the Earl of Devon led his fiancée back to the main table. Turning her head towards the dancers, she glimpsed Dudley’s passion-tinged visage as their gazes locked. A smiling Bess veered her orbs to Devon, who grinned at her, his joy made her heart lurch, like Dudley caused her to feel. What is this? Elizabeth suffered in mental agony. I’m being put her through a sensual test that is new for me. What should she do now?

Notes:

The new chapter is up! Please let us know what you think of this chapter, and don’t forget to leave reviews so that we can discuss events, twists, and turns in this chapter.

Just as we promised, Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon, is now courting Elizabeth Tudor. We wrote some scenes about them to develop their relationship and to show Elizabeth’s courtship. We hope that you like Devon who existed in real history (you can find him in wikipedia). At the same time, there is Robert Dudley who is present in France together with his brother Ambrose Dudley, and Robert has feelings for Elizabeth. In the next chapter, there will be a scene between Robert and Elizabeth, who finds herself torn between Eddie and Robert.

Some readers asked us to show Elizabeth’s relationship with her stepfather, King François. Thus, we have a conversation between Elizabeth and François, and we hope that you like it. He prays that Bess will never know what role Anne and François played in the death of Henry VIII together with the Marquess of Exeter. As François tells his stepdaughter, her marriage to Eddie Courtenay will mean the second and final unification of the Houses of Lancaster and York since Eddie is partly a York, so Elizabeth’s union with Devon will be politically beneficial for her.

We showed King François with his young sons – Antoine de Valois, Duke de Provence, and Lorenzo de Valois, Duke of Milan. Now François and Anne have five sons, but only three of them will have long lives, as the Ruggeri brothers, Catherine de’ Medici’s astrologers, predicted. We hope that you like Elizabeth’s interactions with her brothers and sisters, although Elizabeth’s relationship with Augustine will be complicated, especially after religious wars start in France.

We hope that you like the section where Elizabeth Tudor’s birthday is celebrated, although we also have everyone celebrate Augustine’s birthday that was before his sister’s birth. The Italian goldsmith and sculptor Benvenuto Cellini indeed worked in both Italy and France, and he created quite many works for King François and his nobles. The Italian painter Francesco Primaticcio secured a position in the French court in 1532, and, together with Rosso Fiorentino, Primaticcio was one of the leading artists to work at Chateau de Fontainebleau.

Attention! A while ago, we posted a prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 94: Chapter 93: Unexpected Tests of Life

Summary:

As Lord Protector, the Marquess of Exeter continues Henry VIII’s reforms. Exeter is happy with his new wife, Catherine Parr, although they become Honor Grenville’s mortal enemies. The Dudley family is ambitious, while Robert Dudley finally confesses to passionately loving Princess Elizabeth, putting more pressure on the princess to choose her future husband.

Notes:

Please, don't forget to review previous chapter and this chapter as well! Thank you in advance!

Attention! The prologue to the sequel 'Chained by Blood and Power' (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don't forget about our work "Entwined by a Golden Alliance" co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 93: Unexpected Tests of Life

October 8, 1550, St James’s Palace, London, England

For the most part, King Edward of England still lived at Hatfield House in the care of his grandmother. Meanwhile in London sixteen people sat at the long table piled with parchments. They were members of the Regency Council, which governed England during the young ruler’s minority. Most of them were reformers, and some kept neutral religious beliefs; only a few were conservative Catholics, for example Cuthbert Tunstall, Bishop of Durham, and the Howards.

“We lost Calais,” growled the Bishop of Durham. “King Edward should be crowned King of England, Ireland, and France, but it did not happen because of your mistake, Lord Exeter.” Now in his late seventies, Durham was a rotund, grizzled, wrinkled man in crimson robes.

The Marquess of Exeter glared at the man. “According to our treaty with King François, our monarchs no longer style themselves as Kings of France. We established a perpetual peace with France, which is beneficial for England thanks to our trade and commercial agreements.” 

Durham accused, “You lost too much, Lord Exeter!” 

Exeter shifted his scrutiny to his secretary who brought new papers. “Thank you.” 

“The news is not pleasant, Lord Exeter,” started William Paget, Baron Paget, who was secretary of state from 1543 onwards. He then swept a bow and returned to his place.

In his mid-forties, William Paget wore only plain black garments. His austere countenance was remarkable with gray eyes shining with intelligence, and he had a strawberry blonde beard. Paget held prominent positions in the service of Henry VIII and now Edward VI.

Silence ensued as the Lord Protector of the realm read the latest report about rebellions. Exeter strove to guarantee peace and stability in the country. Nonetheless, although courtiers and people no longer lived in horror, England was descending into social unrest.

I shall show clemency to the insurgents, Exeter thought. I cannot kill my own countrymen. After the summer of 1550, a series of armed revolts had broken out in Devon, Cornwall, and Norfolk, triggered by the people’s religious and agrarian grievances. To suppress them, Exeter had dispatched there the royal troops under Sir William Parr, Marquess of Northampton.

The Act of Uniformity of 1549 replaced Latin rites with the English-language liturgy. It had established the Book of Common Prayer as the sole legal form of worship, and the previously used Latin Mass had been abolished. Archbishop Cranmer and the Earl of Hertford had created these documents during Hertford’s tenure as the late King Henry’s chief minister. The Marquess of Exeter had ensured that the book had been finished, and that Parliament had passed it.

This prayer book was a compromise for everyone. It provided both Protestant and Catholic parishioners with a service free from what they viewed as superstitions while also maintaining the traditional structure of Mass. However, these introductions were perceived rather badly in the areas where the adherence to the old religion was particularly strong. This resulted in riots in western England, with the main demand being a full restoration of pre-Reformation Catholicism.

John Dudley, Viscount Lisle, broke the silence. “We cannot be harsh with the mutineers.” 

William Paget nodded. “There should be no severe and precipitate action on our part.” 

Thomas Howard, the Duke of Norfolk, glanced at his son, the Earl of Surrey. Both dressed in yellow damask, they looked smug and overconfident; Norfolk now had more wrinkles, and his health was in decline as he was in his late seventies. The Howard father and his son were both on the Regency Council, although they were not mentioned in the previous monarch’s will. Since their return from France, Norfolk was England’s Lord Chancellor and held other high offices.

Norfolk’s statement surprised the assemblage. “The enforcement of the English liturgy led to an explosion of discontent in Devon, Cornwall, and Norfolk, but we cannot revoke the new Prayer Book. All traditional religious processions and pilgrimages must remain banned.” 

The Earl of Surrey supported, “The commoners cannot be allowed to disobey the crown.” 

Lisle eyed the Howards. “It is astonishing to hear such things from you, my lords.” 

Norfolk regarded Lisle with distaste. “I’m a Catholic, but I understand realities well.” 

“I can see that.” Lisle was jealous of Norfolk’s wealth and status.

I want more power, thought Sir John Dudley. A broad man of medium height, John had an angular countenance with devious blue eyes and a long nose; his moustache and his beard were brown, like hair. John was the son of Edmund Dudley, a minister of Henry VII executed by Henry VIII. In 1542, John had become Viscount Lisle after the death of his stepfather, Arthur Plantagenet, and by the right of his mother – Lady Elizabeth Grey, Arthur’s first spouse. Partly thanks to his title, he had been appointed Lord Admiral and made a knight of the Garter in 1543.

The lawyer Sir Edward North, Baron North, chimed in, “It is not time for rivalry.” With a round face, hazel-eyed and tall, he was quite handsome in a gray silk doublet trimmed with fur.  

“Enough!” Exeter put aside the report, raking his gaze over them. “We will continue King Henry’s gradual transformation of the Church of England into a Protestant one.” 

“Yes, we must eradicate Catholicism!” cried Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury.

Exeter pointed out, “Your Grace, don’t be radical. We need moderate reforms.” 

The gathering dipped nods. They had accepted Exeter’s leadership because the marquess did not rule as an absolute potentate – his decisions were made collegially.

The Lord Protector declared, “His late Majesty did the right thing when he dissolved the monastic houses and the chantries. The royal commissioners discovered many cases of extreme corruption and fornication in them, so we don’t need to return to the initial state of affairs.” 

There was a grumbling from some Catholics around the council table.

The Bishop of Durham persevered, “It would be better to stop these heretical reforms.” 

Exeter glowered at the prelate. “Be careful, Your Grace. The legacy of our late sovereign will remain intact, at least as long as the Regency Council governs England.” 

Cranmer fired, “Your Grace of Durham, you should be dismissed from the Council.” 

Durham implored, “Your Grace of Norfolk, do not allow this to happen to me!” 

Norfolk sighed. “We are religiously divided. If the reforms are stalled, the Catholics will think that we intend to restore the country back to Rome, which will lead to Protestant uprisings. If the Catholic doctrines are restored, those who adhere to the new faith will be persecuted.” 

Surrey averred, “There can be no return to the old times without bloodshed.” 

Lisle agreed with the Howards. “We cannot jeopardize the peace in England.” 

The Marquess of Exeter moved the discourse back to the agenda. “The insurgents are upset with high taxation and enclosures. Let’s cancel the poll tax on sheep King Henry’s government introduced before his passing. The practice of enclosures can be ceased for some time.” 

Enclosure represented itself the legal process in England and Wales of consolidating small landholdings into larger farms. It was also the ancient system of arable farming in open fields.

Norfolk snarled, “These lowborn fools are calling for social justice, not understanding that it is unrealistic. As if they had read Thomas More’s Utopia!” His orbs were directed at Exeter. “We must cool off their anger, so a general royal pardon should be promised to them.” 

Exeter stipulated, “Provided that they all disperse as soon as possible.” 

Norfolk claimed, “The people would not tolerate more brutal executions.” 

Paget pressed, “But the rebellions must be squashed anyway.” 

“Exactly.” Exeter was playing with his quill. “Lord Northampton is negotiating with the mutineers.” His scrutiny flicked to Surrey and Lisle. “Do you want to go help Northampton?” 

John Dudley liked Exeter’s inclination to compromise. “Naturally, Lord Exeter.” 

Surrey consented, “I’ll gladly work with Northampton.” 

Exeter proposed, “Now we shall vote for the cancellation of the poll tax on sheep and the suspension of enclosures. Our coffers are full, so we do not need these things now.” 

“I do not see it this way,” Durham countered. “Such actions will not help.” 

“It shall,” chorused Exeter, Norfolk, and Surrey.

The advisors exchanged glances and then nodded. Few of them liked Durham.

Within the next several minutes, everyone – except for Durham who had radical views – approved of the measures put forth by Exeter. Even the old English nobility such as Exeter and the Howards believed that they had to make concessions in order to prevent bloodshed.

§§§

The Marquess of Exeter spent the rest of the day working in his study. Although he and the Duke of Norfolk – both hardworking and cunning politicians – were against allowing baseborn men such as Cromwell and Wolsey to govern, they often collaborated with Parliament, including the House of Commons, to ensure the overall positive attitude to the Regency Council.

Exeter watched his wife read excerpts from her book ‘The Lamentations of a Sinner.’ Lady Catherine Courtenay née Parr, Marchioness of Exeter, lounged on a couch with a leather-bound volume. Her sister – Lady Anne Parr, Countess of Pembroke – sat on a matching couch.  

Lord, how I come to You: a sinner, sick and grievously wounded. I’m not asking for bread, but for the crumbs that fall from the children’s table. Cast me not out of Your presence…

The three of them were in the living room of the Exeter spouses’ large apartments. Chairs and couches were upholstered in scarlet velvet, some richly painted with elaborate patterns. The thick red carpets on the floor and small crimson cushions on couches matched the walls draped in red wallpaper. The ceiling displayed the heraldic ornaments of the Tudor dynasty.

When Catherine paused, her sister inquired, “Cathy, this book was published a year ago. Are you going to write something else so as to spread Protestantism further?” 

“I have many plans,” confirmed Catherine. “My husband approves of them all.” 

Exeter jested, “Well, of course. What other choice do I have?” 

Catherine sent him an affectionate look. “Aren’t we partners in marriage?” 

The marquess nodded. “We are, and will always be.” 

Catherine’s gaze slid back to the book. “I like discussing my ideas, Hal.” 

Exeter strolled over to the windows. He closed the shutters, for it was already dark outside. “Cathy, I’m always eager to listen and offer my constructive criticism. Yet, we disagree as to the manner of your message’s delivery, for I reckon that you should focus more on dogmas.” 

“And less on self-recrimination,” added Anne.

Catherine measured them with an annoyed glance. “Everyone is a sinner!” 

When his spouse resumed reading, Exeter studied her closely. Despite her fading youth, Catherine glowed in her pregnancy with her mature dignity and feminity. She was accoutered in a gown of heavy green satin over a flower-patterned kirtle, her hair enclosed in a pearl-rimmed hood. Catherine’s bosom was adorned with a pearl and diamond necklace from the crown jewels.

After King Henry’s death in the winter of 1548, Dowager Queen Catherine of England had attended the coronation of King Edward VI. Then she had retired to her Old Manor in Chelsea. Six months thereafter, she had returned and become the Marchioness of Exeter, her wedding to the love of her life having been public and opulent at Windsor Castle. King Edward had blessed their union and attended the ceremony at St George’s Chapel and lavish festivities.

At present, Catherine was treated not only as Exeter’s wife, but also was given the respect of an English queen, as if King Henry were still alive. She was even allowed to wear the crown jewels, and nobody protested on the back of Exeter’s powerful position. In the spring of 1549, at the age of thirty-six Catherine had birthed a healthy daughter named Maud after her mother.

Catherine, fully concentrated on her sins to an excessive degree, went on and on.

I’ve so much offended God. What, shall I fall in desperation? No! I’ll call upon Christ, the light of the world, the fountain of life, the relief of all the weary, and the peacemaker between God and man, and the only health and comfort of all true repentant sinners.

Exeter had enough of this. “Cathy, you have not committed any horrible sins.” 

Catherine shifted her orbs to her husband. “Hal, you are wrong.” 

The marquess figured out that she implied the late ruler’s poisoning, but her sister had no idea of anything. Catherine had made her correct conclusion after Henry’s demise when Exeter had come and proposed to her in the presence of her brother – the Marquess of Northampton, but they had never discussed it later. Catherine feels guilty for Henry’s death, Exeter sighed.

Anne uttered, “Sister, you are noble-minded, and you are King Henry’s victim.” 

Exeter underscored, “He could send you to the block on false charges.” 

Anne crossed himself. “I do not grieve for the late king. His death saved my sister.” 

“The whole Parr family,” stressed Exeter.

Catherine’s meaningful gaze pierced her husband. “That’s true, but we should not judge the dead. As for me, my conscience is troubled, and I pray heartily for atonement.” 

He turned the thread of the conversation to another topic. “The Regency Council decided to alleviate some of the people’s burdens. This should help us squash the revolts.” 

Anne asked, “Lord Exeter, is our brother safe? He went to negotiate with the insurgents!” Although she had not initially liked him, she had grown to respect Exeter over time.  

“Please be at ease.” Exeter leaned back in his seat. “Northampton is with the royal army.” 

Catherine put the book on the couch beside her. “Will the uprisings end soon?” 

Exeter shrugged. “We strive to resolve the conflict without bloodshed. Most of my estates are located in the west, and I spent half of my life administering this area in the name of the late King Henry. Perhaps it will be better for me to go there and meet with the mutineers.” 

Horror whitened Catherine’s features. “No, Hal! I’ll not let you leave me!” 

“Lord Exeter, my sister needs you by her side.” Anne then tactfully left.

Tears prickled Catherine’s orbs. “Hal, stay with us!” Her hand flew to her belly.

Exeter assured, “Your wishes are precisely my own.”

She almost fell into his arms as the marquess gathered her into his embrace.

Catherine peered into his pale blue eyes, which she adored. “You never look at anyone else like you look at me. Only I can see such warmth in your gaze – I want to see it there forever.” 

Exeter’s thumb traced her cheekbone. “I love you more than I can describe it.” 

Tears brimmed in her eyes. “You love me so much that you… I cannot say it…”   

His finger brushed them away from her cheeks. “I do not regret it.” 

Catherine stepped away from him. She walked back to her couch and settled herself there. Burying her face into her hands, she wept. “I know that you had to do that to save yourself and me. However, it is such an awful deed, Hal. You must pray for absolution every day.” 

Exeter crossed to the couch. “I do this every day, despite not feeling guilty. I had to keep us safe! It was not the first time when tyrants or insane kings lost power and were dealt with.” 

The marchioness lifted her tearful countenance to him. “If you seek forgiveness from me, I grant it. I never wanted to marry Henry, and I treasure the love you have for me, Hal.” 

The Marquess of Exeter was dressed in a velvet doublet in a dark blue, over which was set a black silk mantle trimmed with ermine. He looked older than during the days of their romance at Hatfield, but to her he was and would always be attractive; now in his early fifties, Exeter remained slender and charismatic. I wish I had have married Hal earlier, Catherine thought.

“Cathy, I respect your personality and intelligence too much.” 

Adoration flashed across her visage. “For that, I’ve always been grateful.” 

Exeter eased himself on the couch beside his wife. “How are you feeling, my beloved?” 

We are both fine.” Her hand slithered to her abdomen. “It might be our last child, Hal.” 

His hand covered hers, their fingers entangling. “Queen Anne of France is four years older than you, but she birthed Princess Valentine last summer.” He grinned. “Anyway, I would have been happy even if we had never had any offspring. I just need you to be with me.” 

Catherine flashed a smile of fondness. “I need only you.” 

“My son Eddie will return soon, but Elizabeth will spend another year in France.” 

She was happy for her stepdaughter. “Let Bess be with her mother.” 

“My son seems to have charmed Elizabeth, but she has not made up her mind yet.”  

“Trust the Almighty to guide the princess, Hal.”

Exeter kissed her on the forehead. “Yes, I believe you are right.”

Wrapping his arms around her tenderly, the marquess kissed his wife hungrily. During their intimacies, he never hurried, taking a great pride and pleasure in driving his beloved beyond her endurance with his masterful caresses, all of them tinctured with romantic longing.

“I must see Exeter!” The shout of Honor Grenville compelled the spouses to part.

§§§

The Marquess of Exeter climbed to his feet. “I expected her coming.” 

A moment later, Lady Honor Grenville barged into the chamber, followed by her daughters – Philippa and Katherine. A groom appeared from behind them, bowing to his master.

“I’m sorry, Lord Exeter,” apologized the groom. “I was unable to stop them.”  

“It is all right, Benedict,” soothed Exeter. “You may go.” The boy bowed and exited.

The Marchioness of Exeter rose to her feet. “To what do we owe this pleasure, my ladies?” 

Honor had never liked Catherine Parr and rejoiced in her miscarriage a few months before King Henry’s passing. Exeter’s wedding to the dowager queen had come as an utter shock to her and Philippa, who was still infatuated with Exeter. Philippa had wept for many days following Exeter’s wedding. Exeter spurned my daughter to marry that Parr woman who positions herself a writer, Honor told herself as she perused Catherine before her orbs focused on Exeter.

Meanwhile, Exeter scrutinized Honor. Age was catching up with her: now Honor’s once smooth forehead and cheeks were wrinkled, while her hair, twisted in a silver velvet braid, was mostly gray. Her gown was of black damask ornamented with a multitude of oriental pearls and glittering crystals. Her daughters, Katherine and Philippa, both wore green silk garments.

Ignoring Exeter’s wife, Honor addressed the Lord Protector. “Hal, you crossed a line. Why did you dismiss me from the position of the head of King Edward’s household?”

Exeter explained, “Honor, I live at court because of my duties, but I intend to spend more time at Hatfield with our monarch who misses me a lot. The removal of his grandmother makes him sad, but it must be done after you had appointed Bishop Gardiner his chaplain.” 

Catherine castigated, “Stephen Gardiner sent his countless letters to Hal and His Grace of Norfolk, arguing that the ongoing reforms are theologically wrong. The Regency Council is not implementing new reforms – they were all started during King Henry’s reign.” 

Honor ground out, “Hal, you fired Gardiner and stripped him of his bishopric, giving it to John Ponet, Cranmer’s chaplain. But the diocese of Winchester has long been Gardiner’s home.” 

Exeter’s brows arched. “Then, why did Gardiner leave it?”

Honor hated his sarcasm. “Hugh Latimer, that fanatical Protestant, is Ned’s new chaplain.”

Exeter would do anything to prevent papists from influencing his secret son. “King Edward is Supreme Head of the Church of England. As he is young, his personality is being formed right now by many factors; he must be educated in accordance with the Protestant doctrines. Gardiner preached His Majesty in Latin, not in English, and they even had several private Masses.” 

Catherine praised, “Hal snatched our sovereign away from Gardiner’s wicked clutches.”    

In 1535, Hugh Latimer had been appointed Bishop of Worcester. Since then, he promoted reformed teachings and iconoclasm in his diocese until he became the monarch’s chaplain.

Exeter nodded at his wife and continued, “Gardiner stuffed our king’s head with nonsense, offering him to do things which must be prohibited. I’m sure that Latimer will rectify this.” 

Honor breached the gap between herself and Exeter, glaring at him with detestation.

“I warned you, Hal,” Honor whispered, “not to become my enemy.” 

Exeter replied calmly, “I had to act so, Honor. For England’s sake.” 

“Now you are a heretic,” accused Honor.

“I am not,” he contradicted. “But I’m not blind as to the flaws of Roman Catholicism.” 

Honor inferred, “You are a conservative half-reformer, half-Catholic.” 

He let out a grin. “That is quite an accurate summation.”

The others did not interfere. Philippa’s lustful eyes were glued to Exeter.

“You betrayed our plans to have England restored to Rome.” 

Exeter parried, “I’ll not allow more blood to be spilled, Honor. Sadly, you are becoming a fanatic! From now on, I’ll control Edward’s education and his life. You ought to your estates.” 

Her eyes turned furious slits. “Are you banishing me from court?” 

“It’s a recommendation. Now, Honor, excuse us – my wife and I will retire for the night.” 

“Traitor,” Honor hissed. “You will regret it, Hal.” She then backed away.

Exeter glared at Philippa. “Invest more time in finding a husband for your eldest daughter. As for your son, James Bassett, I think that he is incompetent for any position at court.” 

Honor realized that Exeter strove to limit the power of the Bassett clan. “A grave mistake.” 

A humiliated Philippa snapped, “You are ill-mannered, Lord Exeter.” 

Katherine Bassett agreed, “Yes, he is a bad man.” Several years Philippa’s junior, she was plump and rather short, with a bonny countenance highlighted by gray eyes and black hair.    

“Have a good night, my ladies,” quipped the marquess with a queasy smile.

The three Bassett women departed with a degree of furious haste.

Catherine Parr sighed. “I detest their entire family.” 

“Forget about them,” requested Exeter. “Please stay calm in your condition.” 

The spouses strode to their bedchamber; Catherine did not fetch her maids, for her husband himself aided her to undress. A sense of premonition slid icily down their spines, but not willing to focus on it, Hal and Catherine smiled at one another serenely. Nevertheless, it remained in the back of their minds, a bodiless and directionless voice alerting them to some imminent peril.


November 5, 1550, Château de Langeais, the town of Langeais, the Loire Valley, France

Currently, the Valois court resided at Château de Langeais. Founded in the 10th century by Fulk Nerra, Count of Anjou, the castle had been completely rebuilt during King Louis XI of France’s reign years after it had been destroyed during the Hundred Years’ War.

Princess Elizabeth walked through the hallway, adorned with busts of ancient heroes and salamanders on the massive fireplaces. Lady Catherine Knollys and Lady Mary Dudley followed their mistress. Sometimes their eyes spotted on the walls the entwined ‘A & C,’ which referred to Anne of Brittany and Charles VIII of France, whose wedding had taken place here in 1491.

“Your Highness,” began Lady Mary Dudley. “Please pardon me for distracting you.”

A woman of twenty, Mary was a daughter of John Dudley, Viscount Lisle, and his spouse, Jane Guildford. Mary was not pretty with a hooked nose and very angular features, but she had a charm with her dignified manners and her glossy, copper hair. Mary was one of Elizabeth’s most intimate confidantes. Today Mary was clad in an orange satin dress with padded sleeves.    

Elizabeth stopped and turned around to her ladies. “Do you need my help?” 

Mary apprised, “Ambrose is asking you for an audience in the Crucifixion room.” 

Catherine Knollys intervened, “This goes against the official protocol.” 

Curiosity and anger vied in Elizabeth, but the former won. “That’s all right, Catherine. I’ll meet with Lord Ambrose, but I’ll have to remind him of the standard proper rules.” 

The princess stomped across the hallway, her long, ample skirts trailing behind her. Mary and Catherine hurried after her. Soon Elizabeth entered the so-called Crucifixion room.

§§§

The Tudor temper began simmering when Elizabeth walked inside. As she examined her surroundings, her gaze lingered on the tapestry of the Crucifixion produced by the workshop of the Netherlandish painter Rogier van der Weyden. Here and there, the whitewashed walls were swathed in Flemish tapestries depicting apostles and saints, all created by Weyden’s weavers.

At the other side of the chamber, a man stood with his back to the princess. Bess was so impatient that she did not pay attention that he was taller than Ambrose Dudley.

Elizabeth demanded, “Lord Ambrose, why have you interrupted my usual day?” 

The man swiveled – he was Robert Dudley, his hazel eyes drinking in her loveliness. An athletic man of medium height and Elizabeth’s age, Robert had a handsome countenance, his features strong and intelligent. His moustache and a small stubble added to his saturnine allure. His wheat-colored doublet and hose, wrought with gold thread, stressed that Robert was comely proportioned in all lineaments of body. A feathered velvet cap with a cameo was upon his head.

“Lord Robert, what is this spectacle about?” exploded Elizabeth.

Robert walked over to her. “I’m sorry for my small deception.” 

She bristled. “A small one? You persuaded your sister to tell me a falsehood!” 

He halted next to her and bowed. “Ambrose knows nothing. Only my sister does.” 

Her eyes were shooting daggers. “What do you want?” 

“Your Highness,” he breathed. “It has been such a long time since we last saw each other in private. It was at Hatfield when you lived there with King Edward.” 

Memories of those carefree days elicited a smile from the princess. “My life at Hatfield was as peaceful as the smooth ocean in windless weather. Save my brother Edmund’s death.”

“I’m sorry that your brother died.” Robert yearned to envelop her into his arms, his desire to possess this young woman growing. “You were reunited with your mother, Queen Anne.” 

“I’m very happy to see my mama and to get acquainted with my siblings.” 

Robert touched the white lace collar of his doublet. “Did you befriend Prince Augustine? While at Chenonceau I noticed that the lack of closeness with him frustrated you.” 

Elizabeth gaped at him: Robert was one of the few people able to guess her sensations and read her thoughts. “I did, although it was not easy. At times Augustine seems to be my greatest buddy, but on other occasions he is as distant as cold stars are in the moonless skies.” 

He characterized her brother. “Prince Augustine is clever, reserved, and mysterious. While he is cold on the surface, deep down there is a cauldron of emotions churning inside of him.”  

“You are a good judge of character, Lord Robin.” 

Robert laughed. “Unlike your brother, I’m impulsive and eager to get things done.” 

“Extremely eager.” Elizabeth sauntered away from him to a table with goblets. “You often don’t think about the consequences before acting. If you want something, you rush forward.” 

His heart drummed against his ribcage. “Today I craved to see you.” 

“Why?” She poured out a cup of watered cognac, which she had started to like in France.

“We have not spoken candidly for too long.”

The princess pivoted to him, her orbs tempestuous. “Indeed, we have not.” 

Robert took a step forward, but then faltered, as though his boldness had leaked out of him. “Bess, I miss the closeness we once shared. I was among your brother Edward’s companions, but I’ve never liked him, although my ambitious father forced me to join his entourage.” 

His intimate manner of addressing her was intoxicating. “These times are gone, Robin.” 

Hope glimmered in his eyes. “So, you have not forgotten. We were just Bess and Robin!”

Elizabeth sipped her cognac slowly. “Everything was simple back then.”

A host of memories tumbled through their heads. Years ago, the Dudley boys had become Edward Tudor’s companions. Nonetheless, Ambrose and Robert had gravitated to Elizabeth, but the boys had rarely been allowed to play with the girl, at times sneaking to her apartments.

All close in age, Elizabeth, Robert, and Ambrose had shared their tutor – Roger Ascham who had been profoundly impressed by his precocious pupils. Following the demise of Catherine Howard’s son Edmund, Elizabeth had wept for her little brother, and Catherine Ashley had failed to console her, but only Robert had managed to calm down a distraught Bess. At the time, Robert had been the only friend to whom Elizabeth had confessed to corresponding with her mother.

Following her return from Boulogne, Robert and Elizabeth had seen each other only twice. After the execution of Queen Kitty Howard, Elizabeth had told him, ‘I’ll never marry.’ After King Henry’s passing and her return to court from Hever, she had avoided Robert, largely because of her betrothal to the Earl of Devon, which Henry had arranged before his demise.

However, Ambrose and Robert had been selected as part of Princess Elizabeth’s entourage for her journey to France. According to John Dudley’s advice, Elizabeth had appointed Ambrose captain of her private guard. Robert had traveled to France as one of her grooms, like her cousin, Henry Carey. The friendly relationship that had once existed between Bess and Robin seemed to vanish, as if it had been a figment of delirium, and the distance between them was growing.

Robert broke the pause. “Bess, don’t you want us to be friends again?” 

Elizabeth dithered before answering, “We are no longer at Hatfield, Robin.” 

He strode over to her. “We are the same Bess and Robin!” 

She twirled the goblet in her fingers. “Time is like water that flows around us, and we flow with it.” She sipped some cognac. “Time is like a rainbow – precious, untouchable, and gone all too soon. We are no longer children, Robin – now we have responsibilities and obligations.” 

Stopping next to her, Robert glanced into her eyes. “Is it all because of Lord Devon?” 

Elizabeth sighed. “I’ve not decided what to do with my engagement to Devon. As long as I remain tied to him, I cannot permit myself to have any closeness with any male friend or suitor.”    

His impulsive nature took the best of him. “Bess, Exeter has enough power! He is the Lord Protector! He strives to marry you off to his son to control you like he controls King Edward.” 

She returned to the table and set her empty cup there. “Only Lord Exeter can handle my extremely spoiled brother. What you call the marquess’ control over the young King of England is in fact nothing more than Exeter’s attempt to steer Ned towards the right path and to teach him how to be a good monarch. I’m glad that Lord Exeter has such influence over my brother.” 

“But Exeter has been failing. King Edward–” 

The princess interrupted, “He is selfish, egocentric, and self-indulgent.” 

Robert maneuvered to the personal agenda. “Will you marry Exeter’s son, Bess?” 

She promenaded over to a mahogany cabinet at the other side of the room. Leaning against it, she veered her gaze to him and admitted, “I’m confused as to my own desires.” 

Dudley admired Elizabeth’s slender figure clothed in a gown of violet damask passmented with gold, with a tight-fitting bodice and a low, square-cut neckline. Its wide skirt was tightly cartridge-pleated to the waistline. She was especially fond of the French sleeves of her French gown with a large, padded sleeve-head, which tapered smoothly down to a small wrist.

I love Elizabeth, Robert said to himself over and over again. My dream is to be with Bess as her husband. However, does she reciprocate my feelings? While at Hatfield, he had developed a deep infatuation with the princess who had suffered at the hands of her late tyrannical father. In adolescence he had imagined how he would save Bess, his damsel in distress, from King Henry, take her away, elope with her, make her his, and then remain by her side for the rest of his life.

“Do you love Lord Devon?” Robert feared to hear her response.

Elizabeth’s orbs drifted to the tapestry of the Crucifixion on the wall once more. “Based on my father’s example, I’ve deduced that in most cases love is short-lived.” 

Robert cocked an eyebrow. “Well, what is your answer?” 

She frowned at him. “Robin, how dare you pray into my intimate affairs?” 

“I need to know the truth, Bess,” he pleaded. “My very life depends on it.” 

Forcing herself not to react to his despondency, the princess said flatly, “Lord Devon is a nice and interesting companion. My marriage to him would be advantageous to me.” 

“Because you need to have offspring with both Tudor and York blood?” 

A sigh escaped Elizabeth. “Yes, among other things.” 

His confession was a terrible choice, but one Robert had to make. “Bess, I love you!” 

Her lips thinned. “Do you love me as much as you feel for your French lovers, one of them my mother’s lady-in-waiting, with whom you have dallied during our long stay in France?” 

“Yes, I’ve bedded three mistresses here because I feel lonely. After all, I’m a man!”

Despite inner turmoil, Elizabeth spoke calmly. “I’ve never promised you anything, Robin. I’ve never given you any indication that I may feel for you anything other than friendship. The only reason why I’m talking to you now is my good attitude towards you.” 

A dejected Robert opened his arms, as if to embrace her, before dropping them. He strolled over to her, the expression on his face hard to define. Stopping just inches from her, he reached out and ran a finger lightly down her cheek. “I do not want to offend you, Bess. Forgive me, sweetheart! My feelings, perpetual and deep, are speaking for me, and I cannot contain them.” 

Elizabeth did not brush his hand away. His touch was pleasant for her skin, heating her blood. “Learn to control your emotions, Robin. I am a princess, and I’m also betrothed.”  

His green eyes hardened. “So, you will wed Exeter’s son?” 

“Even if I do so, I shall always remain a Tudor.” 

His heart swooped into his throat. “So, you have fallen for Devon.” 

The princess knocked aside his hand. “You tricked me into coming here in order to confess your love for me in an inappropriate manner, but you have several paramours.” 

“I’ve never expected you to marry me. I just wanted you to know about my feelings.” 

As always in Dudley’s presence, Elizabeth’s heart soared like a lark rising into the dawn. “I do not mean to hurt you, Robin. I’m not sure I need to marry anyone, as I told you before.” The memory of Kitty’s execution rolled over her, and a tiny tear slid down the side of her face.

Robert barely warded off the impulse to gather her into his arms. “Your father harmed you awfully, Elizabeth. However, you have a long life ahead and must move on. God, how I want to always be with you and to prove you how much I adore you, Bess! Dearest Bess!”    

She brushed away her tear. “I’m grateful to you, but you must know your place.” 

Dudley’s head dropped in despair. “I apologize.” 

Bess pronounced softly, “If you want to serve me loyally, prove to me that your allegiance to England and the Tudors is unwavering, for my heart belongs to my country.”   

“I can gladly die for you and England!” he vowed as he glanced at her with those eyes full of a boiling, liquid fervor. “I shall always protect you from everything.” 

In silence, Elizabeth and Robert contemplated each other.

Robin does have mistresses. However, wasn’t François unfaithful to my mother at the start of their marriage? Robert gave every appearance of being passionately in love with Elizabeth. Now they were young adults, and it was impossible to deny that Bess was beguiled by Robert’s dark maleness and his swaggering self-confidence, which instigated him to take greater liberties with her than anyone else dared. Her efforts to free herself from Dudley’s charm were futile.

At the same time, Elizabeth was attracted to Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon, who was five years Dudley’s senior. Every time she thought of Devon, her soul fluttered and undulated in brilliant colors of harmony, and the girl missed their intellectual debates and their rendezvous in the Loire Valley. While she liked Robert’s audacity, impetuousness, charisma, and charming arrogance, she also appreciated Devon’s modesty and shyness, his worshipping attitude to her to a point of Courtenay’s hesitation to touch her hand so as not to embarrass Bess.

“Thank you, Lord Dudley.” Elizabeth’s tone became official. “Go back to England.” 

Robert stared at her with profound gravity. “If that is what Your Highness wishes.” After a pause, he added, “Anne of Brittany and King Charles the Eighth married in this castle.” 

She figured out his hint. “And where did it lead them? Charles died young after he had hit his head on the lintel of a door. Then Anne married Louis the Twelfth of France.” 

“Only Catholics believe in such superstitious nonsense.” 

“Enough! I bid you good day.” The princess walked towards the door.

Robert bowed, although she did not turn to him. “God bless you, Bess!” 

§§§

As she walked out, Elizabeth saw her ladies-in-waiting standing near the door.

“Your lie is shameful, Mary,” chided the princess, glowering at Mary Dudley.

A shamefaced Mary lowered her eyes. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness.” 

Catherine Knollys asked, “What do you mean, Your Highness?” 

“It matters not, Cathy.”  Elizabeth then told Mary, “Never do this again, Mary.” 

“I shall not.” Mary Dudley was afraid to look at her mistress.

Elizabeth instructed, “I’ll return to my apartments.” 

After the princess had left with her maids, an apprehensive William Cecil appeared from a nearby corridor. When the door opened, Cecil concealed himself in a niche. A chagrined Robert Dudley hastened away from the room through the same hallway where Elizabeth had gone.  

§§§

King François and Queen Anne sat in wooden thrones dating back to Charles VIII’s reign. The walls were decorated with tapestries from Flanders, portraying various biblical scenes.

A remarkable man of thirty, William Cecil had a long, smart countenance showing that he was cautious, thoughtful, and tough person. He wore a modest doublet of brown damask slashed with white silk. In 1548, he had been appointed the English Lord Protector’s Master of Requests, being registrar of the court of requests that Exeter received, but he had later been sent to France.

Anne regarded Cecil. “Did Lord Exeter dispatch you with his son, Devon, to spy for him?” 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Cecil in flawless French. “I correspond with Lord Exeter.” 

“And very often,” claimed François. “A man with your intelligence and skills at espionage must be perfectly aware that all your messages to England were read by us.” 

Cecil smiled at the monarch whom he admired. “That is true.” 

Anne sighed. “Lord Dudley’s indecorous behavior will be stopped.” 

François drummed his fingers along the armrests. “Dudley must leave.” 

His wife nodded. “My daughter should marry Lord Devon, not Dudley.” 

“Yet, they met today,” the king noted, for Cecil had informed them about it.

Cecil pointed out, “Dudley invited her to talk, and she came. He was sad afterwards.” 

Some time ago, the French monarchs had noticed Robert Dudley’s frequent heated glances at Elizabeth. According to her confession, Elizabeth was attracted to the Earl of Devon, although she hesitated to consent to their marriage. The girl had confided in her mother that her childhood friend Robert, or Robin as she called him, was very dear to her. William Cecil had apprised Anne and François of Robert Dudley’s affairs with several French noblewomen, and Anne had purposefully notified Elizabeth about Dudley’s indirections. In contrast to Dudley, Devon was not involved in any extramarital relations, despite being surrounded many willing beauties.

The king glanced Cecil in the eye. “You serve not only Exeter, Master Cecil.” 

Cecil revealed, “I’m loyal to England, but I feel I must be sincere. Despite my respect and fealty to King Edward, I consider Princess Elizabeth a more suitable candidate to rule England.”     

Anne’s mouth literally fell open. François smiled knowingly.

Cecil continued, “I’ll serve Lord Exeter as Lord Protector and later King Edward loyally. However, I’m not indifferent to Princess Elizabeth’s fate, and if she ever ascends to the English throne, she will need to have a King Consort who will agree to live in her shadows. The English people are unlikely to accept a foreigner, so she needs a fine English match like Lord Devon.”  

“Not like Dudley.” There was a ring of finality in Anne’s tone.  

François leaned back in his seat. “Devon is a York, and he is humble.” 

The queen grinned knavishly. “These are excellent qualities for a husband.” 

The monarch compressed his lips. “We will send Dudley away from France.”    

Anne commanded, “Master Cecil, summon Lord Robert to us.” 

Cecil gave a nod. “As Your Majesty wishes. Shouldn’t his relatives be send back home?” 

The queen shook her head. “Yes to Lady Mary Dudley; no to Ambrose.” 

François advised, “Master Cecil, be careful with your loyalties.” 

“I’m always cautious.” Cecil then promised, “All will be done well.” He bowed and exited.

Robert Dudley arrived at the presence chamber of the French royals in a few minutes.

“How can I serve Your Majesties?” asked Dudley in accented French, bowing.

The ruler leaned forward and took a letter from a marble table, which stood between their chairs. “Lord Robert, we received a letter from our friend, the Marquess of Exeter. He urgently needs your help as he is working hard to squash the insurrections in the west of England.” 

Robert tensed. “Did Lord Exeter order me to return?” 

“Yes,” confirmed François. “And so does Sir John Dudley, Viscount Lisle.” 

Robert was clearly puzzled. “My father sent me to France!” 

The queen elaborated, “Lord Lisle arranged a marriage for you to Mistress Amy Robsart, the heiress of a rich gentleman-farmer and grazier – Sir John Robsart of Syderstone.” 

The blood drained from Robert’s features. “But how…” He fumbled for words.

Anne insisted, “You should depart for England as soon as possible.” 

Despair splashed into Robert’s orbs. “How can I?” 

François pitied the young man. “Trust in God, and also in His word.” 

Robert Dudley glanced between the monarchs. Cecil must had spied on him and written to Exeter who had done everything to separate him and Bess forever. My marriage to Amy Robsart is the best way for them to dispose of me, but Bess will not forget me. He was certain of that.

Dudley lifted his chin. “I’ve always believed in God, although I’m not a Catholic.” 

The king grumbled, “Highlighting our religious differences is tactless.” 

Robert had the decency to look embarrassed. “I did not mean anything offensive.” 

Anne explained, “The chastity of a queen or a princess must be undoubted, particularly if she is unmarried. Her reputation should not be blackened due to some unwarranted rumor.” 

François stated, “We hope that others did not notice what we did, Lord Robert.”     

Heartache overwhelmed Robert. “My respect and devotion to your daughter are immense.” 

The king eyed him sympathetically. “You have good intentions, Lord Dudley. However, people might misconstrue things, and there is already a bad rumor at our court.” 

The queen supplemented, “Although years have elapsed, I fear that my former nickname of the scandal of Christendom might taint Bess. I cannot let that happen.” 

A crestfallen Robert preserved his stoic visage. “I understand, Your Majesty.” 

The ruler uttered, “Godspeed, Lord Robert.” 

“I shall always be loyal to England,” vowed Robert Dudley, “and to Elizabeth.” 

Bowing low to the French sovereigns, Dudley departed the chamber.

Anne expelled a sigh. “Now Bess will be more inclined to marry the Earl of Devon.” 

François recalled the anguish in Dudley’s eyes. “Lord Robert has mistresses, but he loves Elizabeth. Neither time nor distance will delete his passion for Elizabeth from his heart.” 

She promenaded over to the window facing the gardens, aflame with red and yellow leaves on the trees. François stood up and crossed to his wife, and his arm slid around her back, locking them in their embrace. Anne prayed that her daughter would make the right choice of a husband.


February 10, 1551, Palazzo Nani, Venice, the Republic of Venice

Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire, unfolded his sudden letter from Queen Anne of France. After breaking the Valois seal, Wiltshire scanned the contents. He sat at his desk in the study near the window, and dull light streamed through it, highlighting Anne’s familiar handwriting. Outside the day had the softness of early spring, but the weather was gray and humid.

Dear Father,

Mary and I congratulate you on your upcoming birthday. We wish you a long life! We have been thinking of you as of late, perhaps because my daughter Elizabeth is still in France.

All of my children are faring well. Augustine spends most of his time at court; my other children live at Château de Chenonceau. Next summer, François and I will go to Vienna.

Marie and I wish to welcome you in France. However, we ask that you come without your new wife. We forgive you for all your old mistakes, but we can’t understand why you remarried.  As François rightly says, your union with Lucia Donato strengthened France’s alliance with the Republic of Venice. We pray for the Doge Donato’s health, but he is a very old man, so we ask you to ensure that the next elected Doge of Venice will be a friend to France.

Take care of yourself

Your daughter, Queen Anne of France

Tears prickled Boleyn’s eyes as he kissed the letter. “My beloved daughters!” 

Anne and Marie had both forgiven him! The happiness of feeling himself loved or at least respected awakened in Wiltshire a sense of exhilaration and gratefulness. Thomas did not blame them for their inability to accept his second marriage, for he had never anticipated it. Almost his entire life consisted of countless follies: in his cruel quest for power and pleasures, Boleyn had sacrificed the happiness of his family and his joy to a phantom. He had made many mistakes…

My second marriage is not ideal at all. Five years ago, Thomas had married Lucia Donato, who was a great great-niece of Doge Francesco Donato. Lucia was six years Anne’s junior, and so Thomas could have been her father. For some time, they had been lovers, and the doge had been furious after learning of their affair. To preserve France’s alliance with Venice, Thomas had taken Lucia as his wife, and she had birthed his son Ludovico, who was now almost five.

Footsteps sounded outside. Lucia Boleyn, Countess of Wiltshire, slipped into the study.

“The doge is here,” Lucia apprised. “Francesco has come to congratulate you.”

Wiltshire folded the letter. “We can all sup together.”  

She tipped a nod. “The dogaressa Alicia Giustiniani is with him. There will be four of us tonight.” Seeing that her husband was not in a hurry, she questioned, “Are you busy?” 

“I’ve received a letter from my daughter, Anne. She and Mary are inviting me to France.”

Lucia crossed to the desk. “Let me guess. They don’t wish to see me.”

“They do not,” he responded dryly. “I cannot change that.”

“What about their brother? Don’t they want to get acquainted with our Ludovico?”  

Thomas sighed. “It is not easy for my girls, Lucia.”

Her blue eyes twinkled. “Marie and Anne Boleyn conquered France. Why should they care for their little brother who was not born by their late mother?”

“Don’t speak about my daughters so rudely, Lucia.”

“They need you only to guarantee France’s alliance with Venice.” 

Thomas jumped to his feet as if stabbed, and he paced to and fro. “Don’t meddle!”   

A tall, slim woman of thirty-nine, Lucia was pretty with long, raven hair, oval-shaped face, blue eyes, and a bit irregular features. Although there were lines of age under her eyes, her allure was still significant and seductive, and many men flocked to Lucia. An extravagant gown of fuchsia brocade intricately embroidered with floral design emphasized Lucia’s olive complexion.

He regarded her pensively. “Why did you marry me, Lucia?” 

His spouse answered forthrightly, “I was born to a wealthy aristocratic family, but as I was widowed twice, it was difficult for me to find a suitable match in Venice.”   

His mouth twisted wryly. “Most men considered you barren before Ludovico’s birth.”  

Lucia approached him. “My failure to produce an heir doomed my previous marriages. I married you, Thomas, merely out of despair! No Venetian lord would have taken me as his wife. You were an experienced lover despite your age, and I wanted to have a baby born in wedlock. I planned that if I birthed you a son, he will inherit your English titles and lands.”

Boleyn had already suspected that. “You strove to become Countess of Wiltshire.”

“Everything that you have in England must be given to Ludovico.”

“Won’t our son have enough in Venice? You and I are quite rich.”

She croaked, “I want your English titles as well.”

“It does not depend on me,” Wiltshire disillusioned her. “Only King Edward can restore Hever Castle and my other estates to my name. My title of the Earl of Wiltshire is empty!”

Lucia knitted her brows. “Now I shall go and take care of Messer Donato and his wife. After the dinner, I’ll meet with my lover, as usual, Thomas. I shall never share your bed again.”

Hot rage boiled inside of Boleyn. Although he was still in decent health, his male strength had vanished two years earlier, and now he could no longer have intercourse with Lucia. As a result, Boleyn had permitted his spouse to have a younger and virile lover, much to his shame. My union with Lucia was doomed from the beginning, Thomas lamented inwardly.

He balled his fists. “Go, but be discreet.” Nodding, she marched away.

There was a gaping abyss in Wiltshire’s soul, weeping that his first wife, his Elizabeth, was dead. After her demise, Thomas had feared many years of loneliness ahead and married Lucia, but he found sorrow and quarrels with her, and depression was weighing upon his spirits every day. He dragged himself to his suite, fetched a servant, and changed into a fresh set of garments.

§§§

Thomas Boleyn appeared in the parlor on the ground floor. Garbed in a doublet of black and blue satin without any ornamentation, he walked without a cane despite his advanced age. His face was wrinkled, but there was enough strength in his limbs and even more in his mind.

The Doge Francesco Donato, who now was in his late seventies, used a cane for walking. Dressed in yellow damask robes, Donato had clever, green eyes and a wrinkled countenance that was framed by a long, grizzled beard at the bottom. More than twenty years his junior, the doge’s wife was Madonna Alicia Giustiniani; she was a plump, short woman with hazel eyes and swarthy skin, set off by a white silk gown and a mass of her half-grizzled, half-brown hair.

The earl greeted the guests, “Messer Francesco! Madonna Alicia!” 

The Doge Donato began, “Thomas, happy birthday to you! All the best to you and my dear Lucia!” He glanced cordially at his great great-niece. “And to your son.”

Bowing to the doge, Wiltshire answered joyfully, “Thank you very much, Francesco.”

Alicia Giustiniani, the doge’s wife, smiled. “Thomas, be happy!” 

Lucia Boleyn came to her husband and took his hand in hers. “My dearest Francesco and Alicia, we are delighted to see you at our home. Let’s dine together and celebrate!”

They went to the grand hall. A long mahogany table groaned with platters full of delicacies and decanters of Italian wine. Following Wiltshire’s marriage, the palazzo was not refurbished: the walls boasted lofty frescoes of the Venetian artist Jacopo Bassano on religious and landscape themes, while furniture was a mixture of marble and walnut decorated with gaudy ornaments.

“We have a gift for you, Thomas,” affirmed Alicia.

The doge opined, “You will like it, my friend.”

Two pages delivered some painting covered with a cloth of gold. It was the picture ‘Venus, Flora, Mars, and Cupid’ by Paris Bordone – a Venetian painter who worked with Titian, using his style characterized by a peculiar Mannerist complexity and poignant provincial vigor.

Donato commented, “The Venier family would have purchased it if I didn’t.”

Alicia commented, “We paid a fortune for this artwork.”

Wiltshire was most pleased with the gift. “Thank you so much! It is amazing!” 

Lucia beamed at her relatives. “It is an excellent addition to our collection of art.” 

Boleyn asserted, “I like the distinctive style of the painter Paris Bordone.” He smiled. “He is perhaps best known for his striking paintings of nude and lovely women.”

Lucia tipped her head. “No one should be ashamed of their beauty at any age.”

The display of victuals for the supper was tremendous in its sheer quantity. Every time the doge visited them, Lucia ensured that the mountains of dishes were cooked for the table.

“My friend,” Donato spelled out. “The Council of Ten and I are grateful to King François for the treaties we signed with the Ottoman Empire. Our fleet is powerful, but the Turks often attacked our galleons and trade ships. The new agreements made us better protected.”

Thomas sipped wine. “I’ll write to His Majesty, expressing your gratitude.”

Alicia speculated, “Even controversial alliances with the infidels may be useful.”

“Indeed.” Lucia brought a cup to her lips. “Emperor Ferdinand is also allied with them.”

“God bless Emperor Ferdinand!” Donato exclaimed. “I’ve always admired Ferdinand. That is why the Venetians fought for him during the Habsburg brothers’ war.”

Boleyn was chewing a slice of venison. “We have peace thanks to Ferdinand.”

The Venetian doge promised, “Thomas, Venice will remain France’s ally as long as I live. Moreover, I’ll work hard to ensure that those who succeed me will retain our alliance.”

The conversation again swerved towards fashions and the arts.

Anne Boleyn’s father uttered, “The Valois family is honored to be Venice’s friend.”

Wiltshire’s pleasant remembrances burst forth like water through a breached dam, but they were not associated with the present. His meeting with the late Elizabeth Howard, their romance, and their elopement years ago! Their many passionate nights spent together in their youth, and the births of their children, of whom three had survived! The love Thomas had felt for Elizabeth still lived in Thomas’ soul. Elizabeth, forgive me, Boleyn entreated. For my failure to save you. At least I avenged your death: we poisoned Pope Paul, and Sebastiano de Montecuccoli is dead.

Notes:

The new chapter is up! Please let us know what you think of this chapter, and don’t forget to leave reviews so that we can discuss events, twists, and turns in this chapter.

Finally, we can see what is happening in England under the protectorship of Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter. The Regency Council consists of the same nobles and prelates who were members of the Regency Council in history during King Edward VI’s minority, with the difference that we made the Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Surrey more powerful than they were in the same period. Norfolk, Surrey, and Exeter are allies following the return of the duke and the earl from their exile in France, so the Howards will protect Elizabeth if necessary.

We have the Marquess of Exeter to continue Henry VIII’s religious and other reforms. The rebellions and the new Book of Prayer mentioned in this chapter were products of Thomas Cranmer and Edward Seymour’s work as Lord Protector in history, but we made them Exeter’s accomplishment with Cranmer. Exeter and in our story the Howards understand that there can be no way back to Catholicism and the past in England without bloodshed and carnage, and they want to avoid a civil war. However, will they be able to do so? What will King Edward do when he comes of age and starts ruling on his own? You may share your thoughts with us in reviews, and we will be grateful for your opinion. In later chapters, we will bring Edward back to the story, but now he lives at Hatfield as he is only eleven at this stage, and everyone fears that if he resides at court, he might catch some infection.

We hope that you like the Marquess of Exeter’s scene with his new wife, Catherine Parr. We showed their romance in earlier chapters, choosing Exeter as Catherine’s love interest instead of Thomas Seymour who was killed by the authors a long time ago. Catherine Parr’s book ‘The Lamentation of a Sinner’ is a three-part sequence of reflections, and by the way, Catherine was the first woman in England to publish in English under her own name. She and Exeter have a daughter, and now Catherine is pregnant again, but perhaps their character arc will not always be a happy one, given that now Honor Grenville and Exeter with his family are mortal enemies.

We finally introduced the Dudley family to the story, including Robert, Ambrose, and Mary Dudley with their father, Sir John Dudley who is ambitious and may play some role in this story. For a short time in history, John was Viscount Lisle before he was made Duke of Northumberland. Just as we promised, we showed Elizabeth Tudor with Robert Dudley – her Robin who confessed to loving her passionately, making Bess more torn between Edward Courtenay, Earl of Devon, and Dudley. We hope that you liked their emotional and frank conversation, and we promise that it is not the end for Elizabeth and Robin, for her personal life will be complicated and tempestuous.

Anne and François are of course eager to see Elizabeth entering into marriage to the Earl of Devon, so they arranged Robert’s marriage to Amy Robsart together with Exeter and John Dudley. Perhaps Robin and Amy will have a better fate in this story, or perhaps not – you have to wait and see. In this epic, we have William Cecil start his political career as someone who serves to the Marquess of Exeter, the most powerful man in England. Cecil will appear in later chapters, and he will play his famous role in England’s history in this epic and in a sequel.

We showed Thomas Boleyn, nominal Earl of Wiltshire, with his new Italian wife. He is not happy in his second marriage to the much younger Lucia Donato who is a fictional character, unlike the Doge Francesco Donato who really ruled the Republic of Venice in this historical period. We wanted to give Thomas an unusual character arc, but he has not forgotten his first wife, Elizabeth Howard. Now Thomas is reconciled with his daughters, Marie and Anne, but they might never see each other again because Thomas is an old man, although he is not dying yet.

Château de Langeais located in the Loire Valley is quite a beautiful place, and the information given about this castle in this chapter is historically correct. Palazzo Nani in Venice was owned by one of the local noble families, but we had Thomas Boleyn buy this mansion in earlier chapters.

Attention! A while ago, we posted a prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 95: Chapter 94: Lethal Maladies

Summary:

Marie de Guise, Dowager Queen of Scotland, arranges a betrothal for Mary, Queen of Scots. The Marquess of Exeter works hard to make the young King Edward VI a good and loved ruler. England has suddenly been hit by sweating sickness, while France is being ravaged by plague. Queen Anne and Anne de Pisseleu, Duchess d’Étampes, finally meet and make peace.

Notes:

Please, don't forget to review previous chapter and this chapter as well! Thank you in advance!

Attention! The prologue to the sequel 'Chained by Blood and Power' (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don't forget about our work "Entwined by a Golden Alliance" co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 94: Lethal Maladies

February 25, 1551, Château d’Amboise, Amboise, the Loire Valley, France

Gray winter light filtered through the windows. During his early reign, King François had spent a lot of time at Amboise, but in later years he rarely graced it with his presence. The court again resided at Amboise. The Council Chamber was the site of a regular round of audiences and festivities, the whitewashed walls and the vaulted ceiling giving it a feeling of grandeur.

Three handsomely carved thrones were draped in blue brocade ornamented with fleurs-de-lis. In the central throne, King François sat with an expression of a man anticipating an attack. Queen Anne and Dauphin Henri occupied their places from both sides of the monarch.  

“Has Your Majesty made up your mind?” asked Marie de Guise, Dowager Queen of Scots.

François verbalized the verdict. “Our offer is to have your daughter, Mary Stuart, betrothed to my son – Antoine, Duke de Provence. Mary is two years older than him.” 

Marie gaped at them. “Oh no!”

A tall woman of thirty-five, the Scottish dowager queen wore an embroidered gown of red silk with slashed sleeves and a low square-cut neckline. Her auburn hair streamed down her back in waves from beneath a beaded French hood. Marie de Guise has aged quite well. There is an air of both arrogance and regality about her, Anne observed as their gazes locked.

Peace reigned in Scotland. After King Henry’s passing, the Marquess of Exeter had ceased his attempts to have King Edward engaged to Queen Mary of Scots. Nevertheless, Marie de Guise now faced a strong opposition to her Catholic regency in Scotland from the powerful lords sympathetic to the Protestant cause. Wishing to have her daughter raised in Catholicism and have her regency protected, Marie was determined to make the young queen tied to France.

Marie questioned, “What about the marriage between Dauphin Henri’s eldest son, Prince François, to my daughter? Don’t you want to have Scotland and France united?” 

François, Henri, and Anne wanted the next monarch to have a Guise consort. They had deliberated over this special match, having concluded that they would not risk arranging the union between Henri’s eldest son and a girl from the Lotharingian House of Guise.

Henri said, “We have other plans for my son François.” 

Marie was seething with indignation. “What about your other sons?” 

Henri shook his head. “Charles and Alexandre are both intended for someone else.” 

An incensed Marie surmised, “Your Majesties do not want to have Queen of France related to the Guise family. Prince François, Duke de Brittany, is sickly, so one of his younger brothers may become king, and to prevent him from marrying Mary, you will make them unavailable.”    

Anne, François, and Henri thought that Marie was too smart to be outwitted.

Queen Anne apprised, “Actually, we signed the betrothal agreements for Prince François and his brothers a week earlier. Soon the relevant announcements will be made.”

Currently, Prince François was betrothed to the little Marie Eleonore of Cleves, daughter of William, Duke of Jülich-Cleves-Berg, on condition of the girl’s conversion into Catholicism. As the elder brother of the late Duke Claude de Guise – Duke Antoine de Lorraine who had died in 1544 – had not plotted against France, the peace with the House of Lorraine was reconfirmed by the betrothal between Dorothea, the youngest daughter of the new Duke François of Lorraine, to Prince Charles. Only Prince Alexandre, Duke d’Anjou, was without a match.

François was growing tired of this argument. “Your Majesty, didn’t we comply with the terms of the Auld alliance? When King Henry of England waged war against you, we sent you many soldiers and gold. Now we are offering you a French prince of the blood.” 

A humiliated Marie tipped her head. “Yes, you complied with our treaty.” 

The king frowned. “Why are you displeased, then? Your daughter can wed Antoine and keep Scotland’s links to France. If you detest this match, we can find a Habsburg bride for my son. But what will become of Scotland, then?” The ruler’s voice was a little menacing.  

The queen interposed, “Lord Exeter is now ruling England, and he considers Protestant princesses as a bride for King Edward. When Edward starts ruling himself, he might renew attacks on Scotland. How will you defend your country, then? You need France’s aid.”    

“But on our conditions,” the dauphin stressed.

An offended Marie spluttered, “Your Majesties, I did not accept my late father and uncle in Scotland when they implored James and me to give them refuge. They committed grave crimes and were punished for them. All my brothers are banished! But my daughter is innocent!” 

Anne lost her patience. “Mary Queen of Scots is a Guise!” A shiver of premonition chilled her to the core every time she remembered about the House of Guise.

Henri summed up, “No Guises can be trusted, but we will comply with our alliance.” 

After a short pause, Marie rendered her decision. “I accept your terms.” 

François nodded. “The young Queen of Scots will be raised separately. You may visit her with our prior approval, but none of your family members will be allowed to see her.” 

This was another blow to Marie’s pride. “My daughter is the Queen of Scots!” 

The ruler’s temper flared somewhat. “Madame, I must keep my family safe. Your daughter is innocent, but we will not let the Guises instill into Mary hatred of the Valois.” 

Henri pressured, “Your Majesty, you have this or nothing.” 

Anne pledged, “We will take care of Mary. She and Antoine will meet soon.” 

Marie sighed. “Obviously, I shall not receive a better offer.” 

François announced, “The treaty will be ready next week. We will welcome your daughter at Château d’Ussé next spring, and we will ensure that you will keep your regency in Scotland.”

The dowager queen admitted, “I understand you, despite everything.” 

They discussed the prospective arrival of Mary, Queen of Scots, in France. It was decided that after the marriage of Antoine and Mary Stuart in the future, they would depart to Edinburgh with French troops and gold. There would be no prolonged stay in France for the married couple.

§§§

The Queen of France’s cortege moved slowly through the forest of Amboise. The snow mantled everything in a silvery cloak that glistened on the ground and on the crowns of trees like a thousand diamonds. Dressed in sable cloaks, Queen Anne and Princess Elizabeth sat on black stallions caparisoned in red and blue velvet. It was Elizabeth’s idea to go for a ride together.

After the Earl of Devon’s departure a month ago, Anne and Elizabeth had begun to spend more time together. Robert Dudley had left for England the next day after his conversation with the French monarchs. Marie de Montmorency’s son, Henry Carey, had also returned home.

Jean de Brosse, Duke d’Étampes, steered his horse to the royals. “Your Majesty and Your Highness, should we return to the castle? It is getting colder, and there is a slight snowfall.” 

The queen shook her head. “Not yet, Monsieur d’Étampes.” 

The princess examined her surroundings. “The winter forest evokes a feeling of freedom that makes you wish to touch the sky. Don’t we lack it when we are confined to our homes?”   

Étampes chuckled. “Today we have the clearest of skies despite the weather.” 

The three of them looked up. The winter firmament was cloudless, a huge inverted bowl of duck-egg blue. They were aware of lovely vistas to either side, snow-capped trees surrounding them like walls. The sunlight glided along the snowy ground effortlessly.  

Anne quizzed, “Monsieur d’Étampes, how is your family faring?” 

Étampes answered, “Thank you for asking, Your Majesty. My wife and son are doing fine. She is grateful to King François and his sister, as well as Your Majesty for the permission to raise her daughters Charlotte and Yolande in our estates. I love both girls.”    

The Étampes spouses had stayed in their estates for three years. They had left because of her pregnancy: Anne de Pisseleu had birthed a healthy son named René after the duke’s late father, René de Brosse. François had allowed Anne de Pisseleu’s daughters – Charlotte fathered by Prince Charles and Yolande by Henri d’Albert – to live with their mother. A few months ago, Étampes had finally returned and been made captain of the queen’s personal guard.  

Anne was glad that the Étampes spouses had reconciled. “It is very noble of you to raise your wife’s daughters as your own. Charlotte and Yolande will always be welcome at court.” 

Étampes dipped a nod. “I told my wife the same.” 

The queen assured, “If the duchess is apprehensive that she will be shunned out because of the past, tell her that it will not happen. I want her to be one of my ladies.” 

The duke nodded gratefully. “Your Majesty is most grateful. I’ll write her about it.” 

Anne and Elizabeth contemplated the woods. Even in the absence of human talk, they were full of noises – the crack of ice-coated branches, the thud of snow as the horses were riding, the scurry of deer foraging among the trees. Soon they reached a large meadow, and after Étampes dismounted, he and a groom assisted the two women in hopping down from their horses.

Anne and Elizabeth went to the center of the meadow. The white scenery, trees cloaked in white bordering with the sky, awakened in them a sensation of something eternal.  

Anne intoned, “It is a pleasure to see such timeless beauty.”    

“Mama,” commenced Bess quietly. “Anne, Duchess d’Étampes, was François’ maîtresse-en-titre for many years. Later she became King Henri of Navarre’s official mistress. Both of her daughters are bastards. The Duchess d’Étampes destroyed the marriage of Queen Marguerite and King Henri of Navarre. François, Marguerite, and you are too generous to her.” 

“François has been faithful to me for years. As for the duchess’ romance with the late King of Navarre, they loved each other, although his heart seems to have been divided. Marguerite’s marriage to Henri d’Albert was falling apart for a long time without Anne. Margot is a woman of state and letters – she always puts her duty above her wishes and her happiness.” 

Her daughter inferred, “Queen Marguerite scarified her life for France.” 

“Exactly.” Anne’s sigh held a hint of despondency. “Perhaps it is the fate of a female ruler unless she is only a queen consort, and God bestows her husband’s love upon her.”  

“Like it happened in your case, Mother.” 

“Yes, my Elizabeth. I’m extremely fortunate to have François as my husband.” 

The princess was elated on her mother’s behalf. “And Anne de Pisseleu?”

“The duchess is not my foe,” stated the queen. “Once she was, but only for a short time. She is not an enemy to Margot and François either.” A tear trickled down her face. “Moreover, I need friends after my friend Françoise de Foix was murdered, God rest her soul.” 

Anne and Elizabeth crossed themselves, silently giving tribute to Françoise.

The queen addressed her daughter. “Bess, life is a strange thing that brings death, quarrels, sufferings, plots, unusual alliances and friendships. Years ago, the late Françoise de Foix was my husband’s paramour, but he set her aside, and later she became one of my best friends. Ferdinand von Habsburg was a prisoner of war who attacked France with Carlos, but he ended up as our true ally and a close friend to our family. That is rather odd, isn’t it?” 

Elizabeth surmised, “Enemies may become friends. Friends can evolve into enemies.” 

“Exactly. Watch your adversaries, and if there is a chance to turn them into your friends or at least to make them indebted to you, then do your best to accomplish that.”  

“I must learn a lot.” Melancholy tinted her voice. “Are all queens doomed to be unhappy?” 

“I do not think so, Bess.” Anne understood her daughter’s concerns, wishing to ease them a little. “Elizabeth of York and King Henry the Seventh of England were content together.” 

Elizabeth sighed. “Nonetheless, my own father was different from my paternal grandfather in a bad way.” She sucked in her breath, observing something flickering, shifting through the avenues of the winter forest. It was a deer running through the trees, which caused her to smile. “You believe that I’ll rule England. But if it is so, then I should never get married.” 

Anne stared after the fleeing deer. “You can rule as co-monarchs.” 

“Is that possible?” The animal disappeared in the woodland.

“Well, remember Ferdinand the Second of Aragon and Isabel of Castile. Nevertheless, not every man is suitable for the role of King Consort or Prince Consort. Traditional men believe that a queen needs a husband to make political and other decisions for her.”

Elizabeth’s temper spiked. “Women must not be ruled by men!” 

Anne concurred, “We are in perfect agreement about the matter. At the same time, a queen regnant needs male heirs to avoid a civil war between rival claimants to succeed her.” 

Bess fathomed out the hint. “The English people would be generally prejudiced against a queen marrying a foreign spouse, particularly a Catholic one. Yet, if she marries an English peer, jealousy of many other lords might lead to the formation of perilous factions at court.” 

“It is easier to deal with the second problem than the first one. All depends on a husband.” 

Bess spotted a bird flying away from a snow-capped oak. “Lord Devon?” 

“Yes, my own heart. You like Robert Dudley, but he is an extremely ambitious man to be allowed to climb high. He is also tainted by the execution of his grandfather, Edmund Dudley.” 

“I don’t care about events dating back to my father’s early reign.” 

“People have a long memory, dear daughter of mine. For instance, the English Catholics still remember Catherine of Aragon, blaming me for England’s break with Rome.” 

“Especially about bad things.” Elizabeth watched snow falling to the ground.

Anne asked forthrightly, “Do you feel something for Lord Devon?” 

Her daughter gazed at her. “I’m attracted to both Devon and Dudley.” 

“Devon lacks ambition that Dudley has in abundance,” stressed the queen.

Elizabeth’s mind drifted to Mary, Queen of Scots. “Will my Stuart cousin marry Antoine?” 

“The marriage contract will be signed soon, but I doubt this wedding will ever happen.” 

The princess snapped, “Mary, Queen of Scots, poses a threat to both Edward and me. If she marries a Catholic prince, she might gain the Vatican’s support and attack England.” 

“Antoine’s union with Mary Stuart – if it takes place – will be different. Or do you think that Antoine, your brother, would plot against you to snatch away the English throne from you?” 

“Of course I trust Antoine, Mother. But Mary and the Pope in alliance can do everything.” 

“Perhaps. But what if Mary marries a Catholic king, for example Felipe of Spain’s son, Don Carlos? Would it not be more perilous for the Protestant England and the Tudors?” 

“Indeed, Antoine would be able to control her. When Mary arrives, I’ll not meet with her.” 

Her mother understood that. “It is not required of you.” 

Elizabeth concluded, “Now my marriage to Lord Devon becomes more important than before. The English will never choose foreigners if their ruling monarchs are the descendants of Yorks, Lancasters, and Tudors. And I can have such children with Lord Devon.” 

“That would be a strategic decision, but only you can make it, Bess.” 

“I miss Eddie,” Elizabeth admitted.

Anne grinned. “Then write to him more often. Do you miss Robert Dudley?”

Sighing, Bess looked up at the sky, then back at her mother. “I do.”

Anne’s heart ached for her daughter. “Confusion in love might pave way for drama.” 

To her relief, Elizabeth stated, “Royals should avoid such situations.” 

“Yes.” The queen took her daughter’s hands in hers. “You are very young, Bess. You can meet love when you least expect it and not with who you think and whom you married. I beseech you to remember that a queen cannot let her heart rule her actions.” 

The princess squeezed the queen’s hands. “I know, Mother.” 

The snowfall intensified, and they galloped away from the woods, flakes swirling in the air. Outside the forest they saw Château d’Amboise sitting on a rocky outcrop right in the middle of the picturesque medieval town with the same name. The castle was such an imposing sight on its elevated perch that the breaths of Anne and Elizabeth were caught in their throats. As they neared the palace, the snowfall became so thick that it was difficult to navigate.


April 25, 1551, Okehampton Castle, the town of Devon, county of Devon, England

The sun shone brightly from a cobalt blue sky down onto the royal cavalcade climbing the long, rocky outcrop, where Okehampton Castle was situated. Built originally in the 11th century following the Norman conquest of England, it belonged to the Marquess of Exeter and towered over the countryside like the sinister mythological giant Alcyoneus, Heracles’ opponent.

King Edward snarled, “Hal, don’t put me through this again.”

The Marquess of Exeter asked, “Doesn’t Your Majesty want to see your subjects?” 

The boy wrinkled his nose. “They are all dirty and wear rags! Such shame!” 

The Lord Protector gripped the reins more tightly as a wave of nervousness surged through him. “God ordains a monarch to lead their country, appointing kings as His representatives on earth to take care of His children. It is a sovereign’s responsibility to rule fairly and honorably.”

Edward persevered, “I can govern from one of my palaces, and I have councilors.”

Exeter looked towards the small river running around the north side of the castle. “What if someone is lying to Your Majesty in order to manipulate you for their benefit?” 

The king roared, “No one can force me to do anything! I’m the King of England!” 

Clad in a golden brocade outfit adorned with precious stones, the young Edward sat astride a small horse caparisoned in cloth of gold. He absolutely adored fashions and jewels. Today Ned wore the garments of extraordinary richness despite their meeting with poor commoners.

No negotiations with the Catholic insurgents had helped until Exeter had come to the west of England himself. He had to apply all his knowledge he had accumulated in the past to pacify the anger of the protesting people. Exeter could give no religious concessions, but he initiated the cancellation of taxes and enclosures, which was widely welcomed. With Archbishop Cranmer, Exeter had explained that the Act of Uniformity of 1549 was a compromise for Catholics and Protestants. Everywhere Exeter was greeted cordially because the population loved him.

Exeter’s tour through the west of the country had spectacular results. Pleased and grateful for receiving a full royal pardon, the mutineers in Devon, Cornwall, and Norfolk had dispersed, having promised to mull over the new religious acts. Exeter, Cranmer, and others hoped that the people would come to accept that the old times were now gone. God, thank you that there was no bloodshed, Exeter thought. I just hope that Edward will not undermine my hard work.

The marquess sighed. “There will always be those who want to use Your Majesty.”

“To sway me to their opinion?” Edward inquired, his ire abating.

“Yes,” confirmed Exeter. “You must know who to trust.”

The monarch exclaimed, “Hal, I trust you completely.” 

“You can, Ned,” said the marquess. “But I’m aging and will not always be around.”

A frightened Edward murmured, “You cannot leave me! I need you so!” 

Smiling at the boy, Exeter continued, “To learn how your subjects live, you ought to meet them from time to time, for example during the court’s progress or on a special occasion.”

Nonetheless, the teenager whined, “It was horrible! They crowded in the central square of the city, all so badly dressed! They reeked of sweat and filth! I could barely breathe!” 

Today the Marquess of Exeter had taken the monarch to Devon where hundreds of people had gathered to greet their sovereign, all of them grateful for the clemency towards the rebels. As Exeter wanted the English to love their king, he had designed and begun a massive campaign aimed at showing the young, charismatic, though spoiled, King Edward to everyone, in order to cultivate Ned’s reputation of a benevolent and great monarch.

The court lived at Okehampton Castle. Yesterday, Exeter and King Edward together had rehearsed his speech for the commoners. Today in Devon Edward had spoken impressively, but his excessively sumptuous clothes were incongruent with the destitution of the folks.

Edward complained, “I shall not see such beggars again!”

Exeter was running out of patience, but he spoke persuasively. “With all due respect, Your Majesty should see your subjects to understand how they live and what needs they have. After most of the taxes were abolished or lowered, their lives will improve.”

“If my father established these taxes, it means that they were necessary.”

Exeter sighed. “At the time of their introduction, but not later.”

Finally, the cortege climbed the hill. After entering through the northeastern barbican, they crossed a drawbridge over a motte surrounding the rectangular keep. They stopped near the Great Hall on the north side, where the buttery and the castle kitchens were located. The north façade of the castle was made in the martial style with narrow windows and towering defenses.

A groom helped King Edward dismount, but the ruler suddenly slapped him.

“Your Majesty!” A shaken Exeter hopped down from his stallion.

Edward shouted, “You grabbed my reins so sharply when I was still on the horse that I could have fallen off my saddle. You could have caused me such harm, you idiot!” 

The groom implored, “I did not want to hurt you, sire! Please, forgive me!” 

“How can I be sure of this?” Edward’s face twisted into a furious grimace.

The groom fell to his knees. “Forgive me, Your Majesty! Don’t arrest me, I beg of you!” 

Exeter intervened, “Leave! Next time be careful. The king’s life is sacred!”

The servant jumped to his feet, bowed, and fled. Another terrified groom led the monarch’s horse away. The guards all stood nearby, studying Edward with barely hidden surprise.

Exeter chided, “Your Majesty should not treat your servants so harshly.”   

Edward huffed, “I could have been unhorsed by that dullard.”

The Lord Protector swallowed his annoyance. “Aren’t you exaggerating, Ned?”

The king blinked. “I described what he did to me, Hal.”

Exeter quoted, “The illustrious Sophocles said, ‘All men make mistakes, but a good man yields when he knows his course is wrong, and repairs the evil.’ Does it tell you something?” 

Edward blinked. “You want me to make conclusions from the situation.”

“Yes. Never treat your servants so badly again.”

Nodding, the king spotted William Paulet and the Suffolk boys, who all bowed to him.

Edward told the Lord Protector, “I’m going to spend time with my friends. I’m delighted that today my lessons were cancelled because of the meeting with those beggars.”

The marquess, who himself was teaching Edward ancient literature and history, uttered, “A man, though wise, should never be ashamed of learning more, and must unbend his mind.”

The boy had a very good memory. “It seems to be from ‘Antigone’ by Sophocles.” When Exeter nodded, Edward smiled. “Will we have our literature and history classes tomorrow?” 

“Of course, Your Majesty.” A smiling Exeter bowed to the king.  

Edward strutted towards his friends. Suddenly, he pivoted and pronounced irritably, “You pardoned all those rebels, but my late father would not have done so. Why didn’t you have them all executed?” It was the first time when Edward confronted his Lord Protector in this manner.

Exeter was astounded by his brusqueness. “England would not forgive the Tudors for more bloodshed. If we did not pardon them, the uprisings would have continued.”

The ruler snapped, “Fortune is not on the side of the faint-hearted.”

Watching King Edward and his companions enter the castle, Exeter felt his heart plummet in his chest. Was there a beast sleeping inside this charming teenager? Ned, you are not a Tudor, but a Courtenay and a York. Yet, there are traits in you that make you look like Henry Tudor. A sense of premonition enveloped Exeter as he remembered Edward’s love for liturgies in Latin.  

§§§

The Marquess of Exeter glanced up the sky. “God, help me raise Ned as a good man.”

Sighing, Exeter marched away. The courtiers resided in the west lodgings of the medieval castle, which were furnished and decorated for noble guests, on the southern side of the bailey.

Soon the Lord Protector entered his apartments. His wife, Catherine, played piquet with his son, the Earl of Devon. Now Catherine was almost nine months pregnant, and her delivery was expected anytime. She had retired from court to their estates three months ago, and then the court had arrived at Devon during its progress. After a meeting with his father upon his return from France, the Earl of Devon had gone to assist Exeter in stopping the rebellion.

As a player who cut the higher scores in cards, now Catherine had to deal. She chose her cards carefully at the commencement of the first partie. “Eddie, I shall win all six parties.”

Devon sat in an ornately carved chair by the bed. “Cathy, don’t make such promises.”

“Hal!” A smile blossomed on Catherine’s visage. “You have finally returned!”

“Father!” Devon was elated to see his parent. “How was everything?” 

Exeter plastered a grin. “Now play! Later I’ll tell you everything.”

“Our little Maud is sleeping,” apprised the Marchioness of Exeter.

For half an hour, the marquess watched his spouse and son play piquet. He reveled in such peaceful family moments, happy that Catherine and his legitimate son Edward were friends. In the end, Catherine and Eddie played in a draw because each of them won three parties.

Catherine rested on a bed canopied with a pink chiffon-like material. She was covered with a blanket up to her breast, so the round curve of her enlarged abdomen was visible. The walls were swathed in tapestries depicting St Catherine of Alexandria, who had become a martyr in the 4th century on the orders of the Roman Emperor Maxentius. Exeter had ordered these tapestries from Flanders as a gift for his wife. A handwoven Aubusson carpet lay on the floor.

Exeter noted, “Neither of you scored the most points. No one wins.”

Putting aside the deck of cards, Catherine inquired, “Is King Edward upset?” 

“Yes, he is.” Exeter settled himself on the bed’s edge beside his wife.

Devon remained seated near his stepmother’s bed. “The beggars, as he calls commoners, irritate him. That is what he told the Suffolk boys whom I saw briefly in the morning.”

Catherine’s countenance was shadowed by disappointment. “The boy seems to hate those who do not have noble blood in their veins. How will he rule England, then?” 

“He does not loathe them,” amended Exeter. “He just doesn’t want to see them.”

Devon assessed, “King Edward ought to govern from his palaces.”

Exeter sighed. “I want our Ned to be loved by his subjects. After the revolts, I resolved to cultivate his good reputation. That is why we came to Devon: he met with the subjects whom we pardoned and demonstrated that he cares about them. Edward’s speech was excellent, and the folk applauded him. Thanks be to God that they do not know his real feelings.”

Devon’s sigh mirrored his father’s. “His Majesty is a consummate actor.”

“At such a young age.” Catherine shook her head ruefully.

Exeter was partly guilty for the fact that the king was so skilled at pretense. Years ago, he had taught Ned to feign his love for prayers in English not to enrage King Henry. Since then, lies came easily to the boy’s lips, in particular those that served to satisfy his cravings. Ned should change, Exeter thought. Edward Tudor swore that he no longer prayed in Latin, but was it true?

The marquess said, “Today it helped us. The people were in awe!”

Devon confessed, “Once King Edward told me that it is better when a ruler’s subjects fear their sovereign rather than love him. He agrees with Machiavelli on this matter.”

“We ought to speak to his tutors.” Catherine sounded agitated.

Exeter stated, “Honor Grenville spoiled him more than King Henry and I altogether did.”

Catherine took her husband’s hand in hers. “That harpy no longer has access to the king.”

I’ll not allow Honor to return from her estates, Exeter vowed wordlessly. But Ned might recall her back to court. At first, King Edward had been distraught that his beloved grandmother had left Hatfield because, as he had been told, Honor needed to rest due to her deteriorating health. Every day Edward had demanded that his grandmother returned to his side until Exeter’s regular presence in his life filled the void that had formed after Honor’s disappearance.

Devon remarked, “Our king has always been different from Elizabeth.”

Catherine dipped a solemn nod. “I agree.”

Exeter switched to a personal topic. “Eddie, how is Elizabeth faring in France?” 

Devon’s expression transformed into exhilaration. “Bess often writes to me!”

“Excellent.” The marquess grinned victoriously. “She will consent to wed you.”

Devon’s brows knitted together at the remembrance of the real reason why there was little competition for Elizabeth’s heart now. “Robert Dudley is married, so I have a better chance to be with Bess. You, Father, and Queen Anne distanced Dudley away from Bess.”

A month ago, Robert Dudley had married Amy Robsart with King Edward’s blessing. The wedding had happened and been lavishly celebrated at Whitehall Palace by the entire court. The bridegroom’s despondence had contrasted starkly with Amy’s happiness. John Dudley, Viscount Lisle, had not been satisfied with the match, and, therefore, according to William Cecil’s advice, Exeter had elevated the man to Earl of Warwick to ensure that he would remain Exeter’s ally.

Exeter read his son’s mind. “You would prefer to win in a fair contest, son.”

Devon folded his arms over his chest. “Certainly, Father.”

Exeter pronounced, “Politics is a crafty thing. Lord Robert openly displayed his passion for Elizabeth, and there is still that gossip that Dudley is in love with her.”

Catherine was not fond of the Dudley clan, in spite of their strictly Protestant background. “Bess is more likely to become happy with you, Eddie, than with that peacock Robert.”

“I pray that you are right,” Devon breathed. “I love her dearly.”

Exeter gushed, “Eddie, I hope that you and Elizabeth will be as happy as I am with Cathy. You have such a noble heart that any woman will be happy to have you as her husband.”

“You are exaggerating.” Devon smiled at the remembrance of Anne Boleyn’s daughter.

Exeter kissed his wife’s cheek. “Have you thought of names, Cathy?” 

Catherine beamed at her husband. “William for a boy and Ursula for a girl.”

“William after your brother?” Exeter concluded.

She nodded. “Naturally. I want to honor him.”

A moment later, Lady Anne Parr rushed inside. “The sweating sickness has returned!” 

An agitated Exeter bounced to his feet. “Are where registered cases in Devon?” 

Anne reported, “So far, it has appeared only in Huntingdonshire.”

Devon stood up. “It is far from us, so we are safe here.”

Catherine crossed herself. “The Lord save and protect us all!”

“Cathy,” Exeter addressed her. “Nothing will happen to you and our children.”

Leaving Catherine with her sister, Devon and Exeter stormed out. Soon Catherine’s labor began, and in several hours she birthed their son William. Now the Exeter spouses had two offspring: Maud and William Courtenay. The spouses were blissfully happy, but a pall of terror shrouded the castle, and rumors about the lethal malady multiplied like wildfire.


May 20, 1551, Château de Chambéry, the city of Chambéry, Duchy of Savoy

Silence reigned in the La Sainte-Chapelle located on the grounds of the ancient Château de Chambéry. The small congregation, which consisted of the members of the Valois and Savoy families, sat on the pews, their heads bowed as they prayed for the souls of those thousands of Frenchmen who had fallen victims to the plague that was ravaging central and western France.

Before starting a Mass, the priest pronounced a special prayer against plague.

Blessed are those who have regard for the weak. God delivers them in times of trouble, protects and preserves them. He sustains them and restores them from their sickbeds. He heals the brokenhearted and those sick of plague, and He binds up their wounds of body and mind.

King François laced his hand with his wife’s. “The Bible speaks about suffering a lot.”

Queen Anne murmured, “God possesses the power to release us from suffering.”

“Perhaps I’ve become a bit skeptical,” he said so quietly that only she heard him.

“It might happen to everyone. There is nothing wrong with you.”

He was grateful for her comprehension. “But it is not a matter of little consequence.”

“We all have moments of weakness so that we can learn and become stronger later.”

The monarch squeezed her hand, smiling at her. The priest began a psalm about healing.

Due to the outbreak of plague in France, the Valois children had been taken to Savoy. Now the princesses and princes – the children of the French monarchs and those of Dauphin Henri – were in the church. Prince François, Duke de Brittany, felt so bad after their hasty journey that he was bedridden and watched over by Doctor Paré in his rooms at the castle. Little Louis and Valentine were both in their nursery also in Chambéry, both rather exhausted.

It was convenient for the French royal family to stay there because of their planned visit to the Imperial court. Marguerite of Navarre, together with the Montmorency family and the rest of the court had gone to Fontainebleau, where Margot would assume her regency of France.

Anne scanned her surroundings. The chapel, which had been constructed by the architect Nicolet Robert in the 15th century during the reign of Amadeus VIII, the first Duke of Savoy, exhibited the finest flamboyant Gothic style. The large stained glass windows showed various biblical pictures; the tall and narrow chevet was integrated into the château’s defenses.

The awful illness had already killed ten thousand people in the Loire Valley and other provinces. Two months ago, Queen Mary of Scots had arrived at Blois from Edinburg according to the treaty between France and Scotland. Although no one could prove it, the rumor was that the Scottish queen and her mother, Dowager Queen Marie de Guise, had brought the infection to France. The young queen had been taken to Fontainebleau by Marguerite for her safety.

François, Marguerite, Anne, and Henri had worked out a number of effective measures to control the spread of the plague. They had established a sanitation board, whose members were to be selected from the royal councilors and a list of competent physicians. The board made a series of recommendations to maintain the populace’s good health, while seeking to build public infrastructure, including more public hospitals in various cities and towns across the country.

François and I will be away in Austria, Anne mused. Marguerite and Henri will continue our work. It had been decided to build many new hospitals and give them a full-sized staff of doctors and nurses. Additionally, the sanitation board was responsible for the accreditation of doctors, the list of whom was provided to the people so that they could know which physicians were trustworthy. All incoming ships in French ports were inspected together with cargo.

Meanwhile, Duke Charles de Savoy, and his son, Emmanuel Philibert, sat on a distant pew. Now in his mid-sixties, Charles was a younger brother of the late Louise de Savoy, who in turn was the mother of Queen Marguerite and King François. His hair completely grizzled, and his countenance wrinkled, Charles de Savoy was dressed in a silver brocade clothing worked with threads of gold. I pray that my son will not undermine all my efforts for peace, Charles mused.  

At twenty-three, Emmanuel Philibert was tall and attractive with saturnine handsomeness. Unlike his father, he was arrogant, strong in body and mind, and intelligent, a bit impulsive and tempestuous like a river that was striving towards its destination. Emmanuel’s brown eyes shone with his loathing towards the French royals, and his lips twisted when he glanced towards them. My dream is to free Savoy from the clutches of the vile French, Emmanuel thought while his hands played with the collar of his own green and white damask doublet.

“Son,” whispered Duke Charles, “you should conceal your emotions.”

Emmanuel gazed back at his father. “The pride I have is from my late mother, God rest her soul. Because of your weakness she died in exile in Italy after the French had occupied Savoy.”

Charles looked like a tormented soul he was. “I loved Beatrice dearly.”

“You should have kept Savoy for her and me,” his son castigated.

Emmanuel Philibert was the duke’s only surviving son. The deceased Beatrice of Portugal had been Duchess de Savoy until the French occupation. She was daughter of the richest ruler in Europe at the time – King Manuel of Portugal, and his second wife, Maria of Aragon.

Emmanuel muttered, “I don’t want to have them here, Father. They might bring plague.”

Charles murmured, “They have been here for two weeks, and all has been well.”

“It might happen latter,” persevered Emmanuel.

The duke whispered, “Doctor Paré and our physicians say that nobody is infected.”   

Emmanuel nevertheless insisted, “Maybe they are all cursed to die.”

The duke hissed, “Shut up, son! We must be friends with the Valois.”

Emmanuel snarled, “You allowed the House of Valois to take away your lands. You were forced to have me betrothed to Princess Louise. Don’t you have an ounce of pride left, Father?” 

Charles warded off the impulse to slap his quarrelsome heir. “Look at your bride – she is lovely. Learn to appreciate what you have, or you might lose everything, son.”

Emmanuel’s orbs wandered to Louise de Valois, who sat between Élisabeth and Claude of France, Dauphin Henri’s daughters. Dauphin Henri’s bastard daughter, Diane, and Aimée were seated beside Aimée’s brothers – Jean, Antoine, and Lorenzo – occupied places to Louise’s right. Augustine sat with Jeanne of Navarre with Elizabeth Tudor. At the same time, Dauphin Henri and his mistress Marie de Bourbon sat on the pew closer to the high altar, together with his sons Charles and Alexandre Édouard, as well as Nicholas d’Estouteville, François’ bastard son.

Her head inclined as she prayed, Louise’s lips moved like two boats sailing across the lake. In a gown of white and blue satin, Louise looked like the Madonna in prayer. At fourteen, Louise was as fresh as a spring flower, whereas her strong, yet innocent, countenance and her bold manners indicated the firmness of her character, her inner strength, and her intelligence.

Duke Charles said into his son Emmanuel’s ear, “Your wedding to Louise will take place next summer. You will need to sire heirs; her mother proved to be very fertile.”  

Emmanuel snarled, “At least Louise is not ugly. It will not be difficult to bed her.”   

Charles warned, “Son, this girl is like my late sister, François’ mother.”

“I shall make her obey me,” promised Emmanuel. “She will be eating from my hands.”

Louise attracted Emmanuel Philibert, but she was a Valois and, hence, his foe. During the years when French viceroys ruled the Duchy of Savoy, Emmanuel had developed antipathy to everything French, in spite of his father’s attempts to make him better disposed towards France. While they waited for Emmanuel’s wedding to Louise due to the age difference between them, Emmanuel had slept with many mistresses. I need only heirs from Louise, Emmanuel decided.  

“You cannot displease my nephew François,” admonished the Duke de Savoy.

As Princess Elizabeth noticed their conversation, the two Savoy royals lapsed into silence. Despite her religious beliefs, she attended Catholic service in Savoy, for there were no Protestant churches nearby. She prayed for those Frenchmen who had died of plague, as well for those who had passed away of the sweating in England. Dear Lord, save and protect my mother, François, and my siblings, as well as my brother Edward, Eddie Courtenay, and Robert Dudley.

Augustine commented, “I think Duke Charles and his son discussed Louise.”

Jeanne commented, “Poor Louise! I do not like Emmanuel in the slightest.”

“She will have to marry him,” Elizabeth interjected. “But I’m not fond of him either.”

Jeanne put in, “I heard Emmanuel speak ill of you, Bess, because of your religion.”

Elizabeth riposted, “I do not care about his opinion.”

Jeanne confessed, “I’m getting more interested in Protestantism.”

“You need to be careful with this, Jeanne,” forewarned Augustine.

After the Mass, the procession exited the chapel into a large courtyard. The clear sound of the bells rang out like a thunder of blessings. The famous bell tower, or the Tour Yolande, contained the Chambéry carillon, which was made up of seventy individual bells. The monarchs and the others strode across the courtyard before they entered the medieval château, which was an ancient residence of the Savoy family built in the Gothic and modern Italian styles.

§§§

“Welcome, Madame!” Queen Anne settled herself in a throne-like, oak chair.

The French monarch’s consort accepted visitors in the presence chamber. The walls were swathed in tapestries of hunting and outdoor scenes, tactfully bordered by emblems of the Savoy arms. Her bedroom was adjacent to this chamber, also equipped with oak furniture. 

“I’m not sure I’m glad to be back,” said the Duchess d’Étampes, rising from her curtsy.

Her daughter, Charlotte de Valois, also lifted herself from the curtsey. “Mother, you cannot say such things.” Her gaze darted to the queen. “We are sorry, Your Majesty.”

Queen Anne soothed, “Everything is all right.”

Upon the arrival of the Duchess d’Étampes and Charlotte, they had been summoned by the queen for a private audience. The duchess’ husband, the Duke d’Étampes, had written to his wife and her eldest daughter weeks ago, having informed them that Queen Anne desired to have the duchess back in her household. Anne de Pisseleu had hesitated, while Charlotte was eager to be reunited with her royal cousins. However, the duchess had been obliged to come to Chambéry.

The duchess uttered, “I beseech Your Majesty to forgive me for my lapse of manners.”

“I understand your nervousness,” retorted the queen softly. “And your fears.”   

A tense silence ensued while Anne de Valois beheld Anne de Pisseleu. Two black pools, full of curiosity and benignity, studied two emerald orbs conveying uncertainty.

“Your Majesty treats me better than I deserve,” the duchess mumbled.

The queen smiled broadly. “Madame d’Étampes, what happened in the past must remain in the past, but we will talk about it later. Now let me a look at my niece!” 

Charlotte’s cheeks flushed. “Ah, Your Majesty! I’m so elated to see the great royal family again! I’ve missed my cousins, in particular Princess Aimée.”  

The monarch’s spouse stood up. “Aimée has missed you a lot.”

The queen stepped to Charlotte and viewed her from top to toe. With her amber eyes, her brown hair arranged in an up-do on the back of her head, and her dour complexion, the daughter of the late Prince Charles resembled her father a lot. Charlotte wore a gown made of rich tissue with wide sleeves embroidered with jewels and lined with red taffeta. Charlotte is richly dressed, and she has obviously been well taken care of, the queen observed.

The French queen observed, “You look so much like Prince Charles.”

Charlotte’s features turned melancholic. “I’ve never known my papa who was murdered before I was born. My mama says that he was a kind, cultured, and outspoken prince. He did not deserve to die so young.” Tears brimmed in her orbs. “God rest his soul!”  

Queen Anne inhaled sharply at the remembrance of the tragic day of Charles’ death that coincided with Aimée’s birth. “Your father died as a hero. He saved my life and that of Aimée.”

Charlotte requested, “Will you tell me more about that day if it is possible?” 

The queen sighed heavily. “I do not wish to cause you pain, my dear. Charles… he was so brave when he rescued me from the dagger of Madeleine de Montmorency. If not for his heroic sacrifice, I would have been killed, and Aimée would have died in my womb.”

Charlotte crossed herself. “My father was a true hero! Let him sleep in peace!” 

The two Annes chorused, “Let him rest in peace!” 

Queen Anne brushed her tears away. “I believe that there is a special connection between Aimée and you, Charlotte, because Charles saved me and Aimée.”

“These are precisely my feelings.” Charlotte wished she had known her father in life.

The Duchess d’Étampes cast her eyes down. This tragedy had happened so many years ago… Anne de Pisseleu had not been at Fontainebleau when the late Lorraine brothers and the late Cardinal de Tournon had attempted to kill Queen Anne, Princess Louise, and the queen’s unborn child – Princess Aimée. Later the Lorraine brothers had blackmailed Anne de Pisseleu to give them refuge before their escape to Spain. The duchess had never loved Prince Charles, but she had mourned for him. I still feel guilty for helping the Lorraine siblings, Anne thought.

The queen read the duchess’ thoughts. “Madame d’Étampes, let bygones be bygones.”

The other Anne lifted her scrutiny to the queen. “I’m very grateful, Your Majesty.”

A short pause ensued while the Queen of France returned to her chair.

The queen changed the topic. “Aimée tells me that you two regularly kept in touch.”

Charlotte murmured, “During my absence, I corresponded with Aimée every week. She said that she spent a lot of time learning German and Austrian traditions and etiquette.”

The queen confirmed, “Certainly. Aimée is interested in Austrian culture.”

Charlotte continued, “Aimée has always loved music and everything artistic.” 

“Princess Aimée,” corrected the duchess. “Daughter of mine, don’t make me look bad, as if I had not given you any lessons of etiquette while you lived in my estates.”

The queen reassured, “Please be at ease, Madame. Aimée and Charlotte are friends.”

“Thank you.” Deep down, Anne de Pisseleu still felt ill at ease.

Charlotte uttered, “I hope to spend more time with Aimée before her departure to Vienna.”

The queen glanced at the duchess. “Now we need to discuss your daughter’s future.”

The duchess sucked in her breath. “I knew that this day would come soon.”

The queen looked between the other Anne and Charlotte. “Aimée will stay in Vienna until her wedding to Archduke Maximilian in two years. She needs to have her own ladies-in-waiting from France, and Aimée asked me to offer you, Charlotte, to accompany her to Austria.”

“I’d like to be with Aimée!” exclaimed a delighted Charlotte.   

This brought tears to the duchess’ eyes. “Lotte, didn’t I lose enough children?” 

Charlotte clasped the duchess’ hands in hers. “Mother, I can stay with you if you wish, but I’d like to be with Aimée until she gets accustomed to her new surroundings.”

The duchess lamented, “I cannot bear the thought of losing you.”

Queen Anne put in, “It is not a command, but I’ve voiced Aimée’s wishes.”

A grinning Charlotte exclaimed, “Two Valois girls can conquer Vienna together!” 

Anne de Pisseleu stressed bitterly, “You will be a bastard serving a princess.”

“The future empress,” corrected the queen. “Lotte can always return to France.”

Charlotte apologized, “Your Majesty! My Mother is just tired after our journey.”

The queen instructed, “Lotte, go meet with Aimée. I want to speak with your mother.”

Curtseying to the queen, Charlotte cast an anxious glance at her mother before exiting.

After the door closed, Queen Anne spoke. “Madame d’Étampes, your daughter can stay in France. However, even if Charlotte chooses to live in Vienna, she will not remain unmarried and childless. We will find a high-ranking French and Austrian nobleman.”

“Can King François ensure that my daughter will have a respectable future?” 

“Don’t you think that François wants all the best for his granddaughter?” 

The duchess apologized, “I beg your pardon. I should not have doubted the king.”

“Charlotte may have a brilliant future ahead. One day, Aimée will become Holy Roman Empress, and being in her entourage would be prestigious for Lotte.”

The duchess relented. “That is true. But my heart…” Her voice trembled.

The Duchess d’Étampes let her thoughts travel to her family. Although she had reconciled with her husband, Jean de Brosse, she did not love him, but he apparently felt something for her. After she had given him a male heir, their two-year-old son René, they had become friends. Out of all her surviving offspring, Anne de Pisseleu loved Yolande d’Albert most of all because of the girl’s paternity. My Henri, I shall always love you. Yolande is the only thing left of you.

The queen sought to reassure the other woman. “Don’t worry about your children’s future, Madame d’Étampes. We discussed Charlotte, and I offered an excellent opportunity for her. As for Yolande, Jeanne d’Albert loves her – she and our family will take care of her.”

The duchess nodded. “I know that, and thank you, Your Majesty.”

“You can travel with us to Vienna as my maid. Please let Lotte make her own choices.”

The duchess understood that it would be fair to Charlotte. “I shall.”

For a moment, the queen looked sad. “My offspring have no right to choose their future, for they are royalty and must fulfill their duty to their dynasty and country.”   

“All of your children are credits to France.” This was Anne de Pisseleu’s sincere opinion.

The queen played with one of her rings, twisting it round and round the index finger of her right hand. “So, what will you say to my offer, Madame d’Étampes?” 

“I accept it with gratitude, Your Majesty, and I’ll serve you well.”

The queen pronounced sagaciously, “Our fates – yours and mine – are linked with those of the Valois and Albert families, with both France and Navarre. Now there is no competition and enmity between us, and there should be no bad blood between us.”

At these words, Anne de Pisseleu stared at the other Anne in trepidation. Her conversation with Marguerite, Dowager Queen of Navarre, resurfaced in her mind. “My loyalty to the Houses of Valois and Albert is guaranteed by the very existence of my daughters.”  

The queen stood up and strolled over to the other woman. “Unity is especially important in these trying times. I pray that the plague will not ravage France for many months. We even had to bring all of our children to Savoy for their safety while we will be in Austria.”

“I, too, pray that the plague will go away soon, Your Majesty.”

The two Annes contemplated one another in silence. Now older, more mature and battered by woes, they found communion in their fealty to the ruling dynasties of Navarre and France. Over time they could become true friends, and now they both were ready for this alliance.

Notes:

The new chapter is up! Please let us know what you think of this chapter, and don’t forget to leave reviews so that we can discuss events, twists, and turns in this chapter.

We meet with Marie de Guise, now Dowager Queen of Scotland. No action will take place in Scotland in this epic, although there will be scenes set there in a sequel to CWL ‘Chained by Blood and Power.’ Although the entire House of Guise is banished from court, Marie is not among them. She did not accept her vile run-away relatives – the late Claude de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, and the late Cardinal Jean de Lorraine – in Scotland while King James V of Scotland, her deceased husband, was alive. In later chapters, we will introduce the members of the Guise family.

Marie de Guise wants to have Mary, Queen of Scots, betrothed to Prince François, Duke of Brittany, who is the eldest son of Dauphin Henri and Catherine de’ Medici. However, this is not what King François, Queen Anne, and Dauphin Henri (future King Henri II of France) want to happen in order not to have a Guise queen consort if the sickly Prince François ever ascends to the French throne. Therefore, Prince Antoine, Duke de Provence (the third son of Anne and François) finds himself betrothed to Mary Stuart, although Marie de Guise does not like this match.

In England, the Marquess of Exeter works hard to make King Edward VI a competent and loved monarch. When they speak about rebellions, we mean those revolts that happened during the historical regency of Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford/Duke of Somerset. However, we have Lord Exeter as Edward VI’s Lord Protector in this epic. In the spring of 1549, a series of armed revolts broke out, fueled by various religious and agrarian grievances, including massive uprisings in Devon, Cornwall, and Norfolk against the new Prayer Book in English and the encroachment of landlords on common grazing ground. Exeter’s goal is to cultivate the young ruler’s reputation in the eyes of English people, but King Edward does not like to see his own subjects.

We will gradually develop King Edward as a character. The most interesting things will start to happen when Edward finally begins to rule on his own without Exeter. We noticed that many readers who answered to our poll in the previous chapter think that he will transform into Bloody Edward, and perhaps there is a ring of truth in this. Now the Marquess of Exeter and his wife, Catherine Parr, have a new son named William, and they are happy, but now who knows what fate has in store for them because now Honor Grenville is their sworn enemy.

England has been hit by a sudden outbreak of sweating sickness, and we will see its outcome in the next chapter. In the meantime, there has been a severe outbreak of plague in France, ravaging the Loire Valley and other provinces. François and Anne take their children and their other family members to Chambéry, at the time the capital of Duchy of Savoy, for their safety from the plague. Now François and Anne are on the way to Austria, and we shall have chapters taking place at the Imperial court. By the way, Mary Stuart is mentioned to have arrived in France off-screen.

Elizabeth Tudor travels to Austria together with Queen Anne and King François. We hope that you like our character arc for Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly, Duchess d’Étampes, who changed dramatically as a person. Queen Anne and Anne de Pisseleu finally meet and make peace because now they are no longer enemies and have nothing to compete for. We made Anne de Pisseleu and her once estranged husband – Jean IV de Brosse, Duke d’Étampes – reconcile and had a son together off-screen, but she still remembers her lover, the late Henri II of Navarre.

Okehampton Castle is a medieval motte and bailey castle in Devon, England. It was owned by the Courtenay family for several centuries, including Henry Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter. Chambéry is an Alpine town in southeast France, where the medieval castle of the Dukes of Savoy is located; in 1563, the city of Turin will become a new capital of Savoy.

Attention! A while ago, we posted a prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 96: Chapter 95: The Imperial Family

Summary:

In England, the sweating sickness killed many English people, including some Howards and Dudleys. The Marquess of Exeter is disappointed with King Edward VI. France is still being ravaged by plague, killing thousands, and now the Valois family is at the Imperial court in Vienna. Mary, Duchess of Palatinate-Neuburg, meets with Princess Elizabeth.

Notes:

Please, don't forget to review previous chapter and this chapter as well! Thank you in advance!

Attention! The prologue to the sequel 'Chained by Blood and Power' (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don't forget about our work "Entwined by a Golden Alliance" co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 95: The Imperial Family

June 12, 1551, Okehampton Castle, the town of Devon, the county of Devon, England

Two people, both dressed in black, strolled through an alley of oaks, birches, and maples. The weather was sultry, and the sun high, the verdant foliage shimmering in the bright sunlight like a halo. However, the Marquess of Exeter and the Duke of Norfolk were both in a despondent mood because of a catastrophic outbreak of sweating sickness in England.

Exeter said sullenly, “Your Grace, my sincere condolences on Lord Surrey’s passing.”

Norfolk’s heart tightened in grief. “God called my beloved son home.” He crossed himself.

The marquess did the same. “Let him sleep in peace.”

“Now Henry’s children are all orphans.” Norfolk’s voice was laced with pain. “The eldest of his sons Thomas was named after me, and he will inherit my ducal title and estates.”

Exeter repeated, “I’m very sorry for Your Grace’s loss.”

The Duke of Norfolk was grateful for the compassion. “My son’s widow, Frances, and my grandchildren are inconsolable. Frances and my poor Henry were in love.”  

The two men entered an alley of hollies with flowerbeds planted at regular intervals.

The Marquess of Exeter had sent away everyone from the Tudor court as soon as the news of the severe epidemic in London arrived at Devon. His goal was to protect King Edward and his own family, and, therefore, the access to all buildings of the Okehampton Castle was restricted to ensure the safety of those who remained at the castle, including King Edward VI of England.

Some members of Regency Council stayed at Okehampton Castle, including the old Duke of Norfolk. Against his father’s advice, the Earl of Surrey had gone to his family in Lincolnshire, driven by his concern for his wife and their offspring. At the time, Norfolk’s mistress Lady Bess Holland had been in London. Most nobles had journeyed to their estates in the countryside. In the meantime, numerous panicking people had escaped from London, which had contributed to spreading of the illness across Surrey, Huntingtonshire, Berkshire, Suffolk, and Kent.

The sweat had annihilated thousands across the country. The Earl of Surrey had died, and then his relatives had been evacuated to their other estates for their own protection; Bess Holland had passed away as well. The young Henry and Charles Brandon, who were sons of the late Duke of Suffolk with his third wife Lady Catherine Willoughby, had breathed their last on the same day with a difference of only a few hours. King Edward mourned for the Suffolk boys.

Bad news came from the Grey family. Lady Jane Grey had died of the sweat. She was the eldest daughter of Henry Grey, Marquess of Dorset and Duke of Suffolk through his marriage to Lady Frances Brandon, the eldest daughter of the deceased Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, and his second wife, Princess Mary Tudor, King Henry VIII of England’s sister. The late John Dudley had dreamed of arranging his son Guilford Dudley’s marriage to Lady Jane Grey, now but they were all dead. Jane’s mother, Frances, and her younger sisters were in mourning.

Furthermore, tragedy beset the exiled Seymour family. Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, had succumbed to the malady, while his relatives lived. It had also become known that Gregory Cromwell, his wife Elizabeth Seymour, and some of their children had died in the countryside where they had lived following Thomas Cromwell’s execution many years ago.

Right before the epidemic, Sir John Dudley had been made Earl of Warwick by Exeter in compensation for his son Robert’s marriage to Lady Amy Robsart. The Dudley family suffered tremendous losses: John Dudley had died two weeks ago together with his wife Jane Dudley, and their three sons – John, Guildford, and Henry. Only two Dudley boys remained alive – Ambrose and Robert, and their sisters were unharmed as well. As his father’s eldest surviving heir, now Ambrose was Earl of Warwick, while Robert inherited the title of Viscount Lisle.

Thanks to the strict measures of safety authorized by Exeter, there were no registered cases of the sweat in the county of Devon. Exeter’s command was to watch the entire town and the surrounding areas with tremendous attention lest someone came down with the malady. We will have to take the king away from Devon urgently if someone gets sick, Exeter decided.

Exeter complained, “The sweating sickness is worse than any anathema for England.”

Norfolk fidgeted with the standing lace collar of his doublet. “Both England and France are now suffering. Look what is going on in the Loire Valley and Languedoc: thousands are dying of the plague, just as the sweat is killing many here. Is it the expression of God’s wrath?” 

“I don’t think so, Your Grace. God is merciful and does not kill His children deliberately.”

“How can we explain these epidemics, Lord Exeter?” 

Exeter guessed Norfolk’s thoughts. “You can’t understand why God took away the Earl of Surrey who was far younger than you. Don’t torment yourself, for you will not find an answer.”

They stopped beside a flowerbed of tall purple puffballs and ruby roses.

The duke emitted a sigh. “You are right, Lord Exeter.”

“Shouldn’t we finally drop formalities, Your Grace? We have known each other for many years and feel mutual respect. We are both representatives of the old English aristocracy.”

A wan smile broke through the gloom of Norfolk’s visage. “With great pleasure.”

“Thomas, then.” Exeter grinned back. “Maladies come and go away.”

“As suddenly as they appear, Hal. I’m glad that your family is fine. We are safe here.”

The marquess looked around, as if the demons of lethal illness were stalking them from all sides. “So far everything is well here, but we must be ready to move anytime.”

Norfolk was glad that his other son and his daughter were by his side. “I’m relieved that my son Thomas and his family, as well as my daughter Mary are at Okehampton now.”

My son Henry, my pride, is dead, the Duke of Norfolk bemoaned silently. My beloved Bess passed away. At least my other offspring and grandchildren are alive. A sense of bereavement enveloped his entire being because Norfolk loved both Surrey and Bess. The duke’s own health was in quick decline, but it was unfair that his younger loved ones had predeceased him.

They settled onto a wooden bench overlooking the deer park.

The Lord Protector broke the silence. “Ambrose Dudley, who is in Austria with Princess Elizabeth, is the new Earl of Warwick. His father didn’t enjoy the title we granted him for long enough. Robert, who is ensconced to his manor in Wymondham, became Viscount Lisle.”

The Duke of Norfolk was alarmed. “I don’t care about Ambrose, but Robert’s elevation to the peerage might be dangerous for us.” He gazed Exeter in the eye. “Anne, you, and I distanced Robert from Elizabeth by marrying him off to Mistress Robsart. Robert was not influential as his father’s third son married to some insignificant girl. However, now he has his father’s title.”

“Thomas, I detest Robert Dudley and prefer to see him away from court.”

“You want Elizabeth Tudor to marry your son Eddie Courtenay. If King Edward does not have any children or dies young, your descendants will rule England.”

Exeter was not going to refute the apparent. “After the execution of the Poles, my son and I are the only living descendants of the House of York through female bloodlines in addition to Reginald and Geoffrey Pole. Elizabeth’s marriage to Eddie would be viewed as a second union of the Red and White Roses. What can be better for her, Thomas? And better for the Howards.”

The duke answered, “The House of Howard would be at the height of power if Elizabeth becomes queen. And I also need to find a husband for my daughter Mary.”

Lady Mary FitzRoy née Howard was a widow for many years. Her late husband was King Henry’s only acknowledged illegitimate son – Henry FitzRoy, Duke of Richmond and Somerset. After his death in 1536, Mary had lived at Arundel Castle, although now she was at court.

“Do you have any candidates in mind, Thomas?”

“We can arrange her marriage to your wife’s brother – the Marquess of Northampton. He is only four years older than my daughter. This would strengthen our alliance.”

Exeter chuckled. “I see you are strengthening your powerbase in England, Thomas.” 

“Wouldn’t a practical man such as yourself, Hal, act so in my shoes?” 

 They burst out laughing; it was a cynical laughter of devious, calculative politicians.

“Hal! I’ve found you!” Catherine, Marchioness of Exeter, was running towards them.

The Marquess of Exeter shot to his feet. “Cathy, what’s wrong?” 

Catherine stopped, short of breath. “It’s King Edward!” 

Horror manifested itself upon Exeter’s countenance. “Is he sick?” 

The Duke of Norfolk rose to his feet from the bench. Unbeknownst to them, nascent hope was kindled in the depths of his mind: if the boy-king died young, Elizabeth would succeed him. Norfolk had done a lot for his niece, Queen Anne of France, and for Elizabeth Tudor, and so he truly wanted to see his efforts paid off, which meant to see Elizabeth’s coronation.

Catherine shook her head. “No! I found King Ned with a woman!” 

Exeter’s eyes widened. “What? He is only twelve!” 

She blushed in embarrassment and ire. “They are in his bed.”

Exeter snarled, “Ned must be careful now! Anyone can bring infection to his rooms.”

Norfolk advised, “Go, Hal, and teach this boy a lesson.”

Catherine concurred, “Only you can do that, Hal.”  

Staring after the spouses, the Duke of Norfolk laughed ironically. King Edward appeared to have inherited the fiery amorous temperament of King Edward IV who was an eccentric and famous philanderer of his time. Our young king revels in pleasures of all sorts too much.   

Norfolk glanced up at the cloudless firmament. “I want to see Elizabeth’s ascension!” He was not ashamed of his desires, thinking that Elizabeth was far better suited for the throne.  

§§§

The Exeter couple ran through the gardens and entered the fortress. They sped through the corridors, which were not thronged with courtiers. The sentinels bowed to the spouses, but they did not stop until they reached the monarch’s apartments. Exeter crashed the door open.

“Your Majesty!” hollered the Lord Protector.

They crossed the antechamber and barged into the bedroom.

A salacious picture opened before their eyes. King Edward lay atop of his mistress, kissing her hungrily on the mouth while thrusting himself into her. The huge royal bed, swathed in yards of luxurious silk fabric in purple tones, became the ruler’s nest of love, in which Ned had first tried sins of the flesh several days earlier. Since then, Edward summoned his paramour to his bed every night. The walls draped in red wallpaper heightened their youthful passions.

“Ned, what are you doing?” Exeter compelled himself to speak calmly.

Catherine inquired, “Shouldn’t Your Majesty be having a language class now?” 

Edward and his paramour parted as they gawked at the witnesses of their encounter. Ned rolled off of his lover and covered them with a white silk sheet. This blushing nymph was Lady Jane Radclyffe, daughter of the late Robert Radclyffe, Earl of Sussex. At nineteen, Jane was as petite as ever and looked vulnerable like a lark, but now her body was stronger and her hips wider. Her face, set with green eyes and lush lips, evoked a feeling of tenderness in many men. 

“Hal… how did you learn?” Edward stammered. At the sight of Exeter, the only man who could make him feel guilty, shame stained his cheeks with bright red patches.

“I informed Hal,” admitted Catherine. “I visited Your Majesty’s rooms because your tutor waited for you, but you didn’t come. I did not make my presence known and went to Hal.”

The king snarled, “You should not have spied upon your king, Lady Exeter!”

Disregarding the shock of both lovers, Exeter strode into the depths of the chamber. “Ned, you are missing your lessons because of an affair with some whore whose relatives yearns to use you in the hope to receive more privileges. Is it how a competent ruler should act?” 

Catherine chided, “Your Majesty is too young for this!” 

Edward protested, “It is far more entertaining than your theological books.”

“Ned!” Exeter raised his voice. “Respect my wife!” 

The king did not apologize, but he assured, “I do respect you both.”

The marquess neared the bed and regarded the trembling girl with scorn. “Lady Radclyffe, you seemed to be such a shy and modest creature when the late King Henry courted you, but you were refusing his advances. However, you seduced our young sovereign.” His eyes narrowed. “Or did your brother, the Earl of Sussex, command you to become Ned’s mistress?” 

Jane cried, “Lord Exeter, I adore His Majesty so much!”   

Exeter spat, “Wealth, privileges, more titles. What else does your brother want?” 

Edward defended his paramour. “Hal, she is a decent woman. She–” 

“Lady Jane did exactly what her family ordered her to do,” parried the marquess. “Shortly before your father’s death, Jane was often invited to King Henry’s rooms when she played on the lute and sang for him, batting her eyelashes at him. Their family planned a grand fate for her.”

Ned glared at his nonplussed mistress. “Is that true, Jane?” 

His lover nodded, her whole body shaking. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Did my father sleep with you?” Edward looked incensed. “You were not a virgin with me. William told me that there should be blood when a man takes woman for the first time.”

Catherine grumbled, “William Paulet ought to watch his tongue.”

Exeter smiled wolfishly at the shocked royal mistress. “Tell us the truth, Jane.”

Jane supplied, “I never was with His late Majesty because he was very ill.”

“What about others?” Exeter pressed, aiming to discredit her in Ned’s eyes.

Jane’s orbs darted between Exeter and Edward. “The Earl of Arundel was my first lover.”

King Edward roared, “Go away, you harlot!” 

Catherine grabbed a blanket from a couch and approached. “Take it, Lady Jane.”

“Thank you.” Jane wrapped herself into the blanket and climbed out of bed.

Exeter apprised, “Lady Radclyffe, your former lover married Lady Philippa Bassett a week ago.” At the sight of her astonishment, he sneered, “It’s nice to see you in an amused mood, and now you will become happier. You will return to your brother’s estates with the Earl of Sussex. After the epidemic is over, you will marry Sir Anthony Browne, Viscount Montague.”

A tearful Jane bobbed a curtsey. “As you wish, Lord Exeter.”

A dose of pity rushed through Catherine. “I’ll help you dress, Lady Radclyffe.”

The Marchioness of Exeter gathered the girl’s garments from the floor. She then escorted a sobbing Jane to the dressing room, the king’s screams “You whore!” echoing behind them.

Exeter eyed Edward who snuggled beneath the sheets. “What have you done?” 

The boy glowered at the marquess. “I can do whatever I want! I’m the king!”     

Exeter lectured, “If men start sleeping around very early in life, they risk dying young.”

The king’s visage conveyed his consternation. “Why?” 

Exeter continued, “Yes, Ned. I’m certain that you heard enough about my escapades when I was young. I was fourteen when I first bedded a servant maid – slightly older than you.”

“It is early, too.” Edward’s anger slackened, just as it always did in Exeter’s presence.

“I stopped because a clever friend warned me about the possible consequences. Thus, I was eighteen when I had my next mistress, and I was with countless women later.”

The monarch sighed. “I’ll not succumb to my passions again.”

“I shall not allow you to harm yourself, Ned. And William Paulet talks too much.”

“Should I go to my classes now?” Yet, Edward did not wish to study.

“You must!” The Lord Protector called, “Groom! Help His Majesty get dressed!” 

William Paulet appeared in the room and flourished a bow. At the age of nineteen, Paulet was athletic and attractive; today he was clad in black brocade because the court and his Howard wife were in mourning. Now the expression in his hazel orbs was guarded, although he often behaved frivolously in the ruler’s presence. The young Paulet was known for his philandering ways at court; he was the eldest son of Sir John Paulet, who in turn was the heir to the old Marquess of Winchester, an English Lord High Treasurer and Lord Keeper of the Great Seal.

“Let me assist Your Majesty!” Paulet rushed to the royal bed.

Exeter snapped, “Paulet, your tongue is too long.”

Paulet shuddered. “I’m sorry, Lord Exeter. I shall be careful not to disappoint you.”

The Lord Protector opened the shutters. From the windows opened gorgeous views on the parkland with its green trees and vibrant blossoms. Exeter’s blood boiled in fury and frustration as he leaned against the windowsill. What should he do with King Edward? How could he make the boy focus on his studies instead of entertainments? Exeter hoped that his warnings about Ned’s early death from excesses would prevent Ned from stepping onto this destructive path.

Turning away from the window, the Marquess of Exeter affirmed, “Your Majesty begins to remind me of George Plantagenet, Duke of Clarence. Little is known about his mistresses, but what is true for a certainty is that George was the least competent and least levelheaded of the York boys – he was wayward, naughty, and self-indulgent. Where did it lead Clarence, Ned?” 

The king bristled. “I’m the King of England! No one can send me to the Tower!” 

Exeter stated, “To protect your throne, you should be loved by your subjects. If they are dissatisfied with your policies too much, they may rebel, and God knows where it might lead.”

Paulet chimed in, “Lord Exeter, you will protect our liege lord’s throne.”

“As long as I can.” Exeter surveyed the monarch critically. “Ned, you must learn how to be a capable and fair ruler. Or I do not know how you will carry on King Henry’s legacy.”

The marquess stomped over to the door and exited. A moment later, Lady Jane Radclyffe returned fully dressed, accompanied by Lady Catherine Courtenay, and they left. Paulet assisted the king in putting on his clothes while Edward remained irritable and thoughtful.

§§§

The Marquess of Exeter encountered the Earl of Sussex in the corridor.

Henry Radclyffe, Earl of Sussex, was a study man of medium height in his early forties. He had a severe countenance expressing his intense yearning for power. His hawk-like nose and his small, dark, guileful orbs added to an avaricious and mendacious air about the earl. Sussex was all in crimson velvet, and every button of his doublet was a brilliant of price. Sussex’s late wife was Elizabeth Howard, sister of the old Duke of Norfolk, but Sussex was not Norfolk’s ally.

“Lord Sussex,” addressed Exeter, his eyes narrowed. “You instructed your sister on how to whore herself out to King Edward, just as you forced her to flirt with his late and dying father. But Lady Jane will marry a man of my choosing. You are both banished from court.”

“Yes, Lord Exeter.” Sussex was enraged that his plans for enrichment was now derailed. He would retire to their family’s estates, but he would not remain in the countryside forever.

It is too early for Ned to have a mistress, Exeter ruminated on the way to his study. Signs of my son’s early puberty are worrisome for his health and for England’s future. He craved Ned to become a great Tudor-York monarch, although the boy would always be officially considered a Tudor. Now Edward was smashing his biological father’s hopes like they had never existed.

Exeter’s worries had been multiplied by Philippa Bassett’s marriage to the Earl of Arundel despite the pandemic. Honor Grenville, who was exiled from court, was assembling a cohort of Exeter’s foes by tying them to the Bassett clan. Exeter’s erstwhile friendship with Arundel had been broken after Arundel’s execution of thousands of prisoners in Norfolk upon King Henry’s orders. Now Exeter had also banished the Earl of Sussex, who could also become his adversary.


July 5, 1551, Hofburg Palace, the city of Vienna, Austria, Holy Roman Empire

The sun was a pink disc in the sky when the procession exited Augustinian Church, located next to the Hofburg. At this early hour, the monarchial families of the Holy Roman Empire and France had attended matins. With the measured and regal gait, they all crossed a large square and went to the Alte Burg, or the Old Fortress – the palace’s oldest section that was widely known as the Swiss Wing because of its former purpose as a watchtower for guards from Switzerland.

Emperor Ferdinand walked beside Empress Marguerite. Juana of Castile, now referred to as the emperor’s mother, followed them. Next proceeded King François and Queen Anne with Prince Augustine, Princess Elizabeth, and Princess Aimée. The emperor’s many offspring strode behind the foreign guests, with Archduke Maximilian at the helm. A line of Austrian, German, and Bohemian nobles, who mingled with French and a few English lords, trailed after them.

Ferdinand quizzed, “François, have you gotten accustomed to Vienna?”

François nodded. “We are happy to see your family again.”

“Father, you have been here for two weeks,” Marguerite noted. Her right hand was laced with her husband’s, the other cradling her belly swollen with Ferdinand’s new child.

François complained, “News from France is very disturbing.”

Anne sighed. “Indeed, we are all sick with anxiety.”

Juana questioned, “Isn’t the pandemic of plague subsiding a little?” 

“Not yet.” The Valois ruler breathed out a sigh of bereavement. “My son Henri and my other children are still at Chambéry in Savoy; my sister Margot is acting as my regent, as always. Too many good people are dying in France, and there seems to be no end to this nightmare.”

François’ heart and soul squirmed in anguish. Thousands of his subjects had succumbed to the dreadful malady during the past months, most of the plague’s victims living in central France and Languedoc. There were some deaths among French nobles: Antoine de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, Dauphin Henri’s friend, and his mother, Françoise d’Alençon, as well as some of the monarch’s councilors. The king also mourned for his two bastard sons in their thirties, who had died in their estates. Thanks be to God that Monty and Annebault, my friends, are unharmed.

Anne lamented, “We have prayed for our people an innumerable number of times.” She sighed. “My cousin Surrey died, God rest his soul. My uncle Norfolk is heartbroken.”

François crossed himself. “May all those who died in England and France sleep in peace.”

The Imperial and French royals crossed themselves. Anne, François, as well as Augustine and Elizabeth were clad in black garments due to their mourning for the victims of maladies.

Augustine joined, “According to the great Cicero, ‘Last day does not bring extinction to us, but change of place.’ Now all the victims of the plague are in heaven.”

A pregnant Marguerite could barely speak of such tragedies. “I hope so.”

Elizabeth uttered, “I pray that those Englishmen who died of the sweat are in heaven, too.”

My Robin is alive, but he lost many brothers and his parents, the Tudor princess bemoaned in her mind. The Earl of Devon had written to her that King Edward and Devon’s family were healthy. The Earl of Surrey’s demise saddened Elizabeth. Ambrose Dudley, who accompanied her to Vienna as captain of her private guard, informed her about the many deaths in the Dudley family, which broke Elizabeth’s heart. Bess was utterly relieved that Robert was alive.

“Philosophers,” drawled Ferdinand. “Cicero claimed that ‘The whole life of a philosopher is the meditation of his death.’ Perhaps the more we think of life, the worse it gets.”

It is better to conquer grief than deceive it,” Juana uttered. “Wasn’t Seneca right, too?” 

Their conversation was led in the German language, which they all knew well.

François let out a sigh. “I may become a stoic philosopher. Understanding human emotion and conquering it is a central tenet in stoicism. Lean into your sorrow, but refuse to sulk.”

“Have faith, Father,” Marguerite advised. “The plague will go away soon.”

Juana paused, for she was tired and out of breath. “The epidemics of the plague in France and of the sweat in England are horrible, but I’m certain that they are not a sign of the Creator’s wrath. There must be another reason for these happenings: perhaps the lack of hygiene.” During her life in Austria, Juana endeavored to hide her religious skepticism, but at times it resurfaced.

The whole party halted, their eyes concerned. They were close to the entrance.

The emperor approached Juana. “Mother, are you all right?” 

Juana managed a smile. “Son, I’m not young, but I’m not ancient. Give me a moment to rest.” Now she was in her early seventies, and her health was beginning to fail.

The empress said, “We should have walked at a slower pace.”

“My dear, I am well.” Juana shot her son an affectionate glance. “How can I not be if I am with my son and you all? Now let’s go, but please don’t hurry.”

Maximilian came to them. “Do you need my aid, Grandmother?” 

Juana administered a pat upon her eldest grandson’s shoulder. “No, Max. I’m fine.”

“Virgil said,” began Maximilian, “Death twitches my ear. ‘Live,’ he says. ‘I’m coming.’ I adore ancient Roman poetry and culture as much as I love the Renaissance.”

Anne verbalized Virgil’s another quote, “Let me rage before I die.”

“Let us rage before we die,” François modified it.

The party let out a collective laugh as they passed through the Schweizertor, or the Swiss Gate. Designed by the Italian architect Pietro Ferrabosco and named after the Swiss Guard, the gate served as the entrance to the Swiss wing of the Hofburg Palace, which housed the royal apartments and the Imperial treasury. The many titles of Emperor Ferdinand were all displayed on the gates, and the insignia of the Order of the Golden Fleece was painted on the ceiling.

§§§

At midday, the emperor’s large private chambers were alive with laughter from the young offspring of Emperor Ferdinand and Empress Marguerite. Surrounded by his grandchildren, the Valois ruler and the children lounged on red-brocaded couches, with Ferdinand sitting next to them. Queen Anne and her stepdaughter conversed quietly at the other side of the room.   

A girl of three, Archduchess Joanna of Austria was the Imperial couple’s youngest child. Their elder children were Archduke Charles of Austria, born in 1541, and Archduchess Helena, born in 1544. At present, Marguerite was five months along in her new pregnancy.

Charles pleaded, “Grandpa, I want a story about Alexander the Great.” 

Joanna pointed towards one of the walls. “He is everywhere around us.” 

Two walls were swathed in the cycle of tapestries depicting the famous military exploits of Alexander III of Macedon known as Alexander the Great, who was a king of the ancient Greek kingdom of Macedon. The rest of the room was covered with the white and gold paneling.

The King of France smiled at his grandchildren. “Alexander the Great was brought up by his mother Olympias with the belief that he was of divine birth. When he grew up, Alexander and his army conquered most of the known world at the time, creating a huge empire.”

Joanna asked, “Grandpa, where did Alexander go?” 

François replied, “The Greek city-states, the Persian empire, Egypt, and mysterious Asia.”

Charles recalled, “My tutor told me on our classes that Alexander fought in India.”

“Yes,” confirmed François. “It is located very far in the East.”

Charles nodded. “I know. I saw it on many maps.”

“Where is the Persian empire?” Joanna wanted to know.

François answered, “Slightly closer than India, also in the East.”

Clad in a nice red silk gown, Joanna was a shy, well-behaved, and curious child. She had pretty features, but small facial bones, a tiny nose, and wispy pale eyelashes, which fluttered like wings over her Valois amber eyes. Joanna inherited her blonde hair from her Habsburg ancestry. In a way the clever Joanna reminded François of the fragile Claude of France.

According to the emperor, Charles resembled his paternal grandmother Mary of Burgundy called the Rich. Robust and precocious, the boy had an oval face, his mouth wide and full-lipped. His doublet of tawny velvet had a high collar and the enlarged padding on the belly, and his close-cropped hair was strawberry blonde. Charles did not have François and Ferdinand’s dour complexion, and his green eyes attested to his Burgundian and Savoy ancestry.

Joanna’s curiosity grew. “Was Alexander really divine?”

“I do not think so, sister,” replied Charles of Austria. “He was just a talented general.”

François looked up at the ceiling. “The Lord who is enthroned in the heavens is divine, but people – His children – are not. Ancient legends are not of Christian origins.”

Joanna asked, “Why do tutors make my brother Charles and my sister Helena study them?” 

Charles smiled at his little sister. “To make us more knowledgeable.”  

François glanced at Ferdinand, who watched them in silence. “Why are Joanna and Charles so interested in Alexander the Great? Only because of these tapestries?” 

Ferdinand responded, “They heard Margot and me discuss a name for our next baby.”

Interrupting her conversation with Anne, Marguerite clarified, “We resolved to name a boy Alexander in honor of Alexander the Great. If we have a daughter, she will be Judith after Judith of Habsburg, Queen of Bohemia and Poland three centuries ago.”

Anne sat at a marble table from across from her stepdaughter. “Judith sounds too German.”   

Marguerite let out a smile. “I’m a Valois by birth, and the alliance of my beloved France with the Austrian Habsburgs gladdens me.” She directed a loving glance at the emperor. “But I’m a Habsburg empress by marriage, and I’m devoted to my husband.”

The emperor glanced at his wife with equal fondness. “Like I’m to you, Margot.”

Joanna twittered, “We are both Habsburg and Valois! We are famous!” 

Charles gazed at his grandfather. “Isn’t my father, the emperor, great?” 

“He is.” François tousled the boy’s hair. “Your papa is a kind and strong man.”

Ferdinand eyed Joanna and Charles cordially. “But I shall never be as mighty as Alexander the Great. I do not think that anyone will ever surpass his achievements.”

François patted his granddaughter’s cheek. “Certainly, I shall not.”

Joanna’s gaze veered to the empress. “Mama! Will you have a baby soon?”  

Marguerite’s hand flew to her stomach. “I want a boy – Ferdinand’s small copy.”

“It matters not, meine geliebte.” The emperor’s adoring gaze was directed at his wife.

“Grandpa!” Joanna shifted on the couch closer to the French king. “I love you!” 

François embraced Joanna and Charles in turns. “I’m delighted to see you all!” 

The children were laughing when François was telling them funny stories. Marguerite and Anne stood up and seated themselves in nearby chairs, with the empress feeling a sense of déjà vu as she remembered how François had entertained her and her French siblings in childhood.

§§§

Having left their wives with the children, Ferdinand and François went to an adjacent salon with Charles. Furnished with armchairs and couches upholstered in red velvet, this room was famous for its splendid décor and Flemish artworks depicting the mythological feats of Hercules. In the midst of exquisite tapestries on one of the walls, hung the paintings of Emperor Ferdinand and Empress Marguerite by Bronzino, which they had brought to Vienna from Florence.   

Ferdinand and François watched Archduke Charles and Prince Augustine playing a game of chess as they sat at the black marble table. A bored Archduchess Helena stared into space.

Augustine’s smile was crafty as he moved his Queen. “See what I’m doing!” 

Charles looked dismayed as he lost his Bishop. “Your strategies are too intricate.”  

Helena commented, “Charlie, Augustine is our French Augustus Caesar.” 

“Yes, they call me so.” Augustine surveyed the chessboard.  

Charles saw that his King was under threat. “You ought to teach me how to play better.”

“Gladly.” Augustine took over one of Charles’ pawns, smiling victoriously.

Augustine was two years Charles’ senior and five years older than Helena. They often spoke French, which Helena and Charles both knew thanks to their mother and tutors.

Ferdinand broke the silence. “So, who will win today?” 

Abandoning their game, the children climbed to their feet. Augustine and Charles bowed to the monarchs, while Helena lowered herself into a graceful curtsey.

“Your Imperial Majesty and Your Majesty,” said the princes in German and French.

Helena affirmed in a less formal manner, “Papa and Your Majesty!” 

Ferdinand and François crossed the salon to their offspring.

François chided, “Augustine, when did you become so official with me?”

Charles adored his French relative. “I love your wit, Grandfather.” 

“Me too.” Helena regarded François with eyes full of elation and admiration. “But you are the Knight-King, Grandfather, so you deserve our huge respect.”

François opened his arms for them. “Come to me, Charles and Helena!” 

The King of France hugged Charles and Helena in turns and kissed them on the foreheads. At the same time, Ferdinand stood next to Augustine as they discussed something quietly.

Archduchess Helena was a blend of her Valois, Burgundian, and Habsburg ancestries. Her petite and fragile frame was stressed by a lace-trimmed dress of brown satin. Her heart-shaped face was dominated by big hazel orbs, matching her dark complexion. She could be described as a fine work of art smoothed and shaped so that the edges and corners were replaced by curves.

François observed, “My grandchildren are a mixture of the Habsburgs and the Valois.”

Ferdinand chuckled. “Margot longs to have a child who would look more like a Habsburg or a Valois. I would prefer to have a daughter strongly resembling Margot.”

Helena furrowed her brows. “But you still love me, Papa.”

Ferdinand came to his daughter and enfolded her into his arms. “A lot, my dear!”

François proclaimed, “I’m absolutely delighted to have a grandson named after my dearly departed son.” His eyes darted to the emperor. “Thank you for this, Ferdinand.”

The emperor disclosed, “It was Margot’s idea. She wanted to honor her heroic brother.”

Charles queried, “So, I was not named after the late Emperor Carlos, my uncle?” 

“No.” Ferdinand sighed, for any mention of Carlos was like a dagger to his heart.

“My French Uncle Charles was heroic,” the emperor’s son stated. “If not for his sacrifice, Aimée would not have been born, and Max would not have been betrothed to her.”  

It was a torture for François to remember his son’s murder. “That’s all true.”

Ferdinand purposefully changed the topic. “Will you continue your game?” 

Augustine spoke up. “Eagerly, and I can teach Charles new strategies.”

“Which Henri and I taught you,” bragged François.

Augustine pointed out, “And ones I invented myself.”

Helena requested, “Can I go to my sisters? Barbara and Margaret are awaiting me.”

Ferdinand permitted, “Of course, daughter.”

“I bid you goodbye.” Helena curtsied and left.

The emperor and the monarch settled in armchairs; the boys continued playing.

François asked quietly, “Ferdinand, do you really want to designate three of your daughters for a cloistered existence in a convent? I would not want such a fate for Helena.”

Ferdinand shrugged. “Helena says that she will take a vow. Neither my wife Margot nor I will force Helena to marry if she wants to become a nun.”  

“Talk to her again, please,” requested François. “I shall try as well.”

“Try,” uttered Ferdinand. “My daughters Magdalena and Margaret are of a marriageable age. However, they want to create a religious community for noble ladies to lead a reclusive and pious life. Moreover, Magdalena and Margaret have a weak constitution, like Helena.”

François nodded. “Yes, Helena is sickly. What about Barbara? She is a different case.”

The emperor confirmed, “Barbara and Joanna are both for marriage. I want to them to have Italian matches with the Medici and Este families, like your Lorenzo will have.”

“I recommend Francesco de’ Medici, Cosimo’s eldest son, for Joanna.”

Nodding, Ferdinand continued, “Augustine will marry Jeanne of Navarre. But Antoine’s betrothal to Mary, Queen of Scots… Aren’t you afraid to tie your son to the Guises?” 

François clarified, “There is the Auld Alliance, and I do not want Mary Stuart to marry any of Henri’s sons. Through this marriage Antoine may become King Consort of Scotland.”

The emperor nodded in comprehension. “That would not be bad for Antoine.”

François remarked, “King Felipe of Spain has been a widower for a number of years.” 

The emperor revealed, “The Spanish ambassador apprised me of Felipe’s desire to marry one of my daughters. He liked Magdalena’s portrait a lot, but she vehemently denied the idea of her marriage to anyone. Now he is seeking the hand of my sister Eleanor’s daughter.”

François remembered her name. “Maria of Portugal, Duchess of Viseu?”

Ferdinand nodded. “Yes. His diplomats are currently negotiating the marriage contract.”

Finally, Charles deprived his opponent of his King. “I feel like a triumphant general!” 

Yet, Augustine had allowed the other teenager to do so. “Bravo!” 

Ferdinand figured out Augustine’s actions. “Your son wants Charles to smile.”

François’ gaze traversed both of the players. “Augustine is quite noble-minded.”

“The most intelligent boy I’ve ever met,” assessed the emperor.

François shone with pride. “Augustine surprises me every day in the finest ways.”

Soon Augustine removed from the chessboard more than half of Charles’ pieces, but they finished in a draw. A grateful Charles comprehended that Augustine had allowed him to win.


July 30, 1551, Hofburg Palace, the city of Vienna, Austria, Holy Roman Empire

As the sun began its downward descent, King François and Emperor Ferdinand visited the luxurious apartments where Princess Aimée was lodged. Accessed via a grand marble staircase, they included a vestibule, a dining room, a salon, a huge bedroom, and an antechamber.

The dining room was furnished with pink-brocaded chairs and couches. The window was left ajar, and beside it Princess Aimée sat in a gilded throne-like chair with its back adorned with precious stones. Her countenance mystical, her nimble fingers plucked the strings of the lyre, which she had brought from France. She was singing one of her father’s songs in German.

Archduke Maximilian lounged on a couch next to her, fascinated with his bride. In Vienna Aimée wore only local fashions. It surprised everyone that the Valois princess had arrived at the Imperial court with her enormous trousseau full of stunning gowns in the German and Austrian styles. Tonight Aimée was accoutered in a purple damask gown with long, pendant sleeves, lined in white, with the cone-shaped skirts created by the Austrian farthingale.

Words were flowing out of Aimée’s mouth like a rainstorm after a drought.

We have bit no piece of forbidden apple,

Neither my beloved Queen Anne nor I,

Yet, the splashes of day and gladness

That once enveloped us no longer dapple

Our Eden with vibrant purple and white.

At first in Austria, the French party had worn black as they had mourned for the victims of epidemics in England and France. Nonetheless, soon they had dropped their mourning, inspired by the exuberant Viennese court. Tonight Aimée’s French ladies-in-waiting were present, and an elated Charlotte de Valois, who was attired in a low-cut gown of pink damask, clapped her hands gleefully. Catherine, Renée, and Léonore de Bourbon loved Vienna as much as Charlotte did.

Catherine, Renée, and Léonore were all the youngest daughters of the deceased Françoise d’Alençon and her late husband – Charles de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme. Charlotte and the three Bourbon girls had come to Vienna as members of Aimée’s train. Each of them appeared to be festive, but beneath the façade of the Bourbon women’s merriment there was a layer of their grief over the passing of their elder brother Antoine who had encouraged their move to Vienna.

Three living Bourbon princes of the blood remained in France. The eldest was Charles de Bourbon, Archbishop of Rouen, who inherited the title of Duke de Vendôme from Antoine. Jean de Bourbon, Count de Soissons and d’Enghien, was close to Dauphin Henri, unlike the youngest Bourbon prince – Louis de Bourbon, Prince de Condé – who was getting a cold shoulder from the Valois family due to the French ruler’s suspicions of Condé’s interest in heresy.

“That is magnificent, Your Highness!” enthused Catherine de Bourbon. At twenty-six, she was a hazel-eyed brunette of average height, dressed in an embellished dress of emerald satin.

Renée de Bourbon uttered, “This sounds great in all languages.” At twenty-four, she was a plump and rather short blonde with bright blue eyes, clad in a lace-trimmed azure gown.

The nineteen-year-old Léonore gushed, “Bravo!” She was a shy and tall gray-eyed beauty, wearing a lavender velvet gown with gold embroidery, her ash blonde hair left loose.

“Let the princess sing,” Charlotte requested, and the Bourbon girls nodded.

Emperor Ferdinand’s daughters – Catherine, Eleanor, Magdalena, Margaret, and Barbara – leaned back in their chairs, which stood in a semi-circle around Aimée’s chair. Their visages conveyed their astonishment that Aimée was able to speak their native tongue so well despite her recent arrival. Out of them, Eleanor, Margaret, and Catherine had the most pronounced Habsburg jaws, while Magdalena and Barbara both had only a small protruding jaw.

Our marital life is our own still valley

Our Eden, our home, our love

Are under threat from huge distance

Between my dearest Anne and me,

Between Boulogne and Milan,

France and Italy, the land of charm.

When Ferdinand and François entered, Aimée paused. The spectators rose to their feet: the ladies curtsied, while Maximilian dropped into a bow, his orbs fixed on his bride.

“Please, continue,” prompted the Valois ruler in German. “We will listen.”

Ferdinand praised, “We admire the marvelous talent of my future daughter-in-law.”

Aimée’s cheeks flushed. “Your Imperial Majesty is most kind.”

“No, just honest.” Ferdinand then addressed his eldest son, “Max, are you charmed?” 

Ferdinand and François eased themselves onto a couch in the opposite side of the room.

“Yes!” Maximilian looked at his father with a radiant smile. Then his eyes flew to Aimée, his grin widening. “More than Adonis was bewitched by the extraordinary beauty of Aphrodite.”

Barbara noted, “Unlike Aphrodite and her lover Adonis, you and Aimée will get married.”

Eleanor remarked, “Aimée, you and Max both have artistic spirits.”

“Undoubtedly,” joined Catherine. “Our Max is Apollo, the Greek god of music and poetry. Aimée will be his consort – his Terpsichore, his goddesses of music, song, and dance.”

Aimée flashed a reserved smile, her gaze latched on to the archduke’s face. “Apollo sired many children on mortal women and nymphs as well as goddesses.” She raised her voice, but it trembled as she ended with, “I hope that His Highness is not like Apollo in this aspect.”

Maximilian feared that his fiancée could consider him indecent. “I assure you that I do not have any bastards, my princess. When we finally marry, I’ll be faithful to you just as my father was faithful to my late mother and is now loyal to Margot, my great friend and your sister.”

“Naturally, son.” The emperor thought that his children did not need to know that he had not always been faithful to the late Anna of Bohemia, although he had loved their mother dearly.

A tide of relief washed over Aimée. “I appreciate your frankness, Your Highness.”

“It is true, Aimée,” uttered Ferdinand. “No doubt Maximilian will be a devoted husband to you. One day, you two will be Holy Roman Emperor and his empress.”

François smiled: this was what he yearned to have for his daughter. “I’ve been faithful to my wife for many years. Loyalty and contentment are the greatest wealth in matrimony.”

The archduchesses gaped at the man who was said to have been an amorous monarch.

Maximilian’s orbs drank in Aimée’s exotic loveliness. “Curiosity lies in wait for every secret. I wonder which secrets Your Highness is preserving in those deep, dark eyes.”

Aimée quipped, “A trusting attitude and a patient attitude go hand in hand.”

“Touché!” Her wit impressed Maximilian. “Sing more, dear!” 

François encouraged, “Daughter, we want to listen to your enchanting music.”

Maximilian said, “Let us find islands called by Roman poems Sirenum scopuli.”

“Please, Your Highness!” implored Charlotte. “We cannot wait!” 

Smiling at her father and her fiancé in turns, Aimée resumed singing and playing.

God helps: the long siege is lifted,

I see and hold my Anne in my arms,

Day paints our lives with vivid feeling

The wings of our love heighten charms

The world is trembling with joy, shifted.

François studied the emperor’s daughters with the late Anna of Bohemia and Hungary. The loveliest of them was Magdalena with a bonny face flushing in excitement, a rosebud mouth, a straight nose, and hazel-green eyes. Magdalena’s attractiveness and her curvaceous figure were accentuated by a modest gown of green brocade with a high white lace collar. It was no wonder that King Felipe II of Spain had thought of marrying her. How could Magdalena become a nun?

Tall and plump, Catherine, had a small, hooked nose and wide-set, brown eyes coming out of her rounded cheeks. Catherine was betrothed to the Polish King Sigismund II Augustus, and in two years, she would travel to Warsaw and would become both Queen of Poland and Grand Duchess of Lithuania, for Sigismund II ruled the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth.

Catherine’s sister Eleanor at sixteen was unremarkable, save her long and luscious wheat-colored hair swept up in a massive and high knot. Her brows were thin and her jaw too square, but Eleanor was slimmer than Catherine. Both Habsburg sisters had a significant protruding jaw, but neither of them was as enchanting as Magdalena. Coincidentally, Catherine and Eleanor’s high-necked gowns were of ochre brocade wrought with treads of Venetian gold.

The next morning after our reunion,

We wake to the sound of chirping of pigeons,

The morning sun upon our skins glistens,

We are at home, in spiritual communion,

Blessed by heavens and all singing birds.

Margaret of Austria looked fragile and pale, her blue eyes conveying her aloofness and emotional distance from mundane things. Her red-gold hair was arranged on the nape of her head in a bun, and she was attired in a gown of gray satin embossed with religious detailing. Margaret entwined her fingers with those of her favorite sister Barbara of Austria. Unlike Magdalena and Helena, Margaret embodied someone who was destined for a monastic life.

Barbara was the archduchesses’ younger sister. Barbara’s face could be described as plain because of her aquiline nose and irregular features, if not for her large, expressive, brown eyes, and a high forehead that glistened in the sunlight, her pale flawless skin like the finest alabaster. There was a stamp of great intelligence on Barbara’s countenance, additionally marred by her jaw, but not as much as that of her sisters. Her lavishly embroidered gown of violet and silver silk attested to Barbara’s penchant for extravagance while also stressing her slenderness.

All things are possessed by dazzling joy,

My Anne and I have set home to France,

Wrapped up in the sky’s space of amour,

We fly together after our long war dance,

The grandeur of Anne’s love is my savior.

As Aimée finished, a round of applause exploded, echoing throughout the room.

The emperor’s daughters praised, “Bravo!” 

Ferdinand flashed Aimée a paternal smile. “Our musical nymph, welcome to Vienna.”

Charlotte and Aimée’s other ladies chorused, “Amazing!” 

François advised, “Aimée, next time you should perform something else. I no longer write songs about my separation from your mother. There are new festive songs.”

Aimée’s expression was misty. “About eternal love.”

Maximilian’s eyes glinted with rapture. “God help us find it, my princess.”

A blushing Aimée put her lyre on a nearby table. “The Lord help us, Your Highness.”

As the others chatted, François asked, “Where is your second son, your namesake?” 

The emperor scowled. “Young Ferdinand is a womanizer, and now he is with his mistress – Anna von Obrizon, one of Margot’s ladies-in-waiting.” He lowered his voice substantially. “Maximilian had a few mistresses, for we have waited for his marriage to Aimée for many years. However, he never had any illegitimate children and never paraded his lovers in front of the court, unlike his brother. Be at ease: Max set aside his paramours before Aimée’s arrival here.”

Yet, doubt was nagging at François. “Maximilian is adventurous and young. Aimée can marry him only in two years. Will he really be faithful to her until their wedding night?”   

Ferdinand assured, “He intends to wait for his bride.” He sighed. “Even if his body urges make him take a mistress, it will happen very discreetly. I’ll ensure that Aimée learns nothing.”

The French monarch was relieved. “I’m grateful to you.”

The Valois ruler viewed Maximilian. In a doublet of blue damask wrought with gold, his trunk hose of golden damask, the King of the Romans looked like a fashion icon at the Imperial court. In contrast to other noblemen and his father, Maximilian did not wear high lace collars and preferred fashionable clothes, just as the French did. Max seems to be smitten with our Aimée.

§§§

Princess Aimée entered the salon that was part of her apartments. Her sister, Elizabeth, had sent one of her ladies to fetch her for the meeting with Elizabeth’s elder sister.

A satisfied Aimée examined her surroundings. Her quarters were as luxurious as her rooms in her favorite French palaces were. This chamber’s interior, with wall tapestries portraying events from the life of the Greek goddess of youth Heba and her husband, Heracles, were the epitome of princely magnificence. Aimée had been lectured about Spanish and German austerity and somberness, but her apartments lacked it. These rooms were refurbished especially for me.

The door opened, and Princess Elizabeth slipped inside. Two people followed: the Duke and Duchess of Palatinate-Neuburg, their outfits dusty from their journey.

Elizabeth introduced in French, “My sister Mary and her husband, Philip.”

Aimée swept her trademark Boleyn curtsey. “Good evening and welcome to Austria!” She decided to speak in the same language as Bess chose for her greetings.

Duke Philip of Palatinate-Neuburg dropped into a bow. “Mademoiselle la Princesse,” he drawled in French with German accent. “My friend Maximilian is lucky to have you as a bride.” 

“Your Grace is flattering me,” Aimée answered in German. “Let’s speak your language.”

An impressed Philip commended, “Such flawless German! During the two years you will spend in Austria prior to your wedding to Maximilian, your accent will disappear.”

Aimée’s smile resembled her mother’s. “I’ve learned the German language and customs.”

After curtseying, Mary joined, “When I married Philip, I could speak German. However, at first my accent was so thick that his councilors must have been terrified to hear me speak at our Privy Councils. It took me a year of everyday practice to hone my skills in German.”

Philip’s lips curled in a chuckle. “Your accent is gone thanks to me.”

Mary teased, “My tutor was a far more competent teacher than you, husband.”  

“Then I should not have paid a fortune to him,” the duke retorted with a grin.

Mary taunted, “Ah, I should have continued to annoy your advisors.” 

“Don’t exaggerate, wife,” rebuked Philip playfully. “Our subjects have always loved you.”

Bess and Aimée grinned: the couple had fallen into a familiar mode of teasing each other.

“Is your son with you, sister?” Elizabeth wanted to know.

“Of course.” Mary grinned at the thought of her beloved son. “Our little Ulrich is only six months old and cannot speak yet, but he is very eager to see his Aunt Bess.”

Bess rejoiced that Mary had become a mother. “I’d like to meet my little nephew.”

Mary approached her younger sister and embraced her heartily. An hour ago when they had seen each other for the first time in many years, they had met in Elizabeth’s rooms, and Bess had launched herself headlong into Mary’s arms. The exhilaration from their reunion would not fade away – uplifting, strong, and immense like a blue summer sky inspiring one to smile.

As they pulled away, Mary grinned. “I’m so happy to see my beautiful sister!” 

“And so am I!”  Elizabeth’s smile was wide. “I feared we might never meet again.”

Philip disclosed, “My wife told me wonderful things about her English sister.” He chortled. “But they could have slipped from my mind. Will someone refresh my memories?” 

Bess liked this easygoing man. “I’ll answer to Your Grace’s questions.”

The duke surveyed the three women. “Philip! Call me by my name.”

Mary joked, “Ah, Philip! Perhaps you will not be allowed to see our dashing King of the Romans. You need to change into a set of fresh clothes before going to him.”

Philip purred, “Max adores you and me, Mary, so much that he will embrace us even if our garments are smeared with dirt.” He turned to Aimée. “We are all close friends.”

Liking the spouses, Aimée felt that with their arrival, the atmosphere at the Hofburg would become more jocund. “Maximilian is a sociable creature that craves communication.”

Mary stepped to her husband, taking his hand in hers. “Yes, Max is like this.” 

Bess presumed, “Now he must be reading something about politics or the arts.”

His orbs flashing mischievously, Philip offered, “Let’s go interrupt him.”  

On the way to Archduke Maximilian’s suite, the four of them laughed and jested.

However, Mary fell silent when her gaze rested upon Aimée who walked beside Elizabeth. The French princess bore a striking resemblance to Queen Anne, but with more delicate features glorifying her unconventional loveliness. Now Elizabeth’s sister was Mary von Wittelsbach née Tudor, Duchess of Palatinate-Neuburg and Duchess of Salzburg, but a small part of Mary was still hurt by the past. How will I meet with Anne Boleyn? What will we say to one another?

Notes:

The new chapter is up! Please let us know what you think of this chapter, and don’t forget to leave reviews so that we can discuss events, twists, and turns in this chapter.

The sweating sickness killed many English people. Why did we kill off the Earls of Surrey and of Hertford? Why did we kill off John Dudley, Viscount Lisle and in history the Duke of Northumberland, as well as John’s three sons and wife? Well, we no longer need these characters in this epic. Surrey was executed by Henry VIII in 1547, so he lived several years longer. Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, as well as John Dudley and Guilford Dudley were executed in the 1550s in real history. I think that it is better for all of them to die of the sweat rather than be executed. Gregory Cromwell and Charles Brandon’s sons – the young Henry and Charles Brandon aged sixteen and fourteen – also died of the sweating sickness in 1551.

The Marquess of Exeter is disappointed with King Edward VI. Just as we promised, we are gradually developing Edward’s character, and now he will appear more often in the story. Edward is not a fool, but he is not interested in the studies, and he revels in pleasures of all sorts. What is important is that his grandmother, Lady Honor Grenville, remains exiled and arranged the marriage between her daughter, Philippa Bassett, and the Earl of Arundel, who used to be Exeter’s ally. Now Exeter also banished the Earl of Sussex and his sister Jane from court.

France is still being ravaged by plague, killing thousands of people. We disposed of Antoine de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, and his mother, Françoise d’Alençon. Well, we do not need Antoine anymore, while Françoise anyway died of natural causes in 1550. Now the Valois family is at the Imperial court, and we shall have several chapters set in the city of Vienna. Juana of Castile lives in Vienna, and we intend to show the whole of the Imperial family. Mary Tudor, Duchess of Palatinate-Neuburg, meets with her long estranged English sister Elizabeth, and we will show their private conversation later, as well as Mary’s interactions with Anne Boleyn.

We hope that you like the Imperial family, for some readers missed Emperor Ferdinand and his wife, Empress Marguerite, also Princess of France. We described Ferdinand’s eldest daughters with Anna of Bohemia and Hungary close to history, and some of them will really enter a convent. King Felipe II of Spain considered Magdalena of Austria as his second wife and queen, and Felipe is said to have been fascinated with her portrait, but she refused to marry because she wanted to take a vow. Due to their frail health, Margaret and Helena were viewed by their father Ferdinand unfit for marriage and better suited to lead a monastic cloistered life.

In history, the youngest children of Ferdinand of Austria with Anna of Bohemia and Hungary were Barbara of Austria, Charles II of Austria, Ursula (died in childhood), Helena (a nun), and Joanna of Austria. We made Barbara the youngest daughter of Anna and Ferdinand born during the Imperial invasion of France in 1536-37 before Anna of Bohemia died off-screen. In this story, Charles, Helena, and Joanna are all children of Ferdinand and Marguerite de Valois, but Joanna is born in 1548, a year later than in history because of the Italian wars in this fiction.

Aimée’s poems are written by Lady Perseverance, like all songs and poems we use in this epic. Okehampton Castle is a medieval motte and bailey castle in Devon, which was owned by the Courtenay family for several centuries, including Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter. Located in the centre of Vienna, the Hofburg is the former principal Imperial palace of the Habsburg dynasty, and we described it close to history.

Attention! A while ago, we posted a prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 97: Chapter 96: The Viennese Splendor

Summary:

At the Imperial court, Augustine of France’s birthday is celebrated, and one of the emperor’s daughters befriends Augustine. Aimée of France and Maximilian of Austria are growing fond of each other. Mary and Philip, Duke and Duchess Palatinate-Neuburg, are in love and happy together, and Mary is delighted to spend time with her English sister, Elizabeth Tudor.

Notes:

We see that many responded to the poll about Elizabeth and the Earl of Devon, and we are grateful for this. Please, don’t forget to review after reading because it is important for us to be inspired and to keep going. Discussions with readers are extremely helpful for us!

Attention! The prologue to the sequel 'Chained by Blood and Power' (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don't forget about our work "Entwined by a Golden Alliance" co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 96: The Viennese Splendor

August 28, 1551, Hofburg Palace, the city of Vienna, Austria, Holy Roman Empire

On the Feast of St Augustine of Hippo, the grand hall was thronged with courtiers dressed in expensive German and Austrian fashions, which were modest and simultaneously splendid in a somewhat austere way. Local aristocrats, who mingled with foreign ones, sat at the U-shaped tables, moaning under the weight of viands. The court chefs had prepared lavish menus.

An array of candelabra illuminated the huge chamber. The walls were swathed in tapestries of the previous Habsburg emperors, and those of Emperor Ferdinand and his family. One of the walls was decorated with the portraits of Ferdinand and his French wife, Marguerite, created by the Imperial court-painter Giuseppe Arcimboldo. Next to them hung the old painting of Anna of Bohemia and Hungary, Ferdinand’s first deceased wife who was revered by her relatives.

Emperor Ferdinand inquired, “Did you name Augustine after his patron saint?” 

King François enlightened, “Our son was born on this day, but we gave him the name of Augustine after the first Rome’s emperor Caesar Augustus.”

Queen Anne bragged, “A suitable choice for our unusual boy!”

The Imperial family and their guests sat at a long table on a dais under the canopy of red, white, and yellow – the Habsburg colors. Emperor Ferdinand conversed with his mother, Juana of Castile, who sat to his right. Prince Augustine, who occupied the place between Princesses Elizabeth and Aimée, was the center of attention thanks to his today’s birthday. Tonight Empress Marguerite did not attend the festivities because of her advanced pregnancy; her son, Archduke Charles, was with his mother, having congratulated his cousin in advance.

François sipped some cognac from his goblet. “The pandemic in France is not over yet. We will delay our departure if you don’t mind. I want to see the birth of my unborn grandchild.”

Ferdinand drained the wine from his goblet. “Stay with us for as long as you wish.”

Juana was eating her favorite spiced meat. “Yes, spend more time with us in Vienna.”

Ferdinand and Juana nodded insistently. The emperor was accoutered in a doublet of white and brown velvet, as well as matching hose, and above the doublet, he wore a golden brocade surcoat lined with ermine. Juana was attired in a German asparagus gown, adorned with bands of simple chevron design, her coif of black taffeta hiding her entirely grizzled hair.

Clad in a doublet of golden brocade with open front, François was fond of its decorations – fine cords in an intricate foliage design on both sides of the front opening. The ruler’s hose was of a richly woven, white cloth. Queen Anne was attired in a dress of purple and bronze velvet, trimmed with gold; her long, raven hair was confined by a headdress studded with diamonds.

Queen Anne put a slice of venison into her mouth. “The latest news from France seem to be a little better. The awful plague is no longer ravaging the Loire Valley.”

François had a mixture of trout, crabs, and lobsters on his plate. “Sadly, many people keep dying in the south. My son Henri writes that they have implemented special measures to stop the spreading of the malady. Currently, free food is being distributed to the French people. Many public hospitals are being built, but it will take us some more time to open them.”

Juana opined, “People should wash their hands more often than they do.”

Those who surrounded the emperor’s mother shrugged, but Anne nodded in agreement.

King François rose to his feet. Bringing his full cup of cognac to his lips, he glanced at his son, Augustine, with immense pride conveyed in his countenance. “For my most unique son with Anne! For Augustine de Valois, Prince of France and Duke d’Angoulême!” 

Queen Anne stood up as well. “For our French Augustus Caesar!” 

The sovereigns of France alternately spoke these words in French, German, and Italian.

Cheers rang out. Numerous goblets were drained and then refilled.

Everybody stared at Augustine with a blend of awe and admiration. Archduchess Barbara of Austria, who sat at the royal table with her sisters, could not tear her gaze away from the prince. Augustine’s doublet of purple silk and hose were wrought with threads of Venetian gold and ornamented with amethysts, and his matching toque was plumed with three white feathers. God above, I’ve never seen anyone like Augustine, Barbara enthused. Why am I not his bride?

Augustine sipped some of his watered wine. “Thank you for the congratulations.”

Emperor Ferdinand climbed to his feet. His goblet held in his hand, the monarch surveyed the assemblage. “Prince Augustine is a wonderful credit to France and the House of Valois! It is a great honor for the Habsburg family to host this feast. Happy birthday, Caesar Augustus!” 

The gathering exploded in a combination of applause and acclamations.

§§§

The emperor commanded, “Now! Bring the gift from the Imperial family!”    

Servants delivered a suit of gilded plate armor manufactured by the Nuremberg armorer Kunz Lochner. The armor exhibited etched symbolism of the Navarrese and French heraldry and crowns entwined atop a rising sun on the breastplate. On the backplate the Valois coat-of-arms and a salamander, François’ emblem, sat at a saltire of crossed branches in architectural settings.

Finally, the ice in Augustine’s gaze began thawing. “Your Imperial Majesty, this is the best gift I could wish for! I cannot find enough special words to thank you for it!”     

Ferdinand’s smile was broad. “Your Highness is a man and needs your own armor!” 

François and Anne were speechless. Our son will marry Jeanne d’Albert in several years, the French queen mused. The entwined crowns of France and Navarre caused each of the Valois spouses think about the unification of the two kingdoms if Augustine was destined to ascend to the French throne. While Anne secretly dreamed of this, François wanted Dauphin Henri to rule.

Augustine’s hand touched his new suit of armor. “I already have one suit of armor at home. My Father ordered it from Italy, but it is smaller than this new armor, which suits me better.”

Anne exclaimed, “Thank you, Ferdinand!”

The emperor nodded with a smile. “You are welcome.”

Juana hated wars. “Hopefully, Augustine will not use this thing anytime soon.”

The armor was carried to Augustine’s suite. Everyone congratulated Augustine again, but he rarely smiled, save at Barbara during their exchange, and he spoke nearly automatically.

Elizabeth and Aimée, who surrounded Augustine from both sides, grinned jauntily.

Aimée teased, “Brother, you are so tongue-tied!”

Augustine was drinking his wine slowly. “I’m observant and eloquent when I speak.”   

“More words, finally!” Aimée was chewing on a piece of boiled salmon.

Elizabeth laughed at her French half-siblings who adored each other. Her younger siblings had grown up together, but Aimée did not quite understand Augustine because of his reticence, trying to elicit some reaction from her brother, yet Augustine remained taciturn and composed. Sadly, I still have a shaky friendship with Augustine, Elizabeth was frustrated wordlessly. 

The Tudor princess asked a passing servant to give her some porpoise and egret. Then she told her younger sister, “Aimée, if you want to make Augustine talkative, you should talk to him about something from ancient Roman history, for example about Emperor Caesar Augustus.”

“Or about modern culture,” Augustine hinted.

Aimée’s expression became dreamy. “For example, music!” 

“Greek music and poems!” Maximilian’s fascinated gaze fell upon his bride. “Aimée, your musical talents rival those of Herodorus of Megara who was an Olympic victor ten times.”

Aimée blushed under his intense gaze. “Herodorus of Megara won in the trumpet contest. He played on a salpinx that was a Greek trumpet-like instrument. However, I play on a lyre and modern instruments.” She knew that Maximilian was studying ancient Greek culture because he was really interested in it, and because he strove to please his fiancée.

An embarrassed Maximilian uttered, “Forgive me, Your melodious Highness!” 

Aimée’s heart sped. Despite being eleven years her senior, her fiancé was still a boy in the moments of awkwardness. “How can I not forgive such a charming archduke for a small error?” 

A grinning Maximilian recovered his confidence henceforth. “I would not make a mistake if I say that you, Aimée, will become a Habsburg queen of music in the future.”

Aimée liked flirting with him. “I shall, but only if you listen to my concerts.”

“Of course, we will organize them.” Maximilian’s voice was exhilarated.

Ferdinand, François, Anne, and Juana reveled in seeing the couple’s mutual enchantment.

Anne addressed the archduke. “Your Highness will need to order a flute, then.”

“Tomorrow!” Maximilian’s orbs flew to Anne for a moment before returning to Aimée.

Augustine had shrimps left on his plate. “In the ancient Greek art I love Sappho the most.”

Ferdinand remarked, “Though awesome, Sappho’s poems are sensual and too immodest. They will not be appreciated at our conservative and traditional court in Austria.”

“Sadly,” Anne and François chorused. They liked the Imperial court, but to them nothing could rival Italian and French culture, which had absorbed classical fundamentals perfectly.

Augustine affirmed, “Caesar Octavian Augustus transformed Rome into an empire. He was a capable politician and a great patron of the ancient arts and architecture. He was helped in all his endeavors by Gaius Cilnius Maecenas, his friend and advisor. They raised the new artistic generation of Augustan sculptors, musicians, and poets, including Horace and Virgil.”

Ferdinand could read Augustine’s thoughts. “You are implying that a virtuous, smart, and cultured monarch rules his lands in peace, patronizes artists, and makes his country strong.”

Augustine finished off his last shrimp. “Yes. He brings prosperity to all his subjects.”

Elizabeth felt her heart race in her chest as she remembered her conversation with the Earl of Devon about the arts when he had been in France. “You are describing a Golden Age.”

“Like the famous Paxus Romanus.” Augustine smiled at his sister cordially.

Elizabeth rejoiced to see the warmth in his expression. “To my brother Augustine!” she cried in French, then in German and Italian. “God, let Augustine become a prince of peace!” 

François promulgated, “For our prince of peace! For Augustine of Navarre!”

Goblets clanked, and the entire congregation sipped out their drinks.

Anne said, “We are grateful to His Imperial Majesty and his family for the hospitality.”

Juana purposefully raised her cup high in the air. “For my son – Emperor Ferdinand!” 

Everybody emptied their goblets and chatted animatedly as a stately allemande started.

§§§

Duke Philip and Duchess Mary of Palatinate-Neuburg both sat at the end of the royal table. From time to time, Mary exchanged grins with Elizabeth, whose attention was concentrated upon her mother and siblings. Often Ferdinand and Juana cast warm glances at the spouses.  

Mary had just finished her portion of pottage, sturgeon, and tench. Now her belly was full, so she stood up and offered, “Let’s dance, Philip. I need to move my joints.”     

Philip stood up and extended his hand to his wife. “Everything for you, meine Liebe.”

Couples crowded in the center of the chamber. Philip and Mary stood next to Maximilian and Aimée, their hands linked. A band of musicians played in the gallery above, while below a long line of dancers was now performing a moderately paced allemande. The excited dancers extended their paired hands forward as they paraded back and forth the length of the ballroom.

Mary walked forward three steps, then balanced on one foot according to the rules of the dance. “I like galliard more, but it is rarely included in the musical repertoire in Austria.”

Philip took several steps back. “His Imperial Majesty adores allemande. If Empress Margot was not heavily pregnant, they would have danced together now.”

As their hands touched again, Mary’s blood was pumping in her ears in rhythm with the message she discerned in Philip’s orbs – ‘I want you.’ The ache in her stomach was fierce, and she was breathless from the contact of her hands with those of her husband, her heart thumping madly in her breast. Bright light from the candelabra was spilling pools of molten lava onto them. Mary swayed dizzily until Philip neared her and took her hands again, stabilizing her.

Both resplendent in silver costumes embroidered with sapphires, the ducal spouses were a lovely vision. A couple in deep love, one of the few couples among many arranged marriages at the Imperial court. Those who had once courted Mary and been rejected now envied Philip.

“Let’s leave after this dance,” the duke whispered salaciously.

The duchess murmured, “If my heated blood does not boil and burn me completely.”

Philip laughed. “Max’s blood is heated, too. Unlike us he must wait for another two years.”

“Before he can marry Aimée,” finished Mary. “We can be together anytime.”  

He led his wife backwards. “Max and Aimée are charmed by one another.”

As they were close again, Mary said, “It took me some time to get accustomed to Aimée.”

The line of dancers moved to and fro between the tables, like oceanic waves. The emperor watched them while conversing with his mother and his daughters. Mary and Philip connected their hands and walked the room’s length, with Aimée and Maximilian following them.

Philip asked quietly, “Is that so because she looks like your stepmother?” 

“Certainly.” Mary glimpsed Queen Anne’s interested gaze directed at her.

“You have to talk to Queen Anne about the past, Mary.”

“We have been civil with each other since their arrival from France, but you are right.”

The next dance was an energetic French courante. The line of dancers was now performing three springing steps and then a hop. The tune of music was more inspiring. Handsome in a black doublet with a white ruff, Archduke Ferdinand II of Austria had left his mistress for the first time during the evening, and he then invited Elizabeth of England to dance, who accepted his offer.

After an intricate turn, Philip commented, “Max’s brother is smitten with your sister.” He lowered his voice. “Look how tense the emperor has become when he has noticed it.”

As they paused, Mary pivoted to her husband. “The young Archduke Ferdinand rejected many matches with princesses. What does he want to accomplish by acting so?” 

As the dancers took a few steps before hopping, Mary observed Elizabeth. Dressed in a richly embroidered gown of cloth of silver, Bess sprang into the air and was caught by Archduke Ferdinand, whose lewd gaze was undressing her. Mary then found Aimée: Maximilian touched his young bride’s hands with a sense of worshipping reverence, clearly bewitched with her. Mary also noticed Ambrose Dudley’s dissatisfied stares at Elizabeth and Archduke Ferdinand.

During the next elaborate interlacing of her arms with Philip, Mary recollected, “There are rumors that Archduke Ferdinand has an affair with Philippine Welser from Augsburg.”

Philip confided, “That’s true. The emperor and Max are criticizing his brother’s behavior.”

“Frau Welser belongs to a family of merchants and bankers, so he cannot wed her.”

“Any marriage is possible, my dear.” They both thought of François’ union with Anne.

Mary grumbled, “The young Ferdinand is a womanizer.”

Philip twirled her in a new figure. “Most men are eager for adventures until they meet their true love, although I was never like them. Ferdinand is charmed by your English sister.”

Her husband’s touch caused Mary’s body to tingle. “I’ll keep an eye on them.”

In the absence of his consort, Emperor Ferdinand led his daughter, Archduchess Eleanora, to the center of the room. After a short interaction with several archduchesses, Prince Augustine unexpectedly invited Archduchess Barbara to dance. King François and Queen Anne left Juana and joined the dancers, accompanied with the Duke and Duchess d’Étampes. The gathering then repeated the allemande once more, while Philip and Mary slipped out of the chamber.

§§§

The next dance was a slow, elegant basse danse, which had once been extremely popular at the cultured Burgundian court. Having spent several years in Flanders in his youth, Emperor Ferdinand loved this dance a great deal, so it was frequently performed at the Viennese court.

Prince Augustine had quite a skilled partner – Archduchess Barbara. In a stylish gown of magenta rose satin adorned with pearls and diamonds, Barbara moved gracefully like a nymph of merriment. As they walked in a slow gliding motion across the chamber, she touched either his hands while dancing or a large jeweled cross that suspended from her neck.

“Happy birthday, Your Highness,” Barbara broke the pause between them.

Augustine responded, “Thank you, Your Highness.”

“Call me Barbara,” she requested a bit coquettishly. “Why did you invite me?” 

“You are the cleverest archduchess among the Habsburg lot.”

Barbara, who was only two years him senior, joked, “I might feel offended on behalf of my many sisters, Your Highness. Shouldn’t a prince of the blood treat ladies like a knight?” 

At last, two amber pools glittered with mirth. “Like my father, the Knight-King?” 

Barbara linked her hands with his again. “Are you like him, but colder?”   

Augustine stepped back rhythmically. “You may call me Augustine.”

All dancing couples made basic four steps: pas simple, pas double, the reprise, and branle. The emperor danced with his another daughter, Archduchess Catherine of Austria. François and Anne, Elizabeth and Archduke Ferdinand, as well as the Étampes spouses continued dancing. Three archduchesses – Magdalena, Margaret, and Helena who intended to enter a convent – didn’t dance and conversed with Juana; slightly fatigued, Maximilian and Aimée joined them.

Augustine and Barbara took two steps to the left and then to the right. The emperor and the sovereigns of France observed both of them with interest. A blush stained Barbara’s cheeks, and she would not meet her partner’s orbs, while Augustine found it hilarious.

Augustine made a small talk. “The earliest record of a basse danse was made in an Occitan poem in the 14th century by the Toulousain priest, poet, and troubadour Raimon de Cornet.”

Barbara noted, “The basse danse is far better described in the treatises of Guglielmo Ebreo da Pesaro. He was the dancing master at the courts in Naples, Urbino, Milan, and Ferrara.”  

As they stepped back, he queried, “Are you checking my knowledge, Barbara?” 

Barbara’s heart drummed, as if in the throes of some sacred pagan rite. “Why not?”

The prince chuckled. “I do not like slow dances.”

“Would a tourdion or a galliard be better, then?” Barbara’s voice was somewhat strangled.

“Or La Volta. We, French, love it.” He began an exquisite gliding motion.

Barbara allowed him to lead her forward. “It’s rather frivolous, Augustine.”   

Her partner grinned. “With your boldness, you would surely dance it.”

She smiled at Augustine. “I would dance it only with you.”  

When a tourdion began, the couples moved swiftly across the room. Similar to the galliard, this dance was adored in Vienna because of its Burgundian origins, and it was also popular in France. François and Anne, as well as the Duke and Duchess d’Étampes radiated buoyancy as they performed the tourdion’s traditional five steps back and forth. The emperor and his daughter returned to the royal table; Barbara continued dancing unlike the rest of the Imperial family.

Augustine turned Barbara in the dance. “We are gliding like swans.”

“But festive ones,” stressed Barbara as they took more complicated steps. “For a lady, the tourdion is better: a woman is led by the hand, and this energetic dance is not boring.”

“You are more audacious than you seem at first glance, Barbara.”

“Is that good or bad? Would Emperor Augustus approve of female audacity?”  

Augustine stepped back again. “He most certainly would.”

Until the end of the dance, Augustine wrestled with the intractable feeling that refused to go away – he liked Archduchess Barbara. He was honored to be betrothed to Queen Jeanne of Navarre and was attracted to her, appreciating her intelligence. Yet, it annoys me that Jeanne still considers me a boy due to our seven-year age gap, Augustine ruminated wordlessly. Barbara’s smiles caused his heart to beat faster, while Jeanne’s smiles had never made Augustine feel so.

After the tourdion, musicians arrived in the great hall. While everyone returned to their places, they were tuning their viols and rebecks before they commenced playing chansons of the celebrated French composer Claudin de Sermisy, most of which were sacred music.

An exhilarated François inquired, “A French chanson at the Viennese court?” 

Juana winked at the Valois monarchs. “This is our gift for Your Majesties.”

Ferdinand added, “As well as a gift for Augustine on his birthday.”

Augustine was pleased. “Thank you very much.” He supplemented, “Sacred music may be used as a masterful manipulation of the arts to cultivate the public image of a ruler.”

All those who heard this statement looked both bewildered and impressed.

Juana stated, “Indeed. Someone should write a book about how to improve the existing image of a king, and about how to cultivate a new image of the same monarch if necessary.”

Anne emphasized, “Music and politics may go hand-in-hand together.”

Waves of festive mood enveloped the entire gathering, as the musicians and several singers performed chansons in their accented French. Claudin de Sermisy, who served as music director of the Royal Chapel at the French court, produced an impressive number of chansons, which were his best contribution to musical output, and his music was admired by Austrian nobles.


September 5, 1551, Stephansdom and Hofburg Palace, the city of Vienna, Austria, Holy Roman Empire

“I like Vienna so much,” Mary told her sister. “For me it was love from first sight.”   

Elizabeth nodded. “I find it rather different from English and French cities.”

At dawn, the sky was making the clouds somewhat orange and reddish. Two richly dressed women rode through the streets of Vienna – they were Princess Elizabeth Tudor and Mary von Wittelsbach née Tudor, Duchess of Palatinate-Neuburg. As head of Elizabeth’s private guard, Ambrose Dudley, Earl of Warwick, rode at the helm of knights in Tudor and Wittelsbach livery.

The city’s inhabitants who met Elizabeth and Mary at this early hour recognized the Palatinate-Neuburg standard. As the emperor’s friendship with the Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg was famous, in particular Philip’s heroism during the Battle of Marignano of 1547, many people greeted Mary with smiles, bows, and curtseys, which were awkward as they were commoners.

Today, on the Feast of St Eustace, Mary’s mind drifted to the former Imperial ambassador to England. In the morning, Mary had received a letter that Eustace Chapuys had passed away in Madrid. Despite their ties in the past, Mary was indifferent to her former friend’s death. They had long ceased corresponding, for Chapuys had considered Mary a traitor to the late Emperor Carlos V. I pray that Chapuys will find his place at the Holy Father’s table, Mary mused.

The party processed through avenues and streets, which intertwined together and all led to the imposing Stephansdom – St. Stephen’s Cathedral. The whole city was encapsulated around it, and it was possible to spend half a day prowling the narrow streets and passageways.

People cheered the Duchess of Palatinate-Neuburg, and Mary saluted to them. Soon the cortege turned to Bäckerstrasse, named so because it was the street of the bakers.

Mary affirmed, “Vienna has been populated for one thousand and five hundred years. In the 1st century, the Romans created a military camp on the site of the city-center.”

Elizabeth recalled what she had learned about the city’s history. “The Romans liked here until the 5th century. During and after the decline of the Western Roman Empire, Austria was invaded by the Germanic tribes and the Huns. At the end of the 10th century, the Margraviate of Ostarrîchi, where Vienna was located, was given to the Babenberg family.”

Mary was not surprised that her erudite sister knew this information. “I’d like to go back in time and be present in Vienna on the day when King Richard the Lionheart was discovered and captured by Duke Leopold the Fifth. Richard was on his way home from the Third Crusade.”

“That was a spectacular event! The first captivity of a monarch in history!” 

Mary elaborated, “The development of Vienna into a modern city started when Rudolf the First, Count of Habsburg, took control over Austrian lands and established Habsburg rule.”

“Was the city brought under direct Imperial control thanks to Emperor Ferdinand?” 

“Yes,” confirmed Mary. “A long time ago, my late husband, Emperor Carlos, sent my cousin, Ferdinand, to govern their ancestors’ Austrian lands. Ferdinand’s reforms transformed the city into a prosperous center of international trade, and a hub of political and intellectual innovation in Germany. Ferdinand made Vienna a seat of the Holy Roman Emperor.”

Bess respected the emperor a lot. “Local people adore Emperor Ferdinand.”

Mary spotted the towering steeples of the Stephansdom in the distance. “Since Ferdinand’s arrival in Vienna, he has been loved in Germany and Austria more than Carlos ever was. It has become possible thanks to Ferdinand’s conciliatory religious policies, as well as his progressive reforms in all spheres of life and his complete acceptance of local customs and culture.”

“I was told me the same when discussing the Imperial court.”   

Mary revealed, “After Carlos had dispossessed his brother, there were revolts in Vienna, Graz, and Innsbruck. Many nobles who are loyal to Ferdinand fled to Bohemia. My husband, Philip, was one of those who joined Ferdinand in the campaign against Carlos.”

“That must have been an extremely difficult time for you, Mary.”

Mary sighed. “I do not want to remember Carlos. I only miss my son, Juan.”

“God sent you a good husband and a new son in reward for all your sufferings.”

Mary flashed a radiant smile. “Thanks to Ferdinand, I found the love of my life – Philip.”

“I can see how much you and Philip love each other.”

“Yes, we do, Bess. I pray that you will be happy in your future marriage as well.”

The procession headed towards Wollzeile, named so because weavers peddled their wares in this street. At this early hour, the people were just waking up, so the area exuded tranquility, but those whom they met welcomed Duchess Mary cordially. As this street encompassed the eastern section of the Stephansdom, the network of lanes led them to the city’s main cathedral.

Mary asked, “Should we visit the Stephansdom? You are not a Catholic, sister.” 

“Gladly.” Elizabeth desired to see the cathedral because of its historical significance.

“Excellent! The matins are over, so the church should not be overcrowded.”

Bess steered her mare to the captain of her private guard. “Lord Warwick,” she addressed Ambrose by his new title. “We intend to visit the cathedral. You don’t need to go inside.”

Like the Tudor princess, Ambrose was also a reformer, although he was a far more radical Protestant. “Your Highness, my duty is to safeguard you, and I always obey you.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Lead us, then.” She followed Ambrose with Mary.

§§§

The procession halted on the picturesque Stephansplatz. It was the large square at the very center of Vienna, named after its most prominent building – the Stephansdom.

Founded in the 12th century, St. Stephen’s Cathedral had the Romanesque western façade, facing the square and being the only remains of the old edifice that had been burned down in 1258. In the 14th century, King Albert I and his son, Duke Rudolf IV, known as the Founder for being a scion of the House of Habsburg, had added Gothic towers, choirs, and other elements to the architectural ensemble, including the illustrious and tall Gothic south and north towers.

After dismounting and consigning their horses to their guards, Elizabeth and Mary eyed the Riesentor, or the Giant’s Gate, flanked by two tall Roman towers, or the Heidentürme, on either side of the gate. Mary and Bess looked at the tympanum above the Giant’s door depicting Christ Pantocrator before entering the church. Ambrose Dudley and all the guards remained outside.

“We are in God’s home,” Mary said as she crossed herself. Her sister followed suit.

They walked down the long nave, their footsteps echoing like the march of soldiers. The ribbed, Gothic, vaulted ceiling attracted their attention due to its very high height.

Elizabeth lifted her orbs to the ceiling. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Mary had once experienced the same when she had first visited this cathedral. “The ceiling seems to be rising into the heavens. Outside you should have a look at the cathedral’s roof.”

The two women passed by many altars, distributed evenly throughout the chapels. There were few parishioners here, and as usual, many recognized Mary, bowing and curtseying to her. Having asked Ambrose and the other guards to give them privacy, the sisters went to the Wiener Neustädter altar at the head of the north nave, built on the orders of Emperor Frederick III.

Mary and Elizabeth stopped and made the signs of the cross. Their gazes rested upon the majestic, red marble tomb to the right of the high altar. Adorned with several hundred statues and thirty-two coats-of-arms, it contained the remains of Emperor Frederick III.

Mary pointed an index finger at the Wiener Neustädter altar. “It bears the painted images of seventy two saints. The altar panels exhibit gorgeous sculpture groups.”

Elizabeth gushed, “They are so flamboyant!” 

The German duchess was almost breathless from the beauty around them. “The Protestants and the Lutherans view statues and ornate altars as idolatry. But they are too stunning to get rid of them, like German rulers within the Holy Roman Empire did in their lands.”

The English princess wondered how her elder sister perceived their religious differences. “It happened in your duchy during the Church reforms. Did you adapt to your new life, Mary?”  

“Easily!” Mary exclaimed sincerely. “By the time I married Philip, I had stopped seeing the Protestants and the Lutherans as heretics. Everyone in Palatinate-Neuburg knows that I’m a Catholic, and I shall never abjure my faith, but they do not view me as a threat.”

“Why? Because of your ducal status?” 

Mary explained at length. “No, sister. Philip and I got married here in Vienna. After my arrival at Neuburg an der Donau, at Neuburg Castle, my husband invited me to the meeting of Privy Council. They were astonished that their sovereign’s Catholic wife was permitted to have such freedom, and I seized the opportunity to establish myself as their duchess tolerant to all religions. I promised that I would follow Philip’s guidance and would respect their traditions.”

“Was it when they began respecting you, Mary?” 

“Well, Philip thinks so. Afterwards I attended most of our Private Council’s meetings, but I do not meddle in spiritual affairs. I’ve never stressed in any way that I’m a Catholic.”

“At the same time, you have Masses conducted privately, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Mary’s scrutiny was fixed on the panel on the altar, showing scenes from the life of the Virgin Mary and Christ. “I ordered my chaplain not to interfere in anything, and he complied. I have only one Bible in Latin, which I use during my private Masses, and no other literature.”

The princess queried, “Your son, Ulrich, is a Protestant, right?” 

Mary examined the intricate pulpit. “As Philip’s heir, our son cannot be a Catholic.” She glanced back at Bess. “I do not care whether my son is a Protestant or not.”

Amazement painted itself on Elizabeth’s countenance. “Really, sister?” 

“I’m not lying, Bess.” The duchess laughed good-naturedly. “Years ago, I used to be an overzealous Catholic because of my strict Catholic upbringing. My late mother was a daughter of the far-famed Catholic monarchs, so I was taught that the Inquisition was necessary to save the souls of those who lost themselves in heresy from the eternal fires of the netherworld.”

Elizabeth confided, “In childhood I was horrified by tales about the atrocities and burnings of the Spanish Inquisition. It is dreadful to torture humans to compel them to recant.”

“Many years ago, I believed that burnings could cleanse England and other countries from heresy. Nonetheless, I changed my opinion thanks to my wise Aunt Juana. She helped me see the truth: there is only one God, and it does not matter how one calls him.”

The English princess smiled. “These are precisely my thoughts.”

The German duchess remarked, “Religion is a political and practical thing.”

“Exactly.” Elizabeth inquired anxiously, “Do you still hate my mama?” 

Mary shook her head. “I no longer loathe Queen Anne, and we have been civil with each other in Vienna. If it was not Anne, our father would have selected someone else, and he would have broken from the Pope to abandon my mother and to remarry a younger woman in order to sire a male heir. Our father’s obsession with sons caused England’s break with Rome!”  

Elizabeth’s throat squeezed in so hard she could barely force words out. “We both suffered because of him.” After a moment’s hesitation, she confessed, “I don’t miss His late Majesty.”

“Neither do I.” Mary shivered at the remembrance of her meeting with the late King Henry VIII in Flanders. “After my escape from England, our father forgot about me. He remembered me only when he decided to ally with Carlos against France. Upon my arrival in Ghent, I was browbeaten by my father into marriage to Carlos. I was a pawn in their games!”

Elizabeth embraced Mary, who responded in kind. They froze like this for a moment.

Candor slipped out of Elizabeth’s arms. “After he had expelled my mother to France, to me our father was only a king. I obeyed him only to survive! It never changed despite his attempts to repair his relationship with me. I blamed him for my separation from my mama.”

The duchess summarized, “Neither you nor I could forgive Henry the Eighth.”

“To be honest, I think that no child would have been able to forgive our father.”

“Bess,” Mary said seriously. “I hope you do not think that all men must be like our father just because he was such a horrible husband to our mothers. I assure you that it is not so.”

Elizabeth nodded slowly. “My mother’s example proves that.”

“And so does mine.” Mary’s face was illuminated by her affection for Philip. “I suffered at the hands of our father, and I was very miserable with Carlos. However, your negative emotions eventually fade away as time heals your wounds. God sent my dearest Philip to me!” 

The princess looked around because more people were now gathering in the cathedral. “Your and my mother’s cases make me hope that I can find happiness with Lord Devon.”

“I wish you all the best, Bess. Now let’s go.”

“Yes; more parishioners are coming.” Elizabeth marched away after Mary.

Soon they exited and stood on the Stephansplatz, admiring the cathedral’s strikingly high massive south tower, which was a dominant feature of the skyline. Numerous glazed tiles, which formed the steep and multicolored roof, created a mosaic of the double-headed eagle – a symbol of the Habsburg empire ruled from Vienna, and the coat-of-arms of Austria’s capital.

Mary enlightened, “During the siege of Vienna by the Turks in 1530, Ferdinand and Philip used the south tower as a command post for the defense of the walled inner city.”

Elizabeth’s brows shot up. “Was Ferdinand alone as Carlos could not assist him?” 

“Could not or didn’t want to – we know not.” Mary burst out laughing. “It was when Philip first became a hero, although only God’s grace saved Vienna from the Muslims back then.”

The princess’ lips curved in a grin. “Love is in the air when you speak of Philip.”

Mary stepped to her. “Do you feel something for Devon? I remember him as a shy boy.”

“I’m not indifferent to him.” Elizabeth’s heart hammered as she envisaged her betrothed.

Chuckling, her sister strolled to their horses. “Aphrodite will be generous to us both.”

They spoke in English, so Ambrose Dudley comprehended them and heard Mary’s words as the royals approached him. His expression evolved into melancholy for a split second.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” said Elizabeth as Ambrose helped her mount.

 The sun had risen; the firmament was endless blue with puffy, white clouds. The sound of the cathedral’s bells pealed throughout the Stephansplatz when Mary and Elizabeth departed.

§§§

After their return to the palace, Mary and Elizabeth found Philip the Contentious, Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg, in the flower and bush-tunnel garden located near the Old Fortress. It was designed in accordance with Archduke Maximilian’s tastes, serving as a private garden of exotic trees for the Imperial family. One of the arbors, entwined with climbing foliage, was furnished with an oak table and chairs. Philip sat there, holding his little son Ulrich in his arms.

Mary and Elizabeth paused nearby not to interrupt the happy father.

Philip cradled Ulrich as he purred, “My beloved son! You will be a great duke!” 

His wife’s laughter flowed like music. “Philip, he is too small to understand anything.”

The Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg turned his head to his consort. “Ah, dearest Mary! Princes may not remember what you try to teach them, but in such minutes they memorize who you are.”

Mary tipped her head. “Of course, he knows who you and I are.”

Philip planted a kiss on his son’s cheek. “Ulrich shows signs of his early precocity. Love is the supreme form of communication: he feels my love and knows that what I say is important.”

His wife was cognizant of her feeling of pride for their boy. “Ulrich has a good memory.”

Mary and Elizabeth sauntered over to the duke, watching the infant. Aged only six months, Ulrich von Wittelsbach was a large and robust child of fair complexion and with a tuft of ash blonde hair upon his head, just like his father’s. His chubby, high-cheekboned face with a small nose was lit up his wide-set and blue-gray eyes, which he had inherited from Philip’s late mother – Elisabeth of Bavaria-Landshut. Ulrich was the heir to the Duchy of Palatinate-Neuburg.

Elizabeth Tudor characterized, “He is so much like you, Philip.”

The duke answered, “Yes, Bess. Mary only needs to look at our son to remember me!” 

During their stay at the Hofburg, Elizabeth and Philip had dropped formalities.

“Our son is my Philip in miniature,” concurred the duchess. “My unforgettable husband.”   

Philip started his familiar banter. “Liebling, Mary, it is hard to recall the day you become friends with special people. And I’m very special to you! Well, you see our mutual love, Bess!” 

Elizabeth’s lips curled in a grin. “Yes, I see it, and I’m happy for you both.”

Dear God, thank you for giving me Mary and our beloved son! Philip enthused in his mind that conjured pictures of how he and his wife would grow old together and would see the birth of their grandchildren. Philip’s matrimony with Mary was the culmination of the years of Philip’s wanderings on earth in search for his true love. His happiness had been crafted by the ironic hand of fate that had first sent Mary away from him to Spain and then back to Philip in Italy.

Every time Mary looked at her family, her heart thumped in blissful joy. Mary had never imagined that a ruler could treat his wife as reverently as Philip did. He was even receptive to her criticism of his policies and decisions, although Mary had never voiced any of them at any Privy Council, not wishing to let Philip’s nobles think that she might try to dictate her will to them. I experienced injustices and abuses at the hands of Carlos, but Philip is not him.

Mary jested, “Your arrogance is more disturbing than your forgetfulness.”

Philip reveled in their repartee. “My head works like a painter’s brush: even the slightest wrong movement causes might spoil the canvas if the brush is not used proficiently.”

Tilting her head back, Elizabeth chortled. “How can it be avoided?” 

Philip’s laughter crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Only in Mary’s presence I can paint.”

“Only with me you are an efficient ruler,” the duchess added.

Philip feigned his bafflement. “Aren’t we co-rulers? Haven’t I treated you like that, wife?” 

Mary surveyed her husband and their son affectionately. “You have, meine Liebe.”   

As Philip brought the boy to his face, Ulrich attempted to grasp a few of his blonde curls. His mane of ash blonde hair, visible from beneath a black toque, was not silvered by age yet.

“He loves your hair,” assumed Mary. “Or their color. So light and rare.”

“Ash blonde is indeed a rare color,” agreed Bess. “My nephew is amused by it.”

“Perhaps.” Philip slightly bounced the infant in the air, causing Ulrich to giggle. “I regret that our boy does not have Mary’s luxuriant red-gold hair, like that of many Tudors.”

Elizabeth touched her hair, swept up in a sophisticated up-do on the nape of her head. “Our red-gold hair is a trademark for the Tudors. My Kat says that no other hair would suit me.”

Philip joked, “I adore your flaming mane that reminds me of a dragon’s wings.”   

Mary bristled. “Bess and I are not dragons!”

His grin was impish. “The Red Dragon of Wales is from the Tudors’ Welsh background.”   

Elizabeth flashed an ear-to-ear smile. “It is, but we are not dragons.”

The duke stood up and handed the child to Mary, who rocked the infant.

“Our wonderful Ulrich,” crooned Mary in German and English alternately, while lavishing sweet kisses upon his cheeks. “You will know many languages, just as your parents do.”

Philip huffed, “Someone berated me for speaking to Ulrich as if he were an adult.”

Mary contrived an answer. “As his mother, I have the right to do this.” 

Philip stood behind them. “We have equal rights for this little marvel as his parents.” 

The duchess capitulated, “In this case, I have to agree with you.” 

Torrents of euphoria inundated Princess Elizabeth as she regarded her relatives. Dressed in a gray and black brocade doublet and matching trunk hose, an elated Philip looked younger than his real age and so very content that his festive emotions were palpable in the air. A gold chain with the Wittelsbach heraldry suspended from his neck. Philip stepped forward to his wife, and his arms enfolded Mary and their son from the back like a stronghold.

Elizabeth remembered Mary from her childhood as a gloomy creature who she had often seen at Hatfield Palace. This new Mary whom she had met at the Imperial court was different – this Mary was a married woman adored by her husband and loving their little son. Mary’s white silk gown, with a collar of tender blue lace, was embroidered with jewels; there was a feathered headdress upon her head. Gracious Lord, thank you for giving my sister marital happiness.

After disentangling himself from his wife and their son, Philip stepped aside. He walked in circles around Mary and the little Ulrich to amuse them, while Ulrich’s eyes attempted to follow his father. Philip exclaimed sincerely, “You are my two greatest treasures!” 

Mary verbalized her wish. “I want to give you more children, Philip.”

“It is not necessary, my dear,” Philip soothed. “But if it happens, I’ll be the happiest man.” Mary’s miscarriage before Ulrich’s birth was still too fresh in their minds and hearts.

Mary’s blithesome laughter was like the wind, the water, and a thousand songbirds singing altogether exclusively for Philip. “At least one girl with ash blonde hair like yours! I’d love our girl to have your violet eyes that have such a unique and rare color.”

“Ah, Mary!” Philip paused beside them and kissed both his wife and their son.

Elizabeth watched this scene with a smile. “I always keep the three of you in my prayers.”

“Thank you, dearest sister,” Mary answered, sending her younger sister a grin.  

Their collective laughter saturated the small private garden with waves of effervescent joy. It appeared that even the foliage around them was laughing together with them.

Their conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Lady Catherine Ashley.

Bess questioned, “Why were you running, Kat?” 

Lady Ashley was out of breath as she informed, “Now Empress Marguerite is in labor, and Queen Juana asks you, Duchess Mary, to come and help the empress.”

Mary handed her infant son to her husband. “Philip, take Ulrich. Margot needs me!”

As a maid, Princess Elizabeth of England could not attend the empress’ labor. She crossed herself and commented, “The Lord bless the empress and her baby!”

Philip cradled the little Ulrich in his arms. “I hope everything will go smoothly.”

Mary sprinted through the garden and towards the Hofburg Palace. Juana of Castile, Queen Anne, and Duchess Mary together attended the empress’ labor. In the meantime, Emperor Ferdinand and King François paced the emperor’s quarters. At dusk, Empress Marguerite birthed a healthy daughter, whom the Imperial couple named Judith. The day ended with celebrations, and the bells of the Stephansdom and other churches were ringing like a storm.


October 6, 1551, Hofburg Palace, the city of Vienna, Austria, Holy Roman Empire

The weather was quite warm at this time of year. Stretching along the palace’s east wing, the parterre garden with its symmetrical format was aflame with browns, yellows, oranges, and reds of autumn. Empress Marguerite, Queen Anne, and Juana of Castile strolled along the paved paths, past the beds consisting of patterns with strips of box hedging on colored gravel.

“Are you feeling fine, Margot?” Juana of Castle asked with concern.

The empress nodded. “Of course. I was merely churched yesterday, not killed!”

Juana smirked. “Well, we love you so much that we are always worried about you.”

Anne noticed the sharp contrast between Marguerite’s flawless German and Juana’s highly accented German. “I, too, was churched many times in the past ten years.”

Marguerite chortled. “You get accustomed to pregnancies and churching.”

Juana and Anne shared in Marguerite’s laugh while all staying at some distance away from the younger royals. Archduke Maximillian, Prince Augustine, and Princess Aimée stood near the western side of the parterre, where rows of clipped hedges formed passageways between them.

Maximilian inquired, “Herr Lazius, is your book ready? I’d like to read it.”

Wolfgang Lazius answered, “I can give Your Highness the latest draft of my book.”

Augustine asked, “Do you need to make any corrections in it?”  

“Yes,” uttered Lazius. “Then His Imperial Majesty will need to approve everything.”  

A rotund and short man in his early forties, Wolfgang Lazius had clever, gray eyes and a high forehead. His brown hair matched his dark brocade costume wrought with silver. He was an Austrian humanist, a cartographer, a physician, as well as a professor in the medical faculty at the University of Vienna, while also teaching at the Faculty of Arts, created in the course of the emperor’s university reforms in 1537. Lazius also served as an official Imperial historian.

Aimée showcased that she was well versed in humanism. “Is it the book on cartography ‘Typi chorographici provinciarum Austriae’? You must have traveled a lot.”

Lazius was stunned with the princess’s knowledge. “I wrote a number of historical books, and to conduct my research, I visited many European countries. The mentioned work includes not only maps, but also useful information about the history of Vienna and local provinces.”

Maximilian admired his bride’s brilliant mind. “Lazius produced detailed maps of Austria, Bavaria, Hungary, and Greece. I read all of his historical and humanistic works.”

Augustine inferred, “These writings glorify the enlightened Habsburg monarchy.”

Maximilian looked at the French prince whose intelligence surpassed that of most people he had met. “It is necessary for the monarchy. The same is being done in France.”

“I cannot disagree.” Augustine smiled at the archduke.

They paused at the sight of Jacopo Strada and Giuseppe Arcimboldo heading to them.

Strada and Arcimboldo bowed to the royals. “Good afternoon,” they chorused.

Maximilian gazed at Aimée and Augustine. “I don’t need to introduce them.”

Arcimboldo swept another bow to Aimée. “My princess, I’m so eager to paint you!”

A tall, attractive man of temperamental character, Giuseppe Arcimboldo was a Milanese painter of twenty-five, his hazel eyes always following pretty ladies. Preferring eccentric clothes, he wore a cloak with a high ermine collar. Invited to the Viennese court by Empress Marguerite, he worked as a court portraitist for the Habsburgs. Arcimboldo had created many imaginative portrait heads made out of objects such as fruits, flowers, books, fish, and vegetables.

Aimée had taken a liking to the artist. “Gladly, provided that Max will not object.”

Maximilian feigned his umbrage. “Never! You know how much I adore the arts.” 

“We need a portrait of my beloved sister with the Greek lyre,” suggested Augustine.

Maximillian sighed. “It would go against our formal traditions for the representation of the Imperial family members, but my father may be persuaded.” He winked at Aimée.

Strada entered the discourse. “Your Highness! Our great King of the Romans! Perhaps you can read some poem in Greek to our illustrious emperor to make him support your idea.”

The archduke smiled at his bride. “Aimée would appreciate my sonnet in Greek more.”

The princess grinned back at him. “I would be exhilarated to receive it, Max.”

Strada dreamed of working on new projects. “Does Your Highness have any new offers for me? Should we build another wing at the palace?” His gaze was on Maximilian.

Trained as a goldsmith in the workshops of Giulio Romano, Jacopo Strada had relocated to Vienna at the emperor’s invitation. A man of versatile talents, Strada was an Italian painter, architect, goldsmith, linguist, inventor of machines, and collector of artworks. A forty-three-year-old man of average height and dark handsomeness, the ebullience of Strada’s soul and character were reflected in his mischievous green eyes, his smiles, and his vibrant outfits. Today Strada wore a red hose with codpiece and a doublet of blue velvet with gold embroidery.

Maximilian strove to limit the man’s greed. “Herr Strada! You have always been well paid for your antiquarian knowledge applied at our court. My father also rewarded you with the care of the Imperial treasury. If we need you for some project, we will let you know.”

Strada gauged his master’s thoughts. “I’m most happy to serve your noblest family.”

Maximilian smiled lustfully at Aimée as he pronounced, “Jacopo! We will hire you to build new bridal apartments for me and my muse of music – my own Euterpe.”

Aimée grinned at the nickname her fiancé had given her – she adored it wholeheartedly. “Euterpe played on a flute, and so I need this instrument urgently, Max.”

Maximilian promised, “You will have it very soon, my Euterpe.”

His fiancée chortled. “Ah, I’m so impatient, Max!”

Strada put in, “I know skilled people who can manufacture it.”

Lazius rejoined, “I ought to create a map of Muse Euterpe’s journeys.”

As they laughed, Arcimboldo proposed, “I may paint Princess Aimée as the Muse Euterpe playing on a Grecian flute or a panpipe, with a laurel wreath adorning her head.”

Maximilian nodded. Aimée enthused, “That would be amazing!”

Augustine uttered, “That would further inspire the development of arts in Vienna.”

The archduke said, “Vienna will become the center of Austrian and German Renaissance.”

Soon several archduchesses, including Barbara, joined Maximilian, Aimée, Augustine, and the artists. Laughing, they all went into the maze. Queen Anne, Empress Marguerite, and Juana watched this scene from a distance, having noticed Barbara’s attention to Augustine. Then Juana, Anne, and Marguerite promenaded through the gardens adorned with marble statues.

“Barbara seems to be smitten with Augustine,” Juana concluded.

Anne surveyed the statue of the Roman Emperor Augustus. “My son likes Barbara, but not as a woman – he admires her intelligence and her strong personality.”

Marguerite said, “My cousin, Jeanne, is smart and educated. France needs their marriage!”  

“Of course.” Anne still had misgivings about Augustine’s engagement to Jeanne.

Marguerite assured her stepmother, “Anne, be at ease. Aimée already feels comfortable at court, and we will take excellent care of her. She and Max are falling for each other.”

Juana’s gaze lingered upon the statue of the God Apollo. “Like you, Anne, Aimée is exotic in the finest way. When she becomes older, she will be the loveliest woman in Austria.”

Anne averred, “Aimée is healthy, but she has a delicate nature.”

The empress riposted, “Every woman needs to feel tender hands holding her. I feel at home when Ferdinand embraces me. I pray that Aimée will feel the same in Maximilian’s arms.”

Juana smiled at her daughter-in-law. “Ferdinand and you are both so in love!”

“Yes, Juana!” Marguerite beamed at her mother-in-law.

Juana pronounced, “Your daughter is still strong, but without your tenacity and fierceness, Anne. But if necessary, she can become a fighter, although Max will always protect her.”

Anne of France tipped her head. “You have just summed up Aimée perfectly well.”

Marguerite offered, “I want to go back to the palace.” A smile lit up her visage. “My little Judith is sleeping in the nursery, and I’m missing her so much that I can run to her.”

Juana grinned at the empress. “Ah, my newborn granddaughter is an angel!” She heaved a sigh and admitted, “I must also say that I’m rather tired and want to lie down.”

Anne and Marguerite surveyed Juana’s wrinkled face. Anne urged, “Let’s go.”

The three women returned to the parterre garden, enjoying the pictures of autumn beauty all around them. The sky was clear and blue, as if celebrating the birth of Archduchess Judith who turned one month old today. They met Duchess Mary and Princess Elizabeth who strode to the orangery with Duke Philip. Leaving them, Anne, Juana, and Marguerite entered the palace.

Notes:

The new chapter is up! Please let us know what you think of this chapter, and don’t forget to leave reviews so that we can discuss events, twists, and turns in this chapter.

The French royal family is staying at the Imperial court in Vienna. We see the feast to celebrate Prince Augustine of France’s birthday falling on the Feast of St Augustine of Hippo. We hope that you like Augustine’s interactions with his sister Aimée, Archduke Maximilian of Austria, and other members of the Imperial court. We are frequently adding Juana of Castile and her moments with Ferdinand and her relatives, for we love Juana, as many of our relatives do. Now Emperor Ferdinand and his wife, Empress Marguerite, have a new daughter, and the Imperial couple is in love, but who knows what cruel fate has in store for them…

We are delighted that you like Aimée of France and Maximilian of Austria as a couple, who are going to have Maximilian’s historical marriage to Maria of Spain (we killed off her in this fiction as we did not need her). The difference is that Aimée is a Catholic, like Maria of Spain, but she is more cultured and less radical in her views, in contrast to the historical Maria. We also mentioned that Archduchess Barbara of Austria is growing fond of Prince Augustine, who also likes her. Augustine is betrothed to his cousin, Queen Jeanne of Navarre, and their wedding will take place in several years. Yet, who knows whether Augustine and Jeanne will be in love at all, or whether they will be married for a long time – we cannot say anything else now.

Of course, Mary and Philip, who are Duke and Duchess Palatinate-Neuburg, are featured in this fiction since they live in Germany and, hence, in the Holy Roman Empire. Mary and Philip are in love and very happy together, and we also showed their son Ulrich named after Philip’s ancestor. Finally, Elizabeth and Mary Tudor are allowed to spend time together and to enjoy their close and affectionate relationship after their long years of estrangement. We hope that you like their frank and long conversation in St Stephen’s Cathedral in Vienna, or the Stephansdom, which is the seat of the Archbishop of Vienna and the main cathedral in the city.

The brief biographies of Wolfgang Lazius (humanist, cartographer, physician) and the Italian painter Giuseppe Arcimboldo, as well as Jacopo Strada (architect, goldsmith, linguist, art collector) are historically correct. Located in the center of Vienna, the Hofburg is the former principal Imperial palace of the Habsburg dynasty, and we described it close to history. The descriptions of St Stephen’s Cathedral (the Stephansdom) and Vienna are historically correct.

Attention! A while ago, we posted a prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 98: Chapter 97: Outlines of a Future

Summary:

Queen Anne and Mary Tudor, Duchess of Palatinate-Neuburg, make peace. Members of the Habsburg family gather together, including the emperor’s second son, also Ferdinand or Nando. King François speaks to his granddaughter, Charlotte who stays in Vienna, also to the Duke and Duchess d’Étampes. In France, Dauphin Henri meets his children with Catherine de’ Medici.

Notes:

Please, don’t forget to review after reading because it is important for us to be inspired and to keep going. Discussions with readers are extremely helpful for us!

Attention! The prologue to the sequel 'Chained by Blood and Power' (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don't forget about our work "Entwined by a Golden Alliance" co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 97: Outlines of a Future

October 14, 1551, Hofburg Palace, the city of Vienna, Austria, Holy Roman Empire

The expressions of the Imperial and French rulers were relaxed, their mood equally elated. After matins, Queen Anne had returned to her suite with Princess Aimée. King François, as well as Emperor Ferdinand, his mother, and both of Ferdinand’s eldest sons had gone to the presence chamber, decorated with white-gold paneling and burgundy damask wall hangings.

King François regarded Emperor Ferdinand and Archduke Maximilian. “The wedding will take place in two years in Vienna. Anne and I will try to come to the event.”   

The emperor nodded. “We will be waiting for you, my friend.”

Maximilian’s expression evolved into elation. “Aimée and I will have a splendid wedding at the Stephansdom. Nobles from all the corners of the Holy Roman Empire will attend.”   

Juana of Castile smiled at her grandson. “You are rather impatient, Max.”

Maximilian was truly enchanted with his bride. “I cannot wait to make Aimée my wife.”

François grinned. “My daughter shall play for you on the lyre as often as possible.”

“I know the Greek language well enough,” bragged Maximilian. “Currently, I’m refreshing my knowledge in Greek culture so I can write poems for Aimée in the ancient style.”   

Ferdinand smiled. “That’s commendable, son.”

The French and the Imperial families were glad to see Maximilian’s admiration for and his emotional attachment to Aimée de Valois. The couple spent a lot of time together every day, but never without a chaperon. Maximilian bestowed gifts upon Aimée, ranging from jewels to her favorite presents – books and all things associated with music and the arts.

“Your bride is a fascinating woman, brother,” opined Nando.

Archduke Ferdinand II of Austria was the emperor’s second son with Anna of Bohemia and Hungary. To distinguish between the older Ferdinand and his younger namesake, Empress Marguerite had started calling her stepson Nando, and other members of the family, including the young archduke himself, liked this nickname. Clad in a black brocade doublet with gold buttons, Nando was a handsome man of twenty-one with an oval face set with pale blue eyes, a slight Habsburg jaw, and auburn hair visible from beneath a black toque.

Nando joined, “Maximilian’s betrothal is an excellent way to further connect the Austrian Habsburgs and the Valois family. King Felipe of Spain remains our quiet foe.”

Everyone tipped their heads. The emperor and his mother both sighed with regret.

Maximilian asserted, “As soon as my stepmother Margot suggested this match, I consented to it, at first for political reasons. Now I yearn to marry Aimée because of my feelings.”   

François was satisfied. “Anne and I will be delighted to have you as our son-in-law, Max.”

“Likewise,” Maximilian said as he sent François a grin.

Nando predicted, “This betrothal is useful for all parties in many ways.”

Maximilian’s gaze slid to Juana. “Forgive me, dearest Grandmother, but I detested how the late Emperor Carlos treated my father, whose loyalty was never appreciated by your eldest son. Driven by his greed and other perverted desires, Carlos eventually betrayed my father and tried to kill him. And Carlos also betrayed me and all of my siblings because he disinherited us all.” 

Nando’s gaze traversed Emperor Ferdinand, Maximilian, and Juana. “I cannot call the late emperor ‘Uncle Carlos’ because his hatred of our father made all of us suffer.”

“I understand,” Juana uttered in a voice tinged with hurt and resignation.

Maximilian’s mind drifted back to their gloomiest days. “Brother, I still remember how we fled Vienna to Bohemia after our father’s imprisonment and Margot’s hasty departure to Milan, where she was entrapped by thousands of Carlos’ soldiers.”

Nando continued, “We owe our lives to Philip, Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg. He and some other good nobles aided us to escape to Bohemia and kept us safe there.”

Maximilian complained, “Afterwards, we spent many months in Bohemia. We waited for news from Milan, fearing that our father could be killed. Those days were awful!” 

“Max, our siblings, and I cannot forget it,” Nando admitted.

Emperor Ferdinand and Juana were sad that the young generation still was so traumatized. Usually, the topic of Carlos’ demise and his relationship with Ferdinand were taboo for them and for everyone else at the Viennese court in order not to hurt the Imperial family.  

François drummed his fingers across the armrests. “Unfortunately, I was unable to help Ferdinand, Margot, and any of you. I myself had a rendezvous with Lady Mortality in Milan.”

A crestfallen Juana spoke. “Dear grandsons! Don’t apologize, for I understand everything. However, I beg of you not to slander Carlos. Regardless of his mistakes, he was my son.”

Nando responded, “I’m sorry, Grandmother.”

“We shall not speak about the past again,” Maximilian offered.  

Juana’s expression brightened. “I love you all so much!” 

Maximilian bared his heart. “Your arrival in Vienna is like a God’s blessing for us.”

Nando grinned. “Our dreams to have a loving grandmother have come true.”

Juana’s heart hammered with jubilation. “I’ve been very happy here.”

Emperor Ferdinand thought of the Spanish branch of the Habsburg dynasty. “The enmity between Carlos’ descendants and us is highly likely to last for another generation.”

Maximilian hypothesized, “Perhaps our children will be able to make peace.”

“I detest Felipe of Spain,” professed Nando. “And he detests us all.”

The monarch of France shared his knowledge. “His wedding to Infanta Maria of Portugal in Madrid was sumptuous. Felipe seems to be in love with her, calling her his goddess.”

Maximilian’s brows knitted. “I’m relieved that none of my sisters became Felipe’s wife.”

Two months ago, King Felipe II of Spain had married his first cousin – Infanta Maria of Portugal, Duchess of Viseu. She was the only daughter of the late King Manuel of Portugal and the late Eleanor of Austria, Dowager Queen of Portugal and Queen of France. The ceremony had happened in Valladolid, but splendid celebrations had also taken place in many cities and lasted for two weeks. Afterwards, Felipe and Maria had gone to their honeymoon at the Alhambra in Granada, just as Emperor Carlos V and his wife, Isabella of Portugal, had done years ago.

Emperor Ferdinand thought of his own family. One day, my eldest son will succeed me as emperor. Maximilian is quite suitable for this unique role. Maximilian was a true German and Austrian prince due to his upbringing, and he even publically displayed his detestation of the Spaniards despite his father’s Castilian and Aragonese origins. Charismatic and well educated, Maximilian possessed a relaxed and merry demeanor, unlike most Germans. Maximilian adhered to the principles of humanism and religious tolerance – those qualities that had made Ferdinand immensely popular with German Lutheran princes, who were also fond of Maximilian.

Juana assessed, “Following these festivities, Spain’s debts must have increased.”

The emperor agreed, “Yes, Felipe should be frugal to make his realms solvent again.”

Maximilian opined, “Yet, he might attack us at the first suitable opportunity.”

François concluded, “We must all be careful and vigilant.”

Everyone nodded at the King of France dismally. A short pause ensued.

Emperor Ferdinand announced, “Maximilian, I shall abdicate the crown of Bohemia to you before your wedding to Aimée. You and your bride will be sovereigns of Bohemia.”

Now Maximilian felt vainglorious. “As well as King and Queen of the Romans.”

Nodding, the emperor affirmed, “François, I hope that you are not upset that your daughter, Margot, will not be Queen of Bohemia after Aimée’s marriage to Max.”

The Valois ruler replied, “Ferdinand, it is not my realm to decide anything, but I’m grateful to you. I did not expect that you would surrender one of your crowns even to a family member.”

Juana sighed. “Ferdinand is not Carlos.”

“Yes, I’m not him.” The emperor averted his eyes to hide his inner tumult.

The emperor’s sons traded anxious glances, bereft on behalf of their relatives.

Ferdinand shifted to a religious topic. “Maximilian, I’m worried about your closeness with Sebastian Pfauser. This preacher has strong leanings towards Lutheranism, and so my councilors are afraid that you might abjure the Catholic Church. Our vast domains need a tolerant emperor, but you must remain a Catholic, even if your beliefs are a bit different in private.”

Maximilian assuaged his parent’s concerns. “Be at ease, Father: I shall never convert.” His views were somewhat Lutheran, but he would never jeopardize the Imperial throne.

The emperor felt easier now. “I needed this reassurance.”

François underscored, “My wife converted into Catholicism to ensure our safety.”

“Nominally,” stressed Maximilian, while the others only shrugged.

The emperor stated, “Maximilian is quite skilled at handing Imperial, Austrian, Bohemian, Croatian, and other state affairs together with me and my Mother, as well as Margot.”

Maximilian assured, “I’m doing my best.”

The emperor dipped his head. “I can see this, Max.”

Emperor Ferdinand ruled the Holy Roman Empire alongside with Archduke Maximilian, making most decisions together, but the emperor’s opinion prevailed in case of disagreements. Juana assisted them in governing Austria, Croatia, and other lands. Empress Marguerite managed the affairs of Bohemia together with her husband and Maximilian. The emperor valued female intelligence and encouraged his relatives to be engaged in the governance of his domains.

Ferdinand regarded Juana reverently. “Mother, we are fortunate that you are playing an active role in the government thanks to your great wisdom and intelligence.”

Juana smiled at her beloved son. “If all members of the Austrian House of Habsburg work hard and together, we shall serve the interests of the state in the best possible way.”

Maximilian lauded, “Grandmother, your counsel is always useful.”

The emperor summed up, “Our most important order of business is to govern our territorial possessions well, and to preserve the peace in our domains and with our allies.”

“Unity is strength, division is weakness,” stated François. Nods followed.

The emperor directed his orbs at his second son and instructed, “Nando, you must be more involved the state affairs of what we call Further Austria – our ancient possessions in Swabia.”

Swabia was a cultural and historic region in southwestern Germany.

Nando promised, “I shall not disappoint you, Father.”

The emperor added, “I wish you had been like Max in your personal life.”

Nando contradicted, “I’ll obey you in everything, Father, but please leave my personal life to me.” The image of Elizabeth Tudor flashed in his mind, and his loins swelled with desire.

The emperor grumbled, “Nando, you will have to marry eventually.”   

Juana put in, “You, Nando, need to find a princess worthy of your affections.”

“I’ll be the best husband to Aimée.” At the thought of her, Maximilian’s pulse quickened.

Nando voiced his opinion. “Marriage is good only to the right person. Like your wives.”

Maximilian’s devotion to the Valois princess was obvious, as was the contrast between him and Nando, who admired Princess Elizabeth Tudor, but she was betrothed.   

§§§

Empress Marguerite rested upon an enormous bed canopied with yards of yellow, red, and black silk. Emperor Ferdinand sat on the bed’s edge, holding his consort’s hand. Equipped with oak and gilded furniture, the bedroom was full of objects d’art, including marble and bronze statues of classical heroes, vases, columns of agate and lapis lazuli, as well as gilded and silver chandeliers. The frescoed ceiling and the wall frescoes depicted the Habsburg crown lands.

Her apartments consisted of her bedroom and antechamber, as well as living and dressing rooms. The interior was a mix of the ceremonious Austrian and the flamboyant French style. The wall tapestries portrayed beautiful landscapes, including Austrian, Bohemian, Italian, French, and Spanish ones. Paintings by Michelangelo, Titian, and Raphael adorned one of the walls.

The French monarchs stood at the other side of the chamber near a gilded cradle. With the long Valois nose, amber eyes, and chestnut hair, Judith was a healthy baby.

King François cradled his infant granddaughter in his arms. “She is quite bonny!”

Empress Marguerite glanced at him. “Her name means ‘a praised woman,’ Father.”

François planted a kiss on the child’s forehead. “God bless you, Judith!” 

Queen Anne observed, “Margot, your daughter looks like you.”

Ferdinand chuckled. “Our little Judith is her mother’s small copy. As Judith von Habsburg was my ancestress on paternal side, it is amusing to see a Habsburg child looking like a Valois.”

Marguerite squeezed her husband’s hand. “She is a Habsburg-Valois child!” 

Anne eyed the others. “She is a symbol of the peace between our families!”

François cast a wistful glance at the empress. “Soon we will have to leave for France.”

“I’ll miss you, Father,” gushed Marguerite. “But we will write to each other often.” 

Nodding, François handed the infant to Ferdinand who approached them. In a handful of moments, the French spouses departed. The emperor returned to the bed with the baby.

The emperor eased himself on the bed while rocking the child in his arms. “I’m not young anymore, but I must say that our children make me want to live forever, Margot.”

“Kiss me!” The empress outstretched her arms to her husband. “Kiss me now!”  

Ferdinand leaned forward and kissed her on the nose. “Enough, Margot?” 

Her grin was like a dose of sunshine for him. “It is never enough for me.”

His orbs gleamed salaciously. “Wait for this night!”

An enamored Marguerite purred, “You are the love of my life. Without you, Ferdinand, I become like a withering flower in the autumn gardens. When you are with me, the moon is rising out of the ruddy haze of our passion, and we both luxuriate in its white, exquisite glow.”

Ferdinand also spoke in romantic accents. “Your loveliness and sophisticated personality have long enchanted me, Margot. If you ever leave me, I shall follow you through the darkest night just to find you. My love for you is an eternal flame blazing inside of me!”

“The many years of our marriage transformed you into a poet, Ferdinand.”

“Indeed.” He breathed against his wife’s lips, “You are only mine, Margot!”

Overall, Marguerite was very content. Aimée’s betrothal to Maximilian was another way to tie the Habsburgs of Vienna to France, she mused. Throughout all these years, the empress had worked to ensure that her father’s friendship with her husband would become unbreakable.

Leaning forward, Ferdinand captured her lips with his, their daughter placed in his hands between them. Their kiss was long, deep, and possessive, as if they had been extremely thirsty. They pulled away only when the hungry baby girl wailed, demanding her nurse’s attention.


October 20, 1551, Hofburg Palace, the city of Vienna, Austria

Dim morning light streamed inside through the windows, painting the bedchamber of the Duke and Duchess of Palatinate-Neuburg in charming purples and blues. Philip and Mary lay on a bed with brocade hangings of orange damask, embroidered with architectural elements. With its white and gold paneled walls, their suite was stuffed with furniture exhibiting the lavish use of vegetal forms such vines, leaves, and flowers intertwined in complex designs.

Philip stirred, entangling his limbs with those of his wife. “It’s the time of sunrise.”

A yawning Mary nested in his embrace. “Do you want to get up, geliebter Mann?”

“No.” He kissed her on the forehead. “Instead, I crave to do something else.”

Another yawn spilled out of her mouth. “What exactly?” 

“Try to guess.” A moment later, the duke gathered his spouse deeper into his arms.

The skin on skin contact charged the spouses with fluids of sensuality. His arms traversed the smooth surface of her back as Philip drew his duchess closer. His hands held her head still for their long, ardent kisses, which caused their pulses to stammer, re-start, and leap. His splayed fingers tugged restlessly on the velvet strings of her red silk nightgown before Philip stripped her off it. The duke caught his breath at the sight of Mary so sweetly exposed to him.

Propped upon her elbow, Mary tunneled her fingers through her own hair that tumbled down her back like a sun-kissed waterfall. “Do I look like a desirable goddess for you?” 

Philip buried his head into her thick, long tresses and kissed them, enjoying the smell of lavender. “This auburn cascade of your hair… I’ve admired it since I first saw you in Italy.”

A smile flourished on her visage. “One day, they will be gray. You will dislike it, then.”

“My hair,” he began while feasting kisses upon her neck, “will become gray before yours.”

She touched his curls. “So far you have only a few streaks of gray on the temples.” Her hand stroked his ash-blonde strands of hair on his right temple. “They make you look manlier.”

His admiring gaze examined the curves of her body. “You are so feminine, geliebte Frau!” 

“Will you proceed, or do I have to wait, Your Grace?” Impatience colored her tone.

His hands kneaded her breasts, ramping up the excitement. “As my duchess commands.”

Mary was delighted when Philip put his head between her thighs. She lifted her legs and placed them upon his shoulders, further securing him to her, as if anchoring herself to the land of her enjoyment. As his expert mouth performed marvels with her flesh in her most secret place, Mary felt lightheaded, as if floating in the air soaked with the vapors of their physical cravings.

Philip is such an unselfish lover, Mary thought, her head swimming. An experienced man, the late Emperor Carlos had satisfied her in the marriage bed, despite their difficult relationship. Nonetheless, she had never had any intimate experiments during her first matrimony, and now Mary perceived her intimacies as an act of her and Philip’s mutual devotion. Not a womanizer, Philip was still a maestro of their amorous life, teaching Mary to do many pleasing things.

“Philip!” The duchess almost dragged his head up to her breasts. “Take me now!” 

“I love you!” The duke entered her with a stroke so fevered that they both shuddered.

Each of Philip’s movements inside of his wife was igniting a flame of fiery passionate fire in their bodies. His hands roamed over her body possessively and yet tenderly. Her fingers speared through his hair as he angled her mouth for an even deeper contacts of their lips.

Throwing her head back, Mary closed her eyes. “I want another child.”

“A girl resembling you.” The duke penetrated her deeper.

Her flesh was too acutely cognizant of his motions. “Isabel in honor of Empress Isabella.”  

His tongue teased and taunted her lips. “And in honor of Queen Isabel of Castile.”

Hot, liquid need pouring through their veins, the spouses performed their conjugal dance with a desperation akin to that of ancient crusaders battling for the holy city of Jerusalem. They were levitated above the universe and all mundane things, their sensations transcending reality and ensconcing them into the realm governed by their eternal feelings. The explosion came like lightning, tightening their loins and dragging shrieks from them.

The sated spouses entangled their limbs, their faces inches apart, looking like twin saplings reaching out for the sky. The only sound in the bedroom was their erratic breathing before the duke rolled off of his spouse and rested on his side while keeping his palm on Mary’s stomach.

With aching slowness, Philip caressed Mary’s abdomen and her legs. “I prefer to stay in our bed with you for the rest of my life. I constantly yearn to touch and kiss every inch of you.”

“You are not like my late father.” Mary’s smile vanished, replaced by a look of haunting anguish. “Henry the Eighth of England wanted only sons. Girls were useless for him.”

“Forget about him.” Philip did not call King Henry a tyrant out of respect for his wife. He bent over her and scattered heady kisses along Mary’s upper body. “I need only you, Mary.” His breath warmed her ear. “And our dearest son Ulrich. Fatherhood is a delightful thing!”

His conceited grin made her mock threaten, “I might not permit you to be with me again.”

The duke cupped her face with his hands. “You shall. As always.”

The sun had long risen, but the spouses made love again, bouquets of elation blossoming in them. Soon Mary’s maid came and notified them about a guest, compelling them to get dressed.

§§§

Mary entered the living room, which was one of the chambers inside their apartments. The walls were decorated with a selection of the Habsburg family portraits, as well as tapestries of Austrian landscapes, displaying representations of twelve months of the year and the signs of the zodiac. A line of chairs, upholstered in burgundy velvet, was arranged around the chamber.

Queen Anne of France stood studying the portraits when Mary entered.

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” began Mary, causing Anne to turn to her.

Anne let out a reserved a smile. “I hope that I’m not intruding upon your privacy.”

“On the contrary. It is high time to finally start the day, for it is late. Let’s take a seat.” 

Mary and Anne settled themselves comfortably in front of each other. There was a moment of profound silence in the room as the two women contemplated each other curiously.

Anne Boleyn still looks stunning, Mary concluded as she surveyed the older woman. Queen Anne, she corrected herself. She has no gray hair, and her facial skin is smooth. Anne was attired in a lemon-colored satin gown with slashed sleeves, its bodies wrought with threads of gold and embroidered with figures of phoenix. A diamond tiara glittered upon her head. Mary discerned in Anne’s dark eyes and in her whole appearance the true contentment from love and motherhood.

The Queen of France started, “Your Grace, the purpose of my visit is to say to you some important things. Time and distance separated us for years, but now I have this opportunity.”

The Duchess of Palatinate-Neuburg amended, “Time, distance, and King Henry.”

“Indeed.” Anne nodded dolefully. “Your late father.”

“Your Majesty,” Mary addressed emphatically. “I planned to speak to you privately.”

“Likewise.” The easiness with which her former stepdaughter used ‘Majesty’ to address Anne both gladdened and surprised Anne. “I ask you for your forgiveness for the many woes that befell you in England, although I’m not directly responsible for many of them.”

Mary blinked, for the apology was unexpected, before she nodded. “Nobody lives without jostling and also being jostled. Everyone, especially a strong woman living in a man-dominated society, needs to elbow herself through the world, often hurting others and receiving sorrows. Over time, I’ve realized that we should let go of anger and resentment for a stress-free life.”

Anne dipped a nod. “These are sagacious words, Your Grace.”

Mary stated, “The doorstep to the temple of wisdom is the understanding of your true self.”

The French queen saw some of the late Catherine of Aragon’s qualities in Mary, including her headstrongness, intelligence, bravery, piety, and stubbornness. Years ago, these traits of her character had been preventing Mary from signing the Oath of Supremacy on her father’s orders. Elizabeth had told Anne that Mary was no longer a fanatical Roman Catholic but a tolerant one.

Mary is such a beautiful and interesting person, Anne speculated inwardly as she regarded the duchess. She was very hurt by Henry, me, and Carlos. It’s good to see Mary happy with her second German husband. In a magnificent brocaded gown of pink and silver, embroidered with pearls and beadwork, Mary was a mature nymph, her hair arranged in an elaborate chignon.

“I’m grateful to Your Majesty.” Sadness lanced through Mary at the remembrance of her old afflictions. “I did not expect to hear this, Madame.” She paused for a split second. “My late father was a controlling, dangerous, and mercurial man. It took me a lot of time to understand that even if he did not meet you, he would have abandoned my mother for someone else.”

Astonishment manifested itself on Anne’s countenance. “Yes, Henry would have done so.”

“Now I comprehend it.” Mary was relieved that her half-sister, Elizabeth, had not reported their conversations to her mother, despite the girl’s love for Anne of France.

“I do not regret that Henry and I had our romance, or Bess would not have been born.”

Mary beamed at her sister’s mention. “We started corresponding after our father’s death.”

Anne smiled: the Tudor sisters carried their love for each other through time and distance. “Bess adores Your Grace immensely. I want both of you to keep your friendship.”

Mary’s mind floated to King Edward of England. “I’ve never met my half-brother Edward, the son of King Henry and Anne Bassett, and the boy has never sent to me a single letter – I wish Ned well, but we are unlikely to ever meet. So, I have only Bess who I love a lot.”

The queen switched back to their main topic. “Things I did… I mean my relationship with Henry during the Great Matter and my marriage to him, as well as my lack of respect to your late mother and my condemnation of her stubbornness to step aside and let Henry remarry…”

Mary sighed. “Those days were dreadful for my mother and me.”

Anne explained, “Henry assured me that Catherine of Aragon consummated her union with Prince Arthur of Wales. I had no reason not to believe Henry.”  

Mary surmised, “You believed that my mother had lied to my father. Thus, you considered my father a free man with whom you could create a family.”

“Precisely. These were my thoughts at the time, Your Grace.”

The onslaught of sadness hit Mary, and she failed to guard herself against it. “My father lectured to me that my poor mother was a lying bitch with a barren womb.”

Anne felt for Mary. “Henry could be very callous.”

“I know it.” Mary’s feelings for her deceased father were conflicted.

Anne recollected, “I was very young when King Henry started pursuing me, and I lacked experience in life and matters of the heart. I really loved the late king: my feelings for Henry were sincere and deep, although they were also of obsessive nature. I believed each and every word he spoke to me, and Henry knew how to charm and woo a woman with his romantic words, letters, and gifts.” She paused to collect her thoughts. “At the time, Henry was a god in my eyes, and he was denied his freedom by the Pope and his obstinate and self-serving, old Spanish wife.”

Mary dragged a shuddering breath. “Henry did not lie to you – my mother did. Therefore, I have neither inclination nor desire to claim the rights of an heir to the English throne.”

Her former stepmother gawked at her. “What? How?” 

The duchess flinched, for the grievous truth hurt her a lot, and her expression wavered for a moment. “After Arthur’s untimely death, Catalina of Aragon became a widow left in her misery and uncertainty concerning her future. She was forced to exist in poverty because King Henry the Seventh did not give her enough money to sustain herself and her household. My mother even sold her gold plate just to find a way to buy food for herself and her servants.”

“I’m very sorry, Your Grace. The Tudors can be cruel.”

“Any ruler can be,” Mary supplied, thinking of Emperor Carlos. “I feel that my obligation is to tell you the truth. My mother received a command from her parents to say that she was a virgin so as to be to marry Arthur’s younger brother – Prince Henry, the new Prince of Wales.”  

“How did you learn this, Your Grace?” a shaken Anne queried.

Mary’s gaze flew to the painting of the old and dignified Juana of Castile, created a year ago in Vienna. “I spent several years with Aunt Juana at the Royal Palace of Tordesillas. It was when I became aware of some of the Habsburg family’s secrets, including my mother’s.”  

The queen’s hands fidgeted with her rings. “What do you think now?” 

The duchess’ heart skipped a beat. “I both understand and condemn my poor mother. She had no choice in her adolescence – she had to obey her formidable, cunning parents. Then she continued the pretense to keep her crown, and to protect my rights for the English throne.”

Anne discerned Mary’s inner perturbation. “It must be painful for you.”

“Very much so.” Mary sighed with chagrin. “I wish my mother had stepped aside without disclosing her secret to the world. It would have been better for both of us.”

“She would not have suffered so much at Henry’s hands, then.”

Mary speculated, “Catalina of Aragon strove to protect her honor, her own crown, and my future. Since my childhood, she taught me that I was destined to become the greatest Queen of England, just as Queen Isabella of Castile once ruled Castile.” Mary let out a sigh. “However, fate intervened: my mother died in exile, my father broke with Rome, and I was bastardized on his orders, so Bess remained our father’s legitimate heir. Eventually, I fled England, which resulted in my marriages to Carlos and later to Philip. Now my fate is connected with Germany.”

Curiosity gnawed at Anne. “Does Emperor Ferdinand know the truth?” 

“I told Ferdinand everything, but it is a family secret. Philip also knows it.”

“Did Carlos know the truth when he married you, if I may ask?” 

Mary acknowledged, “Yes, but Carlos needed his alliance with England to crush France, not expecting that it would result in his demise. The truth has been hidden! He also destroyed all the letters my grandparents wrote to England. Now only Elizabeth has one of such letters.”

The queen gasped. “Bess told you about the letters which Lady Catherine Exeter gave her after the Duke of Suffolk’s death in Boulogne?” Recovering her wits, she said, “These are Maria de Salinas’ letters, in which Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon enjoined her to ensure that the young Catalina was seen as a maiden by the English royals and nobles.”

Once more, Mary was glad that Bess kept her secrets even from her mother, which meant that she could trust her sister. “Elizabeth and I discussed this matter at length.”

Elizabeth appeared in the doorway. “We did, Mother. Mary and I are true sisters.”

A frowning Anne got to her feet. “You should have revealed everything to me, Bess.”

Elizabeth approached and curtsied. “Dear Mother! I love you wholeheartedly and will do anything for you. However, you must understand that I have my own life to live.”

Anne smiled. “Be at ease, my darling Bess. I’m glad you and Mary are so close.”

Mary stood up as well. “Elizabeth, you ought to keep these letters.”

Elizabeth gaped. “Why? It’s not my intention to taint your late mother’s name, Mary.”

Mary explained, “My mother is dead, and only God can judge her. If you ever ascend the English throne, some Catholics might plot against you. You need the proof of your legitimacy.

“Thank you, sister.” Elizabeth’s smile conveyed her gratitude.

“You are welcome, sister.” Mary sent Bess a fond glance. Then the duchess told her former stepmother, “Let bygones be bygones and try to become friends from now on.”

A grinning Anne responded, “Let the shadows of the past fade away forever.”

The duchess concurred. “It’s far better this way.”

An ecstatic Anne watched Elizabeth and Mary embrace one another. Her heart lighter than it had been in months, the Queen of France then chatted animatedly with the Tudor sisters.

§§§

King François surveyed Charlotte de Valois. She bore a striking resemblance to his dearly departed son – Charles de Valois, Duke d’Orléans – and Charlotte was his only descendant. François’ anger with Anne de Pisseleu for her one-night liaison with Charles had long vanished like smoke. Holy Father, bless the soul of my son Charles, the French ruler prayed inwardly.  

“Your Majesty, thank you for coming.” Charlotte curtsied to her beloved grandfather.

“Rise, my nymph,” permitted François. “Address me personally in private.”

The girl beamed at him. “Grandfather! I’ve been so happy in Vienna!” 

The monarch pulled her into a warm embrace, and as François was very tall, Charlotte looked so petite in his arms. The Duke and Duchess d’Étampes observed this scene with grins.

The ruler visited Charlotte in the apartments occupied by the Étampes ducal couple. Not many ladies-in-waiting accompanied Queen Anne to Vienna, and Anne de Pisseleu was one of them. The antechamber’s walls were painted with flowers and trees, while the lofty plafond boasted gorgeous scenes from the life of Flora, the Roman goddess of flowers.

As they parted, François questioned, “Lotte, do you want to live in Vienna?”

Charlotte nodded vigorously. “I do! Aimée will need me a lot here.”

“Very well.” The king was relieved that Aimée would have her close relative among her ladies in addition to the Bourbon girls who had traveled to Austria from France. “In this case, if your mother does not object, you may stay in Vienna and serve Aimée.”  

Charlotte pleaded, “Yes, please!” She glanced at Anne de Pisseleu. “Mother?”

Sadness shadowed the lovely countenance of Anne de Pisseleu, but she acquiesced, “Of course, my dearest. How can I do anything that might upset you, Lotte?” 

“Thank you, Mama.” Charlotte was exhilarated and simultaneously sad that she would be far from her mother. “We will often write to each other, and you can come to Vienna anytime.”

Anne requested, “Write to me often! I’m not sure that we will see each other soon. Now I’m serving Queen Anne, while your stepfather is Her Majesty’s captain of the guard.”

Jean de Brosse, Duke d’Étampes, joined the conversation. “Our responsibilities will keep us busy, but you can visit France from time to time, Charlotte.”  

François dipped a nod. “Aimée would not object.”

Charlotte confirmed, “The princess said the same to me.”

“Then all is settled, except for one thing.” The ruler smiled mysteriously.

“What is it, Grandfather?” Impatience colored Charlotte’s voice.

With a smile, François extracted a sheet of paper from a pocket of his red damask doublet. “This is a patent of nobility.” He beckoned the girl to him. “Take it, Charlotte.”

Charlotte de Valois strode over to the king, swept a curtsey, and took the document from his hands. Her expression perplexed, she unfolded the paper and read it swiftly.

Amazement reflected itself on Charlotte’s visage. “Am I really Duchess d’Avignon now?” 

“Yes, dear.” François smiled at his granddaughter’s astonishment. “Lotte, this new title will improve your station in the eyes of the Habsburgs and others in the Holy Roman Empire.”

Charlotte blurted out, “What about Diane de Valois? She is also illegitimate.” 

Anne criticized, “What will His Majesty think? That I failed to raise you as a proper lady?” 

Charlotte lowered her eyes. “I apologize, Your Majesty.”

François eased their concerns. “Don’t, for you have not displeased me.”

“Thanks be to God.” The duchess was relived; her husband was silent.

The king studied his former maîtresse-en-titre. In a magenta rose silk gown ornamented with embroidered patterns of leafy branches, Anne de Pisseleu remained a gorgeous beauty, in spite of the passage of time. There were not many wrinkles under her eyes, which had appeared in the aftermath of her tragedies – the deaths of King Henri II of Navarre and their three children.

As their gazes locked, François discerned the profound anguish concealed in the depths of her emerald orbs, which had once ensnared him. He had never loved Anne de Pisseleu, but she had been an essential part of his life for years while he had kept her as his chief mistress. Despite his affection for his sister Marguerite, he understood what had driven Henri II of Navarre into Anne’s arms. Doubtless Henri d’Albert was Anne de Pisseleu’s great love.

“Madame d’Étampes,” said François gently. “Don’t be afraid, and let the past remain in the past. You and your offspring will always be welcome at my court.”

Anne answered, “Thank you for everything, Your Majesty.”

The monarch regarded the Étampes spouses. “I pray that you two have found peace.”

“More or less, Your Majesty,” Jean IV de Brosse responded stiffly.

The Duke d’Étampes slanted a glance at his wife. Jean had a secret: he had fallen for Anne de Pisseleu many years ago when she still was the king’s paramour. For a long time, he had despised Anne because of her public and extravagant amours with their sovereign while battling against his love for Anne. Jean had rejoiced when François dismissed her as his maîtresse-en-titre, having hoped that they could have reconciled, but she had treated him with loathing.

Anne’s affair with the deceased Henri II of Navarre, had further distanced Jean and Anne. The births of their bastard children had made Jean de Brosse loathe his wife with every fiber of his being. Nonetheless, nothing could quench Jean’s affection for Anne. The murders of Henri and his three offspring with Anne had nearly broken Anne de Pisseleu, and Jean had managed to become Anne’s consolation. Eventually, Anne had birthed their son René, but the duke was aware that his wife did not love him. Should I confess my feelings to my wife? Jean wondered.

François declared, “Love does not come quickly – it’s everyday work.”

Anne answered, “Thank you for my daughter’s ennoblement, Your Majesty.”

The monarch envisaged the deceased Prince Charles. “My son would have approved of it.” He then came to his granddaughter and gave her his blessing. “Be safe, Lotte.”

After the king’s departure, the Étampes spouses and Charlotte settled themselves in finely carved chairs. Anne’s expression did not bode well, so Jean asked, “What’s wrong, wife?” 

Anne de Pisseleu dismissed, “Nothing, Jean. It is not about you.”  

A crestfallen Jean sighed. “Aren’t we friends?” 

“We are, Jean.” The duchess glared at Charlotte. “There is something alarming.”

Jean’s gaze darted between the two women. “What has my stepdaughter done?” 

Anne disclosed, “Lotte is infatuated with Archduke Ferdinand, the emperor’s second son.”

“Mother, why did you reveal my secret?” Charlotte’s cheeks reddened in embarrassment.

Anne’s glower pierced her daughter. “Jean has been like a father to you, and he deserves to know.” Her gaze slid to her husband. “The young Nando, as they call him, has many mistresses in Vienna and in other cities across Austria, where the court goes from time to time, including Innsbruck and Salzburg. My daughter cannot tear her eyes away from Nando at feasts.”

“Oh,” breathed a startled Jean. “Lotte, is that why you want to live at the Imperial court?” 

The girl’s blush deepened. “I desire to serve Aimée, but I adore Nando.”

Anne aimed to shatter her daughter’s illusions. “My dearest Lotte! Archduke Ferdinand is a handsome philanderer, charming, superbly educated, and eager to try everything in his splendid life. He has already rejected many matches, but he will never marry a French prince’s bastard.”

Tears flowed out of Charlotte’s eyes. “Even though I am a duchess now?”  

Jean supported his wife’s efforts. “You are not a princess, Lotte. Forget about Archduke Nando who does not even look your way. I noticed his interest in Princess Elizabeth.”   

Charlotte scrubbed away her tears. “Nando tries to court Princess Elizabeth, doesn’t he?” 

Jean chastised, “He is His Highness Archduke Ferdinand for you!” 

“He is trying,” the duchess certified. “However, Emperor Ferdinand made it clear to Nando that Princess Elizabeth would marry the Earl of Devon. Queen Anne did the same.”

Jean admonished, “Lotte, I love you like my own daughter. I beseech you not to commit anything illicit after our departure to France. Don’t shame the House of Valois!” 

Anne leaned forward and clasped both of the girl’s hands in hers. “Don’t follow in my footsteps, my dear – never become anyone’s paramour. Emperor Ferdinand and King François assured us that they would find for you an Austrian, German, or French match worthy of you.”  

“Ah, Mother.” Yet, the girl doubted that she would be able to forget Nando.

They discussed the situation in France where the pandemic seemed to be almost over. Yet, Charlotte’s mind conjured pictures of the attractive Archduke Ferdinand II of Austria. It would be difficult for her to fight against temptation, and she fantasized about their possible romance.   


March 15, 1552, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, Île-de-France, France

The French royal family had returned to France several months ago. The plague had ended in November 1551, but thousands had succumbed to it, in particular in central and southern France. In her brother’s absence, Dowager Queen Marguerite of Navarre had ruled the kingdom. Dauphin Henri, Marie de Bourbon, Queen Jeanne of Navarre, and the Valois children had also come back to France. After the Loire Valley had been ravaged by the plague, King François had transferred the royal children’s household to Château de Villers-Cotterêts in Picardy.

Dauphin Henri and Queen Anne entered one of the presence chambers at the château. The walls were paneled with dark mahogany wood, boasting gilt décor. High-back chairs, decorated with carved shields with the fleurs-de-lis of France, were lined along a long, elaborately carved console table, where royal councilors sat during audiences with the King of France.

Marie de Bourbon curtsied as low as her large belly allowed her to do. Now she was six months along in her pregnancy, dressed in a low-necked gown of black satin, her hair enclosed in a diamond headdress. Marie wore mourning for her deceased brother and mother – Antoine de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, and Françoise d’Alençon, Dowager Duchess de Vendôme.

Henri assisted Marie in raising from the curtsey. “Don’t curtsey to me in your condition.”   

“Your Highness is too kind,” Marie uttered. “There are rules of etiquette.”

Henri grasped her hand tightly. “Mon amour, you must be cautious now.”

“I’m not a porcelain doll,” chastened Marie.

Queen Anne watched Henri kiss Marie’s hand. Marie’s hands were linked with her lover’s, and their gazes seemed to be caressing each other like clinging sunbeams. Henri has met his true love. How sad that he cannot marry her. Yet, it is good for Augustine, Anne concluded silently, feeling ashamed for such thoughts. Anne smiled at Marie who stepped to her without Henri.

The dauphin’s scrutiny flew to his legitimate offspring who waited at the other side of the room. “You all need more lessons of etiquette and how to greet royals.”   

The two princes and the two princesses chorused, “Good afternoon!”

“Something else?” Henri sounded annoyed. “Weren’t you taught how to greet royalty?”

Princess Claude and Princess Élisabeth curtsied. Prince François, Duke of Brittany, bowed, as did Prince Charles, Duke d’Orléans. Prince Alexandre was not with them.

“Don’t scold them.” Queen Anne sent smiles to the children. “I have gifts for each of you.”

Claude, the most outspoken of them, inquired, “What do you have for me, Your Majesty?” 

The dauphin chided, “Daughter of mine, where are your manners?” 

The queen soothed, “Henri, it is fine. Their happiness is our main goal.”

Henri tipped his head. “I can give the whole world to see my children’s joy.”

“We love you, Papa,” said Prince François, Duke of Brittany. The others nodded.

The children, who were effervescent with joy, conversed with the queen. Marie was seated comfortably, while the dauphin lounged in his chair beside her as if guarding her from perils.

The queen’s ladies-in-waiting – Duchess Marie de Montmorency and Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly, Duchess d’Étampes – brought four boxes. Anne’s gifts for the dauphin’s offspring had been purchased in Florence with the aid of Leonor de Toledo de’ Medici, Duchess of Florence.

Marie de Montmorency adorned Claude’s bosom with a small silver necklace that featured exquisite curb chain links with the gold Italian finish and several rows of sapphires. Clad in a purple satin gown slashed with red, the seven-year-old Claude looked nice, although she suffered from a hunchback. Then Claude walked slowly to the queen, limping due to her club foot.

“Thank you, Madame!” Claude cried heartily.

Anne affirmed, “I’m glad that you like this necklace, Claude. It was produced by the best Florentine goldsmith, and if you like this item, we can order something else from him.”

Claude exclaimed, “Yes, please! I’m yearning to have more jewels!” 

Dauphin Henri asked, “Florentine jewels? Don’t we have our own French goldsmiths?” 

Claude veered her peeved gaze to her parent. “Our mother is jailed for the rest of her life. Now we understand that is a murderess, but we are not responsible for her sins.”

Prince François, as always feeling traumatized at the mention of their mother’s evil deeds, whined, “Father, why can’t we have anything from Italy? We are half-French, half-Italian.”

Henri confessed, “Sadly, the Medici blood is coursing through your veins.”

Queen Anne and Marie de Bourbon traded disapproving glances before they both glowered at the Dauphin of France. Princess Élisabeth and Prince Charles both stood sullen.  

Claude challenged, “Doesn’t Your Highness love us despite our Florentine blood?” 

“Not every Medici is a bad person,” Queen Anne stepped in. “My son Lorenzo is betrothed to Isabella de’ Medici, and France is allied with Duke Cosimo of Florence.”  

Prince Charles, Duke d’Orléans, joined in a gloomy tone, “I’m shocked that our mama did those horrible things, but we cannot help but remember her at times.”

“We are ashamed of our own mother,” supplied Princess Élisabeth.

François was on the verge of a breakdown while pressing a hand to his left ear that again pained him after having spent time outdoors. “Our mother has been punished enough.”

Leaving his paramour, Henri approached his offspring. “I love you all, my darlings.”

The children’s collective hug with the dauphin lasted for a long moment.

“Claude, you look stunning with this necklace,” complimented the dauphin.

“I’ll be beautiful when I grow up.” Claude took her father’s extended hand with a smile. Yet, her smile vanished as she glanced down towards her feet. “Despite my club foot.”

Henri told her softly, “The Lord does not give us more than we can bear, daughter.”

Claude nodded, resigned that she had this defect. “You are right, Father.”

Dauphin Henri led his daughter across the room, and they settled themselves in oak chairs beside Marie de Bourbon. Poor dearest Claude, the dauphin’s paramour thought at the sight of the girl’s sadness. Thanks to her natural kindness, Marie had succeeded in winning the affection of Henri’s legitimate children with the imprisoned Catherine de’ Medici. Marie was also taking good care of Diane de Valois, Henri’s daughter with the executed Diane de Poitiers.

I’m grateful to Marie for becoming a mother to my children, Henri told himself inwardly. Henri was worried for his sickly son, François, who suffered from some chronic health issues. Claude’s club foot caused her father to feel sad for the girl and angry with Catherine de’ Medici, for the dauphin considered Claude’s defect as the Almighty’s wrath for Catherine’s sins that had befallen their daughter. At the same time, Henri’s own mother – the late Queen Claude of France – had limped, which had been caused by the late queen’s scoliosis and deformed hips.

Queen Anne suggested, “Let’s look at the other gifts.”

In a moment, Anne’s maids opened the other boxes with gifts.

Prince François received an illuminated manuscript in Latin. It was an exquisitely bound volume, embossed in gold, and decorated with the Valois and Medici coat-of-arms. Even when his face was imbued with joy, the prince remained pallid and unhealthy, his constitution weak. His tastefully tailored doublet and hose of blue silk somewhat concealed his short stature.

“The Medici coat-of-arms!” François exclaimed, concerned.

An artificial smile crossed Henri’s features. “As Anne said, not all Medici are villains, and I know this well.” He eyed all of his children in turns. “None of you cannot ignore your Italian roots, and I apologize that it is difficult for me to accept certain things.”

François caressed the volume clasped in his hands. “You are so kind, Father!”

“You are a benevolent soul, Papa,” Élisabeth proclaimed with a smile.

Claude, who sat beside her father, kissed him on the cheek. “You are our best Father!”   

Henri hugged his daughter. “My Claude, I’m lucky to have you all!”

§§§

Prince Alexandre Édouard, Duke d’Anjou, entered and sketched a series of elegant bows. Although he was a twin of Prince Charles, they looked different with Alexandre’s resemblance to their father becoming more pronounced as the brothers were getting older. Garbed in a deep blue damask, fleurdelized doublet, Alexandre wore a matching cap on his head and hose.

My twin sons are not on good terms, Dauphin Henri remarked to himself with frustration. Alexandre’s arrival caused Prince Charles to frown at him. Both boys were almost seven years old, but Alexandre was a more well-mannered and intelligent boy. Charles, who was clothed in green brocade, was a blend of his parents in his appearance, although his dream was to resemble his father. Charles and Alexandre competed in their outdoor games and in the classroom.

“Your Majesty and Your Highness,” greeted the dauphin’s third son.

Dauphin Henri replied, “Welcome, Alexandre. We have waited for you.”

Alexandre crossed the room to his father and bowed again, this time lower.

“I’m delighted to see you all,” announced Alexandre sincerely.

Marie de Bourbon assessed, “Ah, you look so much like your father, Alexandre.”

Queen Anne commented, “It is only physical resemblance.”

Claude laughed. “There is something effeminate in Alexandre, unlike our Father.”

“Daughter of mine, watch your tongue,” berated the dauphin berated.

Charles jeered, “You can cause only trouble, Alexandre.”

Alexandre snapped, “Better look at yourself, Charles. Study harder!”

“Stop,” their father prevented their possible quarrel before it could get worse.

Duchess Anne d’Étampes apprised, “Now the queen’s gifts for the twins!”

The joyful squeals of Charles and Alexandre dissolved some of the tension. The Duchess d’Étampes unwrapped their gifts – two small wooden swords made of oak, their hilts decorated with the Valois and Medici heraldry. Charles and Alexandre were both taller and healthier than their elder brother, François, was, having a more robust physique and better health.

Charles bragged, “I shall fight with this sword against François!”

“You will not be allowed to win,” Alexandre retorted with a smirk.  

A sulking François pressed his book to his chest. “I hate weapons! I’m terrified of them!” 

Charles taunted, “Then, how will you kill animals when hunting?” 

“Please don’t!” François implored. “You enjoy my weakness!”

Alexandre berated, “Charles, why are you so rude?”

Charles glared at his twin brother. “Your manners are quite feminine!”

“Because our mother loved me the most,” Alexandre pronounced.

At this statement, a lethal silence descended. Then Dauphin Henri approached his youngest son and lectured, “My boy, you must know that your vile mother is imprisoned.”

Alexandre sighed and lowered his scrutiny. “I remember, Your Highness.”

Charles caused them all to shudder when he shouted, “François, I can stab you!”    

The adults shared anxious glances. It was not the first time when they witnessed Charles making fun of his elder male sibling in such a nasty manner. Where could this lead us? Dauphin Henri wondered. Charles could be sharp-tongued and cruel to his relatives and others.

Charles continued, “I’m fearless! I’ll shed blood when fighting and hunting!” 

“Enough!” Henri rebuked, and the boys fell silent. “Charles, I’ll confiscate this sword.”

Charles pleaded, “No, Father, please! Forgive me, François!” 

“That’s better.” Henri breathed out a sigh of relief. “Now a gift for Élisabeth!” 

Princess Élisabeth was a quiet and timid girl of almost four years old. Unlike her sister, she did not like bright colors and refused to wear them, being content when her servants provided her with somber and dark gowns. In a dress of brown and gray velvet embroidered with diamonds, Élisabeth’s delicate features, somewhat Medici-Like, looked strict, her figure well proportioned.

Duchess Marie de Montmorency approached Élisabeth. She gave the princess an antique Florentine gold brooch of sapphires. “It’s for you, our dearest gentle nymph!”

Élisabeth eyed it with interest. “It is simple, but lovely. Thank you!”  

Claude teased, “My necklace is more flamboyant than your brooch!” 

Queen Anne enlightened, “I ordered an eccentric necklace and a simple brooch for you both on purpose. I know that you, girls, have different tastes, so the gifts should be suitable.”

“They are great!” Élisabeth gushed as Marie aided her to clasp the brooch to her collar.

Claude adored the queen. “Thank you for your benignity, Your Majesty!” 

“Thank you for the gifts, Your Majesty!” chorused all of the three princes.

Marie de Bourbon stood up. “My darlings, I have gifts for all of you, too.”

The children ran to the dauphin’s mistress. They had gotten accustomed to their mother’s absence, now believing that Catherine was condemned for her real crimes. It had allowed Marie to step in and play a maternal role in their lives. Marie opened her arms for each of them in turns, for there could be no collective hug for them because of Marie’s advanced pregnancy.

Dauphin Henri, Queen Anne, and her ladies-in-waiting smiled at this wonderful picture.

I love Marie absolutely, the dauphin mused. Without Marie in his life, the sky would turn gray, as if it had been dusted. If Marie did not appear during the time of upheaval in his life, the coldness of emotional mortality would have clogged Henri’s inner realm. So far, Henri’s eye did not wander to younger beauties. If only I could marry my beloved Marie… Nonetheless, Henri was tied with the chains of his matrimony with and hatred for his incarcerated Medici wife.

Notes:

The new chapter is up! Please let us know what you think of this chapter, and don’t forget to leave reviews so that we can discuss events, twists, and turns in this chapter.

This chapter includes the final two sections about the visit of the French royal family to the Imperial court in Vienna. We have finally wrapped up things between Princess Elizabeth and Mary, Duchess of Palatinate-Neuburg – the Tudor sisters have been reunited. Moreover, Mary and Anne Boleyn, Queen of France, have finally made peace after their candid conversation. We hope that you like Mary’s moments of happiness with her second husband, Duke Philip.

The members of the Habsburg family are showed together with King François and Juana of Castile. We are very glad that our readers enjoy the couple of Maximilian of Austria, King of the Romans, and Aimée, Princess of France. Maximilian has two younger brothers, including Emperor Ferdinand’s second son – Archduke Ferdinand II of Austria – whom we decided to call Nando to differentiate him from the emperor. Maximilian’s youngest brother is actually his half-brother, Archduke Charles II of Austria, who was showed in one of the previous chapters.

There is a hint what Nando’s future will be like in the scene where King François speaks to Charlotte de Valois, his granddaughter as she is the only daughter of the late Prince Charles, Duke d’Orléans. We have François make Charlotte Duchess d’Agivnon, while also showing the conversation between François and the Duchess d’Étampes with her husband, Jean IV de Brosse. We will have a few private moments between Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly and Jean de Brosse.

In France we see Dauphin Henri’s children with the imprisoned Catherine de’ Medici. Prince François, Duke of Brittany, is the future historical King François II of France. Prince Charles, Duke d’Orléans, and Prince Alexandre Édouard, Duke d’Anjou, are twins in this fiction because they had to be born before Catherine’s imprisonment. Charles d’Orléans is the future King Charles IX of France, while Alexandre Édouard is the future King Henri III of France (he will take another name in his father’s honor later). Dauphin Henri’s sons with Catherine are described close to how François, Charles, and Henri were like in real history. Princesses Claude and Élisabeth are also Henri and Catherine’s historical children, but Élisabeth is their youngest child so far.

Attention! A while ago, we posted a prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 99: Chapter 98: The Villainy of a Savoyard

Summary:

Now Louise of France is married to Emmanuel Philibert de Savoy, the heir to the Duchy of Savoy, and a drunk Emmanuel does a horrible thing on their wedding night. Jean of France, Duke de Guyenne, wants to become a monk, while Augustine worries about Jeanne of Navarre’s interest in heresy. Elizabeth of England decides to marry the Earl of Devon after her return to England.

Notes:

Please, don’t forget to review after reading because it is important for us to be inspired and to keep going. Discussions with readers are extremely helpful for us!

Attention! The prologue to the sequel 'Chained by Blood and Power' (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don't forget about our work "Entwined by a Golden Alliance" co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 98: The Villainy of a Savoyard

March 20, 1552, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, Île-de-France, France

Queen Anne stood near the window in her bedroom. Outside, snow was beginning to thaw, and the white-blanketed ground in the large Oval Courtyard, or the Cour Ovale, glittered like countless diamonds strewn across it. This courtyard had been built on the ruins of the former medieval castle. It had a massive southern entrance called the Porte Dorée, and a massive, grand stairway – the Portique de Serlio – led to the royal apartments on the north side.

Anne smiled at the sight of King François playing snowballs with their sons, Lorenzo and Antoine, in the Oval Courtyard. The three of them were laughing buoyantly while throwing the snowballs at each other. Augustine, Jean, and the youngest Louise watched them with smiles.

“Your Majesty, should I fetch a cloak for you so that you can join them in the park?” 

The queen pivoted to Anne de Pisseleu. “No, thank you, Madame d’Étampes.” 

The duchess came closer and bobbed a curtsey. “Do you need something, Madame?”

These women were not close friends yet. However, the spirit of camaraderie between them molded their relationship into something akin to a mutually desirable alliance.  

The duchess said, “Your Majesty misses Princess Aimée, but she is happy in Vienna.”   

The queen nodded. “I’m glad that your Charlotte is with Aimée.” 

“Lotte loves Her Highness.” Anne de Pisseleu prayed that her daughter would not taint her honor, but Charlotte’s infatuation with Archduke Ferdinand II of Austria worried her mother.

The queen initiated, “You may take your other daughter, Yolande, to our court.” 

Anne de Pisseleu sighed. “Your Majesty’s offer is generous, but I do not want Yolande to ever go to Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye where her siblings were poisoned.”

The queen crossed herself. “God bless the souls of Françoise de Foix and your little ones!” 

The duchess made the cross sigh. “Let them rest in peace…” She swallowed a rising sob. Anne then pleaded, “Your Majesty, I beg of you to pardon me for my lack of self-control.” 

“Let me help you.” Anne de Valois’ voice was like the one singing a lullaby.

Queen Anne led the trembling lady to a gilded armchair. As the duchess eased herself in it, the queen strolled over to a marble table in the corner and filled a goblet of claret.

After returning to the duchess, the queen handed the cup to her. “Drink it.” 

Her maid drained its contents. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” 

“Queen Jeanne of Navarre, as well as all the French princes and princesses will soon move to Villers-Cotterêts. Jeanne will be delighted to have her sister, Yolande, by her side.” 

“I like this idea more.” Anguish then again overmastered Anne de Pisseleu. “This wine has the color of my children’s blood after they had been murdered by the Medici demoness.”   

The queen settled herself in a matching chair beside her. “Your three little angels are now in heaven, watching you from there. Their tender souls are not at peace because of your grief. The Lord is our refuge and strength, and he never gives us more than we can bear.” 

The duchess set the empty goblet on the floor before she gushed, “Your Majesty is lovely and noble-minded! I’m so sorry for my erstwhile bad attitude to you.”

The queen covered the duchess’ hands with hers. “Let’s forget the past.” 

Nodding, Anne de Pisseleu asked, “Is Your Majesty still a Lutheran in your heart?” 

Anne de Valois folded her hands in her lap. “Yes, but I converted for my family’s safety.”   

“Some say that the path of personal discovery lies in human sacrifices.” 

The queen’s mind drifted to her eldest daughter. “My daughter Elizabeth thinks so.” 

Anne de Valois loved her bedchamber because of its splendor and the countless jovial moments she had spent here with her husband. Two golden-colored marble walls and two frescoed walls, many elaborately shaped and gilt ornaments, as well as gilded furniture adorned with mythological reliefs, bronze, mosaics, and the ceiling broken up into octagonal caissons like it can be seen in the famous François I gallery – all these things formed the queen’s abode.

It was the monarch’s initiative that two walls were frescoed with scenes from myths about the Goddess Hera with Zeus, and scenes about the Goddess Athena. To François, Anne was both his wedded Hera and his French Athena, as he jested sometimes. As the king’s consort glanced around, she felt her husband’s invisible, intoxicating presence everywhere thanks to the entwined initials ‘A & F’ as they were emblazoned in gold here and there on the walls.

The Duchess d’Étampes asserted, “These awesome apartments were created especially for Your Majesty on the orders of your husband who is immensely besotted with his wife.” 

“François and I are soulmates,” purred Queen Anne with a grin. “Two halves of the same immortal soul that pulsates with our unwavering and everlasting mutual devotion.” 

Now Anne de Pisseleu’s heart and soul were again bleeding. “The late Henri d’Albert was my greatest love, and his death has been like the sharpest dagger to my very heart.” 

The monarch’s spouse broached another matrimonial topic. “Your love for the late King of Navarre will forever live in your heart, but you may be content with your husband.” 

Anne de Pisseleu confided, “Jean and I are friends, nothing else. I’m lucky that he at least respects me after the years of my affairs with two kings and many others.” 

“Duke Jean d’Étampes loves you. Talk to him candidly! You deserve to find a new love!” 

The duchess’ expression became nearly sheepish. “I cannot imagine anything like this.”

“You should try,” the queen advised. Then her gaze fell on the silver salver standing upon a gilded dressing table and an envelope there. “The Savoy family is arriving soon.” 

The duchess soothed, “Emmanuel Philibert de Savoy will not mistreat Princess Louise.”     

“Who knows?” A blade of an indefinable presentiment sharpened the queen’s inner tumult. “But Emmanuel’s disdain towards his own father and the Valois is infamous.”

“We should hope for the better,” opined the king’s former mistress.

§§§

The shadows of dusk had long cloaked the royal palace. Gilt candelabra were lit up inside the queen’s bedchamber. Queen Anne, Princess Elizabeth, and Princess Louise lounged on two golden-brocaded couches. A fire blazed in the fireplace adorned with salamanders.

“These rooms are fabulous!” enthused Louise as she looked around. “I’d like to have such apartments at Château de Chambéry, where my court in Savoy will reside.” 

Queen Anne smiled at the princess indulgently. “If you want, you can have everything.” 

Louise viewed an enormous, gilded bed that stood on a dais and boasted a canopy of cloth of gold embroidered with the Valois heraldry. “It is a maiden’s dream to have her wedding night on such a bed, provided that your husband is not Emmanuel Philibert de Savoy.” 

At the mention of Louise’s nuptials, Anne was conscious of a creeping cold that chilled her to the marrow of her bones. She had long experienced inexplicable misgivings towards Louise’s matrimony with the Duke of Savoy’s heir. Why did the queen feel so apprehensive?

Elizabeth berated, “Louise, your audacity is bordering on shamelessness.” 

Louise’s lips curved in a grin. “Fortune favors the bold!” 

Their mother told Louise soothingly, “Prince Emmanuel is nine years your senior, Louise. He is handsome and intelligent, and I pray that you two will become friends.”

Louise’s sigh signaled her doubts concerning the matter. “When we lived at Chambéry, I spent a lot of time with Emmanuel. He is attracted to me, but he hinted at women’s inferiority.” 

Elizabeth’s angry eyes darkened. “No man should be allowed to rule a princess!” 

Anne’s gaze oscillated between her daughters. “François is an exceptional man who values both female intelligence and beauty. Lord Devon also has progressive views.”

Louise sighed. “In theory, I must be an obedient and docile, fertile wife, just as the Church teaches. But how can I act so? I’m like my grandmother Louise, God rest her soul.”

Anne tipped her head. “Yes, you are darling.”

Bess’ heart longed for Devon. “Eddie is very gallant, much like my stepfather François.” 

Anne’s lips stretched in a grin. “You are correct, Bess.”

Louise characterized, “That English lord is a true gentleman, but not a politician.” 

Elizabeth appreciated these traits. “He will gladly stay in my shadow.”

“Yes,” Anne said. “That’s why Eddie Courtenay is the best candidate to be your husband.”  

Louise nodded. “I think Eddie will make you content, sister.”

“Yes, and I’ll write a letter to him again tonight,” Elizabeth supplemented.

“Mama,” addressed Louise. “Is the first time painful for a woman?”  

Anne was surprised by this question. “It’s normal to experience some pain, but that is not always the case. I shall tell both of you, my darlings, everything you need to know.”

“Did you have any pain?” Louise quizzed. “Forgive me for asking.”  

“Only a little.” A sigh erupted from Anne as she recalled her first night with Henry Tudor.

Elizabeth felt for her sister. “Be at ease, Louise. King François decided that your marriage to Emmanuel will not be consummated for another year. Why are you so worried now?” 

Louise blurted out, “I just wish to know everything.”

A somewhat annoyed Elizabeth quoted Francesco Petrarch, “Often have I wondered with much curiosity as to our coming into this world and what will follow our departure.” 

Louise bristled. “We are not speaking about Petrarch and death.” 

The queen told both of them, “Daughters of mine, please don’t argue.” 

“Sorry, Mother.” Louise blushed and paled before revealing, “Bess has decided that she will eagerly marry the Earl of Devon after her return to England.” 

The Tudor princess envisaged the Earl of Devon. “Yes, this is my final decision.” 

“That is the right and best choice,” commented the queen. “Lord Devon is your first love, Bess, and it is something that marks you. This marvelous feeling is most innocent and fulfilling. You have been betrothed to him for three years and spent enough time with him.” 

Elizabeth felt warm inside at the mere thought of Devon. “Indeed, Mother.” 

Something flickered in Louise’s eyes. “Hopefully, it is your first and last love, Bess.”  

“Only God knows this, sister.” Nonetheless, Bess could not banish Robert Dudley from her head, although Edward Courtenay meant the whole world to her. “I trust God and myself.” 

Anne took Aimée’s old songbook, and Louise brought the lute. When the queen’s fingers plucked at the strings masterfully, the instrument’s musical energy permeated her entire being. She played a chanson by Claudin de Sermisy while also singing the late Clément Marot’s poem.  

As long as I live, and I still flourish,

I’ll serve Love, the powerful god,

in word and deed, in song, in tune.

For many a day she made me languish,

yet after sadness she made me happy,

for I’ve the love of the loveliest woman.

This airy song had a soul-stirring meaning – fidelity in love. A sense of serenity permeated Anne’s inner realm, filling her to the brim, while she was thinking of her and François’ greatest and immortal love. Elizabeth and Louise applauded their mother’s excellent musical talent.

In her friendship

lies my trust:

my heart is hers,

her heart is mine:

away with sadness,

long live gladness,

for in Love there’s much that’s fine.

If her I wish to serve and honor,

by my poetry wish to adore her,

if I see and visit her often,

the envious only murmur.

Yet our Love could never be less,

as much or more the wind carries.

Despite all envy

for all my life

I will love her,

and I will sing:

she is the first,

and is the last,

whom I serve and will forever.

Anne put the lute aside. “I pray that you will both learn how heavenly love can be.” 

Elizabeth beamed at them. “Perhaps with my dear Eddie.” Meanwhile, her soul hummed two names – Eddie and Robin, who both had amorous sentiments towards her.

Louise’s brows arched up. “No, it will not be my case, or not with Emmanuel.” 

Such bitterness colored Louise’s tone that at this moment, Queen Anne was inclined to run and plead with King François to break Louise’s engagement to Emmanuel Philibert. Yet, the Valois dynasty desperately needed to cement France’s alliance with the House of Savoy, and, hence, Louise’s wedding to Emmanuel should proceed in according to their plan.


April 14, 1552, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, Île-de-France, France

Darkness cloaked the earth, save the light present in some windows of the château. Today at midday the marriage of Princess Louise of France and Prince Emmanuel Philibert de Savoy had taken place in the Chapel of the Trinity. Although the ceremony had been modest with the royals and their entourage in attendance, a magnificent feast had followed in the evening.

“Where is Emmanuel now?” wondered King François, his heart heavy.

Queen Anne shrugged. “He must be in his rooms, alone or with his mistress.” 

François divested himself of his red mantle, worn over a black jacket wrought with thread of gold. “Our daughter’s health must be preserved, so I’ll not allow the early consummation.” 

She sat on her bed. “Louise should not be bedded until she turns sixteen.” 

The Valois spouses were in the queen’s bedchamber, illuminated by an array of candles. The wedding festivities had continued late into the night, with an abundance of wine, poems, and music, as well as the performance of Florentine singers and professional acrobats.

The monarch eased himself in a gilded armchair beside the bed. “Lady Margaret Beaufort married Edmund Tudor, Earl of Richmond, who bedded her at the tender age of thirteen. She could never conceive again following the birth of King Henry the Seventh of England.” 

“Husband, I’m relieved that you negotiated with both Emperor Ferdinand and your Uncle Charles de Savoy that our daughters’ marriages would not be consummated early.” 

“Maximilian and Aimée are smitten with one another at the time of our visit to Vienna.” 

A grin curved François’ lips. “Aimée’s marriage will be a content one.”

“While it is true about Aimée, we cannot say the same about Louise’s union.” 

He fidgeted with his jeweled rings on his hand. “Well, I spoke to Uncle Charles frankly. I warned him that Emmanuel must conceal his displeasure and be a gentle husband.” 

“Will Emmanuel Philibert listen, François? He is full of resentment towards our family.” 

The monarch stood up and paced nervously. “We need this union for political reasons.”

Anne ruminated, “France is encircled by the Habsburg domains, so we are lucky to have our Imperial alliance. Emmanuel dreams to reestablish Savoy’s independence, so he might ally with our foes, including King Felipe the Second of Spain who is our quiet enemy, and then they might attack us together, in spite of your Uncle Charles’ assurances to the contrary.”

He halted beside his wife. “Thus, our alliance with Savoy is vitally important.” 

“You are right.” She climbed to her feet. “Now I’ll go say good night to our dear girl.” 

Her husband nodded. “I’ll wait for you here, mon amour.” 

“I’ll come back soon.” Queen Anne then exited into the antechamber to find her sister.

§§§

Princess Louise was in a perturbed state of mind since the ceremony. Her room’s luxurious interior now irritated Louise, and she warded off the impulse to go on a rampage and destroy the expensive furniture of precious woods and rare vases, as well as marble statues and busts of mythological heroes. The rich wall draperies depicted scenes from Virgil’s work ‘Eclogues.’

“I detest Emmanuel de Savoy!” yelled Louise. “I cannot even call him my husband!” 

Queen Anne shared her daughter’s dislike of the man. “Dearest, please calm down.” 

I entered this matrimony out of duty, Louise bemoaned wordlessly. Her soul was afflicted, filled with terror for her future, a sinister foreboding swirling inside of her. As Emmanuel and Louise were first cousins once removed, Pope Julius III had issued a papal dispensation for them. Louise’s thoughts kept floating to François de Montmorency, the Constable of France’s eldest son, who served Augustine and whose company always had an exhilarating effect on her senses.

“Mother and Aunt Marie,” commenced Louise. “I’m so glad to see you!”

“We are concerned about you, darling niece,” uttered Marie de Montmorency.

Anne emitted a sigh. “My jewel, Emmanuel will not come to you tonight.”

Yet, a dark foreboding gripped Louise. “He is the last person I wish to see now.”

Anne and Marie assisted the princess in discarding Louise’s sumptuous gown of white silk, embroidered with a multitude of rubies and diamonds. How I hate this dress, Louise told herself wordlessly. I would have given anything to never see Emmanuel again. Her husband’s salacious temperament was apparent even to an inexperienced girl, but Louise did not want to be with him.   

Eléonore, Jeanne, and Catherine de Montmorency sprinted to Louise, Princess of France and now of Savoy. The Montmorency girls, as they were known at the Valois court, were the three eldest daughters of Duke Anne de Montmorency and his first executed wife, Madeleine de Savoy, who was despised by the murder of Prince Charles, Duke d’Orléans, all those years ago. The Montmorency girls aided Louise to don her nightgown and robe of blue damask.

At twenty-seven, Eléonore was a tall and curvaceous beauty with a heart-shaped face set with green eyes, resplendent in a low-cut gown of yellow satin. She was married to François III de La Tour d’Auvergne, Viscount de Turenne, who was a member of the powerful House of La Tour d’Auvergne. At twenty-five, Jeanne was a plump brunette of average height, today garbed in a lavender silk gown; her husband was Louis III de La Trémoille. In the meantime, Catherine was a twenty-two-year-old woman who looked pretty in a silver silk gown, despite her angular features with an aquiline nose and blue orbs; Catherine was betrothed to Gilbert III de Lévis.  

Catherine blurted out, “Today’s festivities were majestic!” 

Jeanne tugged at her sister’s sleeve. “Catherine, be silent!” 

Eléonore apologized, “Your Highness, we are sorry for distressing you.” 

Louise loved the Montmorency girls, who had entered her service a year ago. She said in an affable voice, “There is nothing to apologize for, and the feast was indeed opulent.” 

Anne speculated, “We were wise enough to reduce the degree of profligacy that marked François’ earlier reign. The courtiers enjoy extravagant festivities as always, but at present, they have fewer chances to do so. As a result, at any feast they run wild with joy.” 

Marie concurred. “They are eager to throw themselves into merriment.” 

A despondent Louise complained, “I was the most miserable person tonight.” 

Eléonore, who was closer to Louise than any of her other sisters, attempted to console her mistress. “Your Highness, bad thoughts can haunt you for days if you don’t deal with them.”  

Louise snapped, “Not when you are tied to Emmanuel!”

“Don’t overwork yourself, daughter,” advised Anne. The Montmorency girls were loyal to the queen and Marie de Montmorency, their stepmother, so they could discuss Louise’s troubles in their presence. “Let’s hope that Emmanuel and you will find common ground.” 

“I did my duty!” clamored Louise. “Or I would never have married him, Mother.” 

Marie recalled her infelicitous union with the long-deceased William Carey. “In arranged marriages, a couple needs to respect each other, and to be at least honest and caring.” 

A scowl marred Louise’s expression. “Today Emmanuel said that he needs only heirs from me, and that he demands absolute obedience from me while he will do whatever he wants.” 

Anne purpled with rage. “François will put Emmanuel into his place, that I promise you.” 

“Thank you, Mother,” Louise murmured, and Anne smiled at her.  

An incensed Marie shouted, “Who is that Savoyard viper to behave like this?” 

Eléonore supplied, “Forgive me for speaking out of turn. Nevertheless, His Highness is too impertinent, in particular given that he has a mistress at the French court.” 

Anne, Marie, and Louise gaped at them, but the Montmorency girls nodded in unison.

“Who is she?” queried the Queen of France. “Who is she?”

“I’m not astounded.” Louise was indifferent to her unwanted husband’s infidelities.  

Catherine revealed, “She is Madame Renée le Roux de La Roche, the wife of François de Scépeaux, Seigneur de Vieilleville and Count de Durtal. She visits Prince Emmanuel Philibert’s bed at least twice a week, and he also has another paramour, but I do not know her name.” 

Jeanne added, “Prince Emmanuel is lavishing his gifts upon this woman.” 

Marie’s fists balled into fists. “He is insulting our princess!”   

“That vermin is grating on my nerves.” The queen began pacing agitatedly. “My husband will put an end to his escapades.” Suddenly, an odious presentiment gripped her senses.

Louise crossed to a looking glass, placed on a gilded bedside table. “Emmanuel may have as many lovers as he wishes – I care not a whit about him.” A splitting headache ripped through her skull, and Louise lifted her hands to her temples. “Help me remove my headdress.” 

The Montmorency girls strode over to the princess. They took off a bejeweled headdress from Louise’s head. Then Catherine removed the gold braids woven into Louise’s hair.  

Marie said to her eldest stepdaughter, “Eléonore, please give me a brush.” 

Eléonore brought a silver brush encrusted with sapphires. “Here, Your Majesty.” 

Catherine apprised, “This is Her Highness’ favorite brush.” 

Louise smiled at her maids. “Thank you all for your support!” 

The queen dismissed, “You may leave now.” 

The Montmorency girls swept curtseys and exited into the antechamber. In the meantime, Louise sat at her vanity as Anne brushed her long, brown tresses until they shone.

Marie admired her appearance. “My dearest niece, you look so charming!” 

Anne put the brush on a nearby marble table. “Louise, you are very pretty! Your strong, noble, and beautiful personality is reflected in your countenance, posture, and bearing.” 

Marie dipped a nod. “Like the esteemed Madame Louise de Savoy.”

Louise regarded her relatives. “I’m so proud of my resemblance to my late grandmother.” 

The queen said, “Your grandmother was a remarkable woman, and I remember her well.” 

As the princess climbed into bed, Marie pulled a blue silk sheet up to her niece’s neck.

Anne seated herself on the bed’s edge, taking her hand in hers. “You are our treasure!” 

“I love you all!” Louise squeezed her mother’s hand. “I love you so much!” 

Marie recommended, “Dear niece, please try to relax and sleep.” 

After a circle of kisses and hugs, Anne and Marie departed the princess’ apartments.

§§§

Prince Jean, Duke de Guyenne, knelt at his prie dieu in his bedroom illuminated by candles placed on black marble tables. The chamber’s sumptuous interior – tapestries of St Jean Baptiste and other saints, furniture with inlays of precious stones and ivory, as well as rich velvet fabrics into which couches and chairs were upholstered – did not interest the prince in the slightest.

His head bowed low, Jean prayed, “Idleness and laziness are the soul’s worst enemies.” He shut his eyes and sang psalms in Latin, a sense of celestial peace enveloping him.

My dear Lord, I have no idea how to live as an adult. I wish I had been born an ordinary man so that I had the right to repudiate the earthly life with the goal to serve You without being restrained by my high station and duties to my family and country.

Jean’s scrutiny was concentrated on the statue of Jesus Christ on the small marble altar. It had been erected in his rooms because of the prince’s celebrated piety. After the pilgrimage together with King François across France a year ago, when Queen Anne and Prince Augustine had accompanied them only out of duty, Jean’s decision to spend several months at the Abbey of St Jean des Vignes near Soissons had made him extremely famous across the country.  

Jean de Valois was called as Prince Jean the Saint, Prince Jean the Pious, and Jean the Royal Monk. None of the Knight-King’s other sons was distinguished by such extraordinary devotion to the Creator. Many people compared Prince Jean with the canonized King Louis IX of France, known as Saint Louis. Jean’s most cherished dream was either to go on crusade to the holy city of Jerusalem, or to become a monk. However, Jean was afraid of weapons and, hence, could not become a knight living for the sole purpose to liberate Jerusalem from the infidels.

Unlike his other brothers, Jean displayed no interest in fashions, luxuries, and riches of any kind. Shy, contemplative, and ascetic, Jean tended to wear simple black, unadorned clothes. He was frequently seen with the Bible and his illuminated manuscripts, which he had collected in the past few years. The prince prayed thrice a day, always fasted, and knew the Bible by heart.

Jean crossed himself. “Can I extricate myself from my worldly life? Dear God, I beseech you to send Your Holy Spirit into my mind to show me what I ought to do.” 

“My beloved brother, do you really want to lead a cloistered life in some abbey?” 

Jean rose from his prie dieu and swiveled to his eldest brother, Augustine, who was taller than him and possessed more masculine physique. Augustine was clad in a doublet of purple and silver velvet, passemented with gold and silver, with a bejeweled collar, and in matching trunk hose, while his cap of purple brocade was festooned with three golden feathers.

Augustine closed the door behind him. “I mean no offense, Jean.” 

Jean breathed a sigh. “You are a man destined for greatness, Augustine. Unlike you, I am do not want to be a prince, and I would have given anything to have a different life.”  

Augustine crossed to a couch and settled himself there. “Are you certain?” 

Jean knelt by the altar in the corner. His hand reached out for his rosary, which the king had gifted to him, and which had belonged to their long deceased grandfather – Charles de Valois, Count d’Angoulême. Jean’s fingers working their way along the beads, the prince prayed for his spiritual enlightenment. Augustine waited for Jean to finish his prayer.

After finishing, Jean jumped to his feet and made the sign of the cross. “I spend more time in prayer because I’m trying to embrace the truth of what God’s plan for me can be.” 

“What if the Almighty would prefer you to have a family while serving your country?”    

Jean seated himself on the couch beside Augustine. “God’s will is mysterious.” 

Augustine’s brow shot up. “How can you hear the Lord’s call, then?” 

His brother explained, “We don’t know His plans, but souls of goodly Catholics who want to be monks feel that the Lord’s call to them is real, not some fluke or self-conjured up idea.” 

Despite his outward aloofness, Augustine felt for his younger brother. “Your religious zeal is commendable, but our parents will not allow you to become a monk, and not even a cardinal.” 

Jean sighed. “Sadly, I shall have to marry Christine of Hesse in a few years.” 

Augustine lectured, “Jean! We are all descendants of Charlemagne and Hugues Capet! The Lord chose for you and me to be born as French princes, so we have duties and responsibilities to our country and dynasty. This should give you strength to carry on our great legacy.”  

Nonetheless, Jean confessed, “I know, but it makes my life even more difficult.”   

Augustine characterized, “Politics is a cold thing. Almost every monarch compromises their integrity and taints their soul with the sin of sending traitors and enemies to death.”   

Jean parried, “Everyone should have a chance for repentance.” 

“You are naïve.” Augustine discarded his cap and shoved his hand through his blond locks. “Villainesses such as Catherine de’ Medici must be executed for everyone’s sake.”

“I agree with you on this,” Jean responded. “Catherine is extremely sinful. Yet, our father spared her because our brother’s distressed children begged to let their mother live.”

“Our nephews and nieces are growing up. Our father might change his mind soon.”   

“It’s not for us to decide, Augustine. Perhaps even Catherine can repent.”

“Jean, you are such a devout Catholic! However, how can you be blind to the corruption in the Catholic Church and the Holy See? Don’t forget what Farnese devil did to our family!”  

Now Jean was conscious of his conflicted emotions. “That Farnese man is dead! And Pope Julius the Third is not evil! I’m not blind to the corruption in the Roman Catholic Church, and I do not ignore the remarkable riches amassed by clerics, condemning prelates for excesses.” 

“And?” Augustine guessed his answer in advance.

“Brother, I cannot subvert the existing order. I’m not sure that it is necessary. However, I’m opposed to awful burnings of human beings, and consider the Inquisition a bad thing.” 

“Your kind heart is speaking for you now, Jean. You prefer to live in your ideal world, with the Bible and your religious manuscripts, shielding yourself from the frightening reality.”

“I am not you, Augustine: I cannot break the old world and build a new one.” 

Augustine concluded, “You wish to hide from your fears in a monastery, but it’s useless.”  

A discomfited Jean switched to another topic. “Brother, you are betrothed to Queen Jeanne of Navarre. I admit that her obvious interest in radical Calvinism is alarming.”

Augustine emitted a sigh. “Our parents, Aunt Marguerite, everyone else, and I are worried about Jeanne’s tastes. We cautioned her against learning more about heresy.” 

Jean nodded. “If Jeanne converts to Protestantism, it will have catastrophic consequences.”

It was exactly what Augustine and the monarchs feared. “I hope she will not do so.”

“What about your own religious skepticism, brother? Do you even believe in God?”

Augustine quipped, “I conceal my feelings well, brother.”

Jean sighed, his gaze glued to the tapestry depicting Jean-Baptiste de La Salle – a French patron saint for teachers. “Perhaps I can participate in some educational and charity projects.”     

“That would be noble of you, Jean. Christine of Hesse is very pious, although she is a Protestant. As you don’t think that heretics are bad, you two may have a harmonious marriage.”

“I hope so.” However, Jean’s voice lacked conviction. “Are you leaving, brother?”  

Augustine stood up. “Yes. The celebrations in honor of Louise’s wedding are over.” 

“Should we pay a visit to Louise? She does not have a wedding night tonight.” 

“Gladly, Jean.” Augustine and Jean existed and went to their eldest sister.

§§§

In her bedroom not illuminated by candles, Louise de Valois was asleep, dreaming of the young François de Montmorency. Her heart tightened as visions of a crestfallen François flashed in her mind as they had danced together during today’s celebrations of her nuptials. She had watched his sadness during the feast, and her heart was as despondent as his was.

Stalking footsteps roused Louise, and she set up in her bed. “Who is it?” 

Footsteps got closer. The darkness in the room thickened, foreshadowing a catastrophe.

A tall shadow towered over Louise’s large bed, canopied with yards of multicolored silks. As a beam of moonlight fell upon the intruder’s countenance, Louise’s whole being flared with rage that was superseded by abject fright. Clad in his blue brocade outfit, Emmanuel was here!

Louise tucked the bedsheets beneath her chin. “You?!” 

Emmanuel wobbled, as if he would faint a moment later. “Your foolish ladies are in the antechamber. I came quietly, and as they had much wine on the feast, they are soundly asleep.” 

She realized that he was inebriated. “Get out! Leave me!” 

His commanding tone enraged him. “A woman must obey her husband in everything!”

Ignoring her fear, Louise clamored, “I’m not a mere wife!” 

His menacing grin sharpened to a knifepoint. “That I know.” 

“Go to your mistresses, Emmanuel, or better to your rooms. You are very drunk!” 

“I drank during the whole evening, and then I made love to my Renée.” 

Disgust disfigured Louise’s features. “How dare you talk to me so rudely, you swine!” 

An enraged Emmanuel clamored, “I’m your lord and husband!” 

Her nostrils flared. “No man will ever be my master! I’m a princess! I obey only my father, King François, who will be furious if he learns that you have disturbed me tonight.” 

“The French captured Savoy many years ago, but I’ll expel the invaders!” Wavering from intoxication, he fumbled for support. “You have conjugal duties to me, Louise! And I shall not be Uncle François’ errand boy: no one will dictate to me when to ride my wife like a mare.” 

“You will not dare,” stammered the princess. “You cannot! His Majesty prohibited it!” 

“I shall do whatever I want!” Emmanuel staggered to the bed.

Louise crawled away from him across the bed. “Don’t touch me! My father will kill you!” 

Emmanuel grabbed his wife’s legs. “I’m your husband! King François cannot order me anything!” A lustful glint entered his orbs as the moonlight flooded the room after the full moon had appeared from behind the cloud coverage. “You are gorgeous! I shall taste your sweetness.” 

“No!” Louise endeavored to fight against him, but he was too strong physically.

Emmanuel swiftly overpowered her. “I shall claim you as my own!” 

“Don’t do this! Please, no!” Before Louise could scream, his hand flew to her mouth. His intoxicated breath was foul on her cheek, and she could barely stand its sickly smell.

He tore her nightgown from the hem to the bodies. “You will pay for Savoy’s occupation!” 

Louise’s struggle was terminated by slaps, while Emmanuel unlaced his hose. Mortal dread seized her, but her whimpers of horror and discomfort were muffled by his hand as Emmanuel penetrated her callously, pushing in deep through her feminine barrier. Her pain-dazed mind registered the glitter of his primeval victory over the Valois in Emmanuel’s eyes as her husband drove into her madly, his teeth scratching the skin of her neck before capturing her lips.

Louise threatened, “You shall pay, you Savoyard villain!” 

Her husband sniggered. “Not even His Holiness can condemn me!” 

Emmanuel’s lips were bruising hers, but when she attempted to scream, he again pressed his hand to her mouth. Her heart skipped a beat as he groaned gutturally and released his seed into her. Then he rolled off of his wife and fell flat forward, immediately asleep.

The princess shot out of bed. “I curse you, Emmanuel Philibert!”

God above, I’m no longer a maid! These words echoed through the head of a traumatized Louise. My own husband forced himself on me! Tears stung her eyes, and she could not suck in enough air to catch her breath. Her insides hurt like hell as she prodded over to the antechamber.

Suddenly, Louise heard her brother’s voice outside her bedroom. “Why are you sleeping? What if my sister needs you? I see that the Montmorency girls are gone. Where are they?” 

“Forgive us, Your Highness!” three maids implored.

One of them was Françoise de Chabot, the eldest daughter of the late Philippe de Chabot, Count de Charny and Admiral de Brion. She was a hazel-eyed and attractive woman of medium height, in a low-cut gown of crimson damask ornamented with small rubies. Françoise de Chabot was married to Charles de La Rochefoucard, seigneur de Barbesieux.

Françoise de Chabot pleaded, “Pardon us for falling asleep from wine, I beg of you!”

Suddenly, Louise stumbled out of her bedroom. In her torn nightgown barely covering her private parts, her face streaked with tears, Louise looked like a violated, hapless nymph. At the sight of Augustine and Jean, the girl dissolved into hysterical sobs and faltered.  

Augustine darted to her and caught her into his arms. “What has happened? Tell us!”  

Louise was shaking. “Emmanuel… He was drunk…” Her voice trailed off.

The ladies gasped in consternation, “What?” 

Yet, Jean was confused. “Where is Emmanuel Philibert now?” 

Augustine noticed that his sister’s gown was stained with something crimson – her virginal blood. As he quickly connected the dots, he hissed, “I shall strangle that accursed vermin!” 

Enfolded in her brother’s arms, Louise choked out, “That jackal is in my bed…”

Now Jean figured out what had just transpired. “Oh my goodness!” He crossed himself.

Pressing Louise to him, Augustine enjoined, “Madame de Charny, go to Their Majesties! Tell them that they must come here urgently, but don’t attract attention to yourself.” 

A shaken Françoise de Chabot complied. “As you command, Your Highness.” 

After Françoise’s hasty departure, Augustine instructed, “Jean, you ought to return to your quarters and keep silent. Pray for Louise!” His sensitive sibling was not needed here.

A tearful Jean mumbled, “Take care of her.” As his brother nodded, he left.

Louise was shuddering in Augustine’s embrace while repeating, “My God…”  

Augustine scooped her into his arms and carried his sister to a nearby couch. He sat there, rocking Louise in his embrace while she cried with the despair of a fatally wounded person.

“We will cope, my strong sister,” Augustine cooed in an unusually silky voice.

One of the maids neared them. “His Highness… he is sleeping…. He reeks of wine…” 

Augustine snarled, “Nothing can justify what he did. The king will make him pay.” 

Louise’s sobs did not subside when the sovereigns of France arrived. Augustine apprised them of Louise’s disaster, causing Anne and François to shriek. Leaving their distressed daughter in Augustine’s care, the monarchs exited and met the Duke de Montmorency in the hallway.

François enjoined, “Monty, have Prince Emmanuel Philibert arrested!”

“That drunken jackal in sleeping in Louise’s bed,” Anne hissed.

“He will be thrown into the dungeons, Your Majesties,” Montmorency pledged.

At this late hour, the corridors were almost empty, save a few courtiers. Duke Charles de Savoy appeared at the end of the corridor, dressed in a yellow silk doublet and matching hose.  

Charles gaped at his daughter-in-law in the monarch’s eyes. “What’s wrong?” 

François hissed, “Ask your dratted son when he wakes up after his insobriety.”

“He will be incarcerated.” A perturbed Anne scrubbed away tears away from her cheeks.

Charles stuttered, “No… Emanuel is my only son!” 

The king glared at him. “Uncle, I curse the day when I consented to this marriage.” 

François and Anne hastened to Augustine’s quarters, where their eldest son had just taken Louise, their minds frenzied with immeasurable fury and grief. In the meantime, a shaken Duke Charles stood rooted to the spot before sprinting towards the princess’ quarters. This night, a pall of trepidation blanketed the entire palace as the courtiers wondered what had just transpired in Princess Louise’s apartments, and various rumors were beginning to circulate.


May 30, 1552, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, Île-de-France, France

The weather was sunny with scarcely a cloud in the azure firmament. Princess Louise and Princess Elizabeth sat on a marble bench in the shade of tall cedar trees. Butterflies gravitated towards pink roses, purple daisies, colorful hydrangeas, and white irises in flowerbeds.

Elizabeth broke the uncomfortable silence. “What do our mother and King François say?” 

As if dithering, Louise cast her scrutiny down. “You know that they are outraged.”

“And rightfully so,” Elizabeth fumed, loathing her sister’s husband.

Eléonore de Montmorency sat on a nearby bench under a birch. She sighed with guilt time and time again while embroidering the tablecloth that portrayed King Louis IX of France, or Saint Louis. The Montmorency girls blamed themselves for Louise’s troubles.

An ashamed Louise could not look her sister in the eye. “My parents are supporting me in all ways possible.” She sighed. “I shall never live with Emmanuel under the same roof again.”

Elizabeth perused her sister. Since the horrible night when Emmanuel Philibert had raped his wife, Louise had lost a lot of weight and looked like an apparition of her former self. Now gone were Louise’s vivaciousness, strength, indomitability, and audacity to challenge anything and anyone who dared not accept her headstrongness – Louise had become as timid as Jean.

The Duke of Savoy’s son had found himself on the receiving end of the French monarch’s scorching wrath. At first, Anne and François had hoped to conceal Louise’s disaster, but it had become impossible upon the discovery of the princess’ pregnancy. A girl of only fifteen, Louise carried her husband’s unborn child that would be born in wedlock, but its mere existence made it widely known that Emmanuel had ignored François’ order not to consummate the matrimony.

The Valois family was shaken to the core by Princess Louise’s afflictions. Nonetheless, a month ago the King of France had hosted a ceremony of ennoblement. Dauphin Henri’s bastard daughter with Diane de Poitiers – Diane de Valois – had been made Duchess de Bourges. The dauphin’s illegitimate daughter would not be held in less esteem than Charlotte de Valois, new Duchess de Avignon, who lived in Vienna. The king had also elevated his bastard son, Nicolas d’Estouteville, to Duke d’Estouteville, and given titles to his two other bastards.

Elizabeth approved of her stepfather’s actions. “So, you will be permanently separated.”

Louise’s gaze was glued to a bed of daisies. “Emmanuel was awfully drunk on that night. Yes, now he is my husband and as such can exercise his conjugal rights, but not in such a form.”

“You are a Valois, sister,” Elizabeth underscored. “Not a mere woman.”  

Perhaps I’ll be chained to Emmanuel for the rest of my life, Louise bemoaned silently. She hated her husband so much that Louise would prefer to be blind, deaf, dumb, or even maimed rather than be married to Emmanuel Philibert. Her mother had told her that Louise would grow to love her child later because the baby was innocent of its father’s sins, and in the first place this little creature would be Louise’s child with a mix of Valois and Savoy blood.

The Tudor princess sighed with frustration. “In theory your marriage might be declared null and void on the grounds of consanguinity, for you are cousins.”

“The papal dispensation was issued for us,” countered Louise with regret. “However, my accursed marriage cannot be annulled because it was consummated, and I’m–” She trailed off.  

Her English sister whispered, “You are carrying his child.”

The sound of the word ‘child’ almost scratched Louise’s ears like the crackling of ice. Her gaze flew to her flat abdomen, and then to a bed of roses. “I hate this thing inside of me.”

Elizabeth’s heart broke for her sister. “It will change once the baby is born.”

Louise’s laugh was bitter. “Bess, you can’t know because you are still a maiden.”

Elizabeth explained, “Our mother rightly says that any child is the Almighty’s blessing.”

Louise’s lip quivered, and tears rolled down her cheeks. “You are wrong, dear sister. A baby is a blessing only if it is fathered by a man who loves you and whom you love.”

I’m afraid of men, Elizabeth lamented wordlessly. This fear chills me to the very depths of my soul. She shuddered at the thought that her maidenhood could be forcibly taken away by her husband on the wedding night if she married the Earl of Devon. Nevertheless, Edward Courtenay loved her and would never do such a heinous thing to her, Elizabeth was certain of this.

Louise gauged her musings. “My marriage was doomed from the start, but your situation is different. Lord Devon loves you, Elizabeth, and will be a good husband to you.”

Bess chuckled. “Was it so apparent when Eddie courted me in France?”

For the first time in days, a smile illumined Louise’s visage. “Yes, he worships you!”

An embarrassed Elizabeth reddened. “I could see it, and your parents think so, too.”

Louise shared her observations. “When Lord Devon was in France, I saw that he took your hand with reverence, and his eyes shone with affection for you. Don’t be afraid of him, Bess!”

Eléonore de Montmorency listened to the sisters’ conversation in silence.

“You are right.” Now Elizabeth felt more confident of her decision to marry Devon.

Louise asserted, “Emmanuel’s misconduct was caused by his drunkenness and by his hate towards the House of Valois. Many husbands abuse their wives, but I shall never be his toy.”

Eléonore de Montmorency joined, “Your Highness is intrepid and won’t bow to anyone.”

Louise’s orbs drifted to her favorite lady-in-waiting. “You are correct, mon amie. Neither Emmanuel nor any other man will break me and compel me to dance to his whims.”

Eléonore opined, “King François, Dauphin Henri, and Prince Augustine will protect you.”

Louise’s hands were clenched. “Emmanuel will never touch me again, or I shall kill him!”

“Your Highness! Forgive my sisters and me, I beg of you!” implored Eléonore desperately. “None of us has been at peace since that night. If only we had not left your rooms, then–” 

Louise interrupted, “It’s not your fault! I permitted you to leave, while others fell asleep.”

Nodding gratefully, Eléonore’s mind floated to her eldest brother, François. “Not all men are like the Duke of Savoy’s son. Some of them are gentle, romantic, and chivalrous.”

Louise’s cheeks became stained with blush because François de Montmorency was on her mind every day. She had seen him twice with Augustine in the past five weeks, and the endless sadness in François’ orbs caused Louise to shiver. François was seven years Louise’s senior, but larks of mutual attraction were singing romantic tunes in the souls of them both. I should not think of him, for now I’m a married woman, Louise chided herself inwardly.  

Elizabeth comprehended the hidden meaning of Eléonore’s words and changed the topic to spare Louise embarrassment. “Madame de Montmorency, are you speaking about your husband – Monsieur de La Tour d’Auvergne? He is a perfect, gallant gentleman.”

A sliver of pink tinted Eléonore’s cheeks. “I’m fortunate to have a devoted husband.”

Louise informed, “Duke Charles de Savoy is groveling at my father’s feet. In truth, we do not have legal reasons for Emmanuel’s imprisonment – soon he will be sent back to Savoy.”

Bess arched a brow. “Can Emmanuel plot with France’s enemies later?” 

Louise’s blue eyes flashed with animosity. “The duke’s son will be warned in advance.”

Elizabeth and Eléonore tipped their heads in agreement with Louise. The King of France could not do anything else, for Emmanuel had forced himself upon his own wife – Louise was Emmanuel’s spouse in the eyes of the Almighty and law, and the Church law was on his side.

§§§

In spite of the sun’s blaze, Prince Augustine and François de Montmorency strolled along the garden paths, through the vast formal gardens. The tall and intricate boxwood hedges in the Italian style were shaped in sophisticated symbolic forms, with flowerbeds dotted here and there. The park represented itself a series of symmetrical parterres, nicely linked with each other.

François queried, “Your Highness, how is your sister faring?” 

Augustine kept staring ahead. “Your sisters are too talkative about Louise.”

“I’m sorry for speaking out of turn,” said François. “I’m just worried about her.”   

The prince responded, “Louise did not expect to find joy in her marriage, but she and none of us anticipated such a nightmare, so her pregnancy is emotionally traumatic for her.”   

François ferociously hated Emmanuel de Savoy. “The baby cannot salvage their marriage! How can his crime be forgotten and pardoned? Their union should be annulled!” 

“Don’t be so impulsive, my friend.” There was insistence in Augustine’s tone.

Accustomed to his coldness, Augustine thought that the prince could care for Louise more. “Will the king allow Prince Emmanuel to take Princess Louise with him to Chambéry?”

Augustine halted near a fountain designed by the Italian-born artist Francesco Primaticcio, and it was adorned with a statue of Hercules by Michelangelo. François paused a small distance away from him, and they contemplated the fountain, which was located opposite the carp pond, at the end of the Cour Ovale, or the Oval Courtyard. The water bubbling in the fountain was very pure and reserved for the king – hence, two sentries guarded the fountain to avoid poisoning.

When the sentinels glanced at Augustine, he motioned for his friend to leave. They strode through the park, which were mainly based on a system of draining canals that started from the different wells and the carp pond, leading to the long and wide Grand Canal.

Augustine said coldly, “You must be careful with questions.”  

François muttered, “Excuse me, but I’m concerned about the princess’ mental state.”

Augustine glanced towards the canal where a flock of white, proud swans was swimming. “Louise’s world is besmirched by hurt and betrayal. Yet, Louise is a fighter and will survive through this. Her child will be a legitimate heir to the Duchy of Savoy regardless of its gender, and we have resolved that Louise’s marriage to Emmanuel Philibert is officially over.”

“That vermin is an awful man,” François hissed with infinite loathing.

“François, I watched you and guessed the nature of your feelings for my sister. Regardless of anything, she remains a princess and will always do her duty to her country – don’t forget who Louise is. If any unwarranted rumors take flight, my sister’s reputation might be impugned.”

“Your Highness, your sister and I have never even spoken in private. I would never have disgraced her in any way. My fealty to you and the Valois dynasty is unwavering.”

Augustine nevertheless measured him with a skeptical glance. “I’m highly unlikely to ever become King of France. Why are you not serving my brother, Henri, with the same devotion as you are giving me? After Antoine de Vendôme’s death, he would welcome you in his service.”

François spoke truthfully, “I admire Dauphin Henri, but I prefer to be in your entourage.”

In these moments, Augustine emanated even more chilliness. “Why?”  

François could barely endure his arctic stare. “Dauphin Henri would make a good ruler, but I don’t want any of his sons to succeed. Their mother still poses a threat to you.”

Augustine was aware of the old Montmorency’s many requests to have the jailed Catherine de’ Medici executed. “Did your father ask you to protect me and my siblings?” 

François nodded. “Yes, and I’m honored to serve Your Highness.”

“Thank you; now let’s go,” prodded the prince, as if they had never discussed it.

They strolled along the Grand Canal where the water shimmered with sunbeams. Soon they turned into another passageway and reached the herb gardens before continuing their way to the eastern part of the park, bordering with the forest of Fontainebleau.

As Louise and Elizabeth appeared into view, Augustine and François picked up their pace. Flanked by her English sister and her lady-in-waiting, Louise stood near a round ornamental lake adorned with a statue of the Tiber. They observed swans swimming across the pond’s surface.

Augustine jested, “While the swans are leaving, we are arriving.”

The three women turned their heads to the newcomers. Neither of the princesses curtsied to Augustine, for no formalities between them were necessary in private.

“Human life,” said Augustine in a philosophical undertone, “is a series of conventions. Its sense consists in defying these conventions. Aristotle said, ‘For what is the best choice, for each individual is the highest it is possible for him to achieve.’ Don’t you think so, sisters?” 

Elizabeth grinned. “Aristotle also said that ‘Excellence is never an accident but always the result of high intention, sincere effort, and intelligent execution. I completely agree with it.” 

Augustine also let out a smile. “Choice, not only chance, determines one’s destiny.”

Louise resolved, “I must and shall become stronger against all odds.”

Augustine approached Louise. “You shall cope, dearest sister!”

François de Montmorency masked his fascination for Princess Louise with an inscrutable expression. However, he still viewed her from top to toe: in a golden lace-trimmed gown of gray satin slashed with white, Louise looked like a battered creature, her heart as if annihilated by all her woes. I adore Princess Louise. God protect her from her husband, François told himself.  

“All will be well, Louise,” assured Augustine. “We will all help you.”   

Elizabeth stated, “Time heals the worst wounds, like mine caused by my late father.”

Tears glistened in Louise’s orbs. “I do not know what I would have done without you all.”

In a handful of heartbeats, they strode away, but Louise’s gaze lingered upon François de Montmorency. She eagerly drank in his tall and athletic frame garbed in aquamarine silks. For a split second, their gazes locked, and Louise discerned concern in his orbs splashing like a stream of warm liquid. I regret that I’m conjoined with Emmanuel de Savoy by our marital bonds!

“Let’s go!” cried Louise before rushing forward, like a rampant torrent.

Augustine and Elizabeth hurried after Louise. Soon they disappeared in an alley.

“Brother,” Eléonore started. “You two cannot be together. Forget Princess Louise!”

François sighed. “At least, she and Prince Emmanuel will be separated from now on.” His fists clenched. “I fear that this villain might ally with King Felipe of Spain against France.”    

“Time will show.” Eléonore knew that her brother yearned to conquer Louise’s heart and dreamed to make her his wife. She reiterated, “Forget about Her Highness!”

“It’s easier said than done,” mumbled François, extending his hand to his sister.

Eléonore and François de Montmorency promenaded through the former garden of Diana, called so after Dauphin Henri’s executed chief mistress. Later, this park had been renamed ‘The garden of Marie’ in honor of the dauphin’s beloved Marie de Bourbon. Yet, the fountain in the garden’s center was decorated with the sculpture of the Roman Goddess Diana. Perhaps I should take a mistress for a distraction to try and forget Louise, François ruminated silently.

Notes:

The new chapter is up! Please let us know what you think of this chapter, and don’t forget to leave reviews so that we can discuss events, twists, and turns in this chapter.

This chapter is centered on Louise de Valois, Princess of France and now also of Savoy. Now Louise is married to Emmanuel Philibert de Savoy, the only surviving son of Charles III, Duke de Savoy, and his spouse, Beatrice of Portugal. Louise and Emmanuel were betrothed for a long time, so their union was a decided thing that is necessary to cement France’s alliance with the ducal House of Savoy. King François and Queen Anne had their own misgivings with regards to this marital union, but they decided that this marriage should proceed for political reasons.

We have to apologize to the historical Emmanuel Philibert de Savoy, for he would not have done such a horrible thing to his historical wife, Princess Marguerite of France. However, the plot requires that we have Emmanuel portrayed as a bad guy, one who is capable of forcing himself on his own wife when he is drunk, which will have extremely serious consequences for the Valois, Emmanuel, and Louise in later chapters. We made Emmanuel Philibert completely inebriated after the wedding feast to make the twist of Louise’s rape on the wedding night a realistic one.

As a result of their cataclysmic wedding night, Louise is pregnant, and perhaps her mother, Anne, is correct that she will grow to love her child that is innocent of its father’s sins. Emmanuel loathes his wife and the House of Valois for Savoy’s occupation by France, which will have other bad consequences as well. Emmanuel might ally with one of France’s enemies, for instance King Felipe II of Spain. We also brought the Montmorency girls into the story, and Eléonore is Louise’s close friend. François de Montmorency loves Louise in secret, and she is attracted to him as well; perhaps there will be another storyline between François and Louise, who knows…

We also paid some attention to Jean de Valois, Duke de Guyenne, portraying his personality in his scene with Augustine. Elizabeth Tudor is still at the French court with her mother, Anne. We hope that you are enjoying the moments between Elizabeth, her mother, and her French half- siblings. Elizabeth has now made up her mind to marry Eddie Courtenay, Earl of Devon, but she cannot forget Robert Dudley, so she will have quite a complex amorous storyline in the future.

Attention! A while ago, we posted a prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 100: Chapter 99: The Final Days in France

Summary:

Elizabeth Tudor spends her final days in France with her mother and stepfather, in the midst of the French court’s splendor. François makes up his mind on the fate of Emmanuel Philibert de Savoy, who is now plotting. Elizabeth is back to England and meets with the Earl of Devon, whom she decides to marry, as well as her “brother” King Edward VI, who welcomes her back.

Notes:

Please, if you are reading this fiction, leave us a review, for we need your support for inspiration just to keep going. Personally, I have problems with finding inspiration for writing these days, but we still posted this chapter.

Attention! The prologue to the sequel 'Chained by Blood and Power' (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don't forget about our work "Entwined by a Golden Alliance" co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 99: The Final Days in France

June 15, 1552, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, Île-de-France, France

Princess Elizabeth of England strolled through the hallways adorned with paintings, marble and bronze sculptures of mythological deities. She was accompanied with Lady Catherine Ashley and Lady Blanche Parry, who had replaced Lady Mary Dudley during Elizabeth’s stay in France. Lady Katherine Knollys, together with her husband, Francis, had departed to England a month ago

Blanche Parry was a plump and rather plain woman in her mid-forties. She had arrived at the English court with her aunt, Blanche, Lady Troy, who had once been the governess to King Edward VI. Her hazel eyes were kind and soft, her angular features marred by a long and hooked nose. Her tight gown of silver satin accentuated her reddish-brown hair arranged in a bun.

“This castle is magnificent!” The princess admired her surroundings. “These frescoes were painted by Rosso Fiorentino and Francesco Primaticcio, who both played a huge role in the creation of France’s own new art school, while also influencing many other artists.”

Catherine or Kat Ashley liked French palaces, but she missed the English court. “We do not have anything like this in England, but there is no place like home. When we will depart?”

Elizabeth apprised, “I’m intending to leave in within a month.”

Kat clapped her hands gleefully. “Home, sweet home!”

Blanche Parry predicted, “And Your Highness’ wedding to Lord Devon.”

“Yes,” drawled Elizabeth, as if hesitating. “I intent to marry him before the year is out.”

Those who met the Tudor princess bowed and curtsied to her. When they encountered Queen Jeanne of Navarre with her retinue, the royal women stopped and greeted each other.

Jeanne was chagrined that Anne’s eldest daughter would leave soon. “Bess, I’d like you to attend my wedding with Augustine in a couple of years. Will you be able to come?” 

Bess certified, “I don’t know, Jeanne. Maybe with my future husband.”

Jeanne’s eyes flashed. “I liked Lord Devon when he lived at our court.”

Elizabeth’s sigh was palpable. “Eddie and Augustine are far better than Emmanuel.”

The Navarrese queen stepped close to Bess and lowered her voice. “That lustful animal from Savoy! What our cousin did to Louise is unforgiveable despite his insobriety that night.”

“Emmanuel traumatized Louise’s innocent soul substantially.”

Jeanne avouched, “Uncle François and we all will defend her. Queen Anne will ensure that her fear of certain things will fade away. Over time, Louise will recover emotionally, and she will dance on my wedding to Augustine.” She giggled. “Maybe I’ll make him a warmer person.”

Elizabeth inferred whether Jeanne wrongly saw Augustine as a pliable teenager. “Coldness is Augustine’s nature, and even Augustine falls in love, he will love in a reserved way.”

This perspective alarmed Jeanne. “We spend a lot of time together. Sometimes, Augustine opens up and is frank, yet not cordial enough, but in most cases he is closed-off.”

“My brother behaves so even with those to whom he is devoted.”

“It frightens me a little, Bess,” confided Jeanne. “How can I alter him?”

Elizabeth verbalized her advice, hoping that the Navarrese queen would listen to her. “You ought to accept Augustine for who he is and do not demand anything. Do not demand or fret – it will distance him from you. My mother says that if Augustine finds his true love, he will be devoted to his wife, who will become his only passion and his only confidante.”   

Jeanne lamented, “I want to accomplish it, but I can barely bare Augustine’s frigid manners.” 

“You need to understand his complex character,” recommended the Tudor princess.

After partying with Jeanne, the princess and her companions entered the south wing of the château. They admired the eccentric decorative motifs such as grotesques, putti, and strapwork, as well as stucco moldings and picture frames, which were omnipresent everywhere.

Blanche enthused, “Such extravagant grandeur! This castle is awesome!”

Kat did not concur. “These decorations are a bit gaudy.”  

“I love this majestic splendor,” gushed Elizabeth. “It reflects and suits the flamboyant nature of French society perfectly, but it would be incongruent with English spirit. I imagine the Golden Age of England’s culture in a slightly different, but no less awe-inspiring way.”

In the next hallway adorned with the frescoes of the Roman god Jupiter and all other Roman gods, they met Ambrose Dudley, Earl of Warwick – captain of the princess’ private guard.

Ambrose bowed to his mistress. “Your Highness!”

Elizabeth grinned at the man who made her remember about Robert Dudley again. “Soon we will be back to England, and you will see your family, Lord Warwick.”

Ambrose’s expression transmuted into boundless bereavement. “Or what is left of my once large family. I lost my parents and several brothers to the sweating sickness.”

She sighed. “Their deaths pained me a lot. I’m relieved that Robin and your sisters survived.”

Right now a grief-stricken Ambrose looked as though he had been fatally wounded. “I do not need the title of Earl of Warwick! I would prefer to have nothing but see my relatives alive.”   

“May they find peace in heaven,” Elizabeth intoned, and the others echoed.

Blanche noted, “Now Lord Robert is Viscount Lisle; you inherited the earldom of Warwick.”

“Yes.” Ambrose then blurted out, “Robin mourns for our relatives, but he is pleased with his new title.” He then realized that he had let it slip out, blaming himself for his lack of caution.

Kat grinned waspishly. “Robert Dudley craves to have power!”

Neither Kat Ashley nor Blanche Parry were fond of Robert Dudley, relieved that he was married to Amy Robsart. They were both aware of Robert’s illicit passion for their charge, both of them wishing for Elizabeth to marry the Earl of Devon for many reasons.  

Ambrose objected, “My brother is an honorable man!”

Elizabeth closed the topic. “Nobody doubts his integrity, Lord Warwick.”

The princess walked away, her maids trailing after her. Elizabeth had always known that Sir Robert Dudley was ambitious, impertinent, charismatic, handsome, and arrogant all at once, but his impudence even magnified his personal charm. She wondered to what extent Robert wanted to amass wealth, power, and privileges, for Ambrose had just disclosed something about his brother. Does Robert love me or the power I can give him? Elizabeth asked herself. No, he loves only me!

§§§

Elizabeth and her ladies entered the Ulysses Gallery. King François, flanked by his sons, Princes Lorenzo and Antoine, stood in the center next to artists, holding sketches. At the opposite end, Queen Anne sat on a red-brocaded couch with Prince Louis and Princess Valentine.

The celebrated gallery of Ulysses, created by Francesco Primaticcio at King François’ behest in the past decade, was decorated with wall frescoes and the lofty plafond painted with scenes recounting the life and adventures of Ulysses, which was the Latin form of the name Odysseus, while also depicting other scenes from Homer’s most illustrious work ‘Odyssey.’

“Your Majesties and Your Highnesses!” greeted the Tudor princess.

As they pivoted to the guests, the three English women made curtseys.

“My dearest daughter!” Anne exclaimed, feeling the little Valentine climb onto her lap.

François flashed a grin. “Elizabeth! You look as fiery and resplendent as a summer sun.” He often called his stepdaughter so because of his stepdaughter’s flaming red hair.

The artists dropped into bows as they chorused, “Your Highness.”

“Mother and Stepfather!” cried Elizabeth as she and her maids rose from their curtsies.

A beaming Lorenzo rushed to his sister. “My beloved Lizzy!”

Against the royal protocol, Antoine followed suit. “Our English sun has come!”

Elizabeth lowered herself at the level of her younger brothers. Opening her arms for them, she hugged both Antoine and Lorenzo with the deep affection reciprocated by her brothers.

Anne, François, and the others observed this heartwarming scene with smiles.

After she had parted from her siblings, the princess told them, “My dear Enzo and Antoine! I remember how we first met two years ago. You have both grown so much!”

Lorenzo stated proudly, “I’m not a boy – I’m a strong prince!”

Antoine parried, “I’m still two years your senior and, hence, stronger, Enzo.”

The princes grimaced at each other, then broke into an impish laugh.

Lorenzo fired back, “I’m more artistic than you, Tony.”

Everyone laughed at the verbal duel between the boys.

Antoine quoted the phrase Augustine had said several weeks ago during their conversation about the reign of Marcus Aurelius in ancient Rome. “Anything that is beautiful is beautiful just as it is. No form of nature is inferior to art, for the arts merely imitate natural forms.”

Slim and quite tall, Prince Antoine wore a red silk doublet and a flat cap festooned with a white feather. At eight, he was green-eyed, outspoken, and active, great friends with Lorenzo much because of their closeness in age, and they played and did pranks together, but it was Augustine who challenged him intellectually. Antoine was a mischievous and hotheaded boy, but also with a contemplative facet to his personality. Named after the Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius and his patron saint Anthony, Antoine promised to grow into an interesting person.

Lorenzo figured out why Antoine had just said that. “Did Augustine tell you that?” 

Antoine tipped his head. “It is fascinating to talk to Augustine, Enzo.”

Lorenzo’s face conveyed his umbrage. “You just do not like poems and the arts.”

“Augustine adores the arts,” Antoine asserted. “However, it is more interesting for me to discuss something historical with him. His head is full of many remarkable things.”

A jealous Lorenzo accused, “You do not love me, Tony, do you?”

“I do.” Now Antoine felt bad. “I like playing with you, but speaking to Augustine more.”

Now Lorenzo looked even more offended. “I’m not stupid!”

Everybody was amused by the boys’ bickering, interested in how it would end.

Lorenzo continued, “Tony! We are both clever! Don’t diminish my qualities!”

“I’m not doing this,” Antoine objected. “You have imagined it, Enzo!”  

François interjected, “Enzo, you are our young poet!”

“I’m strong, too!” Lorenzo’s eyes darted between his parents. “I’m the Duke of Milan!”

Dressed in a doublet of white and blue velvet ornamented with diamonds, Prince Lorenzo, Duke of Milan, wore his favorite Valois colors. He was a merry and clever child, bonny in a saturnine way, one who reveled in outdoor activities, but whose attention could be captivated by a statue or a painting. With his obvious skills in foreign languages, Lorenzo took delight in poems.

The monarch liked his younger son’s stubbornness, which was a nice addition to Lorenzo’s sublime soul. “When you come of age, you will rule Milan on your own.”

From the other side of the room, Prince Louis screamed, “And I’m Duke d’Alençon!”

Lorenzo parried, “It’s a duchy in France. Do you know this?”

“Stop, boys!” François prevented their potential argument.

The king’s gaze drifted to the couch where his wife was seated with their younger children. Now a boy of three summers, Louis was haughtier than any of his siblings. The boy’s doublet was of brown damask ornamented with numberless jewels, for Louis loved everything that glittered to an extreme degree. Oddly, Louis was closer to Jean than anyone else, refusing to play with Lorenzo who was three years him senior and rather discomfited with Augustine’s coldness.

Louis liked defying others despite his age. “I only said the truth.”

“Enough, son,” Anne instructed as she touched his hand warningly.

Anne and François shared glances of comprehension, for Louis could be troublesome.

At the same time, Lorenzo sprinted to his father and the painters. As he skidded to a halt beside the monarch, he inquired, “Will you visit me in Milan after I move there?” 

François bent down to his son. “Yes, but it will happen in many years, Enzo.”

Lorenzo bragged, “I shall have my own splendid court crowded with artists!”

In a good-humored manner, Anne rebuked, “Aren’t we worthy of your attention?” 

Antoine gazed at Bess, who stood beside him. “Our Mother and Valentine need me!”

A grinning Elizabeth encouraged, “Go to them, Tony.”

Grinning facetiously, Antoine glided across the gallery. Stopping near the couch, he smiled at Louis, who nodded at him with a grin. Unexpectedly, Antoine then grabbed Valentine from their mother’s arms. Antoine bounced the little girl in the air before catching her and twirling around with her in his arms, Valentine’s giggles echoing like wind chimes on the breeze.

“Give your sister to me, Tony!” commanded Anne. “You might hurt her unintentionally!”

A laughing Louis began applauding. “Oh, they look so nice together!”

François sought to put his wife’s mind at ease. “Our girl is happy, mon amour.”

To confirm her father’s words, Valentine giggled. “Tony, Enzo! It’s so funny!”

Lorenzo exploded into laughter. “Tony is such a dramatic prince!”

“And you are such a poetic prince,” teased Antoine as he landed on the couch next to Anne.

Anne took Valentine from her son’s arms. “Come to me, my dear.”

“My beloved Mama!” Valentine kissed her mother’s cheek, settling down in her lap.

The monarch beckoned Elizabeth who still stood with her ladies. “Bess! Come!”

The gathering became split up in two parts. François, Elizabeth, and Lorenzo communicated with two artists who showed their many sketches to them. In the meantime, Antoine was playing with Valentine and Louis on the couch, while Anne conversed with Blanche Parry and Kat Ashley.

Elizabeth asked, “So, you will paint more frescoes, won’t you?” 

Francesco Primaticcio tipped his head. “Exactly, Your Highness. Messer Niccolò will work with me.” He pointed towards the opposite wall. “There is more room there for frescoes dedicated to Odysseys and his adventures during his dangerous overseas voyages.”

Niccolò dell’Abbate commented, “I’d like to add to this majestic gallery a number of lyrical landscapes featuring both Christian and pagan objects. Nevertheless, my main task will be to create more frescoes from Messer Primaticcio’s designs for the currently unadorned walls.”

Elizabeth examined Francesco Primaticcio. A thin man about fifty of swarthy complexion, with black hair and attentive, brown-green orbs, with freckles on his cheeks, Primaticcio had an Italian, olive countenance, yet having a thick air of French gallantry and eccentricity about him. Primaticcio’s attire of tawny silk, trimmed with white lace, was ornamented with precious stones.

Primaticcio had long become an artistic star at the Valois court. Together with the late Rosso Fiorentino, he was one of the leading artists who were working at Château Fontainebleau, and now he was leader of the so-called School of Fontainebleau. Primaticcio equipped his own team of talented painters and stuccators, such as Nicollò dell’Abate who had recently arrived at court, with many great designs. Primaticcio is an amazing court painter, Bess assessed inwardly.

Then Elizabeth viewed Niccolò dell’Abbate. A newbie at the Valois court, Abbate’s clothes were Italian: an extravagant doublet of azure and crimson satin, matching puffy hose, and a toque of red satin. A man of relatively short stature in his mid-forties, Abbate kept his youthful features, accentuated by his boyish smile and his jocund, hazel eyes. Abbate had worked in Bologna where he had created paintings of elaborate landscapes, hunting, festivities, and courtly love.

Primaticcio nodded. “Let’s finish with the frescoes before focusing on landscapes.”

François surveyed the artists. “Well, you both know what I want you to achieve.”

“Your Majesty will be pleased with the results,” assured Primaticcio.

The ruler rewarded the painter with a grin. “Neither you nor Il Rosso disappointed me.”   

At the mention of the dearly departed Fiorentino, endless sadness shadowed the visages of both François and Primaticcio. The ruler uttered, “May Il Rosso rest in peace!”

After they had crossed themselves, Primaticcio attempted to jest. “Il Rosso is flaming soul!”

François sighed. “Fiorentino was quite a temperamental and red-haired man.”

Lorenzo approached them. “Sadly, I did not meet Il Rosso. His works are fabulous!”

Primaticcio was fond of Lorenzo in particular, for the prince showed a keen interest in the arts at such an early age. “Does Your Highness have a favorite piece in this gallery?” 

Lorenzo swung around and pointed at the painting of Ulysses and Penelope on a nearby wall. “I adore this fresco most of all! We can see Odysseys and his loyal wife, Penelope, discussing their adventures. They remind me of my beloved parents who are always together.”  

Elizabeth grinned. “The love of King François and Queen Anne is legendary.”

The monarch’s spirits soared. “I always come back to my wife, just as Odysseys returned to Penelope after battling the Trojans and enduring many years of troubles.” 

Lorenzo commented, “You are, my beloved Papa! You are strong and courageous!”

Louis cried, “Our great father defeated that evil Emperor Carlos!”

François chastened his youngest son. “Son, you must respect the dead. Do you understand?”

The king’s artists waited patiently at a distance from them.

Louis gave a sullen nod. “Yes, Your Majesty, but the Valois are better than the Habsburgs!”

“I agree, son,” replied François. “But it should not be discussed in public.”

Anne remarked from the other side of the gallery, “Unlike Penelope, I did not have to defend myself from a legion of suitors, but I longed for François.”

Antoine corrected, “Mother, you yourself journeyed to Italy! You are more courageous than Penelope who simply stayed at home and waited for her husband to return.”

Anne swallowed a rising bile in her throat: Penelope remained faithful to Odysseys, while she had been violated by the late Henry Tudor in Boulogne. “Perhaps, you are right, son.”

Even from across the room, François glimpsed his consort’s haunted gaze, the meaning of which only Elizabeth and he comprehended. “Anne is stronger than Penelope.”

Elizabeth noticed the spouses’ non-verbal exchange, receiving the confirmation that King François was aware of Anne’s ignominy at the hands of King Henry. Questions seeped into her mind. If my stepfather knows the truth, why didn’t he try to avenge my mother’s sufferings? Or did he do something secretly? In 1546 after the siege of Boulogne, Elizabeth had feared that François would invade England to avenge Anne’s abduction, but it had not happened.

Abbate offered, “We can paint Your Majesties as Penelope and Odysseus.” 

Primaticcio considered it a great idea. “They can resemble Your Majesties.”

At his spouse’s nod, François consented, “That would be great!”

Abbate guaranteed, “You will not regret it, Your Majesties.”

The monarch’s nod followed. “I trust Primaticcio’s recommendation.”

Lorenzo lifted his orbs up to the plafond. “Three Muses and a Putto! They are everywhere!”

Everyone studied the gallery’s ceiling. It was resplendent: the Three Muses were portrayed in various compositions with a gesturing Putto, as well as compositions of the Muses with Putto with Cymbals, a Putto with a lyre, the painting of Apollo, Pan, and another Putto blowing a horn.

§§§

During the next hour, François continued his debates with the artists, who showed him more detailed sketches. Driven by her dream to make England more cultured, Elizabeth listened avidly together with Lorenzo who stood beside his sister, his hand clasped in hers.

Queen Anne conversed with Elizabeth’s ladies who now sat in front of her. Valentine had been taken away by her nurse for feeding, and Antoine and Louis had gone with her.

Anne’s gaze darted between Blanche and Kat. “I thank you for taking care of my daughter. You have been her staunch supporters, and her source of strength for years.”

Blanche smiled at the queen’s praise. “I love Her Highness as my own daughter. She had a difficult childhood despite remaining King Henry’s legitimate daughter and heiress, for Elizabeth was separated from Your Majesty for many years and suffered because of this. His late Majesty tried to repair their relationship after he had exiled you, but to no avail, although Her Highness was always courteous with him.” Blanche sighed. “She was afraid of her own father.”

Anne was perfectly aware of her eldest daughter’s feelings. “My poor girl!”

Blanche supplemented, “The late Lady Margaret Bryan and the late Lady Margery Horsman, God rest their souls, taught the princess to hide her emotions.”

At the mention of Margaret Bryan and Margery Horsman, the queen let out a sigh of grief. “Lady Horsman was my great friend. Lady Bryan was a good woman. God rest their souls!”  

They crossed themselves in silence, and Blanche recalled, “Lady Horsman died of a fever in Boulogne when you were there. We were all shocked that King Henry kept you his prisoner.”

Anne stifled a surge of animosity towards Henry who had inadvertently caused Margery’s demise. Obviously, neither Kat nor Blanche knew the truth. “Poor Margery!”

Kat Ashley affirmed, “I did not serve our great princess at the time of Your Majesty’s arrest. After I entered her household, I did my best to make Her Highness’ life pleasant and comfortable, while also guarding her interests. Her Highness is like a daughter to me.”

“And to me as well,” Blanche claimed.

Anne smiled at the two women. “I’m aware how much you both did for Bess who treasures the two of you. I ask you both to remain at her side after her wedding to Lord Devon.”

Blanche vowed, “I shall be with Her Highness until God calls me home.”

Kat pledged, “Your Majesty, we shall never leave the princess.”

The queen leaned closer to them and whispered, “Try to keep Sir Robert Dudley as far away from Bess as possible. It is especially important now when he spends more time at court after he become Viscount Lisle. I do not want my daughter to be tempted by Dudley.”

“Dudley is insolent and flippant,” Kat summarized with distaste. “I’ve disliked him starting from the day when he appeared at Hatfield. He was too haughty in childhood, although he was not on good terms with King Edward, always trying to spend more time with Princess Elizabeth.”

Blanche assumed, “Robert’s marriage to Mistress Amy Robsart must force him to contain his eagerness to pursue the princess. Lord Devon is a great match for Her Highness.”

Anne forewarned, “Dudley is stubborn and assertive, so keep an eye on him.”

“We shall,” pledged Blanche, while Kat inclined her head in agreement.

A moment later, Antoine and Louis entered the gallery, their stomachs now full after they had consumed a plate of cakes and some other snakes. They went to their mother and bowed.

Antoine interposed, “Mother, you and Papa will go to England. Will you be attending Bess’ wedding to Lord Devon?’ He spoke flawless English, smirking at the two women.

“I wish I could go to England, too,” said Anne’s son Louis, also in English.

The queen chuckled at the apparent astonishment of Elizabeth’s ladies who gawked at the princes. Anne boasted, “All of my children possess good knowledge in the English language.”

Blanche responded, “Your Highnesses are talented in languages.”

Antoine bragged, “Yes, we are!” His younger brother nodded.

Seeing her daughter coming to them, Anne cried, “Valentine!”

Princess Valentine of France was walking through the gallery on her chubby legs. Her nurse had taken her back to the gallery after feeding the girl and allowed her to walk for a little. A child of two, Valentine was a miniature copy of the late Lady Elizabeth Boleyn, with her face framed with blonde locks and her cerulean blue eyes almost transparent in their paleness.

“Tony!” Valentine loved Antoine more than her other siblings. “Make me smile!”

Louis admired Valentine’s hair. “Ah, she is a blonde, unlike my other sisters.”

“She is nice!” Antoine bounced the girl, making her laugh. “We adore each other!”

Valentine enjoyed being in his arms. “Tony, I love you, too!”

The queen grinned at Antoine. “Son, please be careful with her.”  

“Do you love me?” Louis asked with challenge.

Antoine placed the girl back on her feet. “I do love you, Louis, and all our siblings.”

Valentine uttered, “I have many brothers and sisters.”

Antoine and Louis conversed with the youngest sister for a while. None of them were aware of what had happened to their elder sister, Louise, for they were too young to know anything. 

Blanche commented, “Princess Valentine looks like an English beauty.”

Anne watched her sons making faces for Valentine. “She resembles my late mother.”

“God rest her soul,” Antoine said as he crossed herself. His siblings followed suit.

Anne’s heart squeezed in her chest at the sight of Valentine’s excessive pallor and her fragile, petite body. “Our dear girl is rather sickly. Valentine’s delicate health is being monitored.”  

Kat eyed the child who did not seem strong. “I pray that she will overgrow her weakness.”

Valentine complained, “I’m tired and want to rest, Mother.”

Anne told her daughter, “Then, dearest, let me take you to the nursery.” Then Anne’s orbs drifted to her sons. “Soon all of you, save Augustine and Jean, will relocate to Château de Villers-Cotterêts. At the same time, Augustine and Jean will accompany us to England.”

“Will you be visiting us, Mother?” Antoine did not wish to be parted from his parents.

“Of course, Tony.” The queen sent an affectionate look to her son. “Often.”

A despondent Louis muttered, “I shall miss you and our Papa, Mama.”

“Me too, son.” Queen Anne stroked Louis’s raven hair. He was somewhat like her, and in many ways Louis reminded her of her own brother George, save Louis’ arrogance.

Festive laughter enlivened the gallery as Lorenzo ran to his mother. After kissing the queen on the cheek, Lorenzo offered to take Valentine to the nursery, supported by Antoine and Louis. A worried Anne watched her three sons leading her youngest daughter to the governess who waited for her little charge in the corner. By now, the royal family was accustomed to Valentine’s fragile health, praying for her health. I have a bad feeling about Valentine. Why? Anne wondered.  


June 30, 1552, forest of Fontainebleau and Château de Fontainebleau, Île-de-France, France

The huge forest was alive with the flagrance of foliage and excitement of the royal party. The hounds barked loudly as two stags leaped from the bushes, staring at King François and Queen Anne frighteningly before escaping into the woods. Anne and François both released arrows from their crossbows simultaneously, and a scream erupted from where the animals had just vanished.

“Congratulations, Your Majesties!” gushed Jacques d’Albon, Seigneur de Saint André.

“Bravo!” Claude d’Annebault cheered. “What an amazing beginning of today’s hunt!”

Anne and François shared exhilarated glances. They sat astride white stallions caparisoned in white and blue damask, embroidered with the Valois escutcheons. It was a long time since they had last hunted because of their journey to Vienna and the horrible pandemic of plague in France. Now jolts of jubilation pulsated through their veins in expectation of adventure.

The monarch’s response was a laugh. “The question is whether we killed both stags.”

The queen conjectured, “I think only one of them was shot.”

“Most likely,” agreed Marie de Montmorency. Her husband did not attend the hunt today.

Jean IV de Brosse, Duke d’Étampes, dismounted and walked along the tree line to check where the stags were now. His wife, Anne de Pisseleu, was on her horse behind the queen.

Dauphin Henri and Princess Elizabeth reached the monarchs on their chestnut stallions. It was not her first hunt, for Bess had first tried it previous spring. Henri, who was Elizabeth’s friend, usually watched over her during hunts for her safety in accordance with Anne’s request. Marie de Bourbon was a good horsewoman, but at present, she was heavily pregnant.

Henri peered towards the tree line. “One stag could run away.”

Elizabeth advised, “Henri, you can deal with this runaway stag, then.”

The dauphin shook his head. “No, for I cannot leave your side, Elizabeth.”

François stressed, “Your safety is our main priority, Bess.”

A moment later, the Duke d’Étampes appeared from behind the trees. He was dragging one dead stag behind him, a red trace forming behind on the grass. “Only one, Your Majesties.”

Anne gestured to the right. “Send hounds there! The stags’ hiding place must be nearby.”

“Loose the hounds!” yelled Charles de Cossé, Count de Brissac. As the Grand Falconer of France, he always organized hunting entertainments for his sovereign.

The sounds of a horn rang out, and the entire mass of hounds rushed forward, followed by the royal couple and courtiers. In their wake, numerous armed men from the Scots Guard in Valois livery urged their mounts to gallop and quickly surrounded the hunting party from all sides for their protection. The sun filtered in between the leafy-green trees, causing the grass and the dew on the ground to glitter a little, haloes drifting towards the moving silhouettes of riders.

“Ah, la chasse!” enthused Queen Anne as her horse jumped over a fallen tree.

François intoned, “My Artemis! My goddess of the hunt, the wilderness, and nature!”

“Our French Minerva!” Henri mirrored his father’s praise of his stepmother.

Anne laughed. “Your compliments are too generous!”  

Laughter rippled through the assemblage. The hounds barked and raced towards a group of stags that were fleeing from their discovered hiding place. François, Henri, Anne, and Elizabeth released arrows, and the howls of wounded animals filled the air as several stags were shot dead. The party slowed their horses to a halt on a meadow, while the hounds attacked more stags, their teeth grazing into their flesh – the hapless stags struggled and whimpered, then went still.

Anne commended, “Bess, you have just killed your first stag!”

Elizabeth gave a triumphal smile. “Yes! For the first time since, actually.”

“Congratulations, Bess!” Immediately, François challenged, “But can you shoot a boar?”

Henri jested, “That would be quite an achievement for Bess!”

The Count de Brissac commanded, “Hounds, forward! Forward!”

Once more, the many hounds sped across the meadow and meandered through the thickest of the woods. At the same time, the king’s party galloped through a large clearing.

I’ve always loved hunting, Anne gushed silently as she spurred on her mount. A sensation of freedom you get while riding like a wind is intoxicating. She was an outstanding horsewoman from her adolescence, having first developed this talent in Flanders when she participated in the hunts of Archduchess Margaret of Austria. Somewhat gilded by the sun’s rays, Anne’s yellow riding habit flickered between the trees as the queen flew on her beast, following her husband.

Elizabeth shared her mother’s penchant for riding and hunting. The thrill of the chase and a sensation of freedom overwhelmed her. She was happy to endure the discomfort of her tight riding outfit of green brocade for hours just for the sheer pleasure of this activity. My father was a great huntsman until his ulcerated legs prevented him from doing any physical exercises. Yet, haunted by the memory of her family drama, Elizabeth thrust aside all thoughts of her deceased father.

For some time, the Duchess d’Étampes rode at the helm of the pack of riders. Tightening the reins sharply, she brought the beast to a standstill and fired an arrow. A thunderous shriek was heard nearby, and the hunters identified the source of the sound coming from the opposite side of the clearing where a dead wild boar could be seen. Cries of delight inundated the air.

At the king’s sign, the riders halted on the meadow, which became overcrowded due to their large numbers. The ruler stopped close to the Duchess d’Étampes who flashed a victorious smile.

“Well done, Madame d’Étampes,” praised the monarch.

Anne de Pisseleu grinned. “I seem to be a champion of the day, Your Majesty.”

François let out a chuckle. “You should be rewarded with a laurel wreath.”

For a fraction of a second, the gazes of the two former lovers locked. There was no passion or any toxic sentiments in them – only friendliness. Unbeknownst to them, Queen Anne and Jean de Brosse watched them, relieved to see that there was not even a shadow of lust between them.

 The queen said, “We will give her the wreath once we are back to the palace.”

“Your Majesty is most generous.” The duchess genuinely adored the queen.

The Duke d’Étampes steered his stallion towards his spouse. “Your hunting and archery skills are a marvel to behold, wife.” At the sight of her joy, his heart fluttered with elation.

Anne de Pisseleu grinned at him coquettishly. “You ought to make your compliments more poetic, husband.” She was growing fond of her once estrange husband.

Jean’s orbs glittered with the adoration for his wife. “I shall do everything for you.”

Does Jean really love me? Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly wondered silently. Was Her Majesty right on the matter? Her emotions were a tangle of satisfaction and confusion. She would never love Jean de Brosse in the same way as she had loved the late King Henri of Navarre, but she could try to be content with her husband for the sake of their son, René, and to be happy herself.

The horn boomed again, and the wonderful hunt continued. The hounds’ barking was heard in the depths of the woods, and then a new quarry emerged from the bushes. A blend of stags, deer, and boars were all escaping at a panicking speed, but a volley of arrows struck them. More animals went still and fell dead, so the riders had to jump over their corpses as they moved forward.

Close to where Anne and Elizabeth now were, the hounds trapped two deer in the midst of a meadow. François and Henri targeted these animals from their crossbows and shot them dead.

“Bravo!” the queen shouted to the king and the dauphin. “Your aims are deadly!”

The monarch laughed, and the dauphin jested, “Merci, Madame Minerva!”

Soon the hounds were called off by the Count de Brissac. Several huntsmen began gathering the corpses of the killed beasts in all those places where the hunting party had appeared before. Their task would be to deliver their bodies to the château, where the animals would be cooked for today’s dinner. In an hour, everyone left the woods behind and returned to the palace.

§§§

The royal party entered the palace’s territory through the monumental Porte Dorée, or the Golden Gate. It opened to a straight, wide passage leading to the château. The procession halted in the Cour Ovale, or the cobbled Oval Courtyard, built by the French architect Gilles Le Breton.

The monarchs left their subjects and changed into fresh clothes before going to the king’s presence chamber. Salamanders were depicted on the ceiling and the wall frescoes on mythological subjects. As soon as Anne and François entered, they spotted their Savoy relatives, while Dowager Queen Marguerite of Navarre stood behind them with Duke Anne de Montmorency.

Duke Charles de Savoy bowing deeply. “Emmanuel, do your duty to King François!”

Gnashing his teeth, Prince Emmanuel Philibert de Savoy performed the necessary act of obeisance, abhorring it wholeheartedly. “What do you want me to do, Your Majesties?”

Following his arrest, Emmanuel had been moved in secret to the Bastille in Paris. Yesterday, he had been released and then come to Fontainebleau under convey. During the weeks of his imprisonment, he had lost much weight and now looked extremely pale. I do hate the French monarchs and everything French, the prince hissed wordlessly. Gaunt and haggard, Emmanuel was dressed in rich garments of lavender damask lined with brown satin.

In the past several months, Duke Charles de Savoy had continued living at the French court. His only living son’s incarceration had a toll on him. Charles had aged a decade, his head entirely gray, and now he was also more stooped than ever, his plain black doublet stressing the curvature of his back. Charles had bags under his eyes, for he suffered from insomnia and distress. I begged Princess Louise to forgive my son, but she refused to speak to me, Charles recollected inwardly.  

Marguerite demanded, “Emmanuel! You must acknowledge us as your sovereigns!”

An incensed Emmanuel ground out, “The Duchy of Savoy is not yours!”

Charles moaned, “Son, why are you still courting danger?”  

François and Anne stood at a distance from the Savoyards. Marguerite approached them.

In a voice layered with disdain, the king asked, “What is your main goal, Emmanuel?” 

Emmanuel met his gaze defiantly. “I cannot voice it, Uncle François.”

The monarch narrowed his eyes to slits. “My sister, wife, and I are Your Majesties for you! You lost your right to consider us a family when you forced yourself upon my innocent daughter.”

A terrified Charles admonished, “Son, your impatience might lead you to the grave!”

Marguerite snarled, “Listen to him, Emmanuel. Or are you deaf and dumb?” 

Anne hated the young Prince of Savoy with every fiber of her being. “A rude animal such as yourself has no right to breathe! May God condemn your soul for eternal torments!”

Contrition crossed Emmanuel’s visage for the first time since his wedding night with Louise. “I was very drunk on that night.” He let out a sigh. “However, as her husband, lord, and master, I can treat Louise as I please, but I regret that we did not have a better beginning.”

Marguerite spat, “That’s not a justification! No man can violate a woman!”

Anne shouted, “Not even if she is his own wife! Women are not men’s property.”

“They are, as the Church teaches us!” an angry Emmanuel parried, his animosity resurfacing. “My father told me that Louise is carrying my child, and I wish to take her to Chambéry.”

François neared his relative and stared into his orbs as he verbalized his verdict in a voice dripping with contempt. “Louise is my daughter and a French princess of the blood! She is not one of your many whores!” He paused for a moment at the sight of a flicker of terror in his relative’s eyes. “Emmanuel, you committed the worst thing a man can do to a woman, and by doing so, you proved that you do not deserve our daughter. Louise will never be reunited with you.”

“But she is his wife,” retorted Charles with insistence.

Anne bellowed, “Our daughter will stay with us! Do you understand?”

“That is not for discussion!” Montmorency spoke for the first time. “Princess Louise shall live in France, and her child will also be born here. Remember this once and for all!”

“But she is his wife,” retorted Charles with insistence.

Anne bellowed, “Our daughter will stay with us! Do you understand?”

“That is not for discussion!” Montmorency spoke for the first time. “Princess Louise shall live in France, and her child will also be born here. Remember this once and for all!”

The ruler hissed, “Emmanuel, the baby will become your heir regardless of its gender. Now you and our daughter are estranged permanently, and when Henri succeeds me, he will not allow you to see them either. You must accept it for your own sake.”

Emmanuel threatened, “I can contact the Pope. I shall–”

“You can do nothing!” blustered the king, his scowl ferocious. “You are my subject as I’m a sovereign of Savoy that is governed by my viceroys. You will do as I order, and you must resign yourself to the fact that you have now lost Louise and your child forever.”   

Montmorency added, “Pope Julius will do what we ask of him.”

“My child is my–” Emmanuel was interrupted by Louise’s mother.

Anne averred, “Fatherhood is a holy thing, but you do not deserve it.”

François stepped away from the Savoyards, glaring at the Duke de Savoy. “Uncle Charles, you must ensure that your son does not commit any further mistakes. Louise remains his wife only nominally, and it will not change – don’t even try to imagine anything else. If your son commits treason against France, I shall have Emmanuel executed without any regrets.”

An even more frightened Charles nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty, I understand.” 

Anne viewed her son-in-law with immeasurable disdain. “The late Queen Kitty Howard was executed upon the orders of the late King Henry, God rest her soul.” A devilish smile curved her lips. “A duke’s son who betrayed his sovereign might face a similar fate.”

Montmorency worked to intimidate them. “Prince Emmanuel might even be hanged, drawn, and quartered instead of being beheaded. I shall not hesitate to carry out this sentence with my own hand after what you, rascal, did to Princess Louise. You have merited a death sentence!”

The Duke de Montmorency was aware of his eldest son’s feelings for Louise. Earlier, he had urged François to forget the princess, now regretting that she was married. Maybe I could convince His Majesty to allow my son François to marry Louise if she was free, Montmorency mused.

Charles stammered, “Our allegiance to France is unwavering.”

Marguerite put her hands on her hips. “You have both been warned!”  

Unlike his father, Emmanuel Philibert was not scared, and a perfidious plan was forming in his head. “We will depart in an hour, for we want to return to Chambéry as soon as possible.”   

The Savoyards bowed and exited in ghastly silence. A twinge of alarm tugged at François, Marguerite, Anne, and Montmorency, their emotions sour and sharp, like a double-edged sword. In spite of their filial bonds with the Savoy family, the Valois royals regretted that they had to let Emmanuel go in the absence of legal grounds for his prosecution even after his misconduct, despite the king’s bravado, which, François and Anne knew, Emmanuel had figured out.

Another disaster happened in the evening. Marie de Bourbon went into premature labor, and her son was born dead in Dauphin Henri’s presence, while she lost a lot of blood. The lovers wept in each other’s embrace, their bereavement as bottomless as the deepest ocean. Weak and grief-stricken, Marie fell asleep in Henri’s arms, their tears mingling, their mutual love unfading.


July 10, 1552, Windsor Castle, county of Berkshire, England

“My aim will be deadly,” bragged King Edward VI as he strung an arrow into his bow.

William Vaux purposefully flattered, “Your glorious father, the late King Henry, was well known for his archery talents. Your Majesty’s skills will surpass his!” 

The sun shone in the firmament like a giant gold coin, and the finest green gardens boasted a fascinating array of flora. A month ago, the Tudor court had moved to Windsor Castle.

The ruler and his closest entourage, each of them approximately of the king’s age, were in the park. They included Henry Paget, the eldest son of William Paget, Baron Paget of Beaudesert; William Vaux, son of Thomas Vaux, Baron Vaux of Harrowden; Thomas Howard, the eldest son of the late Earl of Surrey, who used this title following his father’s death of the sweat.  

Henry Paget was a short and plump teenager of thirteen. His dark brown hair and hazel eyes, with his swarthy complexion, were set off by his doublet of white silk slashed with black silk, and there was a red silk toque upon his head. He was the young monarch’s best friend among them.

William Vaux was several years the ruler’s senior. Yet, he was already noted for his support of Catholic missionary activity. The Marquess of Exeter had failed to separate the king and Vaux, although Exeter was highly suspicious of Vaux because of the latter’s Catholic faith. Vaux was a handsome and tall man of eighteen, his ash blonde hair partially concealed beneath a flat black cap. His doublet, hose, and shirt of blue silk matched the color of his cerulean blue eyes. 

The monarch stated, “Undoubtedly, my father was great, but I’ll surpass him in everything! It is the duty of new generations to set goals higher than those accomplished by their predecessors.” 

“Shoot, Your Majesty!” prodded Thomas Howard. “Showcase your excellent skills!” 

Edward’s arrow embedded itself in the center of the white circle that stood far from them.

The spectators exploded with applause. “Bravo!” 

The ruler boasted, “I’ve done it! I’ve done it! I’m the best archer in the world!” 

William Paget brought another arrow to his master. “Please more, Your Majesty!” 

An impatient Edward grabbed the arrow from Paget. “Archery gives me so much joy!” 

William Vaux joined, “Surely, the legendary Robin Hood was a worse archer.” 

The ruler pivoted to his friend with a grimace of disgust towards the lower classes upon his visage. “Lord Vaux, I would never have robbed nobles to give anything to those who must serve the aristocracy and the ruling dynasties. The poor and the downtrodden must obey their king and his nobles, who in turn must obey their monarch. This social order was established by God!”

“You are right, sire,” Paget agreed. “We must obey you.” The others nodded.

The king opined, “Robin Hood was a bandit whose crimes earned him a hanging offence.” 

Vaux mumbled, “Your Majesty, I did not mean to displease you.” 

Edward’s arrogance was softened with his look of affability. “I forgive you, my friend.” 

Howard supported, “Only nobles have the rights to have and exercise privileges. Those who are born in poverty must remain at the feet of those whom they must serve.”

Aged eighteen, Thomas Howard was the Earl of Surrey and heir to the dukedom of Norfolk. Despite his young age, he was more snobbish and resentful towards others than his late father had ever been. Tall and well-built, he looked like a predator even at his young age with a pair of his devious brown orbs. Thomas wore a high-waisted doublet of crimson brocade with ribbon points at the waist and black hose, while his brown head was decorated with a plumed red toque.

“Yes!” chorused the royal favorites. Paget stressed, “They must serve His Majesty!” 

Tipping his head back, Edward laughed uproariously. “Me! Only me!” 

The monarch shot another arrow that also hit home. Then another and more arrows until the shafts from them formed their own circle around the circle’s center.

Vaux praised, “Your Majesty is a god of archery! You are the divine Greek Apollo!” 

Edward was satisfied with compliments. “I’m better in all senses!” 

The servants replaced the circle target, and Paget gave the king another arrow.

While aiming carefully at the new circle, King Edward stood quiet and concentrated for a brief moment. At thirteen, he was a tall and attractive teenager who resembled his York ancestors a great deal. His golden hair framed his fair countenance, which even now was tinged with hubris. In a golden brocade outfit wrought with threads of silver, Edward looked less and less as a Tudor with every year passing, and even his Bassett features were becoming less prominent.

As his arrow found its target again, the ruler looked proud, and his friends applauded.

§§§

Neither the king nor his companions noticed Princess Elizabeth and the Earl of Devon. They stood nearby in the alley of oaks near a lawn, watching the monarch practice archery.

Elizabeth was attired in a rich pearl-encrusted gown, and a coronet of diamonds adorned her head. The two of them had been apart for a long time during her stay in France, but they had regularly corresponded, and now the affection in her orbs caused Devon’s heart to somersault in joy. I’m most happy that Bess consented to be my wife, Courtenay enthused inwardly.

In the meantime, the princess studied her fiancé. Garbed in a short doublet of red brocade, Edward Courtenay looked somewhat different, largely because of this doublet being ornamented with a multitude of sapphires, rubies, and emeralds, as were his mantle thrown over his shoulders and his hose of the same material. Devon preferred a plainer clothing, but not today when he saw Bess for the first time following their separation. I’ve missed Eddie, she realized.

“My brother is again entertaining,” observed the princess irritably.

Devon explained, “His Majesty is having a short break between his classes of geography and mathematics. The weather is marvelous, and it is good to enjoy the sun and fresh air outside.”  

Elizabeth countered, “Eddie! Do not even try to justify Ned! He is the King of England! He will come of age soon and will have to rule this country, but he cares only about amusements of all sorts. At least your father, Lord Exeter, convinced Ned not to take new mistresses.” 

Devon stepped to her. “Calm down, Bess. Someone might overhear us.” 

She looked around. “Is Lord Exeter still trying to make Ned more serious?” 

The earl was relieved that she spoke more quietly. “You can rectify a mistake, but you cannot eliminate someone’s natural inclination to something. My father keeps the king at court to control his upbringing, and His Majesty has a strict schedule for all classes and little time for leisure.” 

When he took her hand in his, Elizabeth laced her fingers with his fingers. Relaxing a little, she said in a composed manner, “Only Lord Exeter can handle my brother.” 

“Unfortunately, that is true, Bess.” His voice dropped to a half-whisper. “I do not even know how my father succeeds in making this insolent, presumptuous boy study.”

Finally, they were spotted by King Edward who cried, “Ah, our lovebirds!” 

Without unlocking their hands, Elizabeth and Devon strolled across the lawn to the ruler. Ned did not hear anything, for we were far from him, Bess thought. Situated high upon the top of a steep hill, the ancient Windsor Castle towered above the surrounding area. Because of the moated castle’s hilltop setting, the gardens were relatively small, stretching in beautiful terraces, which extended east from the Upper Ward. Now they were in the east terrace garden.

At the sight of the princess, the monarch’s favorites dropped into bows.

Elizabeth bobbed a curtsey. “I’m delighted to see Your Majesty again.” 

“Rise, sister,” permitted Edward. “And call me brother in private.” 

She straightened to her full height, astonished with Ned’s cordial attitude to her. For the first time in years, she could see warmth in Edward’s blue eyes that had lost their hauteur. They had never been close, so Elizabeth had long gotten accustomed to the lack of understanding between them, but part of her was hurt because of this. God, help me befriend Ned, Bess prayed in her mind. Lord Exeter did the right thing when he banished Honor Grenville and her family.

Edward beckoned his sister to him. “Come, dearest Elizabeth! Come!” 

Elizabeth stepped forward tentatively. The monarch enfolded her into his arms. Edward, who was now of the same height as the princess, held her close for a long moment.

As they parted, Edward proclaimed, “Bess, you were away for too long! I must say that I’ve missed your lectures that I need to study more and harder. You look like a true Tudor princess!” 

Bess assessed, “Ned, you possess the best York features, just as Edward the Fourth did.” 

The ruler shone with pride. “Yes, everyone says the same. Our late father also resembled our York ancestors a lot. Yet, I’m more a York than a Tudor in my appearance.” 

Elizabeth glanced at her brother. “You have those famous Woodville eyes.”  

The king’s laughter boomed through the garden. “Girls like my eyes and me very much!”

The Earl of Devon joined, “Your Majesty! I believe that our ancestress, Queen Elizabeth Woodville, entranced King Edward the Fourth with her deep aquamarine eyes, like oceans.”

The monarch smiled at Devon. “I’m glad to see you back at court, Eddie.” He turned to his sister. “Bess, in your absence he spent most time in his estates in Devon.”

Elizabeth jested, “I’m glad to know this because it means that Eddie had fewer temptations to find some beautiful women and elope with her before my return.”

Devon feigned offence. “I would never have done so, Bess!”

“I know, I know,” the princess drawled with a grin. “You are too modest.”

Edward glanced between them jovially. “We will organize a magnificent wedding for you! Well, the Woodville eyes as not nearly as enchanting the Boleyn black ones, Bess.” 

Bess chastened, “Brother, you should think more about studies.”   

William Paget interjected, “Your Highness, His Majesty knows himself what to do.” 

Thomas Howard, who regularly slept with various women, advised, “Cousin, do not pry into male affairs. I’m sure that Lord Devon will not appreciate your excessive curiosity.”

Ignoring Paget, the princess said to her Howard relative, “Lord Surrey, mind your manners.”   

Devon took his bride’s hand in his. “Bess and I are equals in everything.” 

King Edward glared at his favorites. “You all must respect my sister! I, too, reckon that women are inferior to men, but I shall not allow anyone to insult Elizabeth. Is that clear?” 

Paget apologized, “Forgive me, Your Highness.” 

Howard grumbled, “I beg your pardon, my king and my princess.”

“We are sorry,” Vaux mumbled, surprised with the ruler’s actions.  

The monarch nodded, signaling their dismissal. They bowed and walked away.

Gratitude flooded Elizabeth. “Brother, your behavior is knightly today.”  

The king burst out laughing. “At times, I can be a knight, but rarely, for I do not like it.”   

Elizabeth and Devon shared disappointed glances, for Ned had just spoken the truth.  

Ned invited, “Let’s dine together in my rooms tonight.” 

The earl graciously accepted, “Gladly. Bess and I shall come together.” 

Edward beamed at them. “It’s a pleasure to see you both together. You deserve all the best!” 

“Thank you,” uttered the earl and the princess in unison, surprised.

The ruler sighed with regret. “I must go attend my history class. I do not want to disappoint your father, Eddie, and you know how much he is trying to make me a capable ruler.”   

Elizabeth and Devon both nodded before following the king towards the castle. If only Ned had always been like this, Elizabeth fretted silently. King Edward could be a dutiful student if he was forced to study, or if he was interested in some subject. Ned proved to be quite intelligent, excelling particularly in mathematics, history, and literature. However, only Exeter’s tight control precluded the king from drowning in an ocean of indolence and non-intellectual lethargy.

Notes:

The new chapter is up! Please let us know what you think of this chapter, and don’t forget to leave reviews so that we can discuss events, twists, and turns in this chapter.

This chapter is centered on Elizabeth Tudor’s final days in France before her upcoming departure to England. She has already spent around two years in France, so now she must go back home. Kat Ashley and now also Blanche Parry are Elizabeth’s closest ladies-in-waiting. Elizabeth spends some time with her mother and stepfather, as well as her French half-siblings. We hope that we portrayed Anne’s younger children well, and we wonder whether you like more Antoine, Lorenzo, or Louis. Soon we will have to make a time jump, and by the end of this long fiction, not all of Anne’s children with François will be alive.

The Ulysses Gallery was build and decorated by Francesco Primaticcio and his fellow artists from the School of Fontainebleau. This gallery was destroyed in 1738 by the fire at the palace, but its décor was by then already inspired the greatest artists such as Peter Paul Rubens, Simon Vouet, and Nicolas Poussin. The mural decoration of this magnificent gallery, which we can still see on paintings and engravings, comprised fifty-eight compositions excerpted from Homer’s Odyssey. In a way, François and his beloved, loyal Anne are much like Penelope and Odyssey.

We had no Louise of France in this chapter because the previous chapter was centered on her and her wedding to Emmanuel Philibert de Savoy. Well, François has no choice but to release Emmanuel and to send him home together with his father, Duke Charles de Savoy, for there are no legal grounds for keeping Emmanuel arrested, despite what he did to Louise on that night. Once more, we have to apologize to the historical Emmanuel Philibert, for he would not have done such a horrible thing. However, the plot requires that we portray Emmanuel as a bad guy, and now he is already plotting against François and France, so more drama would follow.

We have showed King Edward with his entourage, gradually developing his character more. Now Elizabeth is back to England, and she has made up her mind to marry Eddie Courtenay, Earl of Devon, but she cannot forget Robert Dudley, so they will all have a complex amorous storyline in the future. Dudley is not going away from her life and will re-appear soon, and maybe Eddie will have an interesting fate, but we cannot say anything else. King Edward’s relationship with Elizabeth will be highly unstable, and it will all have dramatic consequences. The Marquess of Exeter banished honor Grenville, but it does not mean that she will not appear again.

Attention! A while ago, we posted a prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 101: Chapter 100: Widowhood and Marriage

Summary:

Emmanuel Philibert, now Duke de Savoy, revolts against the French occupying his lands. His drama with Louise of France has a tragic ending. Marguerite of Navarre warns her daughter, Queen Jeanne, not to make further steps towards Protestantism. Over the Channel, Princess Elizabeth welcomes her mother home for the first time in years and prepares for her wedding.

Notes:

Please, if you are reading this fiction, leave us a review, for we need your support for inspiration just to keep going. Personally, I have problems with finding inspiration for writing these days, but we still posted this chapter.

Attention! VioletRoseLily updated her story ‘Long Live the King’ a long time ago, but there are not many reviews on the recently posted chapter because the author made a pause in updating. Please, bear in mind that now you can enjoy this new chapter.

The prologue to the sequel 'Chained by Blood and Power' (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don't forget about our work "Entwined by a Golden Alliance" co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 100: Widowhood and Marriage

November 17, 1552, Château de Fontainebleau, near Paris, Île-de-France, France

King François let out a smile as he scanned through the ledgers his sister had provided him with. “After the passing of Emperor Carlos, our strategy to keep peace has proved to be most practical, and now our coffers are full, and we also redeemed all of our old loans.”

Dauphin Henri spoke up. “Our short campaign in Savoy did not drain our finances, Father. War is not the glorious enterprise that many people envisage – I myself saw the carnage and the horrors of disfigured men without limbs when fighting in France and Italy.”

François nodded. “You are right, although I had different beliefs when I was younger.”

Dowager Queen Marguerite of Navarre tipped her head. “I remember this.”

The monarch smiled at his sister. “Thanks to Margot and to our late mother, God rest her soul, we coped with all financial troubles during my wars against Carlos and my captivity.” He raised his voice. “But I say no more! France shall flourish in peace!”

Henri emphasized, “We have many solid alliances, for we extended the hand of friendship to as many countries as possible. Most importantly, we are allied with the Austrian Habsburgs.”

Nodding, the ruler surveyed his advisors. “I’m proud of you all, for you together squashed Emmanuel Philibert’s uprising in Savoy near Chambéry.”

In the Privy Council room, King François and his sister were having an audience with their trusted inner circle as they sat along a giltwood table. The silver vases, gems, and medallions, which were stored on marbles tables, enhanced the lofty decorations of the gilded furniture. The plafond and the walls depicted ‘Moses Defending the Daughters of Jethro’ by Rosso Fiorentino.

Claude d’Annebault inclined his head in both obeisance and confirmation. “Your Majesty, Dauphin Henri led French army to Chambéry, assisted by Marshal d’Albon and me. It took us only an hour to defeat the enemy, but Duke Emmanuel was wounded in battle.”

The late Duke Charles de Savoy, known as the Good, had passed away a couple of months ago. His son, Emmanuel Philibert de Savoy, had succeeded him as Duke de Savoy, which was why Princess Louise of France became his duchess despite them being estranged.

Marshal Jacques d’Albon, Seigneur de Saint André, joined the discussion. “Thanks to His Highness Dauphin Henri, we closed Duke Emmanuel’s armies in a defile near the city. He was surrounded from all sides, but refused to capitulate. When our artillery bombarded his soldiers, the duke’s troops fell into disarray and retreated, but we engaged the foe and won the battle.”  

Marshal Charles de Cossé, Count de Brissac, supplemented, “Facing a force twice their size, Duke Emmanuel attempted to gain access to Chambéry through a marsh with the goal to hide there. His slow withdrawal let us crush them and capture many of his mercenaries.”

The ruler regarded the dauphin cordially. “Thank you very much, son.”

Dauphin Henri abhorred Emmanuel with implacable loathing. “We shall not allow anyone, even if they are tied to us by blood, to undermine the stability in the realm.”

François stressed, “These are the words of a competent ruler and a French patriot.”

“I shall do anything for France, Father,” avouched the dauphin.

The monarch commended, “Son, you are a true hero!” 

François and his councilors cheered the king’s eldest son, expecting him to be their next monarch. Dauphin Henri had already demonstrated his talents as a ruler and a general.

Constable Anne de Montmorency complained, “This revolt was suppressed without me.”

Albon jested, “Monty! Give a chance to others to have their moments of glory!”

Smiling at Albon, Montmorency affirmed, “Dauphin Henri and his brothers all deserve people’s love.” He repeated what he had heard from Prince Augustine. “Success is not final, and no failure is fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts. I firmly believe in this.”

This was, according to the Roman historian and politician Tacitus, one of the rules which Gaius Octavius, Cesar’s heir and adopted son, had set for himself many centuries ago when he created a strategy against his rival – the once Triumvir Mark Antony, Cleopatra’s lover. François and Henri de Montmorency, the constable’s eldest sons, served Augustine with devotion. Monty fears the accession not of Henri, but of his sons, so he looks towards Augustine, the king thought.  

François flashed Montmorency a grin. “You are quite close to Augustine, Monty.”

Montmorency tipped a nod. “Indeed, Your Majesty.”

“My brother is very clever,” commended Henri without a hint of envy or anger.

The monarch glanced between Montmorency and Henri. “Augustine is young and needs your guidance, Henri and Monty, as much as he needs my advice.”

The dauphin informed, “Augustine is my best friend.”

Nodding at his son with a smile, François asked, “How was Emmanuel injured?”

Annebault underscored, “Your Majesty! None of us wounded him – he fell in battle.”

The king was relieved. “I do not want to be guilty of my nephew’s death.”

“Indeed, someone stabbed Emmanuel in battle,” Henri confirmed.   

Brissac asked, “What should we do with the captured soldiers?” 

The dauphin stated, “They were taken to France in chains, but they will be ransomed.” 

François speculated, “They no longer have a leader and can swear their fealty to us. We need more soldiers because we are encircled by Habsburg domains. We also know that Felipe of Spain provided Emmanuel with funds to hire his Swiss mercenaries, so we must be vigilant.”   

Henri could not object. “Felipe must be furious now, for his plan failed.”

“True.” The monarch then remarked, “Now Felipe is in mourning: he and his wife, Queen Maria, lost another son.” He sighed. “As for Emmanuel Philibert, we should all pray for him.”

Marguerite emitted a sigh. “Emmanuel was digging his own grave for a long time.”

The Valois siblings and the dauphin traded doleful glances, which did not go unnoticed. Everyone was aware that Louise was pregnant. As the king had prohibited the consummation of his daughter’s marriage, it was clear that Emmanuel had forced himself on his wife.

Marguerite switched to another topic. “Brother, I’ve brought the maps.” 

The dowager queen unfolded three hand-made maps of the known world and descriptions of French colonies in the New World known as New France. Other maps depicted colonies of the Spanish and the Portuguese, as well as Marco Polo’s sea routes to southern and eastern areas of the Americas. The king had commissioned the Dieppe school of cartographers, which consisted of about a dozen cartographers working in Normandy, to create these maps.

The monarch’s sister pointed out, “A lot of gold is hidden in those exotic lands.”

François resolved, “We should finance new expeditions to the Americas.”

Henri proposed, “Let’s send a letter to Monsieur Jean-François Roberval with the next ship. He is our Lieutenant General of New France, so he will be responsible for this.”

François and Marguerite nodded. A murmur of approval followed from the others.

§§§

Queen Jeanne of Navarre sat in a nicely upholstered armchair. As her mother entered her privy chamber, she found the young queen staring in the direction of a window, watching clouds swim across the leaden sky. The walls of Jeanne’s study were frescoed with a Nativity and a Crucifixion, and it was full of oak furniture, including armchairs covered with red silk.

Marguerite crossed to a desk, papers in hand. “What’s bothering you, daughter?” 

Anne and Françoise de Silly both sat at the virginals in the corner. They were daughters of François de Silly, bailiff of Caen, and his wife – Aimée Motier de La Fayette, Dame de Cerizay, who was Queen Jeanne’s former governess. The sisters were playing Jeanne’s favorite chanson by Clément Janequin, another talented and famous composer along with Claudin de Sermisy.

Marguerite’s coming caused the Queen of Navarre’s ladies to cease playing, stand up, and curtsey. Anne de Silly was a blue-eyed and rather plain brunette, with shapely forms and tall in spite of her plumpness, not concealed by Anne’s gown of burgundy velvet with a high neckline. Françoise de Silly was a black-eyed, petite, fascinating blonde of short height, dressed in an orange satin gown, its low neckline cut low and wrought with threads of gold.

“Leave,” Jeanne permitted. Her maids curtsied again and hurried out.

Marguerite announced, “Louise has just given birth to a son.”

The entire French court was abuzz with news about Louise of France and Savoy. Everyone was shocked with Emmanuel Philibert’s revolt in Savoy, relieved that it was over.

“I know, Mother. I’ll pay a visit to her soon.” Jeanne stood up and strolled to the desk. “Duke Emmanuel is at Fontainebleau, and no one knows what will happen next.”   

Margot put the papers at the desk in front of her. “My niece and her boy are fine after her labor. Louise, her parents, and I dread what Emmanuel might do if he recovers.”

“His healthy is deteriorating,” Jeanne noted, having no pity for him.

Her mother nodded. “The pain Emmanuel caused to Louise can never be forgotten, and he also poses a threat to us. Yet, we have all been praying for his him as goodly Christians.”

Jeanne ground out, “I hate Emmanuel for what he did to my cousin!”

Marguerite sighed. “Emmanuel may be dying, so let’s not be too cruel to him.”

“No man, especially a prince, should treat his wife like this!”

“I agree, daughter, and when you marry Augustine, he will never do anything like this.”

The queen was certain of this, like her mother. “Augustine is cold, but he is a gentleman.”

Jeanne’s mind drifted to the few hours they had spent together in the early morning. She and Augustine, protected by guards, had been riding in the forest, chatting about politics, fashions, and the arts. The weather was good for this time of year, so they had enjoyed their ride, and birds had been chirping, perched high in the trees, now barren of leaves.

The queen walked over to the window and peered out, towards the Grand Fountain in the park. “Augustine is the finest Renaissance prince, and I shall be honored to be his wife.”

Marguerite approached her from the back. “I hear the bitterness in your voice.”

Jeanne turned to her mother. “Augustine is like a block of marble. Today during our ride, we were easygoing until I touched on the topic of the great Jean Calvin’s teachings and books.”

Marguerite lectured, “My dear girl, I’m interested in new religions ideas, but not as much as you are. Do you understand that they might be dangerous for our family and France?”

“But I’m the Queen of Navarre, not of France,” Jeanne protested, her orbs flashing.

The Dowager Queen of Navarre feared that her daughter would commit grave mistakes in the future. “I’ll have to speak to your chaplain, Jeanne. We are all worried that you are strongly influenced by the works of Calvin and Luther. You must understand that Navarre is allied with France that is a Catholic kingdom, and, hence, Navarre must remain a Catholic country.”

Her temper rising, Jeanne reiterated, “Hear! I’m the Queen of Navarre!”

Marguerite reminded, “Navarre will not be annexed by Spain only for as long as the House of Albert is allied with the Valois dynasty. Navarre must remain Catholic! Do you understand, daughter?” Yet, Jeanne remained silent, so the older woman continued, “Throughout my whole life, I’ve worked assiduously and hard to keep Navarre independent of Spain and other wolves that would gladly have swallowed the kingdom. Don’t destroy my accomplishments!”

“You shall be proud of me.” Jeanne could not say anything else to her mother. Her opinion differed: while Navarre needed its alliance with France, Jeanne secretly intended to follow her own spiritual path and to convert to Protestantism when it became possible. “I promise.”  

Marguerite hugged her only surviving child affectionately. “I adore you, my dear.”

Jeanne smiled. “I love you, too, Mother.”

“Don’t discuss religion with Augustine.”

Jeanne confessed, “I have a great affection for Augustine, but he is frigid and detached.”  

Marguerite tucked a curl behind her daughter’s ear. “It’s Augustine’s nature, so you should get accustomed. He will remain aloof, and he might not always be faithful to you.”

These were disappointing words for the queen. “According to Queen Anne, Augustine is a man who will love only one woman. Can I become his beloved?”  

“Many things depend upon you.” Marguerite thought of the late Henri d’Albert.

Jeanne managed to read her mind. “My late father was not faithful to you, Mother.”

Marguerite crossed herself. “May God rest your father’s soul!”  

Jeanne made the cross sign as well. “May my father sleep in peace!”

The door opened, and Augustine appeared. “Your Majesties! Why are you two sad?” 

Marguerite jested, “We are no gloomier than the sky overhead is.”

Augustine approached them and bowed. “Yes, it might rain later.”

“Should we discuss the affairs in Navarre?” quizzed Marguerite.

The prince smiled slightly. “Gladly, Aunt Margot. Jeanne?” 

Jeanne returned his smile. “Definitely, Augustine.”

Can we have a normal marriage? Augustine wondered silently as he crossed to the desk. If only Jeanne was not so fervently inclined to Protestantism… At the age of twenty, Jeanne was superbly educated and pretty with an alabaster face with dove-colored eyes, a small nose, and lush lips. Her low-cut gown of charcoal silk, slashed with gold, accentuated her slimness. Yet, it irked Augustine that Jeanne still perceived him as a boy, although he was growing up quickly.

For several hours, they studied documents in the Basque language, which they all knew well. Because of the new commercial agreement with Spain, they had to simplify the legislation regulating trade between the countries, and Augustine’s suggestions helped them a lot.

§§§

A young, pale man rested upon an ornate canopy bed, its headboard featuring acanthus leaf carvings. His eyes shut, he shuddered every time successive, searing jolts of pain ripped through his stomach, where his mortal wound was festering. The air reeked of sickness, decay, and death, but Doctor Amboise Paré tolerated the rotting odor in order to finish bandaging it.

Emmanuel de Savoy was lodged in luxurious apartments. The walls were hung with apple-green damask bordered with a gold stripe. The bronze decoration and the black marble tables, which stood between bronze-damascened couches, matched the decoration on the fireplace.

Doctor Paré stepped aside. “I’m sorry, Your Majesties. I can do nothing for His Highness.”

King François and Queen Anne, who stood nearby, bobbed their heads.

“Address me as Your Grace,” the dying man spelled. “I’m the Duke de Savoy.”

The French monarch sighed at his expression of defiant arrogance. “Emmanuel, you have been treated well, in accordance with your high station since you were delivered here.”

The queen entered the conversation. “Your Grace has nothing to complain about.”

Finally, Emmanuel opened his eyes before he glared between François and Anne. “France stole my family’s lands, and my title is empty because I have no duchy to rule.”

François and Anne were both furious, but Emmanuel whimpered in pain. Amboise Paré hastened to his patient, but Emmanuel shook his head, muttering that he would die soon.

The king instructed, “Find Jean du Bellay, Bishop of Paris and of Bayonne.”

After bowing to their sovereigns, Paré hastened out of the duke’s rooms.

Emmanuel rasped, “You no longer need to execute me, Uncle François.”

The ruler approached the bed. “A threat does not always lead to action, Emmanuel. Your barbaric deed on your wedding night with our dearest daughter enraged me, and my fears of your possible conspiracy with Felipe of Spain were not unwarranted.”

Clenching his teeth against another shot of pain through his abdomen, Emmanuel glowered at his uncle. “In your eyes, I’m a wretched traitor, but for the Savoyards I was their liberator!”

François contradicted, “On the contrary. Most people in Savoy did not rally to your cause. Out of the local populace, only a ragged rabble of men joined your small army.”

Emmanuel hissed, “You are cruel to me even in the hour of death.”

Nonetheless, the ruler continued stringently, “The truth is better than fantasies.”

Anne spoke. “The duchy prospers under the Valois, whom Your Grace despises so. The Savoy aristocrats are living good lives and often come to our court to enjoy its splendor. The merchants benefit from the trade between France and Savoy, and the people have full bellies.”

Emmanuel’s hatred towards them was implacable, but now his mind drifted to the late Duke Charles de Savoy. “My poor father died in disgrace, having lost everything.”

François spat, “Uncle Charles passed away of a heart attack, triggered by his worries for you and shame after your insurrection. Your father’s death is on your conscience!” 

Suddenly, Anne felt guilty for being so harsh to this man who was clearly about to depart from the realm of the living. “François and I forgive you for your treachery, Emmanuel.”

The Duke de Savoy clenched his teeth. “I do not need it.”

François supplied, “I would never have executed you or any of my own blood.”

When Bellay appeared, the Valois monarchs retired to the other side. The Bishop of Paris administered the last rites for Emmanuel before making the sign of the cross over the man, who kissed Bellay’s hand and then dismissed him with a haughty wave of his hand.

Bellay addressed his king. “I’ve done what was requested of me, Your Majesty.”

The ruler nodded. “Thank you, Your Eminence. Leave us now.”

“God forgives those who repent,” Bellay said to Emmanuel before exiting.

The door opened. Princess Louise entered, holding her newborn son swaddled in blue silk. Behind the princess were Prince Jean and Prince Augustine, as if guarding their sister. Louise’s labor finished only a few hours ago, but Emmanuel is dying, so she has come, Augustine mused, thinking that his sister was too generous to the villain whom Augustine loathed wholeheartedly. 

Louise’s gaze veered to her father. “I am here to do my last wifely duty.”

François approved of her decision. “It is high time for Emmanuel to meet his son.”

Astonishment motivated Emmanuel to try and sit up in his bed. “My son?” But he swiftly fell back on the pillows. “Louise, how are you? When was my son born? Our son…”  

Louise replied in a colorless tone, “The child was born today, Emmanuel.”

Emmanuel’s sickeningly white skin blanched to the color of dust. One of his dreams was to rule the Duchy of Savoy on his own and in alliance with Spain, but he had failed to extricate it from the clutches of the Valois family. Now I have a son, Emmanuel realized in disbelief. His eyes brimmed with tears when he glanced at Louise who was holding a small child in her arms.

Louise, whose feelings for the baby boy remained conflicted, pressed the child to her, as if shielding it from his father. “Our son was born a little prematurely, but he is healthy.”

This instilled some strength into Emmanuel. “May I have a closer look at him?” 

Louise eased herself on the bed’s edge. “I named him Charles.”

Everyone admired Louise’s sense of duty to the man who had violated her. Anne, François, Augustine, and Jean, who had long guessed what had happened to Louise, watched it in silence.

“In honor of my father?” Emmanuel’s face was streaked with tears. As his wife nodded, he advised, “Louise! Name our son Charles Emmanuel. You hate me, but the people of Savoy know nothing of my awful mistake with you.” He groaned as a tide of torment assailed him.

Louise pondered this. “I’ll do so, for it would be politically expedient.”

Emmanuel sighed in frustration, wishing to feel some warmth from her. “Thank you.”

Louise informed, “The baby has your eyes.”

Emmanuel inspected the infant in his wife’s arms. Charles Emmanuel was a healthy child, but one of a small size, with green Savoy orbs and his father’s high cheekbones. It was a relief for Emmanuel that the boy did not have the Valois long nose, while having a tuft of chestnut hair on his head. The boy’s dour complexion could be inherited from either of his parents.

Louise brought the boy to her husband’s face, and Emmanuel caressed his son’s cheek.

“My son has recognized me,” Emmanuel affirmed. “He will be a liberator!”  

Anne hissed, “Be grateful that Louise brought your son to make your last moments joyful. Our daughter did so against our orders! You must apologize and make peace with her.”

Emmanuel glanced at the monarch. “I’ve always admired Your Majesty, despite our irreconcilable differences but not this woman who has led you astray.”

Despising her husband, Louise snarled, “You shall never change!”

“Respect the queen,” demanded Augustine.

Jean chimed in, “Our Mother is the best woman on earth!”

Anne was proud of her sons, but she said, “It is not necessary.”

The King of France said, “God bless you, Emmanuel, but you will respect my family.”

Marguerite of Navarre slipped inside the room and approached the bed. Her countenance tinged with melancholy, she uttered, “I’m very sad that it has all come to this.”

Emmanuel Philibert noticed her. “You know why I revolted.”

“It is only your own fault, Emmanuel,” Marguerite parried. 

Louise noticed that her husband was turning paler. “He feels bad.”

All eyes were glued to the bed. Emmanuel refused to let the physician examine again.

Now Emmanuel’s gaze was latched on to the infant. His mind conjured pictures of his possible future he had destroyed. “You, Louise, and I have been Duke and Duchess de Savoy for a brief time. Our son will inherit my duchy shortly, while I shall be forgotten and cursed by you. I cannot help but think that if I did not mistreat you, you could have grown to love me.”

“It is foolish to dwell on what might have been.” Louise averted her scrutiny away. She rocked the child in the way Anne had taught her, until the baby fell asleep.

Emmanuel touched their son’s face. “Our boy!” His gaze flicked to his wife. “Now all the bridges between us are burned, Louise. My heart is full of contrition, and I beg your pardon.”

Louise’s heart raced as she stole a doleful glance at their baby and then shifted it back to the duke. “You have my forgiveness, Emmanuel. The Almighty teaches us to forgive and show compassion. Perhaps if you had behaved differently, our marriage could have been happy.” She did not think so, but it was her duty to give succor to her dying husband.

Tears deluged Emmanuel’s face. “I am at peace, then.”

An unctuous tear trickled down Louise’s cheek. “Our son will be fine, I promise.”

Emmanuel’s apologies caused the members of the Valois family to feel for him.

Augustine stepped close to the bed. “Your Grace, your family will always be protected.”

Emmanuel swallowed thickly. “I trust Your Highness.”

As Jean burst into tears, Anne hugged him. Jean muttered, “God bless his soul.”

Emmanuel, for a short time Duke of Savoy, eyed his wife who unexpectedly dissolved into tears, to his surprise, and Augustine who stood near his sister. His gaze flicked to his newborn son who calmly slept in his mother’s arms, and a smile blossomed on Emmanuel’s countenance. A pall of death cloaked Emmanuel, his heart collapsed, and his eyes fluttered shut forever.

Prince Jean was crossing himself over and over again, saying prayers for the dead.

May Christ, who called you, take you to himself,

May Angels lead you to Abraham’s side.

Give Emmanuel eternal rest, O Lord,

And may your light shine on him forever. Amen.

Everybody crossed themselves before Louise and the others exited into the antechamber.   

Augustine promulgated, “The Duke de Savoy is dead! Long live the Duke de Savoy!” 

Louise lifted the sleeping child to showcase it to the gathering in the anteroom. “Duke Emmanuel de Savoy is dead! Long live Duke Charles Emmanuel de Savoy!” 

Her parents and Marguerite shared proud glances, for Louise’s sangfroid was impressive.  The infant wailed at the top of his lungs before he was taken away to his nursery for feeding.

§§§

François, Anne, and Marguerite strode through the corridors, with Princes Augustine and Jean following. Princess Louise went back to her own quarters to stay in bed until her churching.

“We must all pray for His Grace’s soul,” Jean articulated with fervency.

Augustine retorted, “Nothing can cleanse a soul from the grave sin of treason.”

Jean lowered his voice. “You are too callous, brother.”

“Don’t argue, sons,” Anne chided gently, and François nodded.  

The group turned into another corridor, decorated opulently with stucco and marble busts.

François thought of Jean’s desire to become a monk. “Jean, there is far more happiness in the world than in any monastery. Once you marry Christine of Hesse, you will understand it.”

Marguerite agreed, “My brother is right, nephew.”

“Think about it, son,” Anne joined. Augustine did not comment.  

However, Jean only said, “I shall do my duties of a prince.” Deep down, he yearned to live a cloistered life in a convent, meaning freedom from lust, which horrified him, especially when he lived at the frivolous Valois court. “Father, can I go to Villers-Cotterêts?”

The royal children had all departed for Château de Villers-Cotterêts, their new residence. Dauphin Henri’s offspring, both legitimate and illegitimate, had gone there with them in the company of Marie de Bourbon and Yolande d’Albert, who had recently arrived at court.

The king and queen were both cognizant of their annoyance towards Jean. They both loved their son, but neither François nor Anne was happy with his inclination to a monastic life. They would not break Jean’s betrothal and their alliance with Landgrave Philip of Hesse.

Anne responded, “Of course, Jean. You can leave next week.”

An elated Jean nodded. “Thank you very much, Mother.”

“I’ll stay at court,” stated Augustine. “I have many things to do here.”

François declared, “I’ve received the papal dispensation for your marriage to Jeanne.”

Marguerite enthused, “That is wonderful, brother!”  

In the next corridor, they met a group of courtiers who bowed and curtsied to them. Among them there were Anne and Marie de Montmorency, their hands entwined.

François approached Montmorency. “Tell your son, young François,” he whispered, “that I shall not be against his courtship of Louise when the mourning is over, and if she wants it.”

Marie disclosed, “Monty! I revealed to my sister your son’s feelings for Louise.”  

Montmorency berated, “Marie, you should have kept silent. You–” 

Anne interrupted him. “We do not object, but keep everything secret so far.”

The monarch grinned at his best friend. “We can become even closer if they get married.”

Marguerite opined, “Louise and your son, Monty, would make a great match.”

A surprised Montmorency eyed them. “Thank you. My family and I would be honored.”

The small procession headed through the hallways to the François I gallery.

Before entering the gallery, King François promulgated, “The mourning for the late Duke Emmanuel Philibert de Savoy will last for six months. He shall be interred beside his late father and mother at Hautecombe Abbey in Savoy, may they all rest in peace. Pray for their souls!”

The nobles made signs of the cross. Emmanuel’s demise was anticipated, for his life had been hanging by the thinnest of threads for a week. No one was astounded that Emmanuel would be buried at the Hautecombe Abbey, the burial place of members of the House of Savoy.

The Valois ruler promenaded into the gallery. His consort, his sister, and his two sons, with the Montmorency spouses, followed. It seemed that a new era was beginning to dawn following the passing of Emmanuel Philibert. The entirety of France prospered in peace, and the economy was flourishing and expanding. However, it was worrisome that Protestantism was gradually shaping itself into an organized movement in the country, and members of the Valois family did not doubt that one day, they would have to counter its spreading with harsh measures.


December 20, 1552, Windsor Castle, the town of Windsor, county of Berkshire, England

Queen Anne of France sat in a handsomely carved oak chair by the window overlooking the park. Princess Elizabeth’s antechamber was alive with motion as Lady Catherine Knollys and Lady Blanche Parry were aiding their mistress to remove her heavy overgown of red brocade, then dabbed at her overheated face and neck with water scented with rose and lilac petals.

At Windsor Castle, the princess’ spacious quarters boasted lavish and costly interior, with raised mouldings and gilded panels. The walls were swathed in Flemish tapestries depicting St Elizabeth and her son – St John the Baptist, or St Jean. Many pieces of giltwood furniture were tastefully arranged about the antechamber, the bedroom, and other parts of the apartments.

Elizabeth asked, “How does it feel to be back, Mother? Do you miss France?” 

Anne contemplated her daughter. “Nothing has changed, my dear. Only those who hold the reins of power in the government. And I miss France that is my second home.”

Her brows arched, Bess stared at her mother while Blanche and Catherine brought a robe of purple taffeta. After putting it on, the princess remarked, “But England is your homeland.”

Anne’s sigh was like a spent wave falling back away from the shoreline. “I adore England, and I’m proud of being English by birth. However, I’ve tied my life to and pledged my loyalty to France when I married your stepfather all those years ago – my loyalty is unshakable.”

The Valois royals had arrived in England a week ago. Out of their usual French entourage, only the Montmorency couple and the Étampes spouses accompanied them, with a retinue of grooms, pages, and ladies. Prince Augustine and Prince Jean were also with their parents.

The journey from Dover, where the French party had landed, to Windsor had been quick, although it had been punctuated with several stops to visit some memorable places for Anne and Mary Boleyn. Although there had been no announcement of Anne’s return, news had somehow leaked, and English people were aware of her presence on English soil. Anne had been surprised at seeing crowds lining streets of London and Windsor to greet the Valois cortege.

To her astonishment, the commoners who had once hated Anne now welcomed her back cordially. Throngs had assembled in streets adjoining St James Palace, where the Valois cortege had arrived for a short stay on the way to their destination. Anne had not been loved in England, but the populace sympathized with her afflictions created by Thomas Cromwell’s conspiracy against her. Many yearned to see the illustrious woman who had once been their late king’s wife.

As the procession had moved through the streets of London, a blend of confusion, hurt, and elation had gripped Anne. Many years ago, she had often traveled through the capital of England with King Henry as Queen of England. Her mind floated to the story of Anne’s romance with Henry and to the days when they went on progress together with their court. Now Anne was Queen of France, and François had been at her side during their entrée into London with the Valois standard floating above them, and the English eagerly welcomed the French.

Anne bared her heart. “Bess, I’ve long wanted to visit my home country again, but I cannot efface from my memory the days of my imprisonment at the Tower of London.”

The Tudor princess released a sigh. “I understand your feelings, Mother. I was a child back then, but I remember the horror I experienced at the news of your arrest.”

Anne managed a smile. “Let’s not discuss depressive things, my dear.”   

Elizabeth approached her mother. “We should think only of the present.”

Lady Knollys inquired, “Do Your Majesty and Your Highness need something?” 

“Two goblets of claret, please,” requested Elizabeth.

Lady Knollys nodded, curtsied, and walked over to a table in the corner.

Lady Parry reminded, “Your Highness needs to try on your wedding gown again.”

A grin lit up Anne’s face. “To check the measurements again.”

Elizabeth grinned, thinking of the splendid gown manufactured for her by the best English dressmakers in the English style. “Later tonight, but now I want to stay with my Mother.”

Lady Knollys and Lady Parry curtsied to the royals and left.

Elizabeth settled herself in a matching oak chair beside her mother. “The people were delighted to see Queen Anne again, while displaying no hostility towards King François.”

Anne assessed, “They were more curious than joyful. After all, it is the first time in years when the French royal family visits England, but I’m glad that they no longer hate me.”

“Their loathing for you faded away after the proclamation of your innocence.”

“It is beneficial for you, Bess. I’m rather indifferent to what they think about me, although I’m relieved that my poor late brother, George, is no longer considered a traitor.”

The people’s respect to Anne would have a positive impact upon Elizabeth’s image. When the Valois party had neared the castle of Windsor, the Marquess of Exeter and Elizabeth had ridden ahead to greet the guests. Pride and joy had deluged Anne when the folk cheered their Princess Bess, admiring the girl’s beauty crowned with her famed red-gold Tudor hair.

Bess regretted that she had never known her uncle. “I had Uncle George reburied at Hever Castle during my exile at your childhood home. My late father permitted that.”

“Thank you for taking care of George’s remains, dear daughter.”

“Mother, do you want to visit Hever Castle after my wedding?” 

“I would want to, but it is impossible. Now your sister, Louise, needs me and François like never before. Margot and Jeanne are taking care of her, but we are concerned about her.”

The mention of Louise’s situation sent waves of shock through Elizabeth. “My poor dear sister! I was horrified with what the late Duke Emmanuel Philibert did to her! At least, Louise is now a widow, free from her abusive husband, and their son is the new infant Duke de Savoy.” 

The queen’s eyes veered to the window. The snow-covered lawns and the crowns of snow-capped trees shone in the rays of the afternoon sun. Anne’s sons, Augustine and Jean, were in the garden with King François, who was teaching Jean riding because the weather was not rainy and chilly, although they wore ermine cloaks. Unlike Augustine, his brother was a worse horseman.  

Anne’s sigh expressed her worry. “That’s why we will depart soon.”

Lady Catherine Knollys returned, with her mother, Duchess Mary de Montmorency.

Catherine curtsied as she set two full goblets on the table between the chairs occupied by Anne and Elizabeth. Catherine smiled at Mary. “I’ve met my own Mother in the corridor.”

Mary bestowed a smile at her daughter. “I’m always happy to see you, Cathy.”

Anne drank the claret from her cup slowly. “I feel quite refreshed.”

Elizabeth sipped some, too. “Thank you, Lady Knollys.”

“You are most welcome.” Catherine then dropped a curtsey and left.

Mary seated herself onto a nearby, red-brocaded couch. “Just imagine! My eldest daughter is again pregnant! She and Francis Knollys are having a new baby every year. I told her that it might damage her health, and Cathy was angry with me, but we reconciled later.”

The princess set her half-empty goblet on the table. “Catherine will not have any breathing space because of her selfish husband who strives to have at least a dozen children.”

Mary frowned. “My Monty would never have behaved so.”

Elizabeth looked out the window, her gaze lingering on the King of France. “You are lucky to have François and Monty as husbands. But who knows what will happen to me?” 

“Bess,” said Anne softly. “Don’t be afraid, for Eddie Courtenay is not like Emmanuel. Not all men are beasts. Many are gallant and honorable like François.”

Mary nodded. “There are no other monarchs like King Henry. Even those rulers who have mistresses and neglect their wives are not capable of the atrocities the late man perpetrated.”

Anguish stabbed through Elizabeth. “That’s true, Aunt Mary.”

Guilt speared through Mary. “Forgive me for my bluntness, niece.”

Queen Anne labored to dispel Elizabeth’s fears. Nevertheless, every time they talked about her upcoming marriage to the Earl of Devon and men in general, the princess’ heart contracted in terror. Maybe I should not marry at all, Bess wondered, as it frequently happened to her these days. A moment later, the image of Devon’s attractive face flashed before her mind’s eye, like water gushing from a spring stream, and a sense of bliss encompassed Bess’ entire being.

“It’s all right.” A thought occurred to Elizabeth. “I’ll speak to Eddie frankly.”

Anne nodded. “The candor between you two will set things right.”

Lady Knollys and Lady Parry arrived again. They assisted Elizabeth in donning her winter cloak. Her heart palpitating with gayness, Elizabeth went to stroll outside with her fiancé.

§§§

An hour later, Elizabeth and the Earl of Devon, both clad in sable cloaks, strolled through the snow-covered gardens. After crossing the lawns and hedges silvered by snow, they arrived at the place that used to be a charming rose garden in spring and summer.

“This is such a lovely place!” Edward Courtenay cried as he kissed her hand. “It used to be a small rose garden. Now it is winter, but when summer comes, I’ll pick up roses for you, Bess.” 

The garden was barren of life, heaped with a lot of snow, and the sky overhead was an infinite steel-gray canvas. Devon pulled Bess to him, and the warmth of his hands now entwined with hers was burning even through Elizabeth’s thick clothes, setting her body on fire.

“Thank you,” uttered the princess with a smile. “Roses are my favorite flowers.”

He laced their fingers together. “We can have the gardens planted with these flowers in my or your estates, depending on where we will live after the wedding.”

“That’s an excellent idea. I’d like to spend several months at Hever.”

“Everything for you, Bess.” He gently kissed her fingers and mouthed, “Sorry.”

Moved by his shyness, she purred, “Don’t be, Eddie.”

Devon worked hard to lower Elizabeth’s defenses. He had courted her for so long, but they had rarely kissed due to his fear to embarrass her. He was an exceptionally proper gentlemen, one who had had very few mistresses during his bachelorhood in contrast to many noblemen of his age including Robert Dudley. I’m head over heels in love with Elizabeth, Devon mused.

She sighed. “I told you what happened to my sister, so I’ve grown frightened of marriage.”

Devon sought to reassure his bride. “I would never have done such an awful thing!”

Frustrated laughter pealed from the princess. “Wouldn’t all men say so?” 

“Do you really have such a low opinion of me, Bess? If so, then don’t marry me.”

“I know, Eddie, or I would not have consented to wed you. However, you must promise me that you will never force me to do anything I do not want. I shall not be ruled by any man!” 

“Nothing of the sort has ever been my intention, Bess. I swear that I’ve never considered women inferior to me. And I admire all your qualities, making you so unique. I accept that I shall live in your glorious shadows, for I have no desire to be involved in politics.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Really?” That was her mother’s firm opinion.

“Yes, dear,” the earl reassured gently. “I’m a quiet man, a man of peace, not someone who covets to compel women to dance to my whims. My father was not happy with my late mother, Gertrude, but she always had as much liberty as few married women had.”

“I did not know that your parents were unhappy together.”  

Devon nodded. “Thanks to my mother’s difficult character, but I loved her dearly.”

“I’m sorry, Eddie. I did not want to distress you in any way.”

The Earl of Devon promised, “If you ever ascend to the throne, I shall never try to usurp the power that belongs to you by your birthright, for you are next in the line of succession. I’ll be only a King Consort, but if you ever need my counsel, I shall always help.”

Her lips curved in a smile. “A good recommendation is more precious than a jewel.”

Elizabeth blushed before dancing away from him, but sending him a smile.

A rampant eagerness to touch her enveloped Devon. “You are fierily lovely!” 

Despite the weather, her head was uncovered. “Because of my red hair?” 

“Exactly.” His pulse quickened as her eyes turned a delicate shade of dark black.

Elizabeth’s gaze was fixed upon his mouth. “Do it, finally! Don’t always be timid.” 

Emboldened, Devon stepped closer, and his mouth met her lips, keeping the kiss light, soft, and tender. He ached to make it deep and heady, but his goal was not to frighten her. However, Elizabeth herself twined her arms about his neck, which prompted her fiancé to stab his tongue deeper, harder, nearly losing the tiny hold on his control. Yet, soon Devon drew back.

“No, Bess,” he rasped. “I’m fascinated with you, but I shall always respect you.”

Her dusky lashes dipped down modestly. “I like this gentleness in you, Eddie.”

He renewed their banter. “You have a talent for kissing, don’t you?” 

The princess poked him on the shoulder. “I’m not experienced in this.”

The couple left the garden hand in hand, heading towards a quiet hunting park. They did not see Ambrose and Robert Dudley appear from a nearby alley as soon as they were gone.

“Please, forget Princess Elizabeth, Robin,” Ambrose implored. “Now you have a title of your own, but you do not have to reside at court. Lord Exeter does not welcome you or me here, and neither of us can take our late father’s place on Regency Council.” He released a sigh before verbalizing his advice. “Brother, you ought to live in the countryside with your wife.”

“I was forced to marry Amy,” snarled Robert, his expression helpless and enraged. “By Lord Exeter! King Edward listens to Exeter in everything and commanded me to obey. I do not love Amy, and I never shall, although she is a good woman and is fawning over me.”

“Amy is your wife, Robin. Respect her, for a gentleman owes this to his spouse.”

Robert was still peering in the direction where his beloved Elizabeth had just disappeared. “I’ve never said a bad word to Amy, but I cannot be faithful to her. Having mistresses is the only thing that consoles me a little, for my heart is broken because I lost Bess.”  

Ambrose pleaded, “Forget Her Highness! For your own sake!”

“I can’t. I can’t. I can’t,” Robert kept repeating in a voice layered with despair.

"You must, brother," insisted Ambrose. "She will become a married woman very soon."  

The Dudley brothers stood in silence for a handful of long moments. They both wore rabbit cloaks, so they could spend enough time outside without any physical discomfort.  

Robert pressed his hand to his chest. “Even if I stay away from Bess, I’ll always think of her. No woman on earth can rival her – they do not deserve to kiss the dust under her feet. I shall have to leave court for some time because I cannot watch her with that colorless fish of a man.”

“Lord Devon is a good man,” Ambrose objected. “They are charmed with each other.”

Robert retorted, “Nobody will ever love Bess as deeply as I do.”

The Dudley brothers strode to the Lower Ward where the Round Tower was located. They passed buildings associated with the Order of the Garter and then St George’s Chapel. At the thought that Elizabeth’s ceremony would take place in this oratory, Robert’s heart swooped over and jabbed his feet. Soon Edward Courtenay will have the legal right to touch Bess… To claim her body… How will I wake up every morning knowing that she is with him? Robert lamented.

§§§

Inside the castle, the Marquess of Exeter presided over a Privy Council meeting in the room adorned with portraits of King Henry VIII. Exeter and the old Duke of Norfolk sat at the heads of the table where the other members of the Regency Council sat. At present, there were fewer of them, for many had died during the past years. New members included Sir William Cecil, Exeter’s protégé, and William Howard, Baron Howard of Effingham – Norfolk’s brother.

Exeter drummed his fingers across the table. “We need further debasement of the coinage.”

William Paulet, Marquess of Winchester and Lord High Treasurer, opined, “Lord Exeter, you are right. The state treasury is full, but the debt service payments are unbearable.”

“Well, we have two options,” assumed William Howard, Baron Howard of Effingham. “Either the debasement of the pound, or we must increase the income of the state treasury.”

“We must repay the late king’s debt,” emphasized Exeter. “Now there are no wars and huge court expenditures. If not for the debt service payments, we would have been solvent.”

Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, chimed in, “I spoke to Sir Thomas Gresham the Elder. According to his calculations, if we decrease the value of the pound sterling on the Antwerp bourse, we will be able to discharge almost all of King Henry’s debts within a year.”

The sweating sickness had killed many people, and the trade had nearly collapsed during the months when the malady ravaged England. Thanks to the masterful management of the state treasury conducted by the Marquises of Exeter and of Winchester, the economy had recovered rapidly, and taxes were now being collected by the state on a regular basis.

Henry VIII’s old debts prevented England from prospering in peace. During his long reign, too much had been spent on wars and luxuries. Even the proceeds from the dismantlement of the chantries, which had been implemented by the deceased Earl of Hertford, had not been enough to meet the late monarch’s enormous financial demands. To finance his infamous, failed invasion of France, King Henry had borrowed a lot from Dutch and Italian bankers. To decide what to do next, the Regency Council had consulted with Sir Thomas Gresham, who was a merchant and financier recommended by William Cecil thanks to his superb financial skills.

Winchester joined, “Sir Thomas said the same. The sooner we start, the better.”

Exeter ordered, “Then, Lord Winchester, you are in charge of this task.”

Winchester tipped his head. “Of course, Lord Exeter.”

“Will you retake Calais, Lord Exeter?” challenged Edward Stanley, Earl of Derby.

Exeter did not respond straight away, and all eyes were glued to him. Derby attempts to undermine my authority, the marquess fretted silently. Derby was a rotund man with reddish hair and a broad face in his early forties. He had a red moustache and stubble. Derby’s black brocade doublet was slashed with white silk, his hose and his cap made of golden satin. The earl was married to the Duke of Norfolk’s half-sister, Lady Dorothy Howard.

Derby’s orbs glittered with ire as he snapped, “It feels offensive to our great nation that the French royal family is currently residing at our court. They should be expelled or captured!” 

Exeter’s metallic voice boomed. “Their Majesties came to England to attend the wedding of Princess Elizabeth and my son, Lord Devon. Are you, Lord Derby, suggesting that we take prisoner two Catholic Valois monarchs during their official visit to a foreign country?” 

Derby spat, “King Henry would have done so if King François and that ungodly slut had appeared here. But what else can we expect from you, Lord Exeter? You lost Calais!” 

Exeter made in an authoritative gesture. “Enough!” 

Norfolk berated, “She is my niece – Queen Anne of France. Watch your tongue!”     

The Baron Howard of Effingham stressed, “France is England’s ally! Are you foolish not to realize that England benefits from our new trade and commercial treaties with France?”      

The Earl of Derby compressed his lips in growing irritation. He despised Exeter and the old Norfolk, who had once been staunch Catholics, for their tolerance of Protestantism and also for their commitment to continue the late King Henry’s religious reforms. Exeter and Norfolk are betraying Rome and our faith, which is a horrendous sin, Derby thought, horrified.

“Is that clear, Lord Derby?” Norfolk’s voice was menacing.

“Of course.” Derby’s lips thinned as his anger intensified.

The alliance between the Exeter and the Howard families was stronger than ever. Exeter and Norfolk not only ruled England together, but were also connected with other ties. Six months ago, the Duke of Norfolk’s daughter – Lady Mary FitzRoy, Duchess of Richmond and Somerset – had married Catherine Courtenay’s brother – Sir William Parr, Marquess of Northampton.

Representing the old English nobility, the Duke of Norfolk and the Marquess of Exeter were both men of traditional ways. Nowadays there were no baseborn men who climbed to power at court through their own talents such as Cromwell. Nonetheless, unlike Norfolk, Exeter looked more to Parliament for the approval of acts in order not to make the Regency Council be viewed as the structure shutting up the voices of commoners in favor of the voices of aristocracy.

Thomas Cranmer, Archbishop of Canterbury, asked, “Are you a Catholic, Lord Derby?”

Derby acknowledged, “I am, Your Grace, although I signed the Oath of Supremacy.”

Cranmer had a strong antipathy to all Catholics. “You are dangerous!”

Exeter shouted, “Please, don’t argue! England is tolerant to all religions!”

The archbishop disagreed, but he would not protest. “We shall talk about it later.”

Exeter stressed, “We should better discuss my son’s marriage to Princess Elizabeth.”

Cranmer smiled. “It would be a great honor for me to join them in holy matrimony.”

Exeter smiled. “Very well, Your Grace.”

Norfolk approved of the Tudor princess’ marriage as well. “Her Highness wants to have a modest ceremony, and we will comply with her request, although she deserves more.”

The Baron Howard of Effingham queried, “Just a ceremony in St George’s Chapel?” 

“Yes,” answered Norfolk. “That is what the princess wants.”

The Marquess of Exeter chuckled. “We are beholden to satisfy her wishes.”  

I’ve won, Exeter mused festively. Elizabeth Tudor will marry Eddie. My plan has come to fruition. It gladdened him that his legitimate son, Edward, was passionately in love with the princess, who was also attracted to him. Exeter would have organized lavish celebrations and pageants, but the wedding modest would reflect better on Bess, Eddie, and Exeter himself.

William Cecil informed, “We have arranged King Edward’s betrothal to Princess Cecilia of Sweden, daughter of King Gustav. The wedding will happen in several years.”  

Those members of the Council who were Protestants clapped their hands in glee.

Archbishop Cranmer enthused, “She is an outstanding match for His Majesty!” 

“Exactly.” Norfolk was resigned that they needed a Protestant bride for Edward.

Cecil commented, “I had the honor of participating in the negotiations with Sweden. King Gustav offered an ample dowry, which makes the match even more pleasant.”

The reformers rejoiced, but the Earl of Derby looked gloomy, like a thundercloud.

A devout Protestant, Cecil switched to the subject of religion. “The commoners accepted all the changes in religious rituals and are now obligated to use the new Book of Prayer. The Reformation has been accelerated by the consecration of more reformers as bishops.”

Cranmer enlightened, “I prepared a doctrinal statement – the Forty-Two Articles, clarifying the practice of the reformed faith, particularly in the matter of the communion service.”

Most of the recent religious decisions were initiated by the Lord Protector and his spouse – Lady Catherine Exeter née Parr, Marchioness of Exeter. So far, King Edward did not care about such matters, while not showing any interest in governance and state affairs, much to Exeter’s relief. The marquess felt so because he no longer believed in his secret bastard son with Anne Bassett. I begin to doubt that Ned can be a capable king, Exeter inferred wordlessly with regret.

Notes:

The new chapter is up! Please let us know what you think of this chapter, and don’t forget to leave reviews so that we can discuss events, twists, and turns in this chapter.

In this chapter, we have dealt with Emmanuel Philibert de Savoy, short-lived Duke de Savoy. His father, Duke Charles known as the Good, died off-screen. Emmanuel revolted against the French who have occupied the Duchy of Savoy for a long time, but Dauphin Henri and French generals defeated him. We had Emmanuel mortally wounded to eliminate him from the story with the goal to put an end to his marriage to Louise, who is highly likely to find her happiness with someone else, for example young François de Montmorency. We even had King François speak to Duke-Constable Anne de Montmorency about Louise’s courtship by his son.

We hope that you like the scene of Emmanuel’s last conversation with Louise and his French relatives. A fatally injured Emmanuel is disappointed that he failed to liberate Savoy, so he cannot reconcile with King François and Queen Anne. At the same time, Emmanuel repents that he forced himself on his wife on what was not supposed to be their wedding night as the ruler of France prohibited the consummation of their union for another year. Finally, Louise has given birth to her son with Emmanuel: the boy is Emmanuel’s historical son with Marguerite of France – Charles Emmanuel, new Duke de Savoy. Louise loathes her husband, but she feels that it is her duty to bring their son to Emmanuel and give her dying husband succor before his demise.

We can see Queen Jeanne of Navarre with her mother, Dowager Queen Marguerite. Jeanne is fervently interested in new religious ideas, in Jean Calvin and Martin Luther. Will she listen to her mother and understand that she should not be inclined to Protestantism? Or will she convert and make the small kingdom of Navarre a Protestant one? Marguerite is worried that her only daughter might not find happiness with Augustine, although Jeanne has feelings for him. Jeanne’s union with Augustine will not be a smooth one – it will be difficult and a bit dramatic.

Queen Anne and King François have come to England to attend Elizabeth’s wedding to the Earl of Devon. Currently, England is ruled by the Marquess of Exeter and the Duke of Norfolk, who arranged King Edward’s betrothal to a Swedish Protestant princess, but no one can guarantee that Ned will marry her when he grows up. We hope that you like Elizabeth’s conversation with her mother and her aunt, Mary de Montmorency. Anne and François are greeted cordially in England because the English people no longer hate her following the proclamation of Anne’s innocence all those years ago. Elizabeth and Devon are having a romance, but Robert Dudley is not going anywhere for a long time, and we are going to see him in later chapters.

Attention! A while ago, we posted a prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 102: Chapter 101: A Wedding at Windsor Castle

Summary:

Princess Elizabeth marries Edward Courtenay, now Duke of Devon. A sad Robert Dudley leaves Windsor with his wife, Amy, and his brother, Ambrose. However, Elizabeth is still torn between Eddie and Robert. After the French return to France, Anne and her sister Marie, Marguerite de Navarre, and Anne de Pisseleu meet with the reputed seer and astrologer Nostradamus.

Notes:

Please, if you are reading this fiction, leave us a review, for we need your support for inspiration just to keep going. Personally, I have problems with finding inspiration for writing these days, but we still posted this chapter.

Attention! VioletRoseLily updated her story ‘Long Live the King’ a long time ago, but there are not many reviews on the recently posted chapter because the author made a pause in updating. Please, bear in mind that now you can enjoy this new chapter.

The prologue to the sequel 'Chained by Blood and Power' (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don't forget about our work "Entwined by a Golden Alliance" co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 101: A Wedding at Windsor Castle

April 1, 1553, Windsor Castle, the town of Windsor, county of Berkshire, England

The visit of the French royal party to England continued for longer than three months. The merry Christmastide and the equally festive New Year celebrations had been followed by many calm weeks when the Earl of Devon continued her courtship of Prince Elizabeth. It seemed that the more time the couple spent together, the more they were falling for each other.

The snow had thawed; the trees and grasses were beginning to get green. The setting sun caused the castle of Windsor, made out of gray stone, to shimmer in its rays somewhat. A royal procession rode: King François and Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, were on the way back to the castle from their hunting trip in nearby woods. They had departed early in the morning with a small entourage, including the Duke de Montmorency and Exeter’s favorite, William Cecil.

The sovereign of France laughed gaily. “We have shot several deer, bear, and wild boars, as well as many falcons. Our wives will praise us for our accomplishments.”

Montmorency supplemented, “Five stags as well, Your Majesty.”

“You dare clarify, Monty,” François jested, thinking about the awesome day hunt.

Exeter genuinely liked the ruler. “I hope Your Majesty is enjoying your stay.”

François smiled widely. “Definitely, Lord Exeter.”  

The Marquess of Exeter smiled back as he slanted a glance at the Valois monarch. Clad in a russet silk outfit wrought with gold thread, François sat astride his black stallion caparisoned in blue damask. His head boasted a mane of thick, short chestnut hair with only a few flecks of gray on his temples. Cecil’s spies had apprised them of Emmanuel Philibert de Savoy’s demise and his revolt against the crown of France. His widow Louise, Dowager Duchess de Savoy, is raising their infant son, Duke Charles Emmanuel, in Paris, Exeter ruminated wordlessly.

The conversation was led in French, for each English member of the party knew it well.

Exeter articulated, “The only time you fail is when you fall down and stay down. Whatever happens to us at any age, regardless of our gender and status, can be coped with.”

François figured out: the other man must have been notified of the events with Emmanuel. “Your mind is precious: it has the power to unlock infinite possibilities.”

Exeter inquired, “Did Maestro Leonardo da Vinci say that?”

The monarch’s heart tightened at the remembrance of his dearly departed artist and friend. “Indeed. Leonardo trained my mind and imagination in the arts and even science.”  

Exeter recalled, “In his youth, King Henry loved hunting in this forest. In the meantime, we have not yet allowed King Edward to participate in hunting for his safety.”  

The cortege crossed over a ditch and entered the castle through the Henry VIII gate. The arms above the gate and portcullis bore the pomegranate badge of Henry’s first wife – Catherine of Aragon. Years ago, the late ruler had often stayed at Windsor when he exercised almost daily in shooting, jousting, hunting, and wrestling until the illness of his legs as he had grown older.  

Exeter informed, “Princess Elizabeth wants her wedding to happen in St George’s Chapel.”

“Where Henry is buried,” the king said. Then neither of them pursued the topic.

Riding behind them, William Cecil spoke up. “Your Majesty, have you received the Pope’s dispensation for Princess Elizabeth’s marriage to Lord Devon?”

François notified, “Yes, Pope Julius issued the dispensation after my letter to him.”

Exeter smiled. “Excellent, although Elizabeth and now even Eddie are Protestants.”

Cecil stated, “That is true, but it is beneficial to have this dispensation.”

“I agree,” Exeter said. “I’ve also secured the Regency Council’s approval.”

“Everything is ready for the ceremony,” Cecil summed up.

The marquess is a practical hawk, François noted to himself. Despite their understanding and their deadly secret concerning Henry VIII’s poisoning, François could not deny that Exeter could become a dangerous rival for his political rivals. It was to his stepdaughter’s benefit to have Exeter as her father-in-law and the Earl of Devon as her husband. Yet, François and Anne hoped that one day, Elizabeth Tudor would ascend to the throne of England.

§§§

The procession rode across the motte and into the Upper Courtyard. As the horses halted, a jaunty laughter reached their ears. Then came into view King Edward and Prince Augustine as they were involved in a sparring match with each other. Prince Jean, apparently perturbed, and Edward’s favorites watched the contest, with the English cheering for their liege lord.

Exeter, François, and the others all dismounted. Immediately, grooms rushed to them and took the horses to the stables. After bowing to the ruler and Exeter, Cecil walked away.

The Lord Protector of England scowled at the sight of Edward’s rapier colliding with the French prince’s rapier. “Ned! Shouldn’t you be having a literature class now?”

Edward shouted, “I prefer to be here, Hal!”

In a low voice, the King of France commented, “Your sovereign does not like studies.”

Exeter parried coldly, “King Edward is simply very young.”

François grinned as Augustine parried another of Ned’s assaults. “Focused mind is one of the strongest forces on earth. I was a rambunctious child, but in adolescence I understood it and studied a lot, just as my sons do – especially Augustine and Antoine who is not here.”

Exeter failed to conceal his chagrin. “King Henry was like Ned at this age.”

Nodding, François remarked, “You have a close relationship with the king.”

The Lord Protector nodded. “Well, I’ve been raising Ned as my own son.”

Edward and Augustine’s weapons clashed again, steel flashing, each aiming to disarm the other and in Ned’s case for a flourish. Edward lunged forward and slashed viciously at the chest of his skilled opponent. The teenagers were almost of the same age, but Augustine was far taller, so it was impossible for Edward to use overhead blows against him. Edward attacked again, and, suddenly, Edward’s rapier was yanked out of his hand, falling to the ground with a clatter.

Jean’s visage brightened at his elder brother’s victory. The English king’s favorites looked gloomy, glowering at Jean and towards Augustine who stood stone-faced and regal.

Prince Augustine said in English, “That was a fair match, Your Majesty.”

Edward’s favorites, in particular William Paget, gaped at Augustine. Nobody expected that the French princes – both Augustine and Jean – had a brilliant command of English.

An incensed King Edward blanched, but he accepted his failure with dignity befitting his royal station. “Indeed, Your Highness. Your prowess with weapons is exceptional.”

Augustine shrugged. “So is yours. I was merely a little luckier on this occasion.”

After handing the rapiers to grooms, the king and the prince bowed to one another.

Exeter strode over to them. “Why are you not on your literature classes, Ned?”

Edward smiled at Exeter. “Hal, I’ll go now. We shall discuss Plato.”

The Marquess of Exeter bowed to his secret son. “If you excel in history and literature, I’ll give you special classes with weapons myself, provided that Your Majesty agrees.”

The Tudor monarch exclaimed, “Gladly, Hal! Please, teach me to fight as a soldier!” 

“I shall do it when time comes,” Exeter promised.

François with his sons, as well as Edward’s friends, waited nearby.

King Edward pivoted to François. “Your chivalrous Majesty! If I were older, I would have asked you, the magnificent Knight-King, to give me a lesson of swordfight.” His gaze then slid to Augustine. “I suppose your son possesses such great battle skills thanks to you.”

François clarified in English, “Thanks to my eldest son, Henri, and I.” His orbs drifted to the marquess. “Lord Exeter’s will teach you everything you need, especially in politics.”

At this, Edward burst out laughing. “Politics is the most boring thing I’ve ever tried!” 

Exeter requested, “Your Majesty, let me accompany you to your class.”

“Of course. See you all soon,” replied Edward cheerfully. 

The English monarch bowed to the French royals and left together with Exeter. The royal favorites, angry with Augustine for defeating their sovereign, trailed after them.

François motioned for his sons and Montmorency to go to the tennis court located at the base of the motte in the Upper Ward. Surprisingly, Jean looked smug despite his usual shyness.

As they stopped, the Valois ruler questioned, “Who initiated the match, Augustine?”

“King Edward,” said Augustine. “And I proved that the French know the art of war well.”

Jean admitted, “I’m so glad that you defeated that English peacock.”

Augustine shared Jean’s sentiments. “Elizabeth’s brother is a selfish fanfaron.”

François tipped his head. “Young Ned is extremely presumptuous and egocentric. Just like his father, the late King Henry, was in youth – but perhaps Edward is even worse.”

Augustine compressed his lips. “King Edward is rather weak-willed.”

François concluded, “He might end up being a marionette in the hands of his advisors.”

Montmorency entered the discourse. “King Edward will not always allow Lord Exeter to rule the country. However, I believe that Exeter’s protectorship will be a long one because of the king’s unwillingness to assume his royal responsibilities and duties.”

François deduced, “The Anglo-French alliance might be broken if Exeter loses power.”

“We must be prepared,” conquered Montmorency.

Jean summed up, “People like Edward can be influenced with ease.”

“Sons, I’m very proud of you both.” François admired Augustine for all his qualities. Now Jean’s logical abilities pleased him despite François’ frustration with Jean’s desire to be a monk.

Jean beamed at his parent, while Augustine’s amber eyes twinkled with mirth. The sun had set behind the hills and the River Thames, and soon they departed from the Upper Yard.

§§§

The Marquess of Exeter and Lady Catherine Exeter strolled through the North Wharf. The white moonlight flooded the long terrace constructed of wood, which had been built years ago by King Henry along the outside wall of the Upper Ward. Their hands laced, they contemplated the surrounding scenery, for the terrace provided a spectacular view of the Thames below.

“Hal,” Catherine purred. “I’ve been very happy with you during all this time!” 

When they paused, Exeter wrapped his arms around her waist and deposited a kiss on her forehead. “Are you jesting, my lovely Lady Marchioness? You had other husbands before me!”  

She swatted him on the cheek. “You are perfectly aware that I never loved any of them.”

His embrace tightened. “So, I am my dearest wife’s only true love. Right?”

“I do not like this male arrogance of yours, Hal.”

“Don’t you?” There was a laughter in his tone. “I thought you do.”

Catherine pulled away from him. “I hope our son will not inherit your York hauteur.”  

After the outbreak of the sweat previous year, the Exeter spouses feared bringing their little children – Maud and William – to court, so they lived in their estates in western England.

Exeter led her to the other end of the terrace. “Is your dignity better than my arrogance?”

“I shall not tell you,” Catherine jested, studying him fondly. “I want our son and daughter to be like their father. I love you not only for your bravery, intelligence, honor, and even craft.”

“Why else do you adore me, Cathy?” he teased.

“For your sense of superiority, self-assurance, and cockiness.”

“Do I have many bad qualities?” His gaze slid to her low-cut neckline.

She admired his profile. “Oh, husband! Everything in you in great!”

The Marquess of Exeter wore a gold chain on his neck, exhibiting the Courtenay heraldry; his costume was of tawny damask wrought with threads of gold. As he did not wear a toque, she saw his graying hair trimmed short, which was brushed to hide any thinning. At this moment, his countenance conveyed blazing rhythms of poetical gentleness and passion reserved exclusively for his wife. Hal is no longer young, but to me, he will always be attractive, Catherine thought.

The marquess examined his spouse in the moonlight. Her gown of brown silk, ornamented with patterns of flowers, matched her eyes, glowing at her husband with fiery passion. A tightly-laced green kirtle displayed to perfection Catherine’s still slender figure. Some gray strands in her hair were hidden by her diamond-shaped hood. Cathy is so desirable, Exeter mused.

Exeter whispered, “You are the love of my life, Cathy! The greatest love of my life.”

“Ah, Hal,” Catherine murmured. “I love you with all my heart!”

Exeter breached the gap between them. He gathered his wife into his arms and crushed his mouth into hers, stamping her mouth with an ardent kiss. Their solitary location, the encroaching of night, and their bodies trapped in each other’s embrace – all reason deserted them both. Only their affection remained, so Catherine permitted him to untie the laces of her dress.

“Hal, did you love someone else?” she asked as his hand cupped one of her breasts.

“Don’t, darling.” Immediately, his hungry gaze became haunted.

“Who was she, husband?” Her hand pushed his hand away from her breast.

The marquess grabbed her hands in his and kissed them. He would prefer not to speak about Anne Bassett, but she herself asked him. Exeter supplied in a strangled voice, “It matters not, Cathy. I never loved her as much as I love you, my wife. It’s a painful story for me.”

“Forgive me, Hal.” Catherine’s breath came fast and hard, just as his own did.

He nuzzled one breast, drinking in her rosewater scent. “Let’s go to our chambers.”

Tingles of lust slithered down her spine. “Yes, my beloved.”

“Sweetheart, I hope your sister and brother will not come to dine tonight.”

“No, they will not, and we will be alone, Hal.”

Exeter untangled their embrace. “You will be mine, my intelligent writer.”

“Only yours.” Now she was acutely cognizant only of her desire for him.

Suddenly, the Exeter spouses heard moans at the opposite side of the North Wharf. In the moonlight, they distinguished the Duchess and Duke d’Étampes who entered the terrace locked in a tight embrace, their lips connected, acting like they were characters in medieval romances.

Not to disturb them, Exeter and Catherine tiptoed to the opposite entrance and left.

Jean IV de Brosse, Duke d’Étampes, was lavishing his spouse’s face and neck with sweet kisses. Reluctantly, he pulled away and gazed into Anne de Pisseleu’s emerald orbs. The silence enveloped them like a salutary thing for the spouses who had both suffered enough, each in their own way. Slowly, but surely, Jean and Anne were opening up to one another with eagerness.

Jean confessed, “Ma chérie! I’ve always loved you, Anne!”

“Always?” Anne queried with a hint of distrust.  

He answered, “Yes. Even when you were King François’ mistress.”  

“Despite my affairs with other men?” inquired the Duchess d’Étampes. Anne grinned at his admission, remembering what Queen Anne and Queen Marguerite had once told her.

His arms snaked about her. “Yes, mon amour. I pretended that I had loathed you because it was the only way I could endure the torment of knowing that you loved someone else.”

“I would never have guessed that.” She caressed his cheek and kissed him on the mouth.

Jean remarked, “King François and Queen Anne retired. She no longer needs you tonight.”

His throaty voice, dripping with sensuality, heightened her lust. “I want you, too, Jean.”  

“Should we go to our rooms, Anne?” His next kiss was brief, but startling in its intensity.

A grinning Anne breached, “Yes. Right now.”

The Étampes spouses hurried away from the terrace. Anne believed that she would grow to love him over time. Nevertheless, her sacred love for the murdered King Henri II of Navarre glowed in her soul like an unquenchable flame, and sometimes, at night the painful sob of his name slipped from her lips. I pray that Jean has never heard me speak it, Anne hoped inwardly. 


April 15, 1553, Windsor Castle, the town of Windsor, county of Berkshire, England

At dawn, the firmament was a blue blanket with shades of pink, stretching over Windsor like an endless canvas. At this early hour, the Lower Ward was almost empty, except for the wedding congregation. A smiling Princess Elizabeth was encircled by her mother and members of the French party; Lady Katherine Ashley and Lady Blanche Parry were also present.

Elizabeth did not want to have an opulent wedding ceremony for the reasons she would not reveal to anyone, not even her mother. She had protested against any public ceremonies because a small part of her still hesitated to marry the Earl of Devon. Elizabeth could not forget Robert Dudley, fearing that if her betrothal to Edward Courtenay lasted for longer, she could be tempted to break it. Robin’s love recent letters have affected me so, Bess speculated inwardly.

Queen Anne asked, “Elizabeth, my own heart! Are you ready?”

The princess inclined her head. “Definitely, Mother. I want François to give me away.”

King François extended his hand to his stepdaughter. “It’s a huge pleasure for me, Bess.”  

Elizabeth took his hand. “Thank you for everything, François.” 

Duchess Mary de Montmorency joined, “Dear niece! Eddie must be as nervous as you.” She stood beside her husband, Duke Anne de Montmorency, who smiled at his wife.

Anne supplemented, “There are surely good omens for the wedding!”

As François began leading his stepdaughter across the courtyard, Lady Kat Ashley cried, “Ah, Your Highness! The blessed chastity of your soul is stressed by your white gown!” 

François complimented, “Bess! I can see in you so pure a brightness that it dazzles me.”

Mary opined, “Bess, you are the image of a goddess of youth and marriage.”

Anne stepped forward and kissed her daughter on the cheek. “You are like Eos – the Greek goddess of dawn. Like she rose each morning from her home at the edge of the Oceanus, soon you, Bess, will wake up and open the gates of heaven for the new sun to rise in England.”

The Valois ruler complimented, “Bess, you are so beautiful!”

Bess grinned, receiving her mother and aunt’s smiles in response. 

Anne complained, “It is a pity that we have such a small congregation.”

Elizabeth flashed a smile to her mother and stepfather. “I want a private ceremony.”

Mary prodded, “Should we go?”

Elizabeth nodded. Before entering the oratory, she cast a glance at the sky. It seemed to her that a star was falling from the heavens, coming down like liquid lightning. What could it mean? Joy or grief? Sighing, she then stepped forward, her hand clasped in her stepfather’s.

§§§

As the assemblage slipped into the chapel, they did not notice Robert Dudley and his wife, Amy Dudley née Robsart, as the spouses exited the castle. A chariot, swathed in blue, green, and yellow damask – these were the Dudley colors – waited in the courtyard, designated for Robert and Amy; several more chariots were draped in black, also part of the baggage train.

Robert told his unwanted wife, “Everything is ready, Amy.”

Amy noted, “Robin, you are enjoying the splendor of court more than countryside.”

His visage turned thunderous. “We will leave right now and will not return.”

At this moment, Amy resembled a suffering martyr. “I approve of this decision, husband. Ambrose is right that you must be as far away from court as possible in order not to see her.”  

“It is none of your business, Amy!” Robert snapped.

His hostile tone slapped Amy in the face, but she countered, “Your temper spikes because you feel helpless and furious.” Her gaze veered to St George’s Chapel in the distance. “Now Princess Elizabeth is inside the oratory! And you are in emotional pain, Robin, but you must accept that she is not yours and will never be. Elizabeth is only a princess for you!”

A moment later, Ambrose Dudley, Earl of Warwick, walked out of the castle.  

Ambrose halted next to Robert. “It is the best course of action, brother of mine.”

Robert’s crestfallen gaze was glued to the chapel. “Tonight, I’ve lost everything I need for happiness in life.” Words had slipped from his tongue before he could stop them.

Nonetheless, Amy continued, “By the way, I saw Princess Elizabeth in her wedding gown in the corridor with the French monarchs. She was in an elated frame of mind, Robin.”

“Please, don’t–” Robert tried to say, but she interrupted him.

Amy taunted, “Did Elizabeth ever feel something for you if she is happy to marry Devon?”

An incensed Robert turned to his spouse. “Don’t pry into my affairs, Amy.”

Amy’s expression soured at his words. “I want us to at least live in peace, Robin.”

“I respect you, Amy,” Robert assured, and she nodded, resigned.

Ambrose recommended, “Try to start afresh!”

“Gladly,” Amy said, taking Robert’s hand in hers and plastering a smile on her visage.

Robert perused his wife. Amy Robsart was a Dudley by their marriage, so only death could tear them from one another. Amy’s oval countenance was pretty, with its narrow, brown brow and a full mouth, and green-gray eyes. Her tall figure was rounded into dainty curves, feminine and tempting for everyone save her own husband. Amy was beautiful, and her alabaster skin seemed to be even paler against her ochre-colored satin outfit. Amy is a traditional English lady, one who glows likes a soft, pale rose. But she is not Bess, Robert bemoaned wordlessly.

Ambrose demanded, “Don’t come back to court anytime soon, Robin.”

Amy liked Ambrose’s prudence and appreciated that Ambrose endeavored hard to lessen her husband’s obsession with the princess. “Countryside has numerous pleasantries.”

Nodding at his brother and wife, Robin barked to his grooms, “Prepare to depart!” 

In a minute, the Dudley cortege left the palace behind. Robert stiffly shared the chariot with Amy, and he behaved as if his wife had not existed, just as he did for the most part.

§§§

King François led Princess Elizabeth down the nave, their gait regal. Queen Anne and her sister followed them, carrying bouquets of white roses. Next came Montmorency, Blanche Parry, and Kat Ashley. From the pinnacles of the gorgeous vaulted roof inside the huge St George’s Chapel, decorated with vanes supported by gilt figures of lions, antelopes, dragons, unicorns, and greyhounds, these stone creatures watched the small procession with unblinking gazes.

Elizabeth whispered, “All these beasts are telling stories of my royal ancestry.”

King François would not comment that in the chapel, the commissioners had not destroyed the architectural beauty that was viewed by Protestants idolatry. “These beasts serve as symbols of power for dynasties and rulers. My personal symbol is a salamander.”

“We know this, mon amour,” Queen Anne murmured, earning her husband’s laugh.

The inner splendor was enhanced by the wall frescoes of biblical saints. They passed by the place where every June a special service was conducted for all members of the Order of the Garter, founded by King Edward III in 1348. The congregation’s gazes briefly detoured to the heraldic banners of the current members of the Garter, which hang above the stalls of the choir.

Queen Anne noticed the coat-of-arms of King Henry VIII above the nave. She experienced not a twinge of guilt at the remembrance of how the Tudor beast had been poisoned in secret. I do not regret that François, Exeter, and I together sent that monster to hell, Anne told herself, and as her gaze locked with her husband’s, she discerned the same lack of contrition.

“Bess,” greeted King Edward. “We have been waiting for ages!” 

King François answered instead of her, “We are almost here, Your Majesty.”

My fiancé is handsome! Elizabeth’s heart hummed affectionately. Flanked by King Edward and the Marquess of Exeter, Edward Courtenay was attired in a doublet of white satin wrought with threads of silver, his hose made of the same fabric. Some locks of his blonde-red hair was seen from beneath his white toque. Eddie was charming in a benign way, his gentility reflected in his pale blue Woodville orbs, yet so utterly male that his appearance took Bess’ breath away.

Lady Catherine Exeter fretted, “We were afraid that something could have happened.”

“You are a bit late,” Prince Augustine remarked. “Is everything all right?”

Elizabeth soothed, “Don’t worry. We have come!”

Archbishop Thomas Cranmer stood beside the bridegroom and Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, whose hand was entwined with his wife’s. Clad in red and orange satin ornamented with rubies, King Edward yawned, bored and annoyed that he needed to attend the ceremony. Nearby stood Prince Augustine, garbed in purple silk, his doublet shining with its bejeweled high collar, and Prince Jean, who on this occasion wore a blue brocade doublet worked with gold.

François linked the hands of Eddie and Bess together. He then told the bridegroom, “I give my brilliant stepdaughter to you. Treat her as the most precious gem!”

“I shall,” pledged Eddie Courtenay, smiling gratefully at the monarch of France.

Exeter requested impatiently, “Let’s begin.”

A smiling Cranmer nodded. “With great pleasure.”  

Looking strict in his black robes, Archbishop Cranmer commenced the ceremony, while the congregation listened. The old Duke of Norfolk and his younger half-brother, the Baron Howard of Effingham, together with William Cecil, joined the assemblage, casting glances at the Valois monarchs. Cranmer’s voice droned a standard liturgy service in English. Reverent, yet a little tense, silence reigned in the chapel, and candles blazed like a benediction.  

Elizabeth’s gaze lingered on the high, magnificent ceiling. Supported by the lofty ribs and groins, the ceiling was adorned with heraldic insignia that displayed the coat-of-arms of Edward the Confessor, Edward III, Edward the Black Prince, Henry VII, Edward IV, Henry VII, and Henry VIII. Now Elizabeth’s feeling of timelessness was deep and so alive, heightened when her gaze fell on the arms of England and France quartered, and then on the shield and cross of St George. Many kings attended various religious services in this oratory, Bess mused.

As our evening prayer rises before you, O God,

so may your mercy come down upon us

to cleanse our hearts

and set us free to sing your praise

now and forever.

All Amen.

“You are fabulous, Bess,” complimented the bridegroom quietly.

“And so are you,” Elizabeth murmured. “On the inside and the outside, Your Grace.”

Devon’s brows knitted. “Don’t call me so. I’m Eddie for you.”

King Edward had bestowed on Elizabeth many estates. Eddie Courtenay had been elevated to Duke of Devon, having also received new lands. These were the king’s wedding gifts.

I’m the most fortunate man on earth to marry Bess, Eddie Courtenay enthused wordlessly. Devon was full of jubilation, joy, and wonder, that he was marrying Elizabeth Tudor out of all women. Staring at his bride, the Earl of Devon was cognizant of his quickened pulse. In a gown of white brocade embroidered with diamonds, the stomacher and train of the dress divided into two halves of silver taffeta, Elizabeth embodied a Vestal maid, yet too lovely to sacrifice her life to become a priestess of the Roman Goddess Vesta. Her girdle was studded with massive pearls.

I’m so very glad that Eddie converted to my faith, Elizabeth gushed silently. Protestantism is the only true faith, although I believe that monarchs should be tolerant to all religions to avoid bloodshed. She was aware that the Marquess of Exeter’s views fluctuated between Catholicism and Protestantism, although Exeter continued the religious reform in the country.

Finally, Archbishop Cranmer finished the liturgy and moved to the matrimonial service.

Dearly beloved! We have come today together in the presence of the Almighty to witness and bless the joining together of this man and this woman in holy matrimony.

King François laced his fingers with Queen Anne’s a bit more tightly, their train of thought journeying back to the memorable day when they married in the Chapel of the Trinity at Château de Fontainebleau. The Duke and Duchess de Montmorency squeezed each other’s hands and smiled at one another, remembering their own wedding in Milan.

The couple knelt near the altar. Their hands were linked under a bridal canopy of blue and white silk, emblazoned with Tudor roses. The others settled themselves on the pews.

Archbishop Cranmer inquired, “Elizabeth, will you have this man to be your husband; to live together in matrimony? Will you love him, comfort him, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall live?”

The princess glanced Eddie in the eye. “I shall. Always.”

The archbishop repeated the same for the bridegroom, and Eddie vowed, “I shall. Always.”

Cranmer promulgated, “I declare you husband and wife.”

At this, an awe-struck silence filled the oratory. Exeter and Anne traded victorious glances, both of them relieved and happy that their children’s long courtship culminated in matrimony.

The Duke of Norfolk stepped to Anne. “Now it’s done, niece.”   

The Queen of France smiled at her uncle. “It is a good marriage for Bess.”

Norfolk added, “I shall watch over the princess after your departure.”

Anne nodded her thanks. “I appreciate it, Uncle Thomas.”

Augustine heard their quiet exchange, but it would be tactless on his part to interject. He said in an uncharacteristically animated voice, “Congratulations, dear sister!”

Prince Jean exclaimed, “We wish you happiness, sister and Lord Devon!”

Elizabeth flashed a smile for her siblings. “Thank you, Augustine and Jean.”

“This is a great union between two Protestant children,” emphasized William Cecil. “May the Lord bless this couple with many children and many happy years to follow!”  

King Edward was in a jovial frame of mind, and he affirmed, “Bess, as you are Eos, I am certainly Helios, God of the sun, who was Eos’ brother. You chose your image well!” 

The Archbishop of Canterbury smiled at the French queen. Cranmer loved Anne, who also sent him a smile. During her stay at Windsor, Anne had frequently spoken to her former almoner and friend, for the archbishop often came just to meet with her. She had thanked Cranmer for his unwavering support of Elizabeth. Cranmer and I both approve of Bess’ marriage, Anne mused.

Exeter and Catherine contemplated each other with smiles as the day of their own wedding replayed in their minds. Catherine used to feel guilty for King Henry’s poisoning, knowing what Exeter had really done to her late husband, but now, for the first time, Catherine did not regret that Exeter had killed the beast. God, forgive me for my thoughts, Catherine prayed.

King Edward was happy for his sister and his friend, but the sound of prayers in English caused his insides to twist in knots. I hate that the liturgy is performed in English. Why does Hal continue my late father’s Reformation? Edward was privately upset with this thing as much as he was frustrated with the continued banishment of Honor Grenville, his grandmother.

§§§

The day passed in a blur for the newlyweds. A family feast was organized in the evening, although the entire court was aware of Elizabeth’s wedding to the Duke of Devon.

“Fear not, Bess,” assured Queen Anne. “Eddie is not Emmanuel. He will be gentle.”  

Elizabeth managed a smile. “I know, Mother. I’m not afraid.”

Princess Elizabeth, Princess of England and now also Duchess of Devon, stood near a large bed canopied with burgundy gauze and delicate lace hangings, falling in sumptuous folds from somewhere near the ceiling. The bedroom was illuminated by a profusion of candles, placed upon bedside tables and marble tables, which stood between two green-brocaded couches. The newly made tapestries of scenes about the Goddess Eos decorated the walls.

Blanche Parry affirmed, “Your Highness! Best wishes on this wonderful day!” 

Kat Ashley surveyed her charge with adoration. “I like Lord Devon very much. I pray that he will make you happy, my child, if you permit me to address you so.”

Elizabeth’s laughter was like a fresh breeze. “Kat and Blanche! I love you both!” 

Elizabeth hugged both of these women in turns before she approached her mother.

The princess bared her heart. “I wanted to marry in St George’s Chapel so as to feel closer to my Plantagenet and Tudor ancestors. Yet, I was unable to approach my father’s tomb.”

The queen clasped her daughter’s hands in hers. “Years ago, your stepfather told me that I was my own worst enemy. I was not yet in love with François, for my heartbreak caused by your father overwhelmed me to the brim.” She paused to collect her thoughts. “François was right: I had to let go off my ghosts to open my heart for a new love and be happy.” Anne caressed her daughter’s cheek. “Bess, forget about Henry’s mistreatment of his wives. Enjoy your life!”

Tears prickled Elizabeth’s orbs. “Mother, you are so wise! And I love you so!” 

Anne blessed her daughter with the cross. “May the years ahead be filled with lasting joy.”

Anne and Elizabeth embraced each other. Then everyone exited. Bess’ scrutiny traveled to the window: the shutters were not closed, and a full moon shone gloriously outside.

The door opened, and her husband walked inside. “You are the most beautiful Eos!” 

In the candlelight, Elizabeth looked like the most fabulous nymph. Her nightgown was made of multicolored brocade ornamented with gold thread, its neckline rather low. An air of feminity, encompassing her, was scintillating and yet composed, regal and also tempting.

She recollected, “Eos is associated with her Homeric epithet ‘rosy-fingered.’ I do not have rose fingers, but my wedding gown was designed somewhat similar to her regular dress.”

Eddie stepped to his spouse. “You are the dawn of my new life. That is enough for me.”

Audacity surged through her. “I hope I shall not disappoint you.”

“You are lovelier any goddess! You are a great morning star of England!” 

Eddie Courtenay possessed a stellar education, adoring books and the arts above anything else. In a high voice, he read his own poem that was written in Elizabeth’s honor.

Oh my Eos, the dawn of my new life!

May my two hands against your heart be for you

Here on earth the emblems of gentleness!

The emblems of you and our marriage!

Let us live like two frenzied prayers

Straining always one towards the other.

May our kisses on our enraptured mouths

Be for us here on earth the symbols of our life!

As you appear on the morning sky, my Eos,

I smile, I breathe, I live, and I awaken,

Without you there is no life at all –

Just darkness and permanent illness.

But just as you emerge on the sky

With rosy fingers and forearms,

My heart is hammering joyfully, and I fly,

And then I take my Eos into my arms.

“I adore it!” Bess admired Eddie’s poems, for it was not the first sonnet he had composed for her. “This great poem reminds me of my stepfather’s sublime and chivalrous style.” 

Now her husband stood in front of her. “I’ll write you sonnets every day, my Eos!” 

“Eddie, we will have our own small court at one of our estates. It will be thronged with the most talented Flemish and German artists; I’ve already contacted some of them.”

His hand snaked around his wife’s waist to pull her close. “Excellent, wife! I invited a few English poets, sculptors, and painters as well. We will have our artistic Golden Age, Bess.”

Elizabeth nodded. “One day, we will have a Golden Age in the entirety of England.”  

He knew about her sacred dreams. “As God wills it, my beloved wife.”

The princess spun around herself, her heart hammering in delight. Then she did so once more until she faced him. As she discarded her gown, she purred, “The Golden Age starts now.”

Edward slanted his lips over Elizabeth’s for a kiss of such vehement passion that her blood boiled the very moment his tongue stabbed inside her mouth. His tender assault broke all the last vestiges of her awkwardness, and Bess’ instincts surged to life despite her inexperience. Arching up, she kissed him back, tasting him fully and reveling in the hot demand of his flesh upon hers.

“Did you have many mistresses?” Elizabeth queried while her husband carried her to bed.

Eddie placed his spouse on the mattress like his grandest treasure. “No, Bess.” He blushed as he admitted, “I had only three paramours; my father would not believe me if I confessed. I swear that I shall never be with any other woman because my heart and body belong to you.”

Her hand gripped the front of his robe. “Thank you for this promise, Eddie.”

After removing his blue silk robe, Edward joined Elizabeth on the bed. Now the spouses were both nude, perusing one another curiously and with smiles. He kissed and caressed his wife until Elizabeth felt light-headed with need rushing through her like licking flames. The princess felt the hard contours of his chest press into her breasts in a startlingly sensual, bewitching way, and then Edward entered his wife slowly, swallowing her gasp of pain with his heady kisses.

“Eddie?” she uttered hoarsely, her world full of sweetness whirling inside and around her.

However, her husband did not move for a long time. “Are you all right, Bess?”

When she nodded, Devon’s resumed practicing his lascivious magic on her body. Elizabeth released a cry of enjoyment every time Devon penetrated her deeper and deeper. Lights danced before her vision as she rocked instinctively against her husband. Ensconced in the temple of red gaze around their bed, they reveled in the ambrosial glory of their lovemaking, until the spasms of exquisite ecstasy shot through their bodies as the couple reached the acme of pleasure.  

“My beloved Duchess of Devon,” whispered Edward with immense affection.

Elizabeth enthused, “My dearest Duke of Devon!”

His eyes were shut, his expression peaceful. “Ah, this night is the Golden Age of my life.”

She exhaled a deep sigh. “Perhaps I’ve conceived a baby today.”

I want to bear Eddie’s children, Elizabeth realized. Those several years she had spent in France with her siblings had allowed her to appreciate the opportunity to have a good family. Her elder sister – Duchess Marie of Palatinate-Neuburg – had recently birthed a daughter named Isabella. And Elizabeth planned to have several children, wishing to have at least two sons.  

“My beloved Bess!” His arm draped over her waist, his hand twined with hers.

Her name was laced with a note of longing that made her grin. “Do you love me, Eddie?”

Devon cupped her face in his palms, pressing kisses over her eyelids and cheeks. “I love you more than life itself, my Bess! Even if there is no puff of wind in nature, and the averse veils of cold spread across marshes, forests, fields, and roads, I shall still love you.”

His duchess let out a lazy moan of spiritual elation. “To love each other in any weather in our lives! Even if I have to breathe the air of some affliction, you will be with me.”

“Always.” Eddie pulled her to his chest, kissing her red-gold hair with devotion.  

Elizabeth kissed him on the nose and mouth. “My mother told me that true love is patient, kind, not envious or boastful, not arrogant or rude. Intense, new, and wholesome life in all its divine strength has entered me when we exchanged our vows. I think I love you, Eddie.”

“Beware, my lady love,” he drawled with mock gravity, “that I cannot tolerate such jokes. Now my heart is beating so fast that if I discover that it is not true, it will collapse.”

“Eddie! Take me again! Now! And let me prove my feelings for you!”

He noticed that the candles had extinguished. “It is far more romantic in the dark.”

Threading her fingers deep into his hair, Elizabeth held her husband close as Edward slid into her. She no longer experienced any discomfort, meeting his thrusts most eagerly. She kissed his brow, cheeks, and even temples, then her mouth captured his fiercely. His thrusts grew more fervid as the God Eros soared with them in airs of erotic pleasures, and for a fleeting moment, Elizabeth envisaged that she saw not her husband’s countenance, flushed from their amorous dance, but Robert Dudley’s handsome face. Eddie and Robin, she whispered in her mind. 


October 1, 1553, Château de Langeais, the town of Langeais, the Loire Valley, France

The sun had long sunk, and the twilight was deepening. Several women hurried through the corridors illuminated by torches. Queen Anne of France and Dowager Queen Marguerite of Navarre were climbing the staircase, accompanied by their ladies-in-waiting – Duchess Marie de Montmorency and Duchess Anne d’Étampes, who was tied to Anne by their friendship.

Marguerite uttered, “I still cannot believe that I’ve consented to this.” 

Anne followed her. “Why, Margot? This astrologer can tell us something interesting.”

Michel de Nostredame,” uttered Anne de Pisseleu with a hint of wonder in her voice. “He is commonly known as Nostradamus, which is the Latinized form of his name.”

Marguerite halted at the higher flight to catch her breath. The others stopped as well.

“I am not as young as I used to be,” Margot half-complained, half-jeered, feeling that her vitality was fading, which amused and simultaneously irritated her. “I am older than François.”

Anne exhaled sharply, having similar thoughts. “Only two years him senior.”

Marguerite told her sister-in-law, “You and I should both be sleeping now. My brother will be looking for you, for he is rarely separated from you. What would you say to him, then?”

Anne sighed again: François would not have permitted to allow the seer enter the palace. “The truth, Margot. I have no secrets from my husband, and he would understand.”

Marguerite contradicted, “Not after Catherine de’ Medici’s astrologers were all executed.”

Anne yearned to get acquainted with this fortuneteller. “Nostradamus is quite a famous seer, astrologer, and physician. His book ‘Les Prophéties’ made him and his quatrains popular.”

“Perhaps the press should be censored,” huffed Marguerite.

Anne de Valois presumed, “This man’s visions about our family might be interesting.”

Anne de Pisseleu assured, “I would not have invited Monsieur de Nostredame if I did not know from my reliable sources about his unique talents of a healer and a soothsayer.”

Marie de Montmorency protested, “Only God knows the fates of His children.”

Marguerite shared Marie’s opinion. “It all reminds me of Catherine.”

Queen Anne put an end to their argument. “Madame d’Étampes and I may go alone.”

“No!” chorused Marguerite and Marie, shaking their heads in disagreement.

The two Annes mounted the rest of the stairs. Grudgingly, Marguerite and Marie went after them. As it was long past midnight, they passed through the empty hallway unnoticed.

§§§

The Duchess d’Étampes opened the door to the room where she had left the unusual guest before. She had brought the astrologer inside the château through the back door in the kitchens.

“Please come in, Your Majesties,” commenced Anne de Pisseleu.

Anne, Marguerite, and Marie slipped inside. Marie closed the door behind them.

The chamber was illuminated by an array of candles. Michel de Nostredame leaned against the wall that was adorned with Aubusson carpets, depicting astrological signs. The gauntness of this middle-aged man was emphasized by his plain black doublet, while his balding head was covered with a matching flat cap. His smart, wrinkled countenance was framed with grizzled hair and a gray beard at the bottom of his pale-skinned face. The fortuneteller’s small hazel eyes, wise and almost surreal, seemed to penetrate space and time, looking deep into the soul.

“Your Majesty!” Michel de Nostredame bowed deeply. “I’m honored to see the legendary Queen Anne of France who captured the heart of the people’s beloved Knight-King forever.”

Anne smiled and glanced towards the famous Les Neuf Preux panels. They portrayed nine medieval knights who were considered the epitome of courtly honor, just as François was.

Marguerite parried, “The entirety of France is aware of this, Monsieur.” 

Nostradamus swept a bow. “It is also a huge honor for me to see the Knight-King’s sister!”

The Queen of France demanded, “We need to learn something no one else knows.”

Nostradamus predicted, “King François will die in his wife’s arms.”

A sense of presentiment cloaked Anne. “My husband must live for many years.”

Marguerite measured him with a skeptical glower. “It is easy to guess that. When God calls my brother home, God forbid it happens soon, his wife will be by his side until his last breath.”

Anne’s heart swooped at the thought of such a tragedy. “Continue, Monsieur.”

Nostradamus disclosed, “I had visions about King François and Dauphin Henri.”

Marie supported her trembling sister Anne. “Don’t try to frighten the queen!”

“Visions…” With the aid of her maids, Queen Anne settled herself in an armchair draped in the finest golden velvet. “Visions about both my husband and my stepson?”

Marie and Anne de Pisseleu both leaned against the wall, covered with panels displaying flower motifs, each made by the workshop of the Flemish painter Rogier van der Weyden.

Nostradamus veered his gaze to the window. The night firmament was speckled with only a few stars, and a full moon shone like a golden orb. All of a sudden, he took his face into his palms and froze motionless for a long time, while the others beheld him in consternation.

Nostradamus proclaimed in a voice of the messiah, “France will have several more years of peace and prosperity thanks to ‘The Holy Quartet:’ King François, Queens Anne, Dowager Queen Marguerite, and Dauphin Henri. Then the Knight-King will be crushed when evil deities burst forth from the confines of hell. Rivers of blood will deluge the holy place where an act of blasphemy against the king will occur, and everything will be red, red, so red…”

With a glassy expression in his orbs, the seer plunged into a universe of terrifying images.

The noble Knight-King is stabbed many times,

He falls to the floor with Queen Anne by his side,

He says his last words of love and promise to await

Her in heaven, then breathes his last in her arms.

Horror whitened Anne’s visage. “No, no, no! That cannot be true!”

The astrologer dipped a nod, his countenance tinged with gloom. He shut his eyes and was silent for a split second before he spoke quietly. “I see many armed men encircling His Majesty King François and stabbing him from all sides. I hear shrieks of horror and despair, one of them yours. Then your husband falls, and you gather him into your arms, weeping.”

Marguerite shook her head. “My brother… No…”

Nostradamus opened his eyes. “I can hear religious music from organ and the choir in the church, and many people around are being killed or are fleeing in panic.” 

Anne dissolved into tears. “François cannot be murdered!”

Guilt speared through Nostradamus. “Forgive me, but these are my predictions.”

The shocked Duchess d’Étampes asked, “And Dauphin Henri?”

Once again, the seer looked towards the window. A tense silence ensued before he spoke.

The young villain will overcome the older victim,

As the Dauphin saves the cold, but golden Prince of France,

The villain will pierce his eye with a dagger,

His Highness will die a cruel death, but the other will live.

A shaken Marie pulled herself together. “Who is the other?”  

“The cold, but golden Prince of France,” Nostradamus repeated, directing at Queen Anne a meaningful glance. “The Iron Prince! Augustine de Valois is destined for the French throne.”  

Queen Anne was now weeping, her heart burdened by the man’s dreadful prophecies and quatrains. Marguerite stayed unusually quiet, as if resigned to these predictions.

Marie inferred in a tremulous tone, “Dauphin Henri won’t succeed his father, will he?”

“He shall,” Nostradamus responded with anguish and the obvious profound respect he felt for the House of Valois. “He will rule for a very short time. Their horoscopes are rather dark.”

The Duchess d’Étampes stood behind her mistress’ armchair. “What will happen next?”

The astrologer supplied, “Our beloved France will be ravaged by her people, worshipping different religions. Some shall kill in revenge. Many evil demons will kill for power and their own God, not realizing that there is only one Christ, all-seeing and merciful. These demons will be stopped by Prince Augustine, who will continue the Valois male line.”

“And my other sons?” Anne’s voice shuddered like someone in its death throes.

The seer continued, “My sympathies, Madame. Only three out of them will have long lives. The horoscope shows that your youngest daughter is sickly and might have a short life.”   

“No! Not my dear sons!” Queen Anne lamented. “Not my daughter Valentine!”   

The French queen broke down, and her sister knelt by her. Clasping her hands in his, Marie squeezed them, stroking her head. Anne appeared to be personifying Oizys, the Greek goddess of misery and depression, for her entire being was now a tangle of the gloomiest emotions.

“Please enough, Monsieur de Nostredame.” Now Anne de Pisseleu regretted that she had brought this man to the castle. “These things must be figments of your imagination.”

Nostradamus studied them apologetically. “I did not mean to distress anyone. People hate me for predicting tragedies, famines, and bloodshed, but everything comes true.”

Surprisingly, Marguerite remained the calmest one in the room. She spoke in an unusually composed manner. “At times, fate is like a sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You try to escape from it, but the sandstorm chases after you and eventually finds you.”

Michel de Nostredame eyed the walls hangings on a biblical subject. “Despite everything, I’ve always been a Catholic who is opposed to the Protestant Reformation. At the same time, my respect for Queen Anne is immense, although you are still a Lutheran at heart.”

The Queen of France lamented, “I’m not sure that I believe your words.”

Nostradamus asserted, “The Knight-King will love you until his dying breath.” 

A scared Anne quizzed, “And my daughter Elizabeth?”

Nostradamus declared, “Augustine and his sister, Elizabeth Tudor, will rule France and England, respectively, but your daughter will not suffer as much as your son will.”

Queen Anne nodded slowly. Dauphin Henri’s sons with Catherine de’ Medici… Are they all destined to die without any male progeny? Deep down, Anne had always felt that Elizabeth would have a special fate as Queen of England, and Anne also dreamed of Augustine’s ascension in France. At present, Elizabeth and her husband, Eddie Courtenay, lived a comfortable life at Hever Castle, and Elizabeth was heavily pregnant with their first child. At Hever, their local court was crowded with English and Flemish painters, poets, and Protestant theologians.

Marguerite was profoundly hurt by the prophecy of Augustine’s ascension, understanding what it could mean for her nephews, Dauphin Henri’s sons with his imprisoned wife. Marguerite released a sigh and commented, “If it is so, then Augustine and my daughter, Jeanne, are likely to rule France together. In several days, they will marry here, at Langeais.”

The astrologer dithered for a moment before admitting, “Neither Queen Jeanne nor you will see Augustine crowned as King of France, but their future son will continue the dynasty.”

Marguerite gasped in shock. “Will Jeanne be happy?” Her voice was fragmented.  

“As much as she can be,” assured the seer. “Your Majesty will not see France’s tragedies.”

A tearful Anne protested vehemently, “No! That is all nonsense!”

Marie climbed to her feet and confronted, “Enough of your absurd, Monsieur!”

Nostradamus gazed into Marie de Montmorency’s eyes. “Your Grace’s fate is linked with those of King François and Dauphin Henri. Many people will perish exactly on the day of their barbaric deaths, including you and your husband, the Duke de Montmorency.”  

“I do not believe you!” screamed a terrified Marie. “Go away, you charlatan!”

The astrologer’s gaze drifted to the duchess. “You will survive everything, Madame.”

Anne de Pisseleu responded tonelessly, “It is high time for you to leave, Monsieur.”

Unexpectedly, a pensive Marguerite disclosed, “Many years ago, our late mother Louise consulted with an astrologer in Cognac, where my brother and I were born. That old woman told her that François would become the King of France. Just imagine that at the time, Charles the Eighth and the future Louis the Eleventh were alive, so they both could both have male heirs!”

“Really?” Anne’s voice was colored with disbelief.

Marguerite nodded. “Yes, Anne. This astrologer warned that the next several generations of the Valois kings would have violent deaths until the cycle of bloodshed is over.”

Now Queen Anne could not breathe, as if there were pebbles in her throat refusing to go out. “Does François know that?” When Marguerite nodded, Anne turned astounded.

The monarch’s sister explained, “Neither François nor Henri believes any prophecies.”

Fresh tears moistened Anne’s eyes. “Dear God!” After a short pause, she muttered, “I pray that at least, Augustine and Jeanne will have children and some joy in their marriage.”

Nostradamus delivered, “Their future son will become King of France in due time. I assure you that my goal was not to disturb Your Majesties, and I apologize for disturbing you.”

Marie moaned, “I cannot believe anything! You are lying!”

“I’m sorry,” he reiterated. “For better or for worse, nobody can escape their fate.” 

They studied many Flemish wall tapestries, manufactured by the 14th century Weyden’s workshop. The saints and angels depicted on them seemed to be imploring Nostradamus to refute his prophecies until Marguerite dismissed the astrologer. Anne broke into tears, comforted by Marie and Marguerite, while Anne de Pisseleu escorted him out the castle. Tonight none of these women would be able to fall asleep, although tomorrow they would have to start preparations for Queen Jeanne of Navarre’s wedding to Prince Augustine, Duke d’Angoulême.

Notes:

The new chapter is up! Please let us know what you think of this chapter, and don’t forget to leave reviews so that we can discuss events, twists, and turns in this chapter.

In the previous chapter, Queen Anne and King François came to England. In this chapter, we finally have Princess Elizabeth’s wedding to Edward Courtenay, who was elevated to Duke of Devon by King Edward. We showed Prince Augustine, Duke d’Angoulême, having a sparring match with King Edward, which is sort of symbolic given what will happen in the later chapters. Prince Jean, Duke de Guyenne, is also featured with Augustine and Edward. Anne’s other sons with François – Antoine, Lorenzo, and Louis – remained in France.

Finally, our Elizabeth became a married woman! It may be unexpected for our readers, but we have Elizabeth want to have a modest ceremony for some personal reason connected with Robert Dudley. Although we see Robert leaving Windsor with his wife, Amy, and his brother, Ambrose, it does not mean that Robert will disappear for long. There will be a love triangle of Elizabeth, Eddie, and Robert for quite some time until some dramatic twist will destroy the current peace in Elizabeth’s life. We promise that Elizabeth’s personal life will be full of drama.

We also paid some attention to the Marquess of Exeter and his spouse, Catherine Parr. Who knows for how long their happiness will last… Will the Creator hold Exeter, Anne, and François accountable for Henry VIII’s death? Anne de Montmorency predicts that Exeter will not always rule England as Lord Protector, although his protectorship may last for a long time just because King Edward is not willing to be involved in politics. We hope that you like the short romantic scene between Jean IV de Brosse, Duke d’Étampes, and Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly.

In the final section, we showed Anne’s meeting with Michel de Nostredame, usually Latinized as Nostradamus. As everyone knows, he was a famous French astrologer, apothecary, physician, and reputed seer; in history Nostradamus served Catherine de’ Medici (he will meet her later, but now we cannot say anything else). To the shock of Anne, Marguerite, Anne’s sister Marie, and Anne de Pisseleu, Nostradamus announces some of his very dreadful prophecies in a poetic form, resembling his historical quatrains. The astrologer’s prophecies are coming as an utter shock to our readers, but Nostradamus did not say everything and who exactly will die.

Lady Perseverance herself composed the poem that Eddie Courtenay reads to Elizabeth on their wedding night. She also composed Nostradamus’ quatrains that the seer voiced to Anne and the other women; one of his quatrains in this chapter is actually similar to what he is known to have said about King Henri II of France. Nostradamus is and will be written very close to history.

Attention! A while ago, we posted a prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 103: Chapter 102: A New King of Navarre

Summary:

Augustine of France, Duke d’Angoulême, marries Queen Jeanne of Navarre and becomes King of Navarre. Louis de Bourbon, Prince de Condé, converts to Calvinism, and over time, the religious tensions in France are growing. In four years, Augustine feels sore about his marriage, some of his siblings are already married, and Louise of France is being courted by her admirer.

Notes:

Please, if you are reading this fiction, leave us a review, for we need your support for inspiration to keep going.

The prologue to the sequel 'Chained by Blood and Power' (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don't forget about our work "Entwined by a Golden Alliance" co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 102: A New King of Navarre

October 4, 1553, Château de Langeais, the town of Langeais, the Loire Valley, France

On the Feast of St Francis of Assisi, a private wedding ceremony between Queen Jeanne of Navarre and Prince Augustine, Duke d’Angoulême, took place at Langeais, which was seldom visited by the Valois court. Witnesses included King François, Queen Anne, Dowager Queen Marguerite, and Infante Isabelle of Navarre, Viscountess de Rohan. The latter lived in her estates for the most part after the demise of her husband two years ago – René I, Viscount de Rohan.

The ceremony was administered by the Bishop of Paris and Bayonne. Their relatives had tried to convince the bride and bridegroom to organize a lavish wedding at Fontainebleau. However, the couple planned to urgently relocate to Navarre and rule together as co-monarchs, although Jeanne was a queen regnant in her own right. Therefore, they intended to travel south to Château de Pau, the principal seat of the Navarrese ruling dynasty. Dauphin Henri and Princess Louise attended the ceremony; the other Valois children stayed in Picardy.

The royal quarters were brightly illuminated by a profusion of Venetian candelabra. These rooms, with their heavy and dark mahogany furniture, blue upholstery of high-back chairs, and a large canopied bed, draped with azure damask, were called the Blue Rooms since the late 15th century. Following the court’s arrival at Langeais, the French monarchs together occupied these apartments, despite them being furnished in the style popular during King Louis XI’s reign.

“Your Majesty, please don’t move,” entreated François Clouet, his gaze flicking between the canvas and the monarch who acted as a seater. “Or it is difficult to paint.”

“I’m anxious,” answered the ruler of France, who sat in his high-back chair rigidly. “Today I feel overwhelmed because my beloved son married my dear niece.”

Now Clouet and the king were in the antechamber. A fire cracked in the stone hearth.

The artist was drawing the monarch’s countenance. “His Highness – now His Majesty King Augustine – preferred to have a private wedding before departing for Navarre.”

François was a little strained while posing for his own portrait. His doublet was of purple and black cloth of gold. His short mantle of blue and white velvet was embroidered with fleurs-de-lis, as well as adorned with rubies and diamonds. His hose was made of blue-black silk. The monarch’s grizzled temples were visible from beneath a flat cap of cerulean blue silk.

François continued, “My wife, my sister, and I agree that the monarchs of Navarre should reside at Béarn or Pau, because Felipe of Spain is interested in her small southern kingdom. The discontent of local nobles has been rising due to Jeanne’s rare presence in her domains.”

“Duty to their people is most important for Their Majesties.”

“Next spring, we shall have Augustine’s lavish coronation.”

“By this time, we can create a joint portrait of Queen Jeanne and King Augustine.”

The ruler smiled. “It would be absolutely wonderful, my friend.”  

François Clouet was the only son of Jean Clouet, who was an illustrious French miniaturist and painter who was much favored by the Valois dynasty. Jean Clouet had created the portraits of King François, Dowager Queen Marguerite of Navarre, and paintings of Queen Anne with her children. After the old painter’s death in 1541, his son had become a court painter. The king was a friend to some of the many artists who thronged his court, including the Clouet family.

A man of lean build, François Clouet had a long, narrow face and natural blonde hair. His blue eyes conveyed his excitement, and he had a look of alert intelligence upon his attractive features. Now in his late forties, Clouet looked somewhat younger. Clouet’s white doublet was embroidered with silver, and its collar enclosed his neck encrusted with white pearls.

“How is it going?” asked the king, stifling a yawn.

Clouet admired his patron’s face shining with chivalry on the canvas that stood in front of the artist. “Your Majesty is so eager to devote your life to artistic things without resting.”

François was healthy, but no longer as robust as he had once been. “What is left of my life, my friend? I turned fifty-six in September. I’ve ruled my realm for about forty years.”

Clouet’s brush was running across the canvas as he worked. “Your Majesty has aged very well, so anyone may envy you. We all pray that you will rule for many years to come.”

François sighed. “It will be as God wills it, my friend.”

Clouet finally completed the monarch’s face on the canvas. “I love our chivalrous Knight-King! The harvest of old age is the recollection of Your Majesty’s spectacular legacy.”

The ruler’s pride was immense. “The French enlightenment is a large part of my legacy.”

“Please, look at the portrait, Your Majesty, and let’s finish for today, for it is too late.”

François stood up and crossed the room while speaking in cheerful accents. “As Confucius said, ‘Old age is a good and pleasant thing. It is true you are gently shouldered off the stage, but then you are given such a comfortable front stall as spectator.’ So, I can observe!”

The monarch approached the painting that was held by the easel vertically. Clouet bowed to his patron and smiled, expecting to see his jocund reaction. The king’s new portrait was at its early stages of creation, and it would be a full-length portrait of François standing in his splendid court attire and painted as God Zeus, the master of the French Olympus. By doing so, François craved to stress and showcase that, unlike the late Henry VIII, he remained tall and athletic at his old age. Like Zeus, François would be depicted with the thunderbolt, eagle, bull, and oak.

François voiced his observations. “Indeed, I do not look really old.”

The painter confirmed, “I’ve reflected the truth, Your Majesty.”

A moment later, the door opened, and King Augustine of Navarre entered.

François looked bewildered. “Son, why are you not with your wife?”

“I’ve done my duty, and Jeanne is asleep,” answered Augustine flatly.  

At fifteen, Augustine towered a head over his coevals, for he had inherited his father’s tall height. Garbed in a doublet of purple silk emblazoned with gold and jewels, the new King of Navarre moved and held his head most regally. Coldness was etched into Augustine’s features, enhanced by his blonde Capetian hair beneath a black toque festooned with ostrich feathers.

“King Augustine is cold and mysterious!” Clouet exclaimed. “Ah, I apologize!”  

Augustine strove over to the painting. “It is all right, Monsieur Clouet. My wife and I are going to leave for Navarre in less than week, and you will accompany us.”

The artist promised, “You will not be disappointed with my service to you.”   

The French king’s visage became tinged with chagrin. Augustine had just left Jeanne alone following the consummation of their marriage! Could it be a harbinger of their matrimonial hardships? Their marriage was a political one, but Augustine and Jeanne appeared to have some affection for one another, although her feelings went far, far deeper than Augustine’s. I did not behave so on my wedding night with Claude, although I did not love her, François mused. Only if Augustine falls deeply in love, he will allow his beloved to enter his innermost sanctum.

“We want you to create our family portrait,” said Augustine in a more amicable tone. “So far, it will feature only Jeanne and me. When we have children, we will need a new one.”

Clouet sketched a bow. “As Your Majesty wishes. How else can I serve you?”

François uttered, “Let’s continue tomorrow.”

After bowing to the two kings, the painter went to the door and encountered two men. They were Duke Anne de Montmorency, Constable of France, and Jean de Brosse, Duke d’Étampes. Montmorency’s attire was of ochre satin ornamented with jewels, while Étampes wore a costume of burgundy damask lined with green satin, their heads covered by plumed black toques.

“Good night, Your Majesties and everyone else.” After bowing again, Clouet exited.

Then the king stared at Montmorency and Étampes in apparent bafflement.

The monarch spoke. “Monty, you must be with Marie. Our private wedding dinner is long over.” His gaze shifted to Étampes. “Jean, you ought to be with your wife, too.”

Montmorency complained, “If only I could find Marie, I would be with her.”

Étampes chimed in, “My wife is neither in the queen’s rooms nor in our chambers.”

The king frowned. “Anne told me that she would be with her sister.”

Monty rubbed his gray beard. “But I’ve been looking for Marie for an hour!”

Augustine’s worry was growing. “Let’s go find them!”

The sounds of weeping in the corridor seized their attention, and they darted out.

§§§

François and Augustine rushed out of the monarch’s antechamber and into the hallway; the others followed. The picture before them was confusing: supported by Marie de Montmorency and Anne de Pisseleu, Queen Anne trudged towards her quarters. There were only several guards in the corridor, each of them asking whether the queen needed their assistance.

“I’m fine,” persevered Anne as she walked forward. “I need only my François!”

“I’m here!” cried her husband with concern. “What’s wrong, mon amour?”

Marie and Anne stepped away, neither of them bold enough to admit that Queen Anne had again met with Michel de Nostredame. Their first meeting with the astrologer several days ago was absolutely shocking, but the queen had been extremely eager to see him again with the goal to clarify something about his bloody prophecies. Therefore, the Duchess d’Étampes had brought Nostradamus to the castle after the official ceremony of putting Augustine and Jeanne to bed.    

“Anne!” François rushed forward and enveloped her into his arms protectively.

His chilliness gone, Augustine approached his parents. “What happened, Mother? Tell us everything!” It was uncharacteristic of him to speak with such a desperate plea in his voice.

“I cannot describe anything.” Anne broke into sobs in the embrace of her beloved husband whose death she would have to witness, according to Nostradamus.

François pressed his consort to him. His worried scrutiny drifted to his spouse’s ladies-in-waiting. “Where did you all go? Your husbands have been looking for you.”

Neither Marie de Montmorency nor Anne de Pisseleu replied, their orbs downcast.

“Look at me and answer,” the monarch commanded. “Don’t lie to me!”

In a gray brocade gown, now Marie looked older because of her inner turmoil, with more pronounced wrinkles around her eyes. Anne, the king’s former mistress, was paler than a ghost, her pallor accentuated by a silver damask gown trimmed with gold braid on the sleeves. Marie’s gray hair was hidden beneath her French hood; Anne’s head remained perfectly blonde.

Ghastly stillness permeated the whole area. The panels of Flemish tapestries on the walls with scenes from the Acts of the Apostles were woven by Roger van der Weyden’s workshop.

Augustine commanded, “Answer!” Ire colored his intonation.

Montmorency interposed, “Marie, my dear, why were you absent for so long?”

At last, Marie muttered, “I fear Your Majesties will not like it.”

Anne de Pisseleu confessed, “That was my idea, so I’m the one to blame.”

The Duke d’Étampes walked to his spouse. “What did you do, Anne?”

Having finally pulled herself together, the queen promulgated, “Madame d’Étampes acted on my orders and should not be held accountable for my distress and anything else.”

At the same time, Dowager Queen Marguerite and Princess Louise appeared at the end of the corridor. They had just visited Jeanne who had awakened and, to her surprise, had not found Augustine in their bed. A lonely Jeanne had been comforted by her mother and Louise.

After her unwanted husband’s death, Louise continued living in France. Her son – Charles Emmanuel, Duke de Savoy – was being raised alongside with Louise’s younger siblings. Now she was preparing for the position of regent of Savoy for her son. At present, Louise was being courted by François de Montmorency, but they were not yet betrothed officially.

“Michel de Nostredame,” Marguerite’s colorless voice resonated.

“Nostradamus,” Anne uttered with a tinge of fatality apparent in her voice.

Louise clarified, “Madame d’Étampes told us a lot about this famous astrologer, and his prophecies are known to be quite accurate. Therefore, our mother summoned him her tonight for a second time. Perhaps he informed her about something interesting, but distressing.”

Augustine snarled, “To see that astrologer without our Father’s permission?”

“Why are you displeased, son?” Anne queried, astonished.

Augustine reminded, “Catherine de’ Medici’s astrologers created deadly poisons and killed many people.” His voice expressed his deep-seated aversion towards the imprisoned dauphine.

François gaped at his wife who froze in his arms. “Anne, why?”

Anne hastily disentwined herself from him. “Nostradamus does not kill. In fact, he is a qualified healer and cured many patients who were considered mortally ill.”

Marie added, “He is skilled at creating detailed horoscopes, but I do not believe them.”

Montmorency supported, “Such seers are all greedy charlatans!”  

Louise stopped near her mother, relieved to see that Anne’s tears were drying. “How much did Nostradamus ask you to pay? I recall his book ‘Les Prophéties’ is popular.”

“Nothing,” assured the French queen. “He did not come for rewards.”

Augustine yearned to read this book. “Many say that Nostradamus has a talent for giving true prophecies, but I doubt it is true. He must be after fame and money, although his historical sources include passages from Livy, Suetonius, Plutarch, and other classical historians.”

An astounded Louise inquired, “Who told you that, brother?”

“The Montmorency boys,” said Augustine. “I’ve not read or seen Nostradamus.”

Étampes measured his wife with a censorious glance. “All his words are a big fraud!”

Anne de Pisseleu contradicted, “This astrologer does not cause harm to anyone, unlike the Ruggeri brothers. Nostradamus can see our future and has mastered the art of fortunetelling.”

Étampes glared at his spouse. “You should not have taken him to the palace.”

Anne de Pisseleu flicked her gaze to François. “I beseech Your Majesty to grant me your clemency, but I assure you that Nostradamus does not practice dark magic and witchcraft.”

The French monarch castigated, “Never commit this mistake again, Madame!”

“I shall not.” Anne de Pisseleu shivered under her former lover’s chilly gaze.

The Queen of France was finally composed. “She is right, husband.”

François insisted, “I do not wish to ever hear anything about astrologers.”

Marguerite changed the topic. “Augustine, shouldn’t you be with my daughter?”

Louise interjected, “Jeanne was distressed, brother. You ought to respect her.”

The queen requested, “Please, Augustine. It is your wedding night.”

“It is your duty, son,” agreed François, earning Marguerite’s grateful glance. 

Augustine acquiesced, “I shall.” He would go to his wife, but unwillingly.

After they had all bowed and curtsied, everyone departed, save the older French royals.

Standing beside her brother, Marguerite sighed. “I must say that Nostradamus might not be a complete charlatan. He said things that someone else told our late mother all those years ago.”

At this, François blanched. “That old woman from Cognac. Her words about my ascension and my long reign came true, but it may be a confidence. What did Nostradamus predict?”

At this question, Anne sobbed out, “Oh, my François!”  

The ruler clasped her hands in his before demanding, “Tell me everything.”

An errant tear trickled down Margot’s cheek. “Do it, Anne.”

Anne and François both studied Marguerite. In a gown of orange velvet, its neckline high, Marguerite wore a high and elaborate diamond collar to hide a network of winkles on her neck. Her red silk bonnet, rounded with ribbon and sprigs of orange blossoms, concealed her grizzled curls on the nape, making her look a bit younger, if not for the lines of stress on her forehead.

The ruler advised, “Sister, relax! You do not have to rule now.”

Anne sighed. “If only our son had fallen for Jeanne who seems to love him…”  

Marguerite remarked, “I counseled Jeanne on how to behave with Augustine to make their marriage pleasant for them both, but I am not sure that she will follow my advice.”

The monarch repeated, “Don’t blame yourself for anything, sister.”

Marguerite proclaimed, “The mighty Louise de Savoy dedicated her life to France and you, François. I did the same, and I do not regret that. My heart belongs to France!”

Two sentinels who stood at the end of the corridor smiled, admiring the king’s sister.

François and Marguerite pulled each other into an affectionate hug.

As they parted, he murmured, “I love you, La Marguerite des Marguerites!”

Margot smiled. “And I adore you absolutely, my Le Chevalier-Roi!”

Looking at the Valois siblings, Anne regained her composure. “No other brother and sister are so devoted to each other.” Her heart tightened: Anne thought of the late George Boleyn who had loved her more than their sister; despite the passage of time, Anne missed George awfully.

Soon the Dowager Queen of Navarre retired. Anne and François went to the gardens.

§§§

At this late hour, a profusion of candles illuminated the apartments of Louis de Bourbon, Prince de Condé. The latter argued vehemently with his two elder brothers – Charles de Bourbon and Jean de Bourbon. The walls, tapestried with scenes from legends about the ancient Greek hero Hercules, seemed to be pressing on the three Bourbon siblings after Condé’s confession.

Charles de Bourbon was the third surviving son of his late parents – Charles de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme and his spouse, Françoise d’Alençon. Charles was Cardinal de Bourbon and Archbishop of Rouen, as well as Duke de Vendôme. Following the demise of his elder brother Antoine, Charles had become Duke de Vendôme, for Antoine had died unmarried and childless.  In his rich, crimson ecclesial robes, Charles was a dark-haired, slim man of medium height, with angular features with a pointed chin. His blue eyes could barely look at Louis.

Jean de Bourbon was the fourth surviving son of their deceased parents. He was Count de Soissons and d’Enghien after the death of his brother, François de Bourbon, Count d’Enghien, in 1546. Jean was a twenty-six-year-old man of average height, with a long and good-looking face with a slightly crooked nose, and green eyes. His saturnine complexion, like the Valois one, was accentuated by an ensemble of pink damask worked with threads of gold. Jean’s short red-gold hair and his fair skin were set off by his brown orbs glaring at his youngest brother in shock.

“What did you say?” asked the flabbergasted Count de Soissons.

Charles de Bourbon, usually referred to as Vendôme, snarled, “Your confession about your conversion is horrible. As a man of God, it is my duty to guide you back to the true faith.”

The enraged Prince de Condé snapped, “You are Archbishop of Rouen, Charles! So, you should go to Rouen instead of teaching me what to do and how to live.”

Vendôme parried, “I’m also the Duke de Vendôme and the House of Bourbon-Vendôme!”

“You will never allow me to forget that,” Condé grumbled.

Condé declared emphatically, “I’m a devout Protestant, for I abjured the corrupt Catholic Church. My wife, Éléonore, is also a Protestant, and so will be our son and future children.”

In a voice tinged with ire, Soissons inquired, “Are you mad?”

Candlelight played across the features of Louis de Condé, who brought a goblet to his lips but without drinking. “Catholicism is the worst evil on earth.” He then sipped wine.

A disgusted Vendôme screamed, “You are a heretic! I cannot believe in this, brother!”

Soissons compelled himself to speak composedly. “Louis, don’t you understand what your conversion might mean for your family and you in particular, for us all? If King François learns about it, you and your wife will be banished from court, if not exiled from France.”

Condé drained the goblet and hurried to a table with black marble top in the corner. “We shall not repudiate our faith! However, we will keep it secret from His Majesty for now.”

“For God’s sake, Louis!” roared Soissons. “France has already suffered enough! It cannot become a fragmented realm of subjects believing in the same God, and yet worshiping various religions, differing only in doctrines and rituals. We cannot allow Calvinism to spread!”

“I can’t bring myself to speak to this heretic!” roared a shaken Vendôme. “I’m extremely disappointed in you, Louis! Our late parents would have been horrified now!”

Without any other words, the Duke de Vendôme stormed out of the room.

Condé was relieved that the Archbishop of Rouen was gone. “Charles is a Catholic prelate, so he cannot understand me. Charles and I will always be on different sides from now on.”

Soissons demanded, “Do you really want a civil war in France, Louis?”  

The Prince de Condé spoke harshly. “These wars are inevitable! I’m sad that France will have to experience many years of disunity. More and more French people are opening their eyes to the important truths that have been revealed by the sainted Jean Calvin.” His gaze blazing fervently, he cried, “I’m a Calvinist through and through! If necessary, I shall fight our religion.”

His temper spiking, Soissons shouted, “You are placing us all in danger!”

“Brother,” began Condé. “You cannot dictate to me what to do!”

“I’ll not persuade you, will I?” Despair flashed in Soissons’ eyes.

Condé shook his head. “No, but I promise to keep everything secret.”

Soissons snapped, “Don’t you understand where it can lead us all?”

At twenty-four, Louis de Bourbon, Prince de Condé, was a rich magnate, also the founder of the Condé branch of the House of Bourbon. Of tall and lithe build, he had an attractive face framed with a brown stubble. His dark hair was hidden beneath a flat cap of black velvet plumed with an ostrich feather. His hazel eyes conveyed the zeal of a devout Calvinist, whom he had become after he had visited Switzerland and listened to sermons of the French-born Jean Calvin. His doublet and trunk hose were made of asparagus and beige brocaded silk.

“I do.” Condé nodded. “Can I count on your silence, brother?”

Soissons pledged, “Of course, but don’t attract attention to yourself.”

Condé queried, “What about Charles? Will he inform the king about my conversion?”

The Count de Soissons assured, “Charles is unlikely to forgive you anytime soon, but he will be silent. We are brothers, despite our differences you have created.”  

“I do not need anyone’s forgiveness, Jean! I’ve seen the light of the true faith!”

“You do not regret anything,” Soissons concluded with frustration.

“I don’t.” Then the Prince de Condé added, “I shall leave for our estates with my wife very soon. I have no desire to be at court when King François has started to slowly move away from religious tolerance. Soon we shall see more tyranny from the crown.”

Soissons paced to and fro. “You came to Langeais to attend the wedding of Queen Jeanne to Prince Augustine because of her rumored interest in Calvin and Luther.”

Condé neared the window and looked out. The moon hung in the dark sky like a lantern. “Exactly. I deeply respect Queen Jeanne and hope that she will convert to Calvinism.”

Soissons halted near a line of ebony chairs, but he did not take a seat. “King Augustine is a Catholic, and he will never change his faith. Her inclinations might create many troubles.”

“It’s rather late. Let’s retire.” Condé wished to stop their discussion.

Without a backward glance, the Count de Soissons walked out of the antechamber.

The Prince de Condé strode over to the bedroom. Candles in silver holders on the bedside tables illuminated a huge, canopied bed with a yellow glow. Otherwise the chamber, tapestried with mythological scenes, was drowning in semi-darkness. The furniture was all of dark woods, some pieces gilded. His wife sat in the bed, her expression alarmed and chagrined.

“I knew your brother would not understand us, Louis. We must be careful.”

He approached the bed and settled himself on the edge. “Yes, you are right.”

“We must be prepared for banishment if your brothers betray us.”

Condé assured, “Charles and Jean both love me, so they will never harm us.”

Éléonore de Roucy de Roye, Princess de Condé, nodded. They had married in 1551, and she had brought the château and town of Conti-sur-Selles, near Amiens, as her dowry. Now she yearned to retire there in order to be with their infant son – Henri de Bourbon, born in 1552.

Éléonore was an amazingly beautiful woman of a petite frame, her whole being tinged with the utmost grace of a nymph. Her exquisite features, with high cheekbones, a small and straight nose, and expressive hazel eyes, were perfectly molded. They were enhanced by a thick mane of long and glossy brunette hair, piled beneath a diadem of precious stones, which she had not yet discarded despite having changed into a night robe of mulberry velvet ornamented with gold.

Condé vowed, “I’ll fight against the Valois monarchy if necessary, just to make Calvinism a second official religion in France. The king will not allow it to happen, but I shall fight.”

“I’m afraid when you say such things,” uttered Éléonore.

Condé pulled her into his arms and confessed, “I love you, Éléonore.”

“So do I, Louis.” He kissed her and held his beloved spouse close for a long time.

§§§

As the King and Queen of France exited into a central courtyard, silence was so deep that the cough of a guard far away, who stood at one of the battlements, almost caused them to jump with its loudness. Beams of moonlight were sufficient enough to make out the surroundings: the imposing château with its drawbridge and its towers with their machicolations, and the façade of the castle with large windows, ornate dormers, and refined, decorated stonework.

They sauntered across the lawn, stretching ahead and embracing the courtyard.

A jubilant François reported, “I’ve received excellent news from Vienna. Our dear Aimée and Maximilian have just had their first child – a healthy daughter named Anna of Austria.”

Tendrils of serenity weaved their way through Anne. “I’m so happy for our musical angel! In her letters, Aimée tells me that Max has been faithful to her, and he confessed to loving her on their wedding night. Perhaps she will be our happiest child, mon amour.”    

Gladness pervaded his entire being. “Maximilian and Aimée both write me often.”

In the summer of 1553, Archduke Maximilian von Habsburg, King of the Romans and now also King of Bohemia, had married Princess Aimée of France in Vienna. Aimée’s parents and the French party had attended the festivities that had been unprecedented for the Viennese people in terms of their lavishness and the significant number of days when the pageants continued at court and in various Austrian cities, including Vienna itself, Innsbruck, and Tirol.

To everyone’s astonishment, Emperor Ferdinand had welcomed such grandeur, despite the traditional Habsburg austerity and the late Juana of Castile’s increasingly ailing health. Aimée, new Queen of the Romans and of Bohemia, had found herself pregnant within the first three months following her nuptials, and she was blissfully happy with Maximilian. The King of France’s illegitimate granddaughter – Charlotte de Valois, Duchess de Avignon – served Aimée, while her secret illicit feelings for the emperor’s second son were growing.

The queen sighed. “I fear Augustine will not be content with Jeanne.”

“Well, now the success of their marriage depends on Jeanne.”

Anne recalled, “At the turn of centuries, the castle of Langeais was selected as the venue for the marriage of Charles the Eighth and Anne of Brittany, which brought Brittany into the kingdom of France. This time, another two royals from the same family married here.” She did not add that maybe this wedding would make Navarre part of the Valois realm in the future.

Her husband’s speech surprised and scared Anne, Nostradamus’ predictions resurfacing in her head. “When my time comes, I shall die adoring God, in spite of my moments of skepticism in His power, loving my friends, not hating my enemies, and detesting superstition.”

The queen swallowed convulsively. “This is a poetry of life.”

They were strolling across the lawn along the castle’s crenellated ramparts.

His mind drifted back to his granddaughter. “I fear that Charlotte’s feelings for Archduke Nando might lead her to a wrong path. Our family’s honor is at stake.”

“Nando is still unmarried, in spite of Ferdinand’s attempts to force him to.”   

They turned into an alley of cedars, shimmering like a thousand of jewels in the moonlight.

Anne laced their fingers together. “I’m worried about Jean. His wife, Christine of Hesse, is upset with him. He performs his marital duties rarely and spends all the time with his illuminated manuscripts. Christine asked us to interfere because she cannot give him an heir.”  

Prince Jean, Duke de Guyenne, was only a year Augustine’s junior. Initially, François had planned to postpone Jean’s wedding to his bride, but Landgrave Philip of Hesse had insisted that the wedding had proceeded to solidify France’s alliance with the German Protestant princes. Six months ago, Prince Jean had married Christine of Hesse in a lavish ceremony at Fontainebleau, unlike Augustine’s wedding. Now the couple lived resided in Jean’s estates in Guyenne.

François exhaled a sigh of frustration. “At least, Jean’s marriage was consummated. I spent hours teaching Jean to perform his conjugal duties, and this helped him.”

Anne emitted a sigh. “We could permit Jean to be a monk, like he dreamed. We could have purchased a cardinalship for him, but we chose a different fate for our second son.”  

His laugh echoed through the air. “Says someone detesting corruption in the Church.”

The spouses halted under an ancient oak. François enfolded Anne into his arms and kissed her ardently, his tongue pushing between her lips to fence with her tongue. He had kissed her in many ways: lingering kisses, light like feathers and fresh like a caressing breeze, hungry as well as possessive, as if he were devouring a drink of cold water after having spent hours in desert.

The ruler assessed, “At ten, Antoine is smarter than most other boys, save Augustine was at this age. I also noticed his early interest in women, and Antoine is also very courteous.”

The queen swatted him on the cheek. “I pray that Lorenzo, with his talents in music and poetry, and his tremendous artistic spirit, will not follow in your and Antoine’s footsteps.”

“You still detest Antoine’s betrothal, don’t you? She lives at Château d’Ussé separately from the court. I took Antoine with me to her twice, and they seem to be getting on well.”

Her brows knitted. “I still feel danger from the expelled members of the Guise family.”

François parried, “Young Marie is not at fault for what her grandfather and other relatives did to our family. Any betrothal can be broken if it does not suit our goals.”

“I hope that you will do it, husband.”

Shrugging, he maneuvered to another subject. “Just imagine, dearest wife! When our older children finally marry, we will still have our youngest – Louis and Valentine.”

A resplendent smile flourished upon her visage. “They gave us our second youth.”

“I miss them so much, Anne. We–” She cut off his statement with a kiss.

“Will you take me, François de Valois, on the grass under this oak? Gallantry be damned.”

“Why?” In that instant, all his control broke. “Does my queen want me so?”

“Desperately, my Knight-King,” Anne whispered against his lips. “Now, mon amour!”

He dragged her into his arms and captured her mouth in a kiss – too hard, too fierce, and so primeval. The kiss of someone who loved all-absorbingly, devotedly, purely, and possessively.

Suddenly, François tore from her. “What did Nostradamus tell you?”

“It matters not.” She was raining kisses over his cheeks. “I need you now!”

Yet, he jerked back from her. “Did he prophesize some tragedy with me?”

Anne could not say anything. Her confirmation was a slight shake of her head.

“What did the seer say? Something similar to the predictions of my mother’s astrologer from Cognac that the next three generations of the French monarchs will be murdered?”

A bereft Anne informed François about their conversation with Nostradamus. Her sobs were intermingled with horrendous confessions, while his gaze searched hers. In the moonlight, her exotic face seemed to be made up of nothing but shade and hollows. Frightened eyes staring into space, open mouth, the dark holes of her nostrils, her pallid cheeks stained with tears, and her voice dripping with terror and pain – all these were traces of her stress and despondency.

François felt his blood run cold. God above, am I destined to die in some massacre? This terrifying thought had first popped into his head when his late mother had blurted out about the prophecy of her son’s violent death, immediately regretting her words. It had happened shortly before the demise of Louise de Savoy in 1531. What about my sons? If Augustine is destined to rule, then Henri and my grandsons are highly likely to pass away without any male heirs. Pain soaked through the monarch like the cold wet of an autumn day, and François sighed.

In a beam of the moonlight, Queen Anne looked like a beseeching Madonna full of fright to lose her loved ones. Her gown of blue-green damask, decorated with diamonds, glittered like innumerable tears streaming from her anguished orbs in rivers of hurt, now darker than possible.

The queen dropped her hands to the laces of his hose. “François, I belong only to you!”

“I love you, Anne,” avouched the King of France. His hand slipped underneath her back to deal with her gown’s fastenings, finding them easy to tear loose. “My French Minerva, the queen of my heart! Without you, my life is as gray and monotonous as a winter sky.”

The spouses gulped breath after breath as they became involved into a series of frantic kisses. Stripping off one another’s caps and hiking up her skirts, they tumbled onto the carpet of daffodils, hydrangeas, and grass under the oak. With the desperation of a thirsty woman licking water under a scorching sun, Anne’s lips were pillaging every inch of her husband’s lips as they rolled over and over on the ground before the monarch penetrated her to the hilt.

As François lay on the ground, Anne rode him with wild abandon, and a full moon shone overhead, casting its bright glow across the gardens. The weather in the Loire Valley was mild this fall, and even after midnight the air was quite warm. A bit later, François lay on the smooth surface right under the oak, his hand wrapped around her waist, pulling his spouse closer.

The king rested his chin on her shoulder. “I can die for you, Anne.”

“I’ll gladly die for you, too, François,” she vowed. “You are the sun of my entire life.”

He gazed into her eyes. “Everyone has a rendezvous with destiny sooner or later.”

“I cannot lose you, my François! I love you so much!”

He brushed tears from her eyes. “Anne, you are so pure and precious!” He looked around, noticing the tallness of the cedars. “The breeze and the lips of the leaves babble in the wind – they speak your name, whose sound forms syllables of the sheer brightness in my soul.”

Moisture filled her brown pools again. “No, don’t say that, my king!”

“My queen, I’m not somebody who fears destiny’s challenges and dangers.”

Entangled in their tight embrace, Anne and François beheld each other. More stars kindled in the night firmament, as if symbolizing the remaining years of Anne and François’ happiness. Each of them wondered how long they would be together, and how long their love would thrive in the world of the living. A future stretched ahead of them, like a canvas of uncertainties.

§§§

“Don’t leave me, Augustine!” implored Jeanne. “Don’t leave me!”

The Queen of Navarre rested upon a large bed canopied with azure, fleurdelized velvet; its headboard was adorned with the Valois heraldry. She kept repeating her request again and again until Augustine of France hugged her. He pressed her to him while also stroking her hair, with one of his hands making circles across her back in hope to calm the girl down. Augustine is so handsome, but it will not far from easy to make him fall for me, Jeanne concluded.

“All is well,” Augustine said softly. “I shall not leave, Jeanne.”

She contemplated him with condemning eyes full of tears. “Why are you so cold to me?”

He felt awkward. “It is our first night together.”

“Exactly!” the queen cried vehemently. “You abandoned me on our wedding night!”

“And what did you expect of me tonight?”

“Love and warmth! Do you know what they mean? Don’t be like a block of marble!”

He rose abruptly to his feet at that. “You speak absurdities.”

Believing that she had more experience in life, Jeanne lectured, “We are husband and wife until death do us part. We have many duties to each other, including to make your wife happy.”

Augustine retorted, “One of your duties us to respect me as your husband.”

She countered, “I’m the Queen of Navarre in my own right!”

“And?” His brows arched, but he throttled his ire. “Are you fond of insulting me?”

“I’m merely reminding you that our marriage brought you the crown of Navarre. You are far in the French line of succession, so this matters a lot for you.”

“Stop it, Jeanne. Either you will hold your tongue back, or I shall leave again.”

Immediately, she evolved into a summer breezy. “Remember my words, but don’t go!”

The new monarch of Navarre admonished, “Don’t try to control, teach, and humiliate me again!  Don’t make any hints that I cannot make you a queen, for it would alienate me.”

His wife opened her arms for him. “Come and kiss me!”

Augustine blushed. “I am not sure I know how to make love to you.”

Jeanne chortled. “Finally, I see embarrassment on your face! I know little as well!”

Augustine settled himself on the bed’s edge, briefly examining the room that was furnished with massive mahogany furniture. A blanket of blue silk slid down her naked body and onto the carpeted floor, leaving her in nothing. She was enveloped by her own long, glossy, brown hair, and an enchanted Augustine leaned forward. Jeanne was more audacious to kiss him on the lips, feeling his arms enfolding her into the cocoon of warmth that she so desperately yearned to feel.

The random touch of his heated fingers on the naked flesh of her leg made Jeanne whimper in confusion from her overwhelming desires. “Don’t be afraid to touch me, for it is pleasant.”

Nodding, Augustine caressed her abdomen. “It is all new for me.”

“For me, too.” Once more, she crushed her lips into his, and he kissed her back.

With hesitation, the monarch entered his queen again, and Jeanne moaned. Emboldened by this, Augustine practiced his newly discovered, lascivious magic on her body, slowly but more and more confidently with every passing moment. Later, they lay in each other’s arms ensconced in their wonderful, yet confusing, emotions of delight and wonder, as well as enjoyment. Jeanne should at least stop treating me as a boy to have a normal marriage, Augustine mused.   


July 1, 1557, Château d’Angoulême, the city of Angoulême, Angoulême, France

A young man sauntered throng the hallway decorated with portraits of various members of the Valois-Orléans-Angoulême lineage of the royal dynasty. As the duchy was located close to Navarre, he frequently visited Angoulême, where his father had lived in childhood. He was followed by his confidants, the eldest sons of Constable Anne de Montmorency – François and Henri. The corridor was adorned with the marble statues of ancient Roman emperors.

“Good morning, Your Majesty!” greeted Claude d’Annebault.

“Your Majesty, God bless you!” affirmed Jacques d’Albon.

This man was Augustine de Valois, Duke d’Angoulême and King of Navarre through his matrimony with Jeanne d’Albert. Augustine and the Montmorency brothers paused near Claude d’Annebault and Jacques d’Albon, both Marshals of France. Everyone dripped into bows.

Augustine spoke evenly. “I’m glad to welcome you all in my humble abode.”

Annebault and Albon smiled. Everyone was accustomed to Augustine’s stony demeanor. Yet, they admired him, in particular after his re-conquest of the southern lands of the late Henri d’Albert’s kingdom, which had been lost in 1512 due to Ferdinand of Aragon’s invasion.

Over a year ago, the French troops under King Augustine had defeated the Spanish, which resulted in the return of the long-lost Navarrese lands. Seizing the moment of the revolt against the high taxes imposed upon the local lords by King Felipe II of Spain, Augustine had led his army and re-conquered Upper Navarre without difficulty. He had offered them much lower taxes and religious tolerance to guarantee their loyalty to both Queen Jeanne and himself.

Clad in a purple attire ornamented with fleurs-de-lis, at eighteen King Augustine possessed handsome features that bore a striking resemblance to those of King François, save his blonde locks falling over his forehead from beneath his violet silk cap, plumed with white feathers. Yet, his amber orbs conveyed a different spirit – one of strong will, enigma, and eternal winter.  

Annebault enthused, “Your Majesty has made this residence a majestic palace of art!”

“Now this castle,” began Albon, “is lovelier than ever.”

Augustine recalled, “My architect refurbished and expanded the old château.”

Annebault grinned. “And now it is Your Majesty’s favorite residence.”

Augustine inclined his head. “Indeed.”

“Has Your Majesty spoken to King François?” Albon questioned.

“A new campaign in Flanders,” clarified Annebault.

At this, Augustine’s orbs flashed. “My brother, Henri, and I have.”

Annebault supplemented, “Now King François and Dauphin Henri are in the armory.”

“I’ll go to them,” replied Augustine. “And yes, there will be a Flemish campaign soon.”

 Albon rejoiced in this. “The king should consent to take Flanders back.”

Augustine tipped his head. “The House of Capet and then the Valois family ruled Flanders for centuries until Marie de Valois, the only daughter of Charles the Bold, married Maximilian von Habsburg. She had no right to act so without the consent of King Louis the Eleventh.”

François de Montmorency dreamed of glory on the battlefield. “Under Salic law, Flanders must belong to France! The peasants’ revolts against Spain would make it easier to conquer it.”

Henri de Montmorency entered the conversation. “Yes, we must regain Flanders.”

Annebault and Albon, who were thrilled with this idea, nodded in concurrence.

King Augustine strutted forward through corridors where the tapestried walls illustrated scenes of chivalry, tournaments, and courtly love. François and Henri walked after him.

François feared to ask the very question that had been on his mind for many days, but his curiosity was overriding his embarrassment. “Your Majesty, how is Princess Louise faring?” 

“The Dowager Duchess de Savoy,” corrected Augustine. “She is in Chambéry.”

A year ago, the ruler of France had permitted his daughter, Louise, and his grandson, Duke Charles Emmanuel, to move to Chambéry, the capital of Savoy. Thus, the duchy was no longer governed by the viceroys appointed by the French monarch, and Louise had already proved herself as a capable regent. King François also added Piedmont to the Duchy of Savoy.

As they entered another hallway, Augustine swung around to face the others.

Augustine informed, “François, you courted my sister, but you did not propose to her.”

A shade of blush suffused François’ cheeks. “I’ll never taint Louise’s reputation.”

Henri looked startled. “Why didn’t you do it, brother?” 

Augustine countered, “Why did you allow my sister to simply leave?”

François gave a shrug. “Well, it is difficult to explain.”

“My friend,” addressed Augustine. “Louise is not indifferent to you, but you gave her hope that you would be together after your long courtship at my parents’ court. And what did you do? You let my sister go because you are not ready to marry her and lose your freedom.”

François felt ashamed of his behavior. “I’ve never wanted to hurt Louise!”

Augustine berated, “You have several paramours. Do you love one of them?”

“No, I do not – I love Your Majesty’s sister,” stated François with conviction.

Augustine advised, “Then go to Louise and talk to her.”

Henri joined, “King François and Queen Anne would welcome your marriage, brother.”

François de Montmorency released a sigh, thinking of his current favorite mistress. Was he ready to break up with her? Two years ago, he had begun courting Louise and dismissed all his lovers. The princess was not someone to sleep with her without getting married, so François had resumed his affairs in secret. Can I be faithful to Louise if we marry? François wondered.

“I know,” said François flatly before switching to another topic. He could not speak about Louise, hesitating concerning what to do. “What about France’s war against Spain in Flanders?” 

Augustine asserted whimsically, “The entire world is a theatre for the display of goodness, wisdom, justice, power, and glory. Yet, all these things are rather vain, my friends.”

Augustine went forward. A discomfited François sighed, and Henri glowered at him.

As they approached the armory, Augustine swung around to them. “Don’t be sad, François. Your dreams may come true if only you become a true knight for my sister.”

“I shall not disappoint you,” uttered François, his mind conjuring pictures of Louise.

Augustine dismissed, “You may go.” 

The Montmorency brothers flourished bows and strode away.

§§§

Augustine entered the spacious armory. On a table near the windows, through which the morning light filtered inside, lay daggers and swords of different sizes. Shields, spears, lances, javelins, crossbows, and bows hung on the walls swathed in green brocade. The loud clang of steel upon steel was deafening as King François and Dauphin Henri danced around each other.

Henri blocked his father’s diagonal blow. “Who will win this time, Augustine?” 

“Either of you can,” opined Augustine. “You are both competent swordsmen.”

“I’m at a disadvantage.” The king was already tiring. “I’m far older than Henri.”

The dauphin retorted, “Ah, Father! Few men can boast such skills with weapons!” 

“Especially at my age,” jested François in a jovial tone as he parried.

Augustine leaned back against the wall, where the Valois coat-of-arms hung. Next to their family heraldry was Augustine’s personal symbol – the marble engraving of a knight sitting astride a horse wearing an elaborate cuirass, which was a piece of armor consisting of breastplate and backplate fastened together. Many centuries ago, Roman Emperor Augustus Caesar had had commissioned a full-height statue of himself in his glittering breastplate.

“I am the Knight-King!” François thrust his rapier forward. “At any age!”

The dauphin made a crisscross blow. “Father, you are still in good health.”

The monarch aimed his blade at his son’s chest. “That is because years ago I ceased living the life of excesses and abundant carnal pleasures, which weaken a man’s health.”

“When you married my mother,” Augustine concluded.

The ruler’s weapon flew in what appeared to be a lethal pattern, but it was not a perilous blow. “Exactly. Anne saved me from profligacy, bad health, and perhaps early death.”

The dauphin’s rapier again collided with his father’s. “You would never have become like that obese and ulcerated Henry of England, whose soul must now be burning in hell.”

François always avoided conversations about his dead rival. Anne, the Marquess of Exeter, and I together committed regicide. Perhaps the Lord will punish us for that in the afterlife, he feared. He only said, “Let the Almighty judge the dead, for we have no right to do so.”

The king and the dauphin unleashed a series of fierce attacks on one another. Every time, François and Henri evaded situations when the other could have knocked the weapon from their hands. François had not participated in battles since the demise of Emperor Carlos in 1547, but he remained in a decent physical shape and often practiced with weapons of all sorts.

At fifty-nine, François de Valois was still an athletic man, and his extremely tall height impressed everyone as he towered a head over his subjects. Out of his sons, only Augustine and Antoine had inherited his height. The king had wrinkles upon his forehead and under his eyes – traces of age, hardship, and wisdom, but François had aged well. His head was full of gray hair mingled with some chestnut strands. François was garbed in an azure silk costume.

Augustine adored his father and brother unconditionally. Father is not young anymore, but he is strong, and there is enough majesty in him. Henri looks older compared to how I remember him from his childhood. A head shorter than his father, Dauphin Henri was a handsome and slim man, his countenance austere, but his brown orbs were full of mirth in moments like this – when he was with his family. His shirt and hose of brown velvet almost matched his stubble.

“Henri,” started Augustine. “Why are you growing a beard? Father does not have it.”

“Marie likes it.” Henri again failed to disarm his father. “She sends her greetings to you.”

A week ago, King François, Dauphin Henri, and Queen Anne, accompanied by a group of courtiers, had arrived at Angoulême to meet with Augustine. Marguerite, Dowager Queen of Navarre, and the rest of the court stayed at Fontainebleau. Currently, Anne de Montmorency and his wife, Marie, were in their estates in Picardy. Augustine had also invited his brothers to his castle in Angoulême, while his wife, Jeanne, remained in Navarre because of her pregnancy.

Augustine deflected a blow again. “Do you really need your new mistresses, Henri?” 

The dauphin scolded, “Brother, don’t pry into my personal affairs.”

Dauphin Henri deeply loved Marie de Bourbon, regretting that he could not marry her. As Marie, who was four years older, had aged, Henri had begun engaging in new liaisons. Marie and Henri had lost all of their children, feeling that their relationship was tainted by these tragedies. In addition, the dauphin’s misadventures with Catherine de’ Medici distanced Marie from Henri for a long time until Henri had convinced his beloved Marie to forgive him.

Despite her incarceration at the Châtelet, Dauphine Catherine had become a mother again. Once when her husband Henri visited her to gloat, she had coaxed him into sleeping with her. Later, even Henri, ashamed of his encounter with his harpy of a wife, could not explain why he had taken his wife, whom he hated wholeheartedly. Consequently, on the 14th of May 1554, Catherine had given birth to Princess Marguerite of France, who had then been removed from her mother and was now being raised by the dauphin’s maîtresse-en-titre, Marie de Bourbon.

Suddenly, the Valois ruler jumped back before saying, “Enough, Henri. I’m exhausted.”

The dauphin lowered his rapier. “Of course, Father. We have finished in a draw.”

François tipped his head back and laughed. “Sons, I’ve stopped not because I fear to lose. The Knight-King can bear his defeats with honor, but he wants to avoid them.”

Henri noticed that his father was short of breath. “You are an amazing soldier.”

“Perhaps.” François prodded over to a table and put a rapier next to other weapons.

Henri approached the same table and placed his rapier there. “How is Jeanne, brother?” 

Augustine crossed to his relatives. “I pray that my wife will not miscarry again.”

François and Henri eyed the younger man sorrowfully, for each of them knew the pain of losing children. Jeanne’s first pregnancy had resulted in the birth of Prince Henri of Navarre on the 13th of December 1554. The whole Pyrenean kingdom had celebrated, and the boy had been named after the previous ruler – King Henri II of Navarre. Augustine had also wanted to honor his elder brother, Dauphin Henri. In 1555-56, Jeanne had suffered stillbirths and miscarriages.

The dauphin supplied, “With God’s help, Jeanne will have more babies, Augustine.”

Augustine nodded. Then their father queried, “How is my grandson Henri?” 

Augustine smiled. “My little Henri is hale and hearty.” Ire gripped him at the remembrance of his spouse. “But Jeanne is alarmingly interested in heresy and has many Calvinistic books.”

Annoyance manifested itself on Henri’s visage. “How is that possible? I wrote to Jeanne several times and warned her about the dangers of Protestantism, all in vain.”

Augustine sighed. “Our tragedies made Jeanne a fervent Protestant.”

An exasperated François clenched his fists. “Margot and I ordered Jeanne not to practice heresy, and not to correspond with reformers and evangelicals. Yet, she has ignored everything!”

“Jeanne might teach our son heresy,” Augustine voiced his terror.  

For ten years, France had maintained religious tolerance. Nevertheless, King François had established censorship of universities and other educational institutions, as well as censorship of bookstores and book printing with the goal to decrease the number of anti-Catholic literature that was regularly delivered to France from Switzerland and Germany. Protestants and Calvinists, or together Huguenots, have formed a religious movement, and now they worship their religion in clandestine ways. They will demand more freedoms, but we will not be able to give them.

Augustine was furious at his spouse as well. “I’ll leave for Navarre after your departure for Fontainebleau. I like my life here in Angoulême, but I cannot be absent from Navarre for long because of a possible Spanish invasion, and I also have to monitor Jeanne’s activities.”

King François heaved a sigh. “Is your marriage really unbearable, Augustine?”  

Augustine veered his orbs to the window. The sun was high in the sky, which contrasted with the gloom in his soul at the thought of his matrimony. “If Jeanne stops trying to change my personality and make me interested in Protestantism, we will be able to become friends.”

Henri stepped forward and patted his brother on the shoulder. “Duty is far more important than love. I sacrificed my heart’s desire to marry the woman I love, Marie de Bourbon, just to let my children with Catherine de’ Medici remain legitimate.”

Augustine’s gaze flicked to his sibling. “I agree that duty is more important.”

The dauphin dipped a nod. “Yes, but it is also a curse for all royals.”

François felt guilty for Augustine’s personal drama. “Maybe I should not have arranged a marriage between you, Augustine, and Jeanne. Margot and I will write to Jeanne again.”

Augustine read his parent’s musings. “Don’t feel guilty, Father. I had to marry her.”

A cloud of melancholy shrouded King François. Am I a bad father to my children? Many years ago, he had arranged a marriage for Dauphin Henri to his jailed Medici wife, which had caused dreadful harm to the Valois family. Augustine was not content with his niece Jeanne either. François avoided contemplating his son Jean’s marital issues with Christine of Hesse. The betrothal between Antoine and Marie, Queen of Scots, was also a disconcerting matter.

The monarch of France entertained the idea of allowing the marriage between his daughter, Louise, and François de Montmorency. However, the king insisted that Montmorency relocate to Savoy because Louise was currently serving as the regent for her son, Duke Charles Emmanuel de Savoy. François found solace in the fact that Aimée and Maximilian, the Queen and King of the Romans, were in love and had already welcomed four children. The youngest members of the French monarch's family, Louis and Valentine, brought absolute joy to both him and Anne.

Notes:

The new chapter is up! Please let us know what you think of this chapter, and don’t forget to leave reviews so that we can discuss events, twists, and turns in this chapter.

In the previous chapter, Princess Elizabeth of England married Edward Courtenay, Duke of Devon. In this chapter, we have Prince Augustine of France, Duke d’Angoulême, marry his first cousin – Jeanne d’Albert, Queen of Navarre in her own right. We decided not to write Jeanne and Augustine’s wedding scene. Sadly, their marriage has started on a sour note since he left her on their wedding night, although he later came back to his wife, consoled her, yet they are arguing as she voices her displeasure. Jeanne and Augustine are both awkward as they are both virgins.

We also included more characters in the wedding section. One of them is the famous court painter François Clouet, who was the only son of the illustrious painter Jean Clouet. From time to time, we like adding interesting historical figures to the plot, especially painters. Augustine is fond of the arts, which will be showed in detail, and so is Jeanne, but to a lesser extent. We also learned about the marriage of Princess Aimée of France and Maximilian of Austria off-screen.

We introduced two new characters – Louis de Bourbon, Prince de Condé, and his first wife, Eléonore de Roucy de Roye, as well as Condé’s elder brothers. They are Charles de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme and Archbishop of Rouen, and Jean de Bourbon, Count de Soissons and Count d’Enghien, who both inherited their titles after the deaths of their elder brothers – Antoine and François. In this epic, we no longer have Antoine, and we do not really need him because we have Augustine de Valois as Jeanne d’Albert’s husband and King of Navarre.

In the final section, we have made a four-year jump. We show that the religious tensions in France are swiftly growing, and by now the French Protestants and Calvinism have formed a strong and organized movement. King François understands that it has to be somehow stopped, so he changes his policy of religious tolerance and introduces censorship – basically, he has no choice and tries to keep the religious unity in his kingdom for as long as possible, and for as long as he lives. We will see more about the changing political landscape in France later.

In the same section, Jeanne and Augustine are said to have been married for almost four years. They already have their historical son – Prince Henri of Navarre, but in this story, he is born on the same date in December, but a year later than in real history (his historical date of birth falls on the 13th of December 1553). Moreover, we also have Princess Marguerite of France, who is portrayed as Dauphin Henri’s unexpected daughter with the imprisoned Catherine de’ Medici, and the girl is born on her historical date, but a year later than she was in real history (her historical birth date is the 14th of May 1553). Prince Henri and Princess Marguerite are going to play an important role in this fiction and in a sequel to CWL.

All the descriptions of the Château de Langeais are more or less historically correct. We mentioned that Anne, her sister, Marguerite, and Anne de Pisseleu met with Nostradamus again. We promise that Nostradamus will re-appear in later chapters, and all the members of the Valois family will never forget his bloody prophecies, and perhaps they will come true…

Attention! A while ago, we posted a prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP), so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 104: Chapter 103: Storms Brewing in France

Summary:

King François dedicates time to his sons at Angoulême and simultaneously strategizes a new military campaign. Later, at Pau, Queen Jeanne and King Augustine of Navarre grapple with a tragedy and marital challenges, primarily arising from her commitment to Calvinism. Augustine prohibits his wife from communicating with the Prince de Condé and other Protestants.

Notes:

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you all, friends! Please, if you are reading this fiction leave us a review, for we need your support for inspiration to keep going.

The prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don’t forget about our work “Entwined by a Golden Alliance” co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 103: Storms Brewing in France

July 10, 1557, Château d’Angoulême, the city of Angoulême, Angoulême, France

King Augustine of Navarre and Dauphin Henri of France spent the morning in the armory. They often practiced swordfight, although now France was not at war. King François of France watched his sons with a smile, pleased that they had such an affectionate relationship. Augustine and Henri have a lot in common – they both are reserved and cold, François noted to himself.

Antoine de Valois, Duke de Provence, entered. “My brave knights!” 

The others swiveled to Antoine who swaggered towards them.  

At the age of thirteen, Antoine was an attractive teenager with green eyes and brown hair, his demeanor as changeable as the fall weather. In one moment, he could be both mischievous and ebullient, and in the next, contemplative like a philosopher lost in thought about mankind. Fully embracing his eccentricity, Antoine was attired in a red velvet doublet and matching trunk hose, complemented by a black cap festooned with three white feathers.

“Tony, you have missed most of our contest,” berated Henri in a playful way.

Antoine halted and bowed. “I spent several hours with Lorenzo as we tried to put one of his poems to music. Monsieur Claudin de Sermisy was helping us.”

Augustine was delighted to see his brother who was as close to him as Augustine was to Dauphin Henri. “Monsieur de Sermisy is a genius of chanson.”

Antoine nodded. “Lorenzo will sing under Sermisy’s music at tomorrow’s feast.”

François complemented, “Lorenzo and you, Antoine, both have a great talent in music.”

Antoine answered, “However, I’m not talented in poetry, unlike you, Father, and Enzo.”

The King of France closed the gap between Antoine and him. He pulled the prince into an embrace, and as they parted, François spoke. “Is this new poem about love? Perhaps you should take Lorenzo to Château d’Ussé when you visit Queen Marie again.”

His spirits plummeting, Antoine shook his head. “I do not want to marry that spoiled Stuart girl! She considers herself the center of the world! I can barely tolerate her arrogance!”

François sighed. “Your dislike of Marie has grown, Tony.”

Antoine explained at length. “She is humble only in Your Majesty’s presence.”

François recommended, “You should get to know the young Queen of Scots closer.”

Yet, Antoine huffed, “Marie always stresses that she is the reigning Queen of Scots!”

Augustine interposed, “I married Jeanne d’Albert only out of duty.”

Henri lectured, “Tony, royal marriages are based on duty, not love. I’m still married to the villainous Catherine de’ Medici just because I must keep our children legitimate.”

The monarch glanced between his sons. “You all are true sons of France!”

Augustine, Henri, and Antoine exchanged nods, causing their father to sigh.

Antoine continued, “I shall visit Marie next week, out of duty.”

The ruler surveyed him with gratitude. “I’m proud of you, Tony!”

“Thank you, Father.” Antoine sent a smile to the king. “It is absolutely irritating that every time I meet Queen Marie at Ussé, she looks at me condescendingly because I’m only the French king’s fourth surviving son. According to Marie, she has not yet broken our betrothal only because her country, Scotland, needs the Auld alliance with the House of Valois.”

“I’ll teach this girl a lesson of proper manners,” growled François.

An exasperated Henri blustered, “That dratted half-Stuart, half-Guise girl!”

François clenched his fists. “Marie de Guise and her relatives are hypocrites! That woman begged us to let her daughter be raised in France, with the goal of keeping Queen Marie away from the conflicts between her mother-regent and the warmongering Scottish clans. Since then, we have been providing Scotland with gold and soldiers to preserve Marie de Guise’s regency.”

Henri’s visage contorted in hurt mingled with ire. “My sister Madeleine died in Scotland!” He crossed himself. “France will not gain anything from our alliance with that frozen shithole!”

François swallowed convulsively at the remembrance of his daughter Madeleine’s demise in Edinburgh. Crossing himself, François lamented, “May my dear girl rest in peace!”

Everyone made the cross sign before Antoine complained, “I cannot stand Marie!”

The French ruler began pacing the armory. “Tony, try to befriend Marie.”

Antoine acquiesced, “I shall, Father.” A sigh fled his lips. “That little queen is angry that she has not been allowed to contact any of her many Guise uncles and relatives. Marie complains that you condemned her to spend all her childhood in isolation at Château d’Ussé.”

Henri’s glare lingered upon the spears on the opposite wall. “We cannot permit Marie to have contacts with any of her Guise relatives, save her mother.”

Augustine put in, “Marie de Guise seems to be estranged from the rest of her family.”

“I no longer trust that woman,” the dauphin supplied.  

“All the Guises will remain banished,” François stated as he stopped next to Henri.

The dauphin supplemented, “I’m glad that my own son François is not betrothed to Marie Stuart.” He released a sigh. “We do not know how long François will last...”

Prince François, Duke of Brittany, was a source of constant worry for the royal family.

Augustine sent a compassionate glance to his elder brother. “All will be well.”

Nodding, Henri worked to improve Antoine’s mood. “Marie is stunning, so you will have a beautiful wife, Tony.” He sighed. “Not worse than my and Augustine’s marriages.”

A strained silence enveloped the armory. At the same time, the French king felt guilty that another of his sons – Antoine – would have to enter into an infelicitous matrimony.

Finally, François announced, “Let’s launch our campaign in Flanders next autumn. I’ll not participate, but I ordered Anne de Montmorency to prepare our troops.”

Henri’s mood improved. “The Burgundian Netherlands must be reinstated to the Valois!”

Inwardly elated, Augustine dipped a nod. “Excellent!”

François opined, “Well, Louis would make a brilliant Duke of the Netherlands.”

The king implied his youngest son with Anne, and each of his three sons nodded.  

Antoine boasted, “When I grow up, I’ll become a fearsome warrior!” 

Augustine noted, “You are already skilled with weapons, brother.”

Henri chided, “But you are hotheaded, Tony.”

A laughing Antoine exclaimed, “I’m impulsive, bold, and handsome!” 

François approached his three sons. “You are, son.”

The ruler gathered Antoine into his arms; Henri and Augustine joined their collective hug. In a minute, they exited and chatted animatedly on their way to the monarch’s apartments.

§§§

Queen Anne and her second son – Jean de Valois, Duke de Guyenne – wandered through the square gardens, enclosed by nicely trimmed box hedges. The vibrant foliage in flowerbeds painted a lively tapestry. The sun, radiant like a lantern, bestowed a gentle warmth, a sensation tempered by the cool breeze drifting from the adjacent Couesnon and Altrée Rivers. While Anne observed the play of sunlight on the blossoms, Jean found solace in this serene setting.

They were accompanied by the French queen’s ladies-in-waiting, both of whom shared a history as former lovers of her husband, King François. They were Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly, Duchess d’Étampes, and Claude de Rohan-Gié, Countess de Thoury. Claude, who had lived in the countryside for many years, had re-married Julien de Clermont-Savoy after her first husband’s death – Claude and Julien had a son. The couple had joined the court two years ago.

Anne broke the pause. “Jean, will you become a dutiful husband to your wife?”

“Yet, but only because you order me,” conceded Jean.

“Jean, you are a devout Catholic. I know you would gladly have taken vows of priesthood if you could. Nonetheless, the life of a prince belongs to his country and dynasty.”

Jean released a sigh. “Mother, I wish I had dedicated my life to God.”

Walking along the road, Anne studied her seventeen-year-old son. Like in childhood, Jean had an angelic face despite his dark Valois complexion and his curly black hair, hidden beneath a black satin cap. Of average height and build, Jean wore a plain doublet of gray velvet and matching hose. Not inclined to outdoor activities, he was afraid of weapons and had no idea how to use them. Jean is so unlike François, me, and his other siblings, Anne noted to himself.

The queen lectured, “The sacrament of marriage is a lifelong commitment between a man and a woman for their mutual good and procreation. Celibacy is foreign to the purpose of holy matrimony as defined by the Church. Jesus provides the strength and grace to live out the true meaning of marriage, encompassing love for each other and the blessing of having children.”

Unexpectedly, Jean huffed, “But Henri and Augustine are entrapped in their marriages!”

“Indeed, Henri’s marital situation has long been most unfortunate because of Catherine’s imprisonment. But I still hope that Jeanne and Augustine will try to find common ground.”

Jean divulged, “Only Archduchess Barbara von Habsburg caught Augustine’s eye all those years ago in Vienna thanks to her intelligence. Oh, I should not have said that!”

“Dearest son, I know all of Augustine’s secrets.”

They entered a park showcasing meticulously crafted patterns of clipped box hedges, each filled with lush evergreen shrubs. Anne and Jean came to a stop, and so did her maids.

“Don’t you like your lovely wife, Jean?”

“I do, Mother.” Jean’s response was sincere. “Christine is a devoted wife and mother to our daughter. She is kind and pious, but she demands too much attention from me.”

Christine of Hesse, Duchess de Guyenne, had given birth to a healthy daughter over a year ago. Jean, Duke de Guyenne, named the girl Radegonde after Radegund – a Frankish queen who founded the Abbey of the Holy Cross at Poitiers in the 6th century. Typically, Jean and Christine resided in their estates in the Duchy of Guyenne. Due to geographic reasons, the spouses more frequently met Augustine and Jeanne, who both lived in Navarre, rather than with Jean’s parents. Augustine and Jeanne had the honor of being Jean and Christine’s daughter’s godparents.

Anne explained, “Christine is a young woman with romantic fantasies. She desires to share a bed with you, her husband. However, you have refused to touch her since Radegonde’s birth. Spending nights and time with your wife is a normal part of marital life, Jean – it is not a sin.”

François and Anne had received numerous letters from Christine, in which she lamented Jean’s neglect and implored them to persuade Jean to be more attentive to her. To the dismay of the French monarchs, neither Christine’s affable disposition nor her deep piety endeared Jean to his wife, in spite of his long acceptance of Christine’s devout Protestant beliefs.

Jean was increasingly submerged in embarrassment. “I wed Christine out of duty, and at present, France’s alliance with the German Protestant States is stronger than ever.”

“And you have a daughter,” his mother highlighted.  

“Yes, so I can’t do anything else. I regret that you did not make me a cardinal.”

“What is done cannot be undone, son.”

At last, he surrendered, “Fine, Mother! I shall try to become a better husband to Christine. I know that she wants to give me a male heir, and the Church teaches us to procreate with a wife.”

Anne breathed out a sigh of relief. “Should we invite Christine for a stroll?”

He tipped a nod. “Yes. Out of respect to her.”

Anne swiveled to her maids. “Madame de Thoury! Go find Duchess Christine!”

Claude de Rohan-Gié curtsied. “Of course, Your Majesty.” She was a pretty, slim brunette in her late thirties, donned in a gown of auburn velvet that accentuated her narrow waist.

“You, too, may go, Madame d’Étampes,” permitted the queen.

Clad in green silk, Anne de Pisseleu sank into a curtsey. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” She and the queen had become close, so now Queen Anne relied upon the duchess in many ways.

After they had left, Jean and Anne meandered between lawns and flowerbeds towards the castle with the aim to meet Christine. Soon they saw the duchess without her handmaidens.

Christine curtsied. “I was told that you are looking for me, Your Majesty and… Jean.”

Jean directed his gaze at Christine of Hesse. She was a bit plump girl of seventeen, of short stature, with brown hair and gray-green eyes. She had embraced the French lifestyle and adopted French manners, and today she was dressed in a lovely gown of tawny damask, featuring a low, square-cut neckline, its placard embellished with gold. Dear God, I beseech You to guide Jean to the right path, so he and Christine can find happiness, Anne pleaded inwardly.

“Join us, wife,” invited the Duke de Guyenne. “The weather is so nice today.”

An astonished Christine smiled and uttered in accented French, “Thank you, husband.”

Anne nodded at her son approvingly. “Let’s enjoy the sun and tranquility!”

§§§

Two princes occupied a marble bench in the sunlit gardens, laid out around a star-shaped pond. The parterres featured a more informal style of planting than the main park, with yellow dominating the foliage in the flowerbeds. The seated figures included Lorenzo de Valois, Duke of Milan, and Louis de Valois, Duke d’Alençon and perhaps future Lord of the Netherlands.

Their governess sat on a nearby bench, embroidering. She was King François’ half-niece – Jacqueline de Longwy, Countess de Bar-sur-Seine, also one of the daughters of the late Jeanne d’Angoulême. Jacqueline watched in fascination as Lorenzo, known as the Valois troubadour, skillfully plucked at the lute’s strings with his fingers, accompanying himself with a melody.

Youth is sweet and well

But doth speed away!

Let who will be gay,

Tomorrow, none can tell.

Bacchus and his Fair,

Contented with their fate,

Chase both time and care,

Loving soon and late;

High and low estate

With the nymphs at play;

Let who will be gay,

Tomorrow, none can tell.

Louis furrowed his brows. “Enzo, we are both young, so choose a different song.”

Lorenzo interrupted his performance. “Louis, you are eight, while I’m older than you.”

“You are only eleven,” Louis grumbled. “Not an adult yet.”

Jacqueline set her embroidery hoop aside on the bench. “Your Highnesses, don’t argue!”

Lorenzo glowered at him. “Louis, you requested that I play for you. You know that I adore Lorenzo de’ Medici Il Magnifico, after whom I was named, and it is one of my favorite songs.”

“Proceed, brother!” Louis conceded, annoyed. 

As he resumed playing, Lorenzo reveled in the musical gaiety and wisdom of the song.

Laughing satyrs all

Set a hundred snares,

Lovelorn dryads fall

In them unawares:

Glad with wine, in pairs

They dance the hours away:

Let who will be gay,

To-morrow, none can tell.

Not unwillingly

Were these nymphs deceived:

From Love do but flee

Graceless hearts aggrieved:

Deceivers and deceived

Together wend their way.

Let who will be gay,

To-morrow, none can tell.

Fat Silenus nears

On an ass astride:

Full of wine and years,

Come and see him ride:

He lolls from side to side

But gleefully always:

Let who will be gay,

Tomorrow, none can tell.

The governess looked between the boys. Privately, she loved Lorenzo more than Louis.

Aged eleven, Lorenzo possessed the Valois saturnine complexion – amber, almond-shaped eyes and the distinctive long Valois nose, bearing a resemblance to his illustrious Medici namesake. His fingers seemed purposefully crafted for playing a variety of musical instruments. He cherished his music classes, yet his interests spanned from politics and languages to the arts, especially literature and painting. Lorenzo engaged in communication with numerous French and Italian artists who were patronized by the Valois family at the royal court.

Prince Lorenzo is eccentric, like Prince Antoine, Jacqueline observed wordlessly. He has such an artistic soul, like his father’s. Ornamented with diamonds and rubies, Lorenzo’s doublet of azure damask was slashed with black silk, wrought with threads of gold. His thick, brown hair cascaded over his ears, emerging from beneath a red satin toque adorned with a black plume. Ever since his visit to Milan a year ago, Lorenzo had developed a fondness for Italian fashions.

“Enzo, your performance is amazing!” Louis cried ebulliently.

Not possessing the creative inclinations of his brother and father, Louis still found joy in music and poems. The monarch’s youngest son observed his elder brother with big and attentive blue orbs. As time passed, Louis began to resemble his famous ancestor – Louis de Valois, 1st Duke d’Orléans – as they both possessed blonde hair, pale skin, and fathomless, sea-blue eyes. The boy’s well-defined nose, high cheekbones, and full lips contributed to his charm.

Prince Louis is rather arrogant, Jacqueline observed, her gaze fixed on Louis who lifted his chin haughtily. Much like Lorenzo and Antoine, Louis was a talkative and eloquent, open-minded and rambunctious child – no less impulsive than Antoine – setting Louis apart from the reticent Augustine and the shy Jean. Similar to Lorenzo, Louis displayed emotional depth.

When Lorenzo finished, Jacqueline applauded. “Bravo, Your Highness!” 

“Brother, you have the voice of Orpheus,” Louis complimented.

“Such wonderful songs!” commended Augustine.

Lorenzo paused and laughed. “Ah, Augustine the Chilly! Welcome!”

“Welcome, brother!” repeated Louis. “Augustine the Cold!”

Augustine gave a shrug. “Perhaps.”

In the meanwhile, King François and Queen Anne stood near a bed of pansies and celosias with Dauphin Henri and King Augustine. Duke Jean and his spouse were strolling alone as Jean endeavored to patch up their relationship. Duke Antoine had gone to attend his literature class.

“Lorenzo, you sing exceptionally well,” praised the queen with a grin.

François jested, “But maybe I can do it better. What do you think, Enzo?”

Anne and François traded sorrowful glances as memories of the siege of Boulogne during the Anglo-Spanish invasion of France flooded back to them. The same words were hovering over their lips: Lorenzo had survived the deceased King Henry’s violent assault on Anne against all odds, and his parents thanked the Creator that the boy was growing robust and healthy.

Shrugging, Lorenzo put the lute beside him. “I cannot compare, Father.”

Henri chimed in, “You both have talents in poetry and music.”

Louis reminisced, “I was two or three when Aimée left for Austria, but I remember her singing often. Now she is acclaimed as a musical angel of Vienna!”

Anne tipped her head. “That’s true. Aimée is a goddess of music!”

Lorenzo missed Aimée a lot. “She and I are artistic deities!”

“Of Mount Olympus,” jested Augustine, which was quite a rare thing to hear.

Laughter boomed until Louis wined, “I do not have a foreign duchy, but Enzo has Milan!” 

François beckoned his youngest son to him. “Louis! Soon you may become Duke of the Netherlands, although in this case you will have to renounce your French duchy.”

Louis’s black eyes gleamed enthusiastically. “Flanders? The Valois ancient lands?”

“We shall re-conquer them,” promised Henri.

“For you, brother,” pledged Augustine. “And for France!”

Louis blurted out, “I shall be Lord of the Netherlands! I want to be a ruler!”

The others exchanged glances because Louis was proving to be a tad overbearing.

The queen inquired, “Should we go to the castle?”

François and Anne linked their hands before leading the others back to the château. Henri guided Louis with Augustine by their side. Silent like a shadow, Jacqueline sauntered just behind Lorenzo, carrying his lute. The ornate façades of the castle and the towering staircase soon came into view, and in a moment, they reached a large courtyard with statues. Near the entrance, Jean and Christine awaited them, hands entwined, signaling their reconciliation.


August 5, 1557, Château de Pau, the town of Pau, near the city of Béarn, kingdom of Navarre 

Following their wedding, the young royal couple of Navarre had selected Pau as their main residence, a town distinguished by lush parks and gardens. They developed a deep affection for this location, valuing its position as the gateway to the mountains and its fantastic views of the snow-capped peaks of the Pyrénées. Adopting the enchanting Palois lifestyle, the spouses relished leisurely strolls, participated in hunts, and immersed themselves in the vibrant and diverse winegrowing region that included Jurançon, Madiran, Pacherenc, and Béarn.

The keening of Queen Jeanne III of Navarre echoed through her bedchamber, reminiscent of a sorrowful breeze within the confines of a deep-water cove. A couple of hours ago, she had birthed a stillborn son two months earlier than expected, and now her distress was as boundless as the sky. The room’s interior reflected the religious subject: the wall frescoes depicted scenes from the Old and New Testaments, while the ebony furniture displayed engravings of saints.

“My poor boy!” sobbed Jeanne as one of her ladies-in-waiting covered her with a blanket.

Her illegitimate half-sister, Yolande d’Albert, approached the bed and settled herself on the edge. “Your Majesty, please calm down! I cannot see you so heartbroken!”

The queen trained her tearful eyes on Yolande. “This is my fourth dead child!” 

Sadness shadowed Yolande’s visage. “If I had only known how to alleviate your pain…” 

Jeanne clasped her hand in hers. “Your mere presence is helping me, sister.”

A tiny smile curved Yolande’s mouth. “I love Your Majesty very much!”

“Jeanne,” corrected the queen. “You can call me so in private. You are the last thing left of my beloved father, Henri. You are so dear to me that I cannot describe it.”

Yolande squeezed her sister’s hand. “You are my dearest sister, Jeanne!”  

Yolande d’Albert was the only surviving illegitimate daughter of King Henri II of Navarre and Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly, Duchess d’Étampes. At the age of eleven, she was an exquisite beauty with emerald eyes and classical features, her perfection mirroring that of her mother’s and that of the Goddess Venus. Her long and blonde hair, concealed beneath a bejeweled headdress, complemented Yolande’s gown of pale yellow brocade, lavishly ornamented with pearls.

“In several years, we will find a good match for you,” Jeanne affirmed before extricating her hand from her sister’s hold and scrubbing away her tears. “In France or Navarre.”

Yolande flashed a grateful smile. “You are most kind to me, but I’ll gladly stay at court with you and take care of the little Prince Henri. He is such a bonny and clever boy!”

“My only surviving son… My Henri…” Jeanne smiled briefly at the remembrance of her son. Then a wave of fresh sobs assailed her. “Why are my other children keep dying?”

Yolande held Jeanne in her arms as the distraught woman wept and wept.

§§§

The queen’s other ladies-in-waiting, who waited in the corner, all climbed to their feet and dropped into curtseys. Yolande stood up and curtsied to greet King Augustine.

“Your Majesty!” all the women chorused.

Augustine neared the bed and dispensed with formalities, dismissing them all with a regal wave of his hand. The ladies, casting glances of fascination at him, promptly exited.

Jeanne intercepted their glances at Queen Anne’s eldest son. I hate when other women look lustfully at my husband, she lamented internally. Augustine captivated her despite his lukewarm attitude to her, for he kept Jeanne and others at arm’s length, like a forever unattainable star. Today the King of Navarre wore a mantle of golden silk above a purple silk doublet.

“Yolande,” the ruler addressed. “Our son is in the nursery.”

“I’ll go to His Highness, then, Your Majesty.” Yolande made a curtsey and left.

As he seated himself on the bed’s edge, Jeanne moaned, “Forgive me, Augustine.”

The monarch took his wife’s hand with a solemn tenderness that he rarely displayed. “Dear Jeanne, it is not your fault. We are still young and will have more children.”

The sympathy in his voice – such a rarity to hear – caused a surge of gratitude through the Queen of Navarre. Despite Augustine’s coldness to the world, as though the mythological wind Boreas had cast the spell of perpetual winter upon him, Augustine had comforted Jeanne after her two miscarriages and after this stillbirth. These were such rare moments for the couple!

Jeanne kissed his hand. “I’m so happy when you are like this!”

Her husband was stroking her hair. “Don’t torment yourself. We have our Henri.”

Emboldened by his caress, she blurted out, “If only you had been less reticent…” 

Removing his hand from her, Augustine folded his hands in his lap. “If I don’t show my emotions, it does not mean that I feel nothing. My soul is scarred by the deaths of our babies.”

“Then, open your heart to your wife, Augustine.”

The ruler studied his spouse closely. Jeanne’s big and haunted gray eyes were puffy from long weeping, her face streaked with tears like a rain-washed rock. Her brown hair flowed down her shoulders as Jeanne sat in her bed propped on pillows. The queen’s fatigue after the labor and her pallor were accentuated by a high-necked nightgown of black satin. Jeanne was seven years Augustine’s senior, but currently, this age gap was not noticeable due to their youth.

Since their nuptials, Augustine endeavored to rediscover the old connection between them, but to no avail. I want to be myself, but Jeanne pressures me into becoming someone else. His wife wanted him to be a warm husband whose entire world revolved around their matrimony, but it was not something Augustine could give her or anyone else. Furthermore, they frequently engaged in disputes, primarily stemming from Jeanne’s adherence to Protestantism.

In a detached voice, the ruler articulated, “You cannot change my personality.”

A tremor of frustration ripped through the queen. “Do you think it is easy to be your wife, Augustine? You are remote and unapproachable, though not indifferent to my heartbreaks on these tragic days. Your demeanor is as aloof and cold as an iceberg in uncharted waters.”  

“That’s who I am,” Augustine retorted. To avoid further confrontation, the king switched to another topic. “Aren’t you happy that the lands, which Ferdinand of Aragon annexed during his invasion of Navarre in 1512, were finally restored to the crown of Navarre?”

At this, Jeanne let out a smile. “The whole of Navarre is happy with this reunion, and I am most grateful to you, husband. You have fulfilled my father’s dream, although you have become a personal enemy of the Spanish monarch.” Her smile faded at the mention of this man.

“In all fairness, the Valois family has been King Felipe the Second of Spain’s sworn foes since the demise of his father, Emperor Carlos, at the Battle of Marignano all those years ago. I’m aware that we must be careful: one day, Felipe will definitely retaliate.”

Still feeling ill at ease, she remembered, “Your intrigues with Genoese bankers ensured that Felipe would be preoccupied with his financial woes for a long time. His treasury has such a large deficit that he might declare state bankruptcy soon or debase his coinage again.”

Augustine revealed, “I correspond with the Genoese bankers thanks to my friendship with Cosimo de’ Medici. I convinced some of these bankers that they demand from Felipe to redeem his loans earlier than planned. One day, Cosimo and I will meet in Florence.”

“These troubles will distract Felipe from invading Navarre.”

“Precisely.” The king fidgeted with his rings. “Taking into account the uprising in Flanders against Felipe’s high taxes and the burnings of Protestants on his orders, he will never guess what a grand spectacle will soon unfold in the Low Countries.”

The queen knew about a series of riots in the Spain-ruled Burgundian Netherlands. “Are you planning to annex these territories according to the Valois old claim?”

Augustine dreamed of glory for his country and dynasty rather than for himself. “And why not? Once the Low Countries were ruled by the Dukes of Burgundy from the House of Valois. Mary of Burgundy, the only daughter of Duke Charles the Bold of Burgundy, was the richest heiress in Europe at the time, and she married the future Habsburg Emperor Maximilian.”

“Augustine, this war might have bad consequences for Navarre.”

“I disagree, Jeanne. These lands belong to the Valois according to Salic law! By now, most of the Dutch population has grown to loathe the Habsburgs due to the unbearable tax burden and the constant burnings of non-Catholics by the Spanish Inquisition.”

At this moment, she was glad to see his emotion. “You are so inspired, husband!”

His gaze flashed. “Yes, I am. My youngest brother, Louis, can become Lord or Duke of the Burgundian Netherlands.” He chuckled. “Milan for Lorenzo and the Netherlands for Louis!”

“Felipe of Spain shall never swallow anything like this.”

“Naturally, but he is our old enemy, so we are ready.”

She nodded. “He has been quiet for years, and I find this suspicious.”

King Felipe II of Spain resided in Madrid with his second wife – Maria of Portugal, Queen of Spain and Duchess of Viseu. Occasionally, Felipe visited the kingdoms of Naples and the Burgundian Netherlands, which, along with Spain and its other overseas territories, constituted the huge Spanish empire. Felipe and Maria had several surviving children, but most of them had died, so Maria experienced pregnancies almost annually to produce a healthy male heir.

Infante Juan of Spain, Mary Tudor’s son, was the Spanish monarch’s younger half-brother. Felipe still loathed Mary, his former stepmother, due to her siding against his late father, Emperor Carlos, during the Italian war between the Habsburg brothers. Consequently, Felipe had never allowed Juan to meet or correspond with Mary. Following the split-up of Carlos’ immense realm between the Austrian and Spanish Houses of Habsburg, Felipe continued governing vast territories in Europe and the New World, and the sun never set over his holdings.

Augustine assured, “We are cautious with Spaniards.”

“Will you depart for France soon?” his spouse inquired.

He stood up. “Yes, at the end of summer. For Paris, then for Flanders.”

“I’ll be churched in a month. We will have time to try and conceive another baby.”

“At first, rest and recover.” The king kissed her hand before exiting.

Jeanne glanced at the closed door. “Augustine has abandoned me again!” The fact that he had consistently behaved in this manner caused the queen to implode emotionally.

§§§

Queen Jeanne shifted her gaze to the window; dusk had blanketed the château. She hugged herself and trembled as if she were in the grip of a fever – the fever of her intense devotion to and longing for Augustine, to whom she was attracted as a man, although his frosty personality discomfited her. They were each other’s first lovers, and so far Jeanne was certain of his marital fidelity, despite her fears that her husband might be tempted to stray in the future. I’m lucky that Augustine does not have an amorous temperament like that of Uncle François.

She looked up at the canopy of burgundy damask above the bed where her husband often made love to her. Yet, the next moment, Jeanne winced at the memory of how Augustine always left her bed after their intimate encounters, never staying with his wife for the night. The king remained distant even in the grip of passion. The spouses lived separately: Jeanne in her religion-tinged, somber suite, and Augustine in his own apartments, frescoed with mythological scenes.

“We are so different,” whispered the queen to herself. “Even our tastes are opposite.”

In spite of his frigid demeanor, Augustine had an artistic spirit, adoring beauty and the arts. Jeanne was a far more pious and conservative person, even though she appreciated the arts and was superbly educated by her mother, Dowager Queen Marguerite of Navarre. Are you capable of falling for me, Augustine? Jeanne wondered with a hint of despair. Will you remain faithful to me or not? His outstanding erudition and his chilly handsomeness captivated Jeanne.

Then Jeanne seized her Book of Prayers from a nearby bedside table. Unfolding it to the intricately illuminated page dedicated to the Virgin, she prayed, “Gracious Lord and the blessed Virgin Mary, I beseech You to grant me another child to secure the succession of Navarre.”

The queen’s several ladies entered and curtsied. Jeanne beckoned them to her, and they seated themselves nearby and began praying together with their mistress, as usual in French.

“I’ll convert,” said Jeanne while crossing herself. “Catholicism is evil!”

Her maids slanted concerned glances at her, remembering the king’s daunting outbursts of rage when Augustine had caught them red-handed several times as they had prayed in French.

The door flung open, and Yolande appeared in the doorway with the prince.

The little Henri of Navarre cried jovially, “Mama! Mama!”

“My sweet boy!” Jeanne shifted on the bed to free the place for her son.

The queen put the Book of Prayers on the bedside table. Her maids stood up and lowered themselves into curtseys. Afterwards, Jeanne dismissed them, and they hastened out.

“Mama, I’ve missed you so!” Henri exclaimed as he walked on his chubby legs.

Yolande d’Albert followed the prince with another woman. The latter was Françoise de Rohan, one of the four children and the only daughter of Isabelle d’Albert, Infanta of Navarre, and her husband, René I, Viscount de Rohan. Françoise had four brothers – Henri I, Viscount de Rohan, as well as Jean, René II, and Louis de Rohan. After her mother’s death over two years ago, Françoise had assumed the role of a lady-in-waiting to Queen Jeanne.

“Sister,” started Yolande, “the prince has been impatient to see you.”

“He is such a credit to Your Majesty and King Augustine,” lauded Françoise.

Jeanne was beaming at her son. “Henri is exactly who I need now.”

The queen’s half-sister assisted her nephew in climbing onto the bed. Jeanne enfolded her dear Henri into her arms, holding him close, as if he were her most cherished treasure.

“Mama!” lisped the boy. “I love you and my papa!”

Jeanne showered gentle kisses on the boy’s cheeks. “How much I love you, my son!”

Prince Henri III of Navarre was growing into a strong and healthy boy; he would turn three next winter. Dressed in robes of silver silk woven with threads of gold, he resembled a small angel with his bonny face illuminated by his big, gray Albert eyes. His features were a blend of his ancestors – the Valois, Albert, and Foix. However, unlike his parents, Henri had inherited the Valois saturnine complexion with chestnut hair, though not the famous Valois long nose.

Françoise and Yolande eased themselves in matching chairs near the bed.

“King Augustine,” began Françoise, “spent some time with His Highness in the nursery.”

“Now he is attending the Privy Council meeting,” informed Yolande.

Jeanne tipped her head. “Augustine can take care of all affairs during my convalescence.”

Henri called, “Mama! Papa said that my late brother is in heaven.”

The queen’s lips traced her son’s cheek. “Yes, my dearest boy. You are our only son!”

“What is heaven?” Henri’ orbs conveyed curiosity.

The queen lifted her gaze to the ceiling. “It is where the Almighty Lord is enthroned.”

Yolande grinned at them. “The prince is the finest mixture of his parents!”

The queen’s whole being was imbued with unconditional love for her boy. “Yes, Henri is the greatest treasure of Navarre! The best prince in the House of Albert and Valois!”

As the toddler kissed his mother on the cheek, Jeanne relaxed. Her son’s innocent gaze cast a comforting warmth over her weary and battered heart. Henri’s amber orbs, reminiscent of the eyes of many other Valois royals, evoked memories of King François’ friendly gaze, a striking contrast to Augustine’s glacial stare. Unlike his father, my dear Henri radiates genuine warmth, and I can feel it now, the queen told herself internally, finding solace in this fact.

Jeanne proclaimed, “Son! You and I will both worship the true religion, renouncing the detestable popery. It is our mission to bring Reformation to both France and Navarre!”

Henri was puzzled. “I should believe you, Mama. But what exactly do you mean?”

At his tender age, Prince Henri struggled with articulating lengthy sentences or grasping weighty matters. Remarkably, he had taken his first steps at just seven months old, and ever since, Henri’s boundless energy led him to frequently dart around the nursery. His days were brimming with cheerful games shared with his governess, though seldom with his stern mother.

Françoise opined, “King Augustine will never approve of this.”

Jeanne fixed her cousin with a glare. “Françoise, you are a Catholic unlike your brothers. Henri and René de Rohan have wisely treaded the right spiritual path by covertly converting.”

“Madame, we all believe in the same God,” underscored Françoise.

“You are committing a mistake, sister,” Yolande forewarned. “Don’t play with fire.”

Françoise cautioned, “I’m afraid that Your Majesty’s marriage might unravel, your beliefs being the reason. What if the crown of France eventually falls upon King Augustine’s head?”

The Queen of Navarre responded, “My mother told me the same. Prince François is very sickly; Prince Charles, the dauphin’s second son, seems to be robust, although his mood swings are odd; but Prince Alexandre Édouard is healthy. It is uncertain what fate has in store for us.”

“No Protestant can ever sit on the French throne,” remarked Yolande.

Jeanne promulgated, “We can always reshape the future if it is the Lord’s will. Augustine is only the fourth heir in the succession after my cousin, Dauphin Henri, and his sons.”   

“Mama?” Henri’s eyes reflected the purity of mind characteristic of an innocent soul.

Jeanne smiled, envisioning a future of great destiny for her son. She declared, “You shall be King Henri the Third of Navarre! And perhaps, one day, also the King of France!”  

This statement sounded like a harbinger of either doom or glory. Jeanne believed that, after navigating through the swarms of numerous dangers stemming from Catholics, she would find peace only if she, Augustine, and their son were baptized in the holy waters of Calvinism.

§§§

After the Privy Council meeting had ended, King Augustine walked through the corridor to his suite. François de Montmorency approached him and flourished a bow.

Augustine surveyed his friend attentively. “Why are you so anxious, François?”

Montmorency extracted a folded sheet of paper from a pocket of his orange velvet doublet. “Your Majesty, the messenger has just delivered this letter for your wife.”

The ruler accepted the letter. As he scanned through its contents, his countenance grew grim. “So, Jeanne and the Prince de Condé are in regular correspondence.”

“That is indeed correct, Your Majesty.”

Louis de Bourbon, Prince de Condé, had become the center of scandal in recent times. Following his public refusal to attend a Mass and any other Catholic rites at the French court, Condé had confessed to King François about his conversion to Calvinism. As a result, Condé had been banished from court, with none of his relatives defending him. The three Coligny brothers, all friends to Condé, had also been ejected, including Odet de Coligny, Cardinal de Châtillon, Gaspard II de Coligny, and the youngest François, Seigneur de Coligny d’Andelot.

Charles de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme and Archbishop of Rouen, had dissociated himself with his youngest Huguenot brother. Jean de Bourbon, Count de Soissons and d’Engnien, had also distanced himself from Condé, just as Marie de Bourbon, the dauphin’s mistress, had done.

Augustine queried, “Did my spouse receive anything from Gaspard de Coligny?”

Montmorency shrugged. “I know not. I’ve intercepted only this letter.”

“Thank you.” The ruler hastily made his way to his wife’s quarters.

I do not envy King Augustine, François de Montmorency thought. To be married to the dull Queen Jeanne! None of his siblings liked Jeanne because the whole Montmorency family were Catholics, although their father, Constable Anne de Montmorency, was married to Queen Anne’s sister – the Protestant Marie Boleyn. The next moment, François’ mind drifted to Louise de Valois, who, to his relief, was a staunch Catholic, and he planned to pen a letter for her tonight.

§§§

Stopping outside his wife’s suite in the hallway, the King of Navarre found himself in the company of Françoise de Rohan, her expression torn between confusion and fright.  

“Shhh!” Augustine pressed a finger to his lips, and she nodded.

He discerned a flicker of girlish lust in her blue pools. Françoise de Rohan, who was a year Augustine’s junior and yet to be betrothed, appeared to harbor a secret attraction to him. In a low-cut gown of pink satin, Françoise stood tall and slender, with curves in all the right places. Her enticing features and warm, hazel orbs made Françoise undeniably beautiful, capable of eliciting a smile from everyone even on the ugliest days – but not from Augustine.

How can my aloofness genuinely appeal to a pretty woman? Augustine pondered. Maybe I should consider taking a mistress, at least to compare another woman to Jeanne. But she could not be Françoise de Rohan, Jeanne’s first cousin. On her father’s side, Françoise was descended from the 11th-15th century Breton dukes. On her maternal side, she was a niece of King Henri II of Navarre from the House of Albert as a granddaughter of the late Catherine de Foix, Queen of Navarre. Thus, Françoise’s brothers from the Rohan family had a claim to Navarre.

Françoise admitted, “I advised the queen not to pray in French, but she never listens.”

“I do not blame you, Mademoiselle de Rohan." 

The ruler barged into the antechamber. Scared, his wife’s three ladies put their embroidery hoops aside and jerked to their feet, then curtsied. Ignoring them, Augustine strode over to the bedroom and paused near the door, listening to Jeanne’s psalms sung in French.

The earth belongs to the Lord

Everything in its roundness contains

And those who dwell in it;

On sea foundations gave Him,

Enriched Him and surrounded Him

Many beautiful rivers.

Augustine opened the door, and his blood boiled at the infuriating sight before him. Instead of being bedridden after the recent miscarriage, Jeanne and her two other maids knelt on the floor, staring at a wooden cross mounted on the opposite wall. Prince Henri was beside his mother, also kneeling. Notably, Yolande abstained, never partaking in any Calvinistic rites.

Forcing himself to calm down, Augustine made his presence known. “The earth and fates of all people belong to God, but the lives of royals also belong to their kingdoms.”

“Augustine!” A horrified Jeanne let the leather-bound volume fall from her hands.

Immediately, Henri got to his feet. “Father!” He ran to Augustine before halting next to his relative. “Father! I’m praying for the soul of my dearly departed brother.”

Jeanne stood up, and so did her ladies, their orbs downcast in terror.

Augustine picked up their son and kissed him on the forehead. “Yes, you should, Henri.”

“I’ve named our poor boy Charles-Louis,” notified Jeanne nervously.

Augustine instructed, “Our stillborn son will have a Catholic funeral. Is that clear?”  

The Queen of Navarre instructed, “Yolande, take Henri away.”

The king stroked the boy’s hair. “Now go with Aunt Yolande, Henri.”

The monarch set the prince back on his feet. Prince Henri bowed to his father, like he had been taught. Then Yolande approached, casting an apologetic glance at Augustine.

Augustine nodded at Yolande before addressing his wife’s other maids. “None of you will practice any heretical ceremonies again! You will not have my son involved in this dirt!”

One of the handmaidens mumbled, “Your Majesty, we–” 

“Calvinism,” lisped Henri. “What is it?”

Augustine explained, “Something that no Catholic prince should even mention, son.”

“Papa!” A confused Henri gaped at his father. “I do not understand.”

“You are all dismissed,” Jeanne enjoined, preparing for an argument.

After curtsying, the women hurried out. Yolande performed a curtsy and guided Henri out.

The queen prodded over to the bed. “I was praying for our lost children.”

Augustine did not even help his wife settle herself in her bed. “Jeanne, you must pray in Latin! You may hold any beliefs in your heart, but you must not drag your kingdom into heresy. Most importantly, you have no right to teach our son heresy from Henri’s childhood.”  

“Protestantism is the only true religion,” she stated, tucking the covers beneath herself.

The ruler approached and showed to Jeanne the letter from Louis de Bourbon. “Our cousin, the Prince de Condé, writes about Calvinism as his soul’s most cherished religion. He promises that he will try to smuggle new religious books from Switzerland and Germany to France. Condé also pledges to bring for you ‘Christianismi Restitutio’ by that accursed Calvin!”

The queen translated, “It is Jean Calvin’s ‘The Restoration of Christianity’ in French!”

His anger was mounting. “It is the vile book where that reformer rejected the Christian doctrine of the Trinity and the concept of predestination. Calvin is a heretic!”

“Says a man who does not believe in God,” Jeanne castigated. “A man whose excessive Catholic piety is a well-rehearsed spectacle for your masterful propaganda with the goal to create the image of King Augustine the Venerable. You will not deny it, husband of mine, will you?”

“Indeed, I find it hard to believe in things I cannot see and touch, but only my parents and some relatives know this. I believe it is a stance any Catholic monarch or prince must adopt.”

She berated, “It is such a grand spectacle on your part! The world is a theatre for you, and all the actors are playing the dramas you have composed for them as your marionettes.”

The monarch neared the bed. “Don’t divert from the subject.”

“You are a hypocrite!” she attacked. “A man skeptical of religion! A hypocrite!”

He commanded, “You will never write to Condé and the Coligny brothers again.”

“I am a queen regnant! You will not dictate anything to me!”

“I’ll report to my father that Condé is continuing to stir trouble in exile, and he will have to live under constant surveillance, just as you will have to exist from now on.”

“You cannot control my life, Augustine!”

“Haven’t you been trying to do this since our wedding night, Jeanne?”

In a bewildering and infuriating turn of events, the King of Navarre ripped Condé’s letter into shreds and scattered them across the carpet. He proceeded to stride towards the Bible left on the floor, stooped down, and picked it up, his resolve to destroy it solidifying. 

Jeanne’s heart skipped a beat. “What are you going to do?”

“You shall see now,” Augustine snarled as he opened the book. “The Genevan Psalter by Jean Calvin who gifted this book to ‘My dear friend Queen Jeanne of Navarre, who is deeply committed to reforming her homeland, France and Navarre.’ How very touching!”  

The queen wanted to take the book in her hands. “I treasure my psalter.”  

He accused again, “You are teaching heresy to our boy.”  

At this, she shouted back, “Henri must know and worship the only true faith!”

He summoned all his patience to speak calmly. “Madame, if you do not think of yourself, you must care about our son’s future. My heirs can be neither a Protestant nor a Calvinist! My father and my brother, Henri, discussed that I may inherit the Valois throne in the future.”

“Have you already buried your own nephews?”

“I care not a whit about your biting sarcasm, wife.” He clasped the book so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “Prince François has always been in poor health. Of late, Prince Charles is not as strong as he once was. Only Prince Alexandre Édouard remains robust.”

“That must be God’s punishment for the sins of Catherine de’ Medici!”

“I detest that harpy, but she is not relevant to our current discussion.”

However, his wife shot back, “Isn’t she the worst part of our family?”

“Stop changing topics!” Augustine refocused on the topic at hand. “Jeanne, I forbid you from writing to Condé or any follower of heresy. You will not be allowed to correspond with Calvin, reformers, and evangelicals. You will be watched closely by my most trusted people. If I learn that you conduct Calvinist rituals or send even one wrong letter, and if you – God forbid – dare have our son involved in your pagan activities, I shall take Henri away.”

Her orbs widened fractionally. “What? Henri is a crown prince of Navarre!”

“I’m Henri’s father. If his mother is losing touch with reality, I must protect him.”

“Your soul is in danger of eternal damnation, Augustine.”

“Oh, yes, because of my lack of religious fervency,” he jeered.

A perturbed Jeanne watched her husband walk over to a chest of drawers on the other side of the room. Augustine searched through her personal belongings. After examining some of her papers, Augustine cursed aloud. Her letters contained the queen’s correspondence not only with the Prince de Condé and Gaspard II de Coligny, but also with Jean Calvin and various German reformers such as Heinrich Bullinger, William Farel, and Theodore Beza. Moreover, Augustine discovered many Calvinistic books in French that had been brought to Pau from Geneva.

Augustine hollered, “Fetch François de Montmorency!”

The distinct sound of someone hurrying through the antechamber and leaving the queen’s chambers indicated that the ruler’s order had been received. Tension continued to build in the air.

Jeanne demanded, “Give my letters and books to me! They are mine!”

“No,” he objected. “I do not wish to hurt you, but this garbage must be burned.”

She climbed out of bed, ignoring the sudden pain in her stomach. “You will not dare!”

“I shall!” Icy chilliness entered his determined orbs. “I want to keep you away from falling into a religious abyss, at the brink of which you have been teetering for a long time.”

The queen admitted, “I’ve already renounced that evil Catholicism in my soul!”

“What a mistake of yours, ma chérie,” Augustine parried.

Her temper spiked. “This is the best thing I’ve ever done! I shall convert officially!”

It was the monarch’s worst fear! He then showered her with a significant dose of scorching sarcasm. “We will see how ignobly Huguenots will behave when they demand to make heresy a second official religion, disregarding that France’s community is predominantly a Catholic.”

Jeanne had heard about it from Condé. “They will do the right thing, then!”

Augustine doubted that he would be able to prevent his wife’s slide into heresy. “My father has refrained from burning his countrymen for heresy, except in the aftermath of the Affair of the Placards in 1534. His religious tolerance has granted France many years of peace, yet non-Catholics have enjoyed such freedom that they appear to be intoxicated or enchanted by liberty.”

“Wrong,” she contested. “Many individuals, both nobles and commoners, have recognized the malevolent nature of Catholicism. That’s why they are embracing Protestantism!”

A sense of bitter disappointment with his wife seized him. “The Huguenots have succeeded in forming an organized movement. Sadly, some aristocrats have also become troublesome, like our cousin de Condé. It’s high time for us to alter our religious policy!”

The queen looked frightened. “No, Uncle François should not do so!”

“It no longer works, my darling. Just imagine: this policy led to a dreadful situation when the King of France’s own niece, the Queen of Navarre, has succumbed to heresy.”

Disgusted by his sarcasm, Jeanne stepped to him. “It is not heresy! It’s–“ 

Augustine interrupted, “Enough! Calvin has channeled all his energy into advancing the French Protestant cause, acting through you and Condé. His agents distributed countless printed treatises against Catholicism and the Holy See, but most of them were confiscated and destroyed. Calvin dispatched many Protestant preachers to France, and although they disguise themselves as Catholic priests, we identified some of them and had them arrested.”

“Has Uncle François already reversed his policy?”

“It is inevitable, and over time, persecutions will intensify. My father has, until now, only commanded the disposal of heretical literature and the apprehension of Calvin’s agents and evangelicals. Even my mother, who is not a Catholic at heart, supports these harsh measures because France appears to be on the brink of bloody religious wars. Catholic nobles despise the Huguenots who fail to appreciate that they were not hunted down before.”

The queen objected, “There will be no religious conflicts if–” 

He cut her off abruptly. “The tension is reaching a breaking point, and anyone can ignite the flames. My father’s tireless efforts against religious fanaticism have been in vain.”

“If you consider converting, we could avoid many troubles.”

The king regarded his wife as if she were a lunatic. “I shall never do that, never!”

She pointed her finger upward. “God will punish you for your skepticism towards Him.”

Augustine verbally conveyed his deepening disappointment. “I’ve been attempting to help you grasp the gravity and immediacy of the heresy threat and the presence of heretics in France. The internal conflicts within the country might trigger a situation to implode, resulting in a swift and widespread outbreak of violence.” His voice grew more intense. “Are you really prepared to support Condé and his allies in pushing our nation to civil war?”

The queen affirmed, “Reformation must come at any cost to save the souls of the French.”

“I do not recognize you, Jeanne! Has Calvin transformed you into a religious fanatic?”

“My faith in God remains strong,” she countered. “But not in Rome and the evil Pope!”

The door opened. François de Montmorency entered with a bow. “Your Majesties.”

Augustine gestured towards the chest of drawers. “Take all these books and parchments! Burn them all! Tell your brother, Henri, to watch over my wife from now on.”

Jeanne could not believe her ears. “You cannot be serious, Augustine!”

Montmorency approached and gathered the books. “As Your Majesty wishes.”

The spouses locked their glares like mortal adversaries. In spite of all her modesty and piety, Jeanne was so overwhelmed with her tumultuous emotions that the presence of another man in her bedroom, while she wore only her night robe, went unnoticed by her.

After sketching a bow, Montmorency exited, carrying the queen’s things.

“Augustine, don’t do this to me,” implored Jeanne.

Nonetheless, the king advised, “Go back to bed, Jeanne, and I’ll summon a physician. And don’t you dare disregard my warnings again. Or I’ll have to remove Henri from Navarre.”

Without a backward glance, the ruler pivoted and vacated the chamber.

Jeanne trudged to the bed and climbed into it. She snuggled under the covers and collapsed in tears, her Huguenot heart tearing apart in anguish over being deprived of her precious spiritual possessions. The pain in her abdomen intensified due to her stress, and Jeanne blamed Augustine for that, refusing to admit that she had brought these troubles upon herself. Augustine cannot separate me from my son! the Queen of Navarre wailed silently, utterly resenting her husband.

Notes:

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all our friends and readers! The new chapter is now available! Please, share your thoughts on this chapter, and remember to leave reviews so we can discuss the events, twists, and turns with our readers.

In the previous chapter, we jumped to 1557, showing King François with his sons at Angoulême. The first section is set at Château d’Angoulême that is owned by Augustine de Valois, King of Navarre and Duke d’Angoulême. Antoine de Valois, Duke de Provence, is betrothed to Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots (referred to as Marie in the rest of this fiction), but whether they will eventually marry remains uncertain – we will explore this later. Marie Stuart, who is currently being raised at Château d’Ussé as the plot requires, will make appearance in subsequent chapters.

Now Jean de Valois, Duke de Guyenne, is married to Christine of Hesse. Jean, originally aspiring to be a priest or monk, encounters challenges in his marital life. His unhappiness will be addressed, though perhaps not in the conventional manner of providing a couple with a happy ending. We hope that you are enjoying the portrayals of Jean, Antoine, Lorenzo (Duke of Milan), and Louis, who will have a distinctive character arc, for we see that the King of France and his sons are strategizing for a new war to reclaim the former Valois territories – the Burgundian Netherlands. Dauphin Henri’s personal situation with his chief mistress, Marie de Bourbon, and his jailed wife, Catherine de’ Medici, will be explored later.

In the second section, we focused on the royal couple of Navarre and their marriage. King Augustine and Queen Jeanne have a son – Prince Henri of Navarre (the future King Henri III of Navarre). The boy is Jeanne’s heir to the throne of Navarre as her only living child. It is possible that soon Jeanne will have her historical daughter, Catherine of Navarre. This chapter shows Jeanne giving birth to a stillborn son and dealing with the emotional load of her previous miscarriages and stillbirths. Being first cousins, Jeanne and Augustine, are highly likely to face some childbearing problems, although Jeanne d’Albert did indeed lose many children in reality.

The couple argues due to Jeanne’s staunch inclination to Protestantism. Augustine opposes their son Henri being taught anything connected with what he considers heresy – Protestantism or Calvinism. Despite threats from Augustine, Jeanne remains committed to making Henri a Calvinist and bringing the ideas of Reformation to France and Navarre. Their long conversation reflects the current difficult religious situation in France, including the Prince de Condé’s banishment and activities to advance the Protestant and Calvinist agenda. Augustine forbids Jeanne from writing to Condé and his allies, especially the Coligny brothers (they will appear later), but the Queen of Navarre is highly unlikely to obey her husband.

We aimed to portray Prince Henri of Navarre close to King Henri III of Navarre’s historical appearance, with some changes since he is Augustine of France’s son. Descriptions of Château de Pau and the town of Pau are historically more or less accurate, while Françoise de Rohan and her background are historically correct as well – she is Jeanne of Navarre’s first cousin.

Attention! We posted a prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP) a while ago, so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 105: Chapter 104: A Chain of Radical Changes

Summary:

Princess Elizabeth enjoys a contented life with her husband and their children. However, King Edward VI’s dismissal of Lord Exeter from all his positions sparks a chain of radical changes, further amplified by the king’s new Catholic wife. Initially exiled, Elizabeth ultimately faces the necessity to flee England with her own and Exeter’s children, leaving her loved ones behind.

Notes:

Happy New Year to you all, friends! Please, if you are reading this fiction leave us a review, for we need your support for inspiration to keep going.

The prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don’t forget about our work “Entwined by a Golden Alliance” co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 104: A Chain of Radical Changes

August 25, 1557, Hever Castle, the county of Kent, England

Elizabeth Tudor, Duchess of Devon and Princess of England, marveled at her unexpected guests – Henry and Jane Percy, Earl and Countess of Northumberland. Henry bowed, while his wife, Jane, curtsied, standing in the middle of the presence chamber. Flemish tapestries adorned the walls, and Gothic tracery depicted two angels, each bearing shields that displayed the coats-of-arms and alliances of the Boleyn and Howard families, as well as those of the late King Henry VIII and the Boleyn family. Portraits of Anne Boleyn and her relatives lined one of the walls.

The princess admitted, “I did not expect to see you both at my mother’s childhood home. And I had no idea that your family had returned from Italy.”

The Earl of Northumberland replied, “Your Highness, thank you for welcoming us.”

“We are grateful for your hospitality,” added the Countess of Northumberland.

Elizabeth noticed their slight awkwardness. “Welcome back to England!”

Smiling at the princess, Northumberland revealed, “We returned with our son Alan, who turned eleven several months ago. We enjoyed our life in Florence, but we want Alan to continue his education in England, although he received a refined education in Italy.”

The princess nodded. “Your English hearts have called you back.”

The earl concluded, “Yes, we have missed our homeland!”

Standing next to her husband, Jane clasped his hand in hers. “Even English rainy weather.”

Elizabeth gestured towards high-back armchairs near a fireplace. “Please, take a seat.”

The Percy spouses watched Anne Boleyn’s daughter glide gracefully across the room like a swan, before settling herself in an intricately carved oak armchair. Elizabeth’s brown eyes were fixed on Jane and Henry – two fathomless dark pools of intelligence and mystery, reminiscent of her mother’s gaze. Jane, to her dismay, detected a glimmer of reverence lurking in Percy’s orbs.

Princess Elizabeth reminds Harry of Queen Anne, Jane concluded inwardly with bitterness and sadness, sentiments that had lingered for many years. Harry has always loved Anne Boleyn, not me. Now her daughter’s manners and eyes remind him of Anne. At the age of twenty-four, Elizabeth’s appearance was that of a true Tudor: a heart-shaped face framed by long, red-gold curls arranged in well-smoothed clusters, streaming down her back in a flaming cascade.

“Will you sit down?” Elizabeth was somewhat discomfited by their stares.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” said Northumberland.

The earl and his wife seated themselves in the designated chairs.

In silence, Percy observed Elizabeth from top to toe. She wore a splendid gown of crimson brocade, cut low in the French style and ornamented with diamonds and rubies. Her stomacher of gold, set with precious stones, gleamed like her hair in the sunlight streaming inside through the windows. Her features were irregular, yet lovely, and there was an aura of enigmatic allure and nobility about her. Everything about Elizabeth is majestic, Henry Percy praised inwardly.

The Percy couple could not help but compare Elizabeth with Louise de Valois, Dowager Duchess of Savoy. On the way from Italy, they had stopped in Savoy’s capital, Chambéry, where Louise had welcomed them. Remembrances of the brown-haired and amber-eyed Louise, pretty in a non-classical way, flashed through Percy’s mind, leaving an impression of poise, class, and formidability. Jane and Henry had also met Duke Charles Emmanuel de Savoy.

Elizabeth inquired, “To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you both today?”

Henry retrieved a folded parchment from a pocket of his doublet. “On the way to England, we traveled through Savoy and briefly stayed at the ducal court in Chambéry. Your esteemed sister, Madame Louise, is a wonderful hostess, and she gave us this letter for you.”

The princess’ brows shot up. “Why did Louise need intermediaries to send me a letter?”

Percy shrugged. “Maybe there is some special information in it.”

“She could have used a French trusted messenger,” Bess noted with a trace of suspicion.

“I’m sorry,” began the earl, “but I cannot answer this question, Your Highness.”

Elizabeth was impatient to read it. “Of course, my lord. Please, give it to me, please.”

Breaking the Valois seal, the princess unfolded the parchment. As she studied the contents written in French in her sister’s calligraphic handwriting, Elizabeth blanched profusely. After a moment of shock, she gathered her wits and surveyed her guests who watched her in silence.

At fifty-five, Henry Percy remained quite tall, well fit, and long-limbed. His Italian doublet of yellow and black satin was ornamented with silver thread. His puffy, Venetian hose of black silk emphasized his leanness, for Henry had not gained weight with age. Deep wrinkles marked his features under his blue eyes and on his wide forehead, accentuated by his receding half-gray, half-brown hair. A cap of red velvet, exhibiting an ostrich plume, crowned his head.

Contrasting her husband’s attire, Jane Percy wore a traditional English gown of beige satin ornamented with pearls, its high neckline and sleeves trimmed with black lace. Time had marked Jane with wrinkles, and her graying hair was arranged in a chignon, yet Jane still bore a striking resemblance to the image imprinted on Elizabeth’s memory since her childhood. Elizabeth’s old resentment once held for replacing her mother in her father’s life resurfaced until Bess detected a flicker of melancholy in Jane’s orbs. Does our meeting make Jane sad? Elizabeth pondered.

Internally perplexed, Elizabeth maintained a carefully composed mask of blandness. “My sister possesses wisdom and intuition rare for her youth. However, what prompted Louise to trust you of all people so implicitly that she entrusted you with this note?”

Henry assumed, “Your grandfather, Sir Thomas Boleyn, was in Chambéry at the time of our arrival. Perhaps it was his influence over Madame Louise.”

“Is my grandfather still in good health to travel?” queried Elizabeth, now more surprised.

“Lord Wiltshire feels well enough,” assured Northumberland. “I think that Your Highness is aware that a year ago, Queen Anne visited him in Venice with her sister.”

The princess dipped her head. “Yes, I know.”

Elizabeth’s mind drifted to her long-absent and controversial grandfather, her memories of him vague. Does Thomas Boleyn plan to return to England? Five years ago, Thomas had written to Elizabeth for the first time, and since then they exchanged letters on occasion. Like the old Duke of Norfolk, at present, Boleyn was about eighty – both men were still alive, too stubborn to die. Thomas seemed to have permanently settled down in Venice with his Italian family.

Her train of thought floating back to her mother, Elizabeth sighed. Who could imagine that one day, Bess would see Jane Seymour again! “The past is gone, but the shadows linger.”

Feeling odd, Jane narrated, “Your Highness, we did not visit France and did not see Queen Anne. You must know that she and I made peace in Florence ten years ago. She and I were both victims of–” She trailed off at the realization of what had slipped from her tongue.

“Of King Henry the Eighth,” finished Elizabeth. “All women who loved my father or were tied to him in some way seem to be ill-fated. Only you, my mother, and Lady Catherine Exeter escaped the doom he brought upon his wives in punishment for their imaginary sins.”

Astonished, the Countess of Northumberland nodded. “Thank you for not holding a grudge against me. Forgive me if I did not treat you with enough affection in your childhood.”

The princess found herself equally astounded by Jane’s apology and her friendly, almost remorseful tone. “Lady Northumberland, let bygones be bygones.”

Henry uttered, “It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light.”

Elizabeth let out a smile. “Your Grace is right.”

“Does Your Highness go to the king’s court often?” Henry questioned.

Bess sighed. “Not very often. I pray that God will guide my brother to the right path.”

Puzzled, Henry deduced that Anne’s daughter was concerned about the young monarch. “We share your prayers, Your Highness. May the Lord bless King Edward!”

Jane was curious about the king. “Soon we will be introduced to His Majesty.”

“But only after visiting our estates,” Henry parried. “We have been absent for too long.”

Nodding at her husband, Jane glanced at the princess. “Your Highness, Henry and I also journeyed to the Duchy of Palatinate-Neuburg, where we met with Duke Philip and Duchess Mary. They are content together, raising their children who are growing rapidly.”

Elizabeth recalled that years ago, Jane had strongly preferred Mary Tudor over her during Jane’s tenure as Henry VIII’s consort. “Mary and I correspond regularly.”

Jane inclined her head. “Sisterhood can be cherished even from a distance. I frequently wrote to my sisters, Elizabeth and Dorothy, while we lived in Florence.”

They discussed current events and life in England. As a proud mother, Princess Elizabeth enthusiastically chatted about her offspring – her sons, James and Lionel, and her infant daughter Anne, named after her mother, Queen Anne of France. Jane and Henry comprehended that the princess’ sons did not receive the name of the late tyrannical king for obvious reasons.

Their conversation was interrupted by a hubbub of cheerful voices outside the room.

Elizabeth got to her feet. “My husband has just returned from his stroll with our children. You are welcome to stay tonight, so I’ll ask the servants to prepare rooms for you.”

Jane stood up as well. “We are most grateful, Your Highness.”

Henry climbed to his feet and stepped to his wife. “Thank you for your hospitality, Your Highness. As our son is now at Wressle Castle, we shall stay for a day.”

After Elizabeth’s departure, the earl and his countess were lodged in their apartments.

§§§

The anteroom in the Duke of Devon’s quarters was splendid, its walls decorated with rich burgundy-colored fabrics. Heavy mahogany furniture, ornately carved with mythological scenes, was tastefully arranged throughout the area, and a thick magenta rose carpet graced the floor.

Eddie Courtenay, Duke of Devon, remarked, “Sweetheart, the weather is sunny outside.”

Elizabeth approached her husband, and their fingers laced together like two halves.

“Eddie,” she drawled with a grin. “I’ve missed you and our children so!”

He kissed her hand gracefully. “I heard that you were busy with our guests.”

“Indeed.” Elizabeth removed her hands from his. “They brought a letter from Louise.” The carpet took the brunt of her relentless pacing as she disclosed, “According to my sister’s letter, Dauphin Henri and my brother Augustine will try to conquer the Burgundian Netherlands.”

Devon settled himself in an armchair. “It is evident Louise used Henry Percy to send this note, ensuring it would not be intercepted by those who might relay the information to Spain.”

Elizabeth paused by the window, staring into the blooming gardens, but her thoughts were distant. “The House of Valois still lays claim to these lands, insisting that they rightfully belong to France. If they annex the Low Countries, it might ignite a new Franco-Spanish war.”

“That is true, Bess, but you cannot outright forbid the French. Augustine and Henri are capable generals who can assess all risks. Just remember that Augustine successfully captured Upper Navarre, which Ferdinand the Second of Aragon annexed years ago.”

She pivoted to her husband. “Louise and I are of the opinion that wresting the Netherlands from Felipe, coupled with gaining control of Upper Navarre, would be too much.”

Edward rose to his feet and strode to his wife. His arms enfolded her waist as he pulled her close. “Bess, the Lord will protect France and your siblings.”

His proximity was intoxicating. “Eddie, I feel safe in your arms.”

The spouses kissed for what felt like an eternity, their embrace deepening in intensity.

“Mama! Papa!” their sons chorused as they ran into the room.

Bess and Eddie separated, their hearts brimming with pure joy as their children rushed into their arms. The three-year-old James had features of both parents: Elizabeth’s red-gold hair and dark eyes illuminated his round face, as well as Eddie’s thin lips and his pale complexion. Sporting the distinctive Tudor hair, two-year-old Lionel epitomized the quintessential York look, complete with his brown hair and his blue Woodville eyes, mirroring those of his father.

Edward lifted James in his arms. “My dearest son, you are noisy again.”

James kissed his father’s cheek. “I wish to always be with you both!”

“And me too,” cried Lionel as Elizabeth gathered him into her embrace.

Edward spun around with James, and Elizabeth did the same with Lionel. They eventually came to a stop, placing the boys on the floor, and their collective laughter echoed like a thousand bells. Once more, the happy parents contemplated their offspring who possessed the distinctive features inherited from the great lineages of York, Tudor, Boleyn, Woodville, and Courtenay.

The door opened, and Lady Katherine “Kat” Ashley entered, carrying the baby. It was the couple’s daughter, Anne, born in the late 1556; Elizabeth had been pregnant three times.

“Mama!” The baby girl squirmed energetically in Kat’s arms, and she set her on the floor.

Kat commented, “Annie began walking early.”

Anne, her delicate face lit up by a grin, moved on her chubby legs towards her mother. The little girl possessed her grandmother Anne’s raven hair and swarthy complexion, complemented by her captivating blue Woodville eyes. Annie’s attire stood out as she was dressed in a silver silk robe, a contrast to her brothers who both wore red damask doublets and black velvet hose. The trio formed a picturesque scene, each displaying their unique charm and demeanor.

“Our sweet Annie is very active,” Edward characterized in a silken voice.

“Annie is funny,” James lisped, breaking into laughter.

Lionel joined in, mimicking his brother’s joyous reaction. “Annie looks like a doll!”

Bess sauntered to her daughter, knelt, and picked her up. “Sons, you are both so animated and rambunctious! You both ought to be caring and protective big brothers to Annie.”

Lionel pledged, “We will always be her knights!”

“She is our jewel,” James declared. “Just as you are, Mother.”

Edward positioned himself between his sons. “My boys, you should be brave, honorable, and gallant. Your Mama and Annie are our great ladies, meant for love and cherishing.”

Elizabeth flashed a radiant smile. “I have three knights to care for me and our dear Annie.” She gently kissed her daughter on the cheeks. “Our family’s Camelot is truly majestic!”

“It is like heaven on earth.” Eddie’s gaze conveyed his devotion to his wife.

Smiling at them, Kat Ashley curtsied. “I shall see myself out.” She then exited.

Holding her daughter, Elizabeth surveyed her family members in turns, and a wellspring of unconditional love welled up within her. Several years prior, she had hesitated about entering into matrimony, but the harmonious marital life she shared with Edward Courtenay had dispelled those fears – he proved to be an ideal husband. I adore Eddie and our offspring wholeheartedly, Bess told herself. However, a shadow of something perilous loomed in her mind.

Coincidentally, Edward Courtenay promulgated, “Children! Soon we will have to bid you farewell. Your mother and I must attend the royal court and see King Edward.”

James, Lionel, and Annie voiced their protests, but their father soothingly reassured them with promises of a swift return. Strangely, Elizabeth felt as if a perpetual gloom had blanketed their family, and wings of apprehension fluttered in the pit of her stomach. Accustomed to living mainly in Eddie’s or her estates, which were often visited by various artists, particularly poets, Elizabeth wondered why her brother had urgently summoned them both to London.


September 10, 1557, St James’s Palace, the city of London, England

Dusk draped its gentle veil over the city, creating a serene atmosphere in the royal presence chamber, tapestried with scenes of courtly love and tournaments. King Edward, engrossed in a game of Primero, occupied a high-back oak armchair, positioned across from Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, and Edward Courtenay, Duke of Devon. A marble table between them bore witness to the strategic moves and camaraderie unfolding during the game.

On the opposite side of the room, Princess Elizabeth sat a red-brocaded couch. Beside her was Catherine Courtenay, Marchioness of Exeter, conversing with her former stepdaughter. Elizabeth’s nimble fingers skillfully plucked the strings of the lute in her hands, producing a melody that resonated through the room, adding an enchanting layer to the courtly setting.

In the midst of the mellifluous strains of the lute, the powerful voice of Arthur Brooke, a talented and celebrated English poet, rose. He stood as a stalwart figure, of medium height and in his late fifties, the sternness of his countenance enhanced by his solemn, brown eyes. Brooke sat in a chair near the couch, his presence captivating the audience as he recited excerpts from his narrative poem ‘The Tragic History of Rome and Juliet.’ Counted among the artists patronized by Elizabeth and her husband, Brooke contributed to the cultural richness of the royal court.

Love hath inflamed twain by sudden sight,

And both do grant the thing that both desire,

They wed in shrift by counsel of a friar.

Young Romeo climbs fair Juliet’s bower by night.

Three months he doth enjoy his chief delight.

By Tybalt's rage provoked unto ire, 

He paid death to Tybalt for his hire.

A banished man he escapes by secret flight.

New marriage is offered to his wife.

She drinks a drink that seems to reave her breathe,

They bury her that sleeping, yet half-life.

Her husband hears the tidings of her death.

He drinks his bane. And she with Romeo’s knife,

When she awakes, herself, alas, she slays.

“This poem is rather melancholic,” huffed King Edward.

The Marquess of Exeter said, “It is dedicated to Romeo’s great love for Juliet.”

“No less great than my love for Bess,” the Duke of Devon purred.

The king chuckled. “Ah! I, too, find myself on the brink of discovering what true love is!”

Intrigued, Exeter stated, “Princess Katarina of Sweden or Princess Cecilia of Sweden from the House of Vasa would be exceptional choices for Your Majesty’s queen.” Начало формы

A mysterious smile played on Edward’s lips. “I don’t require their company.”

Puzzled, Exeter furrowed his brows. “But why?” The sudden erosion of trust between him and his secret “Tudor” son heightened Exeter’s growing inner discomfort.

“Let’s concentrate on the game,” the ruler redirected, seizing a deck of fifty-two cards.

Becoming the game dealer, Edward shuffled the deck and dealt two cards to each player, initiating the rounds of bidding, staking, and also passing. While Brooke was reading, Elizabeth continued playing, attentively listening, with Catherine, to the ongoing conversation.

The princess silently compared Catherine to her mother. In contrast to Anne’s surprisingly smooth face despite her progressing age, the forty-five-year-old Catherine Parr had a network of deep wrinkles around her mouth and eyes, on her cheeks, and across her forehead. Dressed in a high-necked gown of tawny satin, Catherine exuded warmth, kindness, intelligence, and wisdom. After all these years, Catherine and Hal Courtenay are still deeply in love, Elizabeth observed.

Arthur Brooke continued, his performance seamlessly blending both speech and song.

There is beyond the Alps, a town of ancient fame,

Whose bright renown yet shining clear: Verona is its name,

Built in a happy time, built on a fertile soil,

Maintained by the heavenly fates, and by the town’s toil

The fruitful hills above, the pleasant valleys below…

“Now, now!” The monarch placed coins in front of him and made his bid.

At the age of seventeen, King Edward was a handsome and tall figure, boasting a notable resemblance to his ancestor, King Edward IV of England. This resemblance surpassed even that of the late Henry VIII in his adolescence. Edward’s high-cheekboned face featured thin lips and a jaw covered with a golden stubble. The sparkle in his blue Woodville eyes added to his boyish charm, as did the king’s doublet and hose of golden brocade embellished with diamonds.

“Let’s see what I have,” said King Ned, opening his cards.

“This time, I pass.” Devon discarded his cards before drawing replacements from the deck.

Exeter jested, “Your Majesty is truly fortunate in cards.”

The monarch collected the coins from the others. “In both love and cards.”

“You will be, sire,” Exeter started, fidgeting with a card, “if you marry one of the Swedish princesses. King Gustav of Sweden offers a generous dowry for his daughters.”

Catherine interjected, “Both princesses are good-looking and well-educated.”

Ignoring their words, Edward addressed Exeter and Devon. “If I win again, you two may find yourselves short of funds. Maybe my sister will have to part with her diamond necklace. Are you ready for such sacrifices to assist His Grace of Devon in winning, Bess?”

Elizabeth ceased playing and twittered, “I shall do anything for Eddie.”

Although Brooke paused, Elizabeth signaled for him to proceed with the poem.

“You are very generous, my darling wife,” retorted Devon.

King Edward gushed, “You are such a wonderful couple! Our poets should write a poem about you.” His visage transformed into a dreamy one. “Ah, one lady has charmed me, too!”

“Thank you, brother,” Elizabeth said, intrigued by what the king meant.

Devon grinned. “Your Majesty is most kind to Bess and me.” 

“Who is that woman, sire?” Exeter inquired, assuming the king had found a new mistress.

“Don’t ask me anything.” The monarch dealt more cards. “I’ll beat you both again.” As the game went on, Edward complained, “How melancholic this work is, Master Brooke.”

Exeter could barely focus on the game, his mind preoccupied with worries about the king. Under the influence of his childhood friend, William Paulet, son of the Marquess of Winchester, Edward had embraced a womanizing lifestyle. Currently, Edward was involved with numerous women, including sisters, wives of courtiers, and even older widows. Ned must marry and secure the succession, Exeter inferred wordlessly. Sadly, he is proving to be weak-willed and easily-led.

Bess expertly strummed the lute strings, crafting a melody with precision and dedication. Meanwhile, Brooke advanced to the final segment of his performance.

Whose praise, with equal blast, Fame in her trumpet blew,

The one was clan Capuleti, and the other Montecchi.

A wonted use it is, that men of likely sort, 

What kind of fury forced envy each other!

So these, whose regal state bred envy pale of hue,

And then, of envy’s root, black hate and rancor grew,

As, of a little spark, of rising mighty fire,

So of a kindled spark of grudge, in flames flash out their ire:

And then their deadly food, first hatched of trifling strife,

Did bathe in blood of wounds, destroying breath and life.

Examining his cards, the exuberant ruler cried, “This marks my third triumph tonight!”

Exeter and Devon both shifted their coins to the monarch on the table.

“Congratulations, Your Majesty,” Devon exclaimed.

Exeter’s lips curled in a grin. “Well done, Your Majesty!”  

Elizabeth put aside her lute. “Master Brooke, thank you. Now you may go.”

“You are very talented, Master Brooke,” complemented Catherine.

The ruler shouted impatiently, “Yes, Brooke, leave.”

“Have a good evening, Your Majesty,” said the poet before bowing and exiting.

§§§

King Edward scattered his cards onto a pile of coins. “We should not have a feud, like that between the Capuleti and Montecchi families in the story of Romeo and Juliet.”

“Your Majesty?” A sickening foreboding settled in Exeter’s stomach.

The monarch declared, “Lord Exeter, I appreciate your contributions, but I’ve signed the decree relieving you of the position of Lord Protector. Your achievements are commendable, and you deserve a peaceful life in the countryside with your wife and children.”

The Marquess of Exeter was taken aback by the news. “Your Majesty! I expected that you might wish to rule independently, but I’m bewildered. Have I, in some way, offended you?”

All pairs of sympathetic eyes, save the ruler’s, were directed at the former Lord Protector.

In his late fifties, Hal Courtenay had a complexion even paler than in years past. His once brown hair had turned entirely gray. His lavish doublet was of crimson brocade and opulently embroidered with threads of gold. The piercing gaze of Exeter’s blue Woodville eyes spoke of vigilance and wisdom, traits acquired through a life marked by intrigue and hardship.

Catherine fumed, “Exile for my husband? Sire, this would be a mistake! Hal has governed England for many years, and the country has prospered.”

Edward’s expression hardened. “Watch your tongue, Madame.”

Elizabeth wanted to interject, but Devon’s restraining hand on her arm silenced her.

The king glared at each of them in turn before declaring, “I’ve always detested your efforts to make me a Protestant and to force me into marriage to some heretical princess. Therefore, my grandmother, unfairly exiled by you, Lord Exeter, aided me to secure an excellent match.” His face evolved into one of joy. “As you well know, I was away from London with my friends for a week. I married Joanna of Spain, Princess of Portugal and Spain, in Dover upon her arrival.”

This announcement left everyone profoundly shocked.

A shaken Elizabeth rose to her feet. “How could you do such a thing, brother?”

Catherine fretted, “Oh, my goodness! She is a Catholic!”

The ruler decreed, “Queen Joanna of England will be crowned next month. You must all respect her and treat her in accordance with her highest station in the realm.”

Devon opined, “This marriage will do no good for the country.”   

Furious, King Edward directed his attention to Eddie. “Devon, I’ve adored you since my childhood, but now you have angered me so much that I banish you and Bess from court.”

Elizabeth scoffed, “Gladly, and now Your Majesty can enjoy your life without us. But how will you rule without Lord Exeter? And how will your wife react to your many mistresses? It seems that her father, Emperor Carlos, was always faithful to her mother, Empress Isabella.”

“You speak out of turn, Bess,” reprimanded the monarch.

The herald declared, “Her Majesty Queen Joanna of England! Lady Honor Grenville!”

A groom opened the door from the hallway, and two women entered.

Her head held high, Queen Joanna crossed the chamber and halted in front of her husband, who kissed her hand, before dropping into a deep curtsey. There was an undeniable air of regal sophistication surrounding Joanna, creating an aura of both enchantment and reserve.

Honor Grenville followed the queen and stopped a short distance from the monarch. She curtsied, and as she rose from the curtsey, a triumphant glare landed on Exeter.

“Good evening, Lord Exeter,” began Honor Grenville. “It’s time for you to leave.”

Exeter concealed his nervousness. “You look well rested, my lady.”

Her foe’s sarcasm amused Honor. “You will rest for the rest of your life in exile.”

Lady Honor Grenville, now sixty-four, wore a black satin gown, with a standing white lace collar embellished with sapphires. The remnants of her former facial beauty had transformed into a demeanor marked by capriciousness and calculation, evident in every wrinkle on her face. Her grizzled hair, arranged in a chignon, was hidden beneath a gem-studded hood.

Exeter recalled the threat of vengeance issued by the king’s grandmother many years ago. Despite their former alliance, their paths had diverged due to their serious religious differences, leading Exeter to eject Honor and her children to her estates. Later, Honor had orchestrated the marriage of her daughter, Philippa, to Henry Fitzallan, Earl of Arundel, forming a league against Exeter. That harpy wrapped Ned around her little manipulative finger, Exeter hissed inwardly.

“This is my magnificent queen!” Edward bragged, entranced with his consort.

Joanna managed a smile. “Your Majesty is most kind.”

The queen’s highly accented English caught everyone’s attention.

At twenty-two, Queen Joanna was a mesmerizing vision of phenomenal, timeless beauty. Her slender figure was highlighted by a high-necked, fitted Spanish gown of mulberry damask, embellished with slashes of black silk. Despite her alluring exterior, Joanna’s demeanor and her piercing blue eyes conveyed a cold, almost glacial quality, injecting an element of mystery into her majestic presence. Jewels intricately woven into her flowing blonde locks sparkled in the light, while a diamond cross adorned her neck, lending a regal touch to her ensemble.

Ned has gone mad, Elizabeth lamented internally. This marriage will be a true disaster for England and Ned. Doesn’t he understand this? Ned should have married a Swedish princess! Joanna of Spain, a member of the Spanish House of Habsburg and the only surviving sister of King Felipe II of Spain, posed a threat to England’s religious stability. Catholics across Europe viewed both Felipe and Joanna as symbols of fervent Catholic piety. Elizabeth feared that Joanna and Honor would now try to convince Edward to restore England to the Roman Catholic fold.

Joanna’s formidable nature and her cold beauty would have impressed Elizabeth if not for the danger the woman represented. Infanta Joanna of Spain was Princess of Portugal through her first marriage to the late Prince John Manuel of Portugal. Their union, though short-lived, had produced his posthumous son, the young King Sebastian of Portugal, and now his grandmother, Catherine of Austria, ruled the Portuguese Empire as regent. Widowed at only nineteen, Joanna had returned to Madrid, aiding Felipe in ruling Spain before her departure for England.

“Extend a proper greeting to my queen,” enjoined the ruler with authority.

Unwillingly, the Devon couple and the Exeter spouses executed bows and curtsies.

Honor, ever the provocateur, mocked, “Behaving submissively suits you well.”

“Now leave,” Edward commanded, unable to tear his gaze away from Joanna.

The two ousted couples exited, ignoring Honor’s scornful laughter. The undeniable gravity of the situation permeated the air, creating a clear forewarning for impending troubles not limited to the confines of the Tudor court, but extending its reach across the entire realm of England.

§§§

King Edward gazed salaciously at his new wife. “Joanna!”

Queen Joanna asked in accented English, “How can I serve Your Majesty?”

“Kiss me, my beauty!” he demanded as he closed the gap between them.

The ruler enfolded Joanna into his arms and pressed his mouth to hers, as if she were as vital to him as the very air he breathed. His hands roamed over her body, regretting that they both were dressed. His fantasies about their intimate encounters were vivid and unrestrained.

“To have and to hold,” he whispered against her lips. “Forever, Joanna!”

She sighed into his kiss and murmured, “As the Lord wishes us to be.”

However, he pulled away, annoyed. “Why are you not responding to my kiss?”

In an aloof and measured tone, Joanna conveyed, “I was brought up in the grand Spanish court as a Habsburg princess. I was taught that a proper queen must always uphold her dignity and composure, regardless of her emotions.” She sighed. “Although I was previously married to my first husband, the late Prince John of Portugal, may he rest in peace, our time together was brief as John passed away soon after our wedding. I’m not experienced in matters of the heart.”

Edward frowned. “You should not be cold with me.”

“I need time to get accustomed. Please be patient, sire.”

“Yes, my beautiful Joanna! You are amazing! You will give me many sons!”

As Edward ardently kissed her once more, Joanna did not reciprocate his passion. I do not want to be his wife, yet now I’m chained to Edward, she lamented miserably. Joanna had initially desired to embrace widowhood indefinitely, but King Felipe had commanded his sister to wed the English monarch and restore England to the Catholic fold of Rome. Loyal to the Habsburg dynasty, Joanna had obeyed, oblivious to the fact that she would be repulsed by Edward.

The queen failed to reciprocate the king’s insistent kisses. Seeking a mental escape, Joanna thought about her late Portuguese husband. John of Portugal’s voice echoed in her mind, causing her heart to ache. These pleasant recollections made her feel cocooned in warmth, sheltered from the coldness of Edward and England. Her John, frail and ailing, yet romantic and deeply in love with her! I would have fallen in love with John if he did not die so young, Joanna realized.

At last, Edward disentangled himself from his consort. “Until tonight, then, sweetheart.”

These words echoed ominously through his wife’s head. “As you wish, sire.”

Reluctantly, Edward bowed slightly to her before exiting. Joanna sighed with relief when he was gone, pushing aside thoughts of her obligation to regularly perform her conjugal duties with Edward. It was time to go to her apartments and order a refurbishment in the Spanish style. At least, her husband was not frugal and would spare no expense to please his new consort.


November 12, 1557, the port of Dover, Kent, England

The antechamber was illuminated by an array of candles, casting a cozy glow around. Two adjacent bedrooms accommodated the Exeter spouses and the Devon couple. Having arrived in Dover from their estates the previous day, Hal and Edward Courtenay aimed to send Elizabeth and all of their children to France. While they stayed at a local inn, the offspring of each couple resided in a nearby suite of rooms with their respective governesses.

Princess Elizabeth unfolded her mother’s letter, received earlier that day, and read it. She sighed: their exile in their estates had lasted only two months, and now escape was imperative.

My dearest Bess,

Our concerns for your wellbeing have grown. I urge you to bring all your children and your husband to France. François has arranged for a ship to collect you, set to land in Dover in mid-November. Charles de Montmorency will be aboard this ship, and he will show you his ring adorned with the Montmorency arms, proving that it is not a trap. Charles will accompany you and the children on your journey across the Channel and onward to Fontainebleau.

Bess, I entreat you to exercise utmost caution. May God bless you and your family!

Your loving mother,

Queen Anne of France

Edward Courtenay, Duke of Devon, notified, “We found Charles de Montmorency a few hours ago in the harbor. He is ready to take you all on board tomorrow morning.”

His wife, Elizabeth, placed the letter on a nearby table. “Will you go with me?”

Devon shook his head. “I can’t, Bess. But you and our children must leave.”

Hal Courtenay and his wife, Catherine Parr, were also present. It was a challenging time for the Marquess and Marquise of Exeter, just as it was for Hal’s son Eddie and Elizabeth.

Exeter emitted an audible sigh. “Son, you are better to leave, but you will not agree.”

“I’m not a coward,” Devon confirmed. “King Edward will not harm us.”

“I am not a craven,” Catherine concurred. She leaned towards her husband, gently taking his hand in hers. “Dear Hal, my place is with you until death do us part. However, our daughter and son should go to France with Elizabeth and your grandchildren.”

Exeter squeezed his spouse’s hand. “Cathy, the problem is that I no longer know what to expect from the king, so I can’t guarantee your safety, not even my own. Ned has been under the detrimental influence of Queen Joanne, his grandmother, and Arundel.”

The Marquess of Exeter rose from his seat and walked towards the entrance, leading to a balcony that overlooked the English Channel. Stepping out into the crisp, chilly air, he hoped it would alleviate the mounting frustration caused by the recent actions of his secret illegitimate son – King Edward VI of England. For over sixteen years, Hal Courtenay had dedicated himself to molding Edward “Tudor” into a capable monarch, one resistant to manipulation by sycophants and committed to serving the country well. However, reality unfolded quite differently.

Ned is dragging England into chaos and bloodshed, Exeter mused with deep sorrow. Now King Edward worked hard to reinstate the Church of England under the authority of the Bishop of Rome. Edward had stripped Thomas Cranmer of his position as Archbishop of Canterbury and subsequently imprisoned Cranmer in the Tower of London. In his place, the ruler had installed Reginald Pole, one of the sons of the executed Countess of Salisbury, as the new Archbishop of Canterbury. Many other prominent Protestant priests and theologians, including Hugh Latimer, John Bradford, John Rogers, and John Hooper, had also been apprehended.

In its inaugural session, King Edward’s Parliament had nullified all the religious laws that had established and developed the English Reformation. The Church doctrine was reverted to Catholicism, reinstating all rituals to be conducted in Latin and emphasizing the necessity of clerical celibacy. Married priests faced deprivation of their benefices, instilling into them shock and fear about their future. Numerous English citizens, especially Protestants, now lived in fear of their king, leading some to seek sanctuary in Protestant Switzerland and Germany.

Despite the crown’s efforts to bring about these radical changes, the former monastic lands could not be reinstated to the Catholic Church. Confiscated by the late King Henry VIII, these lands were now in possession of many influential and wealthy nobles and gentry, making their retrieval without inciting rebellion an unfeasible task. Consequently, King Edward and Queen Joanna would have to convince Pope Pius V to permit the retention of these once monastic lands by their current owners, with King Felipe II of Spain aiding his sister in her endeavors.

Ned will initiate the burning of Protestants, Exeter ruminated inwardly. He is influenced by Joanna, Honor, and Arundel, who all hate Protestants. Exeter sighed with regret, foreseeing the unfolding of dreadful events in the country and predicting that many victims of the imminent persecutions would be hailed as martyrs. In a darkly ironic contemplation, Exeter wondered if the king would order his burning, given Honor’s apparent desire for him to be dead.

Leaning against the railing, the marquess peered into the expansive darkness that stretched out before him. Heavy clouds obscured the moon and stars, casting an ominous shadow over his universe. A huge void formed in Exeter’s soul as he came to terms with the truth that Edward “Tudor” had turned into such a bad man. Exeter’s shattered dreams left only darkness in their wake, and the blame rested squarely on Honor Grenville for his son’s chain of mistakes.

“Hal!” Catherine Courtenay called. “Come back!”

Yet, the Marquess of Exeter remained unresponsive to his wife’s call. Staring outside, he furiously slapped the railing. The painful sensations in his hand were strangely comforting, as Exeter blamed himself for the current dire situation in England. After all, Exeter was King Edward’s biological father, and he had also ruled England for years as Lord Protector.

In a minute, Exeter returned to the chamber where his relatives awaited him. Casting a contemplative gaze upon each of them, he addressed the gathering. “King Edward has initiated a chain of radical changes, sending shockwaves across all of England. You, Cathy, and you, Eddie, should leave with Elizabeth. King François and Queen Anne will welcome you in France.”

Elizabeth studied her gloomy father-in-law, whom she had grown to like and respect in the years following her wedding to Devon. “My lord, I agree with you, but they are stubborn.”

Catherine shook her head. “I shall not be separated from my beloved husband.”

Devon approached Bess and smiled with a confidence he did not feel. “Everything will be well, sweetheart. I’ve known King Ned since his childhood, and we are friends.”

Elizabeth winced as memories of her father flooded back. “My late father had thousands of rebels brutally executed after the Pilgrimage of Grace. He also killed many innocents, including old women like the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk. And Ned is my father’s son!”

This reminder discomforted Devon and Catherine, but their resolve remained unyielding.

A determined Exeter verbalized his decision. “There is something King Ned needs to learn. I never intended to reveal the truth to Ned, but now it has become unavoidable.”

“What do you mean, Hal?” Catherine inquired, sharing confusion of the others.

Exeter replied, “Something that can alter many things.” He walked over to his wife, taking her hand. “Cathy, my love, we are both tired. It is time for us all to retire for the night.”

“We want to rest, too,” added Devon, with Elizabeth nodding in agreement.

Catherine intertwined her fingers with Exeter’s, and they exited the room in silence.

§§§

Once the Exeter spouses closed the door behind them, Elizabeth studied her husband, who leaned against a dark mahogany cabinet. In his eyes, she detected the unmistakable presence of fear – a toxic sensation that tormented them both, inflicting suffering and anguish.

Bess was exhausted by her fears as much as one could feel without sleep for days. As her gaze fell on her husband’s lips, an urgent need to touch and taste Eddie ripped through her. She hurried to her husband across the room, tiptoed, before crushing her mouth into his. The Duke of Devon kissed his wife ardently, his tongue sensuously exploring her mouth, deliberately exciting them further. His hand cupped her breast through the soft fabric of her yellow silk gown.

“I want you, Eddie,” the princess implored. “Now. The whole of you.”

Edward swept her into his arms. “I desire you more than ever, as if I were to die soon.”

Tears moistened her eyes. “Eddie, never utter such words! I love you so much!”

“I love you, too, Bess! I shall stand by you for as long as I exist and draw breath!”

When he placed her onto the bed, Elizabeth drew Eddie close, her hands finding the laces of his hose. Sensing her extreme desire, Edward began unfastening her gown. A shiver coursed through her as his lips covered hers again, and her fingers tangled into his tresses. His other hand ventured beneath her skirts, delicately exploring the intimate space between her thighs.

“I never imagined that I can love someone so desperately,” he said huskily, his breathing searing her skin. “You are the flame that illuminates my life, Bess, the very essence of it!”

Eddie recited aloud his most recent poem, composed in honor of his wife.

My first love and my last, to you

I dedicate my whole heart and life

You are the only wealth I own,

My only light, just as I am to you.

 

You brought eternal happiness to me

And made me and my soul whole,

You are my only brightest star,

My love, give me a smile, just to me!

 

When the cruel world twists and hits me,

In a downpour of danger and heartache,

If death comes, I shall remain wide-awake

Only to see your farewell smile, my love.

 

Struck by apprehensive quietness,

    I launch myself into your loving arms,

Enveloping me like heavenly smoke,

We are together, my everlasting love!

 

Laughter catches in my throat

    With the very feel of tears of love,

For I cannot help but cry and sigh

I dedicate to you my entire life!

Edward kissed her on the mouth. “I wrote this poem on the way to Dover.”

Her eyes sparkled with a blend of fear and affection. “Regardless of what my brother does, we will always be together. Nothing can separate us, Eddie, because I adore you.”

“Together until death do us part,” he murmured.

Fresh tears trickled down her cheeks. “Don’t speak about death. Just be with me!”

In a handful of moments, their garments lay scattered on the floor. The spouses tumbled onto the mattress, and Eddie kissed his wife, his hands traveling along her form. She responded with equal hunger, their kisses and caresses feverish, like those of two individuals entwined in an amorous struggle, fearing the possibility of perishing within the next few minutes. Every point of contact between their bodies felt fiery, their blood boiling like lava in a volcano’s throat.

Eddie’s tongue sensually traced a path downward, eliciting a nerve-shattering groan from Bess. Their love confessions intertwined with moans and sighs of pleasure, enveloping them in a cocoon of passion. Their intimate dance unfolded with a myriad of twists and turns, bathed in flickering candlelight. Effervescent joy bubbled inside of them, yet a subtle sense of trepidation lingered, as if the demons of Tartarus were on the verge of escaping from Hades.

Her eyes turned a luminous brown in the candlelight. “I’m so afraid to lose you, Eddie.”

Her husband froze inside of her before repeating, “Until death do us part.”

“You will be with me forever.” She buried her head into his neck.

The couple engaged in prolonged lovemaking, their frenzied movements imbued with a graceful and sinuous rhythm. Tears trickled down Elizabeth’s face as a burst of celestial pleasure swept through her, followed by Eddie’s own release. God above, why am I feeling a breath of death upon my skin now? What is it? Elizabeth wondered, frightened, as she lay in his arms.

§§§

As dawn painted the sky in hues of pink and orange, Princess Elizabeth stood on the deck of the ship, her heart burdened by guilt for leaving her husband behind. Charles de Montmorency offered a meal and hot drinks to Elizabeth and all of the children, who accepted with gratitude. Charles, the third son of Anne de Montmorency, proved attentive to his passengers.

In the distance, the distinctive white cliffs of Dover gradually receded from view. Carved by nature’s hand, these imposing chalk cliffs soared vertically from the water’s edge, their stark whiteness contrasting against the expanse of the English Channel. The interplay of light on their surfaces created a captivating spectacle, as the first rays of dawn bestowed a warm glow upon the chalky façade, crafting a picturesque tableau against the backdrop of the open sea.

“This beauty makes me feel desolate,” Elizabeth admitted, looking at her sons.

“Mama, will we ever return?” asked James, her eldest son.

“Will papa be all right?” queried Lionel, his older brother.

Plastering a smile, Elizabeth reassured them, “Soon we will reunite with your papa.”

Maud Courtenay, the Exeter couple’s daughter, dissolved into tears, worried about her parents’ safety. At the age of eight, Maud was a fair-haired and slender girl with big hazel eyes, pale complexion, bearing a striking resemblance to her mother. A few years her sister’s junior, William tried to comfort his distraught sister. Quite tall and dark-haired, William exhibited a combination of Parr and Courtenay traits. His pallid, amiable face was brightened by his clever, sincere blue Woodville eyes, reminiscent of both his father’s and the Duke of Devon’s eyes.

Elizabeth cast compassionate glances at both Maud and William. “The Almighty God will save your parents and your brother, Eddie. We will pray for them all.”

William hugged his sister and vowed, “I shall protect you! I’m your personal knight!”

“Like Knights of the Garter,” put in Lionel, referencing one of their father’s titles.

James queried, “Will we join the Order of the Garter when we grow up, Mother?”

“Yes, darlings,” Elizabeth breathed, seized by a sense of sinister foreboding. Would they even be able to return to an England ruled by King Ned? And if yes, then in what status?

Lady Katherine Ashley appeared on the deck and curtsied. “Our little Annie is sleeping.”

“She is exhausted,” Elizabeth said. “Kat, please take them to the cabin.”

Lady Ashley nodded and led the four children away from the deck. Left alone, the princess gazed across the expansive Channel, offering prayers for those left on the shore. Yet, a stronger sense of foreboding gripped Bess, compelling her to retreat to her cabin, emotionally crushed.

§§§

In the harbor, the Exeter spouses and the Duke of Devon, clothed in warm clothes, stood watching Elizabeth’s ship disappear beyond the horizon. Despite the typically stormy season in late autumn, unusually clear and favorable weather facilitated the shortest passage from Calais to Dover in the Channel. This ensured that the fugitives would quickly reach their destination.

Hal Courtenay broke the strained silence. “I shall tell King Edward the whole truth. And if necessary, you, Cathy, and you, Eddie, will recant and convert to Catholicism.”

Edward Courtenay remained skeptical. “It might not help, Father, given our enmity with Lady Honor Grenville. This harpy wants us gone and our lands confiscated.”

Catherine sought clarification. “Hal, you have again mentioned some truth.”

“What is it, Father?” Devon was as mystified as his stepmother.

Exeter laughed bitterly. “Have you ever looked into King Edward’s eyes? The deep blue pools that are identical to our so-called Woodville eyes. Do they tell you something?”

Catherine’s brows shot up in confusion. “Our William also has such eyes.”

Exeter reminded, “I told you that years ago I had been madly in love with one woman.”

“I do not understand,” muttered Catherine, causing Devon’s shoulders to tense.

Exeter declared forthrightly, “That lady was Anne Bassett. I had an affair with her before she became King Henry’s mistress, and later we renewed it. She got pregnant with my child.” A sigh tumbled from his lips. “King Ned will not commit fratricide and patricide.”

Silence, pulsating with disbelief and shock, ensued. Eddie and Catherine gaped at him.

Catherine stammered, “You loved Queen… Anne Bassett before me. Is she the woman for whom you had mourned for many years before you gave your heart to me?”

“Yes,” confirmed Exeter. “But I never loved her as much as I love you, wife.”

Inwardly, Eddie yearned to scream that his father had never been fond of his long-deceased mother, Gertrude Blount. Simultaneously, his brain grappled with the revelation, the enormity of which could not be underestimated. “So, King Edward is a bastard, isn’t he?”

Exeter confirmed, “Yes. Ned is my son.”

“Dear God!” Catherine exclaimed. “Then Ned has no right to rule England!”

When Exeter dipped his head, Eddie Courtenay commented, “Elizabeth should be crowned as the late King Henry the Eighth’s only legitimate daughter. I care not for the crown for myself, but what you did, Father, is… erm… high treason. Does someone else know?”

Exeter sighed. "Nobody, except for Honor and me; all other possible witnesses are already dead. If you reveal the truth to others, it won’t be believed due to lack of proof. Even if someone starts gossiping about Edward’s illegitimacy, it will lead nowhere. There will be no civil war, and Elizabeth will remain next in line to the throne. Remember how the Earl of Warwick spread false rumors about Edward the Fourth’s illegitimacy? And Warwick’s tactic did not work!”

Eddie swallowed heavily. “And King Henry the Eighth knew nothing…”

Exeter recalled the regicide he had committed. “I told him the truth before his death.” 

Catherine’s hand flew to her mouth. “Before you–” She trailed off. Her mind was reeling, but she comprehended that nobody should ever learn about her husband’s conspiracy with the Valois monarchs to eliminate the late brutal monarch, especially not Eddie and Bess.

“Yes. The secret is buried forever,” asserted Hall, devoid of any qualms of conscience.

Devon demanded, “More secrets? Tell me everything.” 

They lapsed into silence as a cavalcade of mounted knights, adorned in the livery of the Earl of Arundel, arrived. Arundel’s standard danced in the air, carried by a gust of wind blowing from the Channel. Gripped by terror, they watched as Lord Arundel dismounted and advanced with his guards. Aged forty-five, Arundel was an unremarkable man, with a somewhat long and hooked nose, hazel eyes, and short, light-colored hair hidden beneath a flat black cap.

“Have these traitors apprehended!” Arundel commanded. “The king ordered their arrest!”

Immediately, a dozen soldiers surrounded Exeter, Catherine, and Devon.

Devon whispered, “At least, Elizabeth and our children are safe.”

Catherine edged closer to her husband. “Hal! What should we do?”

Standing before his wife to shield her from peril, the Marquess of Exeter glared at Arundel, his former friend turned enemy. “What are we accused of? Or is this a spectacle?”

With a nefarious grin of satisfaction, Arundel proclaimed, “You aided Princess Elizabeth to leave England without His Majesty’s consent. That is a treasonous offense! One of your grooms betrayed you, enabling us to locate you, albeit slightly late to capture the princess.”

Exeter appealed, “You are making a mistake, Arundel.”

“It’s time to settle scores, Lord Exeter,” snarled Arundel. “My dear Philippa will be happy to see you incarcerated.” The earl was aware of his wife’s infatuation with Exeter. Their union was loveless on her part, and despite his attempts to charm Philippa, Arundel failed.

“Nine years of marriage, and still no children,” jeered Exeter. “How sad!”

In a sibilant voice, Arundel supplied, “You shall all be conducted to the Tower and abide there as long as His Majesty deems it necessary, or and you are likely to be executed.”

Maintaining a façade of composure, the prisoners were escorted to the horses and mounted under surveillance. In these poignant moments, Exeter, Catherine, and Devon felt shattered, their souls drenched in the tears of their own weeping souls for their impending ordeal.

The Marquess of Exeter could not escape the realization that he was now facing the searing fires of retribution for the crime perpetrated years ago when they presented Edward “Tudor” as King VIII’s son. I’ve never regretted my actions as much as I do now, Exeter admitted to himself silently. Ned must learn the truth. My eldest son, Eddie, and my dear Cathy should not pay for my errors. Surely, Ned will not become the murderer of his father and his brother. Or will he? Exeter was terrified of their future, sensing a concealed ruthlessness in the young monarch.

Notes:

Friends and readers, all the best to you in 2024! The new chapter is now available! Please, share your thoughts on this chapter, and remember to leave reviews so we can discuss the events, twists, and turns with our readers.

After the time jump, we can see Princess Elizabeth with her husband, Edward Courtenay, Duke of Devon, and their children. We reintroduced Jane and Henry Percy, Earl and Countess Northumberland, who have returned from Italy with their son, but will not appear again. Eddie and Bess now have two sons, James and Lionel, along with their infant daughter Annie. We do not think that in this fiction, Elizabeth would have named any of her sons after Henry VIII. The choice of names for Bess and Eddie’s sons, James and Lionel, was influenced by the authors’ desire to avoid naming them after Elizabeth’s father, and to give them distinctive names, guided by the symbolic meaning behind the names chosen. The name James is associated with the meaning “supplanter” or “one who follows,” while Lionel means “little lion” for Lionel.

Finally, King Edward VI begins to rule on his own, dismissing the Marquess of Exeter from all his former positions and exiling him and his wife, Catherine Courtenay née Parr. Angered by Elizabeth’s outburst, Edward also ejects Elizabeth and her husband, Eddie. We introduced King Edward’s new queen – Joanna of Spain, who like in history was married to Prince John of Portugal for a short time. Of course, Honor Grenville who swore vengeance many years ago is now back, committed to destroying Exeter and all her enemies. We hope that you like Joanna’s introduction, although King Edward’s marriage to her might come as utter shock for readers.

However, following their banishment, the Exeter spouses and the Devon couple do not spend a long time in their estates. Given the king’s ongoing work to restore England to the fold of Rome and the arrests of Cranmer and others, Exeter, Eddie, and their wives understand that Elizabeth and her children must urgently escape to France, where Queen Anne will welcome and protect them. Catherine’s decision to stay in England with her husband, Exeter, will have consequences for her. The arrest of Exeter, Catherine, and Devon will bring a lot of drama in subsequent chapters. Exeter has now resolved to tell Edward “Tudor” the whole truth, just as the marquess voices it to Eddie and Catherine, who are shocked to learn that King Ned is a bastard.

Standing on the deck of her ship with the children, Elizabeth is not aware that Eddie and her other relatives have just been arrested on the king’s orders. Perhaps she will never see Eddie again, or maybe they will be reunited… Anyway, there is also Robert Dudley, or sooner or later he will be back to Elizabeth’s side. We hope you like Eddie’s love poem for Elizabeth, which was composed by Lady Perseverance. Elizabeth loves Eddie, and he loves her, but there will be dramas ahead for them, but at least, in these trying times Bess will be with her mother and French relatives.

Arthur Brooke (died in 1563) was an English poet who wrote various works including ‘The Tragical History of Romeus and Juliet.’ We used an excerpt from this poem for one scene in this chapter. Much later, William Shakespeare would use this work for his own purposes.

Attention! We posted a prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP) a while ago, so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 106: Chapter 105: War for the Burgundian Netherlands

Summary:

Queen Anne of France warmly welcomes Princess Elizabeth in France, and King François rejects the English ambassador’s demands to return her to England. The Battle of Brussels sees the French triumph over the Spaniards. Following his duel with Prince William of Orange, King Augustine of Navarre personally punishes a newly exposed spy for espionage for the Guise family.

Notes:

The prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don’t forget about our work “Entwined by a Golden Alliance” co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 105: War for the Burgundian Netherlands

December 1, 1557, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, Île-de-France, France

In the study paneled in dark mahogany and furnished with rosewood pieces, some of them gilded, a fire cracked in the stone hearth. Dull winter light filtered through the windows, casting a somber glow inside. Outside, a blizzard raged, transforming the gardens and the central canal into a shimmering landscape of snow, resembling an endless canvas made entirely of diamonds.

“Does Your Majesty have any news?” queried Princess Elizabeth, Duchess of Devon.

Anne’s daughter sat in a gilded chair by the stone hearth. With her red-gold hair streaming down her back, Elizabeth looked remarkable even in a plain brown brocade gown. In these trying times, she wore dark colors, a reflection of her somber mood, and her poise never wavered.

Elizabeth had arrived in France with her offspring and the children of the Exeter spouses. The English ambassador at the Valois court, Sir Nicholas Throckmorton, endeavored to pressure King François to send Elizabeth back to England. Poor Bess! She has to suffer so much with her children! I fear she will never see her husband again, François mused, feeling sympathy for his stepdaughter’s current predicament, committed to helping her in all ways he could.

The French ruler, sitting at his desk, noticed from a distance that his stepdaughter’s hands were trembling. “Unfortunately, I have no good news, Elizabeth. Lord Exeter and Lord Devon, along with Lady Exeter, are imprisoned at the Tower of London, but there has been no trial yet.”

“Have you requested their release, Your Majesty?” Elizabeth asked, but she already knew the answer. She was profoundly grateful to her stepfather and her mother for their hospitality.

“Multiple times,” François assured her. “Every day I summon the English ambassador, Sir Nicolas Throckmorton, and demand their immediate release, then he writes to King Edward.”

“And no news yet?” Elizabeth stifled a wave of tears that assailed her.

“I’m sorry, but there is nothing,” François said. “Address me by my name in private.”

Nodding gratefully, Elizabeth schooled her features into blankness. “My brother, Ned, is now negotiating with Rome. After the Dissolution of the Monasteries, the former Church’s lands were distributed between nobles and gentry. Now they cannot be restored to the Roman Catholic Church, even though the Church of England was restored to the fold of Rome.”

A moment later, Queen Anne strode into the study. “King Edward,” she said with distaste. “He needs to avoid a massive revolt against his authority.” She crossed the study and then settled herself in a chair next to her daughter, in front of her husband’s desk.

“Mother, I’m delighted to see you.” The princess smiled at her mother, but it was a brief smile. She then questioned, “Does my brother want you to send me back to England?”

François answered, “Throckmorton informs me that King Edward demands that I hand you and your children, with Lord Exeter’s offspring, to his envoys, but I’ve refused.”

“Thank you, François,” the English princess pronounced.

“I shall never let anyone harm you,” assured the King of France.

Elizabeth nodded with a sad smile. “I know, and I appreciate it very much.”

Anne continued, “King Edward is devoted to Queen Joanna. Nonetheless, he has numerous mistresses, and some say he also visits brothels. In fact, Joanna is negotiating all matters with the Pope while also ruling the court with Lady Honor Grenville.”

François supplemented, “Now the Earl of Arundel, Lord Exeter’s former friend, is the most important person on the Royal Council. He has the governmental machine under control.”

“While Edward is only entertaining,” inferred the princess.

The queen advised, “Yes, but you, Elizabeth, ought to be strong.”

“If only I knew where to find all the strength I need,” Elizabeth said in a tattered voice, her words echoing in the quietness of the room. “But I must do so for my dearest Eddie.”

“And for your children as well, Bess,” underscored François.

Anne emphasized further, “For my beloved grandchildren!”

Elizabeth sent them both smiles. “Thank you for all your support!”

At present, all of Princess Elizabeth’s children – James, Lionel, and the infant Anne – lived at Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, together with Lord Exeter’s offspring. After many years following the accidental murder of Françoise de Foix and Anne de Pisseleu’s three children at Saint-Germain, the castle again became the household of French princesses and princes. Dauphin Henri’s children, Prince Louis and Princess Valentine also resided there, save Princess Claude.

Dauphin Henri’s official chief mistress – Marie de Bourbon – also stayed at the Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye. Henri’s illegitimate daughter, Diane de Valois, had recently married Anne de Montmorency’s third son with Madeleine de Savoy – Charles de Montmorency, who was created Duke de Damville at the dauphin’s request to his father, the French king.

A year ago, the ten-year-old Princess Claude, Dauphin Henri’s eldest legitimate daughter, had married Duke Charles III de Lorraine. This marriage strengthened ties between the Houses of Lorraine and Valois. Now Claude lived at the Ducal Palace of Nancy with her husband, who was two years Claude’s senior and adored his fragile wife, making her happy. The Duchy of Lorraine was currently being governed by Charles’ regent and mother – Christina of Denmark.

Anne notified, “Queen Joanna is now pregnant.”

François tipped his head. “I’m sorry, but it is true.”

A bolt of fury speared through Elizabeth, her usually composed exterior cracking under the weight of her rage. In her mind, she unleashed a torrent of curses upon King Edward, whose actions had stoked the flames of her anger. The fear lingered, haunting her even under the cover of darkness, where recurring nightmares about Edward Courtenay’s execution tormented her. In such moments, Katherine Ashley often held the princess in her arms as Elizabeth wept.

Elizabeth jerked to her feet and paced the study back and forth. Her mind raced with a whirlwind of thoughts, each one more troubling than the last. Occasionally, she paused to stare into the flickering flames in the fireplace, the decorative salamanders adorning the mantelpiece serving as silent witnesses to her inner turmoil. If Ned has a son, I might be moved down the line of succession, Elizabeth fretted inwardly. Now she desired to become Queen of England like never before, partly because it was her duty to undo the wrongs caused by her brother.

Halting near a chair, the princess seated herself in it before veering her gaze to her mother and stepfather. “Is Edward burning our people or not? Do you know?”

Anne summarized, “The English government abolished all the religious laws passed under your late father. The Protestants have been given several choices: exile, conversion, or death at the pyre. Many of them have chosen to go into exile, so they are hastily leaving for Germany and Switzerland. Those who stayed have been declared heretics, and some have been burned.”

François added, “King Edward has earned a charming nickname – ‘Bloody Edward.’ Yet, he doesn’t care about it because his pastimes are his paramours, hunts, and festivities.”  

Bess sighed in despair. “Where is Thomas Cranmer now?”

“In the Tower,” Anne responded, swallowing bile in her throat. She had corresponded with the deposed Archbishop of Canterbury until his arrest. “He has not recanted yet.”

Elizabeth clenched her fists. “Ned appointed Cardinal Reginald Pole the new Archbishop of Canterbury. God, my brother chose that religious fanatic from Rome!”

François nodded. “Archbishop Pole wants to burn Cranmer at the stake.”

Suddenly, an enraged Elizabeth jumped to her feet, her restraint shattered. With a violent motion, she approached a nearby table, seized a book, and hurled it across the room with a shriek of fury, before toppling the table itself. François and Anne exchanged knowing glances – they were all too familiar with the girl’s famous Tudor temper that was now in full swing.

Realizing the extent of her outburst, Elizabeth implored, “Please, forgive me!”

“There is no need to apologize, Bess,” François soothed. “We understand.”

Anne stood up from her chair. “Be resilient, daughter, and pray!”

The queen strode over to Elizabeth and pulled her daughter into her arms. However, Bess disentangled herself from her mother and, pulling herself together, returned to her chair.

“I’m fine,” Elizabeth muttered. “I shall be fine.”

The door slowly opened, revealing a distressed Duchess Marie de Montmorency. Now in her late fifties, today she seemed older, her mostly gray hair hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat of dark velvet. Her black attire accentuated Marie’s gauntness and her excessive pallor. With her husband, Constable Anne de Montmorency, away in the Netherlands and their daughters, Marie and Christine, living in their estates, Marie was hit by a profound sense of loneliness.

Marie walked to where the monarchs sat, her shoulders slumped. After making a curtsey, Marie announced, “I’ve received a letter from Italy. Our father passed away from a heart attack.”

Elizabeth vaguely recalled Thomas Boleyn from her childhood. “God rest his soul!”

Anne’s heart sank at the tragic news. “But we have not seen our father for years…”

“My sincere condolences,” François offered genuinely.

“May our father’s soul rest in peace,” Marie lamented.

Thomas Boleyn’s daughter, his granddaughter, and François crossed themselves.

Anne remarked softly, “I want my parents to be buried together at Hever Castle, but it is impossible now. I suppose his wife will arrange our father’s funeral in Venice.”

“Alongside our late mother,” Marie clarified, referencing their father’s last will.

Once more, the Boleyn sisters, Marie and Anne, crossed themselves, praying for the soul of their late father, Thomas Boleyn. They were burdened by guilt; their relationship with him had been strained since the demise of Pope Paul III in Rome. Both sisters had established a shaky reconciliation with Thomas, failing to mend the rift between them before his passing. Now, with Thomas Boleyn gone, they were haunted by the realization that they could never make amends.


December 1, 1557, near the city of Brussels, Brabant, the Burgundian Netherlands

The valley lay beneath a pristine blanket of freshly fallen snow, a serene scene left in the wake of the night’s snowfall. Ten thousand armored figures emerged from their morning prayers, the faint sound of their shifting armor echoing through the stillness of dawn. As the sky began to lighten, the silhouette of Brussels loomed in the east, stark against the dark horizon. A week had passed since the arrival of the French troops at Brussels, their recent victory over the Spanish at Ghent still vivid in the soldiers’ minds as they stood ready to seize control of the city.

Dauphin Henri of France and King Augustine of Navarre made their way to their stallions, caparisoned in white, golden, and blue silk. François and Charles de Montmorency walked after their masters. Henri de Montmorency stayed in Navarre to safeguard Queen Jeanne.

Augustine mounted his horse before saying, “We should face the enemy here and now.”

Henri jumped into the saddle on his stallion. “The Spanish troops are ready to attack.” 

Augustine inquired, “Where is the Constable de Montmorency now?”

François de Montmorency apprised, “The last word from my father came from Antwerp. A large Spanish fleet arrived, and our father engaged the Spaniards. With God’s help, he prevailed and is now marching on Brussels as fast as possible, but I, too, think that we have to fight now.”

Charles de Montmorency nodded. “Yes, we cannot avoid a battle now.”

Claude d’Annebault, Marshal of France, appeared together with Jacques d’Albon, Seigneur de Saint-André and also Marshal of France. Pages led their horses to them, and they mounted.

Henri commanded, “Claude and Jacques! You will oversee the infantry and the cavalry, respectively.” His gaze slid to the Montmorency brothers. “You two will be with us.”

Annebault, Albon, and the Montmorency siblings nodded at the dauphin.

“The Spanish artillery is rather formidable,” assessed Charles de Montmorency.

Albon promised, “We will beat them, Your Highness and Your Majesty.”

“We will outmaneuver and defeat them,” joined Annebault.

Now everyone sat astride their horses and set off to attend to their duties.

The blare of trumpets resonated through the frosty air like a harbinger of fate as the French cavalry charged forward across the vast valley adjacent to the city of Brussels. Stirrups jingled as riders galloped, shields held ready for defense. In the distance, the Spanish divisions, composed of heavily armed pikemen and musketeers, came into view. The tumult of musket and artillery fire echoed, accompanied by the somber cries of countless wounded soldiers.

The French cavalry, led by Dauphin Henri and King Augustine, clashed with the Imperial cavalry under the command of William the Silent, Prince of Orange and founder of the Orange-Nassau branch of the House of Nassau in the Low Countries. William of Orange, a former ward of King Felipe II of Spain, had received his education under the tutelage of Felipe’s aunt – Mary von Habsburg, Dowager Queen of Hungary. Following the French invasion, Mary had fled with her court to Spain, leaving the Prince of Orange, her chief advisor, to defend these lands.

“Kill the invaders!” William of Orange hollered in Flemish. “For Spain!”

“The Netherlands belong to us!” Dauphin Henri’s voice rang out in Flemish as he slammed through the enemy ranks. “It will not remain under the thumb of Spaniards!”

Swinging his sword with determination, King Augustine rode beside his brother. “These lands were ruled by the Capetian dukes for centuries! We have a rightful claim to these lands!”

“Slaughter them!” Claude d’Annebault’s voice rose over the din of battle.

The French infantry raced forward, breaking through the foe’s artillery line and launching a relentless assault on the Spanish divisions. Cavalrymen from both sides clashed fiercely on the field, with some dismounted fighters joining the fray on foot. Separated by surges of enemy cavalry, Dauphin Henri and King Augustine fought on for a long time, their intensity unyielding.

Augustine wielded his sword quickly and with lethal precision, his years of training under King François and other mentors making him a formidable opponent. François de Montmorency and Augustine’s guards remained by his side, protecting him from the onslaught of the Prince of Orange’s men. Above them, a massive barrage of arrows arched into the brightening sky, raining down upon the battlefield with deadly accuracy, adding to the chaos and carnage below.

“Kill him!” shouted the Prince of Orange. “Destroy the invaders!”

In the whirlwind of combat, Augustine and his companions found themselves encircled by a mass of adversaries. Spotting a nearby assailant poised to strike him down, Augustine noticed François de Montmorency deliver a lethal blow that knocked Augustine’s attacker off balance, causing his spear to plummet to the ground, before François stabbed the man in his gut.

Meanwhile, Augustine dispatched his new rival. “Thank you for defending me, my friend.”

François, ever loyal, lunged at another adversary. “I can do everything for Your Majesty.”

Augustine parried a blow. “Louise will have such a brave husband!” His blade bisected his enemy’s body from shoulder to waist. “I’m sad, but I must allow you to go to Savoy.”

“I shall come to you at your first call.” François regretted that he would have to leave his master, to whom his loyalty was unshakeable, just as it was to King François. Nonetheless, he was counting days until he could call his beloved lady, Louise of France, his wife.

Augustine addressed the French troops ebulliently. “For King François! For France!”

“For Augustine the Venerable!” François shouted while killing another foe.

The French echoed, “For France! For Augustine the Venerable!”

The moniker ‘Venerable’ had been bestowed upon Augustine de Valois after his successful re-conquest of southern Navarre from the Spanish monarch.

Dauphin Henri’s voice boomed across the field. “Constable de Montmorency is here!”

Augustine encouraged, “Fight for the honor and glory of France!”

“For the glory of France!” the knights echoed, rallying their comrades to stand firm.

Soon the cavalry, led by Anne de Montmorency, charged forward, followed closely by the infantry commanded by Count Charles de Brissac. They swept through the battlefield like a great wave, encircling the Spaniards and decisively turning the tide of battle in favor of the French.

“Fire!” ordered Marshal Jacques d’Albon. “Fire! The enemy must perish!”

The French artillery roared again, and the French infantry surged forward to capitalize on the spreading chaos. In response, the Spanish artillery unleashed a devastating barrage, claiming the lives of many French soldiers. Arrows rained down from above, slicing through the air as the sun struggled to pierce through the cloud coverage, casting a pall over the battlefield.

“Protect Dauphin Henri!” screamed Constable Anne de Montmorency in French as he rode astride his black stallion, his blade cutting through his foes. “Protect King Augustine!”

“The dauphin is surrounded!” bellowed Charles de Montmorency with urgency.

“Brother,” Augustine gasped, his heart racing with fear. “Regroup!”

The cavalry fell back, forming a defensive rhombus formation before launching themselves into a mounted assault. With shouts and curses ringing through the air, the French collided with the enemy like a battering ram against fortress walls. At the same time, Augustine carved a path through the melee, leaving a trail of fallen knights in his wake until he found himself face to face with William of Orange and his men, all intent on bringing down Dauphin Henri.

Mortal dread chilled Augustine as he noticed the dwindling numbers of Henri’s entourage, finding only Charles de Montmorency by his side. I shall not let them kill my brother, Augustine vowed as he urged his steed forward, dispatching an assailant who threatened Henri from behind. A moment later, François de Montmorency joined Augustine and Charles, ensuring their united defense of the French dauphin alongside with the newly arrived Claude d’Annebault.

“Augustine, watch out!” warned Henri as he plunged his sword into someone’s stomach.

When Dauphin Henri was finally safe with the Montmorency brothers, Augustine moved away. Unexpectedly, a spear struck down Augustine’s horse, throwing him to the ground. He scrambled to his feet and struggled to maintain his footing on the ground, drenched with the blood of the fallen, the white snow making the scene of carnage even more horrible. Suddenly, William of Orange attacked Augustine, his eyes blazing with ferocity through the visor of his helmet. As the battle raged on around them, Augustine and William were locked in a duel.

Augustine deflected his rival’s blows. “Do you really support that Spanish fanatic?”

His opponent hissed, “You have no authority to decide on such matters!”

Augustine retorted, “King Felipe has already burned hundreds of Protestants in Flanders and Brabant. And you come from a Lutheran family. Why do you tolerate it?”

Prince William of Orange hesitated to answer as he parried Augustine’s strike. Born into a Lutheran family, he had been raised in the Protestant faith together with his siblings, but his formal education at the Habsburg court in Brussels had led William to embrace Catholicism.

William countered, “I serve King Felipe! You are his sworn enemy!”

Augustine detected a flicker of doubt in his orbs. “I sense uncertainty in you.”

Discomforted by his correct conclusion, William unleashed a flurry of attacks on him as he shouted back, “King Felipe of Spain is the greatest ruler! He also appointed me stadtholder of the provinces of Holland, Zeeland, and Utrecht. My loyalty lies with him!”

“We are winning!” Montmorency apprised, boosting the morale of the French army.

Augustine taunted, “You are losing, Nassau. Or should I call you Orange?”

“Damn you!” William was angry that all his blows were deflected by Augustine.

“My Lutheran prince in secret,” added Augustine jestingly. He risked a brief sideways glance and chopped off the head of another man who had surreptitiously approached him.

William of Orange pressed forward against the King of Navarre, his new attack fueled by ire. The ground beneath their feet was slick with blood, each step a precarious endeavor.

“I’ve converted to Catholicism,” William asserted, although his tone betrayed uncertainty. “Even if you prevail today, King Felipe will not relinquish his control of Flanders.”

Augustine’s relentless swordplay forced William to retreat momentarily. “You are not truly a Catholic. You should ally with us, for we are offering religious tolerance.”

“I’m not a traitor!” William thundered, but deep down, he was no longer sure.

Augustine predicted, “You will change your mind.”

“Victory!” Dauphin Henri proclaimed, and the French echoed his cry.

Anne de Montmorency rallied their troops once more. “For France! For King François! For the House of Valois! For Dauphin Henri! And for King Augustine!”

Casting a hateful glance at Augustine, William of Orange began elbowing his way through the battered crowd, his few remaining guards in tow. As the clouds dispersed, the bleak rays of the rising sun illuminated the field that was strewn with corpses and bodies of the wounded, their anguished moans echoing through the valley like the lamentations of tortured souls. Meanwhile, the French artillery unleashed a devastating barrage upon the now escaping Spanish forces.

“Kill or capture them!” Augustine instructed as he mounted someone’s horse.

Constable Anne de Montmorency, accompanied by his sons François and Charles, led the pursuit of the retreating Spaniards, with Claude d’Annebault commanding their gendarmes.

Henri rode beside Augustine. “Thank you for saving my life.”

Augustine removed his helmet. “I would do anything for you, Henri.”  

“Me too,” Henri answered sincerely, taking off his own helmet. He glanced in the direction where the Prince of Orange had just disappeared. “Why did you let William of Orange escape?”

The King of Navarre shrugged. “William remains within our reach. Despite his conversion to Catholicism during his time in Brussels and his current gratitude towards Felipe of Spain and Mary of Hungary, his underlying Lutheran beliefs will resurface in due time.”

The dauphin nodded. “You are right, brother. And now we should send for Louis.”

Augustine tipped a nod. “Our little brother is needed in Brussels.”

“For his coronation as Duke of the Netherlands,” Henri finished, and Augustine smiled.

The brothers smiled with a sense of purpose, their spirits uplifted by the significance of the occasion. Augustine and Henri shared a sensation of satisfaction and fulfillment, strengthened by their mutual understanding and support for each other’s roles and responsibilities.

§§§

Under a cascade of falling snowflakes, Dauphin Henri and King Augustine made their way back to their camp stationed near the walls of Brussels. The French troops erupted into jubilant cheers, hailing their leaders as great heroes. Bowing deeply and cheering, the soldiers welcomed Henri and Augustine back with reverence. In the meantime, Constable Anne de Montmorency and his sons – François and Charles – persisted in their pursuit of the retreating Spaniards.

Both princes wore suits of armor decorated with gilded ornaments and the Valois heraldry. Intricately embossed upon their breastplates were symbols commemorating France’s illustrious military triumphs, including the Battles of Marignano in 1516 and 1547 during the Italian wars when Emperor Carlos V had met his fateful end. These embellishments not only spoke of past glories, but also served as a testament to the prominent legacy of the French monarchy.

“Long live King François and the House of Valois!”

“God bless Dauphin Henri the Brave and King Augustine the Venerable!”

Claude d’Annebault proclaimed, “God bless our chivalrous and great King François!” 

Augustine cried, “We have reclaimed the Low Countries for France!”

“For our Knight-King!” chorused Jacques d’Albon and the others.

A hush settled as all eyes of astonished soldiers turned to Marshal Charles de Cosse, Count de Brissac, who was escorting Duke François de Nevers. Five guards surrounded the Duke de Nevers from all sides, and all soldiers stared at the prisoner whose hands were chained.

François I de Cleves, 1st Duke de Nevers, stood tall and seemingly intrepid, his muscular frame accentuated by the gleam of silver armor. His pale face, somewhat wrinkled and framed by brown hair, possessed a hooked nose and anxious gray eyes. François was the sole son of Charles II de Nevers and his wife – Marie d’Albret, Countess of Rethel. Bestowed with the title of Duke de Nevers in 1539, François was wedded to Marguerite de Bourbon, daughter of the late Charles de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, and the deceased Françoise d’Alençon.

As Dauphin Henri and King Augustine both dismounted, their horses were led away by the pages. Then Augustine approached Brissac and asked, “What has just transpired here?”

Henri joined the conversation. “What has Monsieur de Nevers done?”

The Count de Brissac bowed before handing a folded parchment to Dauphin Henri. “Your Highness, I can barely believe it, but the Duke de Nevers has been exposed as a spy for François de Lorraine, Duke de Guise. Nevers has been funneling intelligence to Guise.”

Henri’s grip tightened around the letter. “Damn him!” With a sharp motion, he unfolded the parchment, his orbs scanning its contents with a mixture of apprehension and fury.

Augustine’s eyes narrowed at the Duke de Nevers. “To imagine that we trusted him!”

Nevers, visibly shaken, cast his gaze downward. “I… I…”

Meanwhile, Henri scanned the letter. “Indeed, Nevers is a dratted traitor!”

“No, I am a loyal Frenchman!” protested the Duke de Nevers. “I love our country with all my heart! My sense of duty compels me to safeguard our nation from heresy!”

Henri handed the letter to his brother. “Take a look at this thing, brother.”

While Augustine was reading the missive, a tense silence enveloped the camp.

Augustine lifted his gaze to the prisoner. “So, you are a friend to the Guises, Nevers.”

The Duke de Nevers paled further, his nerves shattering. “Your Highness, Your Majesty, I humbly beg your forgiveness!” He sank to his knees, terrified for his very life.

Members of the Guise family had been in exile for many years, taking residence in their estates in Joinville, all of whom remained untouched by punitive measures. Despite the actions of their deceased father, Duke Claude de Guise, who had been killed at Marignano, King François chose not to hold the Guises accountable for Claude’s crimes. As a result, Claude’s six surviving sons, though ejected, were not subjected to arrest or confiscation of their properties.

King François had sanctioned the marriage of Claude, Duke d’Aumale, to Louise de Brézé, the daughter of Diane de Poitiers and her husband Louis de Brézé, Seigneur d’Anet and Count de Maulévrier. In 1548, the monarch had approved the union between François de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, and Anne d’Este, daughter of Ercole II d’Este, Duke of Ferrara, and Renée of France. The marriage was meant to lessen the strife between the Guise and Valois families, but with the stipulation that the couple would live in the countryside unless summoned to the royal court.

The Duchy of Lorraine was under the rule of Duke Charles III de Lorraine, a member of the senior branch of the House of Lorraine. Charles was married to Claude of France and was the grandson of Antoine, Duke de Lorraine, and Renée de Bourbon. Despite their familial ties, the rulers of Lorraine remained neutral, abstaining from involvement in the Guises’ schemes.

Standing on his knees, Nevers begged, “Please, try to understand me!”

Dauphin Henri glared at him with disdain. “How wretched you are, you scum!”

Augustine’s emotions churned like a boiling cauldron. Despite his father’s leniency to the Guises, Augustine had long doubted that banishing this controversial family from court would suffice. The House of Guise had wielded significant influence long before the time when Claude de Lorraine committed all those villainies, and, hence, the Guises were highly unlikely to retire quietly to their estates. The Guises are the bane of my existence, Augustine hissed internally.

Augustine fixed Nevers with an intensely hateful gaze, the letter clasped in his left hand. “The late Ercole d’Este was a friend to France, God rest his soul, unlike his daughter.”

Henri crossed himself. “God rest Duke Ercole’s soul!”

The monarch of Navarre mentioned Ercole d’Este because now Augustine held in his hand the letter from Duke François de Nevers to both Duke François de Guise and his wife, Duchess Anne de Guise, or Anne d’Este. Nevers spied for the Guise couple on a regular basis.

The late Ercole d’Este, Duke of Ferrara, Modena, and Reggio, had succumbed to death at the age of fifty-seven, a year prior to the current events. His eldest son and successor, Alfonso, had assumed his father’s titles and ducal responsibilities. The fatal wound inflicted upon Ercole by Emperor Carlos years ago had ultimately led to Ercole’s demise. Alfonso II d’Este, the new Duke of Ferrara, was not inclined to cooperate with the House of Valois and was openly hostile to the policy of tolerance, hence persecuting Protestants and often burning them at the stake.

Henri’s eyes gleamed with hostility. “Our Aunt Renée faces persecution for her faith in Ferrara. She will have to leave for France at the behest of her own son, Alfonso.”

Augustine inclined his head in agreement, his gaze focused on the prisoner. “I’m aware of Duke Alfonso’s actions. He wants Aunt Renée to renounce her Protestant faith.”

Henri mused aloud, “I wonder if Duke Alfonso has conspired with King Felipe of Spain.”

“Answer to us, Nevers,” Augustine demanded in a venomous voice.

The Duke de Nevers, consumed by rage, spoke with unfiltered honesty. “Duke Alfonso is indeed allied with Spain, and he will make it known soon enough!” His voice rose to a crescendo of ire. “King François grows old and is no longer able to lead his army in battle! Shame on him for his tolerance of heresy and for allowing heretics to thrive, pushing our great country to the brink of civil war between the Huguenots and the Protestants. It is King François’ fault alone!”

“Show respect for His Majesty!” Annebault interjected furiously.

Albon interposed as well, “Nevers is the worst enemy of France!”

Brissac’s patience wore thin. “This traitor deserves execution!”

Augustine’s hand instinctively slid to the hilt of his sheathed poniard. Turning to Nevers with a steely gaze, he spoke in a voice heavy with warning, “Do not dare insult your sovereign, you scoundrel! Our father has tirelessly worked to keep our country from descending into the chaos of war. Thanks to him, we have enjoyed years of peace and prosperity.”

“We have been exceedingly generous to the Guises,” snarled Henri, barely controlling his temper. “I’ve never imagined that you, Nevers, might betray us.”

Finally, the Duke de Nevers rose from his knees before he attempted to justify himself, his glare darting between the princes. “As King François allows heresy to infect the minds of people, the French nobles must unite against the evil Huguenots with the Guises. We must–”

Nevers’ words were abruptly cut short as Augustine swiftly drew his poniard and beheaded him with one single stroke. A stunned hush fell over the camp as Nevers’ head rolled across the ground, making the pristine white snow tainted with crimson streaks of the prisoner’s blood.

After sheathing his dagger, the King of Navarre pivoted to address the assembled knights. “Fear not! Today, you have conquered the Netherlands and proven yourselves heroes of France! But those who consort with the Guises and incite civil unrest, will face the consequences!”

Dauphin Henri stepped forward to reinforce his brother’s actions. “Augustine has executed a vile traitor! Such authority was granted to us by our father, King François.”

The gathering kept silent, some wide-eyed with shock, others nodding in grim approval of Augustine’s deed. It was a stark reminder of the consequences of treason.

The Count de Brissac’s voice boomed through the silent camp, echoing the sentiments of many. “See! Justice has just been served! This is how traitors must be dealt with!”

“Don’t associate yourselves with the Guises!” advised Anne de Montmorency.

“Treason cannot be left unpunished!” Annebault hollered, further emphasizing the severity of Nevers’ betrayal and the necessity of upholding loyalty to the Valois crown.

Afterwards, Augustine and Henri went to the dauphin’s tent, sheltered beneath the Valois standard. Meanwhile, the soldiers stood in stunned silence, grappling with the unexpected turn of events. Snowflakes danced in the air as several men gathered the remains of the lifeless prisoner. Despite the shock of discovering a spy in their midst, they acknowledged the leadership shown by Augustine, but they were rather surprised with his sudden display of ruthlessness.


December 15, 1557, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, Île-de-France, France

The splendid Chapel of the Trinity was an integral part of the magnificent royal castle of Fontainebleau. Inside the church illuminated by countless candles, Eustache du Bellay, Bishop of Paris, presided over the service. Eustache, a nephew of the late Jean du Bellay, had assumed his position in the tumultuous political situation where France’s interests clashed with Spain’s following the recent capture of the Burgundian Netherlands by the French.

In the midst of the Flemish war, the passing of Dowager Queen Marguerite of Navarre had marred the triumph of the French in Brussels, prompting a three-month mourning period. The funeral procession, from Fontainebleau to Lescar, had drawn crowds eager to pay homage to one of the era’s most esteemed women. Marguerite’s final resting place – the grand marble tomb she had commissioned for the late King Henri II of France – stood in the Cathedral of Lescar in Navarre, a testament to her enduring legacy. The loss of his beloved sister deeply shook King François, leading him to contemplate mortality and his own advancing age.

Now the French royal family members were back to Fontainebleau from Lescar. As Bishop Eustache delivered his sermon, his words turned to the virtues of righteousness and benevolence, emphasizing the duty to aid the less fortunate. However, his theological stance subtly shifted in response to the presence of Princess Elizabeth, a reminder of the existing diverse beliefs within his congregation. Then followed the Mass commemorating France’s triumph in Brussels.

“May the soul of Queen Marguerite rest in peace! May she be remembered forever!”

The voice of the Bishop of Paris droned on and on as he proceeded with a Mass in honor of the late most remarkable queen. The faces of all courtiers were tinged with sorrow. Marguerite’s death was peaceful: she had passed away in her sleep from a heart attack, similar to the deceased Thomas Boleyn, which brought some solace to King François, who had been holding his lifeless sister in his arms when Marguerite was discovered dead in her bed that morning.

King François gazed at the wooden cross of Jesus Christ above the altar. “Holy Father, may my dearest sister find peace in heaven! I shall remember her until my dying day!”

Queen Anne placed a comforting hand upon his arm. “Margot watches us from heaven.”

“I’ll always love my sister,” François whispered, his eyes brimming with tears.

Meanwhile, Queen Jeanne of Navarre knelt in prayer for her beloved mother. Keeping herself apart from the rest of the Catholic congregation, Jeanne crossed herself again and again before murmuring, “Dearest Mother, rest in peace! I love you with all my heart, and I shall never forget you! Please, forgive me if I somehow disappointed you, Mother!”

King Augustine of Navarre approached her. “Please, let me help you.”

A tearful Jeanne looked up at her husband. “Thank you, husband.”

Augustine aided his wife to her feet, and they stood together, praying for the late woman.

At the same time, Princess Elizabeth whispered a prayer, “Dear Lord! I implore You to protect all my children and my husband, Edward. Please, protect my father-in-law, Hal, and his wife, Catherine, from all perils.” She crossed herself thrice, sighing softly.

“Dear Lord,” Elizabeth whispered to herself, “I implore You to protect my children and my husband, Edward. Please, protect my father-in-law, Hal, and his wife, Catherine, from all perils.”

Gazing at the lofty altar, Elizabeth remained indifferent to her surroundings, despite being encircled by marble statues and opulence, objects deemed corrupt and idolatrous by Protestants. While staying at the French court, she attended Catholic rituals regularly. Her gaze shifted to her brother Augustine, who, despite doubting the existence of Jesus, convincingly portrayed himself as a devout Catholic. I’m happy that Augustine and I have become friends, Bess noted to himself.

The bishop’s words were meticulously crafted specifically for Princess Elizabeth, at the behest of King François. Nearby, Queen Jeanne of Navarre observed Elizabeth with a mixture of interest and astonishment because she had not anticipated that the Protestant Elizabeth would be willing to pray in the Catholic oratory. How can Elizabeth be here? I’m a true Calvinist and find it repulsive, Jeanne concluded inwardly before her gaze slid to her husband.

Jeanne leaned in to whisper to Augustine, “Your acting is remarkable.”

“It’s a necessary skill,” Augustine replied, showing little desire to converse with his wife.

“You and your English sister both excel at pretense.”  

His gaze hardened. “Bess and I show respect for all religions. Don’t you see it?”

Jeanne jeered, “I’m a principled person, unlike your sister.”

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” her husband apprised, changing the topic.  

No longer willing to argue, Jeanne requested, “Come to me tonight!” It was an opportunity for her to mend their relationship, and to make another attempt at conceiving a child. 

Augustine felt the weight of his marital obligation. “I shall,” he conceded.

With little desire to talk with his wife, the monarch of Navarre stepped away, closer to the altar. Augustine began praying in Latin as he stood next to Queen Anne.

King François stepped to his niece. “How are you both, Jeanne?”

Jeanne blurted out, “How can we be, Uncle François? Augustine is quite the actor!”

The monarch grumbled, “You are risking your marriage, dearest niece.”

“It’s all his doing!” Jeanne protested. “He refuses to see reason because–”

François parried in a quiet voice, “Augustine behaves as any Catholic prince should behave in this case. You should act like him, at least for your son. Don’t you understand it?”

Shaking her head, Jeanne fixed her gaze on the statues before snarling, “That’s idolatry!”

All of a sudden, the Bishop of Paris interrupted the service, casting a shocked glance at the Queen of Navarre. Those nearby who overheard their exchange gasped in horror.

“Continue, Your Eminence,” François urged. “Don’t make us wait!”

“Go on, Your Eminence,” Augustine prompted. “My wife is a bit under the weather.”

Eustache du Bellay, who was a sturdy man with a strong jaw and gentle blue eyes, noticed Queen Jeanne’s critical glare as it swept over his red church vestments, making him feel uneasy. The Bellay family members were fond of the late Marguerite de Navarre, who had championed the cause of the reformers and evangelicals until the French crown shifted its religious policies towards persecuting heretics, a change supported by the Estates General and local Parliaments.

Queen Jeanne is dangerous because of her Protestant leanings, Bishop Eustace speculated silently. Eustace was also surprised to see Elizabeth Tudor praying alongside other Catholics, holding a deep respect for the princess because of her gracious conduct. As a devout Protestant, Elizabeth could have chosen to pray in the Ambassador’s chapel, which was established as a gesture of courtesy to German Protestant nobles, but she decided not to utilize this opportunity.

“Everyone is welcome in the sight of God,” the bishop promulgated.

The Mass continued in Latin. The congregation, now seated, listened attentively, with the exception of Jeanne and a few other secret Protestants, until Bellay finished and descended from the pulpit to the altar. The prelate then prepared for the sacrament of communion.

The Valois monarchs were the first to partake in this communion. Queen Anne, owing to her public conversion to Catholicism, consistently attended the official church rituals alongside the rest of the court. However, she still harbored a deep-seated fear that French Catholics might still condemn her for what they deemed to be heresy. I’ve sacrificed my faith despite remaining a Protestant at heart. I acted so to ensure the safety of my family and for Augustine’s chance to ascend to the French throne without being tainted by my past, Anne lamented internally.  

Anne and her sister, Duchess Marie de Montmorency, exchanged solemn glances as they prayed for their dearly departed father, Thomas Boleyn. They had resolved to travel to Venice in the coming spring with the goal to visit their parents’ graves, with the intention that if Elizabeth were ever to ascend to the English throne, their remains would be moved from Venice to be re-interred in a grand tomb at Hever Castle – this was Anne and Marie’s cherished dream.

King François left Jeanne and extended his hand to his consort. “Should we go?”

Queen Anne accepted his hand. “Yes, my darling husband.”

The royal couple led the congregation out of the chapel. They were followed by Elizabeth and her aunt, Marie de Montmorency, accompanied by Prince Antoine, Duke de Provence, and Prince Lorenzo, Duke of Milan. Prince Jean, Duke de Guyenne, and his wife, Christina of Hesse, walked together, their newfound affection warming the hearts of Jean’s royal parents. Elizabeth engaged in conversation with Augustine about the Battle of Brussels. Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly and her husband, the Duke d’Étampes, were also present among the congregation.

§§§

The expansive presence chamber was bathed in the dull light filtering through the stained-glass windows, enhancing the grandeur of mythological frescoes on the walls. Outside, it was not raining, yet the winter day was oppressively gloomy. Princess Elizabeth dragged a fortifying breath as she entered and went towards her stepfather and mother, who sat upon gilded thrones.

With measured steps, Elizabeth approached the thrones and curtsied. “My condolences on the death of Your Majesty’s sister,” she commenced in a doleful manner.

King François sighed. “Thank you. Now my beloved Marguerite is in heaven with our late mother.” He then crossed himself. “God rest the souls of both Margot and our mother!” 

Queen Anne also made the cross sign. “May Marguerite’s soul rest in peace!”

The king’s thoughts drifted back to the gladsome days of his childhood with Marguerite of Navarre. François remembered the tender moments spent with his late mother and his late sister. They would often read their favorite books and Italian poems together, their laughter echoing through the castles of Amboise, Cognac, and Blois. François reminisced about the joyous strolls through the gardens, the scent of flowers lingering in the air as they shared their dreams and aspirations. These cherished memories fill me with both warmth and sorrow, François mused.

Anne glanced at her daughter. “We have no news from England.”   

“I see,” said Elizabeth with a sigh of disappointment. Her gaze then veered to her husband before asking, “François, is your granddaughter, Princess Elisabeth, betrothed?”

“No, she is not,” the ruler responded, suspecting the reason for her inquiry.

“My eldest son, James,” Elizabeth continued. “He is several years Elisabeth’s junior, but it matters little. I met her at Saint-Germain, and I admire this sweet, clever, and lovely girl, a stark contrast to her imprisoned mother. I would gladly have Elisabeth as my daughter-in-law.”

“Despite their age difference?” Anne could not help but think about Augustine’s situation.

“I do not view it as an obstacle, Mother,” Elizabeth countered. “Unlike Jeanne of Navarre, Elisabeth shows no signs of a rebellious spirit, and she is a staunch Catholic.”

The king nodded. “My granddaughter is the antithesis of Jeanne in this regard.”

Elizabeth elaborated, “Well, my proposal is rooted in strategic considerations. Just as King Edward strengthened his position by allying with the Spaniards through his marriage to Joanna of Spain, I aim to forge a connection between our family and another influential royal dynasty.” She paused briefly to gather her thoughts. “As my son with Eddie, James symbolizes the second reconciliation of the Houses of Lancaster and York. Therefore, a union with a Valois princess would not only benefit James, but also advance my claim to the English throne.”

Anne stated, “Bess, I have every confidence that one day, you will rule England.”

The king rendered his decision. “I shall endorse this betrothal, Bess.”

“Thank you!” Elizabeth expressed her gratitude for their unwavering belief in her destiny. Although she bore no ill will towards Edward, she believed that her brother was destroying her homeland. “Let the blood of the Tudors, Plantagenets, and Valois mingle in our descendants.”

François liked this idea. “I’m certain that Henri, my eldest son, will approve of this.”

“When will you speak to Henri?” Elizabeth wanted to know.

“As soon as Henri returns from Brussels,” the king answered. “Then we shall announce the betrothal, but Elisabeth will have to wait for several years until this wedding takes place.”

Elizabeth assumed, “They can wed when James reaches fifteen. If I’m lucky to return back home earlier, I’ll take Elisabeth with us, and she will grow up together with James.”

The king stressed, “My granddaughter cannot be forced to convert into Protestantism.”

The princess glanced between Anne and François. “If it is my destiny to rule England, then I’ll create a prudent religious settlement for the English people. The established religion would be Protestantism, thereby rejecting the Pope’s authority in Rome. However, I would allow Catholics to practice their faith in private, considering the sizable Catholic population in the country. Naturally, I would avoid religious persecutions, maintaining a moderate approach.”

“You speak with the wisdom of a seasoned ruler,” Anne commended.

François promulgated, “Then it is settled, Bess. I believe that you possess the makings of a great leader, and I would be honored to become related to you and James.”

For the first time in weeks, the Tudor princess grinned. “The Spaniards may take offense at this engagement, although I assume that now King Felipe has other concerns.”

Elizabeth smirked wryly. “Ah, the loss of the Burgundian Netherlands!”

Augustine’s loud voice echoed through the gallery. “I approve of this marriage. My sweet and even-tempered niece, Elisabeth, is not as domineering and obstinate as Jeanne is.”

“It is nice to see you, son,” the King of France greeted.

The Queen of France sent her son a smile. “Dearest Augustine!”

Augustine paused beside his sister and bowed to her. “Father, I shall deliver your letter to Henri. I intend to depart for Brussels tomorrow, for Henri is awaiting me there.”

“Thank you, brother,” Elizabeth uttered, feeling a surge of optimism about her future.

§§§

In the subdued light cast by two flickering candles, the bedroom was bathed in a soft glow. Positioned on dark oak bedside tables adorned with ivory and silver inlays, the candles stood sentinel on either side of a grand bed, its canopy draped in blue velvet. Beneath this regal canopy lay the Navarrese couple, entwined and perspiring in their warm embrace. In the gentle flicker of candlelight, Jeanne’s features seemed to dance – a subtle arch of her brow, a fleeting twitch of her lips. For a time, the queen remained silent, her head nestled against her husband’s chest.

“Oh, Augustine, my beloved,” she whispered, savoring the warmth of her cheek against his bare torso. “I’ve been absolutely bereft since my dear mother’s passing.”

Augustine tenderly stroked his wife’s hair. “I mourn Aunt Marguerite’s loss deeply, too.”

Jeanne withdrew slightly and made the sign of the cross. “May my mother find peace beneath the throne of Almighty God! Now she rests in her tomb beside my late father.”

“I regret that I was unable to attend her funeral, but I was away in Brussels.”

Brushing away her tears, Jeanne sighed. “I’ve longed for your return with triumph.”

Augustine enfolded Jeanne in his arms again, planting a kiss on her cheek. “The Battle of Brussels was no small feat. We still face peril, with King Felipe posing a threat to us.”

“God, how I’ve missed you, Augustine! I was consumed with fear for you!”

"Thank you, my dear wife. These moments of quiet joy are truly treasured." 

“I prayed fervently for your safety each passing day,” she confessed, lifting her head from his chest as he leaned down. Their foreheads met in a tender caress, each finding solace in the other’s touch. Such moments of genuine tenderness and intimacy between spouses were rare.

Augustine felt somewhat ashamed inwardly because he had not thought of his spouse when fighting in Brussels. “I, too, wanted to come back to you and our son.”

“I yearned for your return, my husband!” Jeanne exclaimed passionately before pressing a fervent kiss to his lips. “Augustine! We were all worried for your safety!”

Augustine felt odd. “I’ve returned unscathed, and now I’m here with you.”

“For heaven’s sake,” she whispered urgently, “return to Navarre as swiftly as you can.”

“I intend to. Did you travel from Béarn to Fontainebleau just to wait for my return?”

“Yes!” Not hiding her vulnerability, Jeanne confessed, “This time, I was not only a queen, but also a woman gripped by the fear of losing her husband. Thus, I went to Paris, leaving Henri de Montmorency to safeguard the borders against any potential Spanish incursions.”

“I admit that I desired to see you and set aside our differences, if possible.”

A faint blush tinted her cheeks. “I hope that you may become more like our uncle François. I dream of seeing that frostiness of yours thawing, at least when we are together.”

His cool laughter resonated like distant thunder. “Ma chérie, some traits are inherent.”

The hope that had flickered in her orbs a few moments ago now dimmed, dissipating like smoke. “Why is it that husbands often exhibit such cruel tendencies?”

Augustine’s brow arched. “Is that a confession?”

Jeanne cupped his face. “Yes, it is a confession. I’ve long felt a deep affection for you!”

A smile graced his features. “I used to adore you in our childhood.”

“And now, Augustine?” Her heart raced, anticipation coursing through her veins.

“It all depends on you, but I can try to be less aloof.”

Initially, his kiss was soft and tentative, as though he were handling a precious vase. Then the king covered his wife with his body and pushed the queen deep into the mattress as he penetrated Jeanne with one powerful stroke. Augustine thrust into her with a fervent urgency that Jeanne welcomed eagerly, her hips arching up to meet his movements. Their lips collided in a passionate kiss, igniting a fire of desire between them, and Jeanne responded with equal fervor.

The red-blooded strength of Augustine’s arms molded Jeanne tightly to him as they moved together. With her husband, she felt like a nymph from a myth who was reborn for happiness, as though their encounter had liberated some dormant energy within her. Her hands embraced his back, fingers intertwining as they gasped, his own hands fondling her breasts. Soon they changed positions, which was what the extremely pious Jeanne rarely permitted Augustine to do.

“Tonight, you are exploring,” Augustine observed with astonishment.

Guided by her primal need, Jeanne straddled him. “I feared to lose you so much!”

A mischievous grin crossed his face. “I’m welcoming this playfulness of yours.”

She rocked against his hips. “We are so deeply connected. It feels incredible!”

“It does,” he agreed, pulling her closer, their bodies melding together.

“You can afford to be a little warmer, Augustine.”

Before Jeanne could continue, Augustine’s mouth captured her lips. The king had lived in celibacy for several months following his wife’s unsuccessful pregnancy, and now a sultry lust overwhelmed him. Their kisses were like a tornado, consuming and intense, filled with wet heat and wind, their breath mingling as their mouths fused together. Jeanne, though slightly awkward in her actions as she sat atop him, displayed a boldness Augustine had never seen before.

“Augustine, tell me. Have you ever taken a mistress while away from Navarre?”

“Never,” he avouched, his voice barely a whisper. “I reiterate: it all depends on you.”

“Let me conceive, husband,” she pleaded, her nails digging into his shoulders.

I do not love Jeanne, or at least not yet, Augustine told himself. His train of thought was abruptly interrupted by his own moans mingling with their cries of pleasure. Perhaps I may fall for Jeanne if only she ceases her attempts to control me, and if she deviates from her detrimental Protestant ideas. For what felt like an eternity, the spouses were making love sensually, with Jeanne alternately sitting atop her husband and then beneath him, like an amorous duet.

My Lord, I adore him, Jeanne realized, giving a shriek of enjoyment. I love my husband! If only Augustine had renounced Catholicism, we could lead Navarre, and perhaps even France, towards the true light of Christ, away from the evil Catholic Church. As their coupling continued with increasing intensity, waves of pleasure passed through their bodies, culminating in their indescribable ecstasy. Their reunion was celebrated with the fervor of star-crossed lovers.

“Augustine!” Jeanne groaned in a barely coherent expression of ecstasy.

“Jeanne!” Augustine cried, burying his face in her shoulder as they reached their pinnacle.

Afterwards, as they lay together, sated, Augustine broached a worrisome subject. “Are you corresponding with our cousin, the Prince de Condé? I’m asking for the truth.”

The queen tensed in his embrace. “No, but it changes nothing.”

“What?” His muscles strained beneath her hand. “Don’t say what you should not.”

Nonetheless, Jeanne vowed, “I swear that Navarre will be a Protestant country. I’ll ensure that the diabolical idolatry and papists will not contaminate the minds of my subjects.”

Augustine pulled away and climbed out of bed. “Jeanne, why are you so stubborn? While you may hold whatever beliefs you prefer, you cannot lead our son and your kingdom down this path. We have all worked tirelessly to at least delay religious conflicts – do not incite them.”

Jeanne watched as he donned a purple night robe. “Catholics are corrupt and evil!”

“There is only one God, Jeanne! People simply invented various ways to worship Him.”

“Is that why you are skeptical of Jesus?” Her tone was laced with bitterness.

Her words almost pushed him over the edge. “You have ruined this night! You push me away, then profess your love for me, only to revert to your old rhetoric about religion. You must understand that no prince who is in the French line of succession can be a Protestant.”

Then the king stormed out of the chamber without looking back.

As her anger dissipated, Jeanne dissolved into sobs, curling into a ball on the bed. The wall frescoes depicting festivals and tournaments only served to irritate her further. Jeanne longed to be surrounded by the biblical images and those associated with Jean Calvin and Martin Luther.

“What has happened, Your Majesty?” Yolande d’Albert called as she slipped inside.

Jeanne lamented, “Augustine! He will never become a Protestant!”

Yolande settled herself on the edge of the bed. “He left with a stony face.”

“My husband is like a marble statue,” the Queen of Navarre bemoaned. “His denial of God and the Protestant faith will only lead to more deaths of our future children.”

Yolande shook her head. “Your Majesty has been warned many times.”

Her orbs flashing with zeal, Jeanne asserted, “I can hear the Lord’s words that my mission is to make Navarre a Protestant kingdom. My son, Henri, will be raised as a Protestant.”

Yolande shook her head. “A fatal mistake, especially concerning Prince Henri.”

Queen Jeanne knelt near the bed, praying fervently in French for the rest of the night, while Yolande contemplated her with solemn resignation. Despite Augustine’s efforts to rid the palace of Protestant literature, Jeanne had managed to surreptitiously contact Jean Calvin in Geneva and commission more devotional books. During Augustine’s absence in Brussels, these clandestine deliveries had arrived, further fueling Jeanne's determination to follow her Protestant beliefs.

Notes:

The latest chapter has just been released! We are eagerly anticipating your feedback and your reviews on the unfolding events, twists, and turns in this epic.

In our previous chapter, we read about Princess Elizabeth’s daring escape across the Channel to France with her three children, accompanied by Lord Exeter’s offspring. King Edward VI of England wants to arrest Elizabeth following the arrest of Eddie Courtenay, his father Lord Exeter, and Exeter’s wife Catherine. Queen Anne of France graciously welcomes her eldest daughter, Elizabeth, offering her crucial support against demands from the English ambassador to return the princess to England. Fortunately, with the protection of her mother and her stepfather, Elizabeth and all the children find refuge in France, where they will stay for quite some time.

We learn about the death of Thomas Boleyn from a heart attack in his eighties in Venice. Following the demise of his first wife, Thomas remarried an Italian noblewoman named Lucia. Together, they welcomed a son named Ludovico, who is now growing up within the grandeur of Thomas’ Venetian palaces. In subsequent chapters, there may be opportunities to delve into the lives of Lucia and Ludovico. Additionally, Anne and Mary Boleyn may travel to Venice, where they will organize the relocation of their late parents’ mortal remains to England.

We hope that you like the section dedicated to the Battle of Brussels, which portrays the French triumph over the Spaniards near the city’s walls. It is mentioned that Mary von Habsburg, Dowager Queen of Hungary, served as governor of the Burgundian Netherlands before fleeing with her court to Spain. Following her departure, Spanish forces under Prince William of Orange clashed with French troops commanded by Dauphin Henri of France and King Augustine of Navarre. We hope that you enjoyed the exchange between Augustine and William during their duel. Deep down, William is a Protestant despite his service to King Felipe II of Spain, and, hence, William is likely to change his allegiance and ally with the House of Valois.

The Guise storyline unfolds with the dramatic execution of François de Cleves, Duke de Nevers, whose clandestine allegiance to the Guise family is exposed, much to the anger of King Augustine and Dauphin Henri. Following a tense confrontation, Augustine resolves to personally administer Nevers’ punishment, cementing his commitment to eradicating treachery within the realm. In a bold display of authority, Augustine kills Nevers before the assembled knights, sending a clear message that betrayal will be met with severe repercussions, while also instilling fear in those who would dare betray the crown. Augustine’s ruthlessness surprises many people, perhaps even Augustine himself, as he confronts the depths of his resolve in pursuit of justice.

The great Marguerite de Valois, Dowager Queen of Navarre, passed away off screen during the Flemish campaign. The loss of Marguerite weighs heavily on King François and Queen Jeanne of Navarre, who are mourning for this late remarkable woman. As our narrative unfolds, we will see some of our beloved characters departing, including the possibility of bidding farewell to King François. In this chapter, we also witness a rare tender moment between Jeanne and Augustine, offering solace amidst the grief, but their religious differences ruin their night together.

Attention! We posted a prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP) a while ago, so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance. We are looking forward to receiving your feedback and discussing this chapter with you!

Warm regards,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Chapter 107: Chapter 106: A Prelude to Crisis

Summary:

King Felipe II of Spain and his Portuguese wife, Queen Maria, are in mourning. The Duke of Alba receives an offer for an alliance from Duke François de Guise, but King Felipe quickly dismisses it. In Brussels, Louis de Valois assumes the title of Duke of the Netherlands. In Savoy, Louis of France acts as regent, facing challenges in her marriage to François de Montmorency.

Notes:

The prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP) is available online. Let us know your thoughts! Don’t forget about our work “Entwined by a Golden Alliance” co-written with the magnificent and talented VioletRoseLily.

We highly recommend the works by several authors: BubblyYork, BellalunaMcKenzie, VioletRoseLily, EvilFluffyBiteyThing, annethequene, Lady_Plantagenet in the White Queen Fandom, AnnaTaure, and Esme24.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 106: A Prelude to Crisis

January 10, 1558, Royal Alcázar of Madrid, the city of Madrid, Spain

King Felipe II of Spain knelt at his prie-dieu to accept communion bread from his almoner. Closing his eyes, he consumed a piece of bread and drank some wine from his cup, envisioning that it as Jesus Christ’s blood. Then he listened to a private Mass, and as heartfelt prayers spilled from Felipe’s lips, his soul was torn apart by the anguish of his recent loss. In late December of the previous year, Infante Gonzalo of Spain had succumbed to smallpox in Toledo.

The ruler’s gaze was glued to the high altar, above which hung the gilded cross of Christ. Felipe was surrounded by the marble statues of the Virgin Mary and biblical saints, while the walls of the chapel were covered with frescoes depicting the life of Jesus and the Apostles.

“Carlos is my only living son,” Felipe said to himself. “My other sons keep dying…”

May the Holy Father, Virgin Mary, angels, and saints welcome you, my late son Gonzalo, along with my other deceased children! May the Almighty Lord admit you all into heaven!

Such words tumbled from the Habsburg monarch’s lips. In 1551, King Felipe had married his second wife – Infanta Maria of Portugal, Duchess of Viseu. Remarkably, Maria was an aunt to Felipe’s first wife – Infanta Maria Manuela of Portugal who had died in childbirth in 1545.

Soon the communion ended, and Felipe crossed himself before climbing to his feet. After exiting the oratory, he went into his quarters, where everyone in the antechamber bowed low to their liege lord. The walls, once tapestried with scenes from Old and New Testament, were now draped in black brocade due to the period of official mourning for the monarch’s son.

Ruy Gomez de Silva made a bow. “Your Majesty, may I borrow a moment of your time?”

Felipe let out a tiny smile at his friend and groom. “Of course, Ruy.”

In his late thirties, Ruy de Silva was a hazel-eyed and athletic brunet of average height and pompous bearing. His black satin doublet was embroidered with threads of silver, also wearing the Order of the Golden Fleece around his neck. Over a decade ago, Silva had entered the service of the late Empress Isabella, later becoming the young Felipe’s playmate in their childhood.

Silva’s hand slid to the collar of the Order of the Golden Fleece. “I’m sorry! It is foolish of me to wear it now, especially when such misfortunes have befallen Your Majesty.”

Felipe patted his friend on the shoulder. “Don’t apologize, Ruy. We will discuss the loss of–” He could barely bring himself to mention his other trouble. Dragging a fortifying breath, he ended with, “We lost the Burgundian Netherlands, but we will reconquer these lands.”

An incensed Silva ground out, “Spain must prevail over those French insects!”

“We will punish Henri and Augustine of France,” Felipe swore disdainfully.

Silva informed, “Now the queen is here, for she came during the Mass conducted for you.”

A grin broke through the gloom of Felipe’s face. “My sun is here!”

With his heart hammering in his chest, the monarch hurried to enter his bedchamber.

§§§

Upon entering his bedroom, Felipe stood at the doorway, captivated by the lovely picture before him. His wife sat in a gilded, throne-like armchair by the hearth, where a crackling fire provided warmth. Garbed in a dark silk gown trimmed with rhinestones, she looked like a statue in some ancient shrine, Maria’s bereavement giving an ethereal quality to her appearance. The stark contrast between her pallor and her usually good mood sent a shard of fear through Felipe.

In one corner stood a wide bed with an elaborately carved headboard, draped and canopied with ochre brocade. Pieces of massive and oak furniture, exhibiting inlays of ivory and precious stones, were tastefully arranged throughout the area. Two walls were both tapestried with scenes portraying the Gospels and Acts of the Apostles, while the decorations on the remaining walls showcased a mix of Moorish, Renaissance, and Gothic architectural elements. Madrid, now the capital of Spain by the king’s decree, which was reflected in the room’s décor.

“Maria, mi amada esposa!” Felipe called as he strode over to her. “How are you feeling?”

The queen veered her scrutiny to him. “My heart is bleeding as much as yours, Felipe.”

He stopped near her chair. “You need to rest if not for yourself, then for our unborn child.”

Tears polled into her eyes. “Is the Lord punishing me by taking away all our boys?”

“No, Maria! Their deaths, God rest their souls, are not your fault.”

In a tremulous voice, the queen confided, “The whispers of my grief echo through the vast silence of my world, but I yearn for happiness with you and our daughter.”

“We will find happiness, Maria,” the monarch vowed. “I promise!”

Felipe gently hoisted his consort to her feet and brushed away her tears. With their hands intertwined, they stood together in the solemn hush of the chamber, drawing strength and solace from each other’s embrace. They envisioned a future where happiness triumphed over sorrow.

Taking her husband’s hand, Maria pressed it against her swollen abdomen; now she carried their seventh child. “Feel our baby, mi amado esposo! He is a beacon of life!”

The king smiled at her. “Our son is strong! He will be born in early spring.”

Felipe studied his consort with a blend of worry and reverence. Maria of Portugal, Duchess of Viseu, was his paternal first cousin – the only daughter of King Manuel I of Portugal and his third wife, Eleanor of Austria. At thirty-six years old, Maria was a lovely and curvaceous woman of medium height, exuding impeccable grace and poise. Her oval face, undeniably pretty, held a certain charm, yet it lacked the timeless beauty Felipe associated with his late mother.

Maria’s brown eyes, large and soft, contemplated her husband with immense affection. Her long, glossy brunette hair was arranged in a simple bun atop her head, adorned with a sapphire-jeweled headdress. Felipe could not help but notice Maria’s strong resemblance to his Aunt Eleanor, whom he remembered from the time of Eleanor’s short stay at the Spanish court before Eleanor’s marriage to King François and her subsequent departure to France.

The queen relished the feel of his hand against her stomach. “Mi querido, the movements of our unborn baby reassure me that despite we shall over all our afflictions.”

The monarch stated, “God will bless us with a male heir.”

“Felipe, it sounds like you are seeking affirmation from the heavens themselves.”

“No, you are wrong,” he asserted, withdrawing his hand before continuing, “As soon as it is safe to travel, we will journey to the Alhambra, joining our daughter there.”

Unfortunately, almost all years of Felipe and Maria’s marriage were marked by tragedy. In 1551, just a year after their wedding, Maria had given birth to an unnamed stillborn son. Infanta Isabel Clara Eugenia, Infante Ferdinand, and Infante Diego had followed in later years, but only the girl had survived infancy. Infante Gonzalo had joined the royal nursery in 1556, only to pass away several months later. Maria had also suffered a miscarriage the previous year.

The recent outbreak of smallpox claimed the life of the infant Prince Gonzalo. Desperate to protect his remaining children, King Felipe had decided to send his daughter, Isabel and his only son, Prince Carlos of Asturias, to the safety of the Palace of Alhambra in Andalusia. Against her husband’s wishes, Queen Maria remained in Madrid, partly because of her advanced pregnancy. Consequently, Carlos found himself at the helm of the succession line, followed by Isabel and Felipe’s half-brother – Juan, the son of Emperor Carlos V and his second wife, Mary Tudor.  

The queen’s voice jerked Felipe out of his musings. “My dream to give you a son!”

Felipe kissed her hands. “I adore you, Maria! I chose to marry you among all princesses in Christendom not because of your huge dowry, but because you are my Portuguese sun!”

Maria grinned. “My dear Felipe! I could tell you a million times a day that I love you, and you mean the whole world to me. It is God’s greatest gift that you reciprocate my feelings!”

“Oh Maria,” whispered Felipe as he cupped her face. “Love is such a small word for what we feel for each other! You came into my life at my lowest point: a time when the pain of losing my father, Carlos, and my sister, Maria, was truly unbearable. God rest their souls!” He paused and crossed himself. “You helped me find the strength to live, becoming my beacon of light.”

“My Felipe,” the queen murmured. “Together, we shall overcome all trials!”

The spouses shared a gentle kiss. As they pulled away, Maria surveyed her husband.

At the age of thirty, Felipe was an attractive and austere man of slight stature. His round face was illuminated by a pair of pale blue eyes that shone with happiness when he looked at his wife, and with calculation during political deliberations. Felipe possessed a ruddy complexion, his handsomeness marred only by a somewhat protruding Habsburg jaw. His demeanor was cold and forbidding with courtiers, but with his family and friends, Felipe always became amicable.

Felipe was dressed in a black brocade doublet, complemented by a short-sleeved matching jerkin adorned with threads of gold and gold brooches. The Order of the Golden Fleece hung around his neck, hinting at Felipe’s desire to retake back the Burgundian Netherlands. His brown hair was covered with a dark silk cap plumed with a black feather. Felipe is handsome, but I’m six years older than him, Maria lamented wordlessly. Felipe fell in love with me… He has so far been faithful despite my annual pregnancies. Yet, he is a man in his prime, unlike me.

“Don’t be sad, my queen,” Felipe murmured in a velvety voice.

Maria let out a wan smile. “I cannot feel bad when we are together.”

The monarch led his consort to the windows, where they stood in an embrace, gazing out at the picturesque view of the ornamental gardens outside. Although now it was mid-winter, the climate in Spain was mild, with only occasional snowfall. In anticipation of frost, the gardeners had pruned the remaining foliage and wrapped the fountains in wooden jackets.

Maria pivoted away from the window. “I want to lie down.”

“I’ll accompany you to your quarters, mi vida,” Felipe said courteously.

As they exited into the antechamber, the grooms performed bows before the couple exited.

§§§

The monarchs walked slowly through the hallways, the weight of Maria’s belly preventing them from hurrying. The castle, built on the grounds of a former Muslim fortress, was divided into two sections – one housing the monarch’s household, and the other designated for the queen.

All whom they encountered bowed and curtsied low. The queen’s several ladies-in-waiting rushed to their mistress, halting at both sides of the corridor before curtseying.

“Follow us, ladies,” invited Maria, supported by her husband.

The spouses passed through the gallery adorned with paintings of the Trastámara dynasty. They paused briefly to contemplate the portraits of Emperor Carlos V and Empress Isabella. The Trastámara rulers had transformed the Alcázar of Madrid into one of the principal fortresses and palaces in Castile, serving as the seat of the royal court since the late 15th century.

Felipe commented, “My late patents are a story of immortal love, and we are like them.”

“I agree,” uttered Maria, but she felt uncertain about her own future.

Before the ruler could voice his objections, a familiar voice spoke. “Life is composed of many days and nights, Your Majesties. Why should we not be afraid of death, then?”

“Brother,” the monarch greeted. “You are as bookish as always.”

Infante Juan of Spain bowed. “I love military and philosophy books the most.”

At the age of eleven, Juan was a relatively tall and athletic teenager. His oval countenance boasted a healthy ruddy color, high cheekbones, and a straight nose. Perceptive beyond his years and possessing sharp intellect, Juan’s brown eyes conveyed seriousness. Like Felipe, he had a slightly protruding jaw, and unlike his brother, Juan also had the trademark Tudor red-gold hair. The prince was clad in a black brocade doublet lined with fur, with a gold chain upon his chest.

Felipe schooled his features into coldness. I can see a mixture of my late father and that treacherous Mary Tudor, the king thought. Felipe’s affection for his sibling was genuine, but he resented the teenager because of his mother’s identity. Felipe wholeheartedly detested his former stepmother for betraying the late Emperor Carlos, whom Felipe deeply admired and idealized.

Juan stated, “Your Majesty, I want to become your commander and bring glory to Spain! I’m skilled with sword, and I dream that you watch my sparring contests.”

Felipe had never led his armies, preferring to delegate fighting to his generals, although at times, it did not yield the desired results, such as the recent defeat of the Spanish in Brussels. “According to your tutors, you have excelled in all subjects. I’m also aware of your prowess with weapons. However, we are in mourning now, so you must pray rather than spar.”

Maria chastised, “Felipe, don’t be so strict with your brother.”

Ignoring her rebuke, the king lectured, “Juan, you should be obedient to me.”

Juan’s expression evolved into one of embarrassed indignation. “Your Majesty, I apologize for displeasing you, and I’m praying for the soul of your late son every day.”

“What a good boy,” praised the queen with a smile. “Thank you for your kindness, Juan.”

The prince had a cordial relationship with Maria. “I wish Your Majesties all the best!”

The monarch’s expression softened. “You are gracious, brother.”

Immediately, Juan flashed a smile. “I serve Your Majesty and Spain!” A sudden thought occurred to him. “When the smallpox pandemic is over, let’s go to my favorite Alhambra. I want to be reunited with Don Carlos and Dona Isabel; I love my niece and nephew.”

“I like the Alhambra as well,” Maria agreed. “Our daughter likes it, too.”

At the mention of his troublesome elder son, the Spanish ruler emitted a sigh of frustration. Carlos, Prince of Asturias, was his heir apparent, born from his first marriage to his first cousin – Maria Manuela of Portugal, daughter of the late King João III of Portugal. Although Carlos was not considered ugly, contrary to what some ambassadors wrote to their European sovereigns, he suffered from poor health, extreme eccentricity, and displayed odd behavioral patterns.

I’m not as close with my own son as Juan is, Felipe remarked to himself bitterly. Despite Carlos’ arrogance and lack of intelligence, Juan befriended him, a feat I’ve failed to accomplish. Since 1554, Juan was in charge of Carlos’ library, which included books on Spanish, Aragonese, and Portuguese history, mathematics, theology, astronomy, and cartography. In spite of his age and rank, Carlos did not know Latin, unlike Juan, who excelled in four languages.

Felipe’s lips curved into a smile. “We will join them as soon as it becomes safe to travel.”

Juan beamed. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said before bowing and departing.

Left with her ladies only, the queen berated, “You should be kinder to your brother.”

“I shall not discuss it,” Felipe answered strictly. “Let’s go.”

Frowning at him, Maria accepted her husband’s hand. She allowed Felipe to escort her to her quarters, her maids trailing after them, but the spouses walked in grave silence.

Meanwhile, Juan made his way to his apartments, longing for his estranged mother and angry with his brother over Felipe’s chilly attitude towards him. God above, how I want to meet with my mother! However, Felipe rejected all my pleas to let us correspond. The prince knew that Mary lived in Bavaria with her husband, the Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg, and their children. Juan was close to Don Carlos was largely because they were both unloved by the King of Spain.

§§§

The councilors assembled in the grand chamber, each taking their designated place along a long oak table, adorned with intricate gold and ivory inlays. King Felipe of Spain presided at the head of the table, seated in a high-back armchair upholstered in rich red velvet, his expression formidable and furious as he surveyed the gathering. The air crackled with palpable tension, intensified by the tapestries showing Spain’s important battles adorning the walls.

Felipe ground out, “How did you allow us to be defeated at Brussels?”

The Duke of Alba reported, “Your Majesty, the French troops under Dauphin Henri, King Augustine of Navarre, and Constable Anne de Montmorency significantly outnumbered us. Our general – Prince William of Orange – could not afford hiring more men.”

This influential advisor was Fadrique Álvarez de Toledo y Enríquez de Guzmán, 4th Duke of Alba. He was the eldest son of the late Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, 3rd Duke of Alba, who had once been Emperor Carlos V’s chief commander and friend. Trained in the art of politics by his late father, Fadrique comprehended that maintaining a cool demeanor and a clear head was essential in navigating political affairs. Fadrique’s very close friendship with King Felipe had blossomed following the deaths of both of their fathers at the Battle of Marignano of 1547.

The Duke of Alba possessed a small and saturnine face, framed by a short and bushy black beard. His sharp, black eyes seemed to be piercing through one’s skin like a blade. Of medium height and muscular build, he possessed a swarthy complexion, which appeared even darker against his dark brown hair, cut short and concealed beneath a brown plumed cap. Alba was clad in a lavishly embroidered doublet of black damask with a high collar of matching lace.

Felipe speculated, “William of Orange grew up as my father’s ward and became a Catholic despite his family’s initial Protestant tendencies. Did William betray us?”

“No, he did not,” said Alba. “Something else prevented us from winning.”

The king’s patience wore thin. “What is it? Don’t hold back!”

Just then, the ruler’s aunt entered and revealed, “Your Majesty! Regrettably, our coffers in the Netherlands were empty, lacking the funds necessary to bolster our armies and arm them as adequately as the French. I also counsel caution in our dealings with the Prince of Orange.”

“Welcome, Aunt Maria,” greeted Felipe with a warm smile.

Maria of Austria, Dowager Queen of Hungary and Bohemia, sauntered over to the opposite end of the table. She curtsied to the king and settled herself in her chair. Maria was a sister to the deceased Emperor Carlos, Eleanor of Austria, and Isabella of Austria, once Queen of Denmark. Among the children of Juana of Castile and Philip the Handsome, now only Emperor Ferdinand, Maria of Hungary, and Catherine, Dowager Queen of Portugal, remained alive.

Aged fifty-two, Maria of Hungary was a stout woman with a weathered face and shrewd hazel orbs. Her black damask gown had voluminous sleeves, and a diamond necklace glittered on her neck. Her grizzled hair was concealed beneath a widow’s cap of black damask. After the passing of Emperor Carlos, Maria had kept her office of governor of the Habsburg Netherlands for King Felipe. Maria had recently arrived in Madrid after her daring escape from Brussels.

Maria continued, “In my letters to Your Majesty, I urged you to increase financial transfers to the Netherlands. Although Flanders, Artois, and Brabant are all affluent regions, the populace grew resentful due to the imposition of high taxes and our harsh policies against Protestants. This discontent manifested in small revolts, necessitating significant resources to quell them.”

“Last year, the harvest in these lands was poor,” recollected Felipe.

His aunt concurred. “It was skillfully exploited by the French against us.”

The ruler looked astonished. “Didn’t our new commercial agreement with England, which Joanna convinced King Edward to sign, help boost the international trade in the Netherlands? Flanders, Artois, Hainaut, and Brabant have always relied on the wool supplied from England.”

Maria responded, “That was not sufficient, Your Majesty. In addition to the poor harvest and huge tax burden, the people noticed that taxes in France were considerably lower.”

Alba spat, “Damn all those many Flemish nobles pledged their fealty to the French!”

Felipe compressed his lips in a tight line. “I know, I know.”

Maria pointed out, “Your Majesty’s radical religious policies greatly angered the people. I repeatedly cautioned you against persecuting heretics with such fervor. However, I fulfilled your orders and had many heretics burned in front of crowds in Brussels, Ghent, and other towns.”

“They were heretics, Aunt Maria,” the monarch countered.

Yet, Maria stood her ground firm. “Your Majesty needs to know the truth. While we were burning Protestants, France maintained the policy of religious tolerance, although King François toughened censorship. Consequently, the population of the Netherlands envied the French, who promised them tolerance. So, both nobles and commoners alike began to support the invaders.”

King Felipe clenched his fists, his fury skyrocketing. “Despite the efforts of the House of Valois, France is now teetering on the brink of internal strife, much thanks to the Protestant Prince de Condé and Queen Jeanne of Navarre. If she officially renounces Catholicism, I’ll take back the lands which her husband, King Augustine, annexed to the Navarrese realm.”  

The Duke of Alba concurred. “Soon we might see a conflict between the Protestant Queen Jeanne and her Catholic husband – Augustine of France and Navarre.”

The ruler grinned acridly. “I admit that I shall relish the inner divide in the Valois family. I cannot forgive King François for what he did to my late father with Uncle Ferdinand.”

Alba’s orbs glinted knowingly. “The Duke de Guise and all his relatives hate the Valois.”

“They remain banished from the French court,” Maria reminded.

Felipe drummed his fingers along the table. “Duke François de Guise is married to Anne d’Este, a sister to Alfonso the Second, new Duke of Ferrara. Alfonso is not a friend to France, unlike his late father, and I signed a treaty with Alfonso to diminish the influence of Emperor Ferdinand and King François in Italy. I want to make the Valois less powerful in Italy.”

Nodding at her nephew, Maria asked, “Do you, Don Fadrique, want to report something?”

The monarch and the others looked most impatient for Alba to speak.

The Duke of Alba nodded, smiling in a sinister way. “Your Majesty! The Duke de Guise wrote to me, proposing an alliance aimed at disposing of King François. It is our chance to avenge the demise of the esteemed Emperor Carlos and my own father at Marignano.”

“And your father’s death, Alba,” stressed Maria, not fond of Guise’s offer in the slightest.

“Yes,” Alba hissed. “I loathe the French with all my heart!”

However, the king countered, “No! We shall not conspire with the House of Guise. Thanks to you, Fadrique, I’ve now learned about the potential acts of treason against King François, and I intend to warn him about the danger the Guises pose to him, despite our enmity.”

“Why, Your Majesty?” Alba inquired, completely shocked.

Everyone looked surprised, save Maria of Hungary who inclined her head in agreement.

“Because the old François is the rightful King of France,” the monarch explained. “I also hear Dauphin Henri’s sons are sickly, except for the Duke d’Anjou.”

Maria nodded. “That is true. King Augustine of Navarre is also in the line of succession."

Felipe was curious about his rival. “What is Augustine like?”

Alba disclosed, “At the Valois court, he is compared with Philippe the Fair of France.”

“Augustine might become your chief opponent, nephew,” Maria predicted.

Felipe acknowledged, “He already is, in both Navarre and the Netherlands.”

Alba interposed, “What a dangerous man that Augustine is!”

The ruler glared at Alba. “No, Fadrique, stop right now.” He then turned to the rest of his advisors. “I prohibit you all from having any contacts with the Guise family.”

The councilors nodded in concurrence, understanding the gravity of the situation.

“But why, Your Majesty?” persisted the Duke of Alba.

Felipe eyed the Duke of Alba with both affection and concern. He cherished his friend, yet finding Alba’s impulsiveness and fixation on revenge excessive and rather impractical.

The monarch elaborated, “My late father Carlos, the Lord rest his soul, plotted with Diane de Poitiers and Catherine de’ Medici against King François. Later, my Uncle Ferdinand became involved, and it all ended with the horrible internecine struggle for the Imperial crown within the Habsburg family. Despite my great love for my late father, I consider his plotting unnecessary.”

Maria interjected, her voice tinged with relief, “Many years ago, I chose to support Carlos. My sister, Catherine of Portugal, supported Ferdinand. Nevertheless, my niece, Mary Tudor, was torn between Carlos and Ferdinand, but eventually, she switched sides and even liberated our late mother, Juana, God rest her soul, by doing so betraying Carlos, albeit for good reasons.”

The ruler’s expression hardened. “I shall not discuss that treacherous woman.”

Privately, Maria of Hungary had long changed her negative opinion of Mary Tudor and currently corresponded with her, but Felipe remained unrelenting. Maria sighed and uttered, “In any case, it was awful! I do not wish upon anyone to have such a bloody family war.”

Felipe glanced at the dowager queen. “I agree with you on this, Aunt Maria.”

Once more, she experienced a sense of relief. “I’m glad, Your Majesty.”

The king surveyed all of his councilors again. “Is my order regarding the Guises clear?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the advisors chorused, all of them perplexed.

The Duke of Aveiro chimed in, “Your Majesty is wise and cautious. We ought to reclaim these territories by sword, not by plotting the downfalls of foreign dynasties.”

“We must learn from the lessons of history,” affirmed Felipe.

João de Lencastre, 1st Duke of Aveiro, was the elder son of Portuguese Infante George, Duke of Coimbra. He was a stout and short man in his late fifties, with an olive complexion and hazel eyes set amidst his round-cheeked face. Having once been close to Emperor Carlos, Aveiro had escorted Joanna of Spain to Lisbon in 1552 to marry the late Prince João of Portugal. Like everyone else due to the mourning for the king’s dearly departed son, Aveiro was garbed in a dark satin outfit embroidered with gold, his gray head adorned by a flat black cap.

Alba accused, “Your Grace is from the House of Aviz and, hence, a foreigner to us.”

The monarch glowered at Alba. “Be careful, my friend. His Grace of Aveiro is my and my wife’s relative. Despite certain past events, I have a good relationship with my aunt, Catherine of Portugal, who rules as regent for my nephew, King Sebastian of Portugal.”

Maria of Hungary suggested, “Now let’s discuss fiscal troubles, please.”

Felipe’s expression darkened. “Sadly, I’ve inherited a considerable amount of debt.” These were the loans Carlos had taken to finance his campaigns against François and Ferdinand.

Then Maria addressed Don Juan Cebrián de Ibarra. Startled, Ibarra glanced between the king and his aunt. Ibarra served as Spain’s treasurer during the reigns of Emperor Carlos V and King Felipe II. Ibarra was rather a fat man in his late fifties, whose hair and beard were entirely gray, and his somewhat wrinkled face, along with his green eyes, showed his intelligence. Ibarra was dressed in a plain doublet and hose of black cloth, slashed with brown silk.

Ibarra informed, “Your Majesty, the crown’s debt stands at twenty-five million ducats, of which we have only repaid ten. Despite cutting our expenses, we have an annual deficit of one million ducats. I beg your pardon, but this year, you will have to default on your loans.”

Spain’s weak financial position unnerved Felipe. “Can we avoid that?”

“Forgive me, my liege,” the treasurer repeated. “We are fortunate that foreign lenders lack the means to enforce repayment of Spain’s debts. Although we receive considerable resources from our colonies in the New World, including goods, gold, and spices, they are insufficient to settle our outstanding debts to the Fugger family of Germany and Genoese bankers.”

Felipe nodded sadly before glancing at his aunt. “Does Uncle Ferdinand have any loans?”

Maria answered honestly, “Yes, but far lesser sums.”  

Angered by her words, the king enjoined, “The meeting is over!”

All of the councilors stood up and bowed before hastily exiting the room.

Maria glanced at her nephew from across the table. “I’ve received a letter from your sister who is now distraught after her recent miscarriage. However, Joanna remains committed to her duty and is involved in negotiations with the Pope concerning England’s religious matters.”

Felipe released a sorrowful sigh. “I shall write to Joanna. My poor sister is young and will give her husband more heirs. But why must we endure so many misfortunes?”

Her own sigh was audible. “It’s God’s will, and we are being tested by the Almighty.”

Unexpectedly switching topics, Felipe asserted, “Aunt Maria, please don’t expect that I can reconcile with our Austrian relatives. At present, I’m focused on resolving our financial troubles and reclaiming the Burgundian Netherlands from those vile French.”

“I understand, nephew, but I want you to make peace with Ferdinand.”

“No, and don’t mention it again.” His voice was colored with vexation.

She knew that no amount of arguing would convince Felipe. “As you wish.”

The monarch resumed his duties. Inwardly, he was nevertheless consumed by the longing to see the French driven out of the Burgundian Netherlands. Felipe realized that achieving this goal demanded patience and strategic foresight. He also understood the value of persistence, and Felipe believed that in due time, he would be able to retaliate against his foes. As he worked with papers, Maria observed her nephew silently, her thoughts veiled behind her somber gaze.


February 2, 1558, Cathedral of Saint Michael and Saint Gudula, the city of Brussels, the Burgundian Netherlands

A solemn Mass was officiated by Robert de Glymes-Berghes, who was the Prince-Bishop of Liège. He was a sturdy and hazel-eyed brunet of slender build in his late thirties, clad in his red robes. In the absence of a prelate holding the office of Bishop of Brussels, Glymes-Berghes had arrived in Brussels following the French triumph over the Spanish troops.

The Prince-Bishop of Liège proclaimed, “This Mass commemorates the famous victory of France, may God bless it, and today’s Feast of the Presentation of the Lord.”

These words, pronounced in Latin, resonated throughout the grand cathedral, its origins dating back to the 9th century when a chapel in honor of Saint Michael was initially constructed. Evolving predominantly in the Romanesque style since the 11th century, the basilica boasted windows in the Brabantine Gothic style. Across centuries, this sacred sanctuary safeguarded the relics of Saint Gudula and Saint Michael, who were revered as the patron saints of Brussels.

Louis de Valois sat a pew close to the altar, beside Dauphin Henri and King Augustine of Navarre. They bowed their heads in prayer, offering gratitude to the Lord for the restoration of the ancient Capetian lands to the French crown. Despite his usual skepticism, even Augustine was drawn into the solemnity of the moment, his thoughts lifted in earnest supplication.

The bishop’s voice droned on and on. Many eyes were glued to Augustine and Henri, and even more curious stares were directed at Louis. As now Louis was the Lord of the Netherlands, King François had recently summoned the Estates-General in Paris. Their goal was to officially renounce Louis’ claim to the Valois throne and the Duchy of Alençon. This mirrored a similar action taken over two years prior with regards to Duke Lorenzo of Milan.

The majority of the gathering consisted of Catholics, but some were Protestants. The local aristocrats and commoners, both of them profoundly troubled by burdensome Spanish taxes, had surrendered many cities and towns to the French almost without resisting. Their conditions included confirmation of their traditional privileges, reductions in taxation, and establishment of religious tolerance. Yet, they were to become vassals to the House of Valois. These pivotal terms were outlined in the Treaty of Brussels, ratified just yesterday by Parliament of the Netherlands, solidifying the deposition of King Felipe II of Spain as their sovereign.

As the Mass drew to a close, Dauphin Henri stood up and approached the altar, where he genuflected and crossed himself. Augustine and Louis also came to the dauphin and knelt by Henri. The Prince-Bishop of Liège then presented a cross to them, which they reverently kissed, before receiving his benediction. Then Henri, Louis, and Augustine climbed to their feet.

Turning to address the assemblage, Dauphin Henri spoke in flawless Flemish. “Welcome back under the protection of the French crown and the House of Valois, as it should have been since Louis, the youngest son of King Louis the Second of France, bestowed these lands upon his father in 1076. Despite the passage of centuries, it is God’s will for us to be reunited.”

King Augustine approached his brother and said in Flemish, “Honorable lords and citizens of Brussels! You were enslaved by the Spanish, but the Lord has led you back to us!” 

The congregation erupted into a chorus of jocund cheers before breaking into complaints.

“Spain’s relentless taxation left us absolutely impoverished!”

“Felipe of Spain’s insatiable greed knows no limits! He stripped us of everything!”

“That Spanish king with his jutting jaw is avaricious and cruel!”

Augustine promulgated, “Your lands are rich! The King of Spain used your wealth to solve the problems of his Spanish realm. Starting today, all taxes will be halved, and these funds will be directed to the treasury of the Netherlands, rather than that of France.” 

Henri emphasized, “Our new Duke of the Netherlands shall prioritize the allocation of state funds towards the necessities of the Netherlands. Under Felipe’s relentless extraction of wealth, trade is currently stagnating, which plunged our once-thriving country into a severe crisis. By retaining these funds in our realm, we can swiftly initiate economic recovery.” 

A Flemish lord quizzed, “Who will be regent? The duke is very young!” 

The King of Navarre motioned for his Bourbon cousin to approach him.

Jean de Bourbon, Count de Soissons and d’Enghien, stepped forward and bowed before he introduced himself in the Flemish language. His doublet and hose were of beige satin, wrought with threads of gold. Jean was an ideal candidate for regency: while he maintained an attitude of tolerance towards all religions, he had consistently criticized his younger brother, the Prince de Condé, and his Protestantism, so Jean had distanced himself from Condé, much like their other siblings had done – Cardinal Charles de Bourbon, Duke de Vendôme, and their sisters.

Augustine nodded at Louis, who nodded back at his elder brother. Following the teachings Louis had received, the Duke of the Netherlands endeavored to present himself to the spectators with utmost humility and dignity. Louis recognized that if he had allowed arrogance to shape his conduct, it would jeopardize his ducal crown. Dear God, I’m terrified, but happy, Louis mused.

The ruler of Navarre declared, “As Louis has yet to reach his majority, King François the First of France has appointed Monsieur de Soissons as regent for our brother.”

The Count de Soissons supplied, “I pledge to govern these lands to the best of my ability, in accordance with all local customs and laws. As stipulated in the Treaty of Brussels, these laws remain supreme over French legislation, and will be duly honored.”  

“Now tolerance is guaranteed to everyone,” asserted Dauphin Henri.

Augustine and Henri shared knowing glances. The Low Countries had endured oppressive taxation and harsh persecution of Protestants during the reign of Emperor Carlos V and later his successor. Granting economic and religious freedoms to the local populace was crucial for the French to secure their unwavering loyalty, although now France teetered on the brink of civil war. In Flanders, our subjects need not fight for religious freedoms, Augustine mused.

Cheers erupted from the crown again. “Long Live Duke Louis of the Netherlands!”

Amidst the resounding acclamations, Henri and Augustine clasped both of Louis’ hands, standing on either side of him, lifting them in a triumphant gesture. Soissons stood behind them, a silent sentinel in support. Louis was hailed by the audience, elevated almost to the status of a saint, as nobles and wealthy citizens rejoiced in the newfound freedoms bestowed upon them.

In his proficient Flemish, Louis declared, “As Lord of the Netherlands, I vow to administer justice to all subjects regardless of their status or religion. I shall never sanction burnings! Every individual is entitled to freedom of thought, conscience, and religion!”

“God bless Duke Louis! May his reign be long and glorious!” cried the Prince-Bishop of Liège fervently, bestowing his benediction upon the newly appointed ruler.

His words ignited an outburst of cheers. “For Duke Louis! For the House of Valois!”

Henri inclined his head towards his youngest brother. “You have done well, Louis.”

“I rehearsed my speech many times,” confessed the young duke.

Meanwhile, Augustine’s thoughts drifted to his English sister. At present, Elizabeth Tudor was safe in France, and her son, Prince James, was betrothed to Princess Elisabeth of France, with Dauphin Henri’s permission. I’m surprised that Henri, a staunch Catholic, is not against Elisabeth’s betrothal to James, Augustine remarked to himself before refocusing on the present.

Quietly, Augustine addressed his siblings. “We have accomplished our mission! However, Felipe of Spain will undoubtedly gather new troops to try and reconquer these lands.”

Henri tipped his head. “We will leave about fifty thousand men in Brussels, Antwerp, and Ghent. The Burgundian Netherlands do not support the Spaniards now, but people are fickle.” 

“We will not disappoint them,” Louis responded.

Standing behind the royals, Soissons promised, “I’ll protect the Netherlands.”

Louis smiled at his regent. “Thank you, Monsieur de Soissons.”  

“Constable de Montmorency,” began Augustine, “is now back to France. Soon he and his wife will relocate to Flanders for some time to ensure that the Habsburg attacks can be repelled.” 

The dauphin added, “Charles de Montmorency will stay here as well.” 

“I’m relieved,” Soissons said, glad that they would have additional forces in Brussels.

The local aristocrats shouted, “Long reign to Duke Louis! Long live King François!” 

The cacophony of French and Flemish voices melded together into a unified roar, echoing through the basilica, while gazes of excitement intermingled amidst the jocund atmosphere.

“For both of my brothers!” Louis shouted. “For Dauphin Henri and King Augustine!”

“For Dauphin Henri the Brave! For King Augustine the Venerable!” 

Their exultant shrieks reverberated through the vastness of the basilica, filling the air with a melody of jubilation and hope for a good future, which was reminiscent of a bird’s song.

Henri glanced at Augustine and jested, “Ah, Your Venerable Majesty.”

Amusement flickered Augustine’s orbs. “Your Brave Highness, our future Majesty.”

Henri sighed. “Our fate... Remember the prophecies of Nostradamus and others.”

Augustine sighed, keeping his composure. “Don’t speak of it, Henri.”

Louis interposed, “Which prophecies do you mean, brothers?”

As Louis glanced between them, his older siblings sighed and simply shrugged.

Henri switched to another topic. “Louis, your ducal coronation will take place soon.”

Louis was upset with Henri’s avoidance of answering to his question, but he was delighted to learn about the upcoming event. “Thank you, brothers! I shall not disappoint you!”

Augustine stroked his brother’s hair. “We know that, brother.”

Dauphin Henri swiveled to the congregation and announced, “Next week, Louis de Valois, Prince of France, will be anointed in this very cathedral as Duke of the Netherlands, becoming your sovereign. We anticipate your full participation in this celebration of joy!”

A resounding roar of agreement echoed through the basilica like thunderous applause.

Observed by the spectators, Augustine, Louis, and Henri sauntered down the nave towards the exit, with the Count de Soissons following closely behind. They were intercepted by the Prince-Bishop of Liège, who again bestowed his blessings upon Louis with the sign of the cross.

In these moments, Augustine’s gaze flew up to the rose window positioned just above the exit, portraying Jesus Christ and His Apostles. The dreadful prophecies given by Nostradamus resurfaced in his mind, and Augustine prayed for God’s divine intervention and salvation of his father and his brother, Henri. The mere thought of the possible tragic demise of both François and Henri was more agonizing for Augustine than any other cruel torture inflicted upon him could be. I fear that these prophecies might come out to be true, Augustine mused.

Unbeknownst to Augustine, Henri pondered his own potential mortality. Memories of past losses flooded back, chief among them being the death of his dearly departed aunt, Marguerite de Navarre, for whom Henri mourned deeply. He was also aware of Nostradamus’ prophecies, his cryptic warnings haunting the dauphin’s mind like lingering echoes. Nonetheless, I refuse to be paralyzed by terror, and these ominous prophecies mean nothing, Henri told himself internally.

The dauphin requested, “Augustine, everything will be fine.”

“I hope so,” Augustine replied resolutely, thrusting aside his apprehensive thoughts.

“Is something wrong?” Louis queried as he approached his siblings.

Smiling at the youngest Valois prince, Henri led their small procession to the exit. Briefly, they stopped and were assisted in donning their ermine cloaks because it was frosty outside.

The trio stepped out of the cathedral into the wintry morning, followed by many others. All around them, snowflakes danced in the air like ethereal spirits, conjuring whimsical shapes in the swirling flurry. For a moment, Augustine turned back and glanced at the basilica’s façade, where three portals stood adorned with gables and flanked by two stunning spires, all fashioned in the captivating Brabantine Gothic style, though notably there was no rose window.

The procession made its way to the nearby square, where they mounted their horses. Then they rode through the streets and towards the Palace of Coudenberg, a luxurious residence once frequented by Emperor Carlos V. The frosty weather kept the streets almost deserted, providing the cortege with a tranquil journey. From now on, Louis could call the Burgundian Netherlands his new home, and he would reside in Brussels alongside his regent, the Count de Soissons.


February 25, 1558, Château de Chambéry, the city of Chambéry, Duchy of Savoy

The Council Room was spacious, where the walls were swathed in tapestries bearing the Savoy heraldry. Louise of France, Dowager Duchess de Savoy, was seated at the head of a long mahogany table, in an ebony armchair, surrounded by her competent and loyal advisors. Among them stood out a solitary French lord: Armand de Gontaut, Baron de Biron.

The regent of Savoy decreed, “We will make Italian the official language in Piedmont.”

“Replacing Latin with Italian?” Biron asked anxiously.

Louise nodded. The conversation was led in Italian, although they all spoke French well.

“It will also make Savoy closer to Italy, not France,” added one of her councilors.   

This man was Cristoforo Madruzzo, a native of Trento, who had been consecrated cardinal in 1543 and now was also the Prince-Bishop of Trento. At the age of forty-six, Madruzzo was a tall man of average build, with swarthy complexion, a hooked nose, and stormy gray eyes. He was clad in his black ecclesiastical robes, his jet-black hair covered with a black flat cap.

Initially, the local aristocracy had viewed the widow of the deceased Emmanuel Philibert de Savoy, Louise, with suspicion. They had harbored concerns that she would advocate solely for pro-French policies while serving as regent for her son, particularly since the duchy had been under French occupation since 1536 and until the moment when Louise had assumed the regency in 1555 following the departure of the French viceroy from Savoy. To everyone’s joy, Louise vowed to govern the duchy as an independent entity for her son, Duke Charles Emmanuel.

Louise stated, “Our alliances with various Italian duchies and city-states do not lead to the end of our treaty with the Austrian Habsburgs and France. We need all of our allies.”

“I’m welcoming the legislation reform,” Madruzzo stated.

The regent tipped her head. “Maybe it is worthy of moving our capital to Turin.”

Someone noted, “Duke Charles should decide such matters when he comes of age.”

“Agreed, Messers,” Louise uttered as she surveyed the gathering. “To be more neutral and less vulnerable to France, Spain, and the Holy Roman Empire, we might consider this.”

Madruzzo understood her reasoning, but he quizzed, “Why, Your Highness?”

The regent speculated, “The Duchy of Savoy is very important for my homeland, France, due to its strategic position, granting access to Italy. It also serves as a buffer between France and the Spanish holdings in Italy – Naples. Chambéry’s geographical proximity to Spain, France, and Germany stresses its value, serving as a nexus connecting these pivotal regions.”

“I see,” Biron opined. He would not voice his disagreement publically.

Louise sensed the unease in her French companion’s demeanor. “Chambéry is a wonderful city, and the French language will always be used in Savoy, particularly in those lands that are adjacent to France such as Faucigny, Faucigny, Tarentaise, and Genevois. However, Piedmont is larger, and people speak Italian there. No one will deprive us of our right to speak French.”

Madruzzo admired Louise. “Your Highness is correct.”

Louise insisted, “To enhance the coherence and accessibility of our legislation, I propose replacing Latin with Italian in all legal documents. However, we will continue to uphold French as one of our primary languages, ensuring that our laws remain accessible to all.”

The advisors, save Biron, nodded, contemplating the regent of Savoy with admiration. The Dowager Duchess was much like Louise de Savoy, the late mother of King François.

The twenty-one-year-old Louise embodied a blend of beauty and acumen, wearing a gown of red and white silk embellished with rubies and diamonds. Privately, many regretted Duke Emmanuel Philibert’s untimely demise, which was a consequence of his ill-fated uprising several years prior. Under Louise’s regency, the King of France had ended the occupation of Savoy, but its freedom remained contingent upon maintaining the alliance between the countries.

Armand de Gontaut, the Baron de Biron, had once served as a page to the late Marguerite of Navarre. In the Italian wars, Biron had proved his military talents. At the age of thirty-four, Biron’s physical appearance was not striking: a narrow face, gray eyes set close together, and an elongated nose. Yet, his countenance also exuded strength and masculinity. Biron should be more reasonable, Louise concluded as she observed him. If we want to keep Savoy our ally in the future when my son grows up, I cannot allow myself to be extremely pro-French as regent.

“Savoy has many allies,” stated Louise. “Though not the Spanish Habsburgs.”

Few Savoyards sought friendship with Spain, instead hoping that Savoy’s alliances with France and the Holy Roman Empire would ensure Spain’s neutrality towards the duchy.

“Your Highness,” started the Baron de Biron. “I’ve learned that now King Felipe of Spain is in mourning. A few weeks ago, Queen Maria of Spain had a stillborn son.”

Louise remembered the surprising letter from Felipe about the danger from the Guises. She declared, “God rest the child’s soul! I’ll write to His Majesty, expressing my condolences.”

Then the Dowager Duchess of Savoy rose from her seat, prompting everyone to stand up and bow respectfully. With a regal demeanor, Louise swept out of the chamber.

§§§

Outside, layers of snow blanketed the gardens in shimmering white. The Dowager Duchess of Savoy’s bedroom was furnished with rosewood armchairs and a couple of gilded tables, with gilded candelabra adorning their surfaces. The Aubusson carpet that covered the floor depicted scenes from the ancient Greek Trojan War. The walls were frescoed with mythological scenes from the same conflict, imbuing the space with a sense of classical elegance.

My husband is still absent,” Louise lamented in an incensed voice.

“Yes, Madame,” confirmed Jacqueline de Rohan, Marquise de Rothelin. “Unfortunately.”

A nervous Louise began pacing to and fro. “Where can François de Montmorency be now? He has been absent since the last evening! Is that what I think? Is he with another woman?”

Madame de Rothelin shrugged. “I do not know what to tell you.”

Jacqueline de Rohan, Marquise de Rothelin, was the daughter of Pierre de Rohan, Viscount de Fronsac, and Françoise de Penhoet. Jacqueline had moved to Savoy to assume the role of the principal lady-in-waiting to Louise, after having previously served as regent in Neufchâtel and Valangin during the minority of her son – Duke Léonor de Longueville. Her deceased husband –François d’Orléans de Longueville, Marquis de Rothelin – had passed away in 1548.

Jacqueline, now in her late thirties, possessed an allure marked by a lithe physique. Clad in a somber and dignified high-necked gown, its sleeves trimmed with white lace, she exuded an air of elegance. Her complexion was porcelain-like, accentuating the soft hue of her almond-shaped, emerald orbs, which sparkled with intelligence and depth. Although her gaze held a hint of melancholy, there was also a quiet strength and resilience in Jacqueline’s demeanor.

Louise halted near her maid. “Are all men like this, Jacqueline?”

Her heart aching for her mistress, Jacqueline answered, “My late husband had mistresses, and I was forced to suffer his infidelities in silence, shedding tears in solitude. However, you are a princess of the blood and Dowager Duchess de Savoy.” She lapsed into silence to gather her thoughts. “Monsieur François de Montmorency is indeed fortunate that King François permitted our marriage, and he must show you the respect you deserve, Madame.”

“But my husband behaves differently,” Louise bemoaned.  

“While we cannot ascertain the reasons for his frequent absences, I’m hesitant to accuse him of infidelity without proof, his conduct has been somewhat scandalous.”

Louise grimaced. “Before our marriage, François was already known for his dalliances, yet he pledged eternal love to me. But deceit about his infidelities flowed so effortlessly from him!”

A month ago, Louise had married her long-term suitor, François de Montmorency, in a private ceremony at Chambéry. Soon the problems between the spouses had started because François wanted to have power in Savoy. I cannot allow François to hold a seat on the Regency Council, Louise ruminated internally. Or I might be seen as a woman who rules not in her son’s interests, but in her husband’s ones. After her refusal, François had begun to disappear from the castle from time to time, and Louise had already clashed with François several times.

François grew increasingly perturbed by Louise’s steadfast refusal to bestow any position upon him. He failed to grasp that the Savoyards had barely accepted their regent’s remarriage. Moreover, Louise persisted in identifying herself as Louise de Valois or Louise de Savoy, rather than adopting the surname de Montmorency. This decision further irritated her husband, who interpreted it as a reluctance to embrace his surname due to his lack of ducal or royal status.

Jacqueline advised, “Oh, Madame! Don’t be so sad before you speak to him candidly!”

Louise clasped her lady’s hands in hers. “Thank you for your wisdom, my friend.”

Jacqueline returned the gesture, squeezing her hands in an affable gesture. “I’m grateful to Your Highness for letting me raise my daughter at the court of Savoy.”

“I’m glad that my son has such a good companion,” Louise said, stepping back.

“Mama! I can run faster than her!” exclaimed Duke Charles Emmanuel de Savoy, bursting inside his mother’s bedroom like a whirlwind, his laughter echoing through the chamber.

An older girl trailed behind him, also laughing. “Your Grace! You are so quick!”

Louise’s expression conveyed bewilderment and simultaneously amusement. Nonetheless, she reproached, “Your Grace de Savoy! What is the meaning of this?”

The little duke halted abruptly and bowed deeply. “I apologize, Your Highness,” he said earnestly, his youthful exuberance momentarily subdued. “Mother, forgive me.”

The dowager duchess gazed fondly at her five-year-old son, Charles Emmanuel. He bore a striking resemblance to his late father, with his brown hair, hazel eyes, and handsome features, masculine and angular. Clad in a red damask doublet and hose embellished with diamonds, the duke’s accentuated his slender figure, although he was rather short. At his tender age, Charles displayed remarkable precocity, a testament to his innate intelligence and curiosity.

A shard of guilt seized Louise. How could she have ever wished against Charles’ birth, in spite of the grievous circumstances of his conception on her wedding night with his father, which was marred by her own rape? The weight of Emmanuel Philibert’s past actions and her trauma weighed heavily on her senses. I adore Charles absolutely, Louise realized wordlessly.

“Your Highness and Your Grace!” said Françoise d’Orléans-Longueville as she curtsied.

Françoise was a petite and beautiful girl of nine, affectionately known as Mademoiselle de Longueville. Graceful and elegant, she possessed a deep passion for dancing and a keen intellect for languages. Her cerulean blue eyes shone brightly in the midst of her alabaster face, its beauty enhanced by lush lips and high cheekbones. Françoise was bedecked in a vibrant gown of blue satin embellished with pearls, while braids were intricately woven into her brown hair.

Louise approached her son. “Did you two have a good time?”

“It was such fun, Mama!” the duke cried, his eyes sparkling with joy.

Louise thought about her late first spouse, Emmanuel Philibert. What their marriage might have been like if he had overcome his animosity towards the French and had treated Louise well? Reflecting on her current situation, Louise believed that her new husband’s dissatisfaction with his status and his perceived inferiority complex in comparison to her were at the root of all their problems. Perhaps a princess should not marry beneath her station, Louise thought.

Jacqueline approached her daughter. “Françoise, you cannot behave in such a manner with His Grace,” she admonished. “You must always be a proper girl! Do you understand?”

“I’m sorry, Your Highness, Your Grace, and Mother,” Françoise apologized to everyone.

“It’s fine, Mademoiselle de Longueville,” Louise reassured with a forgiving smile.

Charles blinked in confusion. “But we were only playing!”

Louise uttered, “You can play, but you should be a little quieter, Charles.”

The dowager duchess enfolded her dearest son into her arms, relishing in the affectionate kisses the boy planted on her cheeks. Then Jacqueline led her daughter and the duke out of the apartments. Other maids bustled about in the antechamber, attending to their duties.

Louise was glad to have Mademoiselle de Longueville around. The House of Valois shared a distant connection with the Longueville family, stemming from their common ancestry with Duke Louis I d’Orléans, a brother to King Charles VI of France known as the Mad.

A maid entered and curtsied. “Your Highness, your husband is back.”

Louise furrowed her brows, her heart racing. “Where is François now?”

A commotion erupted from the antechamber, startling Louise. To her utter shock, she saw two male servants carrying an inebriated François de Montmorency inside. Acting on instinct, she ordered them to carry and put her husband on a wide mahogany bed, canopied with mulberry velvet. Having done so, the servants promptly bowed to the dowager duchess.

One of the servants spoke up. “Your Highness, we are sorry… Monsieur de Montmorency tried to retire to his own chambers, but he collapsed in the corridor near your rooms.”

“Say no more,” Louise instructed. As they nodded, she added, “Leave.”

Bowing and curtseying, the men exited, hiding their distaste towards Montmorency.

Left alone, Louise approached the bed where her husband rested and looked down at him. François must have been carousing in some tavern again! He is bringing shame upon himself and me! The courtiers were already gossiping about his misconduct, although nobody dared speak openly. Louise feared that someone might have seen François in his shameful state. She would confront him upon his awakening, determined to put an end to his reckless behavior.

Louise’s mind drifted to her beloved sister, Elizabeth Tudor. Louise pictured Elizabeth’s arrival in France with her offspring and those of the Marquess of Exeter, seeking refuge from the tyranny of King Edward VI. Louise had not been at Fontainebleau at the time of Elizabeth and the children’s arrival, but she had written to Elizabeth, expressing support for her. Bess endured many hardships, but she has reached the safety of French soil, Louise thought, relieved.

Notes:

Dear readers and friends! The latest chapter of our story has just been released! We eagerly await your feedback and reviews on the unfolding events, twists, and turns in this epic tale.

In this chapter, we introduce King Philip II of Spain, referred to as Felipe in the Spanish tradition, along with his Portuguese wife and cousin – Maria of Portugal, Duchess of Viseu, and Queen of Spain. Maria is the only daughter of Eleanor of Austria and King Manuel of Portugal, which makes her aunt of Felipe’s first wife, Maria Manuela of Portugal. As was common among the Spanish and Austrian Habsburgs, Felipe has had two Portuguese queens, both of them his close relatives. Now Felipe and Maria have only one surviving daughter, Infanta Isabel Clara Eugenia, while their other children passed away, largely due to their fragile health resulting from inbreeding.

The chapter depicts King Felipe presiding over his Privy Council meeting with his advisors. It is also attended by his aunt – Maria of Austria, Dowager Queen of Hungary. Just like in history, Fadrique Álvarez de Toledo, 4th Duke of Alba, is depicted as a close friend and confidant of King Felipe. Like in history, Fadrique’s father is Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, 3rd Duke of Alba, known as the Grand Duke of Alba, who in this story was killed at the fictional Battle of Marignano of 1547 alongside Emperor Carlos V. The above causes Fadrique to fiercely hate France and the Valois family, so he wants to seize the chance and ally with François de Lorraine, Duke de Guise, who contacted Fadrique in secret and proposed to ally against the King of France.

While we may have portrayed Felipe as a nobler man than he was in real history, he is not inclined to conspire against the rightful King of France. Felipe has long drawn his own conclusions regarding his late father’s actions and mistakes. Felipe seeks revenge without perpetuating further conflicts with the French monarch and his Austrian relatives. While it is true that Felipe still loathes his uncle, Emperor Ferdinand, it does not mean that Felipe’s sentiments will never change. The King of France is patient enough and does not want to follow in his father’s footsteps. Meanwhile, the Guise family is already plotting against King François and the Valois family.

The second section in this chapter depicts the current situation in Brussels after the French conquest of the Burgundian Netherlands. Dauphin Henri and King Augustine of Navarre, along with their youngest brother – Louis de Valois, Duke of the Netherlands – are now in Brussels. The scene in the cathedral adds depth to their characters, revealing their thoughts and aspirations. Augustine and Henri both remember Nostradamus’ prophecies, each of them secretly terrified.

Louise of France, Dowager Duchess de Savoy, is portrayed as the regent of Savoy for her little son, Duke Charles Emmanuel de Savoy. Now Louise is married to François de Montmorency, and although they are in love, they face challenges in their marriage due to François’ desire for an official position in Savoy, which would never be welcome by the Savoyard nobles and people alike. It’s worth noting that in real history, Duke Emmanuel Philibert, father of the young duke, moved the capital of Savoy from Chambéry to Turin, which Louise is going to do as well.

Attention! We posted a prologue to the sequel ‘Chained by Blood and Power’ (CBP) a while ago, so you can enjoy it now. We decided to post the prologue well in advance. We are looking forward to receiving your feedback and discussing this chapter with you!

Warm regards,
Lady Perseverance (Athenais) and Lady Nature (Nathalie)

Notes:

Many thanks to EvilFluffyBiteyThing who created the illustrations and provided invaluable assistance in editing the story.

In this AU, Anne Boleyn is assumed to have been born in 1508. The birth date of King François was changed to 1498 so that he is almost of the same age with Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor. King Henry’s birth date remained unchanged.

In Greek mythology, Cronus was the leader and youngest of the first generation of Titans, the divine descendants of Uranus, the sky, and Gaia, the earth.

In Greco-Roman mythology, Aeneas was a Trojan hero, the son of the prince Anchises and the goddess Aphrodite (Venus). He is mentioned in Homer's Iliad, where he is a minor character. In Virgil's Aeneid, he is said to have been as an ancestor of Romulus and Remus.

The Elysian Fields, also called Elysium, is the final resting place of the souls of the heroic and the virtuous in Greek mythology and religion.

May we ask you to leave a review of the prologue to Chained by War and Love? In the past, we had so many reviews on this website (reviews to my old story "Anne Boleyn: Life-death-rebirth path", and it was so great. Reviews always encourage an author to update! Thank you in advance.

Yours sincerely,
Lady Perseverance

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