Chapter 1: The 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, worshiping 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?"
§§§
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-worshiping 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 ami? You do not trust the word of the Knight-King, do you?"
A deluge of ethereal 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. "Charles V, 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.
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.
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