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.


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,

Athenais Penelope Clemence