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.
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,
Athenais Penelope Clemence