Chapter 19: Lessons of History

June 25, 1537, Royal Palace of Valladolid, Valladolid, Spain

"There are traces of fatigue on your face," observed Isabella of Portugal as she entered her royal spouse's private chambers. "You have not slept well for many nights."

"It is insomnia, wife," Carlos V, Holy Roman Emperor, replied as he leaned back in his seat. "These days, sleep eludes me because I'm still feeling rather unwell."

The Habsburg spouses peered at each other for nearly an eternity.

"At least, you are alive, husband." Her expression turned despondent as Isabella thought back to the calamitous events which had transpired as of late.

At the beginning of May, Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alba, had delivered the wounded Emperor Carlos from France to Valladolid, the current seat of the Spanish court. The injuries, which he had received from French arrows in the Battle of Poitou, had been almost fatal, and Charon, the ferryman of Hades, had started transporting his soul along the Styx. For many weeks, the royal doctors had fought tooth and nail for the emperor's salvation, and there had been a great celebration at court when their sovereign's fever had broken.

The dawn light filtered in through the windows, filling the room with a soft golden glow. Its beam fell on the haggard face of Emperor Carlos with dark circles under his eyes. His pallor was sickening white, and his narrow face looked thinner than ever before. Although he was still relatively young, now Carlos looked older than his real age because of the considerable physical and psychological toll that his French disastrous campaign had had on him.

Nevertheless, Carlos was a handsome man of athletic build and average height. Marred by a protruding jaw, the distinctive mark of a Habsburg, his handsomeness was not perfect but remarkable, his strong features impressive, his deportment imperial. His smart hazel eyes were a shade darker than flaming torches. His appearance held the gentle sadness of a warrior deprived of a victory and simultaneously the jaded cynicism of a crafty ruler who practiced deception in his chicaneries. There was an air of supreme pride befitting a monarch around him.

Isabella stifled a cry of horror as she scrutinized her husband once more. At present, he was so thin that his bones seemed to have pressed into the fabric of his austere tight-fitting, high-collared doublet of black velvet slashed with silver tinsel. His black silk trunk hose accentuated his spindling legs, which had been far more muscled before his departure to France.

"Should I summon the physician?" She came closer, concerned.

He briefly touched the gray velvet cap that hid his short brown hair. "No, mi amor. You have been worried for me for so long. Now look after yourself and our children."

She stopped in the middle of the room. "Your wellbeing is my priority, Carlos."

A tiny smile warmed his countenance. "You are a model wife and queen, Isabella. I do not know what I would have done without you." Then his expression transformed into blankness again. "I awoke in the dead of night and looked through my latest correspondence. The attacks of the Ottoman ships on our fleet are so unsettling that I could not fall asleep again."

The empress looked away, contemplating tapestries of biblical stories and lives of the saints. "That is the result of your own mistakes."

His fists clenched into tight balls. "You keep calling my invasion of France a grave error! I cannot tolerate your daily reminders of something I seek to cleanse from my mind."

"But you cannot, and you never will."

He inclined his head. "That is true. We lost, and my honor as a general was besmirched."

"What about the King of France's honor? You attacked him!"

He uttered rhetorically, "For the most part, integrity and politics are incongruent."

Her footsteps light and measured, Empress Isabella crossed to his chair. "I must say that I'm not accustomed to seeing the mighty Habsburg monarch so helpless, so pitiable, and, even worse, full of self-pity. Now you resemble the defeated Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus who fled from Gaius Julius Caesar with his tail between his legs after the Battle of Pharsalus."

Emperor Carlos bounced to his feet like a wild caged animal. "Damn the French! I've become the Habsburg Pompeius! I ran away from the battlefield of Poitiers! Or, strictly speaking, my loyal commander, the Duke of Alba, evacuated me because I was severely wounded."

She stiffened, uncertain why her words unsettled him so. "You almost died." She crossed herself, for the thought of his passing was more tormenting than would be that of her own sudden demise. "Each and every wee hour, I thank our gracious Lord that you are alive."

Isabella had spent many anguish-filled days and nights nursing Carlos back to health. She had prayed fervidly for him, shedding lakes of tears and crooning to him about their eternal love and their offspring, until one afternoon he had opened his feverish eyes. When a sense of doom had prevailed all over the Habsburg domains, her voice had guided him back to reality. Carlos is alive, and I do not care whether he was defeated or not, Isabella bemoaned silently.

Pacing to and fro relentlessly, the emperor was frowning like a fiery spirit of exasperation. His thunderous demeanor was matched by the chamber's austere and unusual luxury. Two walls were swathed with Flemish biblical tapestries, which had been delivered from his native Ghent. The decoration on the other walls was a peculiar combination of Moorish, Renaissance, and Gothic elements. Many pieces of massive ebony furniture with inlays of precious stones and gold were tastefully scattered around the room; bone and ivory inlays showed Moorish influence.

Passing by a line of X-shaped walnut chairs, Carlos shrilled, "The Habsburg Pompeius! That is how that damned Valois miscreant calls me! Even when my fate was not yet known in Christendom, and we kept my bad condition secret, he already labeled me so."

After the Battle of Bourges, King François had embarked on an extensive campaign of defaming Emperor Carlos in versatile colorful and memorable epithets. Clément Marot and other poets, patronized by the Valois siblings, had issued pamphlets celebrating the brilliant victory of France and her Protestant allies over the Holy Roman Empire. Carlos was nicknamed 'the most evil Spaniard', 'the most incompetent Habsburg ruler', 'the Flemish devil whose reign crippled Spain', and 'the Habsburg Pompeius', and he was also called a murderer, a liar, a thug, and a broken cur. It was François' retaliation for the earlier aspersion of his own character.

His wife eased herself into a frailero next to a walnut table, where her husband's Book of Hours lay. "King François is merely using the same weapon against you as you applied against him. But the difference is that you calumniated him, while he is defending himself."

Pausing beside the ebony cabinet, Carlos glowered at her from beneath his furrowed brows. "Or perhaps His Grace of Alba's escape plan was a work of genius. That Valois libertine must have commanded men to capture me, just as he took Ferdinand prisoner."

"Ah, Ferdinand." Isabella was fidgeting with her rings, twisting them back and forth on her slim fingers. "He is another victim of your animosity towards François."

He resumed wandering around the chamber. "Contrariwise, my brother supported me. But what has happened to you, mi vida? Once you were a pillar of strength for me, helping me through all the difficulties in my life. Nonetheless, now you castigate me time and time again."

Isabella's dispassionate voice cut through the stuffy air. "Drama begins where logic ends. Human beings lose their logic in their vindictiveness." Her voice took on a higher octave. "And you have lost the sight of everything, except for your hatred of François."

She rubbed him the wrong away again. "A wife must always be the greatest strengthener for her husband, in particular if he is a monarch who lost his honor on the battlefield."

Her irritation was growing. "Now you resemble the enraged King of England. According to gossip, the Tudor temper is so volatile that aggressive gesticulations are the least that his courtiers have to behold when their mercurial sovereign erupts his rage, burning them with it."

The emperor halted, looking at her in surprise mingled with hurt. "Now you compare me to that heretical man whom I once called my uncle?! I do not kill women!"

The Holy Roman Empress shot to her feet, and poured the truth into his face. "No, you are not a queen-killer, Carlos. Yet, you are capable of accusing another monarch of murdering your elder sister, while knowing perfectly well that François is totally innocent, and Eleanor died of natural causes." She stilled for a moment, then emphasized, "Your French archrival is many things, but he is the quintessence of chivalry. François neglected poor Eleanor and preferred to be with his paramours, but he would never have harmed her or any other of royal blood."

Carlos looked puzzled like someone who had continuously failed to untie the Gordian knot throughout years. "Isabella, why do you–"

Her voice rose like a shriek on the wind as she interrupted him, "Husband, you find no fault with your behavior. You have conveniently ignored that you have been keeping your own mother, Queen Juana of Castile, locked in the palace in Tordesillas for years. You visit her very rarely and tell the whole world about her madness while knowing that she is not sick." Her voice fell to a whisper. "I've long asked myself how you can do this to the woman who birthed you."

Though shocked, Carlos had the decency to look ashamed. "Isabella, I–"

"Sometimes, rulers must compromise their integrity and even to hurt their loved ones for the greater good of their countries, as they say to themselves. Is that what you want to say?"

"Yes. That is true, wife." His voice was cold.

This time, Isabella started pacing nervously, occasionally glancing at her spouse. "Since 1517, you have been the sovereign of the Kingdom of Aragon and its territories, as well as the Kingdom of Castile and León and its lands. You have power thanks to Queen Juana, Carlos!"

His gaze flicked to a window where rainy clouds were scudding across the summer sky. "It will rain soon, as if the heavens wish to mourn for my mother's misery."

"That must be true!" she cried in a most reproachful tone. "At first, our grandfather, Ferdinand of Aragon, had Aunt Juana confined to her residence in Tordesillas. He invented this horrible lie and spread rumors about her insanity so that he could rule in her stead. Years later, you relocated to Spain from Flanders, and she invested you with power, perhaps in the hope that you would release you, but you did not – instead, you have strengthened the legend of her insanity. Juana's own son and father made her life a life-long night without sunrise."

He acknowledged, "Yes, I've caused her afflictions."

Stopping near the window, Empress Isabella implored him, "Then release her."

"I cannot." There was a ring of finality in his voice. "No one in Spain would ever consent to have a woman with my mother's history as their queen regnant."

She did not resist the urge to take umbrage at his casual admission. "I've served as your regent several times, and you have always been happy with the result."

Emperor Carlos approached his wife. "Isabella, you are my jewel," he effused, clasping her hands in his. "You are the most remarkable woman! Despite our enmity, there is something François and I do agree upon. Female intelligence is a real treasure, and it should be a boon to any husband. Men who have trouble with clever women are sad specimens of manhood."

The empress squeezed his hands in hers, entwining their fingers. "I like what you say – it is so fair and charming. Your rare wit is carrying me to paradise on earth."

Carlos pulled her into his arms. "Then don't berate me and assist me in everything."

Forthwith, she disentangled herself from him. "Will you be kinder to Aunt Juana?"

His expression regained its austerity. "I'll not let her live at court. You should think of Prince Philip and our other children instead of interfering on my mother's behalf."

Isabella stomped over to the other side of the room. "You are a God-fearing man, my dearest spouse. However, you are capable of perpetrating awful things for the sake of power."

"Greatness might be achieved only with sacrifices."

Her voice was thick with bitter disappointment. "At times, I do not recognize the gentle and caring man I married all those years ago. Queen Juana and King François have taken the brunt of your detrimental lust for power. You made your mother your prisoner to rule in her stead. You dreamed of subjugating France to amass more power and wealth, but the Lord stopped you."

"What are you implying?" He settled himself into a nearby ladder-back chair.

She plucked up the courage to pronounce what would enrage him again. "No foreign realm, with their own culture, their traditions, and their legitimate ruling dynasty, is yours to take. I must confess that I'm glad you did not succeed in conquering France. This country suffered enough at the hands of the English invaders during The Hundred Years' War."

"You are defending my enemies! The House of Valois must fall!"

The queen continued coolly, "Your armies plundered and pillaged the French land far and wide while carrying out their unholy work, which their sovereign ordained. How many people lost their loved ones? How many were deprived of their homes, falling into destitution? François will need a lot of money to restore his war-battered realm to economic stability."

"According to the Duke of Alba, the French stole all our wealth from our deserted camps."

"Fair enough!" As her gaze fell to her bosom from where dangled a golden cross adorned with diamonds, her heart compressed into a knot. "Dear God, Carlos! I was told that you did not take prisoners at Arles, but brutally slaughtered fifteen thousand Frenchmen. Your friend, the Duke of Alba, enlightened me that after Ferdinand joined his forces with yours in the defile near the town, you had the opponent encircled and enjoined to destroy them all without sparing anyone. At Tours, your men murdered eight thousand French soldiers because you commanded to kill them all. Alba confided in me that even Ferdinand was surprised with your barbarity."

"And what?" Anger whitened his visage to an ashen color.

"At least, François did not kill every Spanish, Italian, German, and Swiss man who served you. He took prisoners after his victories in Orléans, Poitou, and Bourges."

"He is such a valiant, noble knight!" At this moment, he loathed his French counterpart more than ever equally for his fiasco in France and for his wife's sympathy to the foe.

"King François is not in the wrong – you are." As if to back up her words, the firmament rumbled, and a crack of barely visible black lightning shot across the sky.

His shoulders sagged like those of someone crucified at the altar of his ambition. "Your words sadden me a great deal, Isabella. When have you become so charitable towards the French? Our glorious grandparents, the greatest Catholic monarchs, despised them wholeheartedly."

Isabella admired her husband's martial prowess, but his obsessive hunger for power was daunting. "You have forgotten lessons of history. The legacy of earlier wars includes unfinished business from incomplete or partially implemented peace deals and treaties, some of them being a mere product of fiction to procure a temporary break and then to attack again."

His ire deflating, Carlos felt weak. "I do not yet know what to do. Spain is in a terrible situation, with our treasury empty, the Turks being in Genoa and also blockading our ports."

Outside, the rain had begun in earnest. The firmament darkened with thickening clouds, their massive shadows creeping eerily above the palace. Morning was dawning, but there was not enough light, as though if it were a portentous sign of the approaching Day of Judgement.

His consort glanced at a stunning tapestry depicting the Virgin Mary and the baby Jesus. "Looking at this wall hanging, I imagine Spain as God's child in the Virgin's hands. But will these hands be gentle to our realm? You should not have invaded France, Carlos."

However, the monarch stood his ground firmly. "I had to punish that Valois satyr for my elder sister's unhappiness. I also had to settle scores with him; he remains my mortal foe."

"Eleanor was a sweet, noble-minded, and pious woman. She wrote to me that she had longed for François, but he could not overlook what you did to him and his sons after his surrender to you at Pavia. He could not bring himself to bed her even once after their wedding night. Yet, she loved him! Do you really think that she would have approved of your deeds?"

"Politics is a multifaceted thing not related to love."

Her eyes followed the rivers of raindrops on the panes. "I'm so very afraid for your soul. Is this heavy rain not a mystic sign of nature's mourning for it?!"

Swiveling sharply, Empress Isabella stormed out, tears brimming in her eyes. During their discourse, she had been tenacious and persistent in her attempts to convince her husband of the necessity to steer him from his vengeful path towards the road to peace with France. I've been checkmated, and now dread has encompassed all that has not happened but might, she noted.

§§§

Swearing under his breath, Emperor Carlos rose to his feet. As he stomped over to the window, the pain in his ribcage intensified, grimly reminding him that he was still convalescing. His physician had informed him that he would make his full recovery in the next few months, but that his scars would probably throb in bad weather or if he strained himself excessively.

He gazed out at the rainy gardens. "Isabella!" he pronounced her name in a voice laced with everlasting devotion. "Do not leave me, mi amor… I'll eliminate the strife between us."

The answer was the strong downpour of rain onto the roof and against the windowpanes. The lightning flashed like a serpent of mortality, and, as if in the moment of sudden illumination, Carlos was disturbed by the anticipation of death. Diverting his mind from what he had dismissed as superstition, he admired the park where pines and cypresses watched over the colorful foliage.

"All will be well," the ruler persuaded himself, his forehead pressed to the glass. "Isabella and I have a glorious future ahead." But why did he have an unknown sick presentiment?

July 10, 1537, Royal Palace of Valladolid, Valladolid, Spain

The Holy Roman Emperor and Empress sat at the heads of a long ebony table; Spanish advisors occupied their respective places. The council room was lit by torches in wall sconces, revealing the beauty of tile mosaics with geometrical patterns reminiscent of textiles.

"The Turks attacked Buda again," grouched Emperor Carlos, reclining in a walnut chair.

Fernando Álvarez de Toledo, Duke of Alba, enlightened, "The Austrians are currently defending Buda to the best of their ability. However, the other Hungarian forces stationed to the south of Buda experienced a brutal slaughter at the hands of the Ottoman Sultan Suleiman's troops. Their chief general, Wolfgang von Rogendorf, proved to be incompetent and was killed."

"The Turks might annex the whole of Hungary." The ruler's frown was so fierce that it seemed to form a single line above his eyes. "That would be horrible for this country."

Francisco de les Cobos, who was the secretary of State and Comendador for the kingdom of Castile, underlined, "That would be a disaster for the entire Christian world."

Once more, Carlos studied the alarming missive from his sister-in-law, the spouse of Ferdinand von Habsburg. "Queen Anna of Bohemia and Hungary is entreating that we send her fresh, well-equipped forces to hold back the hordes of the heathens."

In 1521, Anna of Bohemia and Hungary had married Ferdinand in Austria. At the time, Ferdinand had governed the House of Habsburg's Austrian lands on behalf of his elder brother. Being the only daughter of King Vladislaus II of Bohemia and Hungary, she was also known as Anna Jagellonica, a member of the Jagiellonian royal dynasty of Poland. After Anna's brother, Louis, had perished in the Battle of Mohács against the Turks in 1526, the thrones of both Bohemia and Hungary had become vacant. Therefore, Ferdinand had claimed both kingdoms and been elected King of Bohemia on the same year, making Anna Queen of Bohemia.

Ferdinand and Anna had a good marriage, just as Carlos and Isabella did. Although their union had been an arranged one, they had grown to love each other, but Ferdinand's eye wandered to pretty women from time to time, unlike his brother's. Nevertheless, Anna was almost constantly pregnant since their wedding, and the couple had many offspring. Like Carlos, Ferdinand adored and respected Anna's intelligence and her formidable strength of will, which set him apart from other men of the time, and which she held close to her heart, loving her husband for that.

"Your Imperial Majesty," Cobos addressed his sovereign. "We cannot do this."

"Damn François!" The emperor crumpled the letter and tossed it on the floor. "If only Ferdinand had not been captured, he would have protected his lands. Now we must pray that his smart wife will be able to raise funds and hire more mercenaries for her army."

The councilors all nodded in unison, seething with hatred for the French king.

"Indeed, we cannot spare any men," Empress Isabella chimed in, her scrutiny focused on her husband. "Six months earlier, the Ottoman fleet launched assaults on our ports – Alicante, Algeciras, Ceuta, Almería, Malaga, Valencia, and Barcelona. We immediately dispatched many war ships to these ports so as to repel the foe, but the Turkish ships are lighter and can attack more quickly than ours. Moreover, the Ottomans carry powerful artillery on board: their cannon and muskets annihilated our initial forces and all the reinforcements which arrived later."

The Spanish ruler briefly touched the tight, high lace collar of his black brown doublet, which made his head seem detached from the body. "The rise of Ottoman naval power commenced with the decline and ultimate fall of the Byzantine Empire. However, the Turks are not unbeatable, and we proved it during the Conquest of Tunis a mere two years ago."

Cobos recalled, "Several years earlier, Hayreddin Barbarossa established a strong naval base in Tunis. He used it for their violent raids in the region, especially on nearby Malta. Yet, we destroyed Barbarossa's fleet, partly thanks to the protection of the Genoese navy."

"Barbarossa is a talented martial man," the Duke of Alba assessed. "Unfortunately, His naval victories have secured Ottoman dominance over the Mediterranean sea. Yet, we made him run away from Tunis, because we summoned troops which were in far greater numbers than his."

Isabella interjected, "As far as I remember, Barbarossa abandoned Tunis well before the arrival of our forces there, sailing away into the Tyrrhenian Sea."

Alba furrowed his brows, and told her, "Exactly, Your Imperial Majesty. But that seaman comprehended the futility of his resistance to our mighty army, so he fled."

As his gaze locked with his spouse's, Carlos commented, "Fernando, my dearest friend, you became a true hero in Tunis. Moreover, you saved my life in France." A smile flittered across his countenance like a ray of sunshine. "That is so admirable and very commendable!"

"Bravo, Your Grace!" Francisco de les Cobos lauded. "You attained the unachievable and rescued our beloved liege lord from the claws of our mortal adversary."

"God bless Your Grace!" Isabella's voice was gentle and friendly. "I'll never repay you back for what you did for my husband, and neither will our empire."

"Thank you so much!" A flush of pride and embarrassment suffused Alba's cheeks. "But I just did my duty to my liege lord, for whom I would eagerly have given my life."

"I do appreciate it," the emperor said sincerely.

Isabella veered her gaze to the Duke of Alba. "I'm astonished that Your Grace succeeded in taking my husband out of the French encirclement and through the territories of France and Navarre back to Spain. You crossed the Pyrenees with my incapacitated Carlos."

"The French had a spy in our camp." The emperor alluded to Ercole d'Este, whom he was itching to punish for betrayal. "But we had our accomplice among the Catholic French nobles, who dislike François' union with the Boleyn whore and his policy of religious tolerance."

Carlos and his subjects snickered. Isabella raised a quizzical brow, but asked nothing.

The monarch glanced at the duke. "However, I agree with what my wife said about our triumph in Tunis. Your Grace, do not allow your success to go to your head and cause your growth to stagnate." Reluctantly, he added, "My overconfidence was our downfall in France."

The Duke of Alba concurred. "We underestimated the French."

Cobos sought to lift the king's spirits by flattering, "Your Imperial Majesty remains the best general in the world. As you always beat your own records, we will crush King François."

"I hope not," Isabella parried. "The invasion of the Valois realm was a mistake."

Alba and Cobos directed their apprehensive scrutiny at the ruler. They were aware of the empress' attitude to their operation in France, as well as of the discord between the royals.

The emperor barely reigned in his temper. "I would rather not speak about it."

"Why not, Carlos?" she deadpanned, her mouth curved in irony. "There are important lessons of history, but you ignored them before the invasion. The English endeavored to subjugate France for longer than a century, but they were eventually ejected from the continent, save for Calais. It was clear from the beginning that the French would fight for their liberty with arms, men, and intelligence at their disposal, and that the fruits of their labors would pay off."

"Perhaps you are right," Carlos acquiesced.

Cobos switched to the topic at hand. "What will Your Imperial Majesty do now?"

The ruler glanced at the duke. "I appoint Your Grace the chief commander in all of my domains. Tomorrow, you will travel south and prepare to break the sea blockades."

Many of the ports had been blockaded after the Turkish fleet had sunk the Imperial one near the southern coast of Spain. Accordingly, foreign trade choked off, and the farmer's markets became a dominant force in the food supply, so at least the agricultural industry bloomed.

The Duke of Alba jumped to his feet and approached the emperor. As he genuflected, he vowed, "I'm honored, my liege! I shall serve you well until my dying day."

"I know, my friend." Carlos patted his shoulder. "Now rise."

"My life belongs to my country and you." Alba returned to his place.

The empress broached the most unnerving subject. "The problem is that the state treasury is almost empty. We funded the expedition to Tunis with the gold and silver we received from the New World after they had been exchanged to money in Genoa." She stilled to gather her thoughts. "Unfortunately, the majority of Genoese fleet was obliterated by Barbarossa's forces during the siege of Genoa, which capitulated and is now occupied by the Muslims."

The emperor finished, "As a result, the Genoese bankers cannot give us anything."

"God save us!" Cobos and Alba crossed themselves. "The heathens are in Italy!"

An agitated Carlos started drumming his fingers against the side of the table. "It is the entire fault of that Valois rat. His alliance with the Ottoman Empire has long been a thorn in my side. François and Suleiman must be still plotting against my family."

Francisco de les Cobos wondered, "Will the Pope condemn the King of France for his alliance with the heretic nations and for his arrangement with the heathens?"

"His Holiness has been silent so far," noted the Duke of Alba.

"That Boleyn witch!" The Habsburg monarch cringed in abhorrence. "She ensorcelled two rulers. She compelled the King of England to break from the flock of Rome, and replaced my aunt, Catherine, on the English throne. Now she must be driving François away from the Vatican, for France will surely become far more tolerant towards the heretics."

Cobos bobbed his head. "Anne Boleyn must indeed be a witch."

"I do not believe in sortilege," contradicted Alba. "As for my opinion about the matter, I think we need to wait and watch your enemy's steps and moves."

"That is the best course of action," Carlos assented.

Anne Boleyn is such a controversial woman, Isabella of Portugal mused. Doubtless she is not a whore. If she had been the Tudor ruler's mistress before their marriage, she would have gotten pregnant quickly, just as she did after her marriage first to King Henry and then to King François. Isabella's sentiments towards Anne Boleyn were conflicted, and she was interested in this notorious lady. While Isabella scorned Anne for her role in the religious reform in England and for Catherine of Aragon's sorrows, she had a grudging respect to the unique woman who had changed England and later assisted the King of France in winning the Franco-Spanish war.

Her response was neutral. "I would rather not judge a person without knowing them."

Her husband was surprised by her oration. "Anne Boleyn is a heretical strumpet who has perpetrated innumerable crimes, and whose soul must be burning in hell. As she is now married to that French blackguard, His Holiness must excommunicate them both."

She shook his head. "Rash conclusions are usually accompanied by ignorance and lack of knowledge. They tend to be a manifest injustice. Nobody knows the Lord's will."

A pause stretched between them. Carlos contemplated Isabella in befuddlement.

Francisco de les Cobos coughed to secure the room's attention. "Your Imperial Majesties, what about King Ferdinand? Should we start negotiations about his release?"

"Of course, do this," the Habsburg king decreed. "If only we could pay my brother's ransom… I hope Anna of Bohemia will collect it." Bitterness colored his intonation.

The ruler's wife pointed out, "Be calm regarding Ferdinand's fate. At present, he is being kept in a comfortable château, so he will not catch some deadly fever. Just negotiate the terms of his release, which will undoubtedly be far harsher than those of François' release."

"The meeting is over," barked Emperor Carlos, glaring at her.

Rising to her feet, Isabella echoed, "Over!" After curtseying, she vacated the room.

§§§

The two Imperial subjects did not dare break the murky silence that followed Isabella's hasty departure. While admiring and respecting the empress, they were more traditional men than their liege lord, thinking that a woman must run her husband's household and bear his children, in particular sons. Despite Isabella's successful governorship, Cobos secretly dreamed that one day, the emperor would appoint him regent of Spain during his frequent, long absences.

"We must fill our coffers," the emperor repeated again and again.

"We will have to raise taxes," Cobos assumed, and Alba nodded.

The ruler snarled, "Those heathens have lost any shame."

"The Muslims have no heart," opined the Duke of Alba. "They are barbaric and perilous to the civilized world, and they have neither shame nor any good feelings."

A low, rough male voice spoke from the doorway. "The heathens are the most dangerous threat to Christianity. It pains me that François de Valois, who was once called His Most Christian Majesty, allied with them. And he even wed that English heretical demoness."

Carlos, Alba, and Cobos turned their heads to Alonso Manrique de Lara y Solís. Clad in red cardinal raiment, their guest was Bishop of Badajoz and of Córdoba, Archbishop of Seville and Inquisitor General of the Spanish Church. His small, harsh eyes, which glittered with steel of inquisitorial torture, showed no pity to those who abjured the Catholic faith; they were framed by black eyebrows that resembled an eagle's wings, and his beard was white and sagging.

The emperor tipped his head. "François has sinned by marrying the Boleyn slut."

With a truculent air about him, the chief inquisitor walked in. "The Valois king and queen are sinners. The Almighty will forgive neither him nor his pagan courtesan."

While Cobos nodded, a shiver ripped down the spines of Carlos and Alba.

While crossing the room, the prelate bowed and affirmed with fanatical zeal, "It is our sacred duty to eradicate the heathens from the face of the earth. To accomplish this, we must deal with our inner troubles and then launch a crusade to re-conquer Constantinople."

This time, everybody was in prefect agreement with the cruel man who sometimes made even Carlos von Habsburg, a devout Catholic, feel uncomfortable in his presence.

§§§

"Carlos," Isabella drawled the name of her beloved. "Our relationship is deteriorating."

Leonor shook her head. "His Imperial Majesty loves you madly, more than the chance to see his next sunset. Soon you will reconcile; there can be problems in any marriage."

Doña Leonor de Mascarenhas was the empress' chief lady-in-waiting. She loved Isabella and was her close friend, having come to Spain from Portugal with her mistress in 1526.

The empress was not optimistic. "Oh, Leonor! You know how stubborn Carlos is. Will he ever realize that there are hollow victories when the cost outweighs the gain? What happened in France is not even a Pyrrhic victory – it is a calamity for us all and for Spain."

When Emperor Carlos returned to his bedchamber, he found his spouse lounging in a high-back, pine chair adorned with the Habsburg coat of arms. Her melancholic expression was accentuated by the somber interior that seemed to have been designed to sadden visitors.

Hoping that they would reconcile, Leonor curtsied and retired.

The walls, swathed in brown brocade and frescoes from the Life of St. Carlos Borromeo, had alternating niches and windows. The ornamentation of columns and niches was splendid, but dark. All of the furniture was ebony, and the carpet a deep maroon. The needlepoint cushions on black-brocaded chairs and coaches must have taken months for a master to embroider so prettily. A large bed, canopied with golden velvet curtains edged with bright yellow tassels.

Isabella stood up, slowly and regally. "I've been waiting for you, mi amado."

"I'm glad you have come here, mi vida," Carlos murmured, mesmerized by her.

The spouses sighed so deeply that their sighs seeped through their entire beings. Outside, the weather was hot, and the air was scented with variegated blossoms in the park. Yet, it was again raining, and the sky was gloomy, just as it had been on the day of their last serious quarrel, as if the summer sunlight wasn't going to grace this part of Spain with its benevolence.

"Our woes are debilitating," she complained.

His brows knitted in a momentary line of consideration. "Can we forget about them just for a moment? We are together, and we will cope, Isabella."

Afraid that her unspoken yearnings had made her misinterpret his words, Isabella gaped at him. After all, their collisions had been frequent since his awakening from fever, to her profound chagrin. But, at this moment, Carlos was smiling at her with spiritual fondness – a smile of such warmth, of such tenderness, and of such devotion which he reserved only for his spouse. Grinning back at him, her heart hummed a melody of marital happiness in her breast.

She spoke breathlessly, "Can you give me your word that you will not undertake another risky foreign expedition? Never again! I cannot bear the thought of losing you."

Carlos could not promise his beloved wife what he would not do. "It will depend on the enemies of our empire. Adversarial politics towards them always demand the immediate taking of stands and the exaggeration of even minor differences so that we can defend ourselves."

"But you will not leave me and our children anytime soon, will you?"

The naked hope in her lovely eyes goaded him into striding over to his queen. He had spent countless nights under the skies of France, on the battlefields and in his military tent longing for the sight of Isabella's smile and her eyes smoky with yearning for him to deny himself the taste of her mouth for another moment. He hugged her and crushed his lips into hers.

As they parted, Carlos eyed his consort. Isabella of Portugal, Holy Roman Empress, was lovelier than any of the women who had caught his eye throughout his bachelorhood.

Tall, shapely, and leggy, the mature Isabella was still an exquisitely beautiful nymph, with golden hair rippling down to her shoulders, almond-shaped eyes of cerulean azure shadowed by long, light eyelashes, a rose-bud mouth, a retroussé nose, and a well-formed, determined chin that was not protruding, unlike her husband's. Her flawless skin was porcelain, save the blush that spread over her cheekbones thanks to her growing desire for her spouse.

In 1521, Carlos had become betrothed to Mary Tudor, who had been King Henry's legitimate daughter back then, and who had been sixteen years younger. The Italian War of 1521-26 had caused his serious financial hardship, and he had desperately needed Isabella's huge dowry to refill the Spanish state coffers. The emperor had called off his English engagement; he had also needed legitimate heirs, having been unable to wait for his young bride to grow up.

When Carlos had first seen the young Isabella in Seville in January 1526, her ethereal loveliness had taken his breath away, and his heart had soared. Their union had originally been a political one, but only for several months. The generous Hymenaeus, the Greek god of marriage ceremonies, had blessed the couple with deep and ardent mutual devotion. Since their wedding, his soul belonged to his wife, and Carlos never strayed from the marriage bed, despite his frequent absences in Spain, as he journeyed through the vast territories of the Holy Roman Empire.

Carlos whispered against her lips, "You are the Goddess of beauty and love."

Isabella stroked his cheek. "Husband, you are not a romantic. Years ago, you approached our relationship from a business perspective, knowing that you had to plan for the future of Spain and the Habsburg line. But when you speak such sincere and poetic things on rare occasions, there is no charm equal to the tenderness of your heart that is beating for me."

The monarch caressed the skin of her neck that was largely hidden by the high lace collar of her gray and black damask gown worked with gold. It had split hanging sleeves trimmed in bows with single loops and metal aiglets. The ample skirt showed an embroidered kirtle beneath, and the bodice did not open in the front, unlike in French and Italian fashions. Today, Isabella's hair was elaborately dressed and uncovered, with golden threads woven throughout it.

Having grown up in Flanders, without his mother's love, Carlos was not a tender man, although he was generally even-tempered and rational. Therefore, he had not known how to court and woo a woman, and there had been a void in his life crying to be filled by a well-bred woman of benign disposition. Carlos had never been a philanderer, but he had been interested in women and had kept several mistresses long ago, although most of his amours had been occasional.

Once Carlos had believed that the only purpose of matrimony was rebirth of the individual in his descendants. However, Isabella had proved to him that the true value of marriage was love. The natural tranquillity of her sweet disposition could cool off the heated surface of his power-hungry heart, although the flame of ambition would always burn in it. But when Carlos was with his wife, his soul was in harmony with all the universe, not in the power of demons of discord.

"We need candles," Isabella opined, enjoying the feel of his strong arms around her.

His blood thickened in his veins. "I do not think so, mi amor."

The emperor's bedroom was now bathed in semi-darkness, with only an occasional light seeping inside from torches, which were burning in the antechamber.

Carlos admired her perfect face that now looked vulnerable in their repose in contrast to her previous headstrongness. When Titian had painted 'The Portrait of Carlos V with a dog' in 1533, he had called the empress an artistic work of nature, or a natural work of art. His queen was so very worthy of being worshiped by him thanks to her excellent qualities and their immortal devotion. I'm a blessed man that Isabella is my wife. She is so beautiful in her mature bloom.

"Isabella," the emperor commenced as he deepened their embrace. "I love you with all my heart. I've been in love with you practically from the moment I laid my eyes upon you during our first meeting in Seville. You are the love of my life and my most precious possession."

A scintillating glow spread across her visage. "Carlos, you are everything to me! You are my husband and king, my light and darkness, my exaltation and pain. I think I've loved you forever, even before meeting you. I remember how I feared that you would never reciprocate my affection, but it was long ago… And I was so happy when you confessed to loving me on the day when I announced my pregnancy with Philip. Whatever you do, I shall always adore you."

"Sweetheart, without you, my life will lose its purpose."

A half laugh, half sob erupted from her as she flung her arms around his neck. "I cannot imagine myself without you, and I need you to always be at my side."

Desperate and famished, their mouths met in a vortex of hot passion. Carlos had kissed his wife before numerous times and in many different ways. Nonetheless, this time, the touch of his salacious, yet tender, lips against hers was the sweetest of all kisses he had ever lavished upon her, more heavenly than the ambrosia drank by the Greek Olympians. As Carlos carried Isabella to his bed, their hearts pulsated with divine relief at being together, and the alliance of all their senses and souls was then exercised in their most intimate, ravishing lovemaking.

§§§

Having left her husband asleep in his bed, Isabella of Portugal strolled through the elegant gallery with elliptical arches. Her footsteps marked her nearness to the decision she had just made.

Perturbed beyond measure, the empress struggled to appear outwardly calm. Today, the grandeur of moderate flamboyance did not impress her spirit. The royal residence in Valladolid had been built by Francisco de les Cobos, who was fond of the Italian Renaissance, unlike most Spanish who preferred unostentatious splendor. The walls were adorned with golden medallions with allegorical depictions of mythological characters, as well as paintings and statues.

Passing by the royal chapel and the state rooms, she darted out of the palace and into a stunning, Italianate-styled courtyard. The pavement glittered with rain from earlier in the day, and an ornate fountain babbled, as if these were erupting notes of encouragement to her to proceed to her goal. The place had been designed by Luis de Vega, a royal architect at court.

"Your Grace!" Isabella crossed the courtyard. "I was told that you are here."

The Duke of Alba swept a low bow to her. "How can I serve Your Imperial Majesty?"

For a short time, she dithered, her hand fidgeting with a sheet of paper in her hand. Her gaze embraced the grand façade, which had three storeys and was dominated by two high towers at both ends. As confidence inundated her, she handed the parchment to the duke.

"What is it?" He scrutinized the missive stamped with Isabella's personal seal.

"Send it to Queen Anne of France," Isabella requested flatly. "Make sure that my husband knows nothing about it. Otherwise, this letter will not reach its intended recipient."

He was puzzled. "If I may ask, why do you need it? She is our enemy!"

"No, she is not. Although she was responsible for my Aunt Catherine's misfortunes, she has done nothing wrong to Spain, Carlos, and me. Now only she can aid us to calm the storm."

"I'm afraid I need clarification." Alba's bewilderment was too profound.

The empress glanced in the direction of the garden full of trees, fountains, flowerbeds, and sculptures. "Carlos has lost sight of everything, save his animosity towards King François and the House of Valois. It will beget more hatred and culminate in a never-ending cycle. As soon as they recover from their losses, either Carlos or François will launch a new offensive." Shifting her gaze back to him, she stressed, "This must be stopped before it is too late."

The Duke of Alba nodded in comprehension. "Indeed, history shows that violence always begets more violence. And we must learn hard lessons from God's guidance."

"How will another war end? The economic and social consequences for our countries are harrowing. Neither the death of Carlos nor that of François will bring stability to Christendom. And I do not want my son, Prince Philip, to be a mortal foe of Dauphin Henri."

"Why do you wish to contact Anne Boleyn? Do you recognize her as royalty?"

"Without a shadow of a doubt, she is the Queen of France. I did not acknowledge her as Queen of England because King Henry was married to my departed aunt. But she had a Catholic wedding to King François, despite being a Protestant." She emitted a sigh. "There are important things I must tell Queen Anne, and maybe she will listen. I would have written to François or his sister, Marguerite of Navarre, but neither of them will respond to me, for they despise us."

"I'll send it," the Duke of Alba consented after a moment's hesitation. "Be at ease, Your Imperial Majesty. The emperor will know nothing. And perhaps it will lead us to peace."

"Thank you, Your Grace." Her smile was so bewitching that it charmed every man.

As he bowed to her, Isabella strolled away, her heart lighter than it had been in months. The evening twilight was blanketing the buildings. All of a sudden, the firmament cleared, as if a sponge had wiped out the episode of something wretched, and she construed it as a good omen.

Entering the palace, the empress emerged in the room, where the dome was painted with pairs of satyrs, holding medallions representing the four elements: earth, water, air, and fire. France's earth had been sodden with the blood of the fallen French heroes, and at present, Spain was going through the incarcerating fires of punishment for the invasion. Isabella prayed that Anne Boleyn and she would pour water onto the hatred between their nations.

Hello, my dear readers! I hope that the new 2020 has started well for you all!

We finished the previous year on a positive note when Anne gave birth to her daughter with François. This chapter is devoted to Emperor Carlos and his wife, Empress Isabella. Please, let me know what you think about this chapter and the characters. Thank you very much in advance. I need inspiration!

The Holy Roman Emperor was seriously wounded in France. His friend and general, the Duke of Alba, evacuated him from the battlefield of Poitou, where the Imperial troops were defeated by the French and their Protestant allies. Those who remember this story well may remember this episode. François had a spy in the Imperial camp (Ercole d'Este, Duke of Ferrara), while Carlos had his own spy in the French camp, as the emperor says to his advisors. The Imperial spy aided the Duke of Alba to take an injured Carlos out of France to Spain. Any thoughts who he can be?

I read a great deal about Emperor Charles/Carlos and his wife, Isabella of Portugal. I must say that despite my dislike of Charles, I'm very fond of his empress and of their love story. Carlos was one of the few monarchs who seems to have been faithful to his spouse during their marriage because he loved her wholeheartedly. If in history Carlos had had any dalliances, we do not know anything about them. I think that he was faithful to Isabella, who was perhaps his only weakness. After her death, Carlos was grief-stricken and never remarried, which proves the depth of his feelings for her.

I enjoyed writing Isabella's marriage to Carlos in this chapter. I attempted to reflect the great love they have for each other. They will not be the main characters in this AU, but they will appear from time to time. In this AU, there are two cornerstones in their relationship: the imprisonment of Queen Juana, for Isabella wants her husband to liberate his mother, and the emperor's insatiable lust for power, which leads to his war-mongering tendencies and various invasions, like the recent Imperial invasion of France. A gentle, smart, and noble-minded woman such as Isabella cannot approve of Carlos' insane desire to subjugate France and to depose the House of Valois, and this creates significant tension between them.

Isabella will play an important role in this story. Ferdinand, the emperor's brother, is imprisoned in France, although he is treated well, unlike François' captivity in Spain.

Frailero is a Spanish Renaissance armchair that had a leather seat and a leather back stretched between plain wooden members and having a broad front stretcher. Spanish fashions described in this chapter are historically correct; they were not as frivolous and lavish as French and Italian fashions of the era were.

It seems to me that I've now responded to all reviews to chapters 17 and 18. If I forgot to answer to someone, then it was not done intentionally.

Yours sincerely,

Athenais Penelope Clemence