Chapter 20: The Turn of the Tide
July 16, 1537, Palais de la Cité, Paris, France
Queen Anne stood near the high and arched strained-glass window. The sun blazed down from a cloudless sky, and the myriad sunbeams danced through the landscaped gardens laid out in Italianate style, burnishing the greens and the varicolored blossoms with splinters of gold.
A week earlier, the Valois court had arrived in the capital of France. The king and queen were as distant as ever: they avoided one another, having met only during the banquet in honor of Princess Louise's birth and having occasionally seen each other during the court's progress from Picardy to Paris. Everyone had noted that the royal couple were growing more morose as the time went by; the absence of Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly was a sensation as well.
"You should see your husband, Anne," Mary Stafford admonished.
Her younger sister turned to her. "Sister, it is all so difficult. Even my gratitude to King François for giving me refuge in France and for marrying me is complicated."
Mary's eyes revealed her wisdom. "You are no longer a girl, Annie. You must know that gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for the present, and creates a vision for tomorrow. What you feel for His Majesty might unlock the fullness of your life."
"But I…" The queen's voice faltered.
"What, sister? Are you confused as to your sentiments towards King François?"
Anne gazed out and studied the castle's surroundings. In some places, the River Seine stretched unhindered from shore to shore; in others, it wended its way through a maze of small islands. "Indeed, I do not know how to approach our matrimony."
"You need to become closer to His Majesty."
The queen looked out. A bank of clouds concealed the sun, and the colors in the park now seemed dull, as if imploring to be rekindled. At this moment, she felt cold and dead inside, and a pang of loneliness speared into her very soul, so sharp that she could almost taste the blood from the wound in her mouth. I want to see François… My husband… This word still sounds foreign to me, but at least, I can now pronounce it in my mind, Anne observed silently.
The king's wife heard her sister's voice like it was someone else's from far away. "The reason that the Almighty gave us the emotion of loneliness is so that we must know we were designed to need a connection with Him, our loved ones, and ourselves."
Pivoting to her, Anne requested, "Help me change my clothes. I'll visit the king."
Mary stood up. "Sister, it is the right decision."
"I've written to our mother," Anne notified. "I want her to come to France."
Her sister was overjoyed. "We both need her a lot!"
"Soon you and I will go to Saint-Germain-en-Laye to visit our children."
At the queen's behest, the young Edward and Annie Stafford had joined the household of Princess Louise de Valois, which had been established at Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye.
"Thank you, Anne. I miss them so!"
The queen garnered her courage to ask the question that had been gnawing at her vitals since their reunion. "Mary, I've not always been a good sister to you. Have you truly forgiven me for banishing you from court after your wedding to Sir William Stafford?"
A smile blossomed on Mary's features. "Yes, I have." It then crystallized into the hatred that was always simmering beneath her skin. "I do not blame you for that. You were forced to expel me by King Henry and our treacherous father, who abandoned all of his children."
"I would rather not talk about them now, Mary."
Bobbing her head, Mary enthused, "Oh, Anne! I love you!"
"I love you, too, Mary!" The queen enveloped her sister into her arms.
Mary returned the hug. "We are together, and that is all that matters."
In a frenzy of happiness, the Boleyn girls stood locked in their tight embrace. It was the connection of the two sisters whose filial bonds were solid and strong. Of two persons lost in a cruel world in which they had only each other to understand the pain that life had dealt them.
§§§
Queen Anne summoned her two ladies – Jeanne d'Angoulême and Adrienne de Cosse. They brought a fashionable gown of cloth of silver, studded with precious stones, and having open, loose, hanging sleeves trimmed with golden lace. Mary prepared a stomacher of black brocade embroidered with threads of Venetian silver, as well as a stunning girdle of diamonds.
"Anne, you will be like a silver nymph!" Mary Stafford predicted.
"Especially with this tiara," Jeanne d'Angoulême underlined. She was holding something wrapped in a cloth of gold. "The king asked me to give this gift to Your Majesty."
Mary looked more joyful than her sister. "How amazing! Anne, you love gifts!"
"Show me." Though outwardly neutral, Anne's curiosity peaked.
As her ladies unwrapped the object, they all peered at it in fascinated astonishment. It was a pearl and diamond tiara of extraordinary sumptuousness. The piece of jewelry was of foliate scroll design, surmounted with twenty drop-shaped pearls, each in a mount embellished with rose and white diamonds, with the massive button-shaped pearl at the center of a cluster motif. Jeanne informed that the tiara had been made in the early 15th century in Milan for Valentina Visconti, Duchess d'Orléans, who was the King of France's ancestress on paternal side.
"What a fabulous item!" Mary effused. "This is such an expensive thing!"
Jeanne d'Angoulême elucidated, "It attests to His Majesty's Italian ancestry and, hence, is precious to him. He took it from the Milanese crown jewels in 1515, after the brief conquest of Milan, which was unfortunately lost later." She felt sentimental about the matter, for she was an illegitimate half-sister of the Valois siblings, so the three of them had common ancestors.
Adrienne de Cosse emphasized, "Family gifts of such importance always have a special meaning. They should become keepsakes that are cherished forever."
The queen glanced between Adrienne and Jeanne, understanding why they had said that. They both wanted her to appreciate their sovereign's gift and to soften her attitude to him. All of her ladies, in particular Jeanne, disapproved of Anne's alienation from the monarch.
The two women and Mary Stafford traded glances of solidarity.
"You must thank the king," Mary insisted. "Heartily."
The Queen of France felt like a maid punished for her lack of decorum. A faint trace of embarrassment suffused her visage. "I'll do this. Maybe it is a time of togetherness."
Mary lifted her eyes to the ceiling adorned with biblical frescoes. "Thanks be to God."
At first, they aided Anne to put on a farthingale and underskirt under the gown. As their hands worked on her ensemble, her head was spinning from the amount of time the standard ritual was taking. Normally, she enjoyed the excitement of such occasions and liked dressing up in the most fashionable, extravagant clothes. Nevertheless, now her agitation was too violent to contain it, but Anne forced it to subside into calm determination to see her husband.
As her sister placed the tiara upon her head, Anne stared at her own reflection in a looking glass. With her hair streaming down her shoulders and back in a dark river, Anne was the perfect image of a mystical primordial goddess of earth silvered with the pristine moonlight.
To her utter surprise, Anne wanted the monarch to be bewitched by her today. She had seen how he admired other pretty women, and now she craved to be the object of his adoration for the first time since their wedding. I hope François will like me in this raiment. How strange my feelings are… I'll speak to him in an affable manner, for he deserves my friendship.
"Brilliant!" Mary's smile was wide and infectious; the others smiled as well.
A moment later, Françoise de Foix, Countess de Châteaubriant, walked in. Nearing the queen and her ladies, she stated, "Fashion is about dressing according to what is popular at court. Style is more about being yourself, and Your Majesty's personal style is just unparalleled."
"Exotic and enthralling," Mary defined it. Everyone dipped their heads.
Smiling at them, the queen swiveled towards the windows. She saw the crest of the sun peaking over the sky's horizon, and the clouds were rapidly vanishing. A deep blue flooded across the sky, as if foreshadowing a positive turn in her relationship with her spouse.
§§§
Queen Anne sauntered through the maze of hallways, followed by Jeanne d'Angoulême and Adrienne de Cosse. Most of the walls were swathed with Flemish tapestries, as well as shields, trophies, and weaponry. In some places, the chambers and corridors resembled an ancient fortress with their austere appearance enhanced by the bare walls of stone and low archways.
"I do not like this place," Adrienne complained.
Jeanne concurred. "I, too, would prefer to relocate somewhere else."
"I've never been here before," Anne articulated. "I like Château de Fontainebleau the most. But His Majesty is going to convene the Parliament of Paris, and to host meetings with foreign ambassadors, which is why he chose this traditional venue for such occasions."
Much to the displeasure of his courtiers, King François had moved his court to this palace.
The Palais de la Cité was the headquarters of the French treasury, judicial system, and the Parliament of Paris, although it had been a royal residence between the 6th and the 14th centuries. Yet, the French rulers still visited the palace to preside over special ceremonies in the Grand'Salle and sessions of the Parlement of Paris. From time to time, kings returned here to display for the veneration of the court the sacred relics that King Louis IX of France, known as Saint Louis, had acquired in 1238 from the governor of Constantinople, at Sainte-Chapelle.
The queen and her ladies entered the large, splendidly decorated assembly hall. It was the famous Grand' Salle, which had been constructed by King Philippe IV of France – called 'the Fair' – at the beginning of the 14th century. The chamber's double nave was covered with a high arched wooden roof, and a row of eight columns in the center supported its framework.
Anne's gaze lingered on the polychrome statues of the Capetian and Valois kings, which were placed upon the pillars and the columns. "All here is steeped in history. France's rich history has now overwhelmed me, and I almost wish for the time to be turned back."
Jeanne agreed, "I, too, feel as if I were transported back in time." Adrienne nodded.
They paused near a long black marble table, where nobles and knights seated at feasts and during meetings of military high courts and other official events.
The queen recollected, "Here nobility used to take oaths of fealty to their liege lords."
Jeanne pointed out on purpose, "This time, all the nobles of the French realm will gather here to give their oath of fealty to their sovereign and their new queen."
"That would be such an important occasion," Adrienne commented.
A torrent of gratitude to her husband deluged Anne. "I must thank His Majesty for taking these steps to ensure that I become a crowned queen acknowledged by all of our subjects."
As the queen's confidante, Jeanne opined, "Your husband wants you, Madame, to be safe and sound. To a man, this means that he wishes to have you at his side."
However, the queen gainsaid, "His Majesty wants our baby girl to be acknowledged as a legitimate Valois princess. He also needs to ascertain my acceptance as his wife in order to assuage the discontent among Catholic nobles and to guarantee his own security."
"Oh, Madame," Jeanne groaned. "You do not know our king, my brother, well."
Before they quitted the chamber, Anne cast a last glance at the statue of King François on one of the pillars. At this moment, she exuded a wistfulness over the presence of a strong man in her life. She masked it with a brooding expression that could be interpreted as boredom.
Nearing the ruler's quarters, the queen commanded, "You are both dismissed, ladies."
Jeanne and Adrienne curtsied to the queen and hastened away.
§§§
The sentinels near the King of France's apartments bowed to their sovereign's spouse. They hesitated to allow her entrance, but her authoritative look demanded that they obey her.
"Do not announce anything," Anne told them as she opened the door.
Her heart fluttering in a rush of excitement, the queen entered. As she glided across the antechamber, her thoughts were upon François to such a baffling degree that she could not imagine spending the rest of the day without him. She slipped into the royal bedchamber and blinked as her eyes adjusted to the semidarkness caused by the closed shutters despite the daytime.
Anne stopped in her tracks. "Not alone…"
King François was playing chess with a lovely woman. Her gaze detoured to a big bed with a canopy of golden, blue, and white silk – the Valois colors – and a carved mahogany headboard like an altarpiece. At least, the bed sheets are not rumpled, Anne remarked to herself.
The queen recognized the nymph, for she had seen her at court before. She was Claude de Rohan-Gié, Countess de Thoury, who was about ten years younger than the queen. Once Anne herself had captivated King Henry and driven him from the aging Catherine of Aragon. The hatchet of irony struck Anne: now she felt the same anguish and humiliation that Catherine had experienced while Henry had paraded Anne in front of the Tudor court, with the only difference that François was far more discreet. Is it God's equitable retribution for my old sins?
Would Claude de Rohan-Gié bewitch François so completely that he would be willing to annul his marriage to his third wife, just as Anne herself had done to Henry? Fright encompassed Anne – the fear to which she had deliberately closed her eyes, despite her knowledge of François' amours. The thought that the ruler could discard her tormented her, scratching at the edges of her mind. This feeling was a novelty, for she had not feared to lose François before.
Rationality overtook Anne. François will not bastardize our daughter. He is a womanizer, but he is not a bad father. Years ago, she had witnessed the monarch's tenderness towards his small children with Queen Claude. François absolutely adored their baby girl, Princess Louise, as if he had never wished her to be a son, and this endeared his wife to him.
The royal mistress moaned, snapping Anne out of her reverie. "François!"
"Yes," the king rasped.
Claude's next words surprised the queen. "Why do we play chess or cards when I come to you? I want us to do something else. Am I your friend or a lover?" She was confused as to why the king had summoned her to his quarters today, but was not intimate with her.
François averted his scrutiny. "I don't want it."
"Why?" Claude gaped at him.
He stared at the chessboard. "I've taken nearly all of your pieces. I'm winning."
Veering her gaze towards the door, the mistress gawked. "Your Majesty!"
The monarch glanced in the same direction. "Anne!"
"What, husband of mine?" jeered his wife, odd anger simmering in her veins.
The peculiar tonality of her raging sensations was stemming from her jealousy of François, which welled up in Anne, leading to her verbal rebellion. She was on the brink of causing an outrageous scandal straight away. Yet, her own words, spoken to Henry after she had seen Jane Seymour on his lap echoed through her skull like the funereal bell in the churchyard.
Just when my belly is doing its business, I find you wenching with Mistress Seymour!
On that horrible day, Anne had lost her son, which had doomed her first marriage. Now Anne was not pregnant, and she was no longer Henry's wife. François was not kissing his mistress. Yet, the vision of François with another woman smashed her world into pieces again.
"Anne!" François reflexively extended his arms to his consort. "Wait!"
The queen jeered, "I've interrupted Your Majesty's rendezvous."
"I beseech you not to hate me, my queen." Claude didn't possess the impertinence, temerity, and waspishness which Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly had in abundance.
Anne's lips thinned. "You are free to please our king whenever and however he wishes."
The queen's countenance remained impenetrable, as if whittled out of a chunk of wood. Something flickered in her eyes as Anne sank into an enticing curtsey. She exited with a measured gait and a jeering tilt of her head, as if she were performing some dramatic episode on the scene. If she had swiveled, she would have seen the sheer despair in her husband's eyes.
"I need only her!" Ropes of unbearable heartache manacled François' entire world. Jerking to his feet, the king darted out of the room with a cry, "Anne!"
Forgotten, his mistress sat at the table, tears brimming in her eyes.
The earnest plea in the ruler's voice sounded like the entreaty of a dying warrior to God for salvation. The king was calling to Anne as if the edifice of his life would crumble without her.
"You no longer need me, François." Claude's soliloquy was tinctured with sorrow.
§§§
Lost in an opium-like trance, Queen Anne wandered around the gloomy hallways.
A male name tumbled from her lips like an invocation for help, "François…"
Passing by a group of astonished guards, she briefly paused. When one of them strode to her and said something to her, she simply fled into the adjacent hallway.
I've seen François with his mistress, just as it happened to Henry. This sounded through her head time and time again, tormenting her like the notes of shrill, discordant music. But her inner voice corrected her: François was not kissing her. But he was not alone when I came.
Blindly entering another chamber, Anne suddenly stumbled into Françoise de Foix. The queen stepped back and fumbled for support, gripping the other woman's hand.
"Your Majesty, what has happened?" Françoise's voice was worried.
"Nothing." Anne darted away like a minnow before the shark.
"Madame!" Françoise called with a hint of trepidation.
A moment later, the monarch ran past the countess like a streak of lightening. He paused at the intersection of two corridors, wildly looking around for signs of his wife.
"She went there!" Françoise pointed in the direction of the Grand' Salle.
The king nodded his thanks. "You are my true friend."
"I'm, and will always be," she murmured with a smile. "Find her!"
François vanished into the arched passage that led to the opposite part of the palace.
His former mistress heard him roar, "Anne!"
The Countess de Chateaubriand smiled to herself, her tears drying. François has fallen in love with his spouse! For the first time in his life, he has found his match and equal in Queen Anne. She was still devoted to the King of France, and she always would be, but she wanted him to find personal contentment. Now François was in love as impulsively as the veriest boy!
§§§
As his shrieks reverberated through the palace, Anne darted through the corridor, as if her essence were on fire. She scuttled through the Grand' Salle and soon came to a stairs that ascended upward in what looked like an austere medieval tower. Paying no heed to the bewildered sentinels, Anne rushed up the staircase, as if the sword of Damocles were hanging over her.
"Anne!" François slowed as he arrived in the main hall. "Where are you?"
A guard apprised, "Her Majesty went to the Tour de l'Horloge."
The Tour de l'Horloge was the Clock Tower, at the top of which was a bell, which was rung to announce important events in the life of the French royal family.
Immediately, the ruler hastened out of the chamber. His breathing labored from the chase, he sprinted down another hallway, the carpeted floor almost squelching under his boots. Without Anne, the opaque winter night would reign in his inner realm until Doomsday.
François mounted the same staircase Anne had used a few minutes ago. Emerging in the Clock Tower that had been constructed by Jean le Bon in 1350, he examined his surroundings, listening for the slightest sound. He was relieved that, at least, his spouse had not gone to the Tour de César and the Tour d'Argent, where the offices of the clerks of the court were located.
"Anne, come to me!" he implored. "I know you are here!"
In a handful of heartbeats, like the play of shadows ornamenting an otherwise somber room, the stillness augmented and distinguished light steps, proving his consort's presence.
"Wife!" François whispered, his tone pleading in the extreme. "Please!"
Anne emerged from the corner like the vision of a fantastic substance through the fog. Two brown pools were hollow, as though the fire of hurt had incinerated them into ashes. They appeared ancient – eyes that had seen everything on the sinful earth. Her silver-clad figure looked as if haloed in moonlight, matching her deathly pallor, set off by Anne's long, raven hair.
"What does Your Majesty wish?" Her voice was vibrating with grief.
"I did not sleep with her." His voice – strained, contrite, and determined at once – sounded as if his vocal chords were rubbing against sandpaper. "And have not done so for a few weeks."
It was the truth: François had been faithful to Anne throughout the past month. Despite his frequent communication with Claude de Rohan-Gié, he had last touched her over three weeks earlier. After Anne de Pisseleu's banishment, the monarch had plunged into a whirl of dissipation with Claude and a few others, but the demons of lust had quickly relinquished their hold over him. Now, if desire awakened in him, guilt cascaded down onto him like an avalanche at the thought of betraying his wife, so he had abstained from intimacies with Claude and anyone else.
"Really?" Distrust was etched into the curve of her cheek.
Candor poured out of him like pure water, uncontaminated by the filth of life. "I'm yearning to be with you, Anne. My life… I do not enjoy it without you. I shall discard all of my mistresses. I was with them only because you treated me like your enemy."
Anne improvised, "Oh, heavens! What can I contrive to help the finest knight?"
Closing the gap between them, the king grabbed her into his arms. The queen melted into his embrace, her strength ebbing and a shower of tears deluging his doublet of gray brocade.
"I cannot breathe, sire." He loosened his hold a bit.
"No one – only you," François mumbled into her hair, and then moved his face to hers. "There will be only you in my life from now on. Just do not push me away!"
Moments ticked as successive waves of anguish swept over them. The need for healing overpowered them, and his mouth captured hers in a kiss of innate tenderness, as if searching for atonement from this simple contact. Her lips parted instinctively, and he delved his tongue inside.
Abruptly, Anne broke the kiss. "Not after you were with Mademoiselle de Rohan-Gié."
"I told you that I hadn't touched her. I'll set aside my former paramours." Reluctantly, he let go off her. "I have no lovers now, although I have female friends. Claude is a friend now."
The poisoned arrow of her old, deep-seated hurt worked its way to the surface. "Henry robbed me of my previous pleasure in passionate relations." Her voice grew elemental.
"However, you are inwardly alive."
She drifted away from him, a picture of a sad and exotic dryad from a magical forest. "My capacity for loving died with the knowledge of love's price – death."
As the queen paused near the door, they stared at each other. His amber eyes reflected his enchantment with her, while her dark caverns were limpid with drops of salty liquid. Now her face seemed touched by moonlight as streaks of tears threaded their way down her cheeks.
"Do not say that." He glanced at her with terrified beseeching.
A vulnerable François evoked in Anne a sense of closeness to him. "A cursed woman such as I cannot feel anything," she bemoaned as she beheld him with acute fascination.
"You can!" The king stepped to her, but he did not touch her.
His soul thinned at his spouse's rejection, and it was now something akin to a skeleton wrapped in a blanket of sinew and skin. That all-encompassing passion for her was million times more powerful than all of his feelings combined for all of the women he had known and bedded. It showed him that he would feel the renewed sense of life's spaciousness only if his spouse reciprocated his sentiments. If only Anne could give me hope, his heart wept.
"No, I cannot! Life is meant to be savored, but not in my case. At least, we will always have our daughter and some good, comfortable things to sweeten it a little."
"Anne, our marriage can prove all we have dreamed of. Have faith!"
A smile gilded her visage. "Thank you for the gift; I shall treasure it."
His gaze flew to the tiara on her head. "It looks perfect on you."
What is François encouraging me to do? Their conversation snared her into confusion. A small part of her hankered to cover the barren landscape of her existence with the silver-woven scarf of their common dreams. But in the gilded frames of her possible future, Anne saw dim old pictures – Henry with his infidelities, his obsession with sons, his lies, and his cruelty.
"It will be as God wills it. Don't forget that you also promised me vengeance." She had no idea that her mention of his promised revenge disconcerted him a great deal.
Anne swept out of the room like a nymph, fiercely serious and yet exceedingly feminine.
François was cognizant of the seemingly unsurmountable odds against him in the battle for Anne's affection. If she never reciprocated his feelings, his life, with its sorrows, hopes, and joys, would be like a desolate moor, so he pondered his best course of action.
§§§
The sun had completed its voyage to the underworld, and purple shadows blanketed the fortress. In the darkness, the River Seine resembled an endless funeral procession swathed in black. Torches were lit within the compound, and the hallways were thronged with men of rank and nobles, who engaged in lively discourses after the day in their offices.
King François was not among them. In his bedroom, he sat in a very old, high-back ebony armchair, which had once belonged to Philippe VI, the first Valois King. Staring at the Valois coat of arms that hung over the galleried marble door to his apartments, his expression was absent-minded. A goblet of wine was clasped between both hands as he tilted it back and forth.
Thoughts of Anne carried him away, so his sister's footfall didn't reach his ear.
The Queen of Navarre began, "I've heard interesting rumors about you and Anne."
The king's gaze flicked to her. "My wife and I had a dramatic talk tonight."
Stopping beside his chair, she touched her brother's forearm. "François, stay committed to Anne. You adore your queen, so love her through thick and thin."
His face was almost comical as the spellbinding realization struck François like Cupid's dart. His heart thumped an exhilarated rhythm, as if it craved to drown out the noises of the universe to the exclusion of the name 'Anne', which tumbled from his lips at this moment.
I really do love Anne Boleyn, surmised the king. Now Anne de Valois. I fell for her a while ago. His political union had transformed into something more meaningful to him. During the war when they had saved each other, he had fathomed that without his spouse, the world would be a bottomless void. However, he had not seen that he had walked towards the point when he would place his heart in Anne's keeping, in spite of the knowledge that she did not want to be his.
François had not loved any of his previous wives. He had been peculiarly fond of Françoise and had once desired the Duchess d'Étampes, but it had been lust and affection. The thought that he had fallen in love with his third wife had not crossed his mind before. Until now.
The king looked as radiant as the sun casting light on the earth with its golden rays. Anne Boleyn was now the sun of his life! Indeed, his look of happiness was in curious contrast to his foul expression at the beginning of this conversation. He was delighted that Anne was his queen, his wife, and the mother of their daughter, but he wanted her to be his in all senses.
François grinned sheepishly. "I love my Anne. She is the first woman who has become so dear to me. I was either too stupid or too conceited not to realize it before."
"Do not tell her about it; not now." Marguerite eased herself into a chair beside him. "Anne should get to know you better and see that you are Henry's opposite. She is very afraid of amours." With a sigh, she added, "I have no clue as to how long your wife will need to overcome her fears. She has lost her faith in love and hope for a brighter future. It is your mission to prove to her that there can be love after obsession with a new and different person who and treasures her."
He was baffled. "You call her feelings for Henry obsession."
She inclined her head. "An unhealthy obsession for the handsome, yet narcissistic and brutal, monarch which could never take Anne anywhere, except into the well of eternal grief."
The ruler pondered the matter. "I've never thought of Anne's romance with Henry in this vein. But maybe you are right. It would be better for us both if Anne realized that."
"She will understand it over time." Marguerite half-demanded, half-pleaded, "Brother, send all of your current and former mistresses away from court. Each of them!"
He clutched her fingers. "I promised Anne to do that. I shall abide by my word."
Marguerite cupped his hands over hers. "Act or you shall never be happy!"
After administering a compassionate pat on his shoulder, the Navarrese queen exited.
François swung the goblet around and sloshed some of the contents onto the floor, then swigged it down. A raven of despair perched at the mast of his marital ship, being tossed by a storm of his discord with Anne. The king registered a vow that come what would, by any means, he would conqueror Anne's heart and snatch it from the excruciating past.
His mistress came to him in half an hour. Appareled in an elegant gown of auburn damask ornamented with the House of Rohan's emblems, Claude de Rohan-Gié curtsied to him, her eyes downcast. She had deliberately chosen this garment to create an emotional distance between herself and the monarch, as if it could help her obliterate her associations with him.
"Rise." François stood up and approached her. "We must discuss something."
Claude straightened her spine. Her heart was breaking as she started, "I beg Your Majesty to permit me to retire from court. My father will be happy to have me back home."
At first, he was dumbfounded, then he comprehended why she had done it. "I'm grateful to you, Claude. I wish you happiness, and, of course, you are free to leave."
Tears glistered in her eyes. "I needed to sever our Gordian knot."
The king reached out and caressed her cheek. There was nothing in his touch or his look that could indicate his eagerness to continue their liaison. "Thank you."
She was unable to bear this torture another minute. "François, I understand why you began to perceive me more as a friend than a lover. Your heart belongs to your wife." She sighed. "I pray that your marital story will not be marked by unrelenting bleakness."
"I pray about the same thing," he intoned with a sigh.
His former paramour giggled. "The Knight-King can conqueror Queen Anne."
His own grin was full of mischief. "He will try."
"If I find myself with child, I'll write you." The truth was that she prayed she had conceived on one of the June nights when he had still been willing to be with her.
The monarch nodded. "If it happens, I'll arrange a marriage for you."
I love François, but I must let him go, Claude de Rohan-Gié lamented wordlessly. Living in the countryside, she would miss the court's splendor, and above all things – all of the world's chivalries, ecstasies, and passions – she would ache for the King of France. Her infatuation with him, tinged with deep sensual shades, was so strong that it seemed to be perpetual like the history of mankind. She did not regret her affair with him at all, at least because no other man would have taught her as much in the art of beautiful physical love as François had done.
"Adieu, Your Most Chivalrous Majesty," Claude endeavored to joke.
His smile was affable. "Adieu, Madame."
After curtseying, Claude de Rohan-Gié paused near the door. "François, you dreamed of loving a unique creature with all your artistic nature, of having her with you to look into her eyes, and of hearing her answer that she loved you, too. Now you almost have this, and I hope the queen will appreciate you and allow you to make her happy." Then she spun on her heels and left.
François returned to his armchair and his nearly empty goblet. As he drained its contents, he summoned a groom and commanded him to dispatch all of his former lovers away from court. He could not keep a great many of these women away from court forever. However, this temporary measure was necessary to restore his spouse's faith in him and her trust to him.
§§§
The handsomely decorated queen's antechamber was bathed in a muted light from half a dozen heavily shaded antique lamps. Anne's gold-velvet, massive armchair stood in the corner, in the midst of red-brocade couches occupied by Mary and her other ladies.
"What time is it now?" Anne quizzed as she picked up one of the books.
Mary was sewing something for her children. "It is half past seven, sister."
The interior was far more modest than that of their favorite Fontainebleau residence. The walls were tapestried with scenes from the lives of the Valois kings. There were no frescoes in the room; several sculptures of ivory and bronze were tastefully scattered around the room. The red brocade, used for decorations of furniture in abundance, echoed the gold in regal symmetry.
Jeanne d'Angoulême was sulking. "At least, the walls are not bare."
Adrienne was frustrated as well. "I begin to appreciate the grandeur of other châteaux."
"Do not complain!" Mary chided. "The court will relocate again."
The queen was engrossed into reading Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio. Pausing, she retorted, "Complaining not only ruins everybody else's day, but also the complainer's."
A moment later, Françoise de Foix appeared in the room and curtsied to the queen.
Françoise's smile was large. "Your Majesty, I have interesting news."
Anne lifted her eyes from the volume. "What, Madame de Châteaubriant?"
The countess reported jovially, "King François ordered several women who have a certain previous connection to him to depart tomorrow at dawn. Swallowing their displeasure, they are now packing their possessions, some of them listening to the grumblings of their husbands." She spoke whimsically about the monarch's many former paramours, but all was clear.
Astonishment induced Anne to stand up; the book fell. "Can a leopard change its spots?"
Françoise spoke whimsically again. "Sublime feelings are the only force that is capable of transforming ice into warmth. Life is a song, Madame – now you can sing it."
Mary Stafford told her sister, "A grateful heart is a beginning of greatness, Anne."
Jeanne and Adrienne nodded their affirmative, chortling like pigeons.
Slowly, Anne seated herself back into her armchair. The cord that united François to his dissolution has finally been severed. But what does it mean for us? A sense of respect to him settled over her, and the warmth of it caressed her scarred soul. The rapid thudding of her heart drummed in her ears like a roaring wind, almost blowing away her past. Almost… The thought of her revenge resurfaced, as if sent there by a deity of havoc residing within her being.
A vindictive glint illumined Anne's eyes. "Vengeance is better served cold."
Surprising everybody, the usually benign Mary Stafford hissed, "To exact revenge for yourself or your relatives and friends is not only a right – it is an absolute duty."
Jeanne figured out what they implied. "It is not a noble sentiment."
Adrienne remarked, "But it is a human one."
Françoise settled herself on a couch beside them. She then steered them into a pleasant territory. "The king has set the day of Your Majesty's grand coronation."
The queen smiled as triumphally as only the old Anne Boleyn could. Her dormant vivacious spirit resurrected, and euphoria flowed through her veins. She had once vowed that vengeance would become the organic part of her, until the tranquility of Henry Tudor's universe would be replaced with blood and tears. Anne would see to the completion of her sacred mission.
July 27, 1537, Palais de la Cité, Paris, France
At this late hour, Dauphine Catherine de' Medici almost ran through the corridor. Her two ladies scarcely kept pace with her. Surprised that Henri had summoned her, she moved rapidly, her Italian gown of emerald silk whipping in gusts round her legs, like the pennants atop a castle's towers. The bulging Medici eyes glimmered with hot fire of hope to be with her husband.
She entered her husband's rooms. "Your Highness!"
"Excellent." The dauphin's indifferent voice struck her like a blast of chilly air.
Henri lounged in a curule throne chair by a window, but he rose when she approached. She curtsied to him, and he did not dismiss her from the curtsey for so long that her legs ached.
"My father spoke to me about us." He evaded eye contact with her.
"When? King François is preoccupied with Queen Anne's upcoming coronation."
"Last winter during the war when His Majesty returned to court for a short time. It took me quite some time to realize that he is right, so I'll act exactly as he advised."
Silence, full of unspoken thoughts, stretched. Catherine recollected her conversation with Anne during their first private meeting in the queen's apartments. The dauphine had not offered her friendship again because Henri had not become less cold to her, in spite of Anne's promise to intercede on her behalf. So, that Boleyn heretical slut spoke to François months earlier, Catherine deduced. She kept her promise, but Henri was unwilling to bridge the gap between us.
The dauphin looked out; a bank of clouds formed in the sky, long streaks of rain striking down on the distant rim of the city. "We are husband and wife, despite my wishes to the contrary. Our relationship has been as dark as the rainy sky, but I have to change it."
"I'll do anything to please you," Catherine said cheerfully.
At last, he turned to her. "A male heir."
She cursed inwardly. But what else could he tell her? She stepped to him, but then halted before saying, "I cannot give you a child as long as you do not visit my bed, Henri."
"That is why now you are here, Catherine."
"I'll bear you a brood of sons." Torn between hurt at his aversion to her, and her delight in his offer, she supplemented, "If you do not neglect your marital duty to me."
"Today I'll fulfill it." With a disgusting smile, he plodded over to her.
Catherine noticed his reluctant gait. "But only because you must sleep with me."
"You speak too much." Henri began unlacing his hose.
"It pains me," she retorted through gritted teeth. "It pains me that you treat me so."
To his credit, her husband did not castigate her for the candor. "I'm sorry, but I shall never love you. You have to thank the deceased Pope Clement and my father for our misery."
Catherine craved to slap him for the truth he had just uttered, but she had better manners than that. Glumly she held out a hand, expecting that he would help her undress, but he did not. Instead, Henri steered her to a canopy bed, its headboard featuring the Capetian coat-of-arms, as the furniture was ancient. He lifted his wife up upon it, then kneeled to push her skirts up.
Her expression transformed into shock. "No, not like this."
"I cannot give you more," he reiterated ungraciously. "I cannot."
Tears flowed from her eyes. "Why cannot it be affectionate?"
A quiet Henri sank into her gently and deeply, while keeping his eyes tightly shut and his lips compressed. Then both of them were caught up in the timeless rhythm, and he thrust harder and faster until he reached his peak and climaxed, releasing his seed into her. In spite of the awkwardness of their encounter and his deliberate restraint, they both experienced pleasure.
"At least, you were gentle," Catherine commented.
He withdrew from her with a sigh. "I'm not a monster."
After rearranging her skirts, she sat on the bed, observing him lace his hose. Then, with the predatory gaze of an eagle carrying off a hare, he bent over her and kissed her hand. His lips warm and soft against her skin, they didn't linger for more than a fraction of a second.
"I'll come to your rooms tomorrow." He straightened and walked away.
"We are well-matched, Henri," Catherine lamented with an air of sentimentality about her. "You live like in exile at your father's court, and so do I, for you ejected me from your life. In childhood, you suffered in captivity in Spain. I, too, know how horrible it is to be a prisoner. After my family was overthrown in Florence by a faction opposing to my relative Clement, I was taken hostage and placed in a series of convents. Our spirits know the same torment."
Henri glanced at her with interest. "But we are not meant for each other."
Leaping to her feet, Catherine rushed to him, as if she planned to launch herself into his arms. However, he did not open them, and she skidded to a halt, her eyes pleading.
Bitterly disappointed, the princess implored, "If only you allowed me to show you how happy we may be together. If only you knew what I'm capable of doing for you…"
"No," was his chilly answer. "Leave before I say something rude."
Though offended by his response, she complied. "I'll wait for you tomorrow."
As soon as the door was shut behind her, the dauphin slumped into a chair.
Henri's dream was to divorce Catherine and marry his beloved Diane, who, to his great grief, was as if peripheral to his existence, someone he met every day and yet could not devote his life to her. Henri was the future King of France, and, surprisingly, many at court were turning to him for guidance, although he was secretly crumbling under the pressure of duty. This Medici creature must conceive soon, Henri bemoaned in his mind. Then I'll be only with Diane.
§§§
On the way to her quarters, Dauphine Catherine gave way to her abounding despondency. Her legs wobbled, and she fell to her knees, tears pouring from her eyes. She was conscious of herself as a creature of misfortunes, blackened by her sins, her brain dully wondering what the sum of all the sweat and strain to make Henri the king's heir apparent was. Was it all this misery Catherine was feeling now? Was it the unrewarded effort, or the stress that she endured?
Her Italian ladies-in-waiting – young Maddalena Bonajusti and Lucrezia Cavalcanti – gaped at Catherine. Each of them was attired in Italianate gowns of yellow and red damask, which were Medici colors, their stomachers embroidered with the Medici coat-of-arms. Although they had relocated to France four years earlier, they remained the Florentines through and through. As the dauphine did not have many friends at court, they maintained camaraderie with other Italians.
"Your Highness," Maddalena commenced. "Let us take you to your rooms."
Lucrezia stated, "Even if the dauphin saddened you, you cannot show your weakness."
"You are of course right." Ashamed, Catherine jumped to her feet. Her head swiveled back and forth to ensure that no one had seen her in the moment of weakness.
Maddalena lowered her voice to a whisper. "What did he do to you?"
The dauphine brushed the tears away. "Madame Mistress bewitched him so much that I do not know how to annihilate her spell." She dropped her fingers to stroke the etched silver of her locket, where she kept love potions for her husband and which she always wore.
"He is not worthy of you." Lucrezia's comment broke the pause.
Catherine took a fortifying breath. "Not a day passes that he does not think of her."
Suddenly, they heard footsteps descending the stairs and moving through the corridor in their direction; they all went still. It was probably one of the courtiers, who were not sleeping yet, but Catherine found herself half-hoping, half-fearing that it was Henri.
Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli appeared at the end of the hallway. Splendid in a jeweled doublet of maroon and golden velvet, his broad sleeves puffed out like a peacock's tail, he was returning from another private party with Catherine's Florentine entourage. His belly full of wine and victuals, his loins aching from the sorry bout of drunken lovemaking, his mood was excellent until he saw the Medici Queen, as he called Catherine in his mind, in such a grievous state.
"Your Highness!" Montecuccoli swept into a series of bows to his patroness.
"It is too late to be awake, Sebastiano," Catherine greeted.
As he stopped next to her, Montecuccoli noticed that the dauphine seemed subdued, even scared. "Your Highness, has someone wronged you? I do your bidding any time!"
Maddalena put a finger to her lips. "Montecuccoli, breathe a word of this to anyone!"
These Italians had deadly secrets, of whose existence almost no one suspected. Each of them was devoted to Catherine, and their fates were intermingled like four rivers in a confluence.
"My husband's lover is a bloody nuisance," complained Catherine.
He prodded, "Should I just eliminate the blonde weed from the earth?"
Lucrezia shook her head. "Impossible. We need that harlot. So far she is our ally."
Catherine's eyes flashed with a fierce light. "For the moment."
Montecuccoli smirked malignantly. "But things change."
Maddalena's mouth stretched in a grin. "Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die. I prefer the poison to be consumed with wine or food."
"But food or wine," started Lucrezia, "must be swallowed. At times, perfume is better."
The hazel pools of Montecuccoli glowed hellishly as he recalled his latest experiments with his new poison. "I've invented something for the most special cases. My apothecary – he has been my assistant for years – says that it brings sweet oblivion very quickly."
Catherine brightened. "What you and my astrologers do is an art, Sebastiano."
Montecuccoli bowed. "I'll perpetrate anything to make you the Queen of France."
Maddalena told the dauphine, "Every time you get angry with your husband, remember your main goal. We are all here not to return to Italy defeated, but to watch you ascend to glory."
Laughing in unison, they sauntered towards the dauphine's quarters. The dimly lit stillness of the falling night concealed their feelings and intentions, which palpitated in continuous silent activity. Their environments were so strongly tinctured with the darkness of their vulpine spirits that inside them there was a cauldron of boiling lethal intrigues, a core of living purgatory, for they had condemned their souls to hell when the late Dauphin François had breathed his last.
Hello, my dear readers! Please, let me know what you think about this chapter. Thank you very much in advance. I need inspiration!
There are important changes for Anne and François. At last, she begins to understand that he is actually quite different from Henry. Mary talks sense into her sister, but Anne has a long way ahead before she is ready to have a normal marriage and before her faith in love is restored.
Finally, François realizes that he is in love with Anne. They spent a lot of time apart due to the invasion of France. Thus, it took François some time to fall for Anne and to come to a point where he does not want to sleep with other women. François I was a philanderer, but perhaps if he had met his true love in history, he would have devoted his life to her – the historical François I did not love Claude of France and Eleanor of Austria, but he could love Anne de Pisseleu.
Please tell me what you think about the scenes when Anne finds François together with Claude de Rohan-Gié, as well as the scene of Anne's dramatic conversation with François in the Tour de l'Horloge, or the Clock Tower. These scenes were rewritten 2 or 3 times.
As for Marguerite's assumption that Anne's love for Henry can be better described as unhealthy obsession… This is my opinion: there was obsessive passion between Anne and Henry, but such feelings are unhealthy. When Anne eventually falls in love with François, her love will be more mature, less selfish, deeper, and less turbulent.
I want to warn you again: Catherine de' Medici will not be Anne's ally in this AU. In the part covering events happening between 1545 and 1547/8, including Henry's death (I am writing it now), Catherine is one of the main antagonists, and she weaves a conspiracy against Anne and François so that Henri becomes King of France. Please bear in mind that Dauphin Henri is not an antagonist: he does not know what his wife and mistress are doing, and eventually he will become Anne's friend. Her ladies-in-waiting – Maddalena Bonajusti and Lucrezia Cavalcanti – were indeed the Florentine ladies of Catherine de' Medici.
All the historical information about Palais de la Cité in Paris is correct.
I've started to respond to reviews to chapter 19. I thought there would be fewer reviews to chapter where there is no Henry, Anne, and François. Please give me some time.
I'll try to update twice a month: on 20/21 and 30/31. There can be delays of course, depending on real life. Be at ease: you will be reading this fic in years to come.
Attention! I have a poll about Jane Boleyn's fate on my profile page! Thanks for your vote in advance!
Yours sincerely,
Athenais Penelope Clemence