Chapter 22: The Oath of Fealty

August 29, 1537, Palais de la Cité, Paris, France

The end of summer turned out to be splendid, and the sun was high in the firmament. Shimmering in their garments of golden brocades, the Valois couple entered the Grand' Salle, where French nobles, knights, together with their esquires and pages, assembled. There were few women in the chamber on this occasion because men were mostly peers of the French realm.

In silence, men all bowed, women all curtsied to their sovereigns. The huge chamber was literally paved with faces, as if every French lord, whether masters of small fiefdoms or vast, rich estates dotted throughout the country, was now there at their liege lord's call.

King François greeted, "Thank you for coming here, my beloved subjects."

The stillness was broken by ebullient cheers, which resounded like rolls of thunder.

"We won the war against the emperor, thanks be to God!"

"Our great King François returned to us victorious!"

"The Knight-King crushed the Holy Roman Empire!"

"We expelled the invaders, God curse them for all eternity!"

"France is free! We are free! Thanks to King François!"

"Glory to our legendary sovereign and his generals!"

Standing next to her husband, Queen Anne blanched. An accustomed sense of unease stirred within her as her mind floated back to her erstwhile life. Even after England's break with Rome, the English populace loved their monarch, blaming her for all of Henry's transgressions. Loving France as her second home, Anne had hoped that the French would appreciate her role in their victory over the House of Habsburg, but they seemed to have forgotten about it.

"It will be all right." François touched his wife's hand and squeezed it.

Anne schooled her features into indifference. "I do not want their love."

"You do," he unveiled her lie. "Give them more time, wife."

The dam of her calmness had broken. She whispered so quietly that only he could hear her, "I'm a heretic in their eyes. Will they accept a Protestant queen on the French throne?"

"They will," he assured. "I don't think of it as a priority just now."

"And what is more important to Your Majesty?"

"Their oath of fealty to us," François said curtly, lacing their fingers together.

The couple walked to the two massive, ebony thrones under a canopy of crimson silk.

Two ushers were stationed at a door at the farther end of the great hall. At the couple's approach, the herald made an announcement, and this door was thrown open. Queen Marguerite of Navarre and her husband walked in. King Henri II of Navarre, together with his only surviving legitimate heiress, Jeanne d'Albert, had recently come from Navarre to the capital of France.

Dauphin Henri, Prince Charles, and Princess Marguerite followed their aunt and uncle. Queen Anne's relatives trailed after them, conversing with Charles amicably.

The French ruler and his wife seated themselves into their thrones; the Navarrese spouses occupied two closest throne-like chairs. The members of the royal family settled themselves into a row of matching armchairs under a canopy of purple silk. After making obeisance to the royals, the others crowded the room, each trying to be as close to the ruler's seat as possible.

"My beloved subjects!" The monarch got to his feet. "We were attacked by Imperial barbarians, and many people gave their lives to resist the enemy. God bless their souls!"

A chorus of concurrence exploded in the air. Many crossed themselves.

As a hush fell, the ruler continued, "But it was not France's destiny to become a colony of Spain. The Almighty's will is that our country was and will always remain an independent kingdom with our own magnificent culture and heritage. God's grace is abundant, and it empowers His children to overcome and be triumphant, giving me the divine right to rule our land."

After a moment's pause, the monarch declared, "We won the bloody war and ejected the vile invaders thanks to your tremendous courage and your love for our country. So, I congratulate all of you on our legendary victory, and on the ultimate triumph of good over evil."

As they cried with delight, Anne's gaze roved over the polychrome statues of the Capetian and Valois kings on the pillars and columns, lingering on the statue of François I.

François waved his hand for silence. "We must all thank my dear wife, Queen Anne. She played a crucial role in the creation of the anti-Habsburg coalition, the members of which are now our allies." Locking his gaze with his spouse's, he affirmed, "I thank my queen for saving my life during the war, and for providing us with wise counsel as to our strategy against the emperor."

The congregation's reaction to their sovereign's praise of his consort was deathly silence. The grayness of their discontent shadowed their countenances, as they wondered how much Anne would influence their liege lord and his policies. The sad truth was that most of the French lords – even those who admired Anne – feared of having a Protestant queen on the French throne.

Yet, there was a smile on Anne's face. "Thank you, sire," she told her husband.

François answered benevolently, "You are most welcome, Madame."

Queen Marguerite of Navarre promulgated, "Personally, I wish to thank my sister-in-law as well. If not for her bravery, my dearest brother would have been murdered in Chamerolles."

Being an outspoken youth, Prince Charles declared, "I adore Queen Anne! Our country is forever in debt to her!" His warm gaze met his stepmother's. "She is France's savior!"

Anne sent her youngest stepson a cordial smile. The expressions of her relatives were as bright as the summer sun in the cloudless sky. The Navarrese rulers flashed genial smiles.

Among nobles, only Anne de Montmorency and Claude d'Annebault let out smiles. For a split second, the Duke Claude de Guise's expression contorted in abhorrence, and some of his Catholic friends lowered their eyes to hide their loathing for their liege lord's spouse.

Their antagonism towards Anne threatened to cause the arched wooden roof, together with a row of columns in the center supporting its framework, to crumble, burying her beneath it.

The King of France's imperial voice ceased the whisperings. "Now you all have to take the oath of fealty to me and your new queen, regardless of your preferences and religion."

"Gladly," Montmorency and Annebault said as they genuflected in front of the thrones.

During the next hour, the nobles were swearing their fealty to the Valois monarchs. Most of those in attendance had gone through the same solemn proceeding years ago after François' accession in 1515. Today the ruler compelled them to give the promise of faithful service to him once more because of the necessity to ensure their allegiance to his new controversial queen.

After it was over, Anne lamented, "Most of them did that unwillingly."

"It matters not," François claimed. "You are my queen, and nothing will change that."

"I'm unwanted here," she persevered. "No one likes being forced to do anything."

He could not deny that, sighing. "Calm down."

"Some hate me." The queen intercepted the glares of the Duke de Guise and his brothers.

François' next speech restored Anne's confidence. "My subjects, it is your duty to serve loyally not only me, but also your heroic queen. Never ignore your duty to her!"

Montmorency pronounced, "Long Live King François and Queen Anne!"

The gathering echoed the Constable of France's cry with some uneasy murmurings.

"Will Her Majesty convert into Catholicism?" Chabot asked straightforwardly.

François glared at his advisor. "France follows the course of religious tolerance."

Anne suppressed a grimace. "His Majesty permitted me to keep my faith."

The monarch stated, "Queen Anne's coronation will take place in a few weeks."

The king stood up and extended his hand to his spouse. The courtiers all bowed to them.

§§§

As the Valois couple marched down the corridor, there was not much to make out of the king's blank expression. He knitted his brows as they approached the presence chamber, and Anne surmised that he was more eager to retire to his quarters than stay in her company.

The King and Queen of France walked into the room, where ambassadors had gathered.

The foreign envoys roared with ecstatic screams. At present, the entirety of Christendom – even those Catholics who would never abjure the Pope's authority and the Catholic doctrine – absolutely adored and revered her husband, who was now known as King François I of France the Victorious, François I of France the Bravest, and the Legendary Valois Liberator.

The spouses ceased moving in the center of the chamber. The royal entourage, including Montmorency, Chabot, Annebault, and Tournon, stopped behind them.

Instantly, all of the ambassadors swept deep bows, tinged with a mixture of admiration, respect, servility, and anticipation. The exception was Sir Nicholas Wotton, who was the English ambassador to France; his bow was as low as it was necessary in accordance with etiquette.

Dismissing them from formalities, the monarch spoke. "We are delighted to see you here, although your liege lords, who participated in the war against the Holy Roman Empire, departed for their lands a while ago. Please, send to your masters our best wishes of long life and prosperous reign. France, the House of Valois, and personally I shall never forget their aid."

The response was the diplomats' nods and congratulations on the king's victory.

Taking his wife's hand in his left hand, François waved his other hand for silence. "It is not my triumph – it is my people's triumph! Without the courage and resistance of my soldiers, I would not have ended the emperor's aggression. Our victory would not have been possible without the assistance of all your sovereigns, and France is forever in debt to them."

The envoy from Hesse declared with his thick German accent, "My master, Landgrave Philip of Hesse, will never stop thanking the illustrious Queen Anne of France for assisting all of the German Protestant and Lutheran princes in assembling forces against the Habsburgs."

François turned with a sweeping gesture towards his wife. "My wife, Anne, is the symbol of our alliance with foreign reformers and of our resistance against the power-hungry Spaniards."

The cheers were very loud as the ambassadors nodded in frenzied excitement.

"Thank you, my lords," Anne affirmed with royal dignity, her French perfect and without any accent. "I wed King François because he proposed to me. Later I worked hard, together with him and his councilors, as his consort on behalf of our realm. I swear that I acted in accordance with the will of God, not for any worldly aggrandizement, not for the gratification of the flesh, and not for benefits and privileges, which I could derive from the union with my husband. I genuinely strove to save France out of my love for this great country, where I spent several years in childhood and adolescence, and where I shall be buried as her queen when the Lord calls me home."

The next round of applause was much louder than the previous one. The ambassadors of Hesse and of Palantine rewarded Anne with screams of reverence for her speech. Diplomats from Sweden and Norward swept deep bows and lavished her with compliments.

"Thank you." The queen was pleased to feel the approving squeeze of her spouse's hand.

A middle-aged man, clad in a doublet of black satin paned with orange, strode over to the king. His mantle of black brocade was embroidered with gold, as was the collar of the Golden Fleece around his neck. His grizzled hair and beard were trimmed in the Spanish fashion.

The newcomer made quite a reluctant, yet not shallow, bow. "Your Majesty, I am Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle. His Imperial Majesty, Carlos V, appointed me his ambassador to France. I ask you for an audience so that I may hand to you my letters of credence from the emperor." His French was quite good and easy to comprehend, in spite of his sonorous Flemish accent.

His spies had warned François about this meeting beforehand. "Monsieur de Granvelle, welcome to our court, the most cultured one in Europe." His mouth twitched in a mockery of a smile. "Carlos has displayed rationality on this occasion, although in the past, during the Battle of Pavia for example, he showed the cunning of a serpent. As I do not wish to talk to any Spaniard, he sent a Burgundian to negotiate the terms and conditions of his brother Ferdinand's release."

Cardinal de Tournon explained the man's identity to Anne. A Burgundian politician, Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle served as a trusted advisor to the emperor. His sovereign had made him suzerain of the Imperial city of Besançon and given him a serious position in Flanders.

Granvelle regarded his master's nemesis with interest. "You know why I'm here."

The monarch's twist of his lips looked like crawling snakes to the other man. "Carlos has no principles of virtue, religion, chivalry, or friendship. Power, the Inquisition, campaigns in the New World and Africa, and his far-famed devotion to his wife – these are all that he lays to heart. Carlos is true to nothing, not even to his mother, Queen Juana of Castile, whom his grandfather imprisoned an eternity ago. I wonder whether he is loyal to his younger brother."

Everyone kept silent, for the king's countenance illustrated the wisdom of not heeding.

At last, Granvelle riposted, "Your Majesty is not right about my master. He–"

"Your master and I spent a lot of time in Madrid," François cut him off with a scathing grin. "You are probably not aware that good manners such as courtesy are appreciated as much as bad manners such as disrespect to a foreign monarch are abhorred. Nonetheless, poor manners cost nothing materially, so the empty treasury of Spain and her empire will not lose more."

A chorus of snickering resounded and diminished at the wave of the king's hand.

The ruler continued, "Monsieur de Granvelle, Ferdinand is kept in luxury, living like a monarch who has everything save his freedom – nothing bad will happen to him. I shall not tell you where Ferdinand is to prevent you from stealing him. Carlos invaded our country, and we drove him out. Now let his brother languish in our prison in repayment for what the emperor did to me and my two sons years ago." Swiveling to his councilors, he quizzed, "Is my verdict fair?"

Sniggering, the spectators tipped their heads and laughed again.

Anne de Montmorency jested, "Solitude is a solitary boat floating in a sea. His Majesty King of Hungary, Bohemia, and Croatia Ferdinand von Habsburg, who is also King of the Romans, has wonderful companions – hundreds of books. Ah, what a notable prisoner with many titles we have! He has a rare chance to educate himself about everything in life."

Anne nodded at the Spanish diplomat with an air of irresistible wit. "The loneliness of King Ferdinand is proof that his innate search for connection with human knowledge is intact, despite his military losses. François, will books inspire hope in Ferdinand?"

The monarch kissed her hand. "Certainly, wife."

She jested, "So many books, so little time to remember about the emperor."

All, save Wotton and Granvelle, were thrilled and burst out laughing.

The king looked a shocked Granvelle in the eye. "Tell His vanquished Imperial Majesty that I shall not release Ferdinand at least for a year. There will be no negotiations about it."

The royals strutted to the exit, their heads held higher than usual, followed by advisors.

Before quitting the room, François noticed the English ambassador. "She is fury, she is wrath, she is vengeance. It sounds poetical, but it is all about my Anne. I shall help her."

Wotton blanched. "Sire, my king will be very–"

"I shall never stop thanking your liege lord for my exile," Anne uttered blandly, but with a wicked look. "In France, I have a true friend – my husband – to assist me in serving justice."

Wotton bowed stiffly. "Your Majesties." He would not report the case to Henry Tudor.

The spouse smiled at one another. They laughed as Wotton escaped from them.

As Their Majesties made their way out, their victorious joy was seen in their every step. However, in the hallway a surge of coldness swept between them, and their smiles waned.

§§§

In the corridor, they met Queen Marguerite of Navarre, surrounded by Navarrese nobles. Despite her residence at the Valois court, some of her husband King Henri of Navarre's courtiers came to France from time to time. Marguerite also had her spies at her spouse's court.

The lords from Navarre all bowed to the French royal couple. Then they were dismissed.

"Margot!" François beckoned her. "Nicolas de Granvelle has arrived."

His sister approached him. "I know; I don't like this man."

Anne interjected, "He wants to start negotiations about King Ferdinand."

François plunged into reflection. "Can we make Ferdinand our ally?"

Marguerite looked pensive as well. "If Ferdinand somehow becomes our ally and even a friend, we will be able to drive a wedge between the two Habsburg brothers over time."

The king affirmed, "Perhaps, but their enmity is not my priority. Ferdinand is different from the emperor – he is more honorable, less warmongering, and far less fanatical in his beliefs."

"They both invaded France," Anne pointed out.

Marguerite tilted her head. "Indeed, but Ferdinand obeyed Carlos." Her eyes flew to the monarch. "The intelligence our spies regularly collect from foreign courts suggests that Ferdinand is a better person than Carlos. But Ferdinand has always been very loyal to the emperor."

"Yes," said the ruler. "But why can't he become our ally and advocate peace with France? Carlos would not like that, but at least, we would have a Habsburg who is not our foe."

The ruler's sister approved, "That would be good. But how to accomplish that?"

François shrugged. "That remains to be seen."

Anne meditated, "Whatever ransom you demand from Spain for Ferdinand will not be paid anytime soon because their treasury is empty. The state income in Ferdinand's own domains – Hungary, Bohemia, and Croatia – will be used to finance their combat against the Turks."

Marguerite continued in the same vein, "Territories… I highly doubt that Carlos would wish to grant France any lands for his brother's release. Most likely, during the next year or two, Carlos will focus upon his empire's internal problems, and only later, he will return to Ferdinand's situation. In this case, our notable captive will feel betrayed by his sibling."

The king smiled like a fox. "It may become the beginning for our plan."

"Yes!" His sister tipped her head. "Then we would offer Ferdinand some bargain."

Anne supported, "Offended by Carlos, he would be desperate to regain his freedom."

"I want the Duchy of Milan," François announced with supreme eagerness. "Margot, we are descendants of Valentina Visconti, Duchess d'Orléans. As now there are no male descendants of the Sforza family which once ruled Milan, it rightfully belongs to us – not to Spain."

Marguerite touched her collar. "Milan is an Imperial domain. Ferdinand cannot give it."

The king grinned whimsically. "Actually, Ferdinand may do many things. Carlos made him King of the Romans six years ago, making Ferdinand his designated heir to the Holy Roman Empire. Some craft applied, and Ferdinand can help us get what we want."

The Queen of Navarre summed up, "For now, let the emperor's brother read books."

Laughing jocundly, they strolled into another presence chamber.

§§§

Three richly attired courtiers, each gloomier than night, hid themselves in the Tour de l'Horloge, where the dramatic scene between the king and queen had occurred weeks earlier.

"These are dark days for France," one of them complained.

Another man hissed, "Today is the most scandalous day in France's history. The nobility had to swear their loyalty to the whorish and heretical queen of France. It is a cursed day."

"I have a plan," piped a clear voice from behind them.

"Will you contact our Catholic friends?" quizzed the first courtier.

The third speaker nodded. "Of course, and we need to talk both to the Italian and to the Pope. However, it will not be easy to dispose of that Boleyn witch. The king seems to have developed feelings for her, or he would not have banished all of his lovers from court."

"Can we kill her before the coronation?" someone inquired.

"No!" the leader of the conspirators denied. "Caution is a must! Months may pass before a suitable moment comes. We can act only with the approval of His Holiness, and to exchange letters with him via secured channels will take time." Sighing, he added, "As for François, we must consider the outcomes – good and bad – of assassination. I'm not sure we need him dead."

Suddenly, another man in rich red robes entered and declared, "King François will live as long as he does not succumb to the harlot's witchery. If he becomes enamored of her too much, we will not need him. France must have a king who is capable of ruling on his own."

One of the others concurred, "We have Henri if François must be disposed of."

Everyone dipped their heads. They needed to think through all the possible scenarios and consequences before proceeding to the deed. They would cleanse their homeland from heresy.


September 9, 1537, Palais de la Cité, Paris, France

François kept distance from Anne. He left her alone with her doubts and fears again. To discuss her marital situation, the Countess of Wiltshire insisted that the queen dismiss her ladies, and when it was done, the Matriarch of the Boleyn family stared at her forbiddingly.

"Go to your husband, Anne," Elizabeth prodded.

Anne settled herself into an ancient ebony chair adorned with precious stones. "Don't be so worried about my spouse's unhappiness. He has many mistresses to comfort him."

"None of them is now here," Mary chided.

For hours, they argued with Anne. Eventually, silence percolated between them, and they did not speak until outside twilight purpled the clouds and the distant outlines of Parisian buildings.

Elizabeth drew her attention back to the topic at hand. "Recently, the Catholic king made all of his knights and nobles swear the oath of fealty and vassalage to their new Protestant queen. They complied with his order whether they are Catholics or not. Do you think they will be loyal to you, Anne, knowing that their queen is distant from their heroic liege lord?"

Mary's shake of the head expressed her concurrence. "They shall be willing to crush you like a sparrow. They love their sovereign, but most of them do not harbor affection for you."

"I know," conceded Anne in a strangled voice. "People hated me in England. They are not fond of me in France, despite my contribution to France's victory over the emperor."

Mary and Elizabeth took the seats in front of the queen's chair.

The Countess of Wiltshire opined, "Anne, you are driving the courtiers – thanks be to God not the common folk – away. The nobles know that you are the king's wife only in name. You are afraid of François' power, but you two cannot always avoid each other."

Despite her currently warmer relationship with the Valois ruler, Anne did not have a speck of interest in further improving it. Or did she? She was caught up in a net of confusion as to what she really felt for her spouse. She was gradually beginning to like her marriage to the King of France, who had so far permitted her to remain independent to a significant degree.

Elizabeth read her thoughts with ease. "You are attracted to His Majesty."

"Yes." The queen's voice was barely audible.

"That's a start." The countess tucked a long tendril of hair behind her ear.

Mary's thirst for vengeance twisted her countenance. "We must avenge our woes. You must have a son, Anne! A bonny Valois prince! Henry will suffer so much, then."

A snarl of hatred contorted Anne's face. "I do hate Henry more than I ever loved him."

Their mother concurred, "Nothing will hurt Henry more than the knowledge that you have birthed a male child fathered by his French counterpart, whom he has always loathed."

Of course, her relatives were correct! Thus, the queen would need to repudiate the deal that she had imposed on the Valois ruler. She usually conceived quickly. A few weeks in François' bed would be enough to plant the seeds of her future triumph over Henry in her belly.

Mary coughed. "Anne, I had affairs, so I'm far more experienced than you."

Irritably, the queen noted, "With both of my husbands."

"Let the past remain in the past," Mary said strictly. "I have to touch upon a very private theme. Out of all the men whom I knew carnally, François is the most unselfish and generous lover, extravagant in his amorous habits and artistic in the way he behaves with a woman."

Anne blushed profusely. "I'll not listen to that."

Elizabeth shook her head. "This aspect is vitally important."

Mary's expression was apologetic. "I'm trying to help you understand your spouse." As Anne nodded curtly, her sister divulged, "François is a God of romantic sensuality. It is one of the reasons why most of his former paramours were or are strongly infatuated with him. Be with him without any restraints, and François will open to you many salacious secrets – you will appreciate them. For a married couple, it is not a sin, if it makes you feel less embarrassed."

Anne's blush deepened like a sunburn. "Enough!"

Elizabeth supported her eldest daughter. "Mary says right things. Enjoy your marriage, Annie. Have a son with His Valois Majesty, or perhaps even two or more bonny boys. Prove to King Henry and the whole world that the lack of males in the Tudor line is not your fault."

"I'll try," conceded Anne at last.

Mary stood up. "Tonight, you will seduce King François the Victorious."

Elizabeth and Mary assisted Anne in getting rid of her gown. Mary brought a gorgeous robe of azure satin embroidered with gold, and a matching nightgown. Their mother brushed the queen's hair like the finest smooth black silk, with sweet-smelling liquids massaged into Anne's scalp so it tingled, and then had it draped over one of Anne's shoulders in a delicate wave.

§§§

As Queen Anne stopped near the entrance to the king's rooms, the guards bowed. She swung open the door, walked in, and blinked in surprise, as she did not see François at first.

"Your Majesty," she called, but there was no response.

Left to herself, the queen sighed and surveyed the spacious chamber. With its white, blue, and golden brocade-curtained large bed, its sheets fragrant of lavender, the chamber seemed to be breathing with freshness and grandeur. Every candle was lit, and the orange light gilded the heavy ebony furniture and accentuated the shadows in the corners, giving the place the mysterious air of something inevitable and fabulous that would transform Anne's whole life tonight.

As she beheld a portrait of King François over the old stone fireplace, which belonged to the time of Philippe IV the Fair, her heart leaped. It was a copy of the monarch's portrait made by Jean Clouet seven years earlier, about 1530, while the original painting was kept at Amboise.

Anne surveyed the ruler on the portrait again, letting her thoughts wander. Most women who had ever seen those clever amber eyes, emanating charming warmth, and those saturnine, yet patrician features, thin and sensual lips curved in a wordless challenge or in a mischievous grin, would not ever forget this man. His long Valois nose spoke of his royal breeding, but despite it being the only imperfection on his face, it made his features more remarkable and expressive.

The king's voice intruded into her musings. "Has time altered me a lot?"

Her eyes flew to him, and her heart sped. "No, sire."

"Why have you come here, Anne? That is unexpected after all your antics. But as cruelty is more easily borne than coldness, I must admit I am not vexed."

Anne admitted, "Women are made to soothe, to pity, to comfort, and to delight."

His fatigue suddenly gone, he crossed to a couch and shrugged off his doublet of auburn damask worked with threads of silver. Placing it there, he sought her with his gaze. She froze in the center of the room, her scrutiny locked with his, and a light bloom of pink colored her cheeks.

"Let's talk." She was awash with relief that her husband was still wearing a shirt.

Nascent hope filled his chest. A peal of laughter boomed like the autumn thunderstorm. "Embarrassment must be a foreign feeling to a bold woman such as yourself, Anne."

At this, single-minded determination sprang into life in her. "Boldness is not something you are born with – you either choose it or you do not, and today I do."

Anne plodded to the bed like a scared damsel unable to evade a suitor. In silence charged with his eager anticipation and her unspoken fears and shame, she discarded her robe and settled herself onto the bed, leaning against the pillows she had propped up against the headboard, adorned with the Valois heraldry. The queen's nightgown was buttoned all the way to her throat.

He swallowed heavily. "What do you want, Anne?"

"Isn't that obvious?" Slight irritation colored her tone.

François strode over to the bed and sat down on the edge. Scratching his temple as if in thought, he eyed her with suspicion. "You have done everything – possible and impossible – to ensure that we will not be husband and wife in all senses. Have you changed your opinion?"

She leaned forward, resting a hand upon his shoulder. "Like you, I do not want to live in this sham of a marriage for the rest of our lives. I crave to find at least a semblance of peace." She was driven by a different motive, but she had told him the truth as well.

"Happiness is a choice: you may choose to be happy or live in grief."

"I want to try and be your spouse." Her voice trembled like a drop of water on a leaf.

Turning his attention to his boots, François untied them and kicked them off, not giving any thought to where they landed. "Once I promised you a wonderful wedding night, and you had it. I'll make this night as awesome as the best rendezvous of Zeus and Hera's were."

She smiled at him. "Are you a man of action or not?"

"Don't doubt that! I am the Knight-King!" He silenced his consort's next remark by pressing his lips to hers and sliding his hand to the back of her head.

His kiss was tender and tentative, as if he were afraid to frighten her by this soft expression of his affection, which François would not confess to her in the near future. Anne was not ready for love: it would take her time to recover from the trauma inflicted upon her by Henry.

The monarch ceased the kiss. "You told me that you did not wish to increase my progeny. If we renew marital relations, you will get pregnant again. Do you understand it?"

His wife tipped her head. "Of course."

"That is not all," he countered. His thumb stilled, but he didn't remove his hand from her cheekbone. "There is something else, Anne. I can see it in your eyes."

A vague contrition stirred in the queen. Indeed, Your Majesty. I'm hiding that I crave to have a son for my revenge on Henry. Nothing would ever be as painful for that Tudor beast as the fact that Anne was capable of bearing his rival's sons. Yet, her delight was blemished by the guilt that was chilling her insides, as if they had been aggravated by the rigors of severe weather.

She inquired for distraction, "I wonder how many women you have bedded in your life."

"Very many." He would bet no other king was asked such a question by anyone.

"Like every bridegroom, you took vows during the wedding ceremony to be faithful to your wife – to me. Yet, men, especially rulers, never honor them, and you did not for a year."

His finger smoothed the furrow between her eyes. "I did not at first, but I plan to."

Anne tugged the sleeve of his shirt towards her. "I can hardly believe you."

Groaning, François pulled her fingers from his shirt. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he peeled off the upper part of her nightgown. "Call me by my name."

"François," she echoed as his lips found her pulse point, sucking on her hot skin.

His hands caressed her breasts through the nightgown. "I'm itching to see you nude."

Following his lead, the queen whisked the garment off over her head. "Your turn."

His eyes aflame, the king examined her figure. His spouse had long lost her baby weight, and now her shapely body was firm, with long legs and wonderfully formed small breasts. I want her as much as I never wanted anyone before, he inferred, his gaze drinking in her nakedness and darkening in desire. But I've never loved any other woman – Anne is my first love. This is not an act of marital duty for me – this is the expression of my love for this strong-souled lady.

The ruler grinned. "Are you so impatient to see me without garments?"

Her fingers touched his shirt's collar. "I'm accustomed to getting what I want." His shirt undone soon, she teased, "I'm the Goddess Minerva, and I fear nothing."

His world was singing a tune of infinite joy. "My kingly rank has its advantages. I'm the only one who can undress my Minerva. You can assist me in ridding of my clothes, too."

Their laughed together, and the sound was like tinkling little bells in the air.

After François had removed his hose, Anne gasped at the first sight of his aroused body. In spite of her discomfort during the consummation, she had seen enough of him. Now she had the opportunity to examine him in detail, thinking that his long, lean, and muscled body was built to be worshipped like Apollo's statue in an ancient shrine. François is not as burly and broad in chest and back as Henry has become over time, and I must say that I like his physique a lot.

The monarch cupped the nape of her neck. "I want to have another daughter with you." He kissed her hair lustily. "A girl with your dark eyes as enigmatic as mythological Cassandra, and with your hair as black as a moonless night. A daughter resembling her mother."

"Another female child?" Anne's tone was colored with disbelief. "Not a son?"

He nuzzled her ear. "Aimée de Valois – France's 'beloved' girl."

She trailed kisses to the edge of his ear. "And for a boy?"

"Augustin de Valois." His amber eyes were now almost black. "In honor of the Roman Emperor Caesar Augustus – one of the most remarkable rulers the world has ever seen."

"These are unusual names." She had the time to catch her breath. Her fingers massaged his back muscles, kneading and stroking. "I might be unable to give you a brood of sons."

The ruler's intense gaze impaled her. "Anne, I'm yearning to make our marriage happy. However, I am not Henry: I shall never demand only male heirs from you."

"I've always wanted to have a large family. But my dreams were crushed."

His mouth trailed a fiery path of kisses along her jaw line. "You may have it with me, if God wills it. You and I are both healthy and young enough to see all of our dreams come true." He paused, his scrutiny fixed upon her eyes. "But I have my own terms, wife."

"Which ones?" Anne clutched his shoulders impulsively.

François stipulated, "You will never deny me the marriage bed. I endured enough of your coldness, and I do not wish any other arrangements between us. I shall be faithful to you."

Her lips neared his. "Of course. I… did not mean to hurt you."

His hands caressed her back and then slid lower. "Let's forget everything bad."

"Now!" Anne pressed her length against his, reveling in his masculine hardness.

"I'll give you a great deal of pleasure. Something you will never forget."

"I trust you." And she meant it.

Amazingly, the queen had never trusted her Valois husband as much as she did at this moment. She did not love him, but her need to experience carnal rapture with him had long started tossing, humming, and buzzling in her essence. Yet, the next moment Anne shook off these sultry thoughts not to develop an emotional bond with him. I'm attracted to François because he is a handsome man, but my most important mission is to bear his son, she tried to convince herself.

As the king's lips captured hers with mind-blowing fervor, Anne responded in kind with emphatic urgency. The heat and red-blooded strength of his arms molded her tightly to his chest, where she felt his heart beating like one of a man reborn, as though their encounter had liberated some dormant energy and strength inside of him. His powerful assault on her senses personified the source of vivifying power that was breathing hope and new life into her battered soul.

Although before François had not experimented with his wife in bed, now his propensity for an audacious lovemaking prompted him to pour all of his feelings into his caresses. Her eyes grew wide in surprise, and her cheeks flushed as he touched Anne where no other man – not even Henry – had touched her before. While kissing her ardently, yet agonizingly slowly, he massaged the spot that was the sanctum of her femininity, and then slipped one finger inside her.

Anne blushed to the roots of her hair. "You should not–"

François interrupted her. "I'm your husband. Relax and just feel."

His kiss prevented her further protestations, and, instinctively, she tightened around him. He moved his finger out, then back in, setting up a regular rhythm that her body echoed, demanding a more intimate contact, as the blood thickened in her veins like warm honey. Cupping his hips in her hands, she pulled him closer, until his arousal brushed against her, next to his questing fingers.

"Not yet." His voice was throaty. "Too early, ma chérie."

Then his mouth was everywhere, scorching trails of kisses down her neck, her shoulders, over the swell of her breasts, down her abdomen until his head settled between her thighs.

"I never... François…" Both her hands threaded into his hair, she gave a loud gasp.

The queen longed for these marvelous sensations to last forever. She had never had such an experience with Henry, for their even most passionate encounters had been too fiery, and her former selfish husband cared more about his pleasure. François' tongue inside her drove Anne to the brink, only to back off and leave her hanging in midair, panting and begging him to fulfill the throbbing hollowness. As ecstasy convulsed through her, the king rose above her.

With a growl, François penetrated his wife with one long stroke. As her legs encircled his waist, he established the melodious rhythm, sliding ever so slightly, teasingly, into her and then withdrawing. She raised her hips to greet him, encouraging him deeper with each thrust.

For what seemed like an eternity, they rocked together like oceanic tides against the sand, first gently, then more fervidly and forcefully, until finally the monarch pounded into his queen as if he were Homer's Odysseus making love to his spouse, Penelope, to celebrate their reunion after long years of separation. Anne's cries were better than Orpheus' music to the ruler's ears, and the king thought that a woman might say more in a sigh than a priest can say in a sermon.

Moans, endearments, and shrieks resonated, as they danced an amorous tarantella, their sweat-slicked bodies rubbing together. Their movements were growing more frantic, their kisses tinged with an ever-increasing insanity. As he paused, Anne compelled him to flip over and ascended atop him, pinning him to the mattress. She straddled him, and François permitted her to take the lead, although Henry would have been reluctant to let Anne control their coupling.

François chuckled. "My spouse is in an authoritative mood today, isn't she?"

"Yes." With his entire masculine torso before her, Anne set about exploring it in detail, her tongue caressing the firm planes of his chest. "I'm the Queen of France, after all."

"You have become the seductress you have always been," he opined when she raised her head again. "I've always believed that you are as passionate as the Goddess Aphrodite."

His comment irked his consort because he had hinted at her once sensually romantic relationship with Henry. "Hopefully, our endeavors will let me conceive tonight."

"Is that why you wanted me to bed you and accepted my terms?"

"No!" His voice, which was as weak as that of a dying bird, pulled at her heartstrings.

Suddenly incensed, he grabbed her hands and, clasping them behind her back, made her move so that he would be atop of her again. "You want my son to extract vengeance upon Henry."

"Does it matter, François?" inquired the queen.

The monarch slammed into her like a sharp drumbeat. "It does, Anne."

Tears moistened her eyes. "I told you the truth! I cannot live in the darkness anymore."

"Do not weep, wife." He did not believe her, but he could not see her so distressed.

The ruler tempered his anger not to hurt her. As he continued slowly impaling her with his maleness, there was a haunting hollowness inside him darker than Hades. Although his soul was overflowing with a blend of fury and torment, his body yearned for release, so the king shut his eyes, joining them in a rhythm as old as humanity itself, melting into fragments of pure bliss.

"François!" Anne cried out in a barely coherent expression of ultimate pinnacle.

As she shuddered, the monarch thrust into her time and time again, his moans mingling with her shriek as he reached his own fulfillment. For minutes, they lay entwined, recovering from their voyage to the dizzying heights, and the queen felt his hot seed deep inside of her.

His hands softly caressing her, his lips kissing her hair, François declaimed his poem.

I drown my entire soul in your two eyes,

As black as night that gives me paradise,

Just looking into them – it does create

The mad rapture of my frenzied soul.

I'm steeped in their allure and enigma,

Am I damned by some heavenly stigma?

I drown in two pools of black water,

They are burning my heart hotter.

When these eyes shone like rainbows,

They become two golden windows.

Their lucent fires burn me completely,

Concretely, utterly, featly, and sweetly.

Burned to the cinders, I'm reborn again

Thanks to these eyes and their golden rain –

The strong rain of their hypnotizing allure,

That falls upon the whole of me as a cure.

She lifted her head to contemplate his face. "Is it your poem?"

"Yes. In your honor." His lips slid down her back, planting kisses along her spine.

"Ah!" The queen found his caresses too exquisite for mortals, making her whole being quiver and come to life with shimmering gold. Mary was right about François' sensuality.

The king kissed her on the mouth. "Your eyes… Just the memory of them enkindles my soul with pure brightness. When you are with me, the stars appear to live, everything sparkles in the stillness, and the world blossoms with the divine immensity of goodness."

This enraptured Anne. "Then let us embrace like two sublime creatures which make the silence shimmer, the starts breathe, and the universe pulsate with elation." They were on the same wavelength, despite the absence of love on her part – the French king was truly artistic.

François took her twice more: gently as she lay on the back, then far more passionately, with many twists and turns of their bodies. They dozed and talked between the lovemaking.

Her train of thought went back to Isabella. "Your foe's wife wrote to me secretly."

A frown stretched across his forehead. "Carlos' wife? What does she want?"

Anne recited the woman's missive. "I suppose we cannot ally with Spain."

Her husband grimaced. "I respect Isabella, for she seems to be more sensible and kinder than Carlos. However, she is his consort! Philip, Prince of Asturias, is his son." Then a knavish grin curved his lips. "When time comes, I shall make a bargain with Ferdinand for his release."

"I understand. Any deal with Carlos is impossible." She sighed.

"I have something more interesting on my mind." His lingering kiss on the mouth spoke too eloquently. "Do you like when I kiss you here?" His lips found her collarbone and traced it.

"François," moaned his spouse. "Should I respond to Isabella?"

Pulling away from her, the ruler fixed her with a pointed expression. "Do not reply to that Spanish dog's queen – do not do anything behind my back and don't lie to me, Anne."

"I will not." His warning was serious, and Anne would not disobey.

François observed Anne's face that possessed unearthly beauty in repose. He hoped that one day, he would awaken in his wife that womanliness that was currently concealed from him, and then her sensual instincts would let them have many artful couplings. François was jealous of his Tudor counterpart, so far the only man to whom Anne had opened the innermost recesses of her soul. I long for a time when she will be more trustful with me than she was with Henry.

§§§

Candles stood upon tables on either side of a canopied bed with bronze-inlaid bedposts and sheets of red silk. They cast a portentous orange glow about the apartments occupied by Count Sebastiano de Montecuccoli. Flickering, agitated flames shifted shadows on the faces of two lovers sprawled in a languorous pose after the intercourse, making them appear malevolent.

Lucrezia Cavalcanti, the count's mistress, clambered out of their bed. Barefooted, she swept out of the bedchamber and into the dressing room, where she donned her robe.

"So, there was a letter," Lucrezia said in Italian as she returned to the bedroom.

Montecuccoli crept out of the bed nude like Adam. "Indeed. From His Holiness."

She embraced him from the back. "I want you again."

He disentangled from her. "A bit later, Madonna Cavalcanti."

Montecuccoli tiptoed to the door to check whether the lock was closed. Having done so, he put on his robe and walked to an ebony table encrusted with ivory. He rummaged through his papers until he found the document, then went back to the bed and seated himself on its edge.

Lucrezia followed suit. "Dauphine Catherine needs to know everything."

The precious letter from the Vicar of Rome was clasped in his hand, as if scalped as a trophy from his victims. He had received it through one of the Vatican's spies at the Valois court.

My son Sebastiano,

Soon we will destroy that Boleyn demoness. She ensorcelled two monarchs and spread her heretical claws into the spiritual fabrics of two great Christian lands – England and France. She will be punished for her villainies, but God does not task you to perform this deed.

Instead, my loyal Count de Montecuccoli, you will stay at the side of Dauphine Catherine – our beloved Madonna Caterina. The Lord has appointed you to safeguard her for the Vatican. The death of Dauphin François was necessary to ensure that the Medici queen or her descendants, who are the true children of the Catholic Church, will keep France under the fold of the Roman faith. Do whatever Madonna Caterina commands you and rely upon her wisdom.

When the moment comes, my other allies at the Valois court will put our plan into motion. Tell Her Highness to watch and not to interfere. I'm blessing you with my holy hand, my son.

Pope Paul III

"My master, His Holiness!" Montecuccoli kissed the sheet of paper over and over again. "I am your slave until my dying day. I shall do anything for Madonna Caterina and you!"

Frenetic words slipped from her mouth. "The Supreme Pontiff is the master of all human souls. Those who disappoint his most Christian person will be burning in hell."

Sebastiano and Lucrezia regarded each other like overzealous parishioners. There was a red chaos of evil in their rabid eyes, from which inquisitorial flames leaped aloft and waved snaky tongues, blood-red and molten gold as they fantasized of how the Pope would cleanse France and Europe from the heretics. They would assist Allessandro Farnese in everything.

Montecuccoli's heart pounded madly as he kissed Farnese's letter again. "His Holiness will be France's master. One day, Dauphine Catherine will rule this country."

Lucrezia emitted a sigh. "Her Highness needs to give Dauphin Henri a son at first."

"The rumor is that the accursed English Gorgon went to King François' quarters tonight. She is wrapping him into her swampy web of pagan charms – she might conceive."

An alarmed Lucrezia frowned. "Does His Holiness just want us to wait? Does he mean that he will dispose of both that Boleyn whore and Prince Charles? Can we just do something? Madonna Caterina's astrologers and you, Sebastiano, have many poisons."

"I shall not disobey the Supreme Pontiff, Lucrezia."

The count handed the letter to his paramour, who quickly read it and sighed.

"You are right." A wave of hatred towards Anne twisted Lucrezia in a tangle of rebellious resignation. "Madame Caterina is very cautious. She says that we have no right for a mistake."

Her lover tempered his impatience. "Her Highness has chosen the best course of action. If we must lay low for years before we destroy all the enemies of our Medici Queen together with the Pope's foes, then so be it. I'm skilled at presence as well as production of poisons."

She put the paper to a candle to burn it. "Patience is a virtue, as Madonna Caterina says."

"We must wait and obey His Holiness," he said fervently.

The proof of their conspiracy with the Bishop of Rome was destroyed.

Tears streamed down his face as Montecuccoli whined, "How could King François marry that Boleyn vixen? How could François condemn the souls of his people to eternal hellfire?"

Lucrezia stripped his robe off his shoulders. "Let me comfort you, Sebastiano."

His eyes flashed. "Bind me, Lucrezia."

"Gladly." She took his robe off and used it to bind his hands over his head.

As the lovers tumbled onto the bed, Catherine's lady-in-waiting landed atop of him. She was slapping and biting him as she rode Montecuccoli hard. Their shamanic ritual was based on animal instincts. In these moments, they seemed to themselves indestructible and immortal.


I hope you liked this chapter. I hope you will let me know what you think of this chapter. Thank you very much in advance.

François takes more steps to ensure that his reign and his queen's safety will be accepted in France. He makes all of his nobles swear another oath of fealty to him, their Catholic monarch, and to her, their Protestant queen. As Elizabeth Boleyn says rightly, this proves the King of France's feelings for Anne, who needs to understand that everyone at court must know she is more than a queen in name only, or she will be despised, because they love François.

I hope you like the love scene between Anne and François. There is some foreshadowing of what may happen in the future. But Anne's main motive for her starting to perform her marital duties is to have a son in order to take her revenge on Henry. The poem about black eyes which François reads to Anne was written by me.

All the information about Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle (A Burgundian politician who served Carlos V) is historically correct. He will spend many years at the French court.

Ferdinand von Habsburg… He is an important character in this AU. Despite being dependent upon his elder brother's will, Ferdinand was King of Bohemia, Croatia, and Hungary, as well as King of the Romans, which means that Carlos designated him as his heir to the empire. So, Ferdinand is a very valuable prisoner!

François says that it would be good to make Ferdinand their friend and perhaps ally. His main goal is to have at least one Habsburg who will not be against the House of Valois. He also strives to drive a wedge between Carlos and Ferdinand. A spoiler: Ferdinand will not be an antagonist, but I cannot say anything else now. One Ferdinand-centric scene was added to chapter 6 because it used to be too short; I needed to start his character development after his capture.

The Pope is plotting against Anne. Catherine de' Medici and her Florentine friends are not the only Pope's allies at the Valois court. Something might happen any time.

I also have a poll about Jane Seymour's prospective husband. The English court appears in the next chapter.

I shall respond to all the reviews to the previous chapter next week. These weeks are not easy for me.

Yours sincerely,

Athenais Penelope Clemence