Chapter 25: The Queens' Competition
December 25, 1537, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, France
On Christmas Day, hordes of courtiers swarmed a long, spacious gallery, high ceilinged and imperious. Hundreds of them were eating ravenously and chatting animatedly beneath the golden chandeliers, the candlelight dancing on the frescoed walls and ceiling. Their sumptuous clothes and jewelry shimmered like a rainbow among marble sculptures, brought from Italy by Francesco Primaticcio, and the bronze sculptures, which the artist had created at Fontainebleau.
Two weeks earlier, the court had moved from Paris to Fontainebleau. The royal children, including Anne's daughter, had not been sent away to their own household.
François sipped wine. "Soon we will start our plan."
Anne leered. "Vengeance is sweet when served cold."
He disliked her fixation on revenge. "Of course, Anne."
The king and queen were seated at the table under a canopy of purple silk, gorgeously decorated with Valois heraldic ornaments. King Henri of Navarre and his wife, Marguerite, occupied their places next to the French couple. Sitting beside Dauphine Catherine de' Medici, Dauphin Henri was frigid and reticent, feeling ill at ease every time he looked at his spouse. Prince Charles and Princess Marguerite discussed in earnest the latest trends in French and Italian arts.
Queen Anne's relatives sat at the opposite side of the table. Lady Mary Stafford and Lady Elizabeth Boleyn experienced a strong sense of déjà vu as they remembered their life at the Valois court when Thomas Boleyn had served as the English ambassador to France. Mary let out a giggle as she recalled how she had laughed and danced at feasts and masques during those merry days in her youth, but her smile vanished as her gaze intercepted Anne de Montmorency's.
"Your compliments, François." Anne tilted her head. "You have changed your tune."
"So you have noticed." A mirthful François leaned back against his gilded throne. "You do not want coldness between us. But how hot should my song in your honor be?"
"Will it burn me alive?" she joked.
He touched her cheek. "You are already burning in my arms every night."
She blushed shifting her stare from him to the tapestry of the Goddess Aphrodite and her mortal lover, Adonis. "You are a king, a God in a way. So, who am I?"
He turned her chin to him again. "My goddess."
The couple watched the courtiers in silence. There were several tables in the gallery, each nearly groaning with the weight of victuals. A colossal variety of food was served: swan, goose, venison, pheasant, poultry, quail, mutton, pork, lamb, hare, and so forth. Each dish was spiced with ginger, pepper, cinnamon, saffron, cardamom, and spikenard.
François was now serious. "I have two gifts for you: my poem and a book."
"Go on, brother," Marguerite interposed.
Beside the idle, sad winter palace
And in the vacant frosty days,
Light came fluting down the ways,
Where my Anne was loitering with me.
Who has not welcomed, they retired,
Our jocund minstrels and their tunes,
Yet, they entertained us to no avail,
Until my Anne sent me her smile.
Then we listened to the music of joy,
We two were free to eagerly fancy
Our brilliant court and each other.
Since this day, in terror and amaze
We will not be alone but only at gaze
Of one another's laughs and smiles,
With them for the rest of our days.
A ripple of applause rang out as François finished, exaltation tingling in everyone's veins.
It dawned upon Anne, like the sun beginning to peak over the horizon, that she cared for François. Her romantic dream resurfaced: she wanted serene harmony to accompany her in the matrimonial journey, leaving discord behind. Perhaps she would be happy with the monarch.
§§§
"Bravo, brother!" King Henri of Navarre praised. "You have a great talent in poetry." Due to her long sojourns at her brother's court, he remained to celebrate Christmas with his wife.
François laughed. "I do!"
Henri d'Albert took his wife's hand tenderly. "Margot also has talents in literature."
Marguerite smiled at him cordially. "Not as many as my dear brother has."
Henri claimed, "Only weak minds refuse to be influenced by literature."
François smiled. "It expresses what cannot be put into words and what cannot remain silent."
Marguerite noted, "François is especially prolific when he writes for a unique dame."
"I see." Queen Anne flushed from either satisfaction or jealousy. She was aware that her husband had created poems for some of his mistresses, including her own sister.
"Father, I love it!" Prince Charles exclaimed. Princess Marguerite nodded.
"This is a great verse, my liege!" lauded Clément Marot, who had been permitted to seat at the royal table. "You have honed your own distinct writing style to perfection."
"Lovely." Dauphin Henri gazed towards another table, where his mistress was seated.
Dauphin Catherine de' Medici assessed, "Many Italian poets and critics define poetry as a creative art of endeavoring to inculcate morality and to express their passion for life. Others say that the function of poetry is to convey ideas in concrete and sensuous images, while the function of prose is to create intellectual material. I disagree and believe that poetry is artistic and creates knowledge, just as prose does. Good poetry and prose are like a bouquet of fresh flowers."
"Catherine, please–" Dauphin Henri began, only to be interrupted.
François opined, "Indeed, Catherine. Five types of poetry are mentioned in Aristotle's Poetics: epic, dramatic, dithyrambic, satiric, and lyric, all described in detail. In my opinion, the writers of each class are capable of creating deep emotion and intellectual thought."
Marguerite loved such discussions. "Aristotle insisted that the common element in all the arts is movement that is a characteristic of poetry, just as color and form characterize painting and sculpture. I do not concur with him because color and form are important to a poet."
Anne asserted, "Aristotle's theory of poetry has influenced modern poetry profoundly. However, in ancient times, little of Greek or Roman literary criticism was concerned with poetical theory as opposed to the keen interest of their critics in oratory."
The dauphin opined, "Plato saw poetry as something unreal, yet it is more real than prose."
"He was mistaken on this occasion." Marguerite raised her goblet. "My brother's talent in poetry is as realistic as our triumph over the Habsburg Empire. To the king's brilliance!"
Elizabeth Boleyn echoed, "To His Majesty's numerous virtues!" It was the first time she had spoken aloud freely; before, she had quietly conversed with her daughter, Mary.
"To the king and queen's happiness!" Mary Stafford included her sister deliberately.
Everyone drank to the monarch of France, predicting that the rest of his reign would be more resplendent than the Pax Romana during the reign of Emperor Octavius Augustus.
Anne emptied her goblet and set it on the table. "François, I like that your subjects have reinforced parallels between your reign and ancient Rome. Maybe you will avoid wars."
François drained his cup and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring into her face. "They are not only my subjects, but also yours. It is our reign, Anne."
"Perhaps," she breathed.
"Another gift!" At his request, his page brought something wrapped in black velvet.
Anne's brow arched. "What is it, François?"
The king smirked at her. "Patience is a virtue, my dearest wife."
The queen could not help but admit to her own curiosity. "I don't possess it now."
He commented rhetorically, "I've seen many storms in my life. Most of them have caught me by surprise, so I had to learn the art of patience and the art of taming the fury of nature."
"You will experience the devastating fury of my temper if you don't gift it to me now."
François howled with laughter. "Your temper may be like a tempest outriding the wind."
Her curiosity fully piqued, Anne hastily unfolded the object. The title of the small leather-bound volume in her hands was embossed in gold letters – The Aeneid by Virgil.
"I suppose you find my gift remarkable, wife."
Anne arched a brow. "Why?"
The space between them electrified as the monarch inched closer. "Once you compared yourself with Aeneas. Indeed, you traveled to France and to me, just as that Trojan hero arrived in Italy and became the first true hero of Rome over time. You remember what he did later."
It was her turn to lean closer to him. Anne found his festivous grin infectious and smiled in return. "Latinus, King of the Latins, welcomed Aeneas and his army of exiled Trojans. Aeneas and the king's daughter, Lavinia, became ancestors of Romulus and Remus."
"Aeneas founded a new dynasty." His uneasy gaze flew to both of his two sons.
"Well, I do not need to do that. God bless all of Queen Claude's children!"
He glanced back at her. "God save and protect them!"
Her fingers caressed the volume. "Are you truly happy with my new pregnancy?" They had discovered it a week ago, but Anne did not want to make any official announcement yet.
"Of course, I am." Elation brightened François' features.
Everyone noticed the royal couple's exhilaration, and speculation became rife.
§§§
Diane de Poitiers sauntered over to a table to fill her platter with gooseberry tarts and heron. Although she normally liked socializing, today's festivities were nothing but a bore to her.
She had no sooner sat down when Dauphin Henri appeared next to her.
He kissed her hand ardently. "Mon chérie, I've missed you so."
She put her platter on a nearby low table. "Me too, my prince."
Henri drank in her features, which were untouched by time. As usual, her gown was of black and white brocade ornamented with pearls, a triangle stomacher of matching taffeta shimmering with gems. A silver headdress of goldsmith's work, a diamond girdle around her waist, and a massive diamond necklace on her bosom enhanced the shimmering quality of her appearance. By all that is holy, my Diane has no idea how beautiful she is, he thought, his heart lurching.
He bent his head to his paramour. "My lips are seeking for your sweet ones, from which I may drink life. You are my most beloved, Diane! If we were together, I would have kissed you with all of my pent up passion, just as I did when we consummated our romance."
A grin flourished on her visage. "It happened in my gardens."
He lavished her hands with kisses. "I would gladly hold you in my arms forever."
Slavish devotion to her reflected in his gaze, and Diane grinned at Henri. Her smile was that of faux meekness and benevolence, but in his opinion, it was that of a superior race of beings. The young man worshiped this woman, whom his father had several years earlier appointed to teach him courtly manners, as if Diane were a goddess in some ancient shrine.
The mistress recalled the day when she had allowed Henri to take her for the first time. They had been in Château d'Anet, which was part of the domains of Diane's deceased husband – Louis de Brézé, Seigneur d'Anet, Count de Maulévrier and Grand Seneschal of Normandy. She had led the prince through a park and into a small walled garden with a meadow, terracotta vases, and classic busts. Then Henri had whispered words of love to Diane and embraced her with such an amorous effusion that she had surrendered to him, and they had coupled on the grass.
Her lover's face appeared pale. "What is it, Henri?"
"My father is in love with the queen," he voiced his conclusion.
"Henri, your relationship with the king must be amicable. You cannot antagonize those who favor your younger brother over you. Your father loves you, so open your heart to him."
A frown plucked at his forehead. "I cannot forgive him for my captivity."
"You must," his paramour insisted. "Or you risk alienating His Majesty from you."
Henri switched to another topic. "I'm worried about Queen Anne's religious beliefs."
Diane, too, found her thoughts wandering to Anne, wishing that the other woman had not married King François. "As a devout Catholic, I share your concerns. But His Majesty will not allow her to commit heresy in public; she regularly attends Mass with him."
"I hope so." He stood up and added, "I must return to the royal table."
"Keep a veneer of politeness towards your wife."
"Catherine de' Medici," the prince spat the name like a curse. "She is ugly."
"But she is your wife! Regardless of your wishes."
The dauphin begged, "Meet me this evening!"
"Yes." His lover's smile shone like her jewels.
A calculative creature beneath her displayed sweetness, Diane could not believe she had just consented to have a rendezvous with him again. Now Henri had a power over her that he had never wielded before, and her own passion for him could make her vulnerable, which frightened her. Before she had the chance to back out, he winked at her, then bowed deeply.
"I'll see you soon." Dauphin Henri took off in Catherine's direction.
For the better part of the banquet, Diane ate in silence, watching her lover. As the music changed from a stately pavane to a spirited tarantella, Henri led Catherine in a dance, his movements tinged with reluctance to be close to her. He looked so reserved that, Diane knew, he was wrapped up in his dreams of her, and she fretted over her earlier encouragement of him to pay attention to the dauphine so that Henri's ignorance of Catherine would not irk the monarch.
"Madame, are you unwell?" inquired Duke Charles de Guise.
Diane shook her head. "On the contrary, I've just been thinking."
He gauged her musings. "Dreaming of His Highness, aren't you?"
Her appetite completely gone, the prince's mistress handed her empty platter to a passing servant. "My relationship with Henri is not a secret. Your thoughts must be of the new queen."
"I'm sure they coincide. Rumors are that she is again pregnant."
Her eyebrow shot up. "So quickly after Princess Louise's birth?"
Disgust warped his countenance. "It was expected, given the king's attentions to her."
A hush ensued as the Valois spouses stood up. Courtiers jumped to their feet and dropped into bows and curtseys. François and Anne crossed the chamber and exited. Anne's mother and sister smiled triumphantly, and everyone clamored about their abrupt leaving.
Diane huffed, "It is peculiar how close His Majesty and that woman seem to have become over the past four months. Don't you find it a little unnerving?"
Guise nodded. "Too unnerving and even more inconvenient."
"Diane!" Henri nearly ran towards them. Seizing the opportunity to get rid of his spouse in his father's absence, he had deserted Catherine. "Come with me!"
Guise bowed, smirking. "Enjoy, Your Highness." He walked away.
The dauphin gushed, "I shall gift you a night of love, mon amour. You are the light of my life and the best woman at this depraved court! You are only mine!"
Triumph blazed in the depths of Diane's eyes. "Let's follow in His Majesty's footsteps." Tendrils of desire she had never known with her dead husband crept up, unbidden.
Catherine de' Medici observed her husband walk his paramour to the door. She wanted to roar in fury at the thought of Henri's flaunting his infidelities in front of her. Yet, no muscle twitched on her face as Catherine eased herself into one of the ivory and gold striped chairs. But as soon as she arranged her skirts and made herself comfortable, even the presence of her favorite ladies, who encircled the princess to comfort her, was suffocating her like a tight collar.
§§§
King Henri of Navarre discovered Philippe de Chabot, Admiral de Brion, in a festive crowd. Chabot stood with his spouse – Françoise de Longwy, who was the eldest daughter of Jeanne d'Angoulême, Countess de Bar-sur-Seine, the King of France's illegitimate half-sister.
"Your Majesty!" chorused Chabot and his wife as he bowed and she curtsied.
Henri began, "Monsieur de Chabot, I need to speak with you privately."
Nodding, Chabot told his spouse, "Françoise, I'll find you later."
Chabot and the Navarrese monarch walked to the distant corner of the chamber.
"How can I serve Your Majesty?" Chabot was intrigued, for the husband of François' sister had never sought his company. They were both François' friends, but not each other's.
Henri d'Albert asked bluntly, "I've not seen Madame d'Étampes at court at all. Is it really true that François sent her away? You two have always been allies. Where is she?"
Chabot's eyes widened fractionally. "The duchess was banished even before my sovereign expelled all of his former mistresses. Why are you interested in her, if I may ask?"
Henri contrived a plausible explanation. "When I last was at court, I borrowed from her a book about," he paused for a split second, looking around, "something that is prohibited in France."
"Radical Calvinism?" Now Chabot believed Henri because he knew of Marguerite's keen interest in evangelicals. "It should be discussed accurately despite our new queen's religion."
The monarch smiled: his trick seemed to be working. "There are things which I cannot ask even my wife to order from abroad. She would not do anything to disappoint her brother. At the same time, you and Madame d'Étampes share my interests in religious novelties."
Admiral de Brion answered, "She and I have a staunch belief in Calvin's teachings."
"Stauncher than François would approve of," the ruler stressed.
Chabot figured out the hint: their conversation about Anne de Pisseleu should remain secret. "I would gladly help Your Majesty. Madame d'Étampes is at her estates in Touraine."
The king tipped his head in gratitude. "I'll dispatch a page with the book to her, then."
"Careful," urged Chabot. "If the man is caught, King François might not be happy."
"I treasure my friendship with François." Henri smiled, but inwardly sighed.
Queen Marguerite of Navarre came to them. "Henri, mon amour! Let's go!"
Philippe de Chabot dropped into a bow, and then left to find his wife.
King Henri kissed his wife's hand. "Is François declaiming his poems?"
Marguerite shook her head. "I'll read for you all some stories from my 'Heptameron'." She was an author in her own right, composing both poems and prose, just as her brother did.
As the Albert spouses crossed the room, Henri's mind drifted to Anne de Pisseleu. Memories swirled through his brain: their initial meeting during Eleanor of Austria's coronation, their first insane coupling in her bedroom on the following night, their clandestine rendezvous every time he had visited France, and the illicit thrill he had experienced at the thought of sharing the emerald-eyed beauty with his brother-in-law. I pray that François and Margot never learn the truth.
They returned to the main table. Taking the volume that contained her own stories, his wife began reading them aloud, and everyone applauded her. Henri smiled at Margot, but his heart was leaden because of her inability to give him a home. As he envisaged the years of dull loneliness ahead in Navarre, Henri itched to escape from it, just as Daphne, daughter of the river-god Peneus, fled from Apollo. Anne de Pisseleu's lovely face floated before Henri's eyes again.
§§§
"I shall find His Majesty on my own," Queen Anne told her maids, who all giggled.
Anne headed to the study adjacent to the François I gallery, where the monarch frequently worked or read one of the numerous volumes from his library. More than an hour ago, her husband had escorted the queen to her apartments and then departed again, having promised to return soon. However, he had not come yet. Had something gone wrong between them again?
These are my fantasies, Anne assured herself. The court still celebrated Christmas, so the palace was quiet. She slipped into the study and eyed her surroundings. Pieces of gilded furniture crowded the cozy study, and a fire in the hearth cast reflections across splendid Italian gold-woven tapestries and one frescoed wall, near which François leaned casually.
"Claude, you shall wed him as soon as possible." This intrigued Anne.
"As Your Majesty commands." His former mistress sounded resigned.
Anne tiptoed into the room and then squeezed herself deeply into the niche near the door. From there she could see two people: Claude de Rohan-Gié, whose outfit of russet damask, with a long, black, close-fitting stomacher, stressed the curves of her enlarged abdomen, and a relatively young man, whom Anne had met at court, but whose name had slipped from her mind.
The ruler glanced at his companion. "Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, do you understand?"
"Yes, my liege," the man answered. "I've always served you loyally. With lands and the position of Governor of Blois, I have more than enough to support myself and my bride."
"And my child." The monarch's words chilled the queen like a blustery wind.
"And Your Majesty's baby!" Saint-Aignan echoed.
The man was Claude de Beauvilliers, Count de Saint-Aignan. Set off by a doublet of red satin bedecked with gaudy ribbons and spangles, his pale-skinned face was unremarkable, with a bottle-shaped nose, fleshy lips, and gray eyes, glistening with roguery. Beneath his yellow velvet toque, his hair, which dangled in long flakes over his ears and neck, was of a raven black.
Claude perused her husband-to-be. "Monsieur de Saint-Aignan, your financial problems are solved. But I insist that you have your haircut changed before the wedding, for now your head looks like brambles in a blackberry patch. And please wear more tasteful garb."
His nostrils flared, but Saint-Aignan stifled his annoyance. "I'll comply with your wishes, Madame. As it is a marriage of convenience for us, we will not meet often."
"Excellent." Claude breathed out with relief.
An instant later, Anne stepped out of the niche, at last revealing herself. "That is such a charming conversation! But I need to borrow my husband." Her tone was stony.
A perturbed François veered his scrutiny to his consort. "Certainly." He enjoined, "You may both leave now. Don't forget, Saint-Aignan: you must treat your new family very well."
Claude bobbed an awkward curtsey, Saint-Aignan bowed. Then they hurried out.
The king crossed to his wife. "Anne, I did not intend to distress you."
The queen felt rather crushed. "Yet, you did, François."
A surge of guilt wrinkled his brow. "I set Claude aside in July, but she wrote to me last month about her condition; it was my duty to help her."
Her expression grew cooler. "Is that how you always cover the shame of your unmarried and pregnant mistresses? Given your philandering ways, you must have many bastards."
"Indeed, I used to have many affairs, but I did not acknowledge most of my illegitimate children. By the way, I do not have an army of bastards, as you implied – I do have some, but not as many as you think. If my unborn illegitimate child turns out to be a boy, he might pose a threat to the House of Valois and prevent the peaceful transfer of power in the future."
Anne countered, "Henry acknowledged the departed Duke of Richmond."
She discerned a tremor of what must be his abhorrence towards his rival running through François. "Henry does not have any healthy male issue, so he claimed Lady Blount's child as his. Richmond was his only son whom he could present to prove his virility."
"François!" She tottered towards him. "Don't betray me like Henry did."
He hugged her. "Anne, I've been faithful to you since I gave you this promise."
With trembling lips, she could only pronounce, "How can I believe you?"
The monarch's arms around her were like those of a knight saving his damsel. Not until her cries subsided did the queen realize that the possibility of Clade de Rohan-Gié having François' son before Anne's child would come into the world would haunt her for the rest of her pregnancy.
§§§
Soon Anne calmed down, but she still held the monarch at arm's length. Her thoughts went to one of their many meetings with Sir Francis Bryan during her cousin's stay in France.
The king was surprised. "What is wrong, Anne?"
She regarded him with more than a hint of exasperation. "You kept the Pope's letters sent to William Brereton in secret for months. Should you not have told me the truth, François?"
He accepted her rebuke cheerfully. "Madame, you treated me too coldly."
Anne sighed. "I know, and I'm sorry for that."
The couple discussed Sir Francis Bryan once more, their last meeting in particular.
"I'm fortunate to meet Your Majesties," Bryan had begun in a sarcastic undertone. "Unlike the Imperial ambassador Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle who is always denied an audience."
Everything in Francis Bryan – from his brown head of hair that was a bit longer than what was considered to be stylish, to his green eyes and his brazen countenance – radiated cynicism. His emerald doublet and his matching hose had made his overall appearance impressive.
François and Anne had settled themselves into two gilded armchairs.
The ruler had glanced the visitor up and down in the same way a man would look a horse on the market. "Your liege lord must have been furious that we vanquished the invaders. The balance of power in Europe has shifted. A turncoat such as yourself knows that well, Sir Francis."
The queen had interjected acidly, "A man who can desert his own mother for coins."
"I can't help being natural," the envoy had deadpanned.
Anne had grimaced. "Your soul is as dark as the dead of night, cousin."
Bryan had spluttered, "Your Majesty! My cousin! When you were apprehended, I was away from England. I distanced myself from the Boleyns and the Howards to avoid repercussions. I swear on my beloved mother's life that I did not hatch a plot against you with Cromwell."
Anne still dithered to make a conclusion about him. Her best instincts had told her that he had not told her falsehoods. Yet, he was an immoral man, so she had said, "It matters not."
François had refocused their attention on the subject at hand. "Instead of discussing the past, we must decide what we will do to rectify some of Henry's transgressions."
Bryan had nodded his affirmation. "I'll gladly listen to Your Majesty's plan."
"Is His Grace of Norfolk with us?" The king had wanted to know.
"Of course," had confirmed the envoy.
The ruler had laced his fingers with his wife's. "What do you think of Cromwell?"
Bryan had described, "Cromwell is so powerful that he cannot be annihilated easily."
François had climbed to his feet and strode to a chest of drawers. He had rummaged through them and found a pile of parchments. He had then approached Bryan and handed them to him.
The monarch had returned to his armchair. "These are the Pope's letters to Eustace Chapuys and William Brereton. My agents intercepted them more than a year ago."
Anne had gawked at him. "What?"
François had promised, "I'll explain everything to you later."
"What are these letters about?" the queen had quizzed.
The envoy from England had spoken with painstaking slowness, his scrutiny riveted to Anne. "No one could ever expect the Pope's involvement in your downfall, Your Majesty. Sir William Brereton was the Vatican's agent who was blessed by Pope Paul to assassinate you."
Anne had mumbled, "Someone tried to shoot me during the coronation in London."
"That could have been Brereton," had inferred Bryan.
She had been briefly thunderstruck before the pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place. "Only Brereton falsely confessed to being my lover. I used to believe that he gave his testimony against me out of fear before torture. But Brereton must have seized the chance to dispose of me. After the arrests of my brother and friends, he realized that his confession would seal my fate, so he lied to Cromwell. He must have thought that he had fulfilled the Pope's mission."
Bryan had declared crudely, "I agree with Your Majesty's reasoning."
Anne had hissed, "That worm murdered my brother and my friends."
François had put in, "Sir Francis, your sovereign must learn about it. You and Norfolk should tell him that Cromwell is hiding some of the intelligence collected by his agents. You will have to persuade Henry that his chief minister not only stole a great deal of wealth from him during the barbaric Dissolution of the Monasteries, but also learned the truth about Brereton's identity and used the man to manufacture the charges against my wife, Anne."
The envoy had spat, "I'll eagerly send Cromwell to hell."
The ruler had smirked at the guest's decisive expression. "So far, you have not done a single thing to help someone who is totally innocent without any benefit for yourself."
Grimly holding the parchments, Francis Bryan had retaliated for their slighting treatment of him. "Innocent? Really? Her Majesty was the very reason why King Henry exiled his first wife, disinherited his eldest daughter, broke with Rome, and killed many of his subjects."
"Shut up!" François had raised his hand with authority. "I may start a parley with you as to who is guilty, but I shall not. In my eyes, you are an ill-mannered English mongrel."
"How kind to me you are, Bryan!" Glancing at her husband, she had speculated, "What is the typical punishment for humiliating foreign monarchs? Is that exile from our court?"
François had leaned back in his seat. "If we expel you from France in disgrace, Henry shall not grant you clemency. How splendid that would be, Sir Francis!"
Bryan had asserted in a pompous manner, "You need me to prove Queen Anne's innocence. And I need Princess Elizabeth to succeed King Henry in due time."
The king had ruminated, "Taking into account the childbearing histories of Henry's wives, he is unlikely to have a healthy son. So, Elizabeth may remain his only heir."
François Bryan had tipped a nod. "I think so after Queen Jane's miscarriage."
Anne's scorn for her family had resurfaced. "What reward do you and my uncle want?"
Bryan had averted his gaze, unable to withstand the chilly intensity of two brown pools. The Duke of Norfolk and Bryan craved to accomplish the highest Court positions in England.
The envoy had affirmed, "King Henry suffers from increasing weight and ulcers on his legs. He will not live for another ten years, during which we will all walk on eggshells around him."
François had glowered at him. "Your price?"
Bryan had elaborated, "In his current will, King Henry formed a Regency Council of sixteen men: those whom he trusts to keep his best interests in mind during Elizabeth's minority. His Grace of Norfolk and I deserve to play the most prominent roles in the Council."
"Norfolk wants to be Lord Protector," Anne had surmised.
"Quite right," Bryan had informed. "I'm dreaming of a dukedom."
The monarch had smirked oddly. "The illustrious Philip IV was called the Fair. But his rigid and inflexible personality earned him other nicknames such as the Iron King."
"What do you mean, sire?" Confusion had stained Bryan's countenance.
The ruler's voice had cut through the air like a prophetic message. "To rule as a king, a female monarch will have to develop and maintain a rigid personality and an iron will, using her charms in her political games. At present, Elizabeth Tudor is extraordinarily precocious and strong for her tender age. Will such a girl allow anyone to command her for long?"
"A woman cannot rule," had barked Francis Bryan.
Anne had cried with certainty, "She will!" François had nodded.
The king had affirmed, "His Grace of Norfolk and you will both get what you want. We shall give you other papers and tell you the rest of our stratagem tomorrow."
"You will not regret our cooperation, Your Majesties." Bryan had bowed and exited.
Snapping out of her memories, Anne concluded, "Bryan and Norfolk are with us."
"For now, they are now allies," François responded.
"Will your spies find more of the Pope's letters for Brereton?"
"They are now gathering more information to prove your innocence."
Anne was sick of all these plots. "I'm just tired of all these schemes."
"You are no longer angry with me? François asked.
His wife smiled. "No, I am not."
"Let's forget about it." He cut off the line of her negative thought.
François pulled his consort into his embrace, providing a feeling of security and belonging to her. They did not return to the feast and retired to her quarters. Her husband illuminated the twilight of her life, even though she was still cringing in the throes of her lingering woes.
December 25, 1537, Leeds Castle, Kent, England
"I'm pleased with you," King Henry declared as he reclined in his throne, drumming at the jeweled armrests. "My subjects should all know that God has blessed me again."
"As you order, sire," Queen Jane's shuddering response came.
"What is wrong with you?" His voice was layered with irritation.
His Majesty does not even address me by my name, Jane mused sorrowfully. He is my king, not Henry! Since the discovery of her pregnancy three days ago, her husband did not become tenderer with her. When he looked at his spouse, she felt that the sense of disappointment was in the same room with them, as though he anticipated that she would fail to bear him a male heir. Jane was relieved that her new babe had been conceived after her rape at the king's hands.
Jane was glad that Elizabeth Tudor had not arrived in Leeds as initially planned. The harsh winter weather had made the journey too tiresome and even perilous for a child, so the ruler had decreed that the princess and her household return to Eltham and wait there for his instructions.
"I'm fine, sire," the queen murmured, her gaze downcast on her platter full of fish.
"Are you feeling well?" This time, an intense worry latched onto his features.
Jane's countenance was solemn. "No, I am fine. I pray that I'll carry this child to term."
The ruler's gaze shifted to his mistress, Anne Bassett. "My dear Anne, as Jane needs to be exceedingly careful in her condition, she will go in confinement early."
"What a genius idea, Your Majesty!" Anne was impatient to be the first lady of court.
Jane was hurt, but obeyed. "Your Majesty, I shall do as you wish."
Sitting under a canopy of red silk emblazoned with the royal arms woven in gold, King Henry was surrounded by his queen at his left hand and his paramour at his right one. In the past several weeks, Anne had accompanied the monarch to all audiences with diplomats, and she had presided over banquets; the queen had been left forgotten in her rooms. At Christmas, Henry had summoned Jane to perform her functions of a queen by acting as a hostess during this feast.
The great hall was lit by many candles, and the tables were placed in a rectangular form. At the high table on a dais, where the ruler was seated, near him sat Mary Tudor, Thomas Cromwell, the Dukes of Suffolk and of Norfolk, as well as the Seymour brothers. Will Sommers, the royal jester, and a number of other nobles were present. Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, was also there, having arrived from his estates together with his wife, Gertrude Courtenay née Blount.
The feast was splendid, and all the provisions were of the best quality. A great deal of food was served: boar meat, roast tongue, pork, roast beef, meat pie, venison, capon, teal, gull, peacock, stork, gannet, heron, egret, and even dolphin. There were vegetables cooked with meat and fish. Most dishes were spiced with honey, red pepper vinegar, black pepper, cardamom, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Flowers were set upon all the tables to enhance the presentation of the feast.
All of a sudden, King Henry stood up and promulgated, "Queen Jane is carrying my son who shall be my golden Tudor prince." Now he was not even looking at Jane; he thought of what Anne had predicted about Elizabeth's destiny to usher England into a Golden Age.
After a short, startled silence, a chorus of exuberant cheers sounded in the room. Despite the king's harsh attitude to her, Queen Jane had many supporters among Catholics.
The ruler decreed, "For the child's safety, my queen will spend most of the time in her rooms. Lady Anne Bassett will replace Jane as a hostess at feasts and masques."
This was met with whisperings in melancholy accents, as well as glances of pity at Jane.
Anne purred, "You have made me so happy, sire." Her lover grinned at her broadly.
Henry resumed eating a lot, so servants frequently delivered new plates to the royal table. After he was done with legs of pork, he demanded that roasting pigs and haunches of venison on spits be given to him. Sometimes, Anne, Jane, and others looked askance at the monarch, whose mouth was always full of food. Their sovereign was so ravenous as if it were his final meal, and it was no wonder that he was gaining stones in weight in the absence of physical exercise.
Brandon informed, "Eustace Chapuys wants to give Your Majesty a Christmas gift."
Tipping his head in agreement, Henry watched the advance of the Imperial ambassador with a stern look, and after he had made an obeisance to him, he motioned the man to rise.
The king quizzed acridly, "Has your master recovered from his wounds? He fled from the battlefield, which is a shame for a general."
With some effort, Chapuys throttled his rage back. "His Imperial Majesty is working hard for the prosperity of his vast realm." He snapped his fingers, and his secretary brought a large silver cross for prayer, which was adorned with diamonds. "This is Spain's gift for you, sire."
The monarch continued eating. "Good. You are dismissed."
As a royal groom took the gift from his page, Eustace Chapuys bowed and left.
Henry turned to his eldest daughter. "Mary, you shall marry young William, Duke of Cleves and Count of Mark. He is ready to wed you without any dowry."
Mary said nothing, but her temper boiled like water in a kettle. The queen and many others shot her sympathetic glances, but she ignored them, for she had a plan to fulfill.
Antoine de Castelnau, the French ambassador to England, dared approach the table. Now more than anything he yearned to rub into the English king's face the news from France.
Henry was chewing his venison. "You have sought an interview with me."
"I have a gift for you from my liege lord," began Castelnau, "and a word from him."
"Hand it to my groom." The ruler finished off his cup of ale.
The ambassador put in, "You can wear it on any occasion."
Those who sat beside King Henry gaped at the fabulous girdle that consisted of diamonds and onyxes. Yet, they wondered why it was so long and was set too thick with onyxes.
"Why is it of such length?" Henry observed his groom pick up the girdle from the hands of the diplomat's secretary. "And these onyxes…" As he envisaged Anne's dark eyes, he realized why François had sent this gift, and then blasted, "Your master is a cunning fox! How I wish he had been killed during the Spanish invasion of France, or died of the French disease."
Many guessed why the girdle was that long. As Henry was putting on weight, it was a useful gift for him because one day, he would need to have his wardrobe changed. François' joke was so acrimonious that it irked Suffolk, but amused Norfolk. Perhaps the monarch had not understood why the girdle was of such length, for he could not admit to his own imperfection.
Castelnau stated equanimously, "King François is healthy. Contrary to your wishes, he has never suffered from what you call the French disease, and what on the continent is viewed as Italian or English one. In fact, I've received glorious news: Queen Anne is enceinte again."
The ambassador felt uncomfortable, for he had voiced the tidbits that had not yet been made official at the French court. King François, who trusted Castelnau, had confided in him about his consort's condition, but he had been meant to keep the information confidential. However, when Castelnau had heard about Queen Jane's pregnancy, he had failed to ward off the urge to prove to the Tudor peacock, as he called Henry in his mind, that his former wife was more fertile.
Bewildered stillness allowed Henry's growls and curses to echo with menace.
"Get out, you imbecile!" Henry's eyes glittered with beastly hatred.
Sniggering, Antoine de Castelnau swooped a gallant bow and vacated the room.
"Celebrate without me." The monarch bounced to his feet.
In silence full of trepidation, the ruler quitted the chamber, his spirits lower than ever. As the door slammed shut behind him, the court exploded with speculation about Anne.
A sullen Queen Jane and her relatives soon left as well. Mary Tudor, to the queen's surprise, wanted to stay, her gaze intersecting the Duke of Suffolk's from time to time.
§§§
The Duke of Suffolk exited into the main courtyard lit by torches. His stride as wide as if he were an all-out run, he hurried to the stables at the opposite end. He prayed that the plan of Mary's escape, which Eustace Chapuys had masterminded, would not be diverted.
Charles Brandon stepped round the corner of the barn. He peered across to where a mare was nuzzling the neck of Catherine of Aragon's daughter. Accoutered in a gown of silver damask worked with birds and pomegranates, Mary looked like a woman who had left the feast on a whim; her high square neckline and her black hood with a veil attested to her Spanish tastes.
"Your Highness," Charles commenced. As they were now alone, he addressed her by the title that, in his opinion, had always belonged to her. "You ought to be more careful. Your silk slippers are completely covered in mud and filth. How will you travel wearing them?"
"I don't care!" Mary's throat ached from the effort of keeping her feelings in check.
When she merely raised a tearful eye from above the straggly mane of the mare, he uttered, "You are leaving today. The coast is very close, and you will board a ship tomorrow."
"England is my home. Yet, I'm running away from my own court in the dead of night like a criminal. That will be a mighty victory for her when she receives a word about it."
Charles was confused. "For whom?"
"That Boleyn witch!" Mary shrilled like the nasty sound of an old pipe. At the sight of Suffolk putting a finger to his lips, she lowered her voice and spoke deprecatingly. "She led the king astray, and he broke with the Holy Father. She bewitched him into abandoning my mother and abjuring the true faith. As a result, His Majesty commands me to marry that heretic."
He flinched at the bitterness in her tone. "My princess, you will have a new life. Leave your hatred behind. Forgiveness is the best thing you can do, and it is the key to your happiness."
Turning to him, the bastardized woman glowered at him with a fierceness that caused the baffled duke to step back. "That is quite an insult to me, Your Grace. You might consider my talk hysterical, but you have never been deprived of everything: not only of your status, your privileges, and your beloved mother, but also of your future crown and of your own country."
"God is testing Your Highness." Suffolk, too, loathed Anne wholeheartedly.
"My father…" Her voice slurred from the weeping and the wine she had ingested tonight. "Since the king's wedding to Queen Jane, I've maintained my dignity in the face of his continual denigration. But he has said no kind word to me and kept me at an arm's length."
The lady's words became muffled as she buried her face in the docile horse's flank.
The Duke of Suffolk was not accustomed to comforting a distressed woman, in particular royalty. But in the dim-light of the barn, illumined by a torch, with her hair ruffled out of its careful coiffure and the vision of misery Mary presented, he could not help himself: he closed the distance between them and put his hands on her shoulders, then drew her round to face him.
"My noble-minded Princess Mary," he told her as he peered gently into her gloomy, hazel eyes. "I'm sure that your father, the King of England, had no intention of causing you and your mother such enormous heartbreak. I agree that the Boleyn harlot, with the aid of her craft, her charms, or perhaps even sortilege, compelled His Majesty to do numerous horrible things."
Pulling herself together, Mary stepped away from him. "Yes, it is only her fault."
Suffolk's voice was insistent and soft as he continued to persuade her. "Your Highness, now a new life stretches ahead of you – one of uncertainty, but also one full of all kinds of possibilities. You only have to voyage through sea and Europe, and land in Spain safely."
"Indeed." She drew in a shuddering breath. "I should not have behaved in this way."
"I understand your pain," soothed Suffolk. "Even great queens may cry."
Mary's tears dried. "I remember my mother weep because of His Majesty's many liaisons."
The Duchess of Suffolk's shout interrupted them. "We must go!"
Catherine Brandon darted into the stables like a tempest, followed by Eustace Chapuys.
As his gaze rested on Mary, Chapuys reported, "Your Highness, I have a litter awaiting us. We will head to the coast and embark a ship in Dover. We will travel incognito."
"I'm ready to go, Your Excellency." A composed Mary nodded, her chin set high.
"We will be accompanied by my most loyal men. The emperor must be waiting for us in Granada or Valladolid." Chapuys placed her hand on his arm to escort her to the litter.
"Thank you." Mary let out a faint smile. Turning to Catherine, she requested, "Queen Jane needs the support of those who love her, especially in her condition."
"I shall help Queen Jane if necessary." Truth be told, Catherine was not sure that she would be able to comfort Jane lest another miscarriage sent the king into a frenzy of rage.
"You have a big heart, Lady Suffolk," Mary commented, her gaze oscillating between the Brandon spouses. "May the love you share today get stronger as you grow old together."
Tearing her gaze from them, Mary did not see Catherine wince. The Duchess of Suffolk glanced frostily at her spouse, who sent her a smile, but she averted her scrutiny. Mary's wishes were ill-timed, for now the wedge between Charles and Catherine was greater than ever.
"We must hurry," prodded Eustace Chapuys.
The ambassador led Mary Tudor out of the stables and into the courtyard. He assisted her in climbing into the litter swathed in some inexpensive black fabric so as not to attract attention during their trip. Inside she met another of her many supporters – Sir Nicholas Carew, who bowed to her deeply. In spite of her earlier breakdown in the stables, Mary's spirits were sufficiently high once the litter began moving, and now her mind was concentrated on her future.
"I did not attend the feast," Carew started. "I had to organize everything. This litter is mine, but as it is not adorned with any coat-of-arms, no one will know who is travelling inside."
Mary addressed, "Thank you for your help, Sir Nicholas."
Chapuys interposed, "You are doing the Lord's work for our princess."
Carew crossed his hands over his chest. "Protecting Your Highness is an honor for me. You are England's only hope to have it restored back to the flock of Rome. I pray, just as many others do, that time will come when you will return to your homeland as our queen."
She recalled her mother's words about her destiny. "I was raised to be the Queen of England. One day, justice will be restored, and I shall play an important role in England's history."
"You will," Carew assured. "We Englishmen are true servants of the Vatican and Christ, ones who carry strength, courage, and greatness in our blood. Unlike the French, we do not flaunt our importance and supposedly superior intelligence and culture. We are quiet and patient, but we think smartly, wait for as long as necessary, act wisely, and work collaboratively to accomplish great things. The Spanish share some of these traits with us, although they are impulsive."
Mary tipped her head. "That is a fair estimate."
"The English and the Spanish are not buffoons." Chapuys jeered, "But every time I meet a Frenchman, I feel as if you were attending a play that pokes fun at their extravagant manners."
The criticism of the French nation elicited smiles from them.
Alarm crested in Mary again. "Will we not be found out?"
Chapuys forewarned, "Your Highness, be brave! We have thought all things through, but the journey will be long and tiresome. I pray that everything will go smoothly."
"I'm not afraid," she assured. "In several months, I'll meet with my Spanish family."
Chapuys smiled. "Their Imperial Majesties will be delighted to see their cousin."
"I'd love to meet the emperor," Carew shared his dreams.
Mary sighed. "The only people I'll miss in England are Queen Jane and my sister, Elizabeth. I regret that I was unable to tell Jane about my escape, and to say goodbye to Lizzy."
"That brat is–" The diplomat broke off under Mary's intensely disapproving glance.
"I agree with Chapuys," joined Carew.
"Don't insult my sister," she ordered. "Lizzy is innocent of her mother's sins."
Carew changed the subject. "I shall accompany you only to the port. I have to return to the castle, or they will start searching for you earlier than necessary."
"Then we will part ways very soon," Mary deduced, and Carew nodded.
"God bless Your Highness!" Carew cried. "You are our future queen!"
The litter was moving through a deep ravine that bordered with the coastline. They had to use the roads where the monarch's border troops would not spot them.
In the meantime, the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk were on their way back to the banquet. Catherine disengaged herself from his arm and walked at a distance from him in silence. Catherine strove to get away from Charles. But no matter what she wanted he was her husband, even if she could not go back to the easy camaraderie and love which they had once shared.
I hope you are all safe from Covid-19. I'm staying in lockdown in Tuscany. Be well!
Thank you for reading this chapter! Let me know what you think. As always, I recommend VioletRoseLily and EvilFluffyBiteyThing at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91 at .
The romance between Anne and François is budding, but so far, the king's feelings are unrequired. Finally, she is pregnant! There was no birth control back then, especially not for royalty, so Anne is highly likely to have many pregnancies – or perhaps not. Royals were almost always inbred, but Anne and François are not related, so their progeny must be strong and have a very good chance to survive as their offspring are not affected by inbreeding depression.
All the intellectual conversations portray a classical Renaissance court. The information about Plato, Aristotle, and other philosophers is historically correct. The poem is mine, as always.
King Henri of Navarre had a secret affair with Anne de Piselleu d'Heilly. Anne was banished, but one day she might come back; the question is whether she still wants to be with François. As I once mentioned, she will have an interesting character arc in this AU. Marguerite of Navarre is a woman of letters, whose heart belongs to France and the Valois family; in the future, François will need his great sister like air to breathe to serve as his regent.
Don't throw stones into Dauphin Henri. He is very young at this stage, his blood is boiling with desire for Diane de Poitiers. Let him grow up and mature – he will surprise you.
In history, Claude de Rohan-Gié was married twice. Her first husband died in 1541: he was Claude I de Beauvilliers, Count de Saint-Aignan, Seigneur de Thoury, de La Ferté-Hubert and de Salle les Cléry. Later, she remarried Julien de Clermont-Savoie.
Jane Seymour is pregnant again, but please do not frown at me and say that she should not have a son. Wait and see what will happen: the drama will be emotional, and the storm is brewing in chapters 26-28. I hope you liked François' gift to Henry – a long girdle of onyxes. Finally, Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter, is at court.
I promised that Mary Tudor would have an unconventional storyline – you will not meet it in any other AU. That is true: she escaped from England, and perhaps she will never come back, and all her adventures following her escape are rather unusual. In the second part of this epic, we will welcome another interesting character – the unfortunate Juana of Castile. Carlos and Isabella will be back soon; Ferdinand will appear in chapter 28.
Guys, let's support each other and make each other smile! Stay safe! By the way, I have a poll about Gregory Cromwell on my profile!
Yours sincerely,
Athenais Penelope Clemence
