Chapter 27: Infected with Antagonism
April 3, 1538, Château de Rambures, near Amiens, Picardy, France
"Queen Anne ruling France in the king's absence?" Anne de Montmorency inquired with a gasp. "Madame Stafford, you must be mad. Only His Majesty's sister may be his regent."
"I have all my wits about me," Mary contradicted. "I'm quite insulted by your rudeness, Monsieur de Montmorency. You lack proper manners and are too full of yourself."
He smirked. "Really? Your family tried to dig their claws into the Tudor throne, but they failed. Now you think that the Valois throne is in your hands."
For a moment, silence stretched between the Valois queen's sister and the Constable of France. They stood on the meadow that was surrounded by a forest from one side and bordered with a cobble-covered road, snaking its way from Paris to Amiens. They had stopped here to water the horses from a stream and then left them to graze in lush grass, while all the travelers rested. The guards remained at a respectful distance from their master and Mary Stafford.
Spring was in full bloom, and the warm evening was serene. The meadow was dotted with flowering shrubs, evergreen plants, and pools of water where sparrows stopped to drink. The scent of the nearby forest was invigorating, temping them to stay there for longer. At sunset, only the smallest trace of chill was felt in the air, daffodils and other flowers ruffling in the breeze.
As part of the French troops was stationed in Savoy since 1536, the monarch intended to launch a new campaign in Italy. François would appoint regent to rule France in his wake.
At last, Mary snapped, "I do not want to talk to you. I wish I had traveled with anyone else, just not with you. Why did King François ask you to accompany me?"
"His Majesty wants to keep his wife's sister safe. Once you and your children were captured by Imperial agents. His Grace of Ferrara saved you. Nothing like that should happen again."
Unbeknownst to her, Montmorency took delight in observing Mary. Her cherry-colored satin gown, decorated with diamonds, matched her flat crimson velvet cap surmounted by a gold tassel, as well as the flushing color of her cheeks. As she reached down and brushed a stray blade of grass from the folds of her skirts, a melody of adoration sounded in his chest. Nonetheless, he dismissed it with a tug at his heart, and his mind floated back to their conversation.
"The war is over, and I'm safe in France," she persevered.
"Madame," he said in such a stringent voice that she glowered back at him. "Our liege lord – now the King of France is your sovereign as well – decides what we do, and we must comply with his commands. Indeed, I'm a soldier who is and shall be loyal to my country with my dying breath. As a politician, I know for a certainty that a Protestant queen can never be our regent."
Offended, Mary countered, "King François permits Queen Marguerite to represent his will when he is in France and away. They govern together! He has always relied upon the wise counsel of his late mother and his sister. Queen Anne has a brilliant mind!"
Montmorency explained at length, "Madame, I'm not diminishing Her Majesty's talents. But everyone knows that she worships what we Catholics consider heresy. Even though His Majesty permitted her to do so in private, no Lutheran or Calvinist queen can ever be allowed to lead the country, for this would have angered the nobility, destabilizing the whole realm."
Mary could not object to these arguments, but she would not acknowledge the truth of his words. Thus, she closed the topic. "The afternoon sun is waning. We must go."
"Rambures is not far from Amiens, to which we are close. Let me help you into the litter."
She shook her head in protest, feeling her unbound curls tickle her cheek. Mary sauntered over to the litter, where several palfreys, which drew it, were lazily munching the grass. She called for her page to assist her in getting into the litter, frowning as Montmorency laughed at her.
The constable jumped onto his black stallion, draped in red and yellow silk on which blue birds were sewn, just as it was done on his coat-of-arms. "I am not saddened by your rejection of my courteous proposal. My words are as true as you believe them to be false."
"I do not think you are lying," Mary conceded while making herself comfortable in her seat. "But you are exaggerating. The commoners have accepted Anne as their queen."
"The most important thing is what the nobility think of this. Catholic conservatives are your sister's enemies. Those who are interested in heresy and evangelicals support her."
"Well, you are partly right, I suppose."
His laugh goaded his horse into neighing. "You have such a pliant nature!"
"Enough, Monsieur!" Mary closed the litter's window. "You are too ill-bred!"
"Oh, Madame!" The constable's laughter boomed as the party commenced moving.
In an hour, they reached the city of Amiens, whose verdant and gently rolling surrounding landscape was different from Paris, the streets of which were crowded with its inhabitants and visitors for most part. The encroaching dusk cloaked everything in a veil of gray, and the thick mist descended, significantly reducing the visibility within a radius of ten miles.
Slowly, the cavalcade meandered through the foggy roads. After having almost lost their way, they spotted the River Somme and headed east of Amiens. By the time the brick and stone Château de Rambure, flanked by four machicolated round towers, came into view, the darkness had mantled the area like a raven's wing. Mary could not examine the castle, but as they neared, she admired four spiral staircases placed in the internal angles of the corner towers.
§§§
"Monsieur, night is falling quickly," Montmorency's groom fretted.
"As a soldier, I'm accustomed to riding in the dark." The Constable of France was impatient to be off. Tonight he found himself unable to sleep with Mary under the same roof.
Montmorency mounted Triumph, his favorite horse, and slammed his heels into its sides. Rather than take the road, he guided the stallion towards the northern corner of the palace, and then dived into the forest. From a nearby terrace, a stunning view to the river was opening. Maybe a ride along the riverbank would assuage his anxiety caused by Mary's nearness.
As he raced through the apple orchard that lay ahead, his thoughts were drawn back to the queen's sister. He could not call Mary by her second husband's surname. Damn Mary Boleyn! Montmorency cursed silently. She is lovely despite her age! Why have I been thinking of her since our departure from Fontainebleau? He was a married man with a brood of children, one who had no right to have such persistent fantasies about a woman who was not his wife.
Montmorency prodded Triumph on, as he reached the water's edge, seething all the while at himself. Mary had been a mistress of two monarchs; years ago, he had left her after their short, clandestine affair so as to free her for his sovereign. His wife, Madeleine de Savoy, labeled Mary a foolish whore, despite the fact that Mary was nothing short of genteel, superbly educated, and clever, though not being as ambitious and arrogant as Queen Anne had once been.
His union with Madeline de Savoy had been fruitful: they had seven living offspring, four of them boys. He had wed Madeleine only because King François had arranged the match for him, wishing to marry him off to the daughter of his uncle, René de Savoy. Yet, this matrimony was not happy: Montmorency disliked Madeleine for being stunning in an icy way, with her exquisite features, body, and emotions as if carved of marble – not the sort to keep a man warm.
There was no single lady whom the Constable of France could unequivocally trust. For him, women were either cold, reticent, and haughty, or overbearing, lustful, and too proud of their beauty. I dreamed of having a loving family and a cozy home, but not with Madeleine.
He envied François, whose awesome sister, Marguerite, was a rare exception and had been granted a perfect character above reproach. The many females of questionable reputation, who frequented Montmorency's bed, were most definitely not worthy of his attention, but they, at the very least, were honest in displaying their demands in exchange for their services – a night here, a purse of coins and trinkets there. Montmorency respected their businesslike approach.
Tapping the horse's flanks with his boots, Montmorency rode closer to the river. But as the fog was especially thick in this area, he steered the beast way from the shore and galloped across a wide-open park, where the grass spread over the lawn like verdant velvet. As he discerned the outlines of the château in the distance, Montmorency's stallion suddenly faltered.
"Damn," barked the constable. "What is going on?"
He slowed Triumph to a trot in the vicinity of the rose garden that was a delightful spot full of scents and colors. Even sitting in his saddle, Montmorency felt the pronounced limp, and worry inundated him. Tightening the reins, he hopped down onto the ground and scrutinized each hoof, finding nothing amiss. A baffled Montmorency led the animal through the park.
"Be patient, my friend," he spoke to his horse. "Soon my groom will examine you."
A familiar female voice beseeched, "Please, don't torment this horse, Monsieur! Stop!"
Turning his head, Montmorency gaped at the intruder, whose figure seemed to have been drowning in a white fog. Mary rushed towards him, her red cloak making her more distinguishable in the mist. Astonishment and ire vied for supremacy inside him; the latter won.
He growled, "Why are you issuing commands?"
Mary approached. "Your horse is limping. It was probably injured during your ride."
Had she seen him minutes earlier? His fury intensified, staining his normally good attitude to her. "Madame Stafford, you have no right to order me anything. You know nothing of horses, despite your pretense. I told you to stay at the castle. Why did you disobey me?"
Throwing off her cloak, she darted to Triumph's side. "I'm tempering my anger with you because your horse needs aid. But you are the rudest creature on earth."
His jaw dropped. "What are you going to do?"
She stopped beside the hose and crouched. In a handful of moments, she stated, "There is a tendon on the right foreleg, somewhere between the knee and the fetlock."
Montmorency knelt by the beast and strained his eyesight as he peered at where she had pointed. "A small part of Triumph's foreleg does look swollen. How didn't I notice it?"
Mary descended to her knees and reached out to touch the animal's leg. "The skin is quite warm. He must have stretched his tendons during your charming stroll in the fog."
"Your sarcasm is not suitable for this occasion, Madame."
"And why not? Because the illustrious Constable of France thinks so?"
"The Boleyn wit," Montmorency grumbled. "It might be too acerbic."
"Indeed." Her hand flew to the beast's mouth, and Mary laughed gaily. Triumph nickered softly and lowered his head to rest upon her shoulder. "We will save you, dearest."
Montmorency was startled. "My horse is usually wary of strangers, and only I'm capable of taming him with ease. I've never seen Triumph behave this way. How did you do that?"
This time, Mary's response was enchanting. "I've just bewitched him."
Her repartee was pleasant, but he said, "Madame, I congratulate you. But you are a mere woman, and females do not generally possess the ability to diagnose such injuries."
Her temper spiked. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. King François has a far better attitude to ladies: he is a forward-looking man who comprehends that we are as clever as men and accumulate a special wisdom. You should follow in his gallant and smart footsteps."
Insulted, he sputtered, "Do you realize that we are in an odd situation?"
"Let's go. Some peppermint or other oil will help your friend's injury heal."
"You do not have the skills to treat such injuries."
"Oh, I do." Mary was stroking the stallion's mane.
His brow shot up. "Really?"
Mary's memories of her previous life tumbled in no particular order. "My dearly departed husband, Sir William Stafford, served the King of England as a soldier in Calais, where we met for the first time. He was not a rich man, which was why my father expelled me from the family after our wedding. Will and I lived a simple life at Chebsey in Staffordshire."
"How?" Montmorency wanted to know more about her.
"We owned a farm with a few tenants, and sometimes, we survived through difficult times if our lands barely provided enough to feed the cattle and ourselves. But despite his humble origins and his scarce means of existence, William was an honorable man who made me happy."
A glint of something bordering on surprised admiration flashed in his eyes, although Mary could not see it. "Did you learn to cure animals while working at your farm?"
"Triumph," she called. "If I am not mistaken, you called your horse so."
Apparently, she was no longer inclined to speak about her life in poverty, and Montmorency swerved the topic in the direction where she wanted them to go. "Let's lead Triumph to the stables, where you will see to his care, provided that you don't change your mind."
"I will not." Mary cooed, "A few minutes, and you will no longer feel pain, Triumph."
Montmorency nodded his assent, while Mary grabbed the reins. She led the horse away, swaying her hips enticingly, her gait elegant, and the beast followed her docilely. Within the next several minutes, the air grew heavy with a dampness that remained even as the fog receded.
As they halted near the stables, Montmorency commended, "You are both courageous and knowledgeable of things about which traditional women have no clue."
"Such a cumbersome compliment," Mary riposted with a grin.
"From a general, Madame, and please forgive me for it."
They burst out laughing in unison as they entered the stables. The next moment, the rain began as huge, distinct drops on the roof, but in a minute, it increased in intensity until torrents of water were pouring from the sky. And as Mary and his groom worked on his horse's injury in the scarce light from a torch, Montmorency could see that Triumph was in capable hands.
A faint smile lit up Montmorency's countenance. "Thank you, Madame. I recommend that now you retire for the night. Lord Wiltshire is expected to arrive tomorrow morning."
Words of candor poured out of Mary again. "I could not sleep, so I went for a walk."
"At least try to rest." His lips twitched, as if he were suppressing a question.
Montmorency bowed to Mary, who bobbed a curtsey to him. Given the recent events and their current surroundings, it was the least appropriate way to say goodnight. His laugh of a tried-and-true soldier and her feminine one flowed like an unconventional oxymoron as they exited.
§§§
The bigger part of the night was sleepless for Mary Stafford. She lay staring at her bed's canopy of beige damask festooned with ribbons. Two or three times she dozed, but nightmares gripped her. At dawn, the fingers of fatigue strangled her distress, and she plunged into trance-like nothingness, although the dream of George's execution was torturing her.
An insistent pounding upon the door interrupted her slumber. Mary slowly set up in her bed, disoriented. The first light of day cast hazy shadows across the white carpet.
"Yes?" Mary called out sleepily. "Come in."
Her maid slipped inside, looking as if she, too, had just awakened. She was Anne de La Marck, spouse of the castle owner – Jean III, Seigneur de Rambures and Count de Dammartin.
"Are you all right, Countess de Dammartin?" Mary asked her maid.
Anne's smile was colorless. "Of course, Madame Stafford."
Though concerned about her maid's excessive pallor, Mary didn't comment on the issue. Unusually tall and gaunt, Madame de Rambures wore a stylish yellow brocade gown that stressed her somberness; her black silk stomacher was studded with pearls. Her features were rather plain, but not without their own subtle beauty, and she was not one to stand out in a crowd.
Anne started, "Monsieur de Montmorency has sent for you. Your father has arrived."
"Help me dress." Mary sprang from the bed and began shrugging off her nightclothes.
"As you wish." Anne curtsied and disappeared into the dressing room.
As she slipped into her undergarments on her own, Mary yawned again and again. While she had not slept well that night, she had also become a notoriously late riser in France. Her sense of safety had lulled Mary to such calmness that she had permitted herself to get some much needed sleep to compensate for the lack of it during the nights spent in England after William Stafford's arrest. Yet, Mary feared that the scandalmongers could start a rumor of her laziness.
Soon the countess returned with clothes. "Maybe something grander?"
Mary put on her earrings. "This is not a social call."
"As you command, Madame."
"Quickly!" Mary liked that Anne served her without trying to meddle into her affairs.
Anne laced Mary's stays with quick precision. Then she aided her mistress to pull into a gown of icy-blue brocade, its sleeves lavishly trimmed with golden lace. The countess finished the dressing ensemble with a stomacher that was worked with bright beads on scarlet cloth.
Mary pushed back her unruly tresses. "Oh, dear. My hair."
"I can swiftly plait it," the countess offered, and Mary nodded.
When it was done, Mary studied her reflection in a looking glass. "I look fine."
After thanking the countess, Mary prodded over to the door, her footsteps heavy as if her unwillingness to see Thomas Boleyn had anchored her to the floor. Having forgotten to take her purse with coins, which her sister had given her, Mary ran back to retrieve it and hurried out.
Mary strolled down the spiral staircases. She paused, leaning her head against the smooth frescoed wall, hoping to catch a moment's more rest before meeting with the Boleyn wolf, as she labelled her treacherous parent. At last, she proceeded through the ebony doors to a hallway.
Built during the Hundred Years' war, the castle contained furniture from the 15th and 16th centuries. In some chambers, Gothic pieces exhibited the carving of a geometrical character imported from architecture, as well as the ornamentation motifs such as the pointed arch, the trefoil, the wheel, the rose, and the linen-fold. In other places, most pieces displayed a lighter ornamentation and a less conservative carving. Yet, the atmosphere was largely medieval.
Anne de Montmorency met Mary in the great hall, bowing to her. "Nice to see you again, Madame Stafford. The Earl of Wiltshire is awaiting you in the library."
Mary took his extended hand. "Escort me there, Monsieur Constable."
They passed through a corridor and started climbing the first of many steps in the narrow, winding staircase that would take them to one of the towers. Once Mary's step nearly faltered on the stairs, and Montmorency supported her before she could fall.
"Careful," he advised. "Your anxiety is not worth it."
"But it is not something that we can turn on and off."
While on the last flight of the stairs, Montmorency opined, "There is no actual stress and pain. Your thoughts create these sensations because you are engaged in stressful thinking."
Mary verbalized Anne's beliefs. "My sister is certain that if we take death into our life and face it squarely, we will free ourselves from all worries and the pettiness of life."
"The Boleyn girls became depressed and philosophical due to your afflictions."
"They made us stronger as well." Mary took two steps at a time.
His hand halted her. "Don't hurry up, or you risk breaking your neck." As she blinked, he added, "In everything that touches us on earth, God is pleased when we are happy. He must be dissatisfied with what Queen Anne and her sister think about the life He generously gifted them."
A faint grin lit up Mary's expression. "Perhaps you are right."
"Good humor is a tonic for mind and body. Once we return to court, you will have it in abundance." He then climbed three steps ahead of her and gave her his hand.
Mary clasped it in her own hand. "Thank you, Monsieur."
Inside the tower, there was a hallway. The walls were hung with rich Flemish tapestries, and the ceiling was decorated with garlands of roses. At the end of the hallway, the fireplace was supported by four bronze pillars, and the Rambures coat-of-arms adorned the nearby door.
Montmorency gestured towards this door. "There!"
They entered the small library swathed in brocade the color of buttercups. The room was full of books, which filled shelves from floor to ceiling. The Gothic cabinet, whose exterior panels showed paintings of saints on purple background, stood in the corner. Ebony chairs with spiral legs were placed between a table, a bureau, and chest of drawers in bleached oak.
Mary's scrutiny slid to Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire. Leaning against the cabinet, her father stood with his legs crossed. His shabby doublet of brown velvet and his matching hose proclaimed his financial troubles. He had aged in the past two years: gray hair and beard, and wrinkles scattered across his face. His hazel eyes shone with an insatiable fire of avarice.
Jean de Rambures, Count de Dammartin, bowed low to the queen's sister. It was a sheer pleasure for Mary to shift her gaze to this man at his prime, tall and well built. His attractive face, with blue, twinkling eyes and boyish features, was kind and relaxed, like someone at peace with himself. He was clad in a doublet and hose of auburn brocade wrought with jewels.
Rambures preferred a gallant chat like that at court. "Madame Stafford, looking at you is the key to keeping the sparks of joy flying. Among all the stars in the sky, you are the brightest."
Mary remembered his unhealthy-looking wife. "Monsieur de Rambures is as courteous as every brilliant Frenchman must be." Her answer discouraged him to try and seduce her.
"My castle is at your disposal," Rambures uttered in less enthusiastic tones.
"Thank you." Mary then requested, "Please leave us alone."
"If you say so, Madame." The constable did not mask his worry for her.
After sweeping bows to her, Montmorency and Rambures vacated the library.
"Is Montmorency your lover?" Thomas Boleyn questioned forthrightly.
Abashed, Mary swiveled to face him. "What? That is nonsense!"
Boleyn voiced his observation. "Constable Montmorency is attracted to you. Manifestly, he did not even hide his concern before leaving. You may use it to the family's advantage."
"Ha!" she snorted, with an incredulous look tinged with her disdain for him. "No one will ever find a remedy for your illness. You are chronically infected with thirst for power."
The Earl of Wiltshire voiced his story. "I wrote to the King of France that I had arrived in Calais, and in the same letter I requested a meeting with my daughter. I knew that he would not send Anne to greet me because of her advancing pregnancy. It was my suggestion that we meet halfway from Calais and Paris, for I need to talk with you far from court."
Mary settled in a chair. "His Majesty told me everything."
"In the past, you were afraid to fling in my face what you dislike and to be disrespectful towards me, but now you have the stomach and spine. I love that about you, Mary."
"Respect is earned or lost. Why have you suddenly become so kind, your lordship?"
Her father took off his cap and scratched his head. "I'm no longer young. Your mother left me, but I do not want to be alone. I need to have my wife and daughters by my side."
She eyed him scornfully. "Why are your filial feelings resurfacing now? It is because you lost power and wealth in England, except for your title. However, as now Anne is Queen of France, you are dreaming of carving out a new path to prominence for yourself in her Court. You do not care that you might destroy the happiness of your living children through your plots."
Wiltshire settled himself in a chair across from his daughter. "Over the course of time, I realized that love is not real because it fades away eventually. It has no substance, save the sweet taste of the benefits that your own endeavors to climb the hierarchical social ladder earn for you. Everything that creates hurdles on the path to wealth and influence must be eliminated."
Her boiling temper prompted Mary to stand up. "You dare say such horrible things after you did not aid George and Anne when they needed you the most. Your own testimony against them, which you gave to Cromwell, could have sealed their fates. Yes, I know everything!"
Bafflement painted his countenance. "How?"
Mary's eyes glowed with the intensity of her hatred for the man. "You are a traitor to your own offspring! Because of your accursed ambitions, George was executed, and Anne is separated from Elizabeth forever. I shall never forgive you for my brother's death, and neither shall Anne and our mother!" Extracting the purse from the pocket of her gown, she stepped to him.
Her speech didn't surprise him. "What is it?"
She threw the purse to his feet. "Take it, you immoral filicide! There is enough money here for you to live a comfortable life far from all of us. Just vanish from the face of the earth!"
Refusing to pick it up, Wiltshire taunted, "You will not be able to eject me, Mary. As my wife in the eyes of God and law, Lady Elizabeth Boleyn is my property! I must remind you that upon marriage, a woman's rights and obligations are subsumed by those of her husband in accordance with her legal status. Even King François cannot prohibit me from taking Elizabeth away from France, and I'll do that if you don't make my stay at the Valois court enjoyable."
Implacable aversion emanated from Mary, as though it were tangible. "You are a monster!"
"I've eloquently driven my point home, and I've managed to sound clear whilst doing so. That is a rare feat!" His voice was dispassionate, but a hollowness pierced his vitals.
"Anne's husband will protect us from you." Her voice was layered with aversion.
"But I'll stay at his court." Boleyn rose, straightening to his full height.
Her entire being gleamed in a feral halo. "I wish you had died at Hever."
The next minutes were a blur of activity as Mary enjoined to have the Earl of Wiltshire lodged in the rooms most distant from her apartments. They would depart to where King François ordered soon, but at least she would be far from Wiltshire for a short while. In silence, the Boleyns returned to the great hall, where the Constable of France and the castle owner awaited them.
April 12, 1538, Alcázar of Seville, Seville, the Province of Seville, Spain
The spacious Salón de Carlos V inside the Palacio Gótico, where the Imperial couple and Lady Mary Tudor were spending the afternoon, was illuminated by a profusion of candles. They had just been lit up to ward off the dark as the shadows of evening were closing in.
Never in her life had Mary seen such exotic, fabulous decorations. As her gaze embraced the chamber, she found herself breathless at the sight of the walls covered with azulejos – Spanish painted, tin-glazed ceramic tilework. Scattered here and there on the walls, the geometric patterns displayed the Moorish architectural legacy. The intricate, gilded wooden ceiling in mudéjar style, which was called artesonado, was absolutely stunning. Nevertheless, Mary felt out of place, for she was not used to a blend of Christian and Moorish architecture.
Mary looked at the empress as Isabella's laughter floated along the length of the walnut table. Seated beside her spouse, Isabella's cheeks were flushed as she bent her head towards his, basking in his presence. They lounged in high-back chairs draped in brown Cordova leather.
"Your Imperial Majesties are such a charming couple!" Mary complimented. Obviously, they were devoted to each other, and her girlish heart dreamt of finding her own true love.
"Thank you, and call me Isabella." The empress' countenance was as radiating as smooth, glassy water without a ripple, which was abundantly illuminated by midday sun.
"I will," Mary gladly assented.
"More watered wine!" enjoined Emperor Carlos. "Have it cooled!"
A group of servants hurried to comply with the order and then vacated the chamber.
Mary gulped the contents of her silver goblet. "At least, now it is not as hot as it was in the daytime when we could scarcely breathe. I really want the night to come."
The empress affirmed, "Our climate is different from that of England, but you will grow accustomed to it. Spain is your home now, and here you are safe, Mary."
"Thank you, Isabella," Mary answered with a smile. "I'm so happy to be in my mother's homeland! My Imperial family are the only relatives I have left."
Isabella slowly drained her goblet. "You are my sister and friend."
Catherine of Aragon's daughter experienced a lightness, vibrant and invigorating, which had been absent in her world for years. "And you are mine, Isabella."
After her arrival in Seville over two months ago, Mary had been lodged in apartments fit for royalty. On the same evening, the Duke of Alba had introduced her to Carlos V, Holy Roman Emperor, and his wife, Isabella of Portugal. To Mary's joy, the empress' hospitality had been instantaneous and all-embracing, while Carlos still remained reserved. During their first meeting, Mary had been accompanied by Eustace Chapuys, who was staying at the palace.
The short silence was broken by Carlos. "Your Highness," he addressed their English cousin. "You are our dear guest, and I'm glad that you have befriended my wife."
"Thank you, Your Imperial Majesty," Mary uttered, as if she were wary of him. Despite her closeness with Isabella, she and Carlos still addressed one another in an official manner.
After pouring more wine for herself, Isabella sipped some. "Be true to yourself and help others. This would make each day your masterpiece, and your friendships will be a fine art."
Her husband leisurely drank red liquid. "Very well said."
"We are all cousins, Carlos – don't ever forget that." Isabella glowered at her spouse. She comprehended that her husband had aided Mary to escape because now it was useful for Spain. "In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of delights."
Mary did not know the couple well enough to feel the tension between them. "My sainted mother once told me that she defined friendship as a bond that transcends all barriers."
Isabella tipped her head. "Great friends are hard to find."
His voice was sympathetic as he spoke after placing his goblet onto the table. "It must have been horrible for you to lose your mother, Your Highness."
Mary lamented, "I was not even allowed to see my mama in her last days!"
"My commiserations over your loss," uttered Isabella emphatically.
The emperor's tone morphed into a flat and unimpassioned sound that was not pleasant to the ears of the two women. "It is God's will when His children die, so we ought to accept it and pray for them." No emotion colored his intonation as he told Mary after a pause, "Your Highness, I endeavored to prevent the annulment of your mother's marriage as much as I could. For many years, I kept Pope Clement and then Pope Paul under my control so that they would not declare the marriage null and void. After England's break with Rome, I never acknowledged the Boleyn witch as the Queen of England, but I could do nothing else to stop King Henry's madness."
A question hovered in the air between Mary and Carlos, but she did not dare ask it. Why had Your Imperial Majesty not taken my mama and me from the witch's clutches before her death? His countenance austere, the emperor did not look amicable, Mary observed ruefully, noticing the taut line of his mouth and the coolness in his gaze – she saw them almost every day.
Instead, Mary pronounced, "I know that, Your Imperial Majesty."
The assessing hazel eyes, though still cold, roamed over her with mild interest. "It is good that your Spanish is so excellent. Aunt Catalina taught you her native tongue very well."
Elation lit up Mary's face. "My mother frequently spoke of her homeland."
"Your Spanish is truly magnificent," Isabella concurred.
Indeed, Mary's command of the language was impeccable. "I was taught to speak Greek, Latin, Flemish, French, and German. My mother requested that my governess and my tutors pay more attention to Spanish than any other language; we also practiced Spanish with her."
Isabella's expression was regretful. "I always wanted to meet with Aunt Catalina."
Carlos crossed himself. "God let her rest in peace."
Isabella echoed her husband. Both she and Mary made the signs of the cross.
Mary envisaged Catherine's affectionate smile on the day when they had last seen each other before their separation. "My mother was King Henry's true wife as long as she lived."
"No one in Spain doubts that, Mary," the empress assured. "I think Aunt Catalina was more like our grandmother, Queen Isabella, than any of her other children."
"Your guess is right, wife," the emperor confirmed. "I met Aunt Catalina during my visit to England years ago. She had our grandmother's hair and eyes, clever and sagacious. I also found in Catalina a combination of strength and fierceness disguised by her regal sangfroid."
Mary was immensely proud of her illustrious bloodline. "We are all descendants of the greatest monarchs the world has ever seen. We must never forget about that."
"We never will," claimed Carlos. "We are more royal than anyone else in Christendom."
At last, the English girl relaxed. "I'm so happy to be here!"
"It is beneficial for you and us." His manner of speaking was like that of a ruler, not a cousin.
Mary burst out laughing. Unlike her, Isabella had noticed "the us" part of her husband's statement, and the flash of cunning in his eyes had not escaped her notice either.
At present, the House of Habsburg was going through a severe crisis. Due to the failure in France and the continuing Turkish attacks upon the shores of Spain and her much reduced fleet, the state treasury was totally exhausted. Encouraged by the emperor's setbacks, some German dukes, both Catholic and Protestant, had ceased their economic relations with Spain. Heavily battered by the defeat in France, the Spanish Crown had delayed annual payments to its armies.
If England had allied with the German Protestant States, which were friends of France, the new anti-Habsburrg formation would have become too perilous for a weakened Spain. But King Henry's handy marriage pawn had been snatched right from under his nose. As Henry was not a free man, he would not enter into a matrimony with a Protestant princess; as the English monarch did not have any living siblings, he would not be able to use them for political purposes.
"Do you have news from England?" Isabella switched the topic.
Mary quizzed, "Has my father written to Your Imperial Majesty?"
"He did," Carlos replied with a smile. "Four times; he tried to intimidate me."
Henry's daughter cleared her throat. "He threatened to the Holy Roman Emperor?!"
He idly scratched his protruding chin. "Yes. His anger has blinded him so that he doesn't understand that England cannot harm Spain, despite our unfortunate situation."
"Oh, that is exactly my father's style," Mary muttered.
"What did you reply to him, husband?" Isabella questioned.
"Nothing." Carlos stood up and walked to a window. "Silence is better."
"But he will write again," his consort assumed.
"Perhaps." The emperor looked out into the gardens in contemplation. "But even if he sends me more letters, I'll respond only when a suitable moment comes."
It traumatized the emperor's self-regard that his awful misfortunes were so widely known and discussed. Sniggering at him, his adversaries rejoiced that there was seemingly no remedy to them. Yet, during all of his audiences with diplomats, Carlos remained audacious and regal. His stoic indifference, with which he had faced an envoy from Haireddin Barbarossa a month ago, was a subject of commendation by everyone in the country as the gossip had circulated.
Carlos emphasized on purpose that in contrast to the "Most Unchristian" King François, he would never make peace with the infidels, despite the ongoing blockade of Alicante, Algeciras, Ceuta, and Almería. Thanks be to God that at least Cádiz, Malaga, Valencia, and Barcelona were freed, Carlos ruminated. Everyone who makes alliances with the Turks and goes against the Holy See is a heretic, whether they are enemies, friends, or even my family members.
Mary's curiosity was at a peak. "When will it happen?"
Carlos strode back to his chair. His answer was enigmatic. "As soon as I deem it possible."
"Excuse me, Your Imperial Majesty?" Mary half-demanded, half-implored.
"What?" He settled himself in his chair. "Patience is a virtue."
"But–" Mary was interrupted.
The emperor lectured, "Don't rush things, Your Highness. Think strategically."
Isabella tore her gaze away from her husband to Mary, who sat as rigid as a soldier during a march. "Mary, everything will be all right. Do you wish to rest?"
Mary bounced to her feet, anxious to get out. "Yes, I am tired." She curtsied and left.
§§§
Isabella confronted her spouse. "Have you invented a scheme to use Mary?"
"To our benefit," Carlos finished frostily. "Yes, I have an idea."
"Carlos," his wife whispered, her perturbed intonation catching his attention. "You will not have Mary imprisoned like Aunt Juana when she outlives her usefulness?"
"Of course not! How can you think so?" He jumped to his feet.
"Oh, Carlos…" She was warmed by his words.
She drank in his athletic figure clad in quilted doublet of dark gray silk and black hose. In spite of her distrust of him, she could not deny that after his recovery, Carlos looked even more handsome than she had remembered him. In her excitement, she threw her arms around his neck as he stepped to his wife and drew her to himself as he feasted kisses upon her face.
Carlos murmured, "Mi amor, I knew you would not be alienated from me for long."
"There will be other time for sweet talk," she redirected the conversation.
Removing his arms from her, he backed away. For a handful of heartbeats, he stood still, never once breaking eye contact with his spouse. "What do you want to discuss, wife?"
"Ferdinand!" cried Isabella emphatically as she stepped away from him.
The emperor sighed helplessly. "I do not know what I can do for my brother. Even if we had agreed with François on the conditions of Ferdinand's liberation, we would have had nothing to pay. His wife would not be able to collect ransom for him because all the proceeds from my brother's domains are being spent on wars against the Ottomans attacking Hungary."
"You would not offer any territories to France, would you?"
Another sigh fled him. "How can I? I am the Holy Roman Emperor and the Head of the Habsburg family. I cannot allow anyone to dissolve our unified territories."
She stressed in the most meaningful accents, "The Lord gave you such a wonderful brother. Ferdinand has always been affectionate towards you and exceedingly loyal to you, swallowing the offences you sometimes heaped upon him. We must rescue Ferdinand at any cost!"
Carlos paced the room. "I love Ferdinand. But so far, we have no money, and we cannot give away our lands gathered into our family's empire by the previous Habsburg generations. We must focus on our inner problems before returning to the subject of Ferdinand's release."
Isabella heard the regret in his voice, but she disapproved of her husband's approach to the matter. "No! We cannot desert Ferdinand. Not even for a year!"
"We have no choice, Bella."
"Ferdinand would consider your abandonment of him a betrayal. He would also blame you for Spain's inability to send any soldiers in order to defend his lands from the Muslims."
Pausing in the middle, the monarch turned to her with a scowl expressing his half-torment and half-anger. "Ferdinand is a monarch himself. He will have to understand us."
She shook her head sadly. "You are a cold-blooded politician even when it comes to the fate of your brother. Have you thought what Ferdinand might do if you leave him alone?"
The alarming words 'Ferdinand's alliance with the House of Valois' hovered over their lips, but neither of them pronounced them. It was something akin to premonition, an intuitive hunch.
"Don't allow the loyalty Ferdinand has always had to you to crack. If you and Ferdinand ever become enemies, everything will descend into Tartarus." Sudden terror paralyzed her. "If you two grapple for the Imperial throne, rivers of blood will engulf Europe."
"God forbid it happens." He crossed himself.
Once more, a sense of something unknown chilled her. "Deep down, you have always been afraid of Ferdinand's many talents. Ferdinand has always been extremely popular wherever he has ruled. German dukes favor him over you because of his conciliatory religious policies. After your awful fiasco in France and Ferdinand's capture, the discontent within the Holy Roman Empire against you is rising, while they empathize with Ferdinand's French afflictions."
"You know me too well." Indeed, part of Carlos both feared and envied his brother.
"Ferdinand is a good man," her voice underscored every word. "If you do not do anything that he would interpret as a betrayal and antagonize him, he will always side with you."
"Yes, my brother is like François in some ways – they both have a code of chivalry."
Nodding, Isabella announced, "I'll voyage to France to negotiate your brother's release."
He hissed, "I shall not allow you to travel to that Valois miscreant's kingdom!"
The empress placed her hands onto her hips. "I shall go to France anyway! If you refuse to plead with the Valois monarch so as to save your own sibling, I'll beseech François to let Ferdinand go under those terms which His French Majesty will determine." Her voice rose to a crescendo of indignation. "You should worry more about your family than your wounded pride!"
As the accusation rang in the silent room, Carlos held himself taut. Yet, his head dropped in despairing anguish, as his queen darted away from him and swung the door shut.
§§§
The Tudor princess wandered around the Palacio Gótico that consisted of two rectangular rooms, lying parallel to each other, and two smaller rooms situated across them at each end.
The Palacio Gótico had been constructed in the 13th century alongside the vestiges of the old Islamic Almohad palace by King Alfonso X of Castile, known as the Wise, following the conquest of Seville. In Mary's childhood, Catherine of Aragon had described all of the palaces forming the Royal Alcázar of Seville, and now Mary understood why Palacio Gótico represented the triumph of Christian principles and tastes against the Muslim past. Alfonso had chosen Gothic forms because they were associated with Christianity and the Crusades.
The empress approached the younger woman. "The Alcázar of Seville was originally built by Moorish Muslim rulers. Over the centuries, various parts of the Alcázar were again and again adapted to suit the taste of the times and those of kings. In Alfonso X's palace, the elements of Gothic art are so profoundly seen and felt that it looks more European."
Mary swung around to her. "The most prominent features of Gothic architecture include the use of the rib vault, the pointed arch, and the flying buttress." She lifted her hand, pointing towards the roof. "Here, the halls are covered by rib vaults supported by pillars attached to the walls."
"But there are no stained glass windows here," Isabella remarked.
Mary recalled the lessons of her mother and her tutors. "Islamic architecture has distinctive motifs: Arabic calligraphy, rounded arches, vegetative design, and decorative tiles." She gestured towards the walls. "These tiles create a fine mixture of Gothic art with Moorish elements."
"When one enters the Alcázar of Seville, they cannot imagine what lies behind its walls. The same happened to me when Carlos and I arrived here in 1526 for our wedding ceremony. I was so amazed with all the collection of palaces, fortresses, and gardens!"
The royal ladies stood nearby, and their slender frames seemed petite in the room's vastness. The walls were decorated with large tiles, which were somewhat like tapestries and featured pairs of animals, snakes, birds, and cherubs. The upper part of several tiles displayed the coats-of-arms of Spanish royalty and the emperor's motto 'Plus Ultra', or 'further beyond' in Latin.
Mary swerved the conversation off into a personal direction. "Isabella, why is the emperor so cautious around me, as if he has not yet determined whether I am his friend or foe?"
In the faint light, Mary saw Isabella's eyes darken with sadness. "After his misadventures in France, my spouse has become more suspicious and guarded. He is overwhelmed with hatred for all those who have ever defeated or humiliated him in some way. Now he is a different man, and I'm afraid I'll not have my beloved husband back… That might become my damnation."
As a sympathetic understanding flashed across her features, Isabella was glad that Mary had accepted this explanation. Smart and precocious, Mary was still too young to grasp the intricacies of deadly political intrigues woven at royal courts. At least Mary is no longer serving her bastard sister, and she will not be forced to marry a heretic, Isabella's comforting thoughts were. Yet, her heart weighed heavily in her breast because Isabella could not fathom her husband's game.
"Anne Boleyn," Mary Tudor hissed in a sibilant voice that sounded like the Holy Father's damnation of the worst heretic on earth. "I blame that whore for my and my mother's troubles."
A shiver trembled down Isabella's spine. "Hate is the most debilitating emotion, and it can keep you from being content. Darkness cannot drive out hate – only love can."
Mary shook her head. "I loathe that demoness with my whole heart!"
"The poison of loathing in one's blood doubles the burden for those who suffer."
However, Mary persevered, "The witch must be punished for her crimes."
Unconsciously, Mary's fingers clasped the gleaming gold band that loosely encircled her neck. This thing of beauty, expertly crafted to resemble a thick, golden rope, had once belonged to Catherine of Aragon, and Chapuys had given it to the bastardized princess. To Mary, this band reminded her of her dearly departed mother, as well as the countless perfidies of the Boleyn strumpet whom she considered guilty of Catherine's poisoning, as Chapuys had assured her.
Despite the passage of time after Catherine's death, pain twisted Mary's insides into knots. That and her thirst for vengeance against Anne Boleyn. Mary's relief was her confidence that the House of Habsburg was still powerful enough to recover from all afflictions and then to launch a new invasion into France. The grim satisfaction that the harlot had failed to provide the Valois monarch with a son also warmed Mary's soul, chilled by her antagonism and loneliness.
Mary crossed herself, and words of prayer in Latin tumbled from her lips. "God bless and grant to my mother's soul eternal rest in peace. Your providence guides our lives; I beg you to help me fulfill my destiny and save England from heresy, which is why I've arrived in Spain."
The Tudor girl was startled by Isabella's expression of shock. "What are your goals, Mary?"
"I intend to ask His Imperial Majesty to help me restore my rightful heritage."
The empress measured her with a sad look. "Spain has been weakened and stymied."
"Do you imply that you cannot help me?"
"Mary," said Isabella in a gentler tone. "Let me be blunt: your head is full of delusions and fantasies. The sooner you get rid of them, the better it will be for you, my dear."
Catherine of Aragon's daughter blanched. "Delusions?"
"Carlos will not send any forces to England to wage war against King Henry. Not now and not even when our problems will be over, God help us. Carlos' priorities lie elsewhere: to save his impoverished realm, to crush the House of Valois, and to defend the Habsburg territories from both the Ottomans and the spreading heresy within the empire." Her voice rose an octave. "Mary, do you really wish your countrymen to plunge into a mire of civil wars?"
Mary thought of the internecine cousins' wars in her home country. "No, I don't. I would want peace and prosperity in England that must be restored to the flock of Rome."
"Under your rule? England may prosper not only if you become her queen."
It was something that had never occurred to Mary before. "I don't know..."
"Do you wish King Henry to be deposed?"
An abashed Mary shook her head. "Regardless of how much pain my father caused me and my late mother, I would never have done such a horrible thing to him."
Isabella aimed to dim her hopes for queenship. "So, you do not want Englishmen to be killed just because you or someone else wrestle for power. Your feelings are a tangle of conflicts."
"I would prefer to hear different things," the younger woman complained.
"Isn't the truth better?" As Mary nodded reluctantly, Isabella confided, "I pray that you will not be embroiled in any intrigues. Remember one thing: Ferdinand, our cousin, will always take care of you. Our future is unpredictable, and if Carlos or I cannot aid you, contact Ferdinand."
Mary deduced, "Is our captive cousin honorable?"
"Very much so. I met him several times in Flanders when Carlos summoned me there during his long absences. I love Carlos wholeheartedly as a husband, and adore Ferdinand as a cousin."
"I'll not forget that. Now I feel so relieved that I am not under my father's control."
"Let the past go," the empress advised. "Or there will be no peace for you."
"We might be overheard here." Mary's head pivoted back and forth.
Isabella nodded. The chamber was empty, but servants or Carlos could appear at any time.
The two women returned to the Salon de los Tapices adjacent to the room where they had spent the better part of the afternoon. As they passed through the huge vaulted hall, they admired the awesome wall tapestries portraying the emperor's conquest of Tunisia of 1535.
Soon they exited into the Patio del Crucero, or Courtyard of the Crossing, whose layout was a cross-shaped garden. The smell of orange trees hit them straight away.
Isabella told her cousin, "Your troubles are over, Mary. Over time, you will change."
"Not as long as the Boleyn she-devil always wins," contradicted Mary.
A moment later, Emperor Carlos came to the courtyard. Mary's countenance, marred by her aversion towards Anne, made Isabella think of her own husband who was so infected with mortal loathing for the Valois ruler that it was corroding his conscience and his spirit.
I hope you are all safe from Covid-19. I'm still 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 . Check the stories "Court of Thorns and Roses" and "Hourglass" by WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction. Give a try to FieryMaze's stories!
I hope you like the insight into Anne de Montmorency's marriage and his scenes with Mary Stafford. In this AU, they had had an affair in the past before Mary caught the eye of King François, and Montmorency ended their relationship allowing his sovereign, to whom his loyalty is immeasurable, to be with Mary. Can you predict anything?
In this AU, Thomas Boleyn has many flaws and is obsessed with power, but he is maligned for drama. First of all, he was a talented and competent ambassador who was successful long before Mary and Anne became associated with King Henry. In history, Thomas was not fond of Anne's marriage to the king, but later he seems to have gone along with the plan. We don't know for a certainty what Thomas Boleyn was really like as a person or father, but it is clear that he is villainized in fiction and on TV.
I hope you like Mary Tudor's friendship with Isabella. The empress attempts to make Mary disillusioned, but it is not easy to shatter Mary's delusions – it will eventually happen, but not now. Isabella also hints that Mary might find herself at the center of the Habsburg intrigues, which Mary cannot grasp it yet. Mary will remember Isabella's advice about Ferdinand. Isabella prudently warns Carlos that he should never allow Ferdinand's loyalty to him to crack.
This is the last calm chapter before several turbulent chapters. Be prepared!
All the descriptions of Château de Rambures in France and of Alcázar of Seville in Spain, as well as all the information given about them is historically correct.
Let's make each other smile! Let's review and favorite each other!
Yours sincerely,
Athenais Penelope Clemence