Chapter 28: Prisoners of Fate
April 20, 1538, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, France
Charles de Valois, Duke d'Orléans, sauntered through the corridors. His swagger was more wine induced than an attempt to strut. That afternoon, Charles had attended the festivities for the Ambassador of Dania, organized by Marguerite of Navarre, and gotten himself heavily drunk.
Opening his bedroom's door, Charles called for a servant, but no one replied. He slipped inside and then groped for a candle before finally getting it alight. As its dim light illumined the room, he surveyed his surroundings with admiration. Like his father, he loved Fontainebleau more than other royal palaces and was always happy to spend as much time at court as possible.
The spacious room had brocaded walls the color of pale honey, two of them frescoed with a cycle illustrating allegories of the months and seasons. Oak, amber Italian furniture was scattered about the area. There was a window overlooking the gardens, and a door through which he could proceed out to the balcony and contemplate the ornate watchtower. Inside the bedroom, there was also a writing table, piled with books, and couches with lemon-colored covers.
"I love this castle," Charles muttered as he eased himself into a nearby chair.
"More than women?" a feminine voice came from the depths of the chamber.
As his gaze drifted to a canopied bed draped with midnight sky covers, his breath caught in his throat. The curtains were open, and he groaned in mingled disbelief and excitement as he saw the naked Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly there. A shaft of light flooded obliquely on to her slender figure, as she reclined onto the pillows, making her long, blonde hair gleam with pale gold upon her shoulders. The prince's attraction to this siren, which he had not been able to deny even during Anne de Pisseleu's tenure as his father's mistress, was now stirring in his loins.
"My prince!" The Duchess d'Étampes greeted him with an alluring toss of her head.
"Madame?" The nonplussed prince paused for a moment.
The former royal mistress wordlessly laughed at him. "Your Highness, this awkwardness of yours is so very tempting. You are almost fifteen, so it is high time to become a man."
A shocked Charles felt swooning. "My father..."
Anne beckoned him to her. "He sent me away, so I'm free. And I want you now."
"Really, Madame?" Flames of lust ignited in his whole being.
"Yes!" She touched her own breast. "Come here!"
"God!" She was all lush curves and softness, and he wanted her so much that he burned.
The eccentric Charles was still a virgin, although he had been tempted many times before. Sympathetic to the Protestant doctrines, just as Anne de Pisseleu was, Charles had been a member of her intellectual circles. He had admired her gorgeous appearance and her intelligence. Charles would never have dared to bed his father's paramour, but François had set her aside months ago. Now the duchess had confirmed her dismissal as his father's maîtresse-en-titre herself.
Wobbling, the Duke d'Orléans stumbled to the bed and fell onto it. Her arms snaked around his back, and Anne de Pisseleu pressed him closer to herself, until all his weight lay on her. Her tremendous beauty, heightened by her provocative smile and her languorous pose, awakened a ravenous hunger in the prince. Her nude body clinging to Charles was perfect for him, and the young man was at a point of no return as Anne let her tongue travel up his neck to his lips.
"You shall be exceedingly satisfied." The sweetness of her words undid him.
"It is unthinkable." He fused his mouth to hers.
She chortled. "I shall teach you kissing very well, my dearest Highness." She undressed Charles hurriedly, pulling off his doublet and then unlacing his hose.
When he was naked, she positioned Charles on his side so that she could caress his body, including his private parts, in the way that left him beg for more. She was trailing kisses along his jawline, neck, chest, and stomach, drawing labored breaths from his mouth. He trembled as she directed his erection to where she needed it the most, but once he penetrated her, Charles could not help but feel new power blossoming in his maleness with every heartbeat as she rode him.
Cupping his face, Madame d'Étampes whispered, "You have become a man, Charles!"
"Have I?" the prince inquired, as if unsure of what had transpired between them.
"My man," she exclaimed fiercely, arching her hips into his thrusts.
Soon Charles fell asleep in her arms, and Anne de Pisseleu watched him. She had become the lover of the monarch's son because now it was her only way to delve into some of François' secrets and win a portion of her lost power back. However, as they had made love, it had occurred to her that Charles' physique was so much like François' that she had enjoyed their intimacy.
Fate has a bizarre sense of humor, Anne lamented silently. François discarded me, but now I am his youngest son's paramour. Banished from court, she had used her connections to get into the palace – she had convinced a guard, her former lover, to let her inside surreptitiously.
François de Valois was Anne's obsession, and she craved to be his muse, but he had not summoned her back to court. The news of Queen Anne's second pregnancy had both irked and hurt the duchess. This affair was the result of her spontaneous actions, but she did not regret anything. Nevertheless, as waves of pleasure had been rocketing through her body during her intercourse with Charles, Anne had forced herself not to cry out his father's name.
After minutes of hesitation, Anne de Pisseleu resolved to play a game with Charles. "Dream of me, you lusty lad." She then disentwined herself from him.
Having dressed herself, the duchess left her black silk stocking with the initial 'A' next to Charles' sleeping form, tiptoed to the door, and exited. The obvious thing, of course, was to leave Fontainebleau and return to her Parisian mansion before someone could discover her.
As dawn brushed the sky, Charles opened his eyes. His head heavy from hangover, he could barely remember the night. His mind was in turmoil once he spotted a female stocking on the sheets. His sated body was relaxed, yet he felt exhausted, as if he had run from Marathon to Athens as Pheidippides had done. Had he slept with someone, or was it a figment of his imagination?
"Who is she?" A bewildered Charles took in the initials.
The 'A' on the stocking could refer to a woman named Anne, but she could not be Queen Anne of France. He was intrigued as to the possibility that the other Anne, who had once been his father's Venus, had entered his bed hours ago. Therewith, his brain reproduced the visions of his coupling with Anne de Pisseleu, inflaming his cheeks with a flush of male pride. Now Charles believed that he had lost his virginity to the Duchess d'Étampes, and he did not regret it.
May 6, 1538, Château d'Azay-le-Rideau, Loire Valley, France
"Will I die in France?" Ferdinand von Habsburg lamented. He still could not resign himself to the fact that he – King of the Romans and the second man in the Holy Roman Empire, as well as King of Bohemia, Hungary, and Croatia, a Habsburg Archduke – was a prisoner.
Angered by his helplessness, the captive paced his quarters furiously. He was not interested in the paintings on the walls, or in the rich furnishings. Instead, the intricately handcrafted, gilded pieces and the priceless works of art irritated Ferdinand. Since his capture, Ferdinand had been kept in several palaces, owned by the Crown or one of the French king's most loyal subjects.
After the Battle of Bourges, Cardinal François de Tournon had visited Ferdinand in Château d'Harcourt in Normandy. The prelate had informed him that Carlos, though severely wounded on the battlefield, had fled to Spain. At first, Ferdinand had rejoiced, thinking that Carlos would recover from his injuries and then bring reinforcements to rescue him. Yet, his hopes had dwindled upon learning that the Spanish ports had been either attacked or besieged by the Ottoman fleet.
After the war, Ferdinand had been transported to his current residence. For months, he had had no idea whether his brother was alive until Tournon had apprised him of Carlos' survival. No one had visited Ferdinand or written him, as though he had disappeared from the face of the earth. He had demanded that François come to him, but his words had fallen on deaf ears. Ferdinand had masterminded two plans of escape, but each of them had been thwarted. The château that was now his home was set on an island in the middle of the river, so it was impossible to run away.
Striding to and fro, he examined the room that had two stories. Spacious and furnished with high-back chairs, upholstered in asparagus velvet and leather. On a gallery up a staircase were book-stacks lined with red silk, where Ferdinand often read. A carved bed, which dominated an alcove in the corner, was swathed in a collection of silk: burnished golds, dark blues, vivid greens, deep reds, tender beiges, and light pinks. At least François allows me to live in luxury.
At last, Ferdinand halted, his scrutiny fixed on the painting of a fierce battle, with corpses littering the blood-soaked grass. He recognized the hand of Filippo Lippi, who was one of his favorite painters. Stroking his slightly protruding chin, his mind drifted back to the emperor.
"Damn you, brother!" Ferdinand balled his fists. "Why haven't you ransomed me yet?"
A voice spoke in Spanish. "Carlos is too preoccupied with his internal problems."
Recognizing the charming French accent, Ferdinand swung around. Clad in azure, black, and golden brocade, King François stood at the doorway, a gold crown upon his head. With the same jaunty smirk that Ferdinand had seen on his enemy's face on the night of his capture.
"Finally, Your Majesty," Ferdinand began in accented French, which he knew well.
As François entered, the door behind him was immediately shut and locked.
To demonstrate his disrespect, Ferdinand stomped over to a chair and eased himself into it. "Oh, such a legendary guest! Nowadays Your Majesty must be compared with Charlemagne as you defeated the emperor. Are you wearing a crown for pomp? You may hold a golden scepter and a gold chalice as well, but even then, no Habsburg, man or woman, would be impressed."
Ferdinand looks well, François observed. His captivity is so different from mine in Madrid. Indeed, in his sumptuous clothes, the emperor's brother looked like a courtier, if not for a shade of melancholy about him. Ferdinand's doublet of brown velvet was stamped with geometrical motifs, which reminded of the European and Moorish ornamentation in Spanish palaces.
The French ruler crossed to a black leather-covered chair. "I don't see why you are trying to rub into my face how much better the Habsburgs are than the Valois."
Now Ferdinand was in an increasingly livid mood. "It is gospel truth, you immoral French blackguard!" His anger propelled him to bounce to his feet. "Do you think that I'll admire you and your country? You have no right to keep me as your prisoner for one year and a half. I am the King of Hungary, Croatia, and Bohemia! Most importantly, I am the King of the Romans!"
This was the last straw for François. "In Madrid, at first I strove to behave heroically, but the prison life drained me quickly. In that old fortress, where I lived, water dropped onto my head through the cracks in the ceiling, and if outside the rain was heavy, it flooded my small cell. The wretched stench made me cringe every time I breathed. In autumn and winter, it was rather cold in the cell, the wind screaming night and day, and the wooden floor sloped."
"That is not true," objected Ferdinand.
"Ask your brother," François deadpanned. Although pain, shame, and hatred tormented him from the inside, only sarcasm tinged his voice. "Carlos was too gentle with me in Spain, for he is such a noble-hearted man. Thanks to his kindness to me, my health deteriorated, and I contracted a severe fever. I was profoundly undernourished because my jailers did not feed me well."
The emperor's brother did not want to believe the man whom he had always considered his family's worst adversary. "I heard that your life in prison galled you, and that you were sick. But my brother would never have treated a foreign monarch so horribly."
"Ferdinand," François addressed him in a personal manner. "Did he lie that I lived in luxury, like you do now? Did he say that I feigned my illness to make him meet with me?"
"Yes," Ferdinand recalled, confused.
"Carlos lied to you. Your sister, Eleanor, God bless her soul, and your sister-in-law, Isabella, were there. As far as I know, they counselled Carlos against treating another king so harshly, but your brother hated me too much to care. The emperor dreamed of breaking me, and he almost succeeded. During my illness, I even decided to abdicate my throne in favor of my son, the late Dauphin François, but my sister, Marguerite, convinced me against doing that."
"Eleanor and Isabella both told me that Queen Marguerite helped you recover."
As memories of those awful days became move vivid in his brain, François blanched like a fatally wounded soldier. "Marguerite has always been my guardian angel. She rushed to Spain to negotiate my release, only to find me close to death. She demanded that the emperor have me moved to another place, and once it was done, my sister nursed me back to health. I remember her worried face as Margot wiped the feverish sweat from my forehead, and I pulled through."
His voice thin and strangled, François continued, "I was forced not only to sign the Treaty of Madrid, but also to send my two eldest sons – François and Henri – to Spain." Ire flared in his orbs. "My boys were kept hostage for several years in Madrid, while France collected a ransom for me. My poor sons! At first, the living conditions in their prison were tolerable, but soon they were deprived of even basic comforts, despite Eleanor's and Isabella's attempts to take care of them. My eldest son, François, never regained his health after those horrors."
Ferdinand directed at him a hard stare. "You are the only one to blame for the sufferings of your offspring. You tried to take the Duchy of Milan from the Spanish control."
"I am not responsible for the inhuman imprisonment of my sons. I was not in Spain."
"You hold my brother accountable." Ferdinand's face was both sullen and annoyed.
"Gods be damned!" François uttered in a bored tone. "You spent too much time in Austria, Bohemia, and Germany. Carlos manipulated you into thinking that he was my victim."
"François," the King of Hungary said tiredly. "I do not know what to believe."
François smiled sympathetically. "The days of one's captivity are uncertain and frightening in their monotony. Even when nothing bad happens and you have to simply wait, you are afraid that you are just walking through the valley shadowed by death. I know this."
"You experienced that in Spain." This time, no malice colored Ferdinand's tone.
Sighing, the Valois ruler recollected, "Only in rare moments of forgetfulness, I was happy. Sometimes, my imagination would carry me to the green gardens of Amboise, where I grew up, or to the forests of Cognac, where I ran with Montmorency and Chabot in our childhood. At times, I would fancy myself flying in the sky like a bird, perhaps because Leonardo da Vinci, my dearly departed friend, once told me that one day, human beings would be able to fly. But death lurked in my rooms, unobstructed by the bars on my windows, from where it could charge at me, trample, and crush me – a king in prison, yet a mortal man – into a mass of bones and flesh."
Though unwilling to admit that his elder brother was capable of treating a fellow monarch so dreadfully, the captive saw that François spoke convincingly and candidly about his woes in Ferdinand's homeland. Did Carlos tell me falsehoods about François and his time in Spain?
François' baritone intruded into his musings. "Regardless of what you think of me, I would never have done things to another royal that your brother did to me and my family. Truth be told, it is wrong to take any monarch prisoner. Yet, I cannot deny that your presence in France pleases me, Ferdinand. You cannot complain on our hospitality, for you enjoy a good life here."
Rage was rising in Ferdinand again. "Of course, you are happy to take revenge on my family for your own afflictions. And now my brother does not fight for me because the Spanish realm is devastated by the invasion of France, the wars against the Turks, and God knows what else…"
The King of France regarded the man with a sour grin. "Your brother sent only one envoy to me – Nicolas Perrenot de Granvelle. He did not offer me anything interesting."
"I know Granvelle well. He is not a pleasant man."
"On that we agree fully, Ferdinand. I confess that I decided to keep you captive for some time for personal reasons, but no one can blame me for my aversion towards your family."
"You also mistreated my sister Eleanor."
François narrowed his eyes. "Forced to wed her, I despised Eleanor as much as I loathe your other relatives. She was a good woman, but I could not make myself treat her as a wife. I should have been a better husband to her." His voice was as loud as the sound of horns on the battlefield as he emphasized, "But I did not murder her. Did Carlos lie to you about that, Ferdinand?"
His opponent sighed. "My brother told me that you had killed Eleanor because you hated her and wanted to marry your mistress – Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly, Duchess d'Étampes."
"Eleanor died of consumption." It was exactly as the King of France thought: Carlos had lied even to his own brother. "She coughed up blood for a long time, slowly fading."
"Of natural causes, then." Ferdinand's voice was dismal.
"Yes, it is so. You should take everything Carlos says with a grain of salt."
Ferdinand resumed pacing the room. "In any case, I'll try to escape again."
François rose to his feet. "In the 12th century, one French nobleman, who was a knight in the service of King Philippe the Second Augustus, built this fortress on an island in the center of the Indre River. It was necessary to protect the Tours to Chinon road, where it crossed the river. Since then, the castle was rebuilt, and now it is one of the most secure fortresses in the Loire Valley."
"Damn you, François!" Ferdinand gasped as if fighting for his breath. "Let me go!"
The Valois monarch shook his head. "Not until I hear something interesting from Imperial ambassadors that will make up for the loss of my honor when I signed the Treaty of Madrid."
"Will you negotiate my liberation with Carlos?" Ferdinand asked unsteadily.
"It is in vain because your brother's treasury is empty. I highly doubt that Carlos would be ready to give any lands away in order to have you released, Ferdinand."
"You cannot know that." The prisoner returned to his chair.
"Carlos is a cold-blooded politician before being your brother. Hasn't life already proved that? The whole world knows that he has not always been fair to you despite your loyalty."
Ferdinand's silence and the sagging of his shoulders were the best answer. François felt bad: clearly, Ferdinand loved and admired his elder sibling, in some ways still idealizing him.
"Do you need anything, Ferdinand?"
"François, I'm grateful for Spanish, Flemish, and German musicians. I'll keep inviting them to entertain me because they remind me of all my homes – Spain, Flanders, and Austria."
"My friend," the ruler of France jested, "if you want something, you need only to ask."
The King of Hungary shot back, "The commandant of this castle is so generous that he sends even women who look like ladies. I've told him many times that I do not need them."
François tipped his head back and laughed. "They are not prostitutes, so you will not get infected by any disease. They are all pretty, so you may choose someone according to your tastes."
"Are they your lovers and spies?" Ferdinand jeered. "I do not need such shameful services."
"Really? I was told that you were unfaithful to your wife on a few occasions."
"It is none of your business." How did the French know that?
François extracted a sheet of paper from the pocket of his doublet and put it on a nearby table. "Isabella is going to visit France, just as my Margot once arrived in Spain."
The other man perked up noticeably. "When?"
"Within several months, and I shall accept her. This is a letter from the empress."
Ferdinand's visage brightened. "God has heard my prayers!" He then asked, "François, tell me what you know about my children and my wife – my Anna. How are they doing?"
Anna of Bohemia birthed King Ferdinand many children during their long marriage. They had two sons – Archdukes Maximilian and Ferdinand. Their eight daughters were: Archduchesses Elisabeth, Anna, Maria, Magdalena, Catherine, Eleanor, Margaret, and Barbara. Their last child – Barbara – had been born in the winter of 1537, a few months after Ferdinand's capture.
François saw that Ferdinand was very devoted to his family. "All of your children are in Vienna, and be at ease – they are all healthy. Your friend and general from Bavaria – Philip, Duke of Palatinate-Neuburg – arrived in Austria to take care of them. The regency in Austria and in all your other domains fell to one of your most loyal Austrian nobles – Trojan von Auersperg."
"Philip!" Ferdinand was glad to hear about his close friend. "I trust him fully." Suddenly, his expression dropped like a stone thrown into water. "Why is my wife not my regent?"
"I'm very sorry for your loss." François sent him a compassionate look.
"What?" Ferdinand questioned, but François walked out without any other word.
The prisoner rushed to the table and grabbed the letter, which his enemy had left there. His eyes skimmed through his sister-in-law's handwriting, and his heart collapsed.
With a despondent cry, Ferdinand tore the paper into pieces. "No! Anna!"
A veil of grief shrouded Ferdinand's entire world, and tears moistened his eyes. His beloved spouse, Anna of Bohemia and Hungary, was dead. She had passed away two months ago of fever while she had toured their lands in order to recruit more able-bodied soldiers into her army to fight against the Ottomans, who had advanced into the heart of Hungary.
"God! My Anna!" Tears flowed from Ferdinand's eyes. Even Isabella's promise to get him out of his prison did not console Ferdinand, who yearned to join his wife in heaven.
The bereft prisoner tumbled to his knees. He cursed the day when Carlos had persuaded him to subjugate France. Turning to a window, he saw that the warm May sunshine descended from the heavens to kiss the grass, which he could not see from his prison, although he was allowed to stroll in the gardens from time to time. The sunshine sparkles on leaves and flowers like a thousand points of light, Ferdinand thought. Just as Anna's eyes did every time we saw each other.
§§§
The King of France and Anne de Montmorency, who had arrived from Paris to the Loire Valley two weeks earlier, passed through a hallway. The loud quarrel of Mary Stafford and her father, the Earl of Wiltshire, caught their attention, and they paused, listening attentively.
Mary yelled, "I shall not allow you to make our life a living hell!"
Montmorency threw open the door and stood aside for his liege lord to enter the small room that was simple in its furnishings. Yet, it had a pleasant look: a mahogany table in the center, and a multitude of oak chairs arranged in the form of a quadrilateral around it.
"No one will harm my wife." The monarch glowered at Wiltshire.
Thomas Boleyn performed an obsequious bow. "Your Majesty, I'm delighted to see you! You are a more celebrated ruler than the Roman Emperor Gaius Octavius Augustus." His French was flawless, for he knew it perfectly well as a former English ambassador to France.
Annoyed, François strode over to a chair. "Enough of your blather, Monsieur Boleyn."
Montmorency's alert scrutiny oscillated between the Boleyns. At his sovereign's nod, he walked out, but in a moment, he was back again, bringing a paper and handing it to his king.
Mary curtsied to her brother-in-law, who motioned for her to take a seat next to him. Wiltshire remained standing at the other side of the room, frowning at his daughter. Glaring at the old man, Montmorency passed him and took his place behind the king's chair.
In silence, the monarch looked through the parchment. Then he shifted his scrutiny to the Earl of Wiltshire. "My queen's beloved sister wrote to me after your meeting at Château de Rambures. At that time, some of my government officials and I were touring through towns in the Loire Valley. She informed me that you wished to see me, Monsieur Wiltshire. That is why I summoned you both to Château d'Azay-le-Rideau, and Monty escorted you here."
Mary shot a glare towards her father. "Your Majesty, this despicable man threatened to take our mother away from France if I don't secure for him your permission to live here."
A humiliated Wiltshire lost his temper. "You are a wanton! A disobedient daughter–"
François cut him off. "I fully agree with her characterization of you."
"Don't you dare insult her!" Montmorency hollered.
"I'm the king's father-in-law," hissed Wiltshire.
"It matters not to me," Montmorency flung back. "You are a mongrel!"
Boleyn's chin lifted in a defiant manner. "Why are you defending her?"
Mary prevented the earl from voicing his thoughts of Montmorency's attraction to her. "You call me a whore when you yourself advised me to seduce King François and then made me set myself in King Henry's path. I would not become a mistress of two kings without your influence."
After throwing an anguished glance at Mary, the ruler addressed his father-in-law. "I chose this place for our audience on purpose, Monsieur Wilshire. Your stay here will be comfortable."
"What does Your Majesty imply?" Fazed, Boleyn rubbed his chin.
François howled with caustic laughter. "It is a breathtaking moment when you feel heat of ambition within yourself, and you realize that you have accomplished your aims."
Mary's parent bit his lip. "Your Majesty, I'm confused."
The king jested, "You will live in this picturesque place."
"Oh? Why?" Boleyn pricked up his ears.
François stared at the man with disdain. "Be grateful that I allow you to stay in France."
"Thank you, sire," Mary told the monarch, who grinned at her.
The ruler handed to his advisor the parchment. His countenance marred with implacable scorn, Montmorency stomped to where Wiltshire stood and passed on the document to him.
Thomas Boleyn read the royal decree to appoint him one of the guards at the castle. "Who is this prisoner? Is it the emperor's brother – King Ferdinand?"
François did not answer his question. "Your commander is Monsieur Antoine de Raffin, the castle owner and my knight-at-arms. You will serve him as though you were his vassal."
His pride deeply hurt, the disappointed earl implored, "Your Majesty, do not humiliate me so! I beg you to let me be reunited with Elizabeth and my daughters!"
The king did not care a whit about this man. "Only when you deserve it."
Boleyn sought to reassert his value. "I shall do anything!"
"Too late." François rose to his feet.
A moment later, Antoine de Raffin walked in the room and bowed to Wiltshire. He had already been instructed to make the queen's father his soldier, but to keep him in comfort.
"Bow to Antoine," enjoined François. "For now, he is your master."
Shuddering in barely concealed rage, Boleyn made a stiff bow.
Raffin pledged, "I'll comply with Your Majesty's orders." He wondered why his sovereign treated his father-in-law in such a peculiar fashion, but it was not his concern.
After Raffin's leaving, Boleyn enquired deferentially, "Anything else I can do for you?"
"Not a thing," was the abrupt royal answer.
"I'll be always at Your Majesty's service as your dutiful subject and–" Wiltshire did not complete the sentence because the king, Mary, and Montmorency swept out of the room.
Thomas Boleyn dropped into a chair. François had overheard him and Mary by chance! He should not have displayed his exasperation, having angered the Valois ruler. I want to be involved into politics again, Wiltshire craved. I shall rise to a position of prominence against all odds!
May 19, 1538, Leeds Castle, Kent, England
"Anne," King Henry said against his lover's mouth. "Let's enjoy the pleasures of flesh."
His lips kissed her neckline and seized hers as if they were the rarest of gems. Lady Anne Seymour, Countess of Hertford, moaned when his hands came to rest against her back. Lifting the fabric of his doublet, which was half-unbuttoned, she sighed at the feel of her fingers touching his hairy chest that was broad as a door, unlike her husband Edward's narrow one.
As the ruler carried her to a nearby table, a bile rose in her throat. Anne did not wish to be the monarch's mistress, but there was no other way to stay afloat at court if Queen Jane failed to birth a Tudor prince again. God, how she wanted to pretend this had all been a figment of her imagination! But her liaison with Henry had helped her realize that Edward Seymour, her husband, so cruel and so calculative in his pursuit of power, was a man she could learn to love.
"Kiss me more deeply," demanded Henry as he placed her on the table.
This sobered Anne. "Should we really do this in Your Majesty's study?"
His aquamarine eyes were smoldering with physical hunger, but there was a hard edge to the expression in them. "Don't make a mistake with me. Always yield to me – always!"
She swallowed her scorn towards him. "As you command, sire."
Henry tucked Anne's skirts beneath her and pushed between her legs. Anne gasped as he thrust into her with a grunt. The egocentric Henry cared mostly about his own carnal needs, always fierce and sometimes even ferocious to the point of feral recklessness when he could pound into a woman so very deeply and rather roughly, while ignoring her discomfort. Fortunately, Edward's spouse was not fond of gentleness in bed and reacted normally to his ministrations.
She shook her head. "I'm worried that we are in the study."
"Why?" He froze inside of her.
"I don't know, Your Majesty." A little worm of premonition was crawling slimily among the hairs on her neck. Was this her irrational instinct that something could go wrong?
He leaned closer, those fiery eyes of his holding her captive. "Do you understand what I feel for you now? I must possess all of you, Anne – body, mind, and soul."
The main ingredient that made a man's life enjoyable was a willingness on the part of the female – either his wife or his mistress – to satisfy all his whims, and Henry was a controlling type. I shall bend her to my will, Henry vowed wordlessly. His paramour did not need to know that now he addressed not only her, but also the other Anne. In each of the Annes Henry would seek the fire of life, joy, and passion similar to that of the treacherous Boleyn goddess.
This irked her to such a significant degree that with a gargantuan effort, she fended off the impulse to slap him. "As my king, you are the lord of my life as long as I live."
"I'm your master!" His lips were now marauding hers. "You are mine!"
She gave a curt nod. "Like all English women and–"
Her sentence was not finished as the ruler drove so violently into the center of her feminity. He was beyond caring if he hurt her: all that mattered was satisfying his insane lust. The muscles in her legs stiffened, making his penetration into her a bit more painful, and she unclasped her hands from about his neck, burrowing her nails into the papers, which lay on the table.
Her breath caught as he grunted, "I shall always dominate you, Anne."
"Please be gentle," she requested for the first time since their affair had started.
The king kissed her brow. "I'll grant your wish. You are so feminine!"
As Henry lavished her with kisses and whispered endearments into her hair and her ear, Anne Seymour gradually relaxed. She was relieved that such a volatile, narcissistic man could be tender in bed, and now every nerve in her body tingled. Never had she thought that she would respond physically the way she did to the ruler's caresses, and a pang of guilt surged through her because she enjoyed her adulterous lovemaking. Forgive me, my husband… Edward!
His thumb pushed against her jaw, drawing it down to his lips, and his tongue slid past them to stroke hers. This gentleness was unbelievable for the tyrannical Tudor king! Nonetheless, in a few minutes, it faded away, and wickedness took its place, his thrusts getting more chaotic, but his mistress welcomed the change. Their hearts raced as if they were at the edge of a cliff about to fall, losing themselves in a primitive mating, until waves of pleasure flooded them.
Without warning, the door opened, and light footsteps sounded nearby.
Then a desperate cry erupted from someone, "No!"
Through the salacious haze that had clouded her mind, Anne caught the sight of the queen in her peripheral vision. From the corner of his eye, Henry saw his wife as well, and as he turned his head to her, Jane's expression, warped with disgust and horror, came into view.
"God's blood!" The king pulled away from his paramour forthwith.
Her hand on her heavily pregnant belly, Jane stood near the door. "No!"
Frustration welled in him as he laced his hose. "Lady Hertford, you should leave."
Sitting on the table, Anne rearranged the folds of her skirt so as to cover her private parts. Throwing an alarmed glance at Jane, she distinguished rage making its way into her sister-in-law's eyes as they reddened. Anticipating the scandal happening between the spouses, she jumped from the desk, and a moment later, she was hallway across the room when the queen spoke.
"You are a filthy whore, Anne Stanhope," Jane roared like an infantryman going into battle with fixed bayonet. Then she charged at the woman and pummeled her with her hands.
A shaken Henry ran to them. "Jane, stop right now!"
"Whore!" Jane was full of anger mingled with anguish. "A traitor to your queen!"
As the queen kept hitting her, Anne just froze and remained quiet. Her consternation was so colossal that she did not feel any pain as Jane's nails dug into her face. As Henry grabbed his consort and twisted her arms behind her back, Edward's wife shuddered like a leaf in a wind.
"Lady Anne, leave!" the ruler enjoined irritably. "Get out!"
The Countess of Hertford ran away, as though demons of mortality were at her very heels.
Jane glared at Henry. "How could you sleep with her? How could you?"
He hissed, "Madame, I hate melodramatics caused by women."
"Oh, my Lord! Oh, my Lord!" the queen repeated over and over again, tears leaking from her eyes. "Oh, my Lord! No! No! No! Why are you so cruel to me?"
The king shook with fury. "Darling, enough," he half-begged, half-commanded.
"Why with my brother's wife?" Jane sobbed out the ire and hurt. His arm encircled her waist, but she wriggled in his hold. "I've accepted your many mistresses, but not her."
"Sweetheart!" he called her in a softer, adding in a persuasive tone, "Calm down!"
Wrath flared in her tearful eyes, but there was vulnerability behind it. "You betrayed me with countless harlots! Once you forced yourself upon me! But just when I'm carrying your child, I find you sleeping with my sister-in-law and not even in bed! This is betrayal of the worst kind!"
"Peace," beseeched Henry, now too concerned about his son in her womb. "Peace!"
Yet, his spouse wept harder. "Why do you need all those sluts? Why?"
"It is all right." He forced his voice to sound soft, stifling his outburst of ire with a huge effort. He caressed her large baby bump, the other hand supporting her. "Peace, Jane!"
His gaze slid off his wife to a window. The sun had begun descending towards its night home, tinging the sky with shades of mauve, orange, and red. Remembrances inundated him: a shocked Anne Boleyn who had walked in only to see Henry kissing Jane sitting in his lap, then a distressed Anne who had flown into a fit of rage after Jane had fled. Such an odd coincidence… Anne found Jane and me in the study at Hampton Court, the king recalled fearfully.
Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God, what is this? What is this? Just when my belly is doing its business, I find you wenching with Mistress Seymour.
Anne's hysteria boomed through Henry's skull like a death knell. Now Jane was saying nearly the same things as Anne had spoken on that tragic day hours before she had lost his son. Horror encased his consciousness in a block of ice, and the monarch's hand tightened around her waist, as if he were trying to convince his and Jane's child not to leave her womb.
The ruler wiped the tears from her face. "Sweetheart, let me walk you to your rooms."
Jane revealed to him her heartrending expression. "Why, Your Majesty?"
Despite his attempts to soothe her, the queen sobbed so grievously that an urgent train of thought set in his brain. Henry scooped Jane into his arms and rushed out. On the way to her apartments, he had no idea if she was conscious, as Jane made no sound, her body limp. Leaving his consort to her sister Dorothy's care, the king summoned Doctor Butts to examine her.
§§§
"God, please no!" Jane cried, her visage yellowy white. "I beg you not to take my baby!"
Resting on her bed, Queen Jane was moaning, writhing in agony and pressing her hands to her stomach. For a moment, she sat up in the bed, hoping that the cramps would subside, but a new torrent of blood trickled down between her legs. Depleted, she had no strength to fight.
The queen had started bleeding soon after the king had carried Jane to her rooms. A pall of gloom encompassed the apartments as agitated women moved back and forth. Jane's sisters, Elizabeth and Dorothy, sat by the queen's bed, holding her both hands. The white silk sheets were drenched with large crimson stains. Ladies brought bowls of fresh water and clean sheets.
Dorothy asked, "Can these pains just vanish into thin air?"
"Doctor Butts, the queen is about seven months gone with child. Can you stop the pains?" A mother herself, Elizabeth knew the answer, but she still asked.
Doctor Butts shook his head apologetically. "I'm very sorry, but I can do nothing for the queen. I'll call for a midwife who will attend to her during the delivery. It must be done urgently, before Her Majesty's condition worsens. I shall remain outside during the labor."
"Is it a miscarriage?" asked Dorothy, still confused. "Or premature labor?"
The medic nodded. "The latter. Soon Her Majesty will bring a child into the world."
Jane implored, "Save my child, Doctor Butts! For Heaven's sake!"
"God will protect Your Majesty," Doctor Butts muttered.
With a heavy heart, the physician walked out of the bedroom. Butts recalled the winter day when Queen Anne had lost her savior, as the courtiers had labeled her lost son, after having encountered the monarch kissing Mistress Seymour. Now Queen Jane was going through the same ordeal, but Jane was further along in her pregnancy than Anne had been back then. Could Jane's baby be born strong and healthy? A despondent Butts did not believe that it was possible.
By the time a royal midwife arrived, Jane could not bear the agony any longer, and her whimpering converted into squeaking screams. Her entire world narrowed to pain, and the brief cessation of it when the contractions receded. Tunneling darkness overpowered her as she passed out twice, and the red lines flashed before her eyes as Jane saw her maids taking away the bloody sheets. The hours had elapsed, and then came the gush of sticky liquid between her thighs.
"Who is it?" Panic whitened Jane's countenance to a ghostly shade.
Crossing herself, the midwife swaddled someone into a blue cotton sheet embroidered with Tudor roses. Jane recognized the blanket for her baby, which she had sewn herself.
"Sister, please…" Dorothy dissolved into tears.
Elizabeth Cromwell looked stoic. "Tell Her Majesty everything." She had returned to court only ten days ago after the birth of her son with Gregory Cromwell – little Henry.
"It was a boy," the old woman affirmed. "The Almighty has taken him home."
"No," Jane dragged out the syllables. "That cannot be true." Her voice was weak.
"Take his remains away!" Elizabeth ordered. The midwife obeyed and left the room.
"Jane," Dorothy sobbed. "Your baby boy… He was born too early."
"Rubbish!" Elizabeth allowed her anger to escalate into a verbal outburst. "If only Jane had not reacted like a wench to what she saw in the study, she would not have been so distressed, and she would not have gone into labor so early." She lowered her voice to rebuke Jane further. "The king has the right to take as many mistresses as he desires, and you know that, Jane."
Dorothy pleaded, "Elizabeth, don't be so cruel!"
Tears deluged the queen's bosom. "Lizzy, sister, why do you loathe me so?"
Elizabeth's expression softened a little bit. "Jane, don't say nonsense." She released a sigh. "But you must understand that now your brothers and I have to think of ourselves."
Jane regarded both of her sisters with eyes that now seemed grayer than her matrimonial hell with the Tudor ruler had been. "I'm a prisoner of my wretched fate."
As Elizabeth walked away, Jane burst out weeping. After the death of her second child with the king, she could not keep her crown, but that did not hurt Jane as much as the abandonment of her by her relatives did. Dorothy, her noble sister, hugged Jane in a lingering, warm embrace, and they held onto each other until the unfortunate queen drifted into restless slumber.
"Take care of Her Majesty," Dorothy asked Lady Jane Boleyn. Then she walked out.
As she settled herself on the bed's edge, Lady Boleyn eyed the sleeping queen whom she pitied. Her mind was writhing in a storm of predictions who would be the monarch's next wife.
At the same time, Dorothy found Edward, Thomas, and Elizabeth Seymour in the queen's antechamber; they had dismissed the other ladies-in-waiting moments earlier. Sullen and stolid, they could think only of the loss of privileges as a consequence of the queen's new disaster.
Dorothy approached Edward, and her hand collided with his cheek. "You and your wife are scums! It is your entire fault that Jane went into premature labor today."
There was a metallic glint in Edward's eyes. "I'm sad that Jane lost a prince again. Anne and I will remain at court, while Jane and perhaps other Seymours will have to leave."
Thomas interposed, "Ned, will your wife vouch for Elizabeth and me to the king?"
"She will," promised Edward, "if it is possible."
His voice held an air of condescension that fired Dorothy's temper even hotter. "I hate you all! You are not human beings – you are hyenas! You are no longer my siblings!"
Thomas grouched, "Later you might regret your words, sister."
"You will all be damned," Dorothy barked before returning to the queen's bedroom.
§§§
Lady Bess Holland arrived at the Duke of Norfolk's quarters shortly after the end of the queen's labor. Having kissed her hand, Thomas Howard gestured towards an open doorway so that they could go to his private chamber, where they would not be eavesdropped upon.
"Has anyone seen you, Bess?" Norfolk questioned as he led her inside.
"No. Now everyone is in mourning, so nobody paid any attention to me."
The duke sniggered. "On the contrary, I'm in a spectacularly good mood."
His mistress felt guilty as she said quietly, "I am not happy with the queen's misfortunes. But I know that her disaster is useful for Queen Anne and Princess Elizabeth."
Inside the cozy private chamber, they saw the duke's eldest son – Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey. The room was largely dark to make their meeting as clandestine as possible. A few tallow candles smoked and sputtered from wall sconces; a candelabrum burned on a marble table.
A grinning Surrey eased himself into a chair. "The Seymour wench has been defeated!"
"But not by us," Norfolk joined the conversation.
His son tipped his head. "Nature just ran its course. The seed of King Henry is too weak."
The duke and his mistress nodded. Then they seated themselves in front of the earl.
Norfolk asked, "Bess, have you learned something about the conspiracy against Anne?"
Nodding, Bess Holland climbed to her feet and glided to the exit. Having made sure that the door was securely closed, she returned to her chair. After extracting a paper from her pouch, she handed it to the duke, who scrutinized it impassively, but then he laughed gleefully.
"Father?" Surrey was itching to know more about the document.
Norfolk announced, "Nicholas Carew plotted Anne's death with Cromwell. I'm sure that Edward Seymour is also complicit in the plot, but it will be difficult to prove it."
Surrey rubbed his chin pensively. "I don't know him closely, but I believe he is the cleverest of the Seymour lot. The worst is that his harpy of a wife is the king's favored mistress, and His Majesty will not banish Edward from court after the annulment of his union with Jane."
Bess stared at the earl. "So, he is our enemy, but an almost untouchable one?"
"Only for now," Surrey stressed. "We will destroy them all."
"We shall," Norfolk promised. "Now we are still waiting for a signal from France."
"Why is King François silent?" his son wondered.
The duke shrugged. "His Majesty's spies must be endeavoring to figure out the identity of the Pope's new agent at the English court. Without knowing his identity, we cannot act because right now this person is our second worst enemy after that bastard Cromwell."
Surrey concluded, "We wait and ferret out as much secret information as we can."
Bess pledged, "I'll try to copy the correspondence of the Seymour brothers."
Her lover smiled at her. "I expect so."
The Earl of Surrey directed the discourse towards another pressing topic. "Can we ensure that one of the Howard girls marries the son-obsessed king?"
"I don't think so," Elizabeth asserted. "Lady Anne Bassett is with child."
"I've heard the same whispered at court," the Duke of Norfolk validated. "No doubt Lady Bassett will not give our sovereign a son, or if she does, I shall be very astonished. So far, we ought to align with Lady Honor Grenville, for we are cut from similar cloth of ambition."
Surrey was not so sure of that. "Well… questionable."
"Trust me, son," Norfolk assured. "I know this woman well enough."
"For one thing," Bess broke in. "Honor and her husband, Arthur Plantagenet, don't have a solid support among the nobility. They will need new allies, including the House of Howard."
"Indeed, my lady." In spite of his dislike of his father's mistress, Surrey could not help but admire her intelligence and her ability to get off with a whole skin as their spy.
Then they discussed the Howards' relationship with the Lisle family. Elizabeth chose a spiced red wine, poured three goblets, and passed two of them to the two men.
Surrey raised his toast. "To the prosperity of our great family!" The others echoed him.
The Duke of Norfolk pushed aside his goblet. "Bess, now go back, but be very careful."
His paramour stood up. "My lord, I'll never throw my caution to the wind."
Thomas Howard closed their meeting. "You will not be that Seymour wench's maid for long. Someone else, most likely Anne Bassett, will become your new queen."
"I'll always work on your behalf," Bess assured, and her lover grinned at her.
§§§
After midnight, Thomas Cromwell was summoned to the monarch's study. According to the gossip that had spread at court, it was the same room where Queen Jane had discovered her husband making love to her brother's wife. The councilor expected what his sovereign would ask him to do, given that the second rumor about Anne Bassett's condition seemed to be true.
"Cromwell!" King Henry beckoned the man to him. "You will solve my problem."
"I'm always at your disposal, sire." His chief minister stood in the center, his head bowed.
The monarch's footsteps were slow, heavy, and quite unsteady as he prodded over to his advisor. He peered at Cromwell with his bloodshot eyes, sticking of wine and sweat. His hair was in a disarray, his doublet was undone, and his shirt was hanging out of his hose.
"Dispose of that blonde, plain simpleton," the monarch decreed, his countenance contorted in abomination for his consort. "Jane's insides are as rotten as the worst sack of grain. Her barren womb is infected with leprosy or other illness. Or why all of her children die?"
Cromwell wondered how his liege lord wanted to proceed this time. "Should I contact Archbishop Cranmer to have your matrimony to Her Majesty annulled?"
"That leper woman murdered my boy!" The hot burn of furious tears ripped through the ruler's eyes. "Have our marriage declared null and void. Have her send to a nunnery if she agrees to terminate our damned bonds. Have her imprisoned if she does not consent."
It would not be prudent to have the woman arrested. "I think she will cooperate."
"She will if she is not dim-witted."
"Your Majesty and Lady Jane are distant cousins. I believe that Archbishop Cranmer will be able to have your marriage annulled on the grounds of consanguinity."
"I don't care, Cromwell! I just want to get rid of her so that I can marry Anne Bassett!"
Cromwell made a bow. "It shall be done, Your Majesty." He then vacated the room.
The monarch drank himself into oblivion until dawn. An enormous weight of despair settled itself upon his shoulders. His earlier success as a king, who had once been viewed as a celebrated Renaissance ruler, had been grandiose, but the failures of his wives had demolished the edifice of his grand reign just because none of them had produced his male heir. Now all my hopes rest on the pregnant Anne Bassett who will become my fourth queen, Henry bemoaned.
I hope you are all safe from Covid-19. I'm still staying in lockdown in Tuscany and cannot go home. My close friend, as well as my two young cousins died of complications caused by this dreadful virus. It is extremely important for all of us to be safe and careful!
This chapter is dedicated to the victims of COVID-19. It is my way to remember them. Thank you for reading this dramatic chapter! Please let me know what you think.
Anne de Pisseleu d'Heilly, Duchess d'Étampes, has a one-night affair with Prince Charles, Duke d'Orléans. I expect that now you despise Anne for her seduction of him, but in later chapters you will understand why I need this unusual plotline. Anne de Pisseleu is now 30 years ago, Charles is 16.
Finally, Ferdinand von Habsburg, the emperor's brother, makes his appearance. Ferdinand, who really lives in luxury, and François face each other and talk, and François voices some truths to the jailed monarch. This situation is extraordinarily difficult for Ferdinand, who is quite different from Carlos, and Ferdinand will have to face many dilemmas and make controversial decisions in this AU. In real history, Ferdinand was extremely loyal to Carlos, but even Ferdinand's loyalty might crack, or it may not, depending on Carlos' future actions.
I have to say a big sorry to Anna Jagellonica, who was Queen of the Romans, Bohemia and Hungary; she is usually known as Anna of Bohemia and Hungary. In this AU, I killed her off during her husband's imprisonment in France because I need Ferdinand to be a free man. She was a wonderful Renaissance queen who presided over the Austrian court together with her husband until her death in 1547. According to historical sources, Ferdinand and Anna had a loving marriage, and there is no proof of his infidelities – so François' hints on a few cases of Ferdinand's marital infidelity are fictional. What do you think of my Ferdinand?
Anna and Ferdinand had many children, but in this AU I changed their list for fictional purposes. In my timeline, they had: Elisabeth (1526), Maximilian (1527), Anna (1528), Ferdinand (1529), Maria (1531), Magdalena (1532), Catherine (1533), Eleanor (1534), Margaret (1536), Barbara (1537). As Ferdinand was captured in France in the autumn of 1536, I moved Barbara's birth from 1539 to 1537, so Anna of Bohemia was pregnant when Ferdinand and Carlos invaded France in 1536. Barbara was born during her father's captivity. As Anna is already dead as of 1538 in this AU, Ferdinand's other children whom he had in history will be born, but by another woman. Actually, Ferdinand will have even more offspring in this AU than he had in history.
Finally, Jane Seymour's drama took place. Some may say that Jane deserved her afflictions, but I hope that most of my readers feel sympathy for Jane. She lost her second child, which was predictable after she had found Henry and his mistress (Edward Seymour's wife) in the study. Why did I make this happen in such a way? Jane's drama happened in the same way Anne's drama unfolded in January 1536, when Anne suffered her second miscarriage. The scene of Jane finding Henry with her sister-in-law somewhat mirrors the scene of Anne discovering Jane with Henry. Jane's lost child was a boy, which makes Henry absolutely furious.
I added a scene between Edward and Anne Seymour to the next chapter as they discuss the tragedy. Now Edward seems heartless, but he is not a complete blackguard, despite being extremely calculative and ambitious, just as his wife is. But who wasn't calculative and cruel back then if they grappled for power? Anne Seymour herself is truly shocked.
Anne Bassett is pregnant! Do you think that it is Henry's child or the baby fathered by her lover Hal Courtenay, Marquess of Exeter? In any case, Henry is desperate for a male heir and, hence, he is going to have his marriage to Jane annulled as soon as possible also that he can remarry Anne Bassett. Jane and Henry were distant cousins, so they did have a consanguineous union; actually, most of Henry's wives were somehow related to him.
The descriptions of Château d'Azay-le-Rideau located in the Loire Valley, as well as the information about it are historically correct. This château is very beautiful – google it!
As always, I recommend VioletRoseLily, Countess of Sherwood, FieryMaze, and EvilFluffyBiteyThing at AO3, as well as Secret-writer91 and WhiteRoseQueen at fanfiction.
Let's make each other smile! Let's review and favorite each other!
PS. I'll make an announcement about something that happened roughly a week ago. My old approach to communication is backfiring against me, and I must protect myself from hurt and harassment. But I will issue a note separately from this chapter in a few days.
Yours sincerely,
Athenais Penelope Clemence