We aren't allowed to offer opinions anymore without being called jerks?
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An Imperial Match: Anne Boleyn marries Charles V
- Thread starter pandizzy
- Start date
Writing two paragraphs being a judgmental prick instead of just exiting a page isn’t “offering an opinion”. By definition, that is being a jerk.
Saying "To say this is bad writing is probably a compliment" is not offering an opinion.
If you would indulge me for a second here, are you new to the Internet, buddy? Don’t like, don’t read is kind of the law of the land. There’s a handy dandy little button to back out of something you don’t like and you can trot on your merry way to read something else that’s more credible for your taste. This is a timeline about Charles V marrying Anne Boleyn and Henry VIII marrying Isabella of Portugal, the rest of us are having plenty of fun taking the story as it comes and not complaining about “credibility”.
Things in real-life that are probably not credible:
- Philippe de France, older brother of Eleanor of Aquitaine's first husband, dying in a horse-riding accident when a pig ran under his mount and made the horse trip.
- Charles VIII hitting his head on a lintel and dying in the same palace he was born in. Louis III died in a similar accident, though he was trying to rape a young girl.
- Queen Victoria having the hemophilia gene and passing it on to her descendants, which caused the distrust of the Romanovs and accelerated the Russian Revolution. (Do you know how many tls there are in which QV is not born with the hemophilia gene?)
- Charles II inheriting just the right amount of defective genes to suffer lifelong illnesses and be infertile. His older full-sister Margarita Teresa had none and gave birth to four children. This led to the effective end of Spanish dominion on the world.
- Great Britain, a tiny island north of France coming to rule most of the world.
- Alexander the Great never losing a battle.
- Genghis Khan going from a impoverished exiled boy to killing enough people to cause a climate change. At least 16 million people today are descended from him.
- Genghis Khan destroying Baghdad, thus bringing the Islamic Golden Age to a screeching halt.
- The rise of the Catholic Church.
I guess God, or whoever, would not be well-accepted by yours truly.
- Philippe de France, older brother of Eleanor of Aquitaine's first husband, dying in a horse-riding accident when a pig ran under his mount and made the horse trip.
- Charles VIII hitting his head on a lintel and dying in the same palace he was born in. Louis III died in a similar accident, though he was trying to rape a young girl.
- Queen Victoria having the hemophilia gene and passing it on to her descendants, which caused the distrust of the Romanovs and accelerated the Russian Revolution. (Do you know how many tls there are in which QV is not born with the hemophilia gene?)
- Charles II inheriting just the right amount of defective genes to suffer lifelong illnesses and be infertile. His older full-sister Margarita Teresa had none and gave birth to four children. This led to the effective end of Spanish dominion on the world.
- Great Britain, a tiny island north of France coming to rule most of the world.
- Alexander the Great never losing a battle.
- Genghis Khan going from a impoverished exiled boy to killing enough people to cause a climate change. At least 16 million people today are descended from him.
- Genghis Khan destroying Baghdad, thus bringing the Islamic Golden Age to a screeching halt.
- The rise of the Catholic Church.
I guess God, or whoever, would not be well-accepted by yours truly.
Also, considering this point in the timeline to not be credible seems kind of odd when, logistically, royal children didn’t actually have 100 pairs of eyes on them 24/7/365 when they were in their own households. People get relaxed in everyday situations, they lower their guards, especially when nothing has happened to disturb routine or imply danger. That’s why people get hurt at their jobs or in their homes, they have the sense of comfort in the familiar blinding them to potential threats. A lady leaving a child alone for a few minutes to go get another adult, not considering the child doing something incredibly willful and dangerous when she’s made a point to lecture him that it is so, isn’t out of the realm of plausibility. Plus, Henry hasn’t really shown any major wrath here or done anything extreme punishing someone who offended him to scare any attendants into watching the boy like a hawk.
Also, Eustace de Blois, son of Stephen I of England, dying choking on an eel the same day Eleanor of Aquitaine gives birth to a son for Henry FitzEmpress?
As much as I hate to butt in, I would like to point out that there are far more unrealistic stories. Such as my own where Anne has triplets and everyone gangs up on the Holy Roman Emperor. Sometimes for the sake of the plot you have to suspend your disbelief. If you don't like it, okay, that's your opinion. Just don't insult the writer for it.
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I know that. I just agreed with the other poster that the scenario with Teddy's death seemed forced.
I think I'll be taking people's advice about leaving this TL.
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I have written a timeline with Poland winning the 1863 uprising, so realism is not what I'm interested into; yes children do drawn fast
I have written a timeline with Poland winning the 1863 uprising, so realism is not what I'm interested into and your story is really good Pandizzy; yes, children can drown fast I never said it is unplausible I said that if you wanted to save him, it would have been realistically possible if he yelled. While Teddy is probable dead, it could be a false flag cliffhange. Obviously I would prefer the scenario in which he lives, but hey, its your story, so it is fine either way for me. No criticism here, only a consideration.
Ok do as you wish, I'm sure she won't mind if she doesn't have someone agreeing with a condescending dickhead and also brings up other stories here commenting on it
Let's be real: if I wanted him to be saved, I wouldn't have him jump in the pool
Is this something personal? It reads like it's something personal.
If it is, cut it out.
In fact probably be a good idea to dial the antagonism displayed here back about three notches.
Exactly what I was thinking. So, let see what this sad happening shal bring.
If people weren't rude about a story someone is writing for fun none of this would've happened...
1st of September, 1530.
Stuttgart, Württemberg. 1st of September, 1530.
It was quiet in the ducal chapel, deathly so. George held his breath as he approached the casket, unable to think or do much beyond hearing the drumming on his ears, the tightening of his heart. He felt stupid, he felt weak and vulnerable. He felt like he was a little boy all over again.
But Johanna didn’t even move. She held the bouquet of yellow flowers close to her unmoving chest, the thin veil placed over her head and body. They had placed a wax mask over her face, the face that would never again smile at him, or tease one of their children. The face taken far too soon from this world by a stupid riding accident, when her spooked horse let her fall and break her back, killing her instantly.
Their children. The thought of their children came to him suddenly and he took a pained gasp, the images of his children fresh on his mind. Anna, Karl and Ella. Anna, their eldest was just four, and Ella was not even six months old. Karl Ferdinand, standing between them with his three years of age. He was the one most close to his mother, save for Ella who was still nursing from Johanna.
She fed their children herself. George just remembered that. Certainly, someone had sent for a wet nurse, but he couldn’t remember if he had been the one to give out the order.
He thought of his children. They were young. Too young. They would never remember her. They would know she was gone, of course. One can’t possibly ignore the absence of a mother, but they wouldn’t be able to remember her face. Or her kind touch. Or her quick wit. They would know her absence, but not the sound of her laugh, or the warm and fuzzy feeling she gave to one’s chest with her determination to make a home out of Württemberg. To make a dynasty that would spread across the eras, to erase all traces of the old ducal family.
He had never loved her, not with all his heart, but George cared for her. He respected her. In England, he had a history of chasing after the prettiest pair of eyes, but he had left that behind when he left his home country. Then, he met Ferdinand and all reason evaporated from him.
Maybe he could’ve spent more time with her. Been better to her. A better husband, a better Duke. George looked behind him, where all the advisors Ferdinand had named were kneeling. They prayed, or pretended to pray, for their lost duchess. They had been ruling Württemberg since the Habsburgs took control of it and George had felt no issue with letting them continue their work. He was not German. He was an Englishman, through and through. He knew little about the lands that were now his.
But Johanna did know. She cared. She was the sole German person in the new ducal family. Maybe things would have been better if George had been the one to die instead of her. She could be regent, let their children grow under her careful and loving watch. They wouldn’t know him either, but that was not so bad. Everyone knew mothers were more important than fathers.
The Lord, however, would not have it like that. He had made his decision and George had to live with it. He had taken his wife, the mother of his children and George had to accept that.
He would not be Henry Tudor, constantly wishing for another. From Eleanor of Austria, to Catherine, then Anne Hastings and Bessie Blount. His sister Mary was even one of the many to grace his bed. Now, with Queen Isabella, there were stories about him not losing his old ways.
George would be different. He had to be different. He knelt down, clasping his hands as he began to pray for his dead wife.
There, right there, he vowed: he would not remarry. He would accept the children given to him by Johanna as his sole heirs. Karl Ferdinand was a hale and high-spirited boy. He would live to see adulthood, George was sure. But if that was not the case, then Anna would be raised to be a ruler, as well as a wife. She would marry the heir to Bavaria and the Wittelsbachs were well-respected by all.
It would have to do.
--
Palace of Westminster, England. 3rd of September, 1530.
The world was black and Isabella didn’t know how to handle it. She spent most of her days in her chambers, surrounded by her trusted confidants. She left only to attend mass, where she spent most of her time praying for the soul of her son. Her sweet little boy, taken far too soon from her.
Her pain threatened to take over her. Not since the news first arrived did Isabella stop wearing black, or dark blue, the colours of royal mourning. She felt as if the colours suited her, because they were what she felt. Dark, devoid of anything and everything that might speak of life.
She wanted to join him. She wanted to scream and cry, but she found she had no strength. Nothing at all inside of her.
Isabella loved and adored Marie and John as if they were her own. She had mourned little Katherine with all her heart, but Teddy had a special place in her affection. He was the first child of hers that she had produced in her own womb, the first they placed upon her arms. The one that cemented her place as Queen.
A year before, she had been a happy mother, with Teddy, Bessie and Herry to boast of. Now, she only had Bessie. And John. Sweet little John, who was so often away that she forgot what his hair smelt like, what his hands felt on hers. She missed him like someone had taken away her very soul.
Oh, Teddy! She wanted to die. She wanted to have him in her arms again, to kiss his sweet face and watch him grow into a man, taller than her, taller than his father.
Isabella had not seen Henry for days, since the rider came from Yorkshire. She thought he was mourning, but Eleanor said he was changing his will. Of course, he had included Teddy in his will. His spare, his Duke of York. To inherit the throne in the case of John’s early death. Why wouldn’t he change his will?
The lies sometimes soothed her, but they did nothing now. They didn’t work anymore. She was older now, more mature. A mother who had lost two children from her womb, three of her heart.
When Henry came with her, Isabella felt calm. She was eating slowly, not wanting to force herself to swallow much beyond what she could manage, the flames of the hearth warming her shivering body.
He did not sit with her. He did not even move as he looked at her, wearing heavy black garments. Shadows flickered over his face, his features twisted.
"This is your fault," he murmured, voice choked-up.
Isabella stood up, her shawl wrapped tightly around her.
"What?" she asked.
"You insisted on that Portuguese woman," he said. "The woman that killed him."
"It was an accident," Isabella replied, not knowing why she was even justifying, why she was insisting on it. "She was gone for less than a minute. She feels worse than we do."
Henry scowled. "Of course, she says that," he said. "She only wants to save her own ass."
"Are you saying you will accuse her of something?" Isabella asked. "The physician said it could have happened to anyone. He was so tiny, so determined."
"Determined, yes," said Henry. "An English nurse would have known how to deal with him. The English know the Tudor temper, but you insisted on the Portuguese serving him where it mattered the most. He knew how to speak the language!"
"And is that wrong?" she questioned. "To want my son to speak the language of his forefathers?"
"It is, when the subjects of his forefathers kill him," he answered. Henry shook his head. "Inform your Portuguese ladies that they shall have no more positions in your household, or the household of our daughter."
"What are you talking about?" said Isabella, not understanding what was happening.
He turned to her, blue eyes burning with anger. "From now on, only Englishwomen and men may attend to you two. No longer will the Portuguese neglect their duties.”
“But there are over two thousand people in my suite,” she said. “Where could they possibly go?”
He looked at her as if she was stupid. “Back to Portugal, of course,” he said. “Inform your brother, if you must, so he may send ships to fetch them.” Henry looked away. “Tell him I want them all gone by the end of the month.”
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