An Imperial Match: Anne Boleyn marries Charles V
- Thread starter pandizzy
- Start date
I was trying to joke that you could deliver the Georg of Austria and then have him end up like the Duke of Cornwall. I am aware now that the joke did not land.
I am so confused how you've managed to make it so unclear for this long just who his bride will be, like how have you managed to keep the identity of the bride for a character who's been here since very early in the story THIS mysterious?
Didn't George give her a copy of this book early on in the story when he first arrived in Castile? If so damn that must hurt to read though also comforting since it describes Anne's death as being very honorable (which it is)
Didn't George give her a copy of this book early on in the story when he first arrived in Castile? If so damn that must hurt to read though also comforting since it describes Anne's death as being very honorable (which it is)
no. This book was published after George left Castile. Kate Parr wrote it.
no. This book was published after George left Castile. Kate Parr wrote it.
I honestly don't know. Thought people would've figured it out by now.
Ah I see, well it still must be bittersweet for him to being reading a book with protestant beliefs when he got her a book with reformist beliefs back when he was in Castile
Quite true. That's why he's reading it in the empty chapel, after all.
Well, George is very firmly on a Catholic sphere of influence and the next Duchess of Württemberg is a Habsburg archduchess known for being super-duper Catholic. Even if Württemberg was Protestant OTL, I can't see it being officially this generation... or the next.
No. His son, Karl Ferdinand, is betrothed to Anna of Austria, Ferdinand's second daughter.
Chapter is done, but @TheBookwormBoy hasn't answered me to tell me how awesome I am yet, so we're gonna wait. Everyone, shun him!
27th of January, 1537.
London, England. 27th of January, 1537.
Bessie was wearing a cloth-of-silver kirtle to her brother's coronation, the fabric trimmed with ermine and lined with white fur. Her overgown was of the finest green velvet and embroidered with silver thread, the large hanging sleeves turned back and pinned to reveal the costly fur underneath. It was nothing less than what she deserved, of course, as the King’s eldest sister still living in England and the only member of the royal family who was to attend the ceremony.
Her little sisters, Nora and Maggie, were considered too young to behave and her mother, as a crowned queen, was prevented by tradition from attending, even if she was expected to make an appearance at the feast later. Thus, Bessie had to look her very best. She was only nine years old, her pale blonde hair brushed and pinned under a red French hood trimmed with pearls and emeralds. As Kitty moved behind her, tying puffy sleeves to her elbows and another maid selected fine golden rings to adorn her fingers, Bessie took deep breaths.
She pinched her cheeks to bring some colour to them, looking absolutely frightfully pale under the morning light. It was silver that made her look so, but her mother had insisted on the dress and all its decorations. Red, green and white, the Tudor colours for a Tudor princess. Even if she had a Portuguese infanta for a mother, she was still a member of the royal family. She was still a possible heir.
People didn’t like to talk to her, because she was a girl and young, but Bessie knew that they would have preferred her to be John’s heiress instead of her older sister. Marie was Duchess of Brittany, her son was second in line to the French throne and there were fears that if she became Queen, England would be swallowed by France, their greatest enemy. Bessie knew that if her mother's sons had lived, they wouldn't even be considering the possibility of her becoming queen, but still. That didn't make it any less true.
Kitty touched her shoulder gently. "We are done, Your Highness," she said. “You are ready.”
Bessie nodded, still looking at herself in the mirror. She was a pretty girl, everyone said so. Pale blonde hair, blue eyes, a perfectly shaped mouth. Queens were supposed to be beautiful. Above all other women.
Kitty moved awkwardly behind her. "Are you scared?" she asked and Bessie looked around them, noticing that the other servants had already left. She turned back to her friend. Kitty was wearing a cream-coloured dress with red accents, her chestnut hair braided under a simple cream French hood. After the ceremony, she’d change to a green dress just as Bessie would change to a red dress, since they had talked before to make sure that they would not wear the same colour. She could not imagine a world where that would be possible. Kitty was quite pretty, with eyes the colour of amber, but she was not a Princess of England. All eyes had to be on Bessie and they wouldn’t do so if her maid was wearing the same colour as she.
"Of what?" Bessie asked. "Of the coronation?"
Kitty shrugged. "I hear there will be Burgundians in the crowd today," she said. "Men sent by the Emperor to see how you are growing."
"I'm growing well," Bessie responded stubbornly. "I'm taller than you, after all."
"I know," Kitty said. "My uncle said I'm probably going with you to the Netherlands, to marry a handsome Dutch knight and serve you until my dying days."
"That's what I want," said Bessie. She shrugged. "I don't know why anyone cares. Maggie and Nora are going to Scotland and Denmark soon enough, to be future queens and even though I'm older than them, I will only marry a Duke." She pouted, wanting to cross her arms but also not wanting to wrinkle her dress.
"But Juan de Austria will be the richest lord in Europe, everyone says so," said Kitty.
"But he will be a lord, not a king!" Bessie whined. "Is this all my family thinks of me? That I'm less than Nora or Maggie?"
"No, of course not," said Kitty. She moved to embrace Bessie from behind, hands on her shoulders. The Princess took her hands, lacing their fingers together as she pulled her closer. "To be Duchess of Burgundy is more prestigious than being Queen of Denmark and Scotland both, everyone says so. Your betrothed is the son of an emperor whereas James Stewart and Frederik Oldenburg are only the sons of kings."
Bessie sighed. "I suppose you're right," she said. "And maybe someday, Juan will be a king too. He rules over vast lands, after all."
"Exactly," Kitty said, head on her shoulder. "See? There is nothing to worry about."
Bessie nodded and relaxed. Kitty was right; there was nothing to worry about.
--
“Sirs, I present unto you John, your undoubted king!” the Archbishop of Canterbury chanted. “Wherefore all you who are come this day to do your homage and service, are you willing to do the same?”
Each side of the abbey acclaimed him and John remained in his seat at the Chair of Estate, wearing the crimson surcoat and Robe of State with its crimson velvet. María de Salinas kept her eyes focused on the little king. He was the very image of his mother, the deceased Queen Catherine with his round handsome face and blue eyes, the long nose of Isabella of Castile. He looked good, red-gold Tudor hair reaching the lobes of his ears as he listened intently to the people proclaim and accept him as their sovereign lord.
When he moved, María could see the imperial purple velvet underneath his robes, a fabric destined only for the monarch and those of royal blood. The King seemed restless, being just four and ten, unused to the stuffy ceremonies of a royal coronation. There were suggestions for certain events to be cancelled in light of his youth, but they were quickly disregarded. He was already of age, able to rule in his own right. He ought to go through all of the royal traditions, seeing as it was the first and only time he'd be crowned, after all.
John stood up to swear, his white hand over the Holy Bible. He was tall for his age, already 5'7" and there was a respectful angle to his back as he did so. A group of highborn men especially trained for the occasion removed the King's crimson robe and John accepted the Archbishop of Canterbury's anointment, Stephen Gardiner's long fingers drawing upon his head and breast.
María loved that boy as if he were her own. She had raised him for so many years, distancing herself from her own daughter to care for him, this poor motherless child that needed her. She allowed him to call her Lady Willow after a childish mispronunciation of her husband's title, she nursed him through every illness And it was all for this, to see him upon that throne, Catherine’s dearest son. Her most-wanted boy, named after her own brother. John, Second of his Name, King of England and France.
“God save the King!” they cried out when it was done at last, all voices from the crowd roaring as one. “God save the King!”
--
The servant had hardly approached with a bottle of wine when his mother waved him away, her other hand covering John’s goblet in a clear sign that he was not to drink anymore. She was trying to control his drinking to prevent him from becoming a drunk and John couldn’t find it in himself to care, sitting on the high carved seat of the king, looking around at the laughter and celebration. The crowd ooh’d and aah’d at the Italian tumblers, who spat fire like dragons and walked through tight-ropes for their entertainment. For his entertainment, really.
John was having so much fun. The best part of the night, of the entire day really, had been the challenge of the King’s Champion. Sir Edward Dymoke was a man of nearly thirty with sandy-blonde hair and green eyes that rode into the great hall of Westminster Palace on horseback, bearing the greatest and most lethal of arms. But he was no threat to John, no no. With the Lord High Constable riding to his right and the Earl Marshal riding to his left, Sir Edward looked absolutely formidable, being a man with broad shoulders and muscled legs visible even under his full-armour.
The herald had cried out when he appeared, Sir Edward’s presence commanding such respect that the whole court had grown quiet and the herald said, “If any person, of what degree soever, high or low, shall deny or gainsay our Sovereign Lord John, King of England and France, Lord of Ireland, Defender of the Faith, son and next heir unto our Sovereign Lord the last King deceased, to be the right heir to the Imperial Crown of this Realm of England and France, or that he ought not to enjoy the same; here is his Champion, who saith that he lieth, and is a false traitor, being ready in person to combat with him; and in this quarrel will adventure his life against him, on what day soever he shall be appointed.” Sir Edward had not been King Henry’s champion, that honour belonged to his father Sir Robert, already deceased and John had been much pleased to have a champion that was all his own. Sir Robert, after all, had served both the Usurper Richard and John’s grandfather, Henry VII before he attended the coronation of his father.
And Sir Edward seemed formidable. Fearsome. After he left the great hall, his challenge having obviously gone unchallenged, Sir Edward returned wearing a dazzling green doublet with dark pants and John told him to sit in a place of high honour. He even had the servants bring him fresh courses of fish and venison from the many plates coming from the kitchens. Of course, all that was left uneaten would be given to the crowds outside, but there was no reason for his champion not to enjoy himself.
Finished, the tumblers moved away, allowing enough space and an opening for a band to start playing an Italian song, couples finding each other to begin dancing. John watched as his half-brother Pierre began to dance with Dorothy Stafford, his betrothed and his cousin Thomas Pole pull his wife by the hand, the young woman also named Dorothy, though her maiden name was Seymour.
John decided to look for his friend, Charlie Howard. He hadn’t seen him yet, even though he knew Charlie attended his coronation, and he was determined to talk to him before the end of the night. Maybe invite him to sit beside him. Bessie had sat on John’s other side until her governess came for her, as she was still underage and had to go to sleep so there was an empty chair next to the king and he knew exactly who he wanted to sit there.
He found Charlie in the lower tables, talking excitedly to a young girl in a green dress. He was surrounded by other Howards, easily recognized by their signature hooked nose and Charlie knew that the man on the girl’s other side was Charlie’s brother, Henry. John had met him before, the second born of the children Edmund Howard had by Jocasta Leigh, behind only a sister named Margaret. His eyes moved and John saw Margaret and her sister Mary with Baroness Howard, who was their old guardian.
Earlier that week, John had to sign something approving the upcoming marriage of Mistress Margaret and Thomas Arundell of Wardour Castle, since the match was arranged by her uncle, Baron Howard. He remembered this, for some reason.
He returned his eyes to Charlie and the girl talking to him. She moved slightly to look forward, a plate of steaming soup placed before her and John held his breath. The girl was close in age to him, thirteen at the youngest, and with round amber-coloured eyes. She had the Howard hooked nose with dark brown hair peeking out from under a white-and-green French hood, trimmed with lace. Her skin was a perfect shade of white, though somewhat hued by the candlelights in the Westminster Hall and she was tiny. Even beside her brother Charlie, who was quite small, she looked completely diminutive. Bird-like, really.
He realised suddenly that he knew who she was. Charlie never stopped talking about her, after all. His favourite amongst all his many sisters, those from his mother's first marriage included.
John felt his heart thrum in his chest and he stood up, observing as all others turned to look at him, to see what he was about to do. He walked, waving at the band to pick up the song once again and the people began to dance once more. And yet, all eyes were still focused on him, though he didn't notice them at all. His eyes were focused on her.
She gulped when she noticed that he was coming her way, nervously licking up the soup dribbling down her chin. John offered her a hand.
"Mistress Katherine, will you give me the honour of dancing with me?"
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