A little something new--I've decided to open with a quote from an in-universe book. I'll try to do that in the future--and if I ever get around to doing a definitive version, I'll probably add them to the rest of the entries. But for now--enjoy...
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"Any consideration of Henri II Valois forces one to dwell on his great, tragic flaw, Shaxperian[1] in its scope--his vacilitating nature. Like his great rival, Philip II of Spain, he ruled in the shadow of his father, painfully aware of his own inadequacy--unlike Philip, however, Henri lacked any belief his own fundamental rightness to steel him through difficult moments. In a better man--such as, perhaps, Philip--this could have lead to humility and empathy. In Henri, dull, suggestible, and fundamentally lazy, it produced only hesitation and failure. He fought for land in Italy, not because he felt a burning need for it, but because that was what a King of France did, and thus, when every war reached the critical point, his nerve failed, resulting in France taking a weak stance at the peace talks. Solitary, shy and awkward, he pretended to be a bon vivant because his father had been one, and rendered himself ridiculous--first as a young man making love to an old woman, then as an old man making love to a young one. And in religion, he proved unable to balance his personal repugnance to Protestants with his pragmatic (or perhaps pliable) nature--the resulting constant flip-flops between brutal repression and lukewarm toleration managed to offend every party over the years, setting the stage for the great Wars of Religions that would follow his death. Historians are all but unnaminous in their commendation of the man--Giuseppe Alteri perhaps summed it up best when he declared Henri's reign 'a virtually uninterrupted string of errors'.
"And yet, for a time, this did not seem so. His reign had begun with a triumph--inherited from his father--and for a while it had seemed that Valois France would serve as the center of an anti-Hapsburg alliance involving the Protestant Princes of Germany, England and Scotland. And yet all this fell apart, due to a combination of hubris, and weakness..."
--Henri le Fou, Introduction; William Adams
1554
--As the year starts, Maria of Portugal arrives in Spain, after a roundabout journey through the Holy Roman Empire, to Venice, and a stopover in Sicily. She meets her sister-in-law, Margaret--they are less than impressed with each other, a fact that Philip's suggestion that his wife "aid" his sister in governing Spain does nothing to hep--and then her stepson, Charles. Both Maria and Charles have been apprehensive about this meeting--she has heard rumors of the deformed and unruly young Prince, while Charles--far cleverer than people give him credit for--is quite aware that if Maria happens to produce a... more suitable heir, his chance of losing his inheritance is quite sizable.
Both Charles and his stepmother are surprised by how well things go. Maria, still somewhat disappointed not to be a mother, finds herself warming to her awkward stepson--as for Charles, Maria proves to be one of the few things that he and his father agree upon. Soon, Charles is declaring that he'll happily share his inheritance with any children Maria has. After all, he notes, it's a pretty large empire. He's sure he can afford to give up a few pieces of it.
--In other early year Iberian news, Philip's other (fully legitimate) sister, Johanna, bears a son to her husband, the ailing Prince Joa of Portugal, on March 13th. The young Prince is named Leander, in honor the saint Leander of Seville, whose feast day it is. This is a great comfort to the Portugese throne--as noted, her husband, the present heir to the throne, is ailing, while his father, the king, is old. Indeed, an astrological reading of the Prince promises a long life, a glorious reign, and plentiful children. [2]
--Henri II, hearing of Henry IX's plan to leave, tries to talk him out of it. It does not go well--despite Henri's efforts to be charming and Henry's efforts to be civil, what is supposed to be a heartfelt discussion degenerates into a shouting match. King Henry declares that Henri has had him expend blood and wealth simply to save his own hide--that he's dangled out promises of territory while doing little to get them--that he's finagled Henry into fighting his coreligionists. Henri, flustered by facing these absolutely true charges, attempts to counter with his dignity--unfortunately, he doesn't have very much, and he leaves in a huff. Henri is in a bad temper for weeks afterwards, and has suddenly realized that he doesn't like Henry Tudor very much, a fact that Diane de Poiters begins to skillfully play upon. Francois de Guise also begins to play on it, getting to Henri to sign off on his plan to send more troops to Scotland to support the "regent" Aumale. This is very good news from the Duke's point of view, as he's already sent them. Indeed de Guise needs that sort of good news--while he remains one of Henri's favorites the fact is that with repeated losses, he's been made to cool his heels at home, while old Montmorency takes the reigns up once again.
--In Poland, Sigismund Augustus, to his immense relief, has a son, Casimir Sigismund, named for his great-grandfather. The Radziwells are all heavily prevalent at the young Prince's christening, to the grumbling of many Polish magnates. This is not the only source of tension--the Reformation is proving quite popular in Poland, and even more so in Lithuania, which is now mostly Reformed Church. Still, the two joined-nations are managing to navigate these murky waters with surprising grace, creating, for the moment, a "state without stakes". More troublesome are its neighbors--Russia, under the rule of the notorious Tsar Ivan Vasilyevich Groznyi--"Ivan the Awesome, Son of Vasily"--is increasingly expansionist, hoping to acquire land in Livonia. The Scandinavian nations of Denmark and Sweden both have ambitions of their own in the Baltic region, but are also more cautious in their policies than the more autocratic--and dangerously unstable--Ivan. As of yet, all this is merely a gathering storm, and the mood in Poland and Lithuania is joyful. War may be coming--but that's in the future. Right now, everyone is simply happy to have an heir.
--The arrival of more French troops in Scotland ups the ante, and offers encouragement to the forces of Aumale and Angus. They need it--most of the nation has recognized the rule of the Lords of the Congegration, with Aumale's authority being recognized in a small strip of land centered around Stirling Castle. These forces may allow him to remedy that.
The Lords of Congregation are very nervous about that. True, they've been winning. This is largely because Aumale was unpopular to begin with, and has only been compounding this by actions like Arran's execution. The fact is, however, that they have very few troops at their disposal, most of which are unprofessional. Aumale possesses a growing core of French troops--very professional--and the help of Clan Douglas, a Clan so powerful that it could give the Kings of Scotland a run for their money. Further, the Lords have to defend a much larger area than Aumale does, meaning it may prove very, VERY easy for Aumale to make some gains. All of this is a recipe for disaster--at least in the short term--and they know it. Of course, this could be solved if the English would send some troops over--but the Scots are quickly learning that England's support is more moral then military at the moment. And so they sit, waiting for the hammer to fall.
--Emperor Ferdinand tries to cross the Po again, and is forced back in another pitched battle with Papal forces. This is worrisome. Among those killed in the battle is Prince Henry of Wolfenbuttel and his eldest living son, Charles Victor. Henry, a Catholic, has been living in de facto exile from his mostly Protestant territories--with his and Charles Victor's deaths, his son Julius comes to the throne. This is even more worrisome--Julius has shown strong Protestant leanings, which likely means YET ANOTHER Prince joining the Schmalkaldic League--indeed, if this happens, it is safe to say that almost the entire north of the German states lies within the organization's power. Ferdinand is no fool--the House of Hapsburg's chance of holding onto the Imperial dignity in the face of a united opposition is questionable at best. But he has other, more immediate concerns--the Republic of Venice, which has been letting him keep his army in their territory as he tries to get into Milan--albeit for a hefty fee--are starting to get... impatient. And this is the most worrisome news at all.
--Emmanuel Philibert, despite his misgivings, begins the invasion of Parma at his brother-in-law's orders. Its hapless Duke, Ottavio Farnesse does what he can to stop it, but that's not much. Farnesse is not a well-respected man among Italy's nobles. He's considered greedy, spineless, treacherous--and that's just by his relatives. Ottavio has, despite being former Emperor Charles' son-in-law, kept neutral--Pope Pius agreed to support the Duke's claims as part of the Farnesse faction's price for their vote, and as a result Ottavio figures he can count on both sides leaving him alone. The discovery that this is not so is, thus, a rude shock. Ottavio retreats, while sending the Pope a missive that boils down to 'What the hell, Pontiff?'
--In England, Edward Tudor and Arthur Fitzroy are butting heads over the matter of Scotland. Edward is for restraint and caution--the matter of England's northern neighbor is very tangled, especially as it involves France. Further, they're still paying for the troops down in Calais. Arthur on the other hand, wants to aid the Lords of Congregation--RIGHT NOW. After the whole affair of Cleves, the thought of killing Frenchmen--especially Frenchmen in the service of the Guise--is quite appealing to the Duke of Richmond, and he's always ready. After several weeks of argument, a compromise is reached--Arthur may raise some troops and take them to the border to make sure that things don't spiral out of control and start causing trouble in the volatile North. The rest of the Privy Council watches the little battle of wills at rapt attention, aware that they've just watched the emergence of two major forces in English politics.
Turning to the matter of the forces' marriages--boisterous, athletic Arthur is quite happy with his quiet, studious wife, and vice versa. However, the marriage of Barbara of Hesse and Edward is proving---less happy, with the German princess complaining that she expected to marry a man, not a statue. (Many historians suspect this may be a partial origin of the Duke of York's famous nickname 'the Man of Marble'.) Edward spends much of his spare time doing--well, exactly what he does when's he's working, and the rest of it pouring over theology texts, and writing eulogies to his dead brother, and various dead friends. (Conspicuously, his father never ranks one.) Barbara may be a Reformed Protestant, but that doesn't mean she's a prig. She enjoys parties and celebrations, and people, things her husband doesn't particularly care for. Still, despite being a cold fish, Edward takes care of conjugal duties--Barbara will have her first pregnancy this year, with the child, a boy who will be named Thomas, being born in late October.
--In early April, Elector John Frederick II of Saxony plays host at a remarkable gathering on the border of the Seventeen Provinces, at what some will call the "Hall of Roses" summit. There, King Philip II Hapsburg of Spain and King Henry IX Tudor of England have their first--and only--face to face meeting. The Elector has been chosen as the host for his relative neutrality--allied with Spain and the Empire in this affair, but related by marriage to Henry. Flush with cash from his full inheritance, and his head filled with big ideas at his wife's prompting, John Frederick turns the talks into a chance to showcase Saxon oppulence. Taking place in the "Hall of Roses" carefully built of red and white cloth worked to resemble the flower--an initial plan to make it completely of flowers was discarded as impractical--the hall was filled with bouqets of roses, with pages in rose costumes serving the food. (John Frederick chooses the rose at is a symbol used by both he and his wife in their personal heraldry.)
Henry and Philip are both charmed and impressed. The Emperor Ferdinand--who does not attend, but hears of it through his ambassador's reports--is neither. This is more proof of the "Saxon whelp's" growing pretentions and ambition--the Elector is clearly portraying himself as the second man of the Empire--essentially a king in his own right. This is not only destabilizing to the Empire as a whole--it may serve as the basis for the Wettins elbowing out the Hapsburgs in the near future. This only furthers the Emperor's feelings that SOMETHING must be done about the Elector.
But Ferdinand, as noted, is not at the Hall of Roses. Philip and Henry are, and they both come away with goood feelings about John Frederick--and, to their immeasurable surprise, each other. Oh, they both understand that they are determined enemies and dedicated members of the Other Faith--but despite that, they recognize the other's talents, and even feel a little admiration. Philip declares in a letter to Maria that Henry is 'estimable in all things but religion'--Henry writes to his mother that Philip is while a bit forboding and stern initially is well-mannered and pleasant on further acquaintance. Everyone agrees that this has all been a mistake--brought on by the evil ambitions of the treacherous Henri Valois, of course--and that there is no reason for anyone to pursue anything too... punitive. A truce is quickly signed granting an honorable peace to both sides, with a treaty to follow quickly. And with that, England's active role in this Italian war has come to an end. Henry has expended blood and treasure to gain nothing but a certain measure of contempt for the man who he is still nominally allied with, and whose daughter he is engaged to be married to. Still it could have been worse--the English have at least made a respectable showing for themselves.
--Pius recieves the Duke of Parma's message, and after sending a message to Farnesse that boils down to 'Don't worry--I've got this,' sends Henri II a message that boils down to 'What the hell, Henri?'
Henri responds with a lengthy reply filled with vagaries about defenses, territorial claims, and the like. Pius responds with another letter where he points out that Henri has made him look like a liar, AND that his attack on Parma was completely unwarranted. He bids the King, in the name of their long friendship, to stop. Henri's second reply is in the vein of his first, only nastier, with Henri--who's heard reports about Carafa by this time--telling Pius that he shouldn't get all high and mighty just because he's Pope. Especially as that might not always be the case--Henri ends by suggesting that Pius should get his theology in order, because if he persists in taking the Church in directions it wasn't meant to go, certain people might just leave. Pius takes this not-veiled-at-all threat of France's perenniel ace-in-the-hole, the schism, about as well as can be expected. Thinking the matter over, he decides that Spain and the Empire have probably gotten the message about how to handle Italian affairs by now. And so, he has his legates make a few... simple proposals to Philip and Ferdinand.
Henri's decided he doesn't need the Pope, eh? Well, the Pope's decided he doesn't need him. After all, it's not like they were actually officially ALLIES in this little war...
--Henry arrives back in England, to nurse his grievances, and allow his substantial ego to recover through a nice regimen of attention and flattery. He is swiftly surrounded by his friends and family--often the same people--and enjoying a variety of hunts and dances--albeit on a bit of a budget, because while the war didn't break the Crown's finances, it did strain them quite a bit. Further, the matter of Scotland, and Henry's insistence on bulking up Calais are adding to extra expenditures. Still, this is a surprisingly jovial time for the English court.
Henry--as he does quite frequently--spends his time enjoying the attentions of quite few ladies of the court. Indeed, there are common whispers that he's going to be taking a mistress--which, let's be honest, as a twenty year old man affianced to a nine-year old, would be fairly reasonable. And yet, Henry is a tough man to pin down--his favorites tend to shift at a moment's notice. One day, his cousin Catherine Grey enjoys the honor of riding with the King--that evening, his first dance goes to Mary Dudley, sister of his old companion Robert. It all makes it impossible to tell what lady--if any--he might actually think about making his mistress. For Henry this is all par for the course--juggling favorites and making sure no one is quite sure where they stand is a strategy for increasing his power, and guarding his weaknesses. With foreign ambassadors never quite sure who's on the good list, it is very hard for them to know who to bribe for information and influence. Prince Edward and Duke Arthur are the closest things to obvious candidates there are--and Edward is fairly evidentally incorruptable. As for Arthur, the Duke of Richmond rather notoriously took a large sum of money from a Venetian ambassador on one occasion in return for a promise to give him 'vital information', then said to the poor man 'You have wasted a great deal of money'. And then Arthur tweeked the ambassador's nose.
--Anne Montmorency, the doughty old Marshal of France, is overjoyed. His perenial rival, that upstart cur the Duke of Guise has at last been brought to heel, and Montmorency is in power again! As Philip's forces head into France once again, Montmorency has at last been given his chance to show what he can do.
The answer to that is "lose, and die". Facing a large force with fearsome Spanish tercios serving as a spine, and formidable military leaders like the Count Egmont, the Elector of Saxony, Prince William of Orange, Wilhelm von Grumbach and Margrave Albert at its head, the French forces crumble. Anne Montmorency valiantly refuses to retreat, fighting to the last--he is cut down by no one less than Margrave Albert, who seizes the man's arms and armor for his own, and then forces the family to pay him to get the body back. Because that's how the Margrave of Brandenburg-Kulmbach rolls, baby--Albert loves violence, and he loves making money off it.
And so it happens. The Spanish and their Germanic allies are in Picardy. France begins to panic--and curse those perfidious Englishmen. (This is somewhat unfair--Philip has been cleverly, subtly upping the ante with each attack, as well as getting a better lay of the land with the result that in this battle, his victory was all but inevitable. In all likelihood, all Henry and his fellow English could do in this situation is add a few more bodies to the heap.) But all is not lost. Henri has more troops and more generals, and he's relatively certain that he can force the Spanish out, turning this apparent victory into nothing more than a bloody waste of men. And so Gaspard de Coligny goes to St. Quentin, to supervise its defense. Despite the horrific loss, and the Marshal's death, the French remain optomistic--St. Quentin is, after all, impregnable. Spain will break on that, and VICTORY WILL BE THEIRS! Right?
--In Milan, the French and Savoyard troops make an unpleasant discovery. While they are not officially allied with the Papal and Florentine soliders that have been helping them kick the Duke of Alba around, they have been relying on them rather heavily for support as the war has dragged on. Thus, they find it rather surreal when their unofficial allies announce that, in the face of naked French aggression against Parma, they have no choice but to regard the French as enemies. That bafflement soons turns to fear and anger as they come under attack from the Italian forces, especially once the Spanish forces join in. The overstretched armies of France fall back with startingly swiftness, just as Emmanuel Philibert warned they would if a reversal occurred. Needless to say, he isn't overjoyed to have been right.
--Emperor Ferdinand, clad in the simple clothing of a penitent, crosses the Po, accompanied by his son and heir Archduke Ferdinand II. On the other side, Pope Pius waits for him, accompanied by much of the Papal Court. Bowing low, Ferdinand apologizes for much of his brother's actions over the years, and promises to be more respectful of Papal authority in the future. Pius then robes and crowns the Emperor, following which his forces are allowed to cross the river.
After the whole humiliating ordeal is over, Ferdinand is furious--his imperial coronation, instead of being the glorious display of power his brother's was, has been a showcase of the present weakness of the Holy Roman Emperor. Still--he's been crowned by the Pope. That counts for something. And he's quite right--Ferdinand will be the last Holy Roman Emperor to have ANY Papal coronation, though he doesn't realize that. Imperial troops march on to Milan, there to help the NEW allied forces fight the French.
As for Pius, having done all this, he returns to Mantua, and speaks with passionate approval of the great successes in reducing plural benefices--an act of which Pius used to be quite guilty of himself. And then he heads off to oversee the construction of Villa d'Este in Treviso, leaving the Cardinals to consider the paradox that is Pope Pius IV, a man who seems to embody every flaw in a Pope that started the Reformation--and yet seems to be the first Pope capable of fighting it on its own terms.
--In Scotland, the hammer falls. Aumale's troops move out, heading in a more-or-less straight line towards Edinburgh. They seize control of every town they encounter along the way, usually following this up with executing any leading citizens captured for treason--Aumale continues to insist that he is the Regent, the Lords rebels, and that all his niece's proclamations to the contrary are the products of her being held captive at her mercy. Aumale's hopes in what the people of Scotland will dub 'the Rough Wooing' [3], are to pacify resistance through terror. For many, it has the opposite effect. In Edinburgh, the Lord's ready their defenses. To their surprise, England finally comes through--Arthur Fitzroy has been sending the Council somewhat embroidered accounts of French atrocities with the result that even Edward agrees something must be done. And so Arthur--after first asking the Lords' permission, because they really don't need for this situation to get even more messed up--crosses the border with his troops. There aren't many of them, but still, it should be enough to strengthen the Scottish forces enough to give Aumale and Angus a run for their money. As the troops prepare to face Aumale's forces, young Queen Mary--despite warnings that she should stay in Edinburgh--speaks to them, bidding them to be brave and fight for Queen and Country, in a display of the pluck that will serve her so well in the future.
The Battle of Edinburgh--which in fact takes place quite aways away from the city--is a decisive victory for the Lords and their English allies. Still, Aumale remains at the head of formidable army. Things have turned in their favor once again--but the Lords know that they might then turn agianst them.
--St. Quentin falls to the Spanish and German forces, thanks in part to the Count Egmont's brilliant calvary work and John Frederick's skilled siegecraft, with Margrave Albert supervising the sack. It is a pretty bloody affair, especially since Margrave Albert's involved. Indeed, when Philip enters the city, he is thoroughly nauseated by what he sees, especially the actions of Albert, which includes seizing baptismal fonts and crucifixes to melt down, if they're made out of precious metals. He orders the rapacious Margrave from St. Quentin--WITHOUT his loot. Philip has a last had his triumph--and yet to his sorrow he finds he cannot enjoy it. Stories have him wandering the ruined streets of St. Quentin after the battle in shock, muttering to himself, and shaking his head in horror. [4]
All of France is in a panic. Paris is now vulnerable to attack--something that Margrave Albert's sudden approach with a band of mercenary troops demonstrates. This is it, everyone assumes. Spain's big assault. (Actually, they're wrong--Albert's just resentful of losing all his spoils, and has gathered a bunch of fellow malcontents together with the idea of shaking a few trees and seeing what falls from them, so to speak.) In desperation, Duke de Guise is plucked out, and sent forth with whatever troops are available to stop the apparent Spanish/Germanic juggernaut.
Albert's forces are much smaller than people realize, and not expecting much resistance--but despite this, the battle is fierce--Duke de Guise takes a nasty, scarring wound to the face during it. The Margrave takes a nasty scarring wound of his own, to the chest, which also happens to be fatal. Francois de Guise returns to Paris a hero. And there's more good news--John Frederick's younger brother, John William has failed in his attempt to besiege Metz, thanks to the skilled military command of Louis de Bourbon, Prince of Conde. As the French breath a momentary sigh of relief, it occurs to them that maybe--MAYBE--they'll come out of this all right.
To a certain quality of "all right" at least.
--As the Earl of Angus leads his fellow Douglases in retreat, he comes down with what at first seems to be a cough. A few days later, he is dying of pneumonia. [5] David Douglas has had no children, and so his title and authority passes to his brother James. And this strains the already tense relationship between the French and the Douglases to the breaking point. James, after all, has had little patience for this entire misbegotten alliance in the first place. The only things that're keeping him from simply backing out of this is the fact that the Duke of Aumale has demonstrated that he is one terrifying man when he has to be, and he has quite a few French troops backing him up.
--In Paris, Henri Valois is trying to figure out what went wrong--or more exactly, trying to figure out what went wrong in a manner that doesn't leave him to blame. He is watching France's gains evaporate, and the people he entered the war as allies turn into enemies. Henri is aware that this is largely his fault, and that he has to do something to recover it, though he's trying to figure out a way to consciously acknowledge this that doesn't make him feel unpleasant. Meanwhile, he consoles himself by preparing stronger heresy measures. Those damn Protestants are paying for this.
For the rest of France, it is a time of wary optimism. Duke de Guise is the toast of the nation once more--but even he knows that next year could be very nasty. All eyes turn to St. Quentin, where they certain the King of Spain and his Protestant allies plot the coming attack.
--In St. Quentin, John Frederick and the other League leaders mourn the passing of Margrave Albert--he may have been a brutal psychpathic bastard, but he was their brutal, psychopathic bastard, damn it. The Elector vows that the Margrave's young son George will be raised in his household, as if he were John Frederick's own.[6]
Meanwhile, Philip is likewise not plotting the coming attack. This is because he knows there won't be one. While many later generations will mutter about his cowardice and hesitation, that is not the major factor in this. Philip cannot afford another attack. In fact, he can't afford to pay the debts that are coming due next year. The Spanish Crown is on the verge of being bankrupt--his father left him an incredibly shaky financial situation and at the moment, "Philip, King of Spain" does not have the magic that "Charles V & I, Holy Roman Emperor" does as regards to bankers. It is close to a miracle he's managed to keep off the day of reckoning this long. [7]
This is all a bitter pill to swallow. He has overseen a great reversal of his house's fortunes--now it looks like it will all be snatched away. All Philip can do now is wait, and hope...
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[1] A reference to the great John Shaxper, dramatist extraordinare. What can I say? I'm weak.
[2] IOTL, King Sebastian of Portugal was named after the saint as he was born on his feast day. He also got the same astrological reading. It didn't turn out that accurate.
[3] Well, I wasn't going to let a great name like that go to waste, now was I?
[4] Philip was by most accounts just as traumatized by the OTL sack of St. Quentin, when it happened.
[5] He died of an illness in 1558, IOTL, leaving a son Archibald, who was raised by his brother.
[6] Albert died without issue IOTL, during the Margrave Wars.
[7] IOTL, Philip defaulted the year after his father abdicated. Here, he was in a slightly better situation--though the overall financial state of Spain is, naturally, much worse, and they have thus come to a crisis sooner.
