Fabulous. My thoughts exactly. Part 4 will be up soon. Spoiler: #SuchFrance #MuchFamily #SuchDrama #MuchFun
An Heir To Rule
- Thread starter Tudorfan
- Start date
We're both notoriously good at retrospectively adding in PODs or butterflies to suit our needs. Sorry if it's confusing!
Also, excellent chapter @Tudorfan I like Mary as much as I do Margaret. You write Henry's sisters very well
Indeed we are.We're both notoriously good at retrospectively adding in PODs or butterflies to suit our needs. Sorry if it's confusing!
Also, excellent chapter @Tudorfan I like Mary as much as I do Margaret. You write Henry's sisters very well
Thanks; I managed, I hope, to get away from "innocent teenager" and "bitchy widow/harridan wife" for Mary and Margaret - I usually see them portrayed like that and didn't want that.
Book The First: Katherine of Aragon - The Pomegranate Queen
A couple of family trees that may help for Chapter Four. @FalconHonour - you think your Boleyns bred like rabbits? I may have you beat! Take that!
Sir Thomas Boleyn (b. 1477 - ) m. Lady Elizabeth Howard (b. 1480 - ) in 1498 and had issue:
Boleyn Family Tree - c. June 1520
Sir Thomas Boleyn (b. 1477 - ) m. Lady Elizabeth Howard (b. 1480 - ) in 1498 and had issue:
- Mary Boleyn, Lady Carey (b. 1 February 1499 - ) m. Sir William Carey (b. 1500 - ) in February 1518 and had issue:
- William Carey (b. 11 November 1518 - )
- Thomas Carey (b. 15 October 1519 - )
- Catherine Boleyn (b. 14 April 1500 - )
- Thomas Boleyn Junior (b. 14 April 1500 - ) m. Lady Maud Percy (b. 1503 - ) in 1519 after impregnating her out of wedlock.
- Elizabeth Boleyn (b. January 1520)
- Anne Boleyn (b. 22 June 1501 - )
- Henry Boleyn (b. 10 July 1502 - ) m. Mary Carey (b. 1501 - ) in January 1520.
- Margaret Boleyn (b. 5 June 1503 - d. 21 June 1506)
- George Boleyn (b. 3 April 1504 - )
- Eleanor Boleyn (b. 8 January 1515 -)
Tudor Family Tree (and related families) - c. June 1520
Henry VII, King of England (b. 28 January 1457 - 21 April 1509) m. Elizabeth Plantagenet of York, Dowager Queen Consort of England (b. 11 February 1466 - ) on 18 January 1486 and had issue:
Henry VII, King of England (b. 28 January 1457 - 21 April 1509) m. Elizabeth Plantagenet of York, Dowager Queen Consort of England (b. 11 February 1466 - ) on 18 January 1486 and had issue:
- Arthur Tudor, Prince of Wales (b. 19 September 1486 - d. 2 April 1502) m. Catherine of Aragon (b. 16 December 1485 - ) on 14 November 1501. No issue.
- Margaret Tudor, Dowager Queen Consort of Scotland (b. 28 November 1489 - ) m. James Stewart IV, King of Scotland (b. 17 March 1473 - d. 9 September 1513) on 8 August 1503 and had issue:
- James, Duke of Rothesay (b. 21 February 1507 – d. 27 February 1508)
- Daughter (b&d. 15 July 1508)
- Arthur Stewart, Duke of Rothesay (b. 20 October 1509 – d. 14 July 1510)
- James V, King of Scotland (b. 10 April 1512- )
- A daughter (b&d. November 1512)
- Alexander Stewart, Duke of Ross (b. 30 April 1514 – )
- Henry VIII, King of England (b. 28 June 1491 - ) m. Catherine of Aragon, Queen Consort of England (b. 16 December 1485 - ) on 11 June 1509 and had issue. Had relationship with Elizabeth "Bessie" Blount (b. 1502 - ) and had issue:
- Daughter (b&d. 31 January 1510)
- Henry, Duke of Cornwall (b. 1 January 1511 - d. 22 February 1511)
- Son (b&d. 17 September 1513)
- Son (b&d. December 1514)
- Mary (b. 18 February 1516 - )
- Elizabeth (b. 10 November 1518 - )
- Henry FitzRoy (b. 15 June 1519 - )
- Elizabeth Tudor (b. 2 July 1492 - d. 14 September 1495)
- Mary Tudor, Dowager Queen Consort of France (b. 18 March 1496 - ) m. Louis XII, King of France (b. 27 June 1462 - d. 1 January 1515) on 9 October 1514 and had issue:
- Louis XIII, King of France (b. 14 August 1515 - )
- Edward Tudor (b. 1498 - d. 1499)
- Edmund Tudor, Duke of Somerset (b. 21 February 1499 - ) m. Katherine Stafford, Duchess of Somerset (b. 1499 - ) in July 1519.
- Katherine Tudor (b. 2 February 1503 - d. 10 February 1503)
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Hilariously, I actually have plans for all the living ones! It took more time than I'm ever willing to expend on anything ever again, but I have a plan for all of them.
Book The First: Katherine of Aragon - The Pomegranate Queen
Sorry this took so long, everyone and I changed my mind - The Field of Cloth of Gold will be separate! Computer troubles hit me for a few weeks and then I had some difficulty with this scene...
I hope you don't mind @FalconHonour, but I adapted a previously written scene that you wrote for me into the wedding scene we were discussing!
Book The First: Katherine of Aragon - The Pomegranate Queen
Chapter IV: July 1519
Westminster Abbey,
London, England,
July 1519
The Tudor Rose is everywhere. It is snapping above people’s heads on the rich royal blue banners that the standard bearers are carrying so carefully. It is in the buttonholes of all the liveried guards that are lining the route between the Tower and Westminster Abbey, serving as both protection and a guard of honour for their young Prince. It is being crushed beneath the hooves of the royal party’s horses, as the cheering crowds throw armfuls and armfuls of the flower into the path of the procession.London, England,
July 1519
Mary, the King’s eldest daughter, heads the procession, her golden curls woven with strings of aquamarines and sapphires and streaming over her shoulders, gleaming in the sunlight. So bright is her hair, in fact, that it is almost as though the blistering hot orb overhead has reached down and spread its gentle touch over Mary’s head.
Given that she wears an ermine-trimmed cloak of cloth-of-silver over her cerulean silk gown, the three-year-old must be sweltering, but she gives no sign of it, only draws her dapple-grey palfrey to a halt by the steps of Westminster Abbey. She pauses, seeming to count under her breath, and then, just as people begin to wonder at her hesitation, turns to wave at the crowd, inciting them to even greater heights of raucous delight.
She times it perfectly, as a King's daughter should, as her father would expect. She raises her hand at exactly the same moment that her uncle, the twenty year old Duke of Somerset, rides into the square before the Abbey, escorted by his brother and the Queen.
Edmund arrives to a roar of public approval, one so vast that even he, accomplished rider though he is, has to strain to keep his seat as his chestnut sorrel hunter whinnies and tosses its head.
He leans from the saddle to kiss Mary’s cheek, and as he does so, a breeze unfurls his personal banner so that the red upright dragon on a gold background holding an upright blue mace seems to hang in the sky as though pinned there.
(If the dragon is blowing fire at a heap of crowned pomegranates as a small slight at Catherine - and it is - well, then, nobody is going to say anything. Not today, at least, even if Catherine does bristle at the affront but hides it well enough that only Edmund - who's looking for her reaction - and Henry - who's close enough to her that she cannot hide it from him - sees.)
Mary kisses his hand, and then slips from the saddle into a curtsy so deep her bent head almost brushes the ground in front of her, before taking her mother's hand and letting her escort her into the Abbey.
Their mother, Dowager Queen Elizabeth, next behind Edmund and his companions in the procession by virtue of importance - and the absence of her younger granddaughter, who, at eight months old, is too young to play a part in the wedding ceremony - soon arrives, resplendent in a deep purple dress with Tudor roses around the neck and arm holes, and follows Mary’s lead, save that it is the King himself who accompanies her into the Abbey, bestowing upon her the one of the greatest of honours, for one of the greatest women in his life.
Next, under the banner of a fleur-de-lis encased by a Tudor rose and encircled by a glistening golden crown, is Anne de Montmorency, Baron Montmorency, and the Duke of Valois and Brittany, escorted by the Marquess of Dorset and Duke of Buckingham respectively - representatives of his sister, Mary.
Not to be outdone, both resplendent in chestnut red with the Purple Thistle and Tudor rose Encircled in a crown above their heads on their own flag, then it is the turn of Margaret's representatives: the Duke of Albany and the Earl of Arran, escorted by Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, and Edmund's cousin, Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury.
There are so many more - all their Plantagenet cousins, Buckingham and his wife, beaming in delight - and then it is Edmund’s turn. He steels himself and slips from the saddle, feeling the weight of his cloth of silver robes and train settle on his shoulders as he does so. Henry had insisted - this was a Tudor wedding; today, the light would be on Edmund, and so he was resplendent as his friend and soon-to-be-brother-in-law, Henry, Lord Stafford, takes up his train and he falls into step behind the Duke of Norfolk, who is Earl Marshal, and the Earl of Derby, who is carrying the sword.
They process down the gigantic nave, and Edmund feels the responsibility of his ever approaching wedding settle more and more firmly around him with every step he takes.
All eyes are on him now. He will do his duty, as he always will, for King and Country.
He stops at the nave and takes the offered hands of his wife-to-be and the Archbishop of Canterbury, William Warham, begins to speak.
*~*~*~*~*
When he emerges, the bells of Westminster ringing, doves flying, trumpets blaring, his banner and the royal banners unfurling in the slight breeze, a hand raised to the applauding crowd, his new bride, Lady Katherine Stafford, daughter of his godfather, Edward, Duke of Buckingham on his arm, it is done: he is a married man.
He has done his duty, as he always will, for King and Country.
For King and Country.
For King.
And Country.
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I like it! Hopefully edmund and katherine will be happy together...well, at least happier than henry and his katherine.
Book The First: Katherine of Aragon - The Pomegranate Queen
Book The First: Katherine of Aragon - The Pomegranate Queen
Chapter V: June 1520
Val d'Or,
English Occupied France,
June 1520
"Halt!" cries Henry. The English retinue stop at the top of the hill. Before them stretches an enormous palace and more tents than the eye can see. "There it is: Val d'Or - the Valley of Gold." He flashes a smile to Edmund, who's on his own sorrel hunter to his right. Since the Queen cannot be next to Henry - she's riding in a litter, given her current pregnancy - Edmund is the most senior member of the Royal Family in the advance retinue.English Occupied France,
June 1520
"What if the French don't show?" asks Harry Stafford, tall and broad shouldered with red-blonde hair, reining his chestnut stallion to a halt to Henry's left.
"Oh, they'll show!" states William Compton, laughing gleefully. "They'll just be fashionably late. Your Majesty, look - there they are." He points into the distance where the bright blue of Francis, Duke of Valois, is shining brightly in the sun.
"What's the plan?" asks Edmund, leaning across to Henry.
"I was to ride down alone and meet the Duke. He and I will ride in together as King Louis is too young."
"It's a trap," declares Stafford. "What if they mean to lure you down there to kill you?"
"Then it's war," declares Edmund shortly. "Family or not."
Henry moves on his horse, which trots in front of the retinue. "All of you," he begins, catching the eye of all of them as he passes. "On pain of death, stay." He descends the hill as, from the French Retinue opposite, the Duke of Valois descends with twelve men. The two meet outside the fake Palace.
"Cousin," greets Henry, somewhat sharply - and if he raises his shoulders and sucks in his thickening middle a little, well, that's his little secret.
"Cousin," replies Francis, more than a little sharply himself - and if he raises his head to disguise his enormous nose somewhat, well, that's his little secret. "Bienvenue en France."
"After you," says Henry, gesturing to the entrance arch of the fake Palace.
"Mais non," replies Francis. "After you."
For a moment, they sit there in awkward silence, sizing one another up - Francis has noticed Henry's shoulders rise as he holds in his thicker midsection and smirks, knowing the English King can do little to hide that, and Henry has noticed Francis's upturned nose and smirks himself, knowing the French Duke can do little to hide that. Then, the silence breaks - they smile, chuckle, and enter together, neither hiding their failings now.
"How do you like my beard?"
"You almost look French now! Although, you are a little too fat for that."
Henry roars with laughter as they descend under the arch.
*~*~*~*~*
The next day, the two Royal Families are sat together in one of the tents, a large table spread before them. Trumpets blare the French Royal Anthem.
Three women sit in the thrones provided for the Queens: Catherine of Aragon, Queen of England, a hand resting on her six months pregnant stomach; Claude, Duchess of Brittany and Valois, seven months pregnant herself, her ugliness unable to be disguised or mitigated by even the most dazzling of garments; and Dowager Queen Mary, the most beautiful woman in the room, crowned and red haired, resplendent in blue. Dowager she may be, but Mary is still the highest ranking woman at The French Court until her son is lawfully married.
All three are bedecked in jewels and their greatest finery.
At the other end of the table, resplendent in red and blue respectively, are Henry and Francis, who is standing in for young Louis, who cannot be a part of the festivities and be sat here now.
An English herald unfurls a scroll and begins to read: "Hear ye, hear ye: I, Henry, by the Grace of God, King of England, Ireland and France, do hereby-"
"-Stop!" barks Henry.
The tent falls silent; several people look anxiously around. Is Henry backing out now?
Henry glances across to Francis, sitting in for the young King, who is being dressed and pressed, ready for his betrothal. "I cannot be that while my nephew is here, for I would be a liar. During this summit I am simply Henry, King of England."
Francis seems genuinely surprised; he smiles down at Henry. "And King Louis is simply King of France. And Burgundy."
Henry chuckles to himself. What a pompous ass Francis is. And to think, if Mary had failed, this would be the King of France!
"Majesties," begins Wolsey, leaning between them with an enormous golden bible. "May I ask you each place a hand upon the Holy Bible and swear, before God, and these Princes and lords here gathered: that you will be true, virtuous and loving to each other?"
For a moment, as Wolsey lowers the Bible, there's an awkward silence as neither of them move. The two eye each other up, seeing, waiting, who will move first. Then, finally, both together, they place their hands on the Bible.
"I so swear," says Henry.
"Mon si," says Francis. "France too, swears, of course."
Trumpets blare - people begin muttering at the cuteness of the two youths approaching: Louis, King of France, is already tall for his meagre age of almost-five, and is bedecked in all the fine trappings of a King, though that cannot hide the chubbiness that his body should have begun to grow out of yet seems to stubbornly retain; Mary, on the other hand, at four years old herself, is a small, red haired, whippet of a girl. Though she is pretty, her own dress does little to hide her smallness.
The two separate: Mary heads left, Louis right, as directed by Wolsey. Louis hops onto the table, Mary shifts her skirts and climbs on too.
"Princess Mary," begins Wolsey, smiling genially at her. "May I introduce Louis Henri, King of France, your future husband."
As displeased as she is with Mary being betrothed to the family of greatest enemy, like her namesake before her, Catherine bites her tongue - this is Mary's day, after all - though the set of her jaw betrays her displeasure.
Mary smiles and curtseys; Louis smiles and bows. They step across the table to one another: one step, two, three - until they've done eight and are two paces apart.
"Are you the King of France?" Mary asks. She knows the answer - of course he is, she isn't stupid, but she knows she has to play her part: she will be a Queen one day, a Queen of England and France, and she must, for now at least, do as she is commanded. And what she is commanded to do is play her part.
"Oui," declares Louis, much meeker and quieter than her.
"Then I want to kiss you," declares Mary.
She steps forward, puts a hand on each shoulder, and kisses his right cheek.
"Urgh, Maman! Maman!" cries Louis, wiping at his cheek.
Mary cannot hide her displeasure; she frowns and shoves Louis, who topples back onto the table; he clutches at his face, his breeches tear, and his crown bounces off his head and across the table.
"Mon Dieu!" cries Dowager Queen Mary, more French than English now, rising to see to the health of her son.
Edmund bites back a laugh; he and Brandon, both resplendent in red - which flatters Edmund more than the increasingly stout Henry and Brandon, it has to be said - hide their grins well enough that no-one barring their wives - Elizabeth, Viscountess Lisle and six months pregnant Katherine, Duchess of Somerset - notice.
"Mary!" scolds Henry, though the sparkle in his eyes betrays his pride.
"Come," says Edmund, stepping forward and holding out a hand for Mary. She takes it and hops off the table, pleased as she can be with herself, and lets him lead her away to her chambers.
*~*~*~*~*
"I have got to get one of these!" declares Compton, filling a tankard of ale from one of the stone lion heads from which it pours.
Henry's raucous laugh echoes as he and Thomas More walk together.
"Palace of Illusions," says Henry to More. "What do you think?"
"It's incredible, Your Majesty," admits More - and he means it. He's never seen anything done like this in such a short time.
"It's only painted canvas," admits Henry, lifting up one of the sheets of canvas designed to look like bricks; he and More beam in delight, laughing at the shared joke.
"But real wine!" comes Suffolk's bellow.
"Don't drink too much of it, Charles!" declares Henry, dropping the sheet of Canvas. "You are already fat enough!"
Though Compton laughs and jabs at his side, Charles doesn't hear him - he's too busy drinking.
*~*~*~*~*
The festivities are in full swing as Edmund arrives; the English and French guards are sword fighting. King Louis is speaking in rapid French to his mother; Francis is whispering to Claude, a hand on her stomach, looking every inch the devoted husband, though Edmund knows at least two of Francis's mistresses are in the room.
The last French guard falls to the English and the crowd applaud, though the French applause is perfunctory.
Francis rises at Louis's hand signal across the table.
"And now," he says loudly to the room. "We French have a gift for you."
A servant steps forward and places a large ornate chest on the table in front of Henry, who has risen himself. He opens the chest, allowing the lid to fall back; the action reveals the interior - a sumptuous red cloth, on which sits dazzling red rubies encased in diamonds on a necklace - a gift fit for a King.
"You embarrass me, Francis," says Henry.
"Oh, non," says Francis, shaking his head.
"When all I can give you is this pastry."
He gestures for his own servant to come forward. A large, stuffed pheasant sits on top of a massive circular pastry.
If this is English food, no wonder cousin Henri is so fat, thinks Francis, eyeing the ring of fat girdling Henry's waist. This is enormous.
The servant bows and hands him a knife, removing the pheasant on top. Technically it should be too Louis, but no-one, especially not a foreign ruler, is going to give a knife to a four year old child.
Francis stabs the pastry, cutting a vertical line through it. The pastry begins to move and he frowns.
What on Earth is this? He wonders.
He gets his answers seconds later when a murder of crows explode from the pastry, flapping around the room.
"Tres Amusant," admits Francis, though he finds it a little coarse and crass himself.
Henry and Francis sit back down and Henry gestures to a servant. Music begins to play through the room.
After a short moment, Francis rises, clapping a hand to Henry's shoulder. He leans down to whisper conspiratorially. "Do you see that young woman over there?" he asks, nodding with his goblet. "The one dressed in purple and gold."
"Yes," admits Henry. He has noticed her, though he can do better than her, so she has little to worry about.
"Her name is Catherine Boleyn," continues Francis. "The daughter of your ambassador, with her sisters, Anne and Mary. I call Catherine my English Mare as I ride her so often."
Francis laughs and, not realising that his joke has fallen flat, leaves to speak to some French noblemen now filling into the room.
But Henry's eyes aren't on Francis, or his big nose or thin legs - they're on the dark haired, dark eyed vixen next to her. He knows the woman is not Mary - he attended Mary's wedding and the woman, unlike Mary, is not pregnant... again - or Catherine, who Francis so vulgarly pointed out, so she must be...
Anne.
Anne Boleyn.
It's a good name, he thinks, a strong name.
"Would you like me to procure her for you?" asks Edmund, leaning down as he arrives behind Henry's throne; he's chosen to his place to lean deliberately: Queen Catherine can hear.
"Not yet," says Henry. "But have Thomas bring her back to England. And you are late."
Edmund lets a smirk cross his face. "Of course," he says. "Forgive my lateness - Katherine was feeling tired; today has tired her. I did not desire to risk her or the child, so saw her to bed."
Henry nods in understanding - Edmund's child will be fourth in line to the throne, one more heir to keep the damnable French from his throne, or the Scots.
*~*~*~*~*
Harry Stafford, shirtless like the rest of the wrestlers, wins his bout; he turns, handsome face flushed, to the one woman he desires to see. His wife, Ursula Pole, is four months pregnant with a child he much enjoyed fathering. Grinning triumphantly, thick muscles covered in a faint layer of sweat, he bows his red-blonde head to her, and then sweeps up to kiss her passionately.
Several of the other English noblemen fall at the hands of the French.
"You see that, brother?" says Francis. "In most things, we French excel you. We have the greatest painters, the greatest musicians, and the greatest poets. Most of whom, by the way, live at my brother-in-law's court de ma cie. The greatest philosophical minds, engineers, architects. And, of course, we have the most beautiful women. You won't deny that, will you? Even our wrestlers are better than yours. We are certainly thinner than you."
Henry is about to rise to the challenge, just as Francis expects him too, when the room falls silent, as one noise - a shriek - rents the air.
Harry Stafford whirls around. "My God," he breathes; Ursula gasps, a hand flying to her own stomach protectively.
"Mon Dieu!" breathes Francis, his challenging barbs to Henry all but forgotten as he shouts for a physician.
Harry Stafford darts away, not even bothering to dress, waving the physician in as he arrives.
Queen Catherine is the one who has shrieked; a pool of blood is forming between her legs.
She is losing her child.
*~*~*~*~*
Dead.
The word rings in Catherine's head; she's heard it so many times, so many Pregnancies that have failed, but it still bites her to the bone.
Another dead son.
"Your Majesty, the King is here."
Catherine nods at María de Salinas's words; better to get this over with now. He is going to be furious.
She's right.
Henry shoves María aside as he storms into the room. Fury is etched into every line of his face, though it's not her he's angry with.
"What did you do to kill this one?" he spits, not caring how much it will hurt her.
"I - nothing -" she splutters. "God chose -"
"WHAT DID YOU DO!?" he roars, hand smashing around her face with a such a force that the crack can be heard the other end of the castle.
She's struck dumb - he's never - not ever - and she realises - now, now, she has lost his love. Her womb will, forever more, remain empty.
He stares at her, face full of fury, and bites back the shout that he knows will erupt from him again. He turns and leaves, stopping at María. "Forgive me, Lady Willoughby," he says. "I pushed you in my anger at the Queen. You have done nothing wrong. She is to stay here until we return to England. I do not desire to have her in my presence."
"Not even for the signing?" asks María.
Henry sighs in annoyance. "Not even for the signing. It cannot be delayed and she will not be back on her feet in time. The woman is not to leave this room until we return home."
"Very well," says María, noticing Henry's biting description of Catherine as 'the woman'. She nods and drops a curtsey and then leaves.
Catherine cries, a hand clutching at the red welt forming on her cheek.
*~*~*~*~*
The air is tense the next morning; Catherine watches sadly from the veranda.
King Louis signs the document - the Treaty of Universal and Perpetual Peace - and steps back.
Wolsey steps forward. "And now, I ask His Gracious Majesty King Henry of England to also sign, in Good Faith, the Treaty of Universal and Perpetual Peace."
Wolsey steps back, allowing Henry to step forward. Henry takes the pink inked quill and signs the document, even though he would rather be doing anything else, be anywhere else, even though he desires to take Catherine and shake her until she confesses to what she did to kill their child, even though he desires to scream at her until he cannot scream anymore.
The crowd applauds and Wolsey hands them each a box with the other country's crest in it - a gift to seal their alliance.
*~*~*~*~*
Elizabeth of York knows something is terribly wrong when Catherine and Henry return to England. Catherine is still crying, and Henry is furious, shouting and snapping at anyone and everyone. When, a week after their return, Edmund asks how the Queen is, Henry takes him by the collar and shakes him angrily, screaming that Edmund should care more for him, rather than the Queen.
Thankfully is it only Henry, Edmund and Elizabeth herself in Henry's private chambers.
Edmund, ever the consummate courtier, merely steps back, brushes himself down, and replies: "I only ask, Henry, for the future of the country. If Catherine is not well, then she cannot provide a son."
"She cannot provide a living son at all," spits Henry. "Mother, Brother, I desire a divorce from the Queen. I am not going to get a son from her."
Elizabeth gasps, horror filling in her heart. In all her fifty four years nothing has shocked her more than this: not even the usurpation of the throne by her Uncle Richard had surprised her as much as this.
"Henry!" she gasps.
Henry throws the Bible at her, slamming a finger down on a passage. "Leviticus," he says. "20:21. 'And if a man shall take his brother's wife, it is impurity: he hath uncovered his brother's nakedness; they shall be childless.'"
"You have children."
"You are not a stupid woman, mother," Henry says bluntly. "So do not act like you are. It means that Catherine and I are living in sin. It means we will not have sons, that God is punishing us for our 'marriage'."
She looks up at him, barely able to believe her ears.
"I desire an annulment."
If she had taken her eyes off Henry, she would have noticed the smile crossing Edmund's face.
"How?" he asks.
"'How'?" Elizabeth parrots, whirling to Edmund as she vaults to her feet, Bible tumbling to the floor. "You do not intend to aid Henry in this folly?"
"Not quite," says Edmund.
Henry whirls to him, full of fury and rage. Edmund raises a hand to soothe Henry. "I do not think you should annul your marriage yet," he says, stressing the final word. "Write to the Pope with your arguments, but do not ask for an annulment. Ask, instead, for permission to legitimise Henry Fitzroy. Then you do not offend Spain - Catherine would still be your Queen - and you have a son, one legitimised by the Pope, to succeed you. If the Pope refuses that, then, yes, I am sorry, Mother, but Catherine must go."
She hates it, really she does, but she's lived through one Civil War and has no desire to make England suffer another.
"Alright," Elizabeth agrees reluctantly. "Alright. If the Pope refuses legitimisation of your son, then annul the marriage. But only if the legitimisation is refused."
Henry grins happily.
"I knew you would see it my way eventually, Mother. I shall tell Wolsey first thing in the morning."
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Yeah. This time, France is, despite it all, family and Edmund has a child on the way, so Henry can be a tad nicer.
He better be nicer. Poor Catherine, she's being abused like hell by everyone in this TL, except her two daughters.
If it cheers you up, here's a slight spoiler: I do have several nice things planned for Catherine of Aragon after the divorce. I can't say what those nice things are, only that she has some nice things coming.
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Ah, poor Catherine . Part of me hopes that Henry does not get a single living son by whatever other woman he marries, it would be poetic justice to him for being so awful to her.
. Part of me hopes that Henry does not get a single living son by whatever other woman he marries, it would be poetic justice to him for being so awful to her.
Book The First: Katherine of Aragon - The Pomegranate Queen
Book The First: Katherine of Aragon - The Pomegranate Queen
Chapter VI: June - July 1520
Whitehall Palace,
England,
Late June 1520
She knows, Edmund thinks, seeing the look on Catherine's face as María de Salinas opens the door, announces him, and bids him entrance. I don't know how she knows, but she knows - de Mesa probably told her, the spying rat. Henry will be furious.England,
Late June 1520
Catherine stares at him imperiously and extends a hand for him to kiss. However reluctant he is to acknowledge her as Queen, when she is only his late brother's widow, he still does it - for now, the marriage is still 'valid', at least until the Pope annuls it.
"Your Majesty," he greets, sweeping his hat to his chest, flame red hair glistening in the crackle of the fire in the fireplace hearth.
Catherine lets no awkward silence fill the room: "So, Henry desires to divorce me, does he?"
"He does," he replies.
"On what grounds?"
"On the Bible, Catherine," he says. "You have one in your chambers, I presume?"
"Certainly I do," Catherine snaps, bristling. "María, fetch the bible."
María returns a few moments later with a small bible. Catherine opens the bible. "So," she says, looking down at the pages. "Where does God say that Henry can displace me, the mother of his heirs, for some concubine who has taken his fancy?"
"First of all, Your Majesty, no concubine has taken my brother's fancy - he certainly has no intentions of marrying one of his whores," replies Edmund. This is true - even if Anne Boleyn has piqued Henry's interest after their sojourn in France, he isn't going to marry her: he'll marry a French lady, or one of the Emperor's numerous siblings. "Secondly, turn to Leviticus 20:21. 'And if a man shall take his brother's wife, it is impurity: he hath uncovered his brother's nakedness; they shall be childless.' My brother, in his infinite wisdom, interprets this to mean that you will have no sons."
"We have had had sons."
"Dead ones, useless ones!" snaps Edmund and he sees Catherine's hand move to her stomach, where her child resided until mere weeks ago. "Even a commoner's daughter from Shropshire gave him a living one, bastard though he may be. You, Catherine, have been married to Henry for eleven years and all you have given him is a dead daughter, a short-lived son, two dead boys, two girls and another dead boy. My brother desires you gone. He has written to Pope Leo asking for Henry FitzRoy to be legitimised and for your marriage to be annulled. All you need to decide now is, when you leave court, where you will live."
"I-"
"Catherine, for your sake, and the futures of your daughters, be sensible. Give Henry what he desires and leave. He has asked Pope Leo to legitimise Henry FitzRoy and to leave Mary and Elizabeth legitimate, even when your marriage ends. Do not give him reason to change his mind."
"Henry would never-"
"Henry will do whatever is best for England," replies Edmund quickly. "If that requires leaving you, he will."
He does not wait for her reply. He has done what he has been commanded to do - he has told Catherine of Henry's intentions and to go.
*~*~*~*~*
Ribiera Palace,
Lisbon, Portugal,
13 July 1520
Ribiera Palace,
Lisbon, Portugal,
13 July 1520
The bells ring throughout Portugal.
Manuel I of Portugal lays dying in his chambers, neck and back broken from a horse riding accident. Two people who are not there as the physicians bustle around, doing whatever they can to save him, are his wife, Eleanor, and son, John.
He does not notice their absence, unable to see after his riding accident, and no-one makes much note of it; John is the future King, so must be kept from death, and Eleanor is his soon-to-be-widow who has to go into mourning. Their absences are not unexpected or unexplainable.
What none of them know, however, is that neither John nor Eleanor are in mourning. At the particular moment that the physicians are trying to save King Manuel from death, John, Prince of Portugal, is revealing his burning desire for the soon-to-be-Dowager-Queen by filling her with his seed.
It's dangerous, he knows, but it's only a matter of days - hours, if he's lucky enough - until he can write to the Pope and ask for permission to take his stepmother as his wife and then fill her, time and time again, with his seed until she catches and births his sons. He knows they'll have sons - a dozen to their name at least - and spread Portuguese influence across the world as wide as her legs are spread for him.
"John..."
She moans his name as he fills her in just the right way and hearing her name on his lips - knowing the dreams that have woken him on many nights and united his hand and his cock just as many since she married his father are now coming true - makes him buck and thrust harder.
Her legs close, just under his backside, and her hands clasp onto his shoulders.
Is this what it feels like? she thinks as her eyes roll back in her head in delight. She's been a virgin since she married Manuel - he had no need to bed her, having seven living sons and two living daughters from the ten children provided to him by her aunt and his late wife, Maria, with which to continue his dynasty.
And then there was John; even from the day she had arrived in Portugal, married to his father, she has wanted him - tall, dark haired, handsome and packed with muscle, he's the handsomest man she's ever known; admittedly, given her brothers have chins so enormous that you could impale someone with them that's not a hard challenge, but it's one he's more than surpassed.
His thrusting increases and he silences her as she whimpers at the feeling by locking his mouth with hers, his tongue in her mouth and hers in his.
He moans through the kiss as he expels his seed into her. As he does, the bells fall silent.
King Manuel is dead and he, John, is now King.
Eleanor is now his.
He cries out in relief and rolls off her, panting heavily. Dressing himself, he kisses her passionately, sneaks through the private door to his father's chambers, and sinks to his knees at his father's bedside when no-one is looking. If they had been looking, they would have seen joy and glee dancing behind his eyes.
Eleanor dresses herself and has just adjusted her gabled hood when a knock at the door arrives.
"Your Majesty? King Manuel is dead."
She opens the door, painting an expression of grief on her face, and allows the servant to take her to Manuel's bedroom.
John rises and, putting on a show for the courtiers now filing in to pay their respects to their late King, crosses the room and kneels before her, kissing the hand she offers. "Your Majesty," he says. "I promise you will be looked after now that my father has passed from this world. I promise, with all my heart, mind, soul and body, that I will care for you for as long as you choose to stay in Portugal."
"Thank you, Your Majesty," she says, holding back the smirk, knowing he's already taken care of her enough today. "Let us pray for my husband's immortal soul."
Everyone sinks to their knees and begins to pray.
That night, as Portugal lays silent in mourning for the late King Manuel and Dowager Queen Eleanor sleeps, thoroughly sated from sex, the new King John watches as Jaime, Duke of Braganza, rides out of the castle on an issue most urgent: to obtain permission for John's marriage to the Dowager Queen Eleanor from the Pope.
*~*~*~*~*
Palace of Aachen,
Aachen, Germany,
15 July 1520
"Come to bed," says his new wife, Germaine of Foix, widow of his grandfather, who is laying back in the bed as she rests her hand on her six month pregnant stomach.
He swaggers across to the bed, hands on his hips, flush with impending fatherhood for the second time, and clambers in next to her, leaning across to kiss her. He lets a hand slip to her belly; their child kicks as if sensing his presence, and he knows it'll be a boy this time, a boy to be brother to their darling Isabel, a boy to be heir to the Spanish dominions when the Pope legitimises their secret marriage - a marriage so secret that only Bierzo had been witness.
"Will the Pope forgive us for our marriage?" she asks, resting her head against his broad chest.
"Bierzo will succeed," he assures her, his large chin brushing against her head as he leans down to kiss the top of her head. "I'll have to build several churches dedicated to him and make a pilgrimage, but The Pope will forgive us. And if the Pope forgives us, any Spaniards who protest are traitors, not just to Spain, but to the Pope as well."
She smiles, but she can't help the sinking feeling in her stomach.
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Well with those two as contrast, Henry's request now looks rather respectable.
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This isn't really a spoiler, given that Chapter 1 covered it... but Henry is actually not getting his annulment in 1520. The next chapter will reveal why that is.
I think that was rather the point 😉 These were my suggestions, happy to see them used!
Wonderful chapter, as always, @Tudorfan - although you may want to introduce the world to little Beth at some point!