An Imperial Match: Anne Boleyn marries Charles V

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Historymaster

pandizzy said:
Mary's dowry was Anjou and Maine, which are already in French's hand. Normandy was never part of the deal. Francis needed a reason for the war that wasn't "I'm taking advantage of a boy-King to take back lands that were taken from me."
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Ok, like I guessed then. Greedy bastard of a king.
 
12th of April, 1535.
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    • pandizzy

    pandizzy

    Palace of Westminster, England. 12th of April, 1535.​

    “Are you upset?”

    John looked at Charlie, who was standing beside him. His friend was looking forward as they threw rocks in the palace’s garden pool, watching them skip across the water. John frowned, even as his friend turned to him, and sighed.

    "About what?" he asked.

    "The war," said Charlie, looking at him. The first time they saw each other after John learned that his father was dead, Charlie had tried to bow to him and call him majesty, but John didn't allow it. Everyone already treated him like he was someone else, like he wasn't John Tudor, but King John II of England and he couldn't handle Charlie doing so as well. Even if he was a king, he wanted at least one person to treat him like the old days.

    John looked away.

    "I suppose so," he said. "Many people are going to die in my name." He shook his head, trying to shake off the fear in his heart. "The Lord Chancellor said there is no hope of fighting off the French in Normandy, but that we can't simply give up."

    "So we're sending our men to die?" Charlie asked with wide eyes. John nodded. "Can't you do something about it?"

    "Like what?" John asked, upset. "I'm not of age yet. I have to do what the council says and they said we need to fight to the last man, or we will become the laughing stock of Europe."

    "That's terrible," said Charlie. He stepped closer to him; John was taller than Charlie, but his friend had longer arms. Thus, it was quite easy for him to embrace him, and their heads knocked against each other. Brown Howard hair and Tudor red hair meshed together, and John let out a deep breath. Just being there made everything so much easier for him. "My uncle Norfolk said that because of the war, no one can expect you to marry that French princess like the King wanted you to."

    John nodded. "The Archbishop of Canterbury said the same," he said. "His Grace said we shouldn't reward the French king's daughter with a crown when her family is full of liars and hypocrites."

    "Isn't that all of France?" Charlie asked, sharing the same deep English hatred for all things that came from their historical enemies.

    "I guess," said John. He smiled, stepping away from the embrace. "My mother said I can marry an infanta from Portugal, if I wanted to. She said she would arrange everything with her brother."

    "And is that what you want?" asked Charlie and John shrugged.

    "I suppose so," he said. "I'll have to marry eventually, won't I? At least, better be someone from my mother's country if my wife can't be English."

    Charlie nodded, then his nose crunched up, as if considering the whole matter. "I don't think I'll marry before I'm thirty, at least," he said.

    "Why not?" John asked, confused.

    “Because how else can you know if you’ve made the right choice?” he said with as much maturity and intelligence as a twelve-year-old boy could muster. “You might like a girl when she is sixteen, but then, you’re both thirty and you realise she has bad breath in the morning. Now, what do you do? You’re stuck with her.”

    John laughed. “It would take you fourteen years to realise your wife has bad breath, Charlie?” he asked. Charlie flushed when he noticed his mistake, but he smiled still.

    “The fog of love had me confused,” he admitted, looking away. “But also, no one cares if I marry.”

    “What do you mean?” John asked.

    Charlie shrugged. “My father is the younger son of a duke and he doesn’t even have a title like my uncle William,” he said. “And I’m not his eldest son either, I’ll remind you. There are plenty of other people to marry and carry on the Howard name.”

    “I care who you marry,” said John. “You’re my best friend, Charlie.” He chewed his lips, nervous. “If you are so upset about not having lands or titles, then I will give you a title.”

    “John!” Charlie gasped. “You can’t give everyone a title!”

    “Yes, I can,” said John. “I’m the king and I can do what I want.” He laughed and placed a hand over his heart. “I swear now to you, Master Charles Howard, that when I come of age, I shall make you an earl and I will find the most beautiful heiress in all of England for you to marry. This, I so swear.”

    Charlie laughed, looking away, and John laughed as well. His friend might think he would soon forget this, but he wouldn’t. John never forgot any of his promises.
     
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    • TheBookwormBoy

    pandizzy said:
    Nantes, Brittany. 30th of March, 1535.​

    Marie held Francoys close to her, rocking him slightly as the tears threatened to slip from her eyes. Her heart twisted deep into her chest, still broken even after an entire month of mourning and she couldn't keep lying to herself anymore. She was not a little girl any longer. She was the Duchess of Brittany, future Queen of France and there was no time for tears.

    Her father was dead, her dear brother was King of England now and Marie couldn't even come home to stand beside him. She was an orphan, fatherless, motherless and yet… and yet she was still there. Still alive. Mother to a count, wife to a duke. Her brother's heir until John married. A woman.

    Francoys' face was red in his sorrow. He cried just as much as she wanted to cry and Marie let him. Poor boy, never to know his magnificent grandfather. She pressed a kiss to his face and held him close, swaying around her room to try and calm him down.

    Her father had been upset that Francoys was not a Henri, or that he had not been called to be one of the godfathers. Marie regretted this now. François and the King both insisted on prominent French nobles to stand for the boy that would one day be crowned at Reims, such as the Duke of Guise. And Marie had accepted. It made sense. Whenever she had a Henri, she was sure to honour her father and her son's English ancestry.

    She thought she had more time. Her son was not even a year old and François promised her that he'd allow her body to rest for at least two years before they'd start trying for a second son. Marie blamed her mother's frequent pregnancies for her death and she wanted time to rest, to enjoy her son and her husband before she was once again called to do a wife's duty. She didn't want to be trapped in a constant cycle of conception, pregnancy and childbirth like her mother and aunt Maria were. She wanted to live.

    Oh, how she regretted this now. Maybe if Marie had been pregnant, and with a promise of a Henri, her father might not have gone riding that day. An announcement letter from her would certainly have held him back and maybe he’d still be living.

    Francoys calmed down in her arms and Marie sat exhaustedly in a chair by the window, looking out into the city. Just beyond the shores of Brittany, of which she could not see, laid England. Her home, her country.

    She closed her eyes at the same time that her son began to play with her necklace. Her father was dead, her mother was dead and her brother was now King of England. She was an adult, a woman, a mother. She couldn’t cry at every moment. Her son needed her to be strong, her husband needed her to be strong.

    Marie opened her eyes again. Father had been buried with her mother in Windsor, just as he always wanted. He had already prepared a joint sarcophagus for them and Marie remembered seeing it as a child. Their marbled hands clasped together, the bodies of her brothers and sisters buried at their feet. The white angels and cherubims flying over them, the Latin inscription promising of a reunion in Heaven.

    The next child she had, Marie promised herself that it would be a Henri or a Catherine. François couldn’t deny her that, not when she did not deny him a Francoys. His younger brother was named Henri and Catherine was the name of one of her ancestors, a French princess who married Henry V and later bore the Tudor dynasty in her widowhood. She was a member of the House of Valois and none could deny her the chance of a daughter named Catherine.

    Francoys’ wet nurse came to take him for a final feeding before bed and Marie remained in her chambers, writing by the window. Kate Parr had asked her to translate a work of Erasmus from Latin to English and Marie felt perfectly content in doing as her friend asked. Especially since Kate was at her husband’s holdings in Longueville, having just given birth to a second daughter named Marie, after the Duchess of Brittany. Mademoiselle Marie was her second child with the Duke, having an older sister named Inès and Marie was her godmother. She could afford to be generous, thus.

    That was where her husband found her, writing and focused under the candlelight. When she heard the door open, Marie looked up with a smile. A smile that died as soon as she saw his face, pale and grief-stricken. Her heart began to stutter in her chest, as a thousand thoughts began to fly through her mind. His father was dead, one of his brothers was dead, one of his sisters was dead. Her son, her precious son, might have passed through her mind had she not just seen him, but still, Marie stood up, a hand to her heart.

    “What is it?” she asked, practically begging him with her eyes to speak.

    “Marie,” he said in French, stepping forward carefully. “Forgive me, please.”

    “Forgive you?” she asked. “Why? Why should I forgive you?”

    “The King, my father, has summoned me to Paris," François started. "He intends to go to war against your brother for Normandy."

    "Normandy?" Marie repeated. "Normandy is my brother's inheritance."

    François cringed, reaching for her hand. She stepped away, even at the sight of his face, features crumbling like he might burst into tears at any moment.

    "Normandy is French," he said. "My father said that your father promised Normandy as your dowry, and now, he intends to take advantage of the King's death to take it back."

    "Normandy as a dowry is ridiculous!" Marie replied, tears bubbling in her eyes. "You will go to war against my brother in my name?"

    "Marie, please," he said and she turned away from him, her heart breaking. Whatever he could've told her, whatever other news he might have broken, it would certainly have been better received by her. Marie would have overlooked a hundred bastards, a hundred affairs, but he didn't. He betrayed her. "Please, allow me to do my duty to my king."

    She looked at him. François was kneeling before her, clutching the red fabric of her skirts. She remembered her son, sleeping safely in his nursery, with his Valois brown hair and Tudor blue eyes. He was meant to be a symbol of peace, she thought. We were supposed to bring peace!

    "How can you possibly expect me to choose between you and my country?" she asked, trembling with anger. With sadness. "How can you possibly expect me to approve of this?"

    "Please, don't send me away with your curse, my love," he said, carefully.

    Marie looked away. "Go," she said. "Do your duty, François."

    "Marie…" he started.

    "Go!" she shouted. "Leave me to my grief."

    He stood up shakily, clutching her hands, her skirts. Marie looked at him as if she might look at a stranger. When he didn't move, even to leave, or to plead for her forgiveness, she sighed and gathered her skirts.

    She left, even though it was her own rooms, and she did not look back.
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    François is definitely in a tough spot. Of course his dad’s gonna be a vulture over the grave of Henry VIII, but his wife is an English princess and taking Normandy after her father dies and her brother is a young king is just salt in the wound.
     
    Tudorfan

    Tudorfan

    pandizzy said:
    Palace of Westminster, England. 12th of April, 1535.​

    “Are you upset?”

    John looked at Charlie, who was standing beside him. His friend was looking forward as they threw rocks in the palace’s garden pool, watching them skip across the water. John frowned, even as his friend turned to him, and sighed.

    "About what?" he asked.

    "The war," said Charlie, looking at him. The first time they saw each other after John learned that his father was dead, Charlie had tried to bow to him and call him majesty, but John didn't allow it. Everyone already treated him like he was someone else, like he wasn't John Tudor, but King John II of England and he couldn't handle Charlie doing so as well. Even if he was a king, he wanted at least one person to treat him like the old days.

    John looked away.

    "I suppose so," he said. "Many people are going to die in my name." He shook his head, trying to shake off the fear in his heart. "The Lord Chancellor said there is no hope of fighting off the French in Normandy, but that we can't simply give up."

    "So we're sending our men to die?" Charlie asked with wide eyes. John nodded. "Can't you do something about it?"

    "Like what?" John asked, upset. "I'm not of age yet. I have to do what the council says and they said we need to fight to the last man, or we will become the laughing stock of Europe."

    "That's terrible," said Charlie. He stepped closer to him; John was taller than Charlie, but his friend had longer arms. Thus, it was quite easy for him to embrace him, and their heads knocked against each other. Brown Howard hair and Tudor red hair meshed together, and John let out a deep breath. Just being there made everything so much easier for him. "My uncle Norfolk said that because of the war, no one can expect you to marry that French princess like the King wanted you to."

    John nodded. "The Archbishop of Canterbury said the same," he said. "His Grace said we shouldn't reward the French king's daughter with a crown when her family is full of liars and hypocrites."

    "Isn't that all of France?" Charlie asked, sharing the same deep English hatred for all things that came from their historical enemies.

    "I guess," said John. He smiled, stepping away from the embrace. "My mother said I can marry an infanta from Portugal, if I wanted to. She said she would arrange everything with her brother."

    "And is that what you want?" asked Charlie and John shrugged.

    "I suppose so," he said. "I'll have to marry eventually, won't I? At least, better be someone from my mother's country if my wife can't be English."

    Charlie nodded, then his nose crunched up, as if considering the whole matter. "I don't think I'll marry before I'm thirty, at least," he said.

    "Why not?" John asked, confused.

    “Because how else can you know if you’ve made the right choice?” he said with as much maturity and intelligence as a twelve-year-old boy could muster. “You might like a girl when she is sixteen, but then, you’re both thirty and you realise she has bad breath in the morning. Now, what do you do? You’re stuck with her.”

    John laughed. “It would take you fourteen years to realise your wife has bad breath, Charlie?” he asked. Charlie flushed when he noticed his mistake, but he smiled still.

    “The fog of love had me confused,” he admitted, looking away. “But also, no one cares if I marry.”

    “What do you mean?” John asked.

    Charlie shrugged. “My father is the younger son of a duke and he doesn’t even have a title like my uncle William,” he said. “And I’m not his eldest son either, I’ll remind you. There are plenty of other people to marry and carry on the Howard name.”

    “I care who you marry,” said John. “You’re my best friend, Charlie.” He chewed his lips, nervous. “If you are so upset about not having lands or titles, then I will give you a title.”

    “John!” Charlie gasped. “You can’t give everyone a title!”

    “Yes, I can,” said John. “I’m the king and I can do what I want.” He laughed and placed a hand over his heart. “I swear now to you, Master Charles Howard, that when I come of age, I shall make you an earl and I will find the most beautiful heiress in all of England for you to marry. This, I so swear.”

    Charlie laughed, looking away, and John laughed as well. His friend might think he would soon forget this, but he wouldn’t. John never forgot any of his promises.
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    That was very cute!
     

    Echosong

    pandizzy said:
    "I guess," said John. He smiled, stepping away from the embrace. "My mother said I can marry an infanta from Portugal, if I wanted to. She said she would arrange everything with her brother."
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    So is it Infanta Manuela of Portugal as John's wife, then ?
     

    TheBookwormBoy

    pandizzy said:
    Palace of Westminster, England. 12th of April, 1535.​

    “Are you upset?”

    John looked at Charlie, who was standing beside him. His friend was looking forward as they threw rocks in the palace’s garden pool, watching them skip across the water. John frowned, even as his friend turned to him, and sighed.

    "About what?" he asked.

    "The war," said Charlie, looking at him. The first time they saw each other after John learned that his father was dead, Charlie had tried to bow to him and call him majesty, but John didn't allow it. Everyone already treated him like he was someone else, like he wasn't John Tudor, but King John II of England and he couldn't handle Charlie doing so as well. Even if he was a king, he wanted at least one person to treat him like the old days.

    John looked away.

    "I suppose so," he said. "Many people are going to die in my name." He shook his head, trying to shake off the fear in his heart. "The Lord Chancellor said there is no hope of fighting off the French in Normandy, but that we can't simply give up."

    "So we're sending our men to die?" Charlie asked with wide eyes. John nodded. "Can't you do something about it?"

    "Like what?" John asked, upset. "I'm not of age yet. I have to do what the council says and they said we need to fight to the last man, or we will become the laughing stock of Europe."

    "That's terrible," said Charlie. He stepped closer to him; John was taller than Charlie, but his friend had longer arms. Thus, it was quite easy for him to embrace him, and their heads knocked against each other. Brown Howard hair and Tudor red hair meshed together, and John let out a deep breath. Just being there made everything so much easier for him. "My uncle Norfolk said that because of the war, no one can expect you to marry that French princess like the King wanted you to."

    John nodded. "The Archbishop of Canterbury said the same," he said. "His Grace said we shouldn't reward the French king's daughter with a crown when her family is full of liars and hypocrites."

    "Isn't that all of France?" Charlie asked, sharing the same deep English hatred for all things that came from their historical enemies.

    "I guess," said John. He smiled, stepping away from the embrace. "My mother said I can marry an infanta from Portugal, if I wanted to. She said she would arrange everything with her brother."

    "And is that what you want?" asked Charlie and John shrugged.

    "I suppose so," he said. "I'll have to marry eventually, won't I? At least, better be someone from my mother's country if my wife can't be English."

    Charlie nodded, then his nose crunched up, as if considering the whole matter. "I don't think I'll marry before I'm thirty, at least," he said.

    "Why not?" John asked, confused.

    “Because how else can you know if you’ve made the right choice?” he said with as much maturity and intelligence as a twelve-year-old boy could muster. “You might like a girl when she is sixteen, but then, you’re both thirty and you realise she has bad breath in the morning. Now, what do you do? You’re stuck with her.”

    John laughed. “It would take you fourteen years to realise your wife has bad breath, Charlie?” he asked. Charlie flushed when he noticed his mistake, but he smiled still.

    “The fog of love had me confused,” he admitted, looking away. “But also, no one cares if I marry.”

    “What do you mean?” John asked.

    Charlie shrugged. “My father is the younger son of a duke and he doesn’t even have a title like my uncle William,” he said. “And I’m not his eldest son either, I’ll remind you. There are plenty of other people to marry and carry on the Howard name.”

    “I care who you marry,” said John. “You’re my best friend, Charlie.” He chewed his lips, nervous. “If you are so upset about not having lands or titles, then I will give you a title.”

    “John!” Charlie gasped. “You can’t give everyone a title!”

    “Yes, I can,” said John. “I’m the king and I can do what I want.” He laughed and placed a hand over his heart. “I swear now to you, Master Charles Howard, that when I come of age, I shall make you an earl and I will find the most beautiful heiress in all of England for you to marry. This, I so swear.”

    Charlie laughed, looking away, and John laughed as well. His friend might think he would soon forget this, but he wouldn’t. John never forgot any of his promises.
    Click to expand...
    I will always think the friendship between John Tudor and Charles Howard is the sweetest thing possible. I hope Charles Howard gets to enjoy all the royal favor and be a lifelong friend and advisor to John.
     
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