Vienna, Austria. 31st of May, 1536.
“I’m serious!” George exclaimed with a false offended tone, hand to his chest. “It wounds me that you do not believe me.”
“Forgive me, George, but you simply did not tell the king to bugger off when you left England,” said Ferdinand, chuckling. He brought a cup of wine to his mouth, his third in the last hour and George shook his head as he did so. “There is no way.”
“That is impossible,” Anna murmured. “You’d have lost your head for it.”
“Henry Tudor certainly tried, but I got on the ship faster than he could sign a warranty for arrest,” George said. “He knew, of course, that he could never catch me. That he could never take the head of the Empress’ brother.”
“Oh, and you’d believe my dear brother would have gone to war for the offence?” Ferdinand asked. “Charles was more likely to ask for whatever inheritance you could have left to his wife.”
George shook his head. “Anne would have convinced him,” he said, “Or else, we might now have an Infante Jorge instead of one named Fernando. Either way, I win.”
“Ah, I see,” Ferdinand commented as he stood up, drunkenly swaying in his feet. Anna giggled and offered a hand to help him, but she was just as intoxicated as him, as they all were, so he moved away from her. “This is all jealousy that our shared nephew has my name instead of yours.”
“It’s not jealousy, but merely a suggestion,” said George with glinting dark eyes. “All who know us are aware that I am the better choice.”
“The better choice?” Ferdinand repeated with a frown. “May I remind you that you are talking to the King of Hungary and Bohemia?”
“It’s not about titles, it’s about charm,” said George. He stood up as well, his lithe body graceful and elegant. Ferdinand felt his mouth dry. He looked at the Queen. “Dearest Anna, do you disagree?"
"I love you both equally," Anna responded, feet resting over a cushioned seat. She had recently given birth to another daughter for Ferdinand, little and sickly Margarethe, and was still rather exhausted from the birth. "And I ask to be removed from this conversation."
"Ah, she doesn't want to hurt your feelings," Ferdinand said with a drawl as George turned to him, probably to say the same.
The two men sat back lazily, bodies exhausted after standing and laughing around for much of the night. And drinking. Oh, had they been drinking, like they were adolescents once again. Not men of thirty with children to raise and love.
A servant scurried inside to whisper in Anna's ear and Ferdinand opened his eyes, having not realized they were closed. He watched as his wife stood up and walked out, the servant behind her. "What is happening?" he croaked out.
"Just a second, Ferdinand," said George. Or was it Anna? His eyes were closed again and he couldn't tell. He felt as if the room was spinning, the entire world was spinning and he couldn't keep up. "Ferdinand, my love? Could you come here please?"
He stood up and moved, knees weak. He found Anna in the antechamber with a servant. Ferdinand saw that his wife was holding a letter in his hand and when he walked to her, he stumbled and she rolled her eyes.
"My love?" he repeated with a grin. "You only call me that when you want to make another babe." When he moved to kiss her, Anna shoved him away.
"Not now," she hissed, looking at the servant. The man bowed and ran away, probably mindful of respecting his liege's privacy. With him gone, Anna turned to Ferdinand with angry eyes and he knew that he was in trouble. "Read this, if you can."
He couldn't. It was dark and his eyes couldn't focus, at least not in that moment. When he looked up, Anna had a hand on her hip. "What is it?" he asked.
"Your sister-in-law, the Empress has died in childbirth," she murmured, not unkindly. "It seems her body utterly gave up after she had a daughter, now named the Archduchess Isabel."
With that, Ferdinand was sober. He looked at the door that led to George, how oblivious he was to it all.
"This will break him," he murmured. Anna walked to him and laced their fingers.
"We will tell him together and be there for him," she said. Ferdinand nodded.
When he saw them entering together, George looked at them with wide eyes, holding a metal cup halfway to his mouth, sloshing with wine. "What is it?" he asked. "Is there something wrong?"
Ferdinand knelt beside him. "We must tell you something," he said, laying his hand over George's. "Something that will hurt."
"You're scaring me," he murmured, turning to Anna. She placed her hand on his shoulder as softly as one could manage.
"I am so sorry, my dear," she said, "But your sister, the Empress, has died in her childbed."
George leaned back.
"You're lying," he murmured, even as his eyes filled with tears. Even as he shook his head, refusing to believe. "You're lying. How could you do this to me?"
"I'm not lying," said Anna. "I am so sorry, George. We are here for whatever you need."
George stood up on trembling legs, shoving Ferdinand away when he tried to help, when he tried to comfort him. "George…" the King of Hungary murmured.
He turned with wide eyes and a pale face, his chest rising and falling desperately. "Stop trying to trick me!" George demanded, tears falling down his face. "Stop lying! Is this a joke? Is this-is this some sort of jest to you?
Anne is not dead!"
"It's not," Ferdinand said, approaching slowly, as one might do to a wounded animal. "My friend, I'm deeply sorry, but you know it's true. You know it."
George took on a shaking and deep breath, looking around himself and feeling trapped. He clutched his throat, a knot growing and preventing words, air or even a cry from going in or out. His stomach rumbled and he turned, falling to his knees and retching in an empty chamber pot that had been left in the corner. He coughed, wheezing with sadness and when Ferdinand tried to embrace him, he shoved at him. Or tried to.
He punched the air and Ferdinand merely held him, stroking his back. "No!" George screamed. "She was my sister. She was my sister and my best friend… and the bastard killed her.
He killed her!"
"Don't say that," Ferdinand whispered, hugging him. "Don't say that, it's treason."
But George was beyond caring. He shook his head as he wept, wetting Ferdinand's doublet with his tears. Weakly, the Duke of Württemberg mumbled his sister's name over and over again, like a prayer, or a promise. Ferdinand stayed with him on the ground, stroking his back and whispering back words of condolences, and promises of support. At last, when George had finally exhausted himself from crying and entered a tired and feverish sleep, he and Anna moved the sleeping form to their bed. Together. His wife took George's shoes off and he undid his doublet as best as he could, trying to make him comfortable.
Together, they removed George's rings and then, after they undressed and dressed in their nightclothes, they joined him in bed. Both of them embracing him, a quiet trio of loved ones. A three-headed beast, mourning one of their own.
--
El Vendrell, Catalonia. 2nd of April, 1536.
Felipe kicked at the ground angrily. A stray pebble flicked over, tickling against the stony ground and he felt nothing but rage as he stared at it.
At the corner of the corridor, the tall and dark-haired man scoffed, walking to him. "What has that stone ever done to you?" Sir Thomas asked.
Felipe glared at him.
"What do you want?" he asked with a snarl, feeling more like a wounded animal than a boy, or a prince.
"I wish to talk to you," said his grandfather. His eyes were dark, like the Empress' were once and Felipe looked away, wanting to walk out.
But Sir Thomas boldly placed his hand on his shoulder, making him turn to look at him. "Let go of me! I'm the Prince, you can't touch me!" Felipe shoved at him, but his grandfather didn't even budge. He barely even moved, clutching his shoulder and pulling him close.
"You're my grandson," Sir Thomas replied. "You're my blood, Philip."
"My name is not Philip," Felipe said. "It's
Felipe and I'm named after my grandfather, the King of Castile. I'm not English!"
"You are just as much English as you are Castilian," his grandfather replied. "Maybe even more." He pulled him close, stroking his dark hair that matched and Felipe found himself unable to push him away. He embraced his grandfather, because he realized, suddenly, that he smelled like his mother. "You're hurting, boy, just as much as I am."
"Father sent us away!" Felipe cried in English. "He sent us away so he could retire in that monastery. What did I do to make him treat me like this?"
"You did nothing," Sir Thomas replied. He stepped away from Felipe and knelt on the ground so he could look him in the eye. "Your father loved your mother more than life itself. His heart is broken."
"My heart is broken too," Felipe said, unable to breathe, "And Margarita said… She said…"
"I know what she said," said Thomas Boleyn. He cupped Felipe's face and there, he saw Anne's nose. Her cheekbones, her strength and her stubbornness. He smiled. "You remind me of your mother and I think your father feels the same, but whereas I take joy in this fact, he feels nothing but pain. And shame."
"Why shame?" Felipe asked. "My mother was his chosen Empress. Their love story will inspire a thousand poems, everyone said so."
"I do not know," his grandfather said. "One day, he will regret what he has done. He will regret staying away from you."
"She was your daughter," murmured Felipe, "And yet, here you are."
"And yet, here I am," his grandfather repeated. "For much of her life, Anne was away from me. First, when I worked as an ambassador, then when she lived in the Low Countries. I think I became accustomed to remembering her by the little things."
"The little things?" Felipe asked.
As a response, his grandfather offered a hand. Nestled in his palm, Felipe saw his mother's pearl necklace with a golden B for Boleyn. His heart raced and he took it, mouth dry.
"For you," Thomas whispered. "Never forget where you came from, my boy."
Felipe pulled the necklace close. "I won't," he promised.
It was already night when he returned to the nursery in the manor they were staying, resting before they continued their trip to Toledo. In his chest, his mother's B necklace glowed with the light from the hearth as Felipe oversaw his younger siblings. Margarita was sharing a bed with María, the two girls cuddling, skinny arms wrapped around each other with Juanita curled at their feet. Catalina and Fernando were holding hands as well, their clasped fists dangling in the space between their beds, while Eduardo and Isabel slept in their own cradles. The nursery was too small to hold all of them, and probably, none of them truly cared about that. Felipe knew he didn't.
As he looked over his siblings, the Prince of Asturias decided: he'd keep them all safe, for his mother.
