An Imperial Match: Anne Boleyn marries Charles V
- Thread starter pandizzy
- Start date
It really depends on how early the baby is. And if William was premature, he was conceived well after his parents got married so he is defo legitimate.
8th of December, 1542.
Chapter first posted on my patreon 02/07/2023.
A silence fell across the room as the midwife placed the baby over Anna’s chest, a small and red-limbed little girl, with clear auburn hair. The Queen held her breath, stroking the head of her child, who moved around in search of a warm breast. There was a sense of fear deep in her heart, because this baby, this small beautiful baby, was not expected for another fortnight.
Suddenly, the people began to move again. One of her ladies, no matter whom, exclaimed, “I shall tell the messenger,” as she ran out of the room. Possibly, trying to escape the dark atmosphere that was filled with apprehension.
“She is not crying,” Anna murmured, looking at her daughter’s pink face. Bright blue eyes, opening and closing. The Queen felt a deep need to cry herself, raising her gaze around at her servants. “Why isn’t she crying?”
Lady Fleming knelt down next to her, pressing a cold cloth to Anna's forehead. “It’s alright, Your Majesty,” she said. “It’s alright. Your daughter is breathing, see. She’s breathing.” Her sister-in-law cleaned off her sweat gently, with kind eyes that she had inherited from her royal father. “Mine own daughter Mary came too soon and she did not cry at birth, but now she is healthy and hale. Crawling around already. Do not fret, my queen. Your daughter is well.”
But Anna couldn’t help a motherly worry from growing in her chest. Not even when they took her baby from her and gave her to a wet nurse, or when the servants came to sponge off her sweat and blood. They made her change her shift and brushed out her yellow hair, braiding it as they slid a white cap over her head. She felt worried, unable to relax. Always expecting someone to bound inside and tell her that her daughter was dead.
Though the baby was born in the morning, it was already None when James came to see her. Anna tried not to let it bother her, as the King was busy at work in Edinburgh, and would need at least three hours to ride a horse to come see her. Instead, as Lady Fleming helped her eat a meal of warm broth and porridge, Anna could only think about her baby. Her hands were trembling, as her sister-in-law had just told her that the princess was fed and napping already, and she barely paid attention when the door opened.
“Sister,” James greeted. “My love.” Anna leaned back against her pillows, trying so very hard not to cry when her husband took her hand in his for a kiss. “How are you feeling?”
Suddenly, tears started sliding down her eyes and she could not help the floodgates from opening at his simple question. All the emotions she had felt, all the pain she had felt, burst out of her. Anna didn’t care that, as queen, she ought to show no emotion, nothing could bother her. She only cared about the small little girl, with her tiny red fingers and her blue eyes.
“She didn’t cry,” the Queen exclaimed. “She didn’t cry at all!”
“Our daughter?” James asked and Anna nodded, sniffling. Lady Fleming stepped away, taking the platter of food with her and James sat next to her. Her husband, tall and red-headed, took her hand, looking at her calmly and respectfully. “I saw her just now. She is well, she is fine. Sleeping in her little bassinet.”
“But she didn’t cry,” Anna cried again. “Too soon. She came too soon! The doctors said I would give birth only by Twelvetide.” James shook his head and leaned forward, wrapping his arms around her. She felt him press a warm kiss to her temple, as her shoulders shook with her tears and his hand stroked her back gently, and lovingly.
“We will name her Mary,” James whispered in her ear. “And pray daily for the Virgin to keep her safe.” Anna, clutching the sides of his jacket, nodded and closed her eyes, allowing herself to be comforted like a child.
--
When the first cry rang out, Liesl was barely aware of the world around her. She had been labouring for nearly three days already, her throat burning with her screams and the relief of the birth had been practically exhausting. She sagged against her pillows, her eyes closing almost automatically as she fell into a deep, and feverish sleep.
So quickly did she sleep that the Lithuanian midwives attending her had yet to even check the child’s gender, observing the pale body for blemishes and imperfection. The baby was of a good weight and size, but he had a large red mark covering his left eye and most of his upper cheek, irregular in shape. His cries were loud and angry, insulted practically at their hesitation over his birthmark. It had made them pause, not because they had never seen it before, but because it was said that those born with such a mark would have a fiery and difficult temper. Something clear in the baby’s cries as they wrapped him in clean linen.
A midwife turned to the bed. “A boy, Your Highness,” she said, the words stopping in her throat when she noticed the young queen of Poland had already fallen asleep. Her chest rose and fell with shuddering breaths as a maid pressed cold rags to her forehead, dark bags under her eyes. The midwife chuckled. “Let her sleep then. She has done more than enough.”
Greta, as was her name, adjusted the baby in her arms and stepped out of the birthing chambers, out into the antechamber where the second king of Poland waited for news with his companions. Zygmunt August was a man of medium height, with dark hair and a well-maintained beard.
The second king of Poland had been sent to Lithuania soon after his marriage, when he managed to convince his father to afford him some political power. His wife, Elisabeth of Austria, went with him and, only weeks after their wedding, found out about her pregnancy. He was staring at the flames, playing with his rings, but quickly stood up when she came in, staring at her with wide eyes.
“A boy, my lord,” Greta said, handing him the child. Zygmunt's face was pale as he took his baby in his arms, a clumsy hold that Greta felt forced to adjust. “Healthy as a bull.”
To look him in the face, one would think there were no spots in his son’s complexion. Instead, the young man looked scared and confused, rather. He shifted his hold to expose the dark hair matted with blood and fluids on the boy’s head, taking a deep breath. “And his mother?”
“The Queen is sleeping, Your Highness,” Greta responded. Zygmunt nodded and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down.
He was a man of twenty-two years who had been married for just nine months, a man who now had a legitimate son. He should not panic. He had a son. His father would be pleased. His mother would comment upon the boy’s mark, because she hated Liesl since the moment she entered Poland, and made her be now acknowledged as the ‘old queen’. He had a son, so why did a hand of fear clutch his heart in an icy grip?
“Stanisław,” he declared. “He will be baptised and named Stanisław at Vilnius Cathedral, with my parents as his godparents.” The midwife nodded and extended her arms forward, taking the baby away to give him to his wet nurse. Zygmunt sagged exhaustedly against his chair again, where he had waited for the last three days for news from the birthing chamber.
He had a son. He had an heir. At long last, the Jagiellon dynasty was safe.
Linlithgow Palace, Scotland. 8th of December, 1542.
A silence fell across the room as the midwife placed the baby over Anna’s chest, a small and red-limbed little girl, with clear auburn hair. The Queen held her breath, stroking the head of her child, who moved around in search of a warm breast. There was a sense of fear deep in her heart, because this baby, this small beautiful baby, was not expected for another fortnight.
Suddenly, the people began to move again. One of her ladies, no matter whom, exclaimed, “I shall tell the messenger,” as she ran out of the room. Possibly, trying to escape the dark atmosphere that was filled with apprehension.
“She is not crying,” Anna murmured, looking at her daughter’s pink face. Bright blue eyes, opening and closing. The Queen felt a deep need to cry herself, raising her gaze around at her servants. “Why isn’t she crying?”
Lady Fleming knelt down next to her, pressing a cold cloth to Anna's forehead. “It’s alright, Your Majesty,” she said. “It’s alright. Your daughter is breathing, see. She’s breathing.” Her sister-in-law cleaned off her sweat gently, with kind eyes that she had inherited from her royal father. “Mine own daughter Mary came too soon and she did not cry at birth, but now she is healthy and hale. Crawling around already. Do not fret, my queen. Your daughter is well.”
But Anna couldn’t help a motherly worry from growing in her chest. Not even when they took her baby from her and gave her to a wet nurse, or when the servants came to sponge off her sweat and blood. They made her change her shift and brushed out her yellow hair, braiding it as they slid a white cap over her head. She felt worried, unable to relax. Always expecting someone to bound inside and tell her that her daughter was dead.
Though the baby was born in the morning, it was already None when James came to see her. Anna tried not to let it bother her, as the King was busy at work in Edinburgh, and would need at least three hours to ride a horse to come see her. Instead, as Lady Fleming helped her eat a meal of warm broth and porridge, Anna could only think about her baby. Her hands were trembling, as her sister-in-law had just told her that the princess was fed and napping already, and she barely paid attention when the door opened.
“Sister,” James greeted. “My love.” Anna leaned back against her pillows, trying so very hard not to cry when her husband took her hand in his for a kiss. “How are you feeling?”
Suddenly, tears started sliding down her eyes and she could not help the floodgates from opening at his simple question. All the emotions she had felt, all the pain she had felt, burst out of her. Anna didn’t care that, as queen, she ought to show no emotion, nothing could bother her. She only cared about the small little girl, with her tiny red fingers and her blue eyes.
“She didn’t cry,” the Queen exclaimed. “She didn’t cry at all!”
“Our daughter?” James asked and Anna nodded, sniffling. Lady Fleming stepped away, taking the platter of food with her and James sat next to her. Her husband, tall and red-headed, took her hand, looking at her calmly and respectfully. “I saw her just now. She is well, she is fine. Sleeping in her little bassinet.”
“But she didn’t cry,” Anna cried again. “Too soon. She came too soon! The doctors said I would give birth only by Twelvetide.” James shook his head and leaned forward, wrapping his arms around her. She felt him press a warm kiss to her temple, as her shoulders shook with her tears and his hand stroked her back gently, and lovingly.
“We will name her Mary,” James whispered in her ear. “And pray daily for the Virgin to keep her safe.” Anna, clutching the sides of his jacket, nodded and closed her eyes, allowing herself to be comforted like a child.
--
Vilnius, Grand Duchy of Lithuania. 26th of January, 1543.
When the first cry rang out, Liesl was barely aware of the world around her. She had been labouring for nearly three days already, her throat burning with her screams and the relief of the birth had been practically exhausting. She sagged against her pillows, her eyes closing almost automatically as she fell into a deep, and feverish sleep.
So quickly did she sleep that the Lithuanian midwives attending her had yet to even check the child’s gender, observing the pale body for blemishes and imperfection. The baby was of a good weight and size, but he had a large red mark covering his left eye and most of his upper cheek, irregular in shape. His cries were loud and angry, insulted practically at their hesitation over his birthmark. It had made them pause, not because they had never seen it before, but because it was said that those born with such a mark would have a fiery and difficult temper. Something clear in the baby’s cries as they wrapped him in clean linen.
A midwife turned to the bed. “A boy, Your Highness,” she said, the words stopping in her throat when she noticed the young queen of Poland had already fallen asleep. Her chest rose and fell with shuddering breaths as a maid pressed cold rags to her forehead, dark bags under her eyes. The midwife chuckled. “Let her sleep then. She has done more than enough.”
Greta, as was her name, adjusted the baby in her arms and stepped out of the birthing chambers, out into the antechamber where the second king of Poland waited for news with his companions. Zygmunt August was a man of medium height, with dark hair and a well-maintained beard.
The second king of Poland had been sent to Lithuania soon after his marriage, when he managed to convince his father to afford him some political power. His wife, Elisabeth of Austria, went with him and, only weeks after their wedding, found out about her pregnancy. He was staring at the flames, playing with his rings, but quickly stood up when she came in, staring at her with wide eyes.
“A boy, my lord,” Greta said, handing him the child. Zygmunt's face was pale as he took his baby in his arms, a clumsy hold that Greta felt forced to adjust. “Healthy as a bull.”
To look him in the face, one would think there were no spots in his son’s complexion. Instead, the young man looked scared and confused, rather. He shifted his hold to expose the dark hair matted with blood and fluids on the boy’s head, taking a deep breath. “And his mother?”
“The Queen is sleeping, Your Highness,” Greta responded. Zygmunt nodded and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down.
He was a man of twenty-two years who had been married for just nine months, a man who now had a legitimate son. He should not panic. He had a son. His father would be pleased. His mother would comment upon the boy’s mark, because she hated Liesl since the moment she entered Poland, and made her be now acknowledged as the ‘old queen’. He had a son, so why did a hand of fear clutch his heart in an icy grip?
“Stanisław,” he declared. “He will be baptised and named Stanisław at Vilnius Cathedral, with my parents as his godparents.” The midwife nodded and extended her arms forward, taking the baby away to give him to his wet nurse. Zygmunt sagged exhaustedly against his chair again, where he had waited for the last three days for news from the birthing chamber.
He had a son. He had an heir. At long last, the Jagiellon dynasty was safe.
Welcome to Mary Stewart and Stanisław Jagiellon! Will be interesting to see what the future holds for them
It will help her feel more secure in her life, but mother-in-law troubles can't exactly be solved by security.
ughhh my colleagues have been fighting back against the match for Stanny that I proposed in our dms so let's see how that one goes.
Is a Scottish-Polish match sensible though? I can't really see what they'd get out of it
Well, they're both at the outskirts of Europe. Might consider banding together to be stronger.
Ooh yay, welcome little Mary Stuart and Stanislaw. I do hope that Liesl will be ok, hopefully this is just the normal exhaustion and not puerperal fever... Great chapter!
Well I only so because of the feverish bit, nothing else, I don't assume that you'll kill people like certain others do
27th of January, 1543.
Chapter first posted on my patreon on 02/08/2023.
Richmond Palace, England. 27th of January, 1543.
"My lords!" the herald cried out, banging his staff thrice against the floor. "Queen Katherine!"
Kitty entered through the large double doors, first in her long line of admirable and pretty maidens ready to be pulled into a dance. She was wearing wore a handsome overgown of dark red velvet, suitable to the rather cold weather of late January, though the nobles were quick to recognize the relaxed lacing of her stomacher. In the front, rather than at the sides, exposing the rich gold brocade gown underneath. And the large swelling underneath the fabric, right at her lower stomach.
A hush fell through the crowd as all were made to understand why the Queen was so late in coming to the feast, why she seemed to be hiding from others during the Twelvetide. It was all for this, for an elegant entrance so all present could see that the Queen was with child again. A Duke of York, at long last. With an arrival in Lady Day, if their eyes were correct.
The Queen walked through the large hall, a hand caressing her stomach. As she did, the King stood up from his engraved throne to greet her.
"My love," he said as he took her hand, bringing it to his mouth for a warm kiss. Kitty giggled, her cheeks flushed with delight at his attention. "Come sit by me." Mindful of her condition, John helped her ascend the tiring steps up to the smaller consort throne, his hands hovering over her.
Bessie, sitting at an honourable seat by her mother, scoffed. Her brother seemed like a buzzing bee, attending to the product of his lust as if she were any deserving of his attentions. When she wasn't. She wasn't deserving at all. She didn't deserve her jewels, her dresses, her royal children. She was a snivelling little mouse who burrowed somewhere she didn’t belong and who still didn’t know what they did to bothersome little rats.
Her mother placed her hand over hers. “Bessie,” she said. “If the Lord sees you frowning like that, He will freeze your expression and you will never look any other way.”
“I want to return to my rooms,” Bessie said close to her ear. On her other side, her sisters Eleanor and Margaret were eating calmly, too young to be asked to dance by any respectful partners. And Bessie had already refused nearly a hundred men. She didn't want to be there, where she had to watch her inferiors fawning over her former servant as if she were a thing of beauty.
"Nonsense," her mother responded. "This is your last formal event in England and the Burgundians are watching." The Dowager Queen nodded at Ambassador Chapuys by the windows, observing everything as he sipped a glass of ale. "You will stay for another hour."
"I'm not feeling well, mama," Bessie tried. "Please, may I be excused?" Her mother looked at her with steely blue-grey eyes, her blonde hair streaked with silver pulled back into a tight and respectful bun. She still wore her mourning clothes, even years after Papa died and refused any man who called her to dance.
"No, Princess Elizabeth, you may not be excused," said her mother. "You are nearly of age. In two months, you will go to Burgundy and be a wife."
"And what that has to do with anything?" Bessie asked, almost rolling her eyes.
"Has Lady Salisbury taught you nothing?" Her mother looked away with a disgruntled sigh, shaking her head. "Being a wife means you will have to close your eyes and endure things that may upset you, as I did for so many years with my own husband. Consider the Queen to be your practice at it."
"She is not a queen." The words had barely left her lips before her mother hit her knuckles with the side of her spoon. Bessie squeaked, bringing her hand to her chest as her mother looked around to see if anyone heard her.
“She is the Queen,” said her mother. “Member of a powerful family in England and beloved wife to your brother. Her son is the Duke of Cornwall and the baby in her belly, if a boy, will be the Duke of York. If she has a girl, then she will be the King’s eldest daughter. A Princess of England, in a way you have never been.” Bessie only gained the title when her older sister was officially married to the Duke of Brittany. As soon as she left, her sister Eleanor would be considered a princess in her place.
Bessie looked away. At the crowd who danced and cheered for her brother's twentieth birthday. None of them ever seemed to look at her, even though she had once been loved and cared for as the King's oldest sister in England. A possible heir to the throne. The future wife of the Emperor’s son, even if the secondborn.
She felt her heart seize an opportunity. In two months, Bessie would go to Burgundy. With any luck, it would be before the baby came. And she would be a duchess. A daughter-in-law to the Ceasar. An archduchess of Austria. A great lady and richer to boot.
And she would forget all about England.
Gods, Bessie really has grown into a bitch... Hopefully everyone will be a little bit happier once she leaves for Burgundy. I kinda hope that Juan has as many affairs as his grandfather so Bessie will realize how good she once had it