Well, I guess who Tudorfan has forgotten both George’s ATL title and the name of his ATL son and in that case the only word who could remotely connect that piece to George Boleyn and Elizabeth Howard Boleyn is that Bullen at the end of Karl Ferdinand’s part
An Imperial Match: Anne Boleyn marries Charles V
- Thread starter pandizzy
- Start date
Hey, everyone, the Turtledove Polls are officially up, so if you think this timeline is worthy of a turtledove, don't be afraid to vote and make your opinion known!
I actually had no idea that George had a son called Karl Ferdinand, truth be told...
And I've said before, you don't use names enough. I haven't been able to keep track of who is who because you use the character's titles more, rather than names.
TBH, I’ve found the same thing - using names more would keep things easier to follow. Especially since TLs aren’t read continuously - the nature of them means that intervals between chapters can vary so reader memory is at play here too.
Well tbh in this chapter especially, it would feel too weird for Karl Ferdinand to refer to his father as George. But I'll try to improve it moving forward.
I fear and hope to see Ferdinand and Anna's reaction; the two of them will be destroyed. And Pandizzy will describe it in a way I will surly cry my eyes off.
I'm amazed he did not bring up Duke Philip the Good who had 24 mistresses and at least 18 illegitimate children. Also, should not Juan be called Jean or Jan by now? He's been in the Low Countries since he was two years old.
He probably should but I've made the decision to not suddenly change how the characters are named.
With the amount of time he's spent in the Low Countries, absolutely!
That makes sense, but a quick comment about it - like how I had Margot persuade Joao to keep calling her Margot in private in Queen Twice Over - wouldn't go amiss either.
Fair enough.
Juan definitely would have known. The court culture of Burgundy was not a austere one.
He might have but like 'MY GREAT-GREAT-GREAT-GRANDFATHER WAS A FUCKING WHORE' isn't that easy to say.
15th of March, 1544.
Paço Real de Évora, Portugal. 15th of March, 1544.
Afonso twisted his lips as he surveyed the merchandise before him. Silks, porcelain, so many things. He stepped closer to the table and took the closest thing to his hands, a small silver box, engraved with emeralds and pearls. At the latch, someone had carved a delicate symbol, 茶. Probably to make it easier to identify the contents inside said box. Afonso found it easy to open, revealing a gathering of dark dried leaves carefully placed and taken care of. He brought it close to his nose to take a sniff, only to be surprised by its strong smell. Like nothing he had ever smelled before.
He coughed, eyes closed and set the box down. Behind him, his secretary eagerly lifted his eyes.
“Chá,” the Prince said, denoting the contents. “Make it a note for it to be given to the Duchess of Viseu.” His sister Margarida was extremely fond of exotic drinks such as tea. The secretary nodded and wrote it down.
Afonso continued moving through the products before him. Many years before, the Chinese Emperor had forbidden trade with the Portuguese, but some still did. In exchange for silver, they received porcelain, silk and tea to be sold around Europe. There was nothing the Chinese wanted from them, unfortunately, though Afonso's father had been trying to gain a foothold near the Empire for decades, to mixed results. They kept the best product to themselves, of course, but for many years, the Portuguese had been filling their coffers thanks to their found way to Asia.
He was in the midst of examining two porcelain bowls when the door opened and his uncle Henrique came in. The Duke of Aveiro was a man of thirty-two, his hair thinning out over his round head and visible even under his dark cap. He had three children with the duchess: Infantes Carlos and Jorge and the little Infanta Lucrécia, named after her maternal grandmother. He had taken the deaths of his older siblings in stride, though there was still a heavy weight to his steps, a sadness to him that would never ever leave. Afonso smiled at the sight of him.
"Uncle," he said. "What a pleasure to see you." Afonso moved to embrace him. "I vividly recall my uncle saying you much preferred Coimbra to Évora."
Henrique smiled. "Pressing matters forced me to come, nephew," he said. His eyes moved to something behind the Prince and Afonso sighed.
"You can leave us now, Guilherme," he said gently and his private secretary nodded, closing his books to leave. When he was gone, Afonso turned to his uncle. "So what was such a pressing matter that made you leave your beloved lands, uncle?"
Henrique smiled again. "Some nobles were concerned and begged me to be so bold as to speak up," he said. The Duke of Aveiro reached forward and cupped his nephew's face, a kind though sad expression upon his face. As if he was doing what was right, but it still hurt him anyway.
"Speak up about what?" Afonso asked.
"You," said the youngest child of King Manuel. "It's been two years, Afonsinho, and the people want you to remarry." Afonso took a step back. "I know your father allowed you to choose whether or not you would take a second wife, but I strongly advise you to do so."
"Uncle, I-I." Afonso didn't know what to say. "I don't know what to say."
"Say that you understand where I'm coming from," he said. "You're twenty-two and the hope of our dynasty. If you don't have surviving heirs, then Portugal will be inherited by Joana and Infante Carlos."
"I have two sons," Afonso pointed out. Jorge was four and growing like a weed. He wanted to ride on a horse of his own, not satisfied with ponies, and considered himself akin to his namesake, always pretending to fight off invisible dragons. And António was two, sensitive with his mother's face. Eager to hear about María, collecting stories about her like others might collect seashells. They were healthy. They would live.
His uncle nodded. "Precious two, they are," he said, "But fragile. Candles that can be easily snuffed out."
"My brother…" Afonso began, but his uncle shook his head.
"Infanta Clemência is sickly, you know that," he said. "The cortes don't think we will see many heirs coming from them."
"I don't know what I can tell you, uncle," Afonso said. The Duke placed his hand over his shoulder.
"I'm not telling you to get married right now," he gently said. "I'm telling you to consider. Alright?"
Afonso took a deep breath and nodded.
"Alright."
--
Hampton Court, England. 20th of March, 1544.
Kitty shifted in her bed, her nightgown clinging to her sweaty form. She was with child again, almost six months along and it seemed to her that she was almost ready to burst. The Queen of England was so small, and her Tudor babies so large, that she looked much further in her pregnancy than she truly was. More than one of her ladies had questioned her and wondered if, perhaps, she was not expecting twins. Which was just quite ridiculous.
There was only one baby inside of her. She knew it. And a mother was never wrong.
She shifted in her bed again, rather restless. There seemed to be a fire deep in her stomach, warming her up from the inside and Kitty could hardly do anything without causing a sweat to grow all around her. John, sitting next to her as he read an engraved book. Utopia, by Thomas More if Kitty had heard him correctly. He was also wearing his night clothes, red hair tousled and face heavy with sleep. Kitty liked watching him reading. The slight wrinkle that grew between his brows whenever he reached a part he could not easily understand, eyes moving quickly to read it again. The purse of his pink lips, the steady set of his hands. She loved him so much. It was strange to love someone like that, more than she loved herself, but after so many years married, and nearly three children, Kitty had grown used to it.
“Oh!” she exclaimed suddenly, clutching her belly with both of her hands. John looked at her in alarm.
“What is it?” he asked, setting his book aside. “Has something happened? Is the baby well?”
“No,” she said, moving her hands down the swell of her stomach. “He just kicked me, that’s all.” It was so unexpected that Kitty hadn’t been prepared for it and was shocked by the rapid kick against her ribs.
John blinked his eyes, mouth slightly parted and he adjusted in the bed. It was a soft movement, the sliding of his back against the mattress until he was laying on his side, placing his two hands over her belly. The baby, excited at the feeling of his father’s touch, kicked again, chasing the warmth of John’s palm. The King laughed, a blush creeping on his cheeks.
“He is strong,” he said with a gentle voice. “That’s good. Children need to be strong to survive in this world.”
Kitty chuckled, moving her hand up to stroke her husband’s hair. “Are you saying that William and Katherine are not strong, my love?” Their eldest was a boy of three, or he would turn three within the week and their daughter was a sweet and cheerful little girl of just one, who crawled around her nannies’ legs already. They were strong. The doctor assigned to the royal nursery claimed to have never even heard them sniffle, standing around at Hatfield mostly to survey their growth and be certain that they were adequately fed.
Some people at court said that it was because Kitty and John were not as closely related as other royal couples. Every farmer and cattle-breeder knew it was a terrible idea to arrange copulation between related animals and though it had hurt to be compared to cattles, Kitty imagined that there was some truth in the matter.
The King laid his head over the top of her belly, still stroking the swelling gently. “My little Henry,” he murmured. “My Duke of York.” Kitty smiled and continued to run her hands through his hair, settling in for a long night of romantic affection.
I wonder if Charles and John have kicked on a trend of marrying into the nobility to bring in new blood. It would really help the health of the royal families.
They have in a way, but I was writing the marriages for Charles' grandchildren and let's just say... a Habsburg will Habsburg.