Arsenic was used as a part of many medicinal back then, wasn't it?
An Imperial Match: Anne Boleyn marries Charles V
- Thread starter pandizzy
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Even during WWI, arsenic was given to patients with nervous disorders. Grand Duchess Olga Nikolaevna, Tsar Nicholas II’s eldest daughter, was given arsenic to help her cope with anxiety over her nursing duties.
Of course, but is different from "Put this in her soup, and be careful to not be seen"
12th of July, 1545.
Stirling Castle, Scotland. 12th of July, 1545.
“I beg of you to reconsider,” said Anna, following after her husband. James was much taller than her and she had half a mind to bunch up her skirts and run in pursuit of him, though it would certainly hurt her queenly dignity to do so. “Jimmy is barely fourteen and our other children are even younger. It’s too risky to go to war yourself.”
“Jimmy is nearly a man,” said James. He turned to look at her. “If he were not unmarried, I’d take him as well.” Anna gasped. “Don’t look so upset, love. He is fourteen, you said so yourself. Boys younger than him are experienced killers in Africa and Asia.”
“The works of barbarians are not to be done in civilised lands,” she told him. Anna grabbed her husband’s hand. “Please, don’t fight. Don’t risk your life battling the trickster English.”
“What sort of king am I if I will not move my arse from the throne while men die for me?” he asked and shook his head. “I will not change my mind, Anna, so don’t provoke me with your tears.”
She wasn’t crying, but Anna thought to do it. She thought to kneel before him and beg again, but James would not welcome it. She had been married to him for many years and Anna knew her husband well. He was stubborn, and hot-headed. A Tudor, despite his name. If she begged and begged, he would merely get angry and leave without a proper goodbye. There was nothing she could do about it.
“And if you die?” she tried again. “What will happen then?”
“Can you not consider that I might win?” James asked. “By the Virgin, woman, you seem utterly convinced in my defeat.”
Was she? Anna could not tell. Only that she was certain that her husband would not see the victories he was so determined. The English had a superior fleet out in the sea, ferrying men and supplies to take their lands in northern Ireland. Though they had some wealth because of the New World, Anna knew they couldn’t hope to defeat their enemies.
“I will not die,” said James. “Don’t worry, my love.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek before he left to make the necessary arrangements, but Anna barely felt it.
--
Madrid, Castile. 18th of August, 1545.
The newest Infanta of Castile and Aragon was a tiny little girl with light brown hair and a deep frown, sleeping calmly in her mother’s arms. Joana smiled as she looked at her newborn daughter, her little fingers opening and closing as she became accustomed to the world. She had Felipe’s nose, and his chin. In fact, Joana was certain that the baby was the one who looked the most like her husband out of their daughters. Carlos, of course, did not count for the boy was the clear image of his father.
“What an auspicious day to be born, my sweet,” the Princess of Asturias murmured. Felipe had not yet returned, he was travelling to a village close to Madrid in search of some records from the reign of their great-grandmother, and she felt nothing holding her back from naming their child herself. He would return in some hours, she was sure and what best way to welcome him than with a daughter already named?
The Infanta shifted in her arms, opening her mouth slightly to let out a poking pink tongue. Joana smiled.
“It’s the feast day of St Helena of Constantinople,” she whispered. “She was the mother of an emperor.” Joana pressed a kiss to her daughter’s soft round cheek. “What do you think of it, Elena?”
At that moment, her child shifted again and something like a smile tugged in the corners of her mouth. Joana thought that was a sign of her acceptance of the name, even though she had probably soiled herself, and nothing would change it. Her daughter, this child, her last child, would be Infanta Elena de Austria.
--
Vienna, Austria. 1st of September, 1545.
Archduke Ferdinánd shrieked in anger when Juanita picked him up, groaning with the weight. One-year-old and the boy already had a clear Boleyn temper, not wanting to be kissed and embraced when there were dolls and games to play. The archduchess sighed and dropped him again, watching as her blonde son toddled off inside the nursery, as far away from her as he could.
“Terrible boy,” she murmured with a hint of lightness under her words. “What would your father say if he saw you neglect your mother so?”
Maximilian would probably make a comment about babies, and children, being their own little people, as he had more younger siblings than she did, but he wasn’t even in Vienna. He and his father had travelled to their border with Poland, as there were some rumours that his older sister Liesl had been poisoned and the King of Hungary wished to be certain of the truth. Juanita, pregnant with her second child, was left at the Viennese court with her mother-in-law.
Poor Anna of Hungary and Bohemia seemed bereft with grief for many months now. Even before news came that Liesl had passed, she seemed more and more likely to be seen inside a church, praying or making a confession. Juanita had tried to be a comfort to her, remembering that she still had many children, and other things to live for, but the Queen didn’t seem willing to hear her.
Thus, without Maximilian to fill her days, she spent nearly every waking moment in the nursery. There wasn’t much Juanita could do, no political matters to tackle, beyond the bearing and rearing of heirs. Her mother-in-law was left as regent and no one really seemed dying to hear her opinion about any matters save for her personal charities. Juanita was, after all, not even nineteen. Ferdinánd and the baby in her belly were all that she had to occupy her mind.
And Ferdinánd didn’t even like her embraces. Juanita placed her hand in the shy curve of her belly, as she was only five months along, and hoped against hope that this one baby would be more affectionate.
She sighed and shook her head, trying not to think too much. People said that if you concentrated on only one thought during your pregnancy, then the child could hardly think of anything else. And she didn’t want her child to solely think about affection. There were other important matters in life too.
Ferdinánd stood up in his chubby legs and walked to her, expert at not tripping in his long skirts, holding a wooden block in his tight fist. At the side, someone painted a large yellow A, though Ferdinánd didn’t seem to care about that. He offered it to her.
Juanita knelt down on the floor. “Yes, it’s a building block,” she said. “Do you want to build a castle?” Ferdinánd nodded, golden curls falling over his eyes. “Come on, little duck. Let’s build a castle.” He took her hand and led her across the room, where his little blocks had been placed. Juanita felt perfectly comfortable sitting down next to her son and playing with him like a milkmaid. Who cared about her dignity when there was no one else to see?
Well, Felipe has clear opinions on repeated childbirths so he thinks that a second boy is not worth Joana's life. Especially since there are plans for Ana to marry Archduke Philippe d'Autriche, so Spain will remain with the House of Austria if Carlos fails to thrive.
Poor Juanita seems to be having frustrations with the mothering thing but all things considered, I think she’s doing well.
I think she's more frustrated that her son isn't that into kisses and hugs, which is pretty normal, all things considered.
Ah I have bad feeling about James V, he may share his father's fate if he's not careful...
26th of October, 1545.
Windsor Castle, England. 16th of October, 1545.
“What a blessing!” John exclaimed as soon as he entered his brother’s residence. “Thanks be to God for the new arrivals in this family!”
Pierre, who was bent at the waist as he bowed, smiled radiantly when he straightened up. He was a young man, tall even if not as tall as his kingly brother with brown hair and green eyes. Sometimes, John could see some of their father in his half-brother, at the shadow of his nose or the curve of his smile. A visible proof that they truly did share a sire, as, with bastards, one could never be too sure.
Lord Gloucester let out a breath when John embraced him, holding his brother tightly. He chuckled and hugged him back, strong arms wrapped around the King. John stepped back to cup Pierre’s handsome face, so very happy for his little brother. “What joy,” he declared and looked up at the impressive front of Pierre’s townhouse. “And the Countess. How is she?”
“Exhausted,” Pierre admitted, “But that is to be expected when you deliver twins.” He smiled and stepped away, exhibiting the open door. “Come in, Your Majesty. Please.”
John did so, handing his hat off to a groom waiting by the door. The house was richly decorated with paintings and beautiful tapestries, Pierre had proven himself a great patron of the arts. The King, however, could hardly admire anything as his half-brother quickly scurried inside, already knowing the way to go.
The nursery was located on the second floor, close to the back of the house, guarded by a heavy dark door. Pierre opened and entered slowly, keeping his feet light to move quietly. John did his best to do the same, though he was much larger than his lithe younger brother.
"Here they are," said Pierre in a low tone. "Henry and John Tudor." John Tudor the Elder smiled as he approached the two small cots, the maids assigned as rockers having left when they entered. "Henry is the elder." His brother looked at him.
"Our father would be pleased," he murmured. He leaned in to look at his nephews. They were quite small, tightly wrapped in dark green blankets. Their faces seemed similar, not just because they were brothers and the same age, but rather utterly identical. John couldn't say which one was which, even after his brother pointed them out. "Has the doctor said if they will grow to look different at all?"
"He thinks they are true twins," said Pierre with the voice of a proud father. "They might have some differences, such as scars and freckles, but they will look the same for the most part." John nodded. "I hope you will do me the honour of being their godfather, my king."
He looked at his brother in surprise. "For both of them?" Pierre nodded. "Of course, I will. You don't even need to ask." During Dorothy's pregnancy, and her early seclusion due to frequent sicknesses in the morning, John thought he would be the godfather of her child. It seemed obvious, especially if his cousin produced a boy. But when news came that the Countess had twins, he only thought about sponsoring the eldest. It pleased him greatly that he would be the godfather for both Henry and little John.
"Such a blessing, isn't it?" Pierre asked. "To have twins."
John nodded, but a thought came to him, a rather selfish thought. He wondered for a moment how his mother felt when she learned she'd be having twins. How his father felt when they were born. If he was as happy as Pierre was, and how long that happiness lasted when his mother died. And Kathy… He looked at Henry and John. They were small, much smaller than his own children had been, but they were sleeping well. Both of them seemed happy.
"I wonder what it's like," Pierre said absentmindedly. "To be born as one of two."
He looked up at Pierre, who couldn't take his eyes off his sons. John opened and closed his mouth, trying to think of something to say. Anything to release the cold hand clutching his heart. He sighed and looked back at his nephews, and then at his brother again.
"I'm a twin," he said, softly. Pierre raised his eyes in shock. "But I wasn't--" He shook his head, trying to find the words. "I had a sister. She was born some minutes after me." Pierre touched his arm. "Her name was Katherine."
"John, I didn't know," his brother murmured. "No one ever said anything."
"That was our father's work," John said. "You must know I wasn't born from the Dowager Queen's body." Everyone did. It was important to know the full lineage of the king if you were a noble, so as to avoid offending him. Who knew how he would react if they attempted to badmouth a member of his family, no matter politics? And Pierre nodded, already aware. "The woman who gave me life, my mother, was named Catherne. Her father was the tricky King of Aragon who was both an ally and an enemy for your mother's family."
"Yes," said Pierre, "But I didn't know about your sister."
"Father didn't like talking about her," said John. "He never did, not really. Kathy died before we even turned one and he didn't like being reminded of the pain." John could not blame him. He didn't like being reminded of Kathy either. It made his heart ache, as he remembered that every day he had to wake up with something missing. A part of him, buried with his sister.
“I’m so sorry, John.” Pierre embraced him, laying his head over his shoulder. Maybe some other king would have complained about the brazen action, but John could only hug his brother back, thinking how much he needed that kind touch.
--
Windsor Castle, England. 26th of October, 1545.
Kitty sagged exhaustively against her pillows, legs trembling with the strain of labour. She closed her eyes just as Lady Stumpe placed the large and squalling baby boy over her chest, his face twisted in extreme anger at being born. But when his cheek touched the swell of her breast, her heartbeat thumping against his face, he calmed down and moved around in search of a nipple to suckle. Her sister cleaned the child's back and head, revealing his clearly red hair and a hooked Howard nose.
Tears burned her eyes and Kitty wrapped her skinny arms around her baby, holding him close. He was so beautiful, so absolutely perfect. She leaned her chin against his head, the slimy matted red hair, and a sob cut across her throat. How happy could one person be? Every time she found she was pregnant, she thought there was no way she would be able to love this one child as much as she did John, or her other children, but then the baby came. Clutching her heart in his tiny little fist, watching as it grew and grew to accommodate more love.
“My beloved York,” Kitty murmured, stroking his little back. “Beautiful and precious boy.” She pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, settling back over her multitude of pillows. Kitty was still holding her son when she passed the afterbirth, though she had to give him off to a wet nurse soon enough. It was upsetting to see her babies in another woman’s arms, even the fourth, but she was so tired that she could hardly muster the strength to complain. The boy was taken to another room to nurse and Kitty leaned back against her bed, closing her eyes to sleep.
There were no dreams in her sleep, no awareness of being in another realm. Kitty was so tired that she could only recollect closing her eyes in one moment and opening them in another, a hand gently shaking her shoulder. Her vision was blurry at first, tinted by darkness and Kitty raised her hands to rub her eyes, sitting up slightly. The face above her was handsome and manly, with a defined jaw covered in a thick red beard.
“John?” she murmured, her vision defining quickly. Kitty sighed happily at the sight of her husband, new tears flooding her eyes. “You came to see me!” She wrapped her arms around him, unable to help herself, and John chuckled. He squeezed her tightly, running his fingers through her dark brown hair.
"Of course I came," he said. "Why wouldn't I?" He leaned back, sitting at the edge of her bed. "Did I not see you after every birth you had? With William, Katherine and Isabella." He touched her hand, leaning in to kiss her face. “My sweet love, my sweet queen. How happy I am that we have another son, that we have our Duke of York.”
“I told you, didn’t I?” Kitty said. “I’d give you sons. Many sons.” She smiled through her tears. “Oh, John, I missed you so much.” War was a busy affair. Everyone said it, trying to console her aching heart. It was understandable that the king would have extremely filled days deciding supply lines, armies and the fleets sending new soldiers to Ireland. Growing heavy with child without him had been utterly miserable and Kitty felt her heart burst at the happiness of such a moment.
John cupped her cheek. "I missed you too, my love." He leaned forward to press a warm kiss to her lips, then to her forehead, stroking her hair.
Someone knocked on the door and the King turned as he looked at Baroness Howard, who entered the room with a tight grip on the squirming bundle in her arms. "Your Majesties," she said, dipping into a careful curtsy. Having received orders to bring the Duke of York, she moved quickly and John Tudor stretched his arms forward to take their son.
"He looks so much like William," said the King of England, looking down at his son's face. They had cleaned the boy and his red hair was visible, different from dark-haired William, but he still looked very much like his older brother. "Do you know what day it is, my love?"
Kitty frowned. "No. Is it a saint's day?" John chuckled, adjusting his arms around his second son.
"Not quite," he admitted. "Many centuries ago, on this very day, Alfred the Great died after a long and successful reign." John smiled. "His grandson was the first king of England."
"Oh!" Kitty exclaimed. "Then we must name him Alfred. After our ancestor!" Her excited high-pitched voice disturbed their sleeping son, who whined and John shushed him gently, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
"Alfred," he repeated. "I like it." He looked at his son again. "Alfred Tudor, the Duke of York."
Kitty placed her hand over John's, smiling widely. "It's perfect."
John smiled gently, rocking the baby slowly. Alfred blinked his eyes open, staring at his father with great anger and rage, fine lips twisted into a deep pout. The King of England chuckled, shaking his head.
“I am happy that William will soon be given to his guardians,” said John, moving a hand to pinch Alfred’s cheek gently. Their son moved his head, either trying to get away or bite his father’s finger. “This one is a Tudor through and through.”
But Kitty had hardly listened to him. “William is to be sent to Wales already?” she asked, a hint of desperation in her voice. “But I was certain that we--”
“I accepted to send him only when he was six for your love of him,” John murmured, “But April is looming ever closer. And Sir Henry Norris won’t be able to wait to take him in for very long.” He cupped her face kindly. “He won’t be sent to Wales, my love.”
“What?” she said. “But I thought he would go to Ludlow, as you did.”
“He won’t,” said John. “He and the other boys will go to Beaulieu Palace in Essex.” He smiled warmly. “Much closer than Wales.” Kitty let out a sigh of relief.
--
Bruges, Low Countries. 12th of November, 1545.
Christina held her goddaughter in her arms, smiling softly. Anne Élisabeth d'Austriche was a little beauty with light blonde hair and a perfect rosebud for a mouth, settled calmly in her arms. She slept easily even though the shrieks of her parents' fight could be heard from the other side of the wing, possibly already used to the dukes' many disagreements.
"You're lucky," said the Duchess of Ferrara. "You and your brothers are being sent to the country for your health as soon as winter is over. Emperor's orders." Christina smiled again, even if she thought her uncle was only sending the kids away to keep them from listening to their parents arguing all day, every day. "They won't bother you again."
Anne Élisabeth said nothing, merely shifting in her godmother's arms. Christina sighed and handed her back to one of her nurses, arms already tired with holding a baby, however small, for a long period of time. Philippe and Jean had been taken to enjoy an early music lesson, though Christina had great doubts about eleven-month-old Jean's ability with instruments.
She walked quickly to her uncle's rooms, finding him sitting at a small hall with a table full of food before him. His hands, swollen with gout, were tearing apart a piece of bread to dip it into hot molten cheese. The Emperor looked up at her when she curtsied, a servant having announced her entrance.
"Christina," he said, "What can I do for you?"
"Nothing," she admitted. Boldly, Christina sat next to him and a gold plate was placed before her, servants quickly filling it up with figs, cheese and so much more. "Juan has agreed to marry Archduke Jean to my daughter Isabella." Uncle Charles nodded. "Once the Christmas celebrations are over and the roads are cleared of snow, I will be returning home."
Her uncle frowned. "Who said the roads are filled with snow?"
"I heard Juan complain earlier," she said. "He couldn't go hunting, or visit his little whore, due to the snowfall from last night." The Emperor's face went pale white, frigid with fear. "What is it, uncle?"
"Eduardo," he babbled. "Eduardo wanted to go riding and I let him." His eyes were impossibly wide, the blue in his irises remaining the only colour in his face. "I let him!"
Her heart stuttered in his chest and Christina stood up suddenly, her throat squeezing in fear. She had hardly dragged her chair back when the door was thrown open and a haggard man stepped inside. There were snowflakes melting in his clothes, his cheeks bitten by the cold and his hands were slick with blood.
"Your Majesty, Infante Eduardo--" He didn't even finish before both Christina and her uncle were running out of the room, the Emperor leaning heavily in his carved cane as he dragged himself through the corridors. Somehow, they knew exactly where to go, stopping at the entrance at the exact moment four guards entered, each of them holding one limb.
It was a small boy, dark-haired and olive-skinned. Wearing thick riding clothes, trimmed and lined with dark fur to protect him from the cold. There was blood dripping down his chin and his entire face was covered in a mixture of blood, snow and dirt. His nose was broken, clearly, but what worried Christina the most was the angle of his neck. It was bent at an awkward and unnatural shape, and she knew right then that her cousin was dead.
"That's my son!" her uncle shouted, his voice sounded like the final cry of a dying animal. "That's my boy!" The Emperor threw himself forward when the guards placed the Infante down, clutching the corpse of his twelve-year-old son. "Eduardo, I'm sorry. Eduardo!" He ran his fingers through dark curls matted with blood, guttural sobs torn out from his throat. "My son…"
Charles clutched Eduardo close, uncaring of who saw him weep. His son, his youngest boy, named after his mother and father's common ancestor. Our babies, Annie. All of our beautiful babies…
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