Felipe already is, it seems. At least seeinghow he administered his own finances.Ooh I get the feeling Felipe will be quite the able administrator. Wouldn't it also be something if Catalina and Clemência's children grew to be friends too
An Imperial Match: Anne Boleyn marries Charles V
- Thread starter pandizzy
- Start date
It would be nice to have a Philip II of Spain who doesn't have to declare bankruptcy several times.
30th of May, 1548.
Wittenberg Castle, Electorate of Saxony. 30th of May, 1548.
Ella peered into the wooden cradle from her bed, smiling as she admired the wisps of dark hair and curious pale blue-grey eyes. She turned to look over her retinue, ladies from local nobility keeping themselves busy with needlework, music or reading. The silence was a much-needed respite against the hustle and bustle of the Saxon court, which seemed so many miles away despite being just beyond the door of the Electoral Princess’ chambers.
It brought a slight smile to Ella’s lips to think of Magdalena’s horror at the announcement of her betrothal, some four years past. The Austrian archduchess she had grown alongside practically wailing that the Elector of Saxony was a devout Lutheran, a heretic of the rankest sort. That Ella’s immortal soul and those of her children would be forfeit in such a place. From how she spoke, one would think Ella was being sent into a pit of venomous snakes and not a court renowned for its patronage of scholars and artists.
Her conversion to Lutheranism had come as naturally to her as breathing. She had never held much devotion to the Catholic faith, despite being raised with it, and she felt a certain scepticism to the Roman Catholic Church daring to dictate to those princes and monarchs abroad that the Pope had no way of knowing. Why should some Italian act as if he held the authority to speak for God Himself, when the papacy had been steeped in corruption for decades?
The Electress had warmed towards Ella, both as a daughter and as a potential convert, as soon as she had arrived. And the magnanimous Elector had praised her virtues and insisted a finer bride could not have been found in the whole of the empire. Her dearest Fiete had been the most eager to welcome her, practically stumbling over every word when they first spoke to each other. She had forgiven him for it, for she had never felt so loved as she did with him.
She had always known she was a fine prospect for many German princes. A beautiful face with imperial connections and a substantive dowry, she had little difficulty in attracting potential husbands in her youth. Though she thanked God every day that Karl Ferdinand and their father had chosen Fiete. Her husband who was utterly devoted to her, who appreciated her for herself more than what she had brought him.
An indignant cry erupted from her son’s small pink lips, summoning the wet nurse from her seat and pulling Ella from her thoughts. She made quick work of her little charge, and Ella sighed with relief as the woman set about her work. Although there was a small pang in her heart, for she might have gladly fed her son by herself, had she the ability.
As the boy’s cries died down, there came a sharp knock on the door. Ella knew in an instant that it was her husband, sitting herself up and nodding to one of the ladies to open it.
The Electoral Prince practically filled the frame of the door when he entered, as tall and broad as he was. His eyes, so brown they were almost black, surveyed the room and found Ella amidst the cloister of ladies. The dark moustache and beard he so carefully tended to only rendered his round face more dignified, befitting his station. And while another woman might consider his features plain, Ella found him to be the most handsome man in Christendom when he smiled at her.
“I fear he will wake the whole of Wittenberg when he demands to be fed," he japed as he settled into an ornate chair close to her bed, his large hand seeking out her own, tenderly wrapping around her slender white fingers. “Tell me, what name shall the disgruntled folk cry when they beg us to soothe him?”
“You do not wish to name him?” Ella asked, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. “I had thought it only natural you would name him for yourself and your father.”
“I had thought to do so, but hardly did I hear him cry then I realised that it did not suit him. He could bear my name, and I would be glad and proud of him, but I think he is made of different stuff than I,” Fiete offered.
As if to demonstrate his father’s point, the boy wiggled and squirmed in the wet nurse’s arms. His brow had begun to furrow with the promise of another cry when the woman gently shushed him, stroking his wispy hairs and crooning gently.
“I heard it said once that your father arrived in Germany an impetuous young man, assured of his own ideas and quite fond of sharing them. And there is you as well, my darling. You have made no secret of your disregard for the papacy. I sense the fire in your heart burns in that little bear cradled in his nurse’s arms.”
Ella looked at her son, finally dozing peacefully in the crook of his wet nurse’s arm. The name came to her all at once, and she turned it about in her head before finally speaking it. She already knew it was perfect.
“Johann Georg. He will be Johann Georg of Saxony.”
--
Turin, Savoy. 08th of July, 1548.
Margarita giggled at the flurry of kisses against her neck, and the hand that attempted to unlace the backing of her dress, shaking off Emmanuel’s warm hold on her. Her husband tried to tug her back to bed, closing his things around her skinny wrist.
“Come on,” he complained, the smell of wine wafting off of his skin. “You never touch me anymore.”
“I’m pregnant,” Margarita said, shifting her hips as if to exhibit the large belly that protruded from her narrow frame. “And you’re drunk.” Emmanuel sighed in frustration, falling face first into her mattress and Margarita laughed again, walking back to tug his shoes off of his feet. He said nothing, even though she knew he was still awake, only raising his legs to help her. "Are you tired?"
"Very tired," he murmured, face squished against her furs.
“Then turn on your back,” she said, stroking his shoulder. She didn’t think he should sleep in the clothes he wore for the feast, but she knew she wouldn't be able to disrobe him alone. Her husband was a man of average size, but compared to her, he was a giant. Emmanuel, thankfully, turned, closing and opening his eyes as he stretched with a sigh.
"Come here," he said again. Margarita smiled, her cheeks flushed and climbed up on the bed with him, as smoothly as she possibly could with the belly. He wrapped his arm around her and she settled against his chest, tightly wrapped around him like a kitten near the hearth.
She could still smell the wine in Emmanuel's breath, his chest rising and falling smoothly as he settled into a deep sleep. Margarita felt safe with him, even though he was drunk. There was a deep feeling in her chest, the idea that nothing would happen to her in her husband's presence.
"I love you," she whispered, even though he could not hear her.
But his arm tightened around her and she thought he could, in his own way. And he answered in kind.
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Some nice fluff <3 And we get to see Johann Georgs ttl as well! The Boleyn genes are strong in Ella
Nice to see that Margarita and her cousin have both found some happiness. And a query - would it be too much of a stretch for, say, Juanita to meet Ella? I think it's a crime that George and Anne's kids don't seem to have met.
I think it would be more likely for Juanita to meet Karl Ferdinand, since he's married to Maximillian's sister Anke.
Awww how sweet to see Magarita with her husband, she seems very happy in Savoy.
Honestly, with the way things are going rn in future chapters, Ella is more likely.
Well, that was unexpected. Something to do with that pesky Protestant problem, presumably? (Try saying that five times fast)
I have to wonder if anke and Karl Ferdinand will ever realize that his dad was basically in a throuple with her parents
Yeah… that does make things a little awkward, but unless they uncover some saucy love letters, the secret should be safe.I have to wonder if anke and Karl Ferdinand will ever realize that his dad was basically in a throuple with her parents
Basically?I have to wonder if anke and Karl Ferdinand will ever realize that his dad was basically in a throuple with her parents
13th of August, 1548.
Antwerp, Low Countries. 13th of August, 1548.
"No, no," Charles declared, pointing out all the imperfections with his ring finger. "Her nose is incorrect. It was longer. And straighter."
The painter blanched as he looked back at his rough sketch, the defining features of the deceased Empress that scratched the paper in coal. He had never met Anne and had to paint her based on the numerous portraits in her husband's possession, and the medals struck in her image. As well as, of course, his own feedback.
Charles remembered Anne well. Time had not diluted her face in his mind's eye. He could still see her, her smile burned at the back of his eyelids. The curve of her neck, the softness of her chin. Her laughter, her sighs of pleasure as they made love.
A pity that the painting, and its initial drawings, could not capture her levity, her intelligence and pride. By God, but Anne was proud. Not just of her station, but of herself. She'd been raised by a loving family, then handed to his aunt for an education, only to be chosen as one of her favourites. She never had to question herself, or to wonder if she deserved the life she had. She knew she deserved it and would stop at nothing to reach what she wanted.
He loved that about her.
Charles dismissed the painter, so he might work at fixing his mistakes, and returned to his papers. He had been preparing for his inevitable abdication and there were some issues with the Protestants in the Empire that needed to be fixed before Ferdinand could call himself Emperor. And letters. So many letters from his children. His daughter Juana had written to complain about her husband’s dealings with his family, their family, and the betrothal of his granddaughter to his nephew. Charles thought there was nothing he could do, beyond writing a letter to Ferdinand and asking about the merits of the union.
And his brother was quite convincing in saying that Archduke Karl needed a bride with ties to the kingdom of Bohemia if he would become their viceroy, ties that Anna had, since her grandfather was the Bohemian king. His daughter would have to accept it.
Margarita wrote to tell him that she had her second child, a boy named Emanuel after his father. All the reports was that this birth had been easier than her first, and there were no concerns for her health if she continued in the state she was in. That was very good. Sometimes, Charles thought there was no way he’d live if another one of his children perished before him.
At least, Margarita was happy. And Juanita too, despite everything. Most of his children had successes in their matches. Thank the Lord. He closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face, feeling much older than his forty-eight years. Not many men made to the age he was in, even those that were limping and coughing their way through life as he was. Charles thought all it took was another ill-fortuned seizure to take him under, and would that be such a bad thing after all?
The door behind him opened and closed, driving him away from his thoughts. Charles turned slightly to look at Juan, rising from his bow. He said nothing, merely turning back to his papers and his son stepped closer, eyes immediately closing in at the large portrait turned towards them, the black-eyed figure holding tightly to a pair of cream-coloured gloves.
“This one is new,” Juan murmured. Charles grunted in response, wanting to show that he was not in the mood for conversations. “I always thought her mouth was heart-shaped.”
“That’s your grandmother,” Charles responded. “Lady Elizabeth. Anne always had thin lips.” To her great anger. He remembered her pinching the corners of her mouth to make them appear puffier, but her portraits had to be life-like. That was his one demand.
Juan hummed in response. He continued to look at his mother’s portrait, the only way he would be able to see her face after twelve years of her death. And Juan last saw the Empress when he was just two, at the age he was sent to the Low Countries to be raised by the Dowager Duchess of Savoy, and then by the Dowager Queen of Hungary. But Charles decided not to say anything, merely taking his quill to pen another letter for Ferdinand. There were many words that had to be said between them.
“You truly did love her, didn’t you?” his son murmured, looking at his mother’s painted face. Charles raised his eyes.
“I did,” he said. Juan looked at him with innocent blue eyes, the straight and long nose of Anne Boleyn casting shadows over his face.
“What did it feel like?” he asked, eagerness laced in his words. Charles’ heart stuttered as he realised that, despite everything, his son had not yet lived such a love. He was twenty-two, the same age Charles was when Felipe was born. Already a father and a husband. But not a lover in the true sense of the word.
The Emperor did not have to think long and hard about his answer. “In the middle of it, it felt like everything was right with the world,” he murmured. “Like every hurt could be cured by her touch. It felt as if my heart had been removed from my body and placed in her hands, which cared for it lovingly.”
“And when it ended?”
“It hasn’t,” Charles said. “I will go to my grave loving your mother, boy. No matter what.”
