An Imperial Match: Anne Boleyn marries Charles V
- Thread starter pandizzy
- Start date
But not old enough to be the Emperor! Vader for Charles works better IMO.
But it's course, rough and irritating.
If we go some decades back in time, Richard III would work well as Darth Vader. He was a talented warrior and commander from a young age. But then he usurped his nephews (and possibly killed them, like Anakin and the Jedi younglings). And around this time his wife dies. He also imprisons a princess.
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You know... we can always compromise and say Charles is Revan and Anne is Bastilla...
27th of January, 1523.
Hampton Court, England. 27th of January, 1523.
María de Salinas was a loyal servant to Her Majesty, Queen Catherine. When the Queen entered her confinement, she devotedly followed her into seclusion, saying her goodbyes to her husband and daughter, ready to serve her at a moment’s notice. They spent their days in locked chambers, with the windows covered and the candles burning, praying and sewing quietly.
The Queen spent most of her time in bed as the baby, or babies, tired her often and she slept through half of the day. The other half was dedicated to prayer and hearty meals to strengthen her, though often she couldn’t eat more than a bite, as her sickness still had not abated after eight months.
But everything stopped in the cold January morning, when the Queen woke up with pain and discomfort, her waters breaking a little after noon. Elizabeth Matthos, the midwife, got into work quickly, sending word to the kitchens and other servants for boiled water and fresh linens. A rider set out for Richmond Palace, where the King retired in the New Year, to warn His Majesty of what was happening and María stood by her Queen, holding her hand and helping her count between the waves of pain.
“He is eager,” Her Majesty said, a hand on her belly, as they walked around the room, “He couldn’t wait for February.”
María smiled, “He wants to come out and see his beautiful mother.” The Queen smiled and blushed under the praise.
Hours passed before the labour continued to progress and the Queen was moved to the birthing chair, ready to push. María could hear the voice of the King outside of the room, talking excitedly with Cardinal Wolsey, and she pressed a piece of cloth to the Queen’s forehead, cleaning the sweat accumulated there.
“You can do this, Your Majesty,” said María, “You have done this so many times before.”
Catherine nodded, smiling, and pushed. One of her hands held onto the chair, grounding her, and the other tightened around a simple rosary, something María recognized as having belonged to the Queen’s deceased mother, Isabella of Castile. She pushed and pushed, not one sound leaving her tightened closed lips.
The first baby came easily, sliding out of his mother in a mix of fluids and blood. Mistress Matthos did not even need to slap his bottom before he started crying, hearty and healthy, with a pair of strong lungs. María leaned forward in eagerness as the women examined him for blemishes and imperfections, though she knew they would find none.
Elizabeth beamed at the Queen as she lifted the baby, his legs slightly open to show his gender, “A boy, Your Majesty! A bonny and healthy boy!”
“Praise be!” the Queen said, breathless, her face red, “My sweet John!”
They wrapped him in soft white linen, cleaning him off the fluids that he carried from the womb. Catherine sobbed as they handed the baby to her, pressing a wet and messy kiss to his forehead. “Precious boy,” she cried and María leaned forward to see his features, swollen and scrunched up. He did not look like his deceased brother, the Duke of Cornwall, but he had something of Princess Mary in him, from his chin to his tiny hands. She noted with pleasure that he had a head full of reddish-golden hair, made dark by the blood, and when he opened his eyes, they were a soft shade of blue.
He looked like the Queen, though. That much was clear. He had her nose and her cheeks, as well as her ears. Good. The Queen was a beautiful woman.
One of the ladies picked up the boy from his mother’s arms and walked off, leaving the room to present His Majesty with his heir. María heard his exclaims of joy and the polite and eager congratulations of the Cardinal.
But she was pulled away from thoughts of the King by the Queen pulling on her hand, and the image of Mistress Elizabeth kneeling between her legs once again. Oh, of course. The Queen was having twins.
With the second baby, hours passed before they had any good news. The Queen pushed and pushed, losing her strengths by the minute. María exchanged worried glances with Maud Parr when the midwife announced the second child was breech, his feet coming out before his head. For all her years at court and in life, María had yet to see a woman survive giving birth to a breech child.
It was nearly the 28th when at last the child came out, smaller and weaker than his brother had been. Mistress Elizabeth rubbed at his chest and head and the tension was unbearable in the room, a ringing filling her eyes until, finally, the baby took a breath and cried a weak and thin cry. Her Majesty sagged in relief and exhaustion, her skin pale, and she raised her eyes in an attempt to look at her child.
“What is it?” she asked earnestly, “Do we have a Duke of York?”
It was María that answered her, “It’s a girl, Your Majesty.” She could see as the child was wrapped tightly, tiny face scrunched as she cried. She looked like her twin and like Princess Mary, but she had little hair, save for a peach fuzz covering the back of her head.
The Queen raised her arms weakly, “Give her to me. Let me hold her.”
But she couldn’t. Her arms fell, with her unable to support their weight, and the entire room was silent, save for the new princess’ weak cries. Elizabeth handed the child to a lady and she left, hurrying to present her to her father and give her to a wet nurse.
They helped the Queen walk to her bed, none of them strong enough to carry her in their arms. As María held the Queen’s arm, supporting her so she wouldn’t fall, she couldn’t help but notice how cold she was, how pale. Blood dripped from her legs, staining her thighs, and María held on to her tears.
--
Hampton Court, England. 28th of January, 1523.
They let Henry in after the twins were handed off to their wet nurses to be fed and the air that welcomed him was one sombre and cold, as the ladies walked around the bed, trying to change the linen sheets as quickly as his Queen stained them with blood, desperate for him not to see the signs of her impending fate.
Catherine was laying in the bed, propped up by pillows, covers tight around her body. Her hair was wild and sweaty around her, clinging to her skin, and she was pale, skin as white as chalk. Her lips were dry and chapped and there were dark bags under her eyes.
“Leave us,” he told them and saw how María de Salinas hesitated before she curtsied and left, tears running down her cheeks as she did so. When they were gone, Henry sat by the bed and took Catherine’s cold and limp hand, sighing with unshed tears, “Oh, sweetheart.”
She opened her eyes and smiled as she saw him, “How are they? Our children.”
“They are well,” he said. It was a lie. While the boy was healthy and had already sucked his wet nurse dry, the girl had difficulties latching and cried weakly for the entire time he saw her. She was awfully small and weak and his heart twisted just to think of her.
But Catherine didn’t need to know that.
“That’s good,” she whispered, “I… I knew I could do it.” She stopped to lick her lips, “I knew I could give you a son.”
Henry leaned forward and pressed her hand to his cheek, kissing her palm. “You have already given me more than I could hope for.”
How long had they been together? How long had she been his staunch ally, his most trusted advisor? He remembered when he saw her for the first time. He was just a boy of ten and she, a woman of fifteen, promised to his brother. He escorted her across London Bridge and kissed her hand, happy to be trusted with such an important task for Arthur’s wedding. She had smiled at him and called him, Dear little brother.
How things had changed since then. Arthur had died and he wed her after ascending to the throne, not because of an alliance, but because he loved her. Had loved her since the moment she set foot in England and would love her forevermore.
Six children, they had before this, though only Mary lived long enough to be with them. Their happy and joyful girl, promised to the Dauphin, a future Queen. This would devastate her.
Henry couldn’t help but note the irony of it all. For all the attempts at having a son, he still had Catherine to ease the sorrow of each loss. But now he has his son and heir, and he’s losing the devoted wife he should be sharing this joy with.
“You must…” The words took an effort, “You must remarry.”
“No!” he cried, “No one could ever replace you in my heart.”
She smiled and curled the fingers on the hand that touched his face, stroking his cheek gently. “Mary and the twins will need a mother, and England needs a Queen. Remarry, Henry. You have my blessing.”
He didn’t want to speak of it. He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm, kissed her arm, and her shoulder, lips trailing to her cold lips. “Please, Catherine,” he whispered to her, “Don’t leave me.”
“Make peace with the Emperor,” she continued to say, ignoring him, “Charles only did what we all do. He loved and we must… We must not… Fault him for it.”
Her breaths were ragged, heavy, and it was clear that she had to put a lot of effort into each intake of air. He laid next to her, kicking off his shoes, and held onto her arm, observing the rise and fall of her chest.
“You are the love of my life,” he whispered, “For all my life, there has only been you. There will only be you.”
Catherine smiled, but she said nothing.
Catherine reigns supreme as Queen of England in my heart! Poor little John and his sister not getting to have their mother! Poor Mary! Gah, the feels!
Poor Catherine... It cost her life, but she finally did what she always had wanted to do. Hopefully both John and his sister will live... I honestly can't decide if this is a happier fate than OTL... I think this might be better. At least she died happy and loved by Henry TTL
Excuse me while I cry! @FalconHonour - where did you hide the pitchforks?! I need them to chase down Pandizzy!