An Imperial Match: Anne Boleyn marries Charles V

I wanted to post a chapter today because of Henry VIII's birthday, but my internet isn't working.

So happy birthday, henry, you fucking psycho.
 
11th of July, 1523.
Lisbon, Portugal. 11th of July, 1523.

The room was dark and quiet in the early hours of the night, only a few candles burning to light up the Queen's chambers. On the foot of the bed, sat Her Majesty, Queen Leonor, wearing a nightgown that had been dyed a deep shade of black. Her reddish-brown hair was pulled away from her face, showcasing the dark bags under her blue eyes, swollen from so much crying. In her long fingers, she held a simple crucifix, clutching the chain so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She was whispering in Latin, praying the Hail Mary.

By her side sat the King, João III, his head hanging forward, forearms crossed over his knees. He too looked desolate, and skinnier, as if he had not been eating well for weeks. When one learned what had happened, one understood their troubles.

A month had passed since the death of Infanta Maria, the couple's eldest child who, until not very long ago, was fretted and treated as the presumptive heir to the throne. The poor child had died of the flu, which was too strong for her little body to handle. Though she fought well and valiantly, she was now with the Lord and there was nothing they could do about it. Both Leonor and her husband had been left inconsolable by her passing.

"I don't understand how there can be so many wicked people in this world who will grow old, will have families of their own and our sweet and innocent daughter is the one taken. Poor Maria will never know how to read and write, will never have children of her own, will never have her own joys," said the King, adjusting on the bed so he could look at her, "What God would do this to a father and a mother? What God would take such a precious child from us?"

"The same God who will soon give us another child," said Leonor, not believing what he was saying, “A child to love and care for. A child who will need us to grow safe.”

João shook his head. He put a hand atop her swollen belly of five months where the baby inside kicked its father’s palm, seeking his warmth. “Poor boy,” he says, “He will be born in a world of grief and mourning, never knowing his sister as she was. Happy, joyful, free. She would’ve loved him, but now that can never be.” He shook his head again and stroked her belly, caressing the curve of the swelling, “The joy of this birth will not light the shadow of this death.”

Portugal had been in mourning for a month, and surely the period would end before this child was born, and yet Leonor understood him perfectly. A new child would not replace Maria, no child could, even if it was another boy.

“No, it will not,” she said, her voice thick with unshed tears, “But we must do our best to welcome this new son with all the love and affection he deserves.”

João nodded and looked right at her. “Thank you for being with me, for being my wife and staying by my side. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have you here with me.”

Leonor said nothing, she only turned back to her crucifix and felt as João shifted himself in the bed. He leaned his head towards her, setting his cheek on her shoulder and placed another hand on her belly, feeling as the child moved within her. He said nothing and she continued with her prayers. João’s hot tears splashed against her skin as he cried silently.
 
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