An Imperial Match: Anne Boleyn marries Charles V

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pandizzy

pandizzy

RedKing said:
Poor Isabella. I know Mary is grieving at all, but there's missing your Mother and then there's this. Hopefully she comes around to Isabella and the two reconcile.
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Mary is seven. When I was 7 I disliked my stepmother for the simple fact that I wanted my parents to be together. My mom was still alive and yet I disliked her. It's what happens
 
pandizzy

pandizzy

BlueFlowwer said:
To be fair to Mary, she's very small, her mother has recently passed away (given that John and Katherine are still small babies) and now all of a suddenly her father is asking her to call a strange woman she's never meet before "mother", like her mom was a car being replaced with a shinier model.

I don't blame Mary a bit for her behaviour.
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Exactly. Henry has truly not eased her at all into this. This is the first time she has met Isabella, the woman whom she thinks is gonna replace her recently-deceased mother (and we know Mary is not dealing well with Catherine's death, based on the pov chapter of Lady Bryan) and Henry is already asking her to call her mother. Children with living mothers would have reacted in the same way.
 
Tudorfan

Tudorfan

pandizzy said:
Somewhere on the outskirts of Milan. 14th of October, 1523. ​

All around him, there was death.

Charles could smell it, taste it. As he struggled to walk closer, his legs aching, he saw as his soldiers, led on by Antonio de Leyva, checked on each and every lying body, seeing those who were dead and those who were not. The few lucky enough to be of importance and high birth were kept alive and imprisoned, to be ransomed later. The unlucky ones… Charles shifted his head away, unable to see it.

It was a victory, but not definite. Milan was still suffering invasions from the French, his territories in Burgundy were not yet won back, and the enemy still laid undefeated. Charles clicked his tongue, disappointed.

He climbed up on his horse and returned to the camp that had been set up after their victory on the outskirts of the battle, near a nunnery that stood close by. There, in the main tent, he found the Duke of Milan, standing over a sprawled map. Beside him, stood Ferdinand and George, Charles’ brother and brother-in-law respectively. Not all of them had participated in the battle, and yet they were all wearing armour, lest there be a surprise attack on the imperial camp by French forces. The chainmail rubbed against his neck, bothering him intently.

“Francis was seen here,” Francesco Sforza said, pointing to a place on the map. “But he is gone. I thought for sure he’d be here.”

“He is likely to go to Savoy for reinforcements,” said George Boleyn, the Duke of Württemberg, and Charles saw the look of disbelief Francesco threw at him as if he was surprised the son of a knight was speaking to him. “It’s where his mother is from.”

“The Duke of Savoy is her half-brother and for all accounts, they barely know each other,” murmured Ferdinand, who was quick to disagree with George in everything he said. “I doubt there is any sense of familial loyalty there.”

“Carlo di Savoia is married to our cousin, Beatriz of Portugal,” said Charles, coming closer. They looked up at him, finally realizing his presence. “Perhaps we can find a way to use her to win him to our side.”

“I can’t see how,” Ferdinand responded. As the Emperor’s brother, he was allowed to speak frankly to him. “We never met Beatriz and Portugal is neutral, as is England.”

“We will bring them over to our fold,” Charles said. On the map, there were various wood disks and pieces painted with the symbols of different houses and kingdoms, indicating the various players of the war. Over Portugal, there was only one disk, with the Portuguese red wyvern painted on, not moving at all across their borders. Charles picked it up. “I have a son. João has a daughter.”

“Joana.” Ferdinand nodded. “But João is likely to still be upset with your union to the Empress, brother. It’s possible he will not accept it.”

“Leonor will convince him to. She is loyal to her own family,” Charles said, without any doubt that his sister would do as he wanted her to. “And if she doesn’t, we’ll sweeten the deal. The Empress is pregnant again. If this baby is a girl, then we will make her Queen of Portugal. It will bring the Aviz even closer to the line of succession, just as they always wanted.”

Ferdinand nodded again, but before he can say anything, the sound of a galloping horse came close. They stopped what they were doing and filtered out of the tent, coming to see a man atop a black mare, wearing the colours of Savoy.

“What is it, good man? Pray tell me!” said Francesco and Charles remembered his sister Catalina, heavy with child inside the city of Milan, suffering through a siege that was yet unbroken. With the commotion, more and more of the resting soldiers come out to see what is going on.

“The Duchess has given birth!” the man announced, voice clear and high. “It’s a boy!”

Cheers erupt from the camp, at last, joyous news, and Charles clapped Francesco behind his back, pulling him in for a hug.

“Congratulations, brother,” he said. “What will you call him?”

“Ludovico,” Franceso answered. “After my father.”

Charles nodded. He tried not to feel disappointed that his nephew was not named after him. He tried and failed.
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A living babies for the Sforzas? Woooooooot! #AllHailCatherineOfAustria #HailHer #OrElse
 
Tudorfan

Tudorfan

pandizzy said:
2nd of November, 1523. Richmond Palace, England.​

The King was nervous.

Isabella could see it in his eyes, the way he stood, checking the door every few minutes. He was nervous about what was to happen. He was very nervous.

The idea of it made her almost smile. From the stories told by her brother’s English ambassador, the King of England seemed a strong and confident man who ruled his lands with an iron fist. Certainly, he tried to convey that image, though she had quickly learned that the person underneath him was still very much the little boy hiding under his father’s large shadow, too scared to speak something wrong lest he be punished. This endeared him to her, made her feel more at ease.

A month before, she had met him in secret as Sir Hal Fitzroy, who came to look at her without the constraints of an official meeting. A week after that, they were married in Westminster Abbey, with a long and rather pleasurable consummation afterwards. Though the King has yet to come out of his shell near her, Isabella liked to think he liked her already. She was his Queen, the new mother of his children, and they were a family.

As her husband paced and walked the length of her chambers, nervous, she stood up and came up to his side. Boldly, Isabella laced their fingers together, smiling. “I’m so nervous,” she murmured, though she wasn’t. She thought it would help him calm down if he thought she was as anxious about the matter as he was. If he could comfort her before she could comfort him.

King Henry let out a visible breath, his shoulders relaxing. “Don’t be,” he said, “You have nothing to worry about.”

“What if they don’t like me?” she whispers.

He brought her hand to his lips for a kiss. “There is not a bone in you worthy of dislike, my dear.” Her cheeks flushed and she smiled.

The doors to her room opened and one of her English ladies stepped in, curtsying when she saw the royal couple. It was Maud Parr, who had once served as one of her aunt’s ladies, and who Isabella had insisted on serving her as well.

“They have arrived, Your Majesties,” said Maud and Henry nodded, waving to send them in.

Minutes passed where they did nothing, only staring at each other and Isabella smiling. He was so shy, so withdrawn. It made her want to coax him out with kisses and embraces, though they couldn’t do such a thing then, considering who they were soon to meet.

Then, when the wait almost became too much, the doors opened again and three women came in inside. The first held the hand of a very small little girl, while the door two held two babies in their arms, bouncing their little bodies to keep them quiet.

Henry took her hand and led her to them, smiling wide. “Dear Isabella, may I introduce you to those whom you will have to share my heart with: my children,” he said, happiness clear in his voice. “Princesses Mary and Katherine and my pride and joy, Prince John."

Isabella’s eyes naturally went to the eldest. Princess Mary made a curtsy for her father, though her face kept its seriousness. She was wearing a green dress with white ribbons, the Tudor colours, and a red French hood over her auburn hair. Her eyes were of a deep blue and she had ruddy cheeks, a trait inherited from her father.

Then she looked at the babies, the twins, John and Katherine. Though they were born at the same time, John was significantly larger than Katherine, whom everyone said was rather sickly. Whereas John was chubby and healthy around the cheeks and belly, Katherine seemed awfully small, with blue shadows around her eyes, as if she had not slept well. The Queen’s heart broke at the sight.

The twins both had their father’s and sister’s red hair, though Katherine’s fell in pretty ringlets around her face whereas her brother’s had rather straight locks, falling into his eyes. John’s eyes were lively sky blue, while his sister’s were significantly darker, giving her a more interesting look, in Isabella’s opinion. They gurgled when they saw her, being too young to speak or do much, but a smile cut Katherine’s pink lips and she extended her hands forward, wanting to grab something of Isabella.

It was with much reluctance that she did not pick up the little girl and instead, turned her eyes to her oldest stepdaughter, who was still in a curtsy to the King. Isabella smiled and said, “Oh, aren’t you beautiful, Your Highness? And your dress is so well-made. I must have something done in its likeness, so we may match.” Though her English was not as it could be, Isabella was rather proud of not fumbling over her words and looked at Mary with eager anticipation.

But when she looked at her new stepmother, Mary did not share any of her enthusiasm. Her face was completely blank, serious. It made her pause.

“Mary,” Henry said. “Your mother has said something to you. Answer her.”

Princess Mary crossed her arms and tilted her chin up. The lady by her side, whom Isabella noticed to be her governess, Lady Salisbury, pulled her hand. “Princess Mary, answer the Queen!”

“She is not the Queen!” Mary responded in a shriek, crossing her arms again. “And she is not my mother!”

Henry’s face flushed red and Isabella put a hand to her mouth, shocked. She looked at her ladies, Maud in particular, hoping to have misunderstood the English. But the expression on Lady Parr’s face tells her what she needs to know.

“Mary,” the King said again, careful. “Apologize to your mother in this instant or I swear…”

Mary did not allow him to continue, interrupting him with a shout, “She is not my mother! I want my real mother! I want Queen Catherine!” Lady Salisbury pulled her hand again, but Mary, with red cheeks, stomped on her foot. Though the princess was rather small, Lady Salisbury gasped as did Isabella, shocked at what was happening, though the Lady Salisbury did nothing to nurse her certainly aching foot, mindful of the King’s presence.

“Mary!” Henry admonished and his daughter didn’t even look at him as she turned to run away. Before she could, however, Henry let go of Isabella’s hand and picked her up easily, hands on her arms. He set her on the ground and picked up her hand, shaking it slightly. “Apologize to Lady Salisbury and your mother, now!”

“No!” Mary repeated. The twins, scared at their sister’s antics, widened their eyes and began to cry.

Henry’s face flushed, but as he opened his mouth to speak, Lady Salisbury stepped in and picked up Mary’s other hand, “Your Majesty, I beg for forgiveness for the Princess’ behaviour. Please, she is nothing like this.”

“No, she isn’t,” Henry agreed, looking up at Isabella for barely a second before returning his eyes to his daughter. “Remove her from my sight immediately. I find myself unable to look at someone who has so offended me.” He let go of his daughter’s hand and stepped back next to Isabella, breathing harshly.

“No!” Mary cried, as Lady Salisbury began to pull her away. “No! I hate her! I will not apologize! I hate her!”
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Well...
That went well...
 
15th of November, 1523.
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    • pandizzy

    pandizzy

    City of Milan, Milan. 15th of November, 1523. ​

    “Ferdinand!”

    He turned at the sound of his name being called, but when he saw who was calling him, Ferdinand shifted on the heels of his feet and turned back to where he was walking, away from the room and away from him.

    “Ferdinand!” He heard the other man running to catch him and felt his fingers closing around his wrist, pulling him in his direction. Ferdinand was forcefully turned and saw the face of George Boleyn up close, dark brown curls falling on blue eyes. Full lips. He moved his gaze away. “What was that?”

    “What was what?” He shook off George’s hold on him with a flourish and the Duke stepped back, a strange look on his face.

    “You’re undermining me, making me look like a fool in front of everyone,” said the Englishman, hurt. “Why?”

    Ferdinand shrugged. He remembered his grandfather doing so, whenever someone dared to question him as if saying there was no other way other than his way. When he was a child, Ferdinand thought his namesake was grand, a true King, but he doesn’t feel kingly as George looks at him with a raised eyebrow.

    “I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said.

    “How can you not?” asked George. “Every idea I have, every thought I share, you disagree with. I cannot say anything without your opposition. Why?”

    Ferdinand shrugged again. He felt silly doing it and quickly stopped. His eyes shifted to the end of the corridor, where a servant scurried inside the room, to clean it after everyone left through other doors.

    “I will not have this discussion here,” he murmured, turning away.

    “Then where?” asked George, pulling at his arm. Ferdinand felt himself being forced into an empty room in the corridor, the Duke of Württemberg closing the door behind him. “Because it’s not just the war meetings. It’s everything, ever since we left Austria. I can’t say or do anything or you’ll make your displeasure about me known. Even in the camps, on the road, when I tried to get close to you, you pulled away. Why is that?”

    “I don’t have to agree with everything you say, Your Grace,” said Ferdinand, trying to keep a sense of distance between them. George walked closer and he saw the hurtful look in his eyes, his quivering lower lip.

    “You don’t,” he agreed. “But for you to disagree with everything? Well, it is nearly impossible. So tell me? What did I do to make you dislike me so?”

    “Don’t be so sensitive, George…” He shook his head.

    “No, but you do!” He pointed an accusingly long finger at him, shaking. “You dislike me. You have disliked me since we met. And why? I did nothing to you.”

    “Exactly!” said Ferdinand, tired of the subject. “You did nothing. You did nothing and yet you are now the ruler of a large swath of land in Germany. You, who until not too long ago, was merely the son of a knight is now a ruler in the Holy Roman Empire.” He leaned closer and their breaths mingled. “If I disagree with you, it’s because I know you are unworthy of your standing. You are only on the meeting because your sister gave birth to a son for my brother.”

    George frowned. “You hate me because I’m the son of a knight?” he asked, shocked. “Are you so…?” Words failed him. “I would have gotten the title even if the Empress produced an infanta, instead of Don Felipe.”

    “What makes you think that?” Ferdinand was not so sure of it.

    “Because the Emperor’s marriage is not one of equals,” explained George, his cheeks flushed with frustration. “My sister is a knight’s daughter and when the Emperor met her, she was a lady-in-waiting to Queen Catherine. The only way she’d receive a semblance of acceptance by the Cortes is if she was closely related to a ruler of Europe. With my father still in England, that left only me.”

    Ferdinand shook his head and words left his lips before he could even think, unable to stop them from spilling out, “And whose fault is that? Your sister and my brother… They never should have gotten married. None of this would be happening if they hadn’t.” When he finished speaking, he raised his eyes. He was slightly shorter than George and the man looked at him, lips slightly parted.

    “The Emperor’s marriage is not my fault,” he whispered. “Perhaps things would have been easier, had my sister consented to be Charles’ mistress, instead of his wife, but she didn’t. We can’t think on the past.”

    “Thinking about the past is all I can do. The imperial diets were furious with the Emperor’s wedding and it took me weeks to convince them to calm down. And yet…” And yet Charles never thanked me. His brother had a habit of doing that. Never appreciating the things Ferdinand did for him, ever since they met when their grandfather died and Charles first stepped foot in Spain, when he explained to him how to get the Cortes to agree with his demands. “He exiled me from my home, he ignored my advice. He married a nobody from England whereas I had to marry the Hungarian princess he refused. I have done my duty to this family. I have sacrificed everything for the sake of our line! What has he sacrificed? What has he done that he didn’t want to?” When his companion didn’t respond, Ferdinand nodded. “Exactly. Nothing.”

    George frowned. “So you’re angry with me because you can’t be angry with your brother?”

    “No,” Ferdinand said, stepping back. “I’m not angry with Charles. I can’t be. He is my king and my Emperor and my…” Ferdinand’s words died in his throat as George pulled him close by the hem of his doublet and pressed their mouths together.

    His eyes fluttered close on instinct. He felt a large hand going behind his neck, holding him there, and another sliding to his waist. George tried to coax his lips apart, but he was stiff, shocked and surprise running through his veins.

    It was very different from kissing Anna. Anna was shorter than him, with soft lips and gentle hands. She didn’t have stubble on her chin or sharp teeth. It is the feeling of said teeth on his lip that forced Ferdinand to wake up.

    He pushed George away, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment.

    “If you ever do that to me again, I will blind you,” he said. Then he left.
     
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    • pandizzy

    pandizzy

    HortenseMancini said:
    THIS SHIT GAAAY
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