The Imperial fleet, Somewhere along the English Channel. 7th of July, 1522.
“How many babies will we have?” Anne asked, her head laying atop Charles’ naked chest. She had a content smile on her face and her cheeks were flushed with remnants of their passionate lovemaking.
Charles sighed, placing a hand over hers, and said, “How many do you want?”
Anne smiled and sat up, her dark hair falling in messy curls around her shoulders. She looked quite beautiful then, with the sunlight streaming in from the window on the ship, the sheets around her beautiful body. “I want as many as possible.” She giggled, “Six, or seven, or eight.”
“Eight? Really?” Charles asked, stretching his body, “We will have to try quite a lot for that many children, you know.”
Her cheeks flushed even more as if that was even possible, and her entire face took on a dark shade of red. She laughed and laid down again, returning her head to its place over his heart, where she could hear the organ beating strongly against her ear.
“Eight children,” she repeated, “And all boys. I shall only give you sons.” Anne knew many would balk at their wedding, one between an Emperor and a simple noblewoman from a country that wasn’t even his, but she was determined to make everyone understand how she was meant for this. If she had to give birth to a thousand sons to make the Spaniards accept her as queen, she would do so, and gladly.
But Charles shook his head, “We need daughters too. For the alliances.”
“The alliances?” Anne asked, confused.
“Yes,” said Charles, smiling fondly at her. He took a lock of her hair in his hand and twirled it around his finger, knotting and unknotting it, “Many will have to be appeased. The Portuguese still hope for me to marry my cousin, Isabella, and we will need to give them a daughter to prevent João from trying to take some of my Castillian lands when they realize this will not be possible. He is married to my sister, but I doubt she alone will be able to keep the peace between our countries. Leonor is smart, but the Portuguese are proud, prouder than me even.”
“Of course,” Anne murmured, pretending to have already known that. She did not want him to think she was lacking just because she had not thought of the Portuguese, “But will he truly try anything? You are the Emperor and the most powerful man alive. No one would dare to go against you.”
“It’s better for me to be prepared,” he told her, “Many will not accept our marriage, my dear. They will think you are too lowborn for me, or that I am weakened by my desires because of the quickness and secrecy of our union. Francis of France, for example. He eyes the Low Countries with desire and pretends not to. If I want our son, whenever he comes, to inherit anything of worth, I will have to fight to defend it.”
Anne shook her head, “May the Portuguese hang then, and whoever else will oppose our marriage. Aisi sera groigne qui groigne.”
Charles arched an eyebrow, “Let them grumble; that is how it is going to be?” he translated.
“My new motto,” said Anne, “I have just decided it.” She sat up again and threw one leg over Charles’ waist, straddling him, “We are married now. No one can tear us apart. You are mine.”
“And you are mine,” he responded, smiling, “So, one daughter for the Portuguese, one daughter for the French.”
Anne smiled and bent down to kiss him deeply once again.