An Imperial Match: Anne Boleyn marries Charles V

[pandizzy]

Dover, England. 26th of May, 1522.​

The man that greeted the English procession at the docks did not look like an Emperor. He was finely dressed, yes, but there was something to his form that didn't shine with pristine physical health and constitution. He had a narrow, elongated face dominated by an aquiline nose and a heavy, protruding lower jaw together with thick, fleshy lips. His hair, which had been a light shade of blonde in his childhood, was now a dark tone of brown, covering both his head and his chin in a thick beard. He looked more like a merchant, plucked out from amidst the masses, than a ruler, chosen by God to govern over almost half of Europe. It was perhaps his Dutch ancestry that made him look so, or perhaps his culture, which was almost too French to be desired.

It seemed thus that the only thing showcasing his true status was his garments. He wore a golden doublet, with a fur-lined jerkin over it despite the sweltering heat of the English summer. In his hands, there were many rings and jewelry, and he wore a bejeweled cross over his heart, showcasing his faithful loyalty to the One True Church. At his back, men bore his standard with more blazons than the nobles could understand. They recognized some, such as the double-headed black eagle of the Holy Roman Empire, the golden castle of Castile, and the striped red and yellow of Aragon, but others were as foreign to them as the man before. Although they will never treat him as they treat others who come to their shores with sigils of continental rulers.

The man that met the riders sent by King Henry VIII is none other than Emperor Charles V of the Holy Roman Empire, first King of a united Spain and ruler of large tracts of land all over the world. The nobles, led by Cardinal Wolsey, know it is their duty to welcome the young man warmly, as Charles of Austria is the nephew of Her Majesty, the Queen. He had been betrothed since November to Her Highness, Princess Mary, the only surviving legitimate child of the King, meaning there was a very probable chance that either he or one of his children would come to rule over them all. As if that wouldn’t make the Austrians more arrogant than they already are.

Thomas Wolsey walked forth, lowering his head and making a semi-bow. “Your Imperial Majesty,” he said, in French, one of the Emperor’s native languages, “Welcome to England.”

Charles, who was described by all who met him as a serious and pious man, bowed his head, “Cardinal, what a blessing.” He looked behind him, to the rolling sea, and smiled, “It seemed the Lord has agreed with my coming here. I have never seen calmer waves.”

“Your Majesty, we are all most pleased with your arrival, and to know that it was a safe journey is an answer to my prayers,” said Wolsey, placing his hands before his body, “We are here to escort the Emperor to Dover Castle, where you will meet with the King tomorrow. His Majesty is most anxious to see his beloved nephew.”

Charles’ smile wavered, but he still walked forward, accepting the hand offered by Wolsey, “And I am anxious to see him. There is much to discuss, much to be agreed.”

“Yes, of course,” Wolsey answered, “But still. No politics today, Your Majesty. Not until the King arrives.”

“Of course,” responded Charles. He raised an eyebrow, quizzically, “Is there some ale at Dover Castle, Cardinal? I fear my throat has become parched after breathing in so much salt air.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” said Wolsey, “There’s plenty of refreshments at Dover Castle, where you will be able to rest until the morrow when the King arrives.”

--
​

Anne Boleyn, a lady-in-waiting to Her Majesty, Queen Catherine, bends her head forward as her mistress and the other maids of honor pray for the health of Emperor Charles V. Anne barely whispers her words, too distracted by her beads and her fervent wishes that she doesn’t notice how her voice rises a tone higher than the others, becoming prominent in the small private chapel of the Queen.

Although the other maids of honor balk at Anne’s boldness, Catherine of Aragon is in fact delighted by it, as she hears Anne asks the Lord to safe keep her much-loved nephew in his arduous journey over the English Channel. In her mind, there is no more loyal lady to her than Mistress Boleyn, as she has become known. For Catherine, Anne is nothing like her older sister, the other Boleyn girl, who was once the mistress of King Henry VIII, her beloved husband.

But Catherine doesn’t know that Anne prays for Charles not out of love for her, but for Margaret of Austria, regent of the Netherlands for Charles himself, who once took her in when she was so young. The nineteen-year-old still has fond memories of her life in Mechelen, in the Netherlands, where she was under the tutelage of Margaret and accompanied by the other daughters of European ambassadors. Anne thinks about Margaret of Habsburg as she prays, knowing that the woman loved her nephew like the son she never had.

And she too thinks about the blonde boy she saw a few times, clever and pious, who once called her “la petite Boulin”. She thinks about him too, though she will never tell that to anyone.

 

[pandizzy]

Dover, England. 29th of May, 1522.​

King Henry VIII of England was a most handsome fellow. He stood at six foot two, almost a head taller than all of those around him, and had a fair complexion, with his beard shining like spun gold under the sunlight. Charles watched the man from the corner of his eye as the monarch showed off his navy, pointing at the different warships he had commissioned for the attack on France. He was handsome, yes, that much could not be denied. More handsome than Charles himself would ever be.

But the King of England was also unpredictable. Once, he and Francis of France had signed a Treaty of Perpetual Peace, where their two heirs would marry each other and finally unite their kingdoms. Now, Henry intended to see his young daughter, barely a girl, let alone a woman that could produce children, as the Holy Roman Empress. He also desired to retake his ancestral title of King of France and would have Charles help him, in return for assisting him with reclaiming the Duchy of Burgundy that had been stolen from his ancestors.

It was an agreement that Charles could not deny. When they succeeded, there would be glory ripe for taking, but what would stop Henry from turning his warships to Spain, or to the Netherlands? Burgundy was a very rich and large territory, after all, and there was no way to stop Henry’s ambitions. He did not know how to curb his desire for greatness and glory to himself and his bloodline, even if he had to find it through a Princess, rather than a Prince.

Charles told himself to be careful around his uncle. He may not be as powerful as the young Emperor, but Henry was proud beyond his dreams and pride goes before the fall. He will see slights where there are none and offenses laced with good intentions. It would be hard to keep such a wild man by his side, but it had to be done. For him and for his family.

And so, they rode together, each atop their own destrier, with Charles riding a borrowed one from the royal stables. A hundred escorts accompanied them, keeping their flanks safe from the few peasants that dared to look at the two highborns around the shore. Soon, Henry would lead Charles to Canterbury and to Greenwich, where they would meet his aunt, Queen Katherine, and the court.

Perhaps his little bride would be there too, but Charles doubted it. Much like his parents had done once, the English had a tendency to educate their children away from their eyes and he didn’t know how far away from the sickly airs of the court Mary was kept. Most likely, he’d see her at the end of his visit, but he wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t lay eyes upon her at all.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” said the King, drawing his attention, “There is something I have given much thought over the last few days.”

“What is it, Your Majesty?” asked Charles, “Is there something wrong?”

“No, of course not.” Henry waved with his hand, as if the subject wasn’t of importance, “I merely wonder where you will live with my daughter, after the marriage. You have many lands, but I think much travel will not do her good, especially once the little ones begin to arrive. Children need stability and a permanent home.”

Mary was only six-years-old. It was strange to think of her as a future wife, a future mother, but that was the fate of all Princesses. They had to serve their fathers by marrying well and producing new heirs for the thrones of Europe.

“I believe we shall reside in Castile, Your Majesty,” said Charles.

“Really?” said King Henry, “Why?”

Charles did not want to answer this question, but it was in Henry’s duty to be worried for his daughter and his yet unborn grandchildren, “Since I am not marrying an Iberian princess, my advisors think having my family live in the peninsula might appease my subjects.” He tilted his head, slightly, “And I believe it will give much comfort to Her Majesty to know that her grandchildren live in the same castles of her childhood.”

Henry nodded and a smile spread across his face, “Yes, I believe it will. The Queen will be overjoyed to hear of this.”

Charles nodded and smiled as well, but his stomach still twisted in disgust. Mary was just a child. Too young to give her consent for the betrothal. He regretted tying himself to such a young girl who could not hope to bear children for another decade, but he needed the English. Their position was vital if he ever wanted to wage war against France again and only marriage could assure an eternal alliance between the two kingdoms.

He didn’t like this betrothal, nor this impending marriage just six years away, but he would do his duty. It had to be done. For his family and for his kingdom, though not for himself. Never for himself.

 

[pandizzy]

Greenwich, England. 3rd of June, 1522.​

The clinking of the silverware and the careful steps of the maids around them were the only sounds filling the small antechamber of Queen Catherine as Her Majesty and her nephew dined together. It was a private dinner, without the ogling eyes of the courtiers, or the King’s presence, and there was a pleased smile on Catherine of Aragon’s face. It seemed clear how happy she was to have Charles there with her, since she loved him as if he were a son for her, in name as well as in her heart.

Her ladies-in-waiting fluttered over them, serving them wine and pieces of a cooked pheasant. Charles had brought some favored grooms with him to Germany and they serve him as well on his return to Spain, effortlessly moving around the English ladies. A high golden canopy hung over their heads, showcasing the high rank of the two, and a couple of musicians, a lute, and a flute player, were seated by the corner. They produced a piece of pleasant music to calm the mood and there was an air of familiarity and close kinship in the room, brought about by the relaxed atmosphere.

The only formality seemed to be emanating from the maids and the grooms. Serving the royals was a ceremony as well as a duty and to be given the privilege of even topping their cups with wine was a high honor. A position highly coveted amongst the Queen’s maids of honor. And so it made sense that Charles of Austria them a degree of attention, watching their pales faces for a sign of obedience, or boldness. Something that shows him who will rise higher from the others, something to pass the time.

They all curtsied to him, whispering, “Your Imperial Majesty,” as they served his aunt. There was a sense of sameness to them. They wore dresses of similar fabrics in tones of red, green, and blue. Over their heads, most wore gable hoods, a type of headdress common amongst the English ladies, that cover the entire hair and back of the neck with a thick black veil. It seemed to him that Catherine had the same woman serving her, only her personality was repeated tenfold, as they all looked and behaved the same way.

But there was one that stands out. Short, where others were tall. Svelte, where others were voluptuous. Dark, where others were light. She had clearly come from France, as seen by the style of her pink dress. The hood over her head, curved and bejeweled, showcased the front of her dark hair and he knew even without understanding this court that she would be both a scandal and a delight, depending on your views. She was either a newcomer or a longtime courtier. On her neck, there was a pearl necklace with a golden B hooked to three tear-shaped pearls. The lady had perfect poise and behavior, lowering her eyes as she filled his aunt’s cup with more wine and handed the Queen a cloth with a perfectly curved arm.

Charles adjusted his stance, trying to see her better. There was something familiar about her, despite the fact that he had just thought about her uniqueness. She had an olive complexion and her eyes were a shade of dark brown that seemed to draw him in. She looked at him for a second, her face perfectly visible and he saw a long nose, a soft chin, and round cheeks. To him, she was both an old acquaintance and a stranger. It was fascinating.

“Aunt,” said Charles when she stepped away, low enough that she would not hear him, “Who is that lady? The one with the pink dress.” Catherine of Aragon twisted her lips. She thought he was lusting after her lady, the lovely Anne Boleyn, who was religious and clever. She did not like that. Although she loved her nephew, Catherine would be lying if she said she didn’t know about the bastards he had in Burgundy. Men were all the same, “She seems familiar, that is all.”

Catherine sighed, “She is Mistress Boleyn. Anne Boleyn,” The Queen forced herself to smooth down her lips. Charles had only asked an honest question. There was no reason to be upset, “She served under your aunt, Margaret, for some months in 1513, when she was just ten years old. I believe you must have met her then, did you not?”

“Yes, that is right,” Charles said. He remembered her now. La petite Boulin, his aunt called her. He didn’t see her much, only once or twice a month, when he visited the Dowager Duchess and paid his respects to her as a loving son. Margaret called her pleasant and well-spoken. She was very upset when Anne moved to France in 1514.

The last letter they had received from her was when she was still living at the court of Francis. She was to marry the heir to an earldom to settle a minor dispute over the inheritance, something that much pleased his aunt. It had been many years since that announcement, however. Could the marriage have gone ahead already? Because of her small frame, she seemed younger than what must have been nineteen years of age, and some men enjoyed waiting for wives to mature before they were thrust into an endless cycle of pregnancies and labor. For some reason he could not understand, Charles almost wished she was not yet a Countess. For her health, of course.

He knew Margaret of Austria would enjoy having more news of her delightful former ward, though, and would be pleased if he took any information about Anna when he returned to Flanders. That is what he tells himself when he decides to seek her out later.

 

[pandizzy]

Greenwich, England. 4th of June, 1522.​

There was a man in the chapel.

He was kneeling before the altar, hands clasped in front of his face as he whispered fervently, beseeching God to guide him into his true path, to show a sign that he was righteous in his actions. Something to make him trust his own decision, anything that could tell him that things were as they were supposed to be. He prayed with the strength of someone who had a zealous devotion to religion and Anne Boleyn entered the chapel slowly, not willing to bother him. He, who is such a mighty lord, with a pedigree that she could never match in prestige and importance. He who would surely complain to her mistress if she came to stand in his way.

But, despite her careful steps, the man stopped praying and turned to her. She saw then that his cheeks were wet, as he was surely crying while praying, and a part of her wanted to ask him what was the problem, or if she could do anything to help him. It was a subservient part of her, a part that had spent the last years serving two gracious queens who often turned to their ladies for help when their husbands neglected them. Though Henry VIII had surely stopped his ignoring of his wife, as he had visited her bedchamber the previous night, and was likely to do it again.

Anne curtsied before the Emperor, clasping her hands before her, “Forgive me, Your Imperial Majesty. I did not mean to interrupt you.” She spoke in French, as the Emperor did not speak English. Unlike other courtiers who’d surely balk at having to use the language of their greatest enemy, Anne was not bothered by it, as she had grown up in the French court. And why should she not bend over to make the Emperor comfortable? He was the Holy Roman Emperor, the King of Castile, León, and Aragon, and the Duke of Burgundy. He was Caesar and the second Charlemagne.

Charles of Austria didn’t show any signs of being annoyed by her interrupting him. Instead, he turned back to his prayers, and Anne sighed, walking to one of the pews at the far back, away from the Emperor. There, she sat, clasping her own hands, and started to pray as well. She asked for her family’s health and safety, but especially for her sister, who sent more and more letters describing boredom and annoyance at her husband’s estate in Aldenham. She asked that God might provide Mary with some much-needed wisdom, as she had sorely lacked before, or children to tie her down and provide her with something to do during the day.

Anne also asked for a husband or a prospective marriage. A good man that might treat her well and provide her with a comfortable living for the rest of her days. She had once been a prospective wife for her cousin, who was heir to Ormond, and the idea of Countess once sounded good to her, though she doesn’t care about titles now. She just wants to be sure of something in her life, to have certainty that her future is assured and that she will not become an old spinster.

As she finished, Anne crossed herself and tightened her hold on her rosary. She was nervous and holding the necklace made her feel better, more at ease. It was made of ruby beads, with a bejeweled cross and it had been a parting gift from Marguerite of Angoulême, King Francis’ sister. Madame D'Alençon, as she was known, had taken her under her wing when she first came to France. Anne was a girl of just eleven years when she met Marguerite and scared at the perspective of life in the French court. The King’s sister showed her there was nothing to worry about.

Marguerite was a patron of humanists and reformers, an author in her own right. Her works verged on heresy, and only her status as the King's sister protected her from persecution. She encouraged Anne's interest in religious reform, as well as in poetry and literature.

"For my darling Mademoiselle Anne," she said, as she gave Anne the ruby rosary, "You will go far in life. I know it so."

Two years later, Anne treasured the necklace with her life and would never part from it, as long as she kept her senses. Marguerite trusted her to take care of it, she believed in her and that was more than many had ever done.

Only Margaret of Austria believed in Anne like Marguerite D'Angoulême. It seemed to be something about the name.

“Mademoiselle Boleyn?” said someone beside her. Anne raised her head, as she was looking at the floor, and turned to her side. There, she saw Emperor Charles looking at her.

Anne rose and dropped into a curtsy, "Your Imperial Majesty."

"My lady, please," said Charles V, "We are old friends, are we not?" He smiled and sat beside her, close enough to her that she could smell the rosewater on his skin, and the French perfume he wore, "I do not remember such formality during our shared childhood in Mechelen."

"His Majesty was not the Emperor then, nor the King of Spain," she reminded him.

Charles laughed, "You have not changed, then, petite Boullan," he said. Anne would have blushed if she were less practiced in masking her emotions. It had been so long since someone called her by that nickname.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," she murmured, tilting her head slightly.

"Mademoiselle Boleyn," he said, "My aunt will be most pleased to know that I've seen you and that you are well." He hesitated, "Last we heard about you, it was about marriage with a soon-to-be earl, my lady. Has the marriage gone ahead?"

Despite his attempts to sound nonchalant about the whole thing, she could see from his eyes that he was anxious to hear her answer. But why could that be?

"No, Your Majesty," said Anne, "My father could never agree on a dowry with his cousin, so the marriage did not go ahead. I am still a maid."

For some reason, Charles' smile grew wider.

 

[pandizzy]

London, England. 10th of June, 1522.​

Little Mary Tudor curtsied before her mother, the Queen, as she entered the halls of Hampton Court. Her Highness wore a fine green dress, with white ribbons, the Tudor colors. The reddish-golden hair that she inherited from her parents is neatly brushed under her hood, which is covered with rubies and other precious stones. Her face was flushed, as she had inherited her father’s ruddy cheeks. Mary’s blue eyes were bright as she walked to her mother, holding her nurse’s hand, and Catherine of Aragon thought no other girl was as beautiful as her darling daughter.

“Mary,” she said, falling to her knees, “Come here, mi querida.”

Mary smiled and let go of her nurse’s hand. She skipped over to her mother, her feet barely touching the ground in her high happy steps, and embraced the Queen, wrapping her arms around Catherine’s neck. Her hood slipped from her hair, a clear sign that it was not pinned properly, but it didn’t matter. Even as the red tresses fell to her shoulders, free from their bounds, Catherine did not care. They were in private, alone, and it was good to see her daughter.

“How are you? Have you been good?” Catherine asked when they separated. She had not seen her daughter in many months, as Mary had been moved to the country for her health, and was eager for news from the girl’s own mouth. It was hard to be parted from her only child, but she couldn’t risk Mary’s health for her sake. Henry thought the air of the court was not good for her, as she often suffered from periods of ill health and Catherine had to accept his better judgment. The fact that neither Lady Salisbury nor her other attendants such as her tutors reported illnesses made her believe it had been the better decision to send her away from London.

And it was only a short ride to Sudeley Castle, one which Catherine intended to do more frequently over the following months after the Emperor left England. She wanted to focus more on Mary, as she may very well be her only surviving child and deserved the attention and education befitting the King’s undoubted heir.

Catherine had been married to Henry for thirteen years by then and had been pregnant six times. Four times, she had brought forth a living child, but most died shortly after birth, having been recalled by God soon after they first opened their little eyes. Only Mary had lived for more than a few weeks. Mary, her loving daughter, her dear child. Clever Mary, with her great facility for music. Mary, who was not the boy Henry longed for.

But it did not matter. Catherine was still thirty-seven. Her monthly courses still came every month. And Henry had started visiting her bedchamber at night again. There was still a chance for her.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Mary, smiling, “Lady Salisbury says I’ve been very good. She says she has never seen a more graceful child.”

“Really?” Catherine asked and Mary nodded, “That is good. So good. I’m so proud of you, my darling.” She stroked her red curls, smiling, “There is something important I must tell you.”

Mary smiled, pleased with the idea of being told something important by her mother. When she was happy, her skin flushed very prettily, and she would bite her lower lip as she beamed. She nodded incessantly when Catherine asked if she really wanted to hear it, smiling even more widely.

“Emperor Charles is here.” Mary deflated and, if she were any other child, she might have pointed out how she already knew her cousin was there, as someone was likely to have told her before. Instead, she smiled sadly, as if trying to tell her mother that she was still excited, and Catherine’s heart could have broken at that right moment, “And you will meet him by the end of the week. You must behave very well, as he is to be your husband someday. Do you promise to be a good girl, my love?”

“I promise,” Mary said. Her good mood had returned.

“When you marry Charles, you will be Queen of Castile, León, and Aragon, as well as the Holy Roman Empress. You will be a great lady.”

Mary nodded, but she then twisted her lips, as she was likely to do while thinking. “Will I have to live with the Emperor now, mama?” she asked, “Or can I stay with Lady Salisbury?”

Catherine did not allow herself to be upset that Mary didn’t think about saying with her, and smiled, “No, my darling. Not now. Not until you’re twelve.”

“That is six years away!” Mary pointed out, and her eyes rolled. She had a child’s notion of any time being too far away, no matter whether it was good or not to wait. Catherine chuckled. She was such a precious girl, so intelligent. She would be a fantastic Queen, either of Spain or of England. That, Catherine knew so.

“Yes, but don’t worry. Charles will only be your husband when you are sixteen, or seventeen, not before,” Catherine said, trying to not mention the consummation for her six-year-old daughter. Still, she had to say this to Mary, as she felt the need to point out that it would only be ten or eleven years before she was a wife in truth, as well as in name.

Ten years until she had a child of her own, a grandson for her father. An heir for the King of England, who was once more trying for a son with his wife as the thought of a foreign grandson on his throne finally seemed to hit him. Henry could not wait another ten years for a boy of his blood when he had waited thirteen already. Catherine prayed that she would be strong enough to still give him this one son, this one last boy to make the country safe. She was young still, if not too young, and her sisters had produced healthy boys. Had her own mother not birthed her when she was almost thirty-five? If they had done it, why could she not?

 

[pandizzy]

Windsor, England. 13th of June, 1522.​

The night sky was full of stars but no moon, as it was hidden away by the clouds floating over them. The cold air breezed around her, and Anne Boleyn wrapped her arms around herself, trying to gather some warmth. She felt silly by standing there, waiting for him, but something kept her grounded and stopped her from walking away. Anne held his note in her hand, his scrawny handwriting marking the page that asked her to meet him by the gardens at midnight. She looked at it every other moment as if the words might change and she could return to her rooms with her reputation still intact. The darkness made it almost impossible for her to make out what was written, but she knew his words by heart, as she had read it many times.

Why was she there? She ought to have ignored his requests, to have told him that she was no woman to come at the calling of men. She ought to turn around at that very moment, before he arrived, and pray no one had seen her.

She ought to do many things, but she did nothing. Instead, Anne sat on a nearby bench and sighed, placing her hands on her lap. She looked around and saw a rustling on the bushes and the tall figure that was Charles V coming her way.

“Madame Boullan,” he said when she stood up, “Forgive me for my tardiness.”

Anne said nothing. For the first time in her life, she didn’t know what to say, and so, she sat again, looking away from him as she feared she would not be brave enough if she looked in his eyes. He did the same, sitting by her side on the small stone bench, and attempted to smile, though his nervous shyness prevented him from relaxing.

“Anne,” he murmured, placing a hand over hers, “It’s very good to see you.”

She thought her name had never sounded more lovely than it did on his lips. Anne blushed despite herself and smiled as well. “It’s good to see you too, Your Majesty.”

Charles’ smile waned, but he took a deep breath and stilled himself, “Charles,” he said.

“What?” Anne frowned.

“If I can call you Anne, you must call me Charles,” he answered, smiling widely.

“Very well, Charles,” she said, tilting her head.

He was eager to have intimacy between them, a sense of familiarity that would surely get them both to relax. Charles was so nervous and he didn’t understand why. He had done this before. This seduction game, the kind words and warm touches that would get a lady to want him back, even if just for a night. He had many mistresses before and had two unacknowledged bastards with another on the way.

But this was different. Anne was different. Since they had met at the church, he could not stop thinking about her. Matters of state were ignored in favor of pondering about her intellect, which he knew from asking his aunt and the other courtiers to be incredible. More than once, had Charles mused about her time in France, neglecting the discussions about the war.

He believed himself to now be an expert about her. She could speak French and Latin, besides her native English. She had spent seven years serving Queen Claude of France and came home with honors, as she was one of few women to have left the court of Francis I with their reputation intact. Her piety was well known, as was her virtue. Although he was not a peer, her father was amongst the highest-ranking noblemen in England and was trusted by King Henry VIII. Her brother was named George and her sister, Mary. She was the middle child.

He wondered why he cared so much about her. He had been ecstatic to know she was still unmarried and every sight of her made his heart jump in his chest. How could one woman make him feel this way? Was it because they had known each other during their childhood? She was not the most beautiful woman in court, as many liked to point out, but there was something about her poise and etiquette that was completely charming and entrancing.

“How is your aunt?” she asked, “The Dowager Duchess was always good to me.”

Charles smiled. Yes, this was good. This was comfortable, “She is well. I saw her just before I left Burgundy and I know she will be very happy to know I’ve seen you. She was always fond of her petite Boulin.”

Anne smiled. This was going well, she thought. It could have been much worse. He could have been much worse.

She had to admit that the memory of the blonde boy in Mechelen did not match the image of the dark-haired man before her. Charles, Duke of Burgundy was a solemn figure, the weight of his father’s death and his mother’s distant life in Tordesillas making him quieter than most. Anne remembered that the maids of honor of Margaret had to pay him every respect and could not be his friends’, even though many of the girls were of an age with him. She had seen Charles only once without the Duchess, on his birthday in 1514.

To him, they must have met in the gardens by accident, though Anne had followed him there, as she believed herself to be in love with him. After saying their greetings, she gave him a piece of embroidery that she had done to celebrate the occasion, with the coat of arms of Charles before his ascendancy to the Imperial and Spanish thrones. It was not a good work, as it resembled more a lumpy handkerchief than a miniature banner and she would be ashamed now to give it to anyone, let alone a high-ranking ruler. Charles had smiled though and told her it was the best present he ever had.

That had felt so romantic, back when Anne was just a small child with no knowledge of the world. But she was foolish and naive. She thought he would soon announce his intentions to marry her, though she knew better now. Charles would never marry an English noblewoman. He would marry a Princess, such as Mary Tudor, or one of the daughters of King Francis I. Maybe even his Portuguese cousin. He would never choose her, no matter his feelings about her little embroidery.

But still. When Anne had to leave for the French court in October, she cried for three days straight. Her little heart was broken and only the intense work of serving Queen Claude made her forget him.

“Perhaps we should go to my rooms,” Charles said, breaking her daydreams, “For privacy.”

Anne blushed. She could not believe what he was saying. She was both insulted and upset, for believing for even just one second he was different from the rest, that he actually cared about her. She shook her head and said, “Your Majesty, I can't be your mistress.”

Then, she stood up and left.

 

[pandizzy]

Windsor, England. 14th of June, 1522.​

As a lady-in-waiting to Her Majesty, Anne didn’t think it was strange for the Queen to ask her to stay back after the others were dismissed for the night. She had almost expected it to happen eventually, as it was her duty to serve Catherine as a companion, to offer her a friendly ear at all times and keep her secrets from anyone but the King. Anne served the Queen to the best of her capabilities, as there was no one else in the realm more intelligent or more graceful.

It seemed to her, as someone who had always been eager to learn, that the Queen was a great teacher, unmatched by anyone. She carried herself with great dignity and modesty, not allowing anything to harm her. Anne had acquired much admiration for the Queen after hearing about little Henry FitzRoy, the King’s son, and how little attention she had paid to him. His life did not bother her, who was His Majesty’s one true wife and future mother of the undoubted heir, who was still unborn. Her strength and character were admirable.

And so, Anne stayed, sat in a chair beside the Queen. Catherine had her long hair released from the confining gable hoods she so loved. Her many pregnancies had exhausted her body, and the once-red tresses were a muddled brown, but her light retained its shine. She was wearing a simple nightgown and held a rosary tightly in her hand, smiling at Anne.

“You are very beautiful, Lady Anne,” she murmured, turning to the hearth, “So very beautiful and charming.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Anne, “But I know there are others more beautiful at court, such as yourself.”

Catherine’s smile widened, but it quickly died down, replaced by a tight frown, “You are very kind, Lady Anne.” She sighed, “I sometimes wonder what such kindness will get you. Good things, I imagine, but all good things must end, at some point.”

Anne frowned, “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but I don’t understand what you are saying.”

“Never mind that,” said the Queen, shaking her head, “How old are you, Lady Anne? Eighteen, no?”

“Nineteen, madam.” She felt silly for correcting the Queen, but it had to be done. She couldn’t simply let the Queen think she is younger than she truly is. It’s not becoming of her.

Her Majesty nodded. She looked away from Anne, to her rosary in her hand, and sighed. She had a very beautiful profile, Anne thought. Her nose was thin, upturned. Her cheeks were round as if permanently stuck in her girlhood years. She had full lips, who were now pressed into a tight line on her face.

“I have noticed something recently,” said Catherine. She looked at Anne and felt the need to sigh again, displeased at the recent happenings in her court. Oh, Charles, why could you not be wiser? Lady Anne was so young, so innocent. “My nephew, the Emperor… He is interested in you.”

Anne would have blushed, had she not been speaking with the Queen. Had this conversation happened in another week, another month, she would not have been bothered by the memories of the previous night. Charles had asked her something terrible. He had showcased his true intentions about her, and what he truly thought about Anne. He saw her not as an old friend, but as a whore, someone to see only at night, hidden in the gardens, away from everyone’s eyes.

“Your Majesty, I…” she hesitated, wondering what she could tell the Queen, “I…”

“I hope you understand that nothing can ever happen between you two,” said Queen Catherine with all the sternness and strictness of a mother, “I love him very much, but I have to admit that my nephew can be quite foolish sometimes. And I trust my ladies to be above such sinful thoughts.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” said Anne, “Nothing has happened, nor will it. The Emperor is a kind old friend, that is all.” She did not want to tell the Queen about Charles’ offer, because then she would have to explain why she had accepted his invitation. And to explain his invitation was to say that she had willingly gone to the gardens in such late hours. It would get too complicated.

Catherine nodded, “That’s good,” she said, “You’re a very smart girl, Lady Anne. I know you will not ruin your entire life for just one night.”

“No, Your Majesty, I will not,” Anne murmured, “I do not intend to follow my sister’s path.” To mention Mary was unlikely to be a good choice, as she had slept with the King, but it was one Anne made anyway. Since she first came to court, Anne had likely learned that she must separate herself from Mary Boleyn, as she didn’t have any desire to follow her path, and be known as the Great and Infamous Whore by everyone. She intended to go down in history as a good woman, virtuous and pious. Cleverer than her counterparts and to do so, she would keep herself away from Charles and Mary.

Catherine smiled once again, “I knew I was not wrong to put my trust in you, Lady Anne.” She tapped Anne’s hand, “I promise you something. Once Charles is gone, I shall arrange you a good marriage, to make sure that no rumors follow you. As my maid of honor, your dowry will be my responsibility, so your father will have nothing to worry about. What say you?”

Anne smiled, relief washing over her chest, “Thank you, Your Majesty. You are so kind.”

 

[pandizzy]

Windsor, England. 18th of June, 1522.​

“We shall invade France together in 1524,” said King Henry VIII to Emperor Charles V as they sat together, a large map sprawled on the table before them, “Your armies will come from the south, and I will start a conquest through Calais.” Charles nodded, observing as Henry moved his hand around the map, pointing to the lands he intended to gain for himself, “This will divide Francis’ attention and cause his flanks to be weakened as he attempts to destroy us both.” The King of England smiled then, pleased with himself, “Within a year, we will have won.”

It was an ambitious dream for them both. To unite their bands and destroy that libertine monarch called Francis, to regain the lands that the Kings of France had taken from their ancestors, lands that rightfully belonged to them both. Charles had prayed much about the subject and he believed it was God’s intention to have him drive Francis away from Milan and Burgundy, to restore peace in Europe once and for all. By 1525, Charles had hoped that the dream would be gone, and life would stand in its place, just as he had planned.

“Soon, I will be King of France in truth, as well as in name,” said King Henry, excited at the prospect, “My ancestors’ hard work will finally pay off. All my father’s dreams for the Tudor dynasty, all of my mother’s hopes for me…”

Charles nodded, but he could already feel himself slipping away from the conversation. Ever since this meeting started, he had managed only small periods of attention, before a long time of daydreaming. He couldn’t focus on the King of England when his entire being was more preoccupied with other things, with someone else.

Since Anne Boleyn rejected him, five days before, he could not stop thinking about her. It was funny. What should have ended his pursuit of her only served to fuel it, encouraging him to continue. There was something about her that made his insides twist, created pulls of desire in his loins, and raced his heart. It was not her looks, as there were more striking beauties at court, but something else. Something in her smile, in her perfect French and her eyes.

Her eyes. Oh, Lord. Her eyes made him mad. They were dark hooks for his soul, pulling him in, causing him to lose every sense of reason. He wanted no other woman, no other person, besides her. He often replayed that night in the gardens, trying to find out what he had done wrong. Charles understood he had offended her by his request, but what else could do? She was not his wife, nor was she someone who would give him a night of passion in return for enough coinage.

He needed Anne. He would go insane without her, just like his mother had after his father died. He had to have her, one way or the other, or he wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

 

[pandizzy]

Bishop's Waltham, England. 1st of July, 1522.​

“Anne?”

Anne Boleyn turned her head at the sound of her name being called and saw Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor and King of Spain coming her way. Despite her intense desire to turn around and continue walking away, she stopped and curtsied, knowing that the Queen would never forgive her for showing disrespect to her nephew if she were to know.

But the Queen mustn’t know about this chance meeting, though she had her doubts over how random it truly was for the Emperor. Or else Her Majesty would think Anne didn’t intend to fulfil her part of the deal and she might negate her promise to find her a good marriage, something that Anne desired above all other things. She couldn’t know.

“Your Majesty,” said Anne, her knees still bent, “What an honour.”

“Anne,” said Charles, shocked, “Please. You know me.”

“I don’t think I do, Your Majesty,” Anne boldly murmured, raising her eyes to look at him, “The Duke of Burgundy would never dishonour a lady as the Emperor did me.”

Charles stepped back, bringing a hand to his mouth. He was shocked by her audacity and hurt by her words, though he had to admit they were true. He had not treated her as a lady ought to be treated. But he would remedy that soon enough.

“You’re right,” he voiced, “You’re right. I have not been honourable to you, Anne, and I wish to apologize. From the bottom of my heart, I apologize to you for my horrible behaviour.”

Anne blinked. She had not expected this from him. If she had to be honest, she would say she thought the Emperor would be offended at her refusal, and demand that she enter his bed, or else he would ruin her to his aunt. But he did not. She looked around them and saw that they were alone, with no servants or other courtiers to bother them in this small corridor. The Queen would never have to know if she accepted his apologies.

“From the bottom of your heart?” she whispered.

As a response, Charles took her hand, small and soft on his, and brought it to his chest. His fingers were very warm, but gentle on hers, caressing her skin lovingly. Anne sighed when she saw how rapidly his heart was beating, how strong it was, even through the layers of his clothing. Is all of this for me? she thought, nervously blinking.

“From the bottom of my heart,” he repeated, “My heart, which is yours.”

“Charles…” she said, trying to step away because he couldn’t be saying those things. What if the Queen learned about it? And she had told him that she would not be his mistress, so why would he say something like that?

“I’m mad for you,” Charles declared, still tightly holding her hand, his palm burning against hers, “Without you, I am lost.”

Anne shook her head, “You cannot say those things.”

“It is the truth, Anne,” he said, “Since I first saw you, you have not left my mind. Every other matter is ignored. I must be with you.”

“We can’t be together,” answered Anne, though she could not say whether she was trying to convince him, or herself, “Do you know what they call Mary, my sister who has been a mistress to two different kings? The Great and Infamous Whore. I wonder what they will call me if they even think we are sleeping together.”

“Anne…” he shook his head.

“I will not go the way of my sister,” she told him, “I intend to have a good and honourable marriage. And you cannot give that to me. You are expected to marry some great princess, not the daughter of an English diplomat.”

Something lighted up in Charles’ eyes, something that made sense in his head. He looked at her, their hands still together, and smiled, “Then you must marry me.”

Anne laughed. This was a jest. He surely had to be joking, because this was not happening. She couldn’t believe it and she laughed, high and loud before she stopped. There was something in Charles’ eyes, something around the corner of his mouth, that said he was not joking.

“You can’t be serious…” she said.

“I know we can make a life together, Anne,” he answered, stepping forward every time she stepped back, “We will be happy.”

“Princess Mary…” Anne whispered, shaking her head.

Charles laughed, “Princess Mary is a child. I’d have to wait ten years for an heir of my own and you are the woman that I want. Henry will understand.”

“You do not know the King,” she told him, “And besides, we cannot marry. I am not highborn enough for you.”

“This doesn’t matter,” he tells her, “I am Emperor. The only one who is above me is the Lord and how can He judge me in the matters of love?”

“Charles.…"

Anne shook her head once again because this was madness. Surely, he was mad. This couldn't be happening. They could not marry. And yet… Charles was looking at her with so much devotion in his eyes and she couldn't ignore how much she was smiling, how their hands were still together. How her heart felt like it was beating out of her chest.

Could it really be that simple? Could Charles truly defy every sense of propriety and marry her?

"Charles…" she said again, softer this time.

"Tell me, my love," he murmured, "Please, tell me you will accept."

Anne's smile grew larger, "I accept."

He kissed her then, his free hand going to her neck. Charles had never felt such happiness before, such glee. He couldn’t stop kissing her and laughing and kissing her and laughing. Anne touched his face and he saw she was crying, but the large smile on her lips told him it was tears of joy.

 

[pandizzy]

Bishop’s Waltham, England. 2nd of July, 1522.​

Lodewijk van Praet is nothing if not a loyal man. He had faithfully served his Duke, now Emperor, with the best of his capabilities, as grand bailiff of Ghent and Bruges, and since May, as the Imperial Ambassador to England. Personally, he considered the Emperor’s betrothal to Princess Mary as his greatest achievement, since it had taken many months to convince the King of England to accept such a deal. It was his work alone that the Emperor had acquired great trading deals with the English and when the children from his marriage to young Mary Tudor eventually came, Lodewijk would be proud to know that it was his words that had brought them to life.

Except they would never come. Except for the fact that Charles of Austria summoned Lodewijk and two of his attendants in the middle of the night, having them meet him in the chapel of Bishop’s Waltham, a market town just outside Bishop Waltham’s Palace. There, Lodewijk met the Emperor, with a woman holding his arm as they talked with a priest.

Lodewijk hadn’t wanted to believe what was before his eyes, and so he lied to himself. He lied to himself as they stepped inside the chapel. He lied to himself when the Emperor introduced the woman, Anne Boleyn, to them. She had dark hair and eyes but was not a great beauty herself. Lodewijk noticed her fine green dress and the diamond necklace around her neck that was supposed to have been given to Princess Mary at the end of the Emperor’s visit.

No, he thought, as the priest, whose name he did not know, started and finished the wedding ceremony, You cannot do this. You are promised already.

Lodewijk said nothing. He couldn’t say anything, because this ceremony was a secret. He was there only as a witness, to assure the world that it was a godly bond, legal and binding. It was not up to him to say anything against it.

But the Emperor felt the need to tell them, “Say nothing of this until we have returned to Castile.” He was holding the hand of Anne, his wife, tightly, as if he was afraid she would soon leave, “We do not know how Henry will react and the Spaniards deserve to know first. They will be the most disappointed, after all.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” said Lodewijk, “I would not dream to go against your will.”

“Thank you, Lodewijk.” the Emperor smiled, “I will never forget your service to me. To us.”

Lodewijk nodded. His service was a loyal one, true. He would keep his mouth shut until the Emperor announced his marriage to Anne Boleyn and, when it was done, would do his best to calm the temper of the King of England. He would be the one more disappointed about this marriage, more angry, not the Spaniards.

“Now, my lord,” said the Emperor, “I must retire for the night with my bride.”

The Empress giggled then, high and proud on the arm of her husband. No one could tear her away from him, it seemed. Lodewijk would never dare to try.

 

[pandizzy]

Hever, England. 3rd of July, 1522.​

“You can’t possibly think we believe in you, Anne,” said her father, his face red with fury.

“But it’s true,” Anne responded, extending her arm. On her finger, there was a golden ring, a ring that until the day previous had been on the hand of Emperor Charles. The jewel bore the two-headed black eagle of the Habsburgs and the Holy Roman Emperor, her new family. When her father looked at the jewel, he frowned and turned away his face, disgusted, “We are married. I am the Queen of Spain now.”

“The Emperor is already promised to another,” her brother said, disbelief clear on his face, “A binding promise. He cannot be your husband.”

Anne raised her chin. She would not let them speak like that to her, as if she were a mere silly child who did not understand the ways of the world. She was married to the Emperor, for goodness’ sake, and may very well already have the next Emperor growing in her belly, “Princess Mary is a child. The contract was never consummated and so it’s not legally valid. The Emperor, my husband, will easily acquire a dispensation from the Pope for it.” She shook her head, “Why aren’t you happy for me? Alone, I have gained a good and honourable married. I am Queen now, mother to a future King. Our family has never been higher.”

“He has tricked you,” her father said, shaking his head, “Do not think this marriage is binding, Anne. He has fooled you into believing it is just so he may enter your bed.”

Her mother’s blue eyes filled with tears, “Oh, my poor daughter… My poor darling daughter…”

Anne swallowed the desire to stomp her feet on the ground like she was a child, or to throw a tantrum. She was a Queen now and had to behave as such. Queen Catherine came to her mind. Her Majesty was always so calm, so collected. Anne had to be just like her, “You do not know that. Charles and I are married. We were joined by God until death does us apart.”

“Well, do not think this marriage will hold anywhere!” her father shouted, “Do you think King Henry will recognize this union when it was supposed to be his daughter in your place? Or the Portuguese. Or the French. All royal families of Europe will refuse to even say your name, as you have stolen the crown that they believed to belong to their relations.”

“Papa!” Tears came to her eyes at his words, freely sliding down her cheeks. Now, Anne regretted coming to Hever Castle to warn them, to ask them to come with her and Charles to Spain, where they would be safe from King Henry’s wrath.

Despite her crying, her father continued his verbal assault, “Do you think the Imperial Diets will recognize you? That they will bow before you and kiss your hand, call you Empress? You who have come to this marriage bare, without lands or dowry to enrich your husband? Or the Spaniards? Do you think you are worthy of sitting where Queen Isabella the Catholic sat?”

“Father, I think Annie has understood…” said George, looking between her and their father.

“Do not call her that!” responded her father, “She is no longer our darling Annie. She is a whore, who ruined everything by getting into the Emperor’s bed. The King will never look to our family for positions again because of her.”

“Papa!” Anne said at the same time her mother gasped, “Thomas!”

Thomas shook his head and averted his eyes from her, walking to the window. He placed his hands on his waist and sighed as he looked at the imperial coach outside of his walls, the coach that had brought his daughter, the Empress, home.

“Perhaps there is still time,” he said, more to himself than to his wife and two children, “I will warn King Henry, beg for his forgiveness. He will find a way to have this marriage annulled and will forgive us, in due time. And you…” He turned to Anne, his eyes as wide as saucers, “You will be sent to a nunnery where you can repent from your mistakes.”

“No!” Anne said, “Father!”

She turned then, grabbing her red skirts with her hands, and ran away, ignoring the call of her father to have the guards take her. They hesitated, clearly not understanding why their lord would want to have his once darling daughter taken in, and she took advantage of the situation to run down a flight of stairs, cross the corridors and leave her family’s castle.

There, the imperial guards, quicker and smarter than her father’s, drew their swords at the sight of her running away. They would protect her because she was their Empress, she had to be.

Anne looked back at her family home, her home, and the tears slid down her cheeks as hot as boiling water. Her father looked at her from the window, shaking his head, “Go,” he said, “But know that when the Emperor sets you aside, you will not be welcome here. I no longer have a daughter named Anne.”

 

[pandizzy]

Winchester, England. 3rd of July, 1522.​

Catherine of Aragon, Queen of England bends slightly forward as she watches her husband sign the piece of paper. Her brown hair has been perfectly tucked under a glittering blue french hood, a garment that matched her exquisite royal blue gown, her sleeves hanging to her ankles. She had her round face slightly puckered as she struggled to understand the contents of said paper, the will of the Emperor which the King was signing as a witness. It was written in Latin, as all good papers are, but a version in French would be done for good measure and be sent to Bruges at the Low Countries.

In the case of his death at sea, Charles of Austria left all of his holdings to his younger brother, Ferdinand, who now lived in Vienna with his Hungarian wife as the new Archduke of Austria. Catherine, who loved both of her nephews dearly, prayed nothing would happen to Charles. His brother was just nineteen, and too young to take on a responsibility he had not been taught to hold from childhood, as Charles had been.

She looked at her nephew then, who had a smug smile on his face. He looked awfully confident then, almost as if he had conquered something that he had really wanted. It was not a good look on him and made Catherine feel uneasy, a heavy weight pooling low on her stomach. She almost felt like retching her small lunch.

Instead, she turned to Maud Parr behind her, twisting her lips, “Where is Anne Boleyn? She ought to be here.” As a French speaker, Mistress Boleyn’s duty was to serve as a translator between the imperial and royal parties. Her absence was a prickly thorn on Catherine’s side.

Maud blushed under Catherine’s gaze, “No one has seen her all day. I heard she caught a sickness and returned to her father’s estates to prevent Her Majesty and the King from getting ill.”

Catherine nodded. This was a perfectly good reason, but, for some reason, she did not believe it. She turned to Charles again and saw the confident tilt of his hips, the curve of his smile and the missing ring on his finger.

She did not like this. She did not like this at all.

Dover, England. 4th of July, 1522.​

A woman is helped by a man into a small boat, her hands firmly holding her green skirts. When she raises her head to watch the ship into which she is going to embark, dark curls slip out from beneath her green French hood and the B pendant on her neck shines with sunlight hitting it just right. A couple of peasants watch as she is led away to the large fleet anchored in the English shores, but no one knows her name, or what she has done.

 

[pandizzy]

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.

 

[pandizzy]

Winchester, England. 10th of July, 1522.​

There was a sense of calmness in the rooms of Her Majesty, the Queen. Catherine of Aragon patiently sewed a new shirt for her loving husband as María de Salinas played the lute and another maid, Lucy Talbot, the virginals. Some of her ladies-in-waiting were sewing clothes of their own, while others read books and relaxed in the peaceful environment of Her Majesty’s court.

But this peace was broken when the door opened and the King strummed in, his face flushed with anger. “That whore!” he screamed as the doors slammed shut and all ladies gasped at both his intrusion and his language.

“Henry,” Catherine said, used to calming his fiery temper, as she stood up, her sewing set aside, “What is wrong?”

The King looked at her with wide eyes and she saw how he was shaking, how furious he was. Despite their many years together, Catherine had seen him like this only once before, when his sister married the Duke of Suffolk without his permission in France. Could something like it have happened again? Who would dare to go against such a marvellous King and marry without his permission? Who could have possibly offended him so?

“Leave us,” the King tells his wife’s companions and they turn to the Queen, eyes as wide as saucers. She nods and quickly, they scurry away, not wanting to remain in the room lest the King’s anger be directed at them.

When they were alone, Catherine stepped forward, and touched his sleeve, “What has happened? Tell me. You know you can tell me anything.”

“I have found your missing lady,” said Henry, almost shouting, “Mistress Boleyn is on a ship headed to Castile, or should I say Mistress Habsburg?”

“What?” Catherine swallowed down the urge to press a hand to his forehead to see if he had a fever because he was not making any sense, “What do you mean?”

“Anne Boleyn has secretly married the Emperor, Cathy!” he announced, splaying his arms wide to make his point known, “Anne Boleyn!”

“What?” Catherine asked again because this was not possible. Anne Boleyn was a righteous lady, pious and clever, she would never do something like this. And Charles… Charles was betrothed. He could not marry. He was promised to their daughter, the Princess. Why would he jilt the heir of England to marry a knight’s daughter? This could not be.

“Yes, her father has just informed me!” he said, “He begs for my forgiveness, says he and his family had no knowledge of her mischievousness. I should hang the lot of them.”

“Are you certain?” asked Catherine, a hand on her stomach. She did not feel well.

“Yes, I’m certain!” the King bellows, “I have found the priest who performed the marriage, who says the imperial ambassador was a witness. The ambassador!”

“Oh, no,” Catherine said, pressing her other hand to her mouth, “Oh no, what have they done?”

Oh, Charles. How could he have been so foolish? She was no wife for a prince such as himself, for she was not the daughter of a duke or earl. Catherine could not see the Cortes of her parents approving of such a match or any of the imperial diets and Anne Boleyn… Had she not told her to ignore Charles’ attempts? Perhaps this was her fault. If she had told Mistress Boleyn… Queen Anne that she could consummate an affair with Charles, this marriage would have never happened.

“It seems to me that all Boleyn girls are whores,” said Henry, oblivious to her thoughts, “And I will no longer assist such a tricky man as your nephew. No, I think I shall not go to war against France.”

“Oh, Charles,” sobbed Catherine, “Oh, how could you, Charles?” She remembered the letters they had exchanged. Catherine had tried to be like a mother to him, as he did not know her sister, and he often told her of his love and admiration for her. If you had any love for me, you would not have done this.

“And Mary will marry the Dauphin, as was planned before I was fooled into allying myself with the Emperor,” continued Henry, “I will inform the French ambassador. Of the two marriages. As will all other ambassadors know. I want Europe to know this before the month is out!”

This was too much for her. Catherine turned, wanting to sit down, and felt her legs give out from underneath her. Black spots swam her vision and, without warning, she fainted.

 

[pandizzy]

Fontainebleau, France. 12th of July, 1522.​

Laughter erupted from King Francis’ throat as he read his ambassador’s letter. The joy he felt in reading those words was such that he fell forward, pressing a hand to his stomach as he laughed. The King’s mother, Louise of Savoy, suo jure Duchess of Auvergne and Bourbon, Duchess of Nemours and Dowager Countess of Angoulême set down her prayer book and looked at him, curious to know what had initiated such a reaction in her son.

“Marvelous,” he said, still laughing, “This could not have come at a better time!”

“What is it?” she asked, straining her neck to try and see what was written on the paper, “Francis, what has happened?”

When her son looked at her, she saw that there were tears of joy in his eyes. “During his visit to England, Charles of Burgundy wed an English noblewoman, without King Henry’s permission,” said the King, “Finally, that foolish boy has been humbled.”

The King of France was only six years older than the Emperor, but neither he nor his court will let themselves forget such a precious difference. It means he is senior to the Emperor, a wicked man who likes to pretend he is the most powerful ruler of all Christendom.

But why would he do that? Louise couldn’t understand it. Was this bride from a powerful family, one with high connections not just in England, but beyond? Why would he choose anyone over Mary Tudor, a girl first in line to inherit her father’s throne, or Louise’s own granddaughters, two of whom had been betrothed to Charles in their own time? Little Charlotte would not be pleased by this, as her mother still hoped to give her the imperial crown, and often told her of her glittering future in Flanders.

This was all very confusing. Louise pressed a hand to her head as she mulled the subject over and over. Charles married to an English noblewoman, without the King’s permission. His grandfather, the King of Aragon, had been a tricky man, everyone said so, so could this be a trick from Charles? Every ruler in Europe wanted him married to their own relations, so he chose a girl from a minor family, out of his realm, but for what? This did not make any sense.

“Henry has now offered his daughter for our François,” continued Francis, ignoring Louise’s thinking, “I have half a mind to agree to it.” He frowned, peering closer to the letter, “Though the girl may not be the heir for much longer. Her mother seems to be ill and the doctors think she has conceived again. By Jesu, she is thirty-seven!”

“Who has the Emperor married?” Louise asked when he finished speaking. If she had to be honest, she did not care for the English succession as much as her son did. King Henry was likely to outlive his barren wife and could beget a son in a second bride, putting an end to Francis’ plans to place a Valois in the English throne.

Her son waved his hand, as if the matter was not important, “One Anne Boleyn.”

Her?

“Mademoiselle Boullan?” asked Louise, shocked.

“Do you know her?” Francis frowned.

“Well, yes, we all do,” she said, “Anne de Boullan was a maid of honour to your wife for some years, my dear. Your sister was fond of her.”

“Oh, of course,” said Francis, “I remember her. La Petite Boullan was always running behind Marguerite in her early days here.” Francis frowned and returned his eyes to the letter, “But she left for England in January. Claude said she would marry an Irish cousin of hers.”

“The match must have either been called off or the new Empress was left a young widow,” said Louise, closing her prayer book, “Do you know if her family is wealthy?”

“Does it matter?” her son asked, standing up, “She is not a Princess and Charles has gained nothing but a bride in this marriage.” He walked to the window, one that pointed south, to Italy, “This could be what we needed.”

Louise understood what he meant immediately, “The Emperor has weakened himself. Without a dowry from his wife, he cannot repay the debts he acquired from his bribes to the Electors. And his prestige is hurt immensely. Few will flock to his banner now, especially in Iberia.”

Francis laughed again, “Exactly, mother. Call Anne de Montmorency. We have much planning to do.”

 

[pandizzy]

Santander, Castile. 16th of July, 1522​

Fadrique Álvarez de Toledo y Enríquez, 2nd Duke of Alba looked on at the rolling waves as a ship neared the docks of Santander, a port city in northern Spain. There, in that boat now anchoring, was his Emperor, his King, back from acquiring the imperial crown for himself. It was a great honour to have been chosen to receive the King, whom he had not seen in two years, and one that he bore with pride as he stood in the harbour of Santander.

His grandson stood behind him, arms folded behind his back. Fernando had just turned fifteen and was heir to all of his titles, as his father and Fadrique’s son had died when he was just three years old. Fadrique had assumed his guardianship after that, as well as that of his siblings, and had the boy near him at all times. One of his fondest memories was when he took Fernando, aged just six, with him on a military mission to capture Navarre for the King’s grandfather, Ferdinand of Aragon.

To have the boy with him now was also a sign of careful planning, as he hoped the King would accept Fernando as one of his personal grooms, arranging a possible friendship between the two, who were not of so different ages.

And so, when the Emperor left his ship and set foot on Spain once again, Fadrique took a deep bow, cautious as to show the utmost respect to his King-Emperor, his liege. He saw from the corner of his eye as Fernando did the same, and all of the others who were with them, such as knights and grooms who were deemed worthy of welcoming His Imperial Majesty.

“Arise, my lord,” said the Emperor, coming closer to them. Fadrique straightened himself and would have smiled to his liege had his attentions not been captured by the woman on the arm of Charles of Austria.

She was a small and thin woman, with heart-shaped lips and a long nose. Her eyes were very dark, to the point of Fadrique not being able to distinguish her pupil from her iris, and pulled him in as she smiled. Her dress was made in the French fashion, a glittering gown of dark blue embroidered with sapphires and diamonds, and she wore a bejewelled French hood on her head. He could see the front of her carefully brushed hair, which was of a tone of rich dark brown. She was not a woman he was familiar with, but there was something about her, something about the way her chin was raised and how the ring on her finger glittered as the sunlight hit it that told him to be careful.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Fadrique said, bowing once more. When he turned to the woman, he only nodded with his head, as he did not know who she was, “Madame.”

She did not curtsy to him, as most women did when meeting the premier noble of Castile, and that told him to be very careful. Perhaps she was a mistress, acquired in Burgundy, where the French and Dutch ways are so easily mixed. Mistresses are so easily vain and proud. Charles of Austria had many mistresses before and respect had to be paid to them accordingly, lest one wished to lose the King’s favour. The most memorable of them was Germana de Foix, of course, who had once been married to the Emperor’s grandfather and bore him a bastard daughter she insisted on calling Infanta Isabel.

But this one could be just as memorable, as seen from the way she was already acting. High and proud, as if no false movement could cause her to fall from Charles’ side.

“Fadrique of Alba,” said the Emperor with a large and proud smile on his wife, “Meet my wife and your queen. Ana Bolena.”

Despite his initial shock at the news, Fadrique still had enough sense in him to bow to the Queen and kiss her offered hand, whispering, “Your Majesty.”

As he did so, he could not stop thinking. Married? And to an adult woman? But how could this be? As far as he knew, the King was betrothed to Princess Mary Tudor, daughter of the English King and Catalina de Aragón. It should be she on his arm, not this Anne Boleyn. Or, if not her because of her age, then Isabella of Portugal, who could give him children immediately.

The Cortes had advised the King for years, since he arrived on Spanish soil, to take a wife with Iberian blood, to strengthen his fledgeling ties to the land, but what had he done? What had he done?

 

[pandizzy]

Lisbon, Portugal. 23rd of July, 1522.
​

Leonor smiled as she entered her husband’s study, her large belly leading her forward. João had his back to her, his dark hair nicely brushed under a black cap, and his back was hunched, as if he was looking at something on his hands.

“The little one is moving,” she told him, a hand atop her stomach, feeling the child’s movements within her, “He feels when you are near.”

João turned to her and she saw his worried expression and the paper on his hand. He tried to smile at her but it did little to assuage the emptiness of his eyes and the dark circles under them. Leonor stepped forward, ready to press a helping hand to his face and ask him what was wrong, but she stopped when he did the same and gave her the paper in his hand.

It was a letter from the Portuguese ambassador to England. He told the King about her brother Charles’ visits to their uncle, Henry VIII, and about how furious the English king was about Charles’ marriage to one of his courtiers, a lady called Anne Boleyn.

Leonor frowned and read the letter again. No, it was true. She had not mistaken it. She read it again. Charles was married? But she thought he was betrothed to little Mary Tudor. How could he be married when he was already promised to another? And to a courtier no less, an English courtier. This did not make any sense. This was unlike Carlos. How could he have been so stupid?

“I don’t understand it,” she said, looking up at her husband of four years, “Charles is married?”

“It seems he is,” João answered, shaking his head, “And I understand as much as you do.”

Leonor thought he understood more than her because he did not know Charles as she did. He had always sacrificed everything for the sake of his realm, including his family. Once, he had caught her reading a lovely letter from the Elector Palatine and made them swear before witnesses that they had not procured a secret marriage. She had given him her life, following him to Castile when their grandfather died and marrying João for the sake of his alliances.

Oh, she was happy enough now and would not dream of being married to anyone. Life with João and their daughters, Maria and Joana, was good in a way she had not known before, but Leonor would never forget that it was not her choice to go to Portugal.

“The Caesar you dream of marrying has no heart,” she once told Isabella, her sister-in-law, “He sacrifices everyone for his ambitions.”

Leonor loved Charles, but she could not stop the resentment from growing in her heart at the notion that he had married for love. And to a woman of no prospects, no less. This was not fair.

She recognized the name of her new sister at last. Anne Boleyn, though Leonor knew her as Anna de Boullan. She had once been a maid of honour and companion to her aunt, Margaret of Austria, and shared a year of her childhood with the children of Philip the Fair. During those months, Anne had been in love with Charles, who was the only one to not notice it. Though he might have noticed and harboured his own feelings of affection, seeing as what he had done now.

“This will break Isabella’s heart,” João said, removing her from her thoughts.

Before Leonor could agree, someone else stepped inside the study, and a high clear voice rose through the room, “What will break my heart?”

João and Leonor turned to see who had entered it. It was Isabella, wearing a beautiful gown of blue damask and sapphires in her golden hair. They hesitated, sharing a look before Leonor stepped forward and gave Isabella the letter. She frowned before she read and the effect it had on her was almost immediate, as she began to tremble, the letter crumbling in her hands.

“No,” she said, “No, no.”

João stepped forward, “I am so sorry, sister.”

Isabella looked up and Leonor saw how her eyes were full of tears, her cheeks bloodshot. “This can’t be,” she said, “Charles would never…”

“But he has,” said Leonor, not unkindly.

Isabella sobbed and turned around, running back from where she came from.

 

[pandizzy]

Toledo, Castile. 31st of July, 1522.​

“My lords,” said Charles of Habsburg to the convened nobles, “I understand your feelings, truly I do, but my marriage is a private matter, as well as a state affair. By taking the Lady Anne as my queen, I have made the best decision in regards to all of my holdings, not just Spain.” He looked at them, Elvira Fernández, the 2nd Duchess of Santángelo and Fadrique Enríquez, the 4th Admiral of Castile, among many others, “Were it not yourselves who told me that I should marry and produce an heir? Well, with Mary Tudor, I would have to wait a decade. Now, in a year’s time, I can have a son in the cradle.”

The nobles of Castile and Aragon looked between themselves, shaking their heads and muttering things under their breath. To say that they were displeased with this match was to put it mildly. They had wished for him to marry one of his maternal cousins, a princess with Iberian blood and ties to the land, a princess who would bring him such hefty a dowry as England or the fortunes of Portugal. It was a pity, thus, that this could never be. He was married now to a woman of his own choosing and no one could do a thing about it.

“Tell me something, my lords,” he continued, “What should I have done? You ask of me to marry Isabella of Portugal, and yet my Flemish subjects tell me to take Charlotte of France as my bride. The Imperial Diets offer me their daughters and sisters, who are German and will serve as payment for their votes in the election. Who should I listen to? Which land is more important to me?”

They say nothing, as they clearly would like him to focus more on his Iberian matters, despite his recent imperial election. Charles sighs and settles back on his throne as he ponders about the decisions that led him to this moment.

Perhaps he should have married Isabella of Portugal or Charlotte of France, or even Mary Tudor. Perhaps that would be a wiser decision, made by a wiser king, but he had married Anne. He needed her, wanted her and no one could tell him that he had wronged by making her his wife. She deserved better than a single night of passion and a lifetime of ruin. She deserved the throne and that was what he would give her.

The 2nd Duke of Frías stepped forward and said, “Your Majesty, we would be more assured if His Majesty could ascertain that yourself and the Queen will make Castile or Aragon your principal residence. And that any children soon to be born will be raised in these kingdoms.”

Charles put a hand to his chest, “You have my word.”

Later, after assuring the nobles of his intentions to remain in Spain for the next years, he went to visit Anne. She smiled when she saw him and ran to greet him, jumping in his arms. Charles laughed and spun her around, delighted to have her there with him, in his arms, in Spain as his wife, his eternal wife.

“How did it go?” she asked, kissing his face.

“Better than I expected,” said Charles, “They have agreed to accept our marriage, as long as we live in Spain and that our children be raised here. You will have to learn how to speak Castilian and have local ladies-in-waiting, of course, but things could have gone so much worse.”

Anne’s expression shifted and for barely a second, he saw her frown, displeased with what he had said. The second passed and her face smoothed down again back into a neutral expression. Charles frowned too, “What’s wrong? Are you upset, my darling?”

“Nothing,” she said, “It’s nothing.”

Charles settled her on the floor again and looked at her, his wife. His beautiful and loving wife. She was wearing a dark red gown, an old one from England. They had arrived in Toledo only the day before and there was still time before the seamstress would be finished with her new dresses, gowns worthy of a Queen and Empress. It was why he had not asked her to attend the meeting with his nobles. He thought they would be less willing to accept her if she was dressed more poorly than them.

“Tell me,” he said, pressing a hand to her face, “Sweetheart?”

“It’s just…” she shrugged, “I thought we would be soon on our way to the Low Countries. It has been so long since I last saw the Dowager Duchess and I miss her very much.”

“Oh,” he said. This was not what he expected, “We can’t. Not now, at least. But soon, I promise. I know my aunt is eager to see you again, not just as Anna de Boullan, but as her new niece.”

It was a lie. His aunt was less than pleased with his marriage, but she did not need to know that. He wanted to make Anne happy and if that meant lying to her, then so be it.

“But I tell you what, my darling,” he said, “Next week, we will have to travel again, so Toledo will not seem as terrible.”

“Where are we going?” Anne asked with a smile, circling his neck with her arms.

“To Tordesillas,” he answered, “You must meet my mother, after all.”

 

[pandizzy]

Lisbon, Portugal. 6th of August, 1522.​

“No, João! My mind is set!” shouted Isabella of Portugal as she stood up, “Do not attempt to change it.”

“Sister, please,” said João, standing up as well, “Think about what you are saying. You cannot join a convent!”

“I can and I will,” Isabella responded with conviction, dragging her skirts as she walked away from him, trying to put as much distance between them. She knew he would attempt to grab her and shake her, trying to make her see reason, and she would not allow him to do so, because perhaps this is what it took to convince her not to join a nunnery as she planned, “I have always said, João. Either Caesar or nothing. Now that Charles has married that English courtier, I will be content with nothing and serve my true Lord: God.”

João sighed. This is what he wanted to avoid. Since they were little, their mother had filled Isabella’s head with tales about their cousin Charles and the glittering future that awaited her. Their father had tried to stop it, but the Queen was insistent on getting the precious match for her daughter, insisting even on her deathbed that they should make it so. Because of it, Isabella was determined to marry only Charles of Austria or join a convent if he decided to marry someone else, as he had already done.

“Do not let that man ruin your prospects!” said João, “There is still a chance for you. There are more marriages to be made, better marriages.”

“Better than Charles?” She chuckled, “Do not lie to me, João. He is the Holy Roman Emperor and the King of Spain. In Europe, there is no one more powerful than him.”

“I don’t mean better in the sense of power, which he does not lack, but in the sense of character. Charles has shown himself to be untrustworthy, breaking off his engagement like that. He is not a man I would wish to see you being married to.”

Isabella smiled, “Don’t let Leonor see you talking like that about her brother.”

João smiled back. Leonor had entered her confinement, to rest and be away from men until her child was born, but still. If she heard him talk about her own brother in such a way, she would be far from pleased, that he could be sure.

He stepped forward and took Isabella’s hand in his, holding it tightly. He looked up, looked at those blue eyes just like his, inherited from their mother and sighed. Isabella also understood what was left unsaid between them, the years of a close friendship between siblings. “Please, don’t let him stand in your way, don’t let him keep you from true happiness,” he begged. João didn’t want to see his sister cloistered away with the women. He wanted to see her married, with children, and happy, as he had promised his father he would make it happen. If not with Charles, then with someone else, though he could not think of anyone high enough to marry the eldest sister of the King of Portugal.

“Charles was my only chance of true happiness,” she replied, sadly.

“Sister…” He shook his head. Isabella should not have let herself fall in love with the image of Charles, as the marriage between them had never been a sure thing, only a possibility, far away with all of the engagements Charles found himself in over the years, “Give me one chance. Just one chance.”

“What?” She frowned.

“Give me one year to find you a good husband,” he said, “One year. If I fail, I will allow you to join the convent of your choosing.”

Isabella sighed and settled herself on the back of her feet. She knew this was the only option he would give her, because, no matter what she said or did, João could forbid her from joining a nunnery and marry her off to anyone he chose. This was her only choice to do as she wanted.

“Very well, brother,” she said, “One year."

Whitehall, England. 8th of August, 1522.​

Catherine of Aragon tried to keep herself from smiling all day, knowing that people would notice such a change in her, but it was very happy. She was happy, so so happy, and the court deserved to know because this news would delight them as well.

For the first time in four years, she was with child again. Two months had gone by without her courses, with her experiencing sickness in the morning, tender breasts. The physicians and midwives were certain of her new pregnancy, just as she was, as certain as she was the last six times. A woman could only go through so many lying-ins without recognizing the signs on herself.

She was with child. With child! God had answered her prayers at last. She would have to do a pilgrimage to say thanks or donate extensively. It was the only way she knew to celebrate such joyous news. Oh, how happy she was.

And it would be a son. She could feel it, deep in her belly, but just to make sure, she nibbled extensively on asparagus, as they were said to make a boy. A son. She had promised Henry a son and she would deliver him. The wait had only made the news sweeter and more welcoming.

The night after the midwife visited her, Catherine had an intense dream. In it, she played with a boy, a little boy with red hair and blue eyes like Mary’s. He called her mama and she called him John. It was clear to her that the dream had been sent by God, to tell her that she would have a son. A son!

Oh, the name was far from ideal, and it would take a time before she convinced Henry to agree to it, as he would certainly prefer Henry or Edward for his heir, but she knew she could do it. Henry listened to her, as she was his constant princess, his loyal wife.

Catherine also knew that her age was against her. Most women at thirty-seven did not bear more children, both for their health and for their inability to procreate, and the King’s mother died at her own age, giving birth to a short-lived daughter. Henry was very worried for her, but she knew she had to give him a son to save his kingdom from falling into chaos after his death. Who else could give him an heir if not his wife?

As to better her chances, she would rest and eat well, as recommended by Dr Linacre. When the time came for her confinement, Catherine would lie in at Hampton Court, which Cardinal Wolsey gracefully offered for her use, and deliver Henry the son he needed.

She could do this. She knew she could.

 

[pandizzy]

Hever, England. 12th of August, 1522.​

“The King will not see me,” said the Boleyn patriarch on that warm August morning, “His Majesty is still angry for what she has done and refuses to even grant me an audience, so I may explain myself. How can I make him see that it is not my fault? Had I known about her lewd intentions, I would have removed her from court immediately.”

George looked at his father. There is no question about whom he is speaking of so angrily, so full of resentment. Anne, their daughter and sister, who married the Holy Roman Emperor in secret. Anne, who stole a husband from the King’s daughter and heir, the Princess Mary. Anne, whom George missed very much.

“Give him some time,” said George’s mother, the Lady Elizabeth, “He will come around, I know it so. When his anger abates, he will forgive us.”

“I see not why we should worry about the King,” George murmured, sitting near the window. He looked outside, into the gardens of Hever Castle, their family home and wondered how long it would take before the King, known for his rash temper, would attempt to take it from them.

His father sighed, “George, we have talked about this… This is our home, our ancestral land. We are not going anywhere.”

George stood up and walked to where his father was seated, bending forward look him in the eye, “Annie is married to the Holy Roman Emperor. Charles of Austria, the most powerful man in all of the Christendom, is your son, my brother. Why are we still here?”

“Because I’m an Englishman,” Thomas Boleyn answered, “I will die an Englishman.” He waved his hand, as if the matter was not important, “And so will you.”

“No.” George shook his head, “I have my wits about me still. I can recognize that our family’s future lies outside of this island. It lies in the continent, at the imperial court, with Anne!” He sighed, splaying his arms wide, “The King will never forgive us. He will never forget what has happened and will always blame us for the Empress’ actions.”

“Be careful with your words, George,” said father, “And the King can change his mind. I have served him loyally for these thirteen years and such service cannot be forgotten easily. He will turn to us for services yet again.”

“You don’t know that,” George responded, insistent, “You can’t know that, but with the Emperor, who has your daughter by his side, we can rise higher than we could ever hope for with the King.”

His father looked at him and for a moment, just for a moment, George allowed himself to hope. He allowed himself to hope that he had convinced his father, that the man would soon tell their servants to pack their bags, prepare everything that was needed for a trip to the Empire. He allowed himself to hope right until his father opened his mouth.

“Do not speak of that whore,” he said, turning away, “She has forsaken her place in this family and we will not think of her.”

His mother gasped at the same time George took a step back, shocked, “How could you say that about your own daughter?”

“She is not my daughter!” his father bellowed, “No daughter of mine would have acted in such wanton ways.”

“Mary did,” said George, “Mary had two kings in her bed.”

“And her husband was made a Gentleman of the Privy chamber for it,” his father replied, “We are not leaving England. The matter is closed. We will not speak of it again.”

“But father…” George stepped forward.

“Have I made myself clear?” His father looked at him with an intense stare.

He sighed, “Perfectly clear, sir.”