An Imperial Match: Anne Boleyn marries Charles V

[pandizzy]

Madrid, Castile. 10th of May, 1546.​

If Charles had hoped that Francis’ death would slow down the war path of the French armies, or even stop the war in its entirety, then he quickly learned how wrong he was. He listened hopelessly as another messenger detailed the end of the Navarrese conquest, or Basque liberation as the French had begun to call it, and how all of his grandfather’s work was undone in a few years.

He sighed and rubbed his hand over his face, feeling as if he was a hundred years old. Charles brought a cup of wine over to his mouth, ruminating over the whole affair. Francis’ son was king, and still in his prime years as a man of twenty eight. He was one of multiple young headstrong monarchs and princes who had come to power. Charles had so few contemporaries left, men of his era were becoming scarce. He felt like a relic of a former time.

But still, he was the only thing that held his territories in one piece. When he passed, the Holy Roman Empire and the kingdoms of Castile and Aragon would separate. What became of his family then, only God could decide.

He could only spare so much time for morose thoughts. The French were rumoured to be eyeing Burgundy, the son itching to press a claim and reach a level of notoriety akin to his father and grandfather before him. He knew well enough to let the Milanese go undisturbed, considering his father’s failed campaign those years before that should have humbled him.

The Duke and Duchess would require Spanish aid to maintain their holdings against the undivided attention of the French. Charles did not for a moment doubt his favoured son’s martial abilities, but even his great victory had come from the French launching separate attacks, and against a known enemy such as Francis. The new King François was an unknown, having only served in war under the command of his father.

With a significant Spanish force to aid the Burgundians, they could very well manage to decimate the French and put them in their proper place once and for all. And of course, Isabel would marry the Dauphin in time, and raise a generation of half-Habsburg Valois kings and princes who would be gracious and obliging to their superior cousins. He thought. He hoped for. Isabel was obstinate and as determined as her deceased mother, who had forgotten all of her Castilian after being surrounded by Dutch and French attendants. She would be a good dauphine.

He could only hope that would be enough.

--

Whitehall Palace, England. 1st of June, 1546.​

“What do you think he wants from me, mama?” Bella Ashley asked her mother as they stood outside the King’s solar, waiting to be called in. She was a girl of twelve with wide blue eyes and red hair visible even under her black hood, as they were both still in mourning. Her face was even paler than normal and she clutched her mother's hand, trembling.

Kat sighed and shook her head, stroking Bella's knuckles. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t know. Maybe he--” She held her breath. “Maybe the King merely wishes to meet his sister.”

Bella shivered even more, as if that was even possible, and looked at the closed doors. They had an appointment with the King, an audience, but the Lord knew how busy a King’s day was. Appointments could blend together as the hours ran past and the groom that was supposed to have let His Majesty know of their arrival might have been easily ignored. They would have to wait there, standing until their bones ached and the King agreed to see them, even though it had been him who invited them to court.

“He has been king for years,” Bella murmured. “He never wanted to see me before.”

“You were a baby when your father died,” said Kat, cupping her cheek. “And the King wasn’t much older, only twelve. He is a man now, a husband and father as well as a king. He is different.” She sighed and cupped her face, squeezing her hand tightly. “I hope so, of course.” She spoke so lowly that Bella didn’t hear her. “He is your brother, though, and the King so we must respect him. With your father dead--” Kat closed her eyes. It wasn’t like her to forget herself. “I mean, with Sir John dead, we have no money. The King must have received my letter.” Bella nodded, but she still looked terrified, especially when the door opened and one of the King’s grooms let them in.

They entered together, but Kat let go of Bella’s hand as soon as they were inside and threw herself forward, at the young man sitting at the end of a long table. He looked so much like Queen Catherine that it was almost startling, to see a face for so long associated with a queen now placed over a male body. He wasn’t girlish by any means, but rather, softer, with a gentler physique.

Kat knelt before the King. “I throw myself at your feet, Your Majesty, and I’m ever your humble servant,” she murmured, head low. Bella did the same next to her and Kat took the King’s hand gently, kissing the ring upon his little finger.

“Stand up,” the King ordered as he did the same. Kat felt there was no need for him to do so, because he towered over her, so tall and broad-shouldered, just like his father. She tried not to look too much in his eyes, could not know if he would find the act brazen and disrespectful, but the King wasn’t even paying attention to her. He was looking at Bella, who cowed behind her mother. “Dear Lord,” he mumbled, “But you look just like our father.”

“I-I--” Bella looked at Kat before she turned back to her royal half-brother. “I was sorry to have never been given the honour to meet him, Your Majesty.”

The King smiled gently. “Of course,” he said. “You were just a baby when he died." His face softened, stepping back slightly to give both of them space. "Sometimes, I forget that he's been gone for so long."

"Forgive me, Your Majesty," Kat began, "But Sir John was the only father Isabella ever knew." The King nodded. She didn't even know why she said that, why she felt the need to point it out.

"I'm aware you're prone to signing your name as Isabella Ashley," he told his sister. "Unfortunately, with Sir John's death, you two have hardly two pennies to rub together."

"King Henry would send money during his lifetime for Isabella's maintenance and the Dowager Queen continued it upon his passing," said Kat. "When she died, unfortunately, the money stopped."

"An oversight," John II pointed it out. "It was my fault for not paying attention to my Lady Mother's accounts. I hope you will find it in yourselves to forgive me."

"There is nothing to forgive, Your Majesty," said Kat. "The King does as he wills."

"Either way," said the King, "It will not happen again." He leaned back against his table. "I have asked Sir Thomas Cromwell to arrange everything, but with your permission, I'd like for Bella to join my daughters' household. It will come with an income to support her during it and enough to make savings." Kat felt her heart race at the words coming out of his mouth. "Lady Ashley, I'd also be greatly honoured if you joined my wife's household. She is always in need of new hands to help her and with her frequent visits to the nursery, you will see your daughter often enough."

"Your kindness knows no limits, Your Majesty," said Katherine Ashley.

"It's not kindness," the King said. "It's the bare minimum." He looked at Bella again. "Soon enough, you will also need a husband, little sister. I would be pleased to pay for your dowry myself."

At those words, Bella and Kat both burst into tears.

 

[pandizzy]

Bruges, Low Countries. 7th of September, 1546.​

"I hate him," the Duchess of Burgundy declared on an otherwise fine morning, hands splayed over the swell of her stomach. Isabel de Austria, her sister-in-law merely sighed and continued with her embroidery. "What do you think he's doing right now? Probably with another one of his tarts, whoring around while I stay here, growing another one of his babies."

"I try not to think about my brother and his mistresses, Your Grace," Isabel said. She was only ten and usually, she'd be kept out of court gossip, trapped in her schoolroom but Juan rode out in the late afternoon of the previous day. And she was tasked with entertaining her pregnant sister-in-law.

Which was a boorish task. Bessie Tudor did little else than complain about her husband, or her Dutch ladies. She seemed to have some unknown fondness for Isabel, for whatever reason, and the singer that the Infanta brought to her chambers. Certainly, it was a better option than being surrounded by those she despised.

"I'm to give birth in four months," Bessie murmured, "And the Duke could hardly wait to return to his whore. He neglects his duties."

Isabel looked at Bessie's enlarged midsection. It was clear to her that her brother didn't neglect all of his duties. They hadn't been married for even half of the time Felipe and Joana had been together, but already, they were catching up to the princes in the matter of heirs. If it was a boy, this child would be third in the line of succession to Burgundy and so far removed from the Empire as to be nearly impossible for him to succeed. If it was a girl, she'd probably marry the heir to Lorraine, as Cousin Antoinette finally had a boy named François, after her deceased father.

Maybe it would make more sense for Archduchess Anne Élisabeth to marry into Lorraine. She was the eldest daughter and not that much older than François de Lorraine, but Juan had commented about his reluctance in securing a match that might bring French allies high in the line of Burgundian inheritance.

"I heard my brother was going to Antwerp to secure a trade's deal with some English merchants," Isabel commented, hoping to assuage her fears. It was neither good for the baby nor for her health to worry so much about her husband and his philandering ways. And Isabel felt extremely conciliatory that day.

Though all her feelings vanished when the Duchess loudly laughed. "Ha!" she said. "As if." She shook her head. “Little sister, you are truly innocent. Your brother has lied to you, so that you will not see him any differently.” Isabel sighed and said nothing.

She held her tongue only because of the child in Bessie’s belly, because she still had a heart and a love for her future niece or nephew. I’m to be Queen of France, thought Isabel. When she is rid of her child, I will remind her of it. Isabel was Emperor Charles V and Anne Boleyn’s daughter. Bessie could not treat her as if she were a silly little girl who didn’t know the ways of the world.

But she would show her. As soon as the baby was born.

 

[pandizzy]

Stirling Palace, Scotland. 15th of December, 1546.​

Nora Tudor did not know if there was anyone more miserable than her in the Lord’s realm. She was married, she was a queen, and yet she was not at all happy. She wasn’t loved. Not by her husband, or by his brothers, or even the Dowager Queen, who paid her the necessary respects but nothing else. The people didn’t love her. She was lonely, so utterly lonely.

She would give her life’s blood if it meant she would feel less alone. King James VI had allowed her two of her English ladies and the rest were sent back to London, for fear that they were spies. Even her English confessor was booted out of the country, leaving her only a couple of options if she wished to converse in her maternal tongue.

Her Scots was poor at best and so, she talked with her new ladies in French and they whispered about her in their own language, smiling and giggling behind their fans. It made Nora cry many times, wondering if she would have to endure such a state for the rest of her life. Many of them were her own age, but they did not feel like friends and her English companions were hardly more sympathetic in any way.

Mary Fiennes had left some of her own sons behind in her trek to Scotland, as her husband had been executed and his lands taken by Nora’s brother. There was no way for them to be friends. And then there was Mary Dudley, whose grandfather was implicated in Nora's father’s plot to undo his own father’s tyrannical taxes. She never said anything about it, but Nora still feared that there was some resentment towards her person. Mary Dudley always wrote incredible poetry, but never about her mistress.

The only comfort she had at present was that Jimmy, as his own mother called him, did not yell at her the way the Duke of Burgundy yelled at Bessie, if the multiple rumours were to be believed. For all the hostility she was shown by the Scots, they did not raise their voices at her. They were properly cold to her, utterly respectful but never warm. Her husband did not hate her, at least, his eyes did not say as much. Only a mixture of pity and disdain that made her ache.

Sometimes, she wished that they would scream at her. Rage and yell, because it meant that they cared enough to lose control of their emotions. But they never did. They only bowed as she exited mass, murmuring muted ‘Your Grace,’ as she had not yet been crowned. What a pitiful creature she was, sometimes. Wanting to receive their hatred more than their indifference.

Nora sighed, trying so very hard not to cry, and looked out of her window. She saw then, that her mother-in-law was having a luncheon with some of her sons. Robert and John were the youngest children now that little Mary had left to be raised in England next to her betrothed, and young Robert was heir to the throne until a child was produced by Nora. Which would surely need a miracle, seeing as the King hadn’t come to her bed save for the very first night, when the English lords her brother sent to escort her demanded the exhibition of their bedsheets. And that had been months before, with no missed courses since to even hint at a pregnancy.

Anna von Kleve looked so happy with her sons, who played a ridiculous game of tag between them. She was laughing, utterly magnificent in her widow’s garments, and Nora felt a pang of jealousy in her heart. The Dowager Queen didn’t seem to need her ladies, or friends, whenever she was with her children. She was a stranger as well, coming from one of the many countries of Germany. But John and Robert were her joys. They were hers.

Hours later, and the jealousy in her chest hadn’t abated yet. Mary Dudley was adjusting the covers around her body, as the Scottish winter was utterly unforgivable, and Nora stared into her canopy, with great heroic images embroidered in gold and silver thread. Her lady rubbed her arm. “The Queen ought to rest, if she wishes to handle tomorrow’s events,” she murmured.

But Nora couldn’t rest. Not really. She looked at her lady, her English lady, who might not like her, but was bound by oath to hold her secrets deep into her heart. “Mary?” she started.

“Yes, my lady?” Mary Dudley asked.

“I want a baby,” she said. Her words didn’t disappear into the night’s air as she had wished. Instead, they settled and grew around her, like a warm embrace.

Once, Bessie told her something, when she was close to travelling towards Burgundy and a thousand poets made sonnets to celebrate her trip, writing about her fine and handsome husband. The children they would have together. Nora commented on how romantic everything sounded and her sister only said, How romantic it must be to be imprisoned in a palace and made to squeeze out heirs, one after the other. Now that was her fate, trapped with a husband that disliked her as much as she disliked him, with the marriage bed being the only place where they could find common cause.

And Nora thought that sounded like a good idea for her too.

Mary smiled. “That is something you should tell your husband, my lady,” she said. “Not me.”

Nora wanted to tell her that she knew. Jimmy was fifteen like her, tall like people said her father was, with dark auburn hair. Handsome, she knew, but no one ever mentioned a mistress when she was close. And if they did, her grasp of Scots never did allow her to understand. But his father was a notorious womaniser and he had to know how to sire a babe. And he had to know that he would only gain a Duke of Rothesay of his own with her, now that they were married.

It scared her, to think of broaching such a strange topic with a man she didn’t know all that well, but Nora had to. She wanted a child more than anything. Companionship, purpose, comfort. The Duke of Albany and young John Stewart were all the Dowager Queen had, as her husband never did allow her any measure of political power. And Nora wanted something that belonged to her too.

She wanted joy. She wanted a child to call her own.

--

Lisbon, Portugal. 28th of January, 1547.​

Nine years. That was the difference Catalina had with her husband. And her new son. Nine years. A hundred and eight months. It sounded less than it was sometimes, back when she lived in Castile. But now, surrounded at all times by the Portuguese, she couldn't help but notice how awkward it could be sometimes.

Jorge was almost seven, with his father's golden hair and bright green eyes. So respectful, bowing and calling her 'My Lady Mother' just as his tutors taught him. He had been sworn in as the Prince of Portugal soon after his father ascended to the throne, accepted by all as the heir. Recently, Afonso signed a betrothal contract for him with the Duke of Cleves' eldest daughter and Catalina had been one of the witnesses for it. He was clever and beloved by the people, and he shared a birthday with his deceased mother.

And there was António. Not even five, with María's eyes and María's face. They cut him out of her when she was already dead and he had no memory of her, not like how Jorge could remember visiting her sickbed or the warmth of her soft hands. His nurses had told him to call her Mother and he did just that, always wanting to visit and play with her. It made Catalina's heart ache, thinking about those two boys and their father. A broken family since her sister died.

The nobles of Portugal demanded that Afonso remarry after his father died, to beget new heirs and strengthen his line. The Duke of Guimarães had only one posthumous son, named Duarte after his father, and a single daughter Catarina whereas the Duke of Beja's daughter married Infante Filipe, but her sickly composition brought little hope of children. Only the Duke of Aveiro seemed prolific in his duties, with two sons and one daughter, though his scandalous marriage might taint the possible succession of his children. That was why Catalina came to this kingdom. One of nine children and healthier than her older sister. To be a mother in truth as well as in name.

She loved Afonso with all her heart. That had been her fate since she was ten and he was just her sister's widower, to her great shame. She'd give him children glady. And soon after her arrival in June, it seemed clear that she would do just that.

"I can't feel it," her husband complained, running his large palm over the swell of her middle.

"You're not trying hard enough," she joked, placing her atop of his. Afonso smiled, the laughing lines at the corner of his eyes visible, and accepted her moving his touch to the exact place she last felt the baby kick. At six months, nearly to the day of the first time her father came to her bed, the child was active and strong, always kicking and jumping around her entrails. Sometimes, it was annoying. Other times, such as this one, Catalina only found it endearing. "Here. There she is."

Afonso quirked his eyebrow up. "She?" he questioned and Catalina nodded.

"I think it's a girl," she murmured. "You already have two sons, but no daughters."

Her husband nodded. "That's true," he said. The baby kicked his palm again and he smiled. "Rowdy girl, she is."

"She has to be if she wants to keep up with her brothers," Catalina said.

"Quite true," Afonso answered and his smile widened. "What should we name her, then?"

"Ana," Catalina said without hesitation. "After my mother."

"Another granddaughter named after her will certainly make the Empress feel confused in Heaven," her husband joked and Catalina laughed.

"I'd be a poor relation if I didn't honour the woman who gave me life," she said. Then she looked down at her belly again, and saw how Afonso's large hand nearly completely covered her middle. He was twenty-five to her sixteen. "We could name her Ana Leonor, if you wish it," she offered.

He smiled. "I'd like that," he said. Catalina felt her heart beating faster inside her chest. That was why she did everything, what she was after. It was all for that smile. That damnable smile.

 

[pandizzy]

New tv show detailing the entire history of the Tudor Dynasty, and its heirs.

Evie Allen as Eleanor Tudor, Queen of Scotland

Leo Hart as William Tudor, Prince of Wales

Ella Purnell as Cat Carey, Countess of Hertford

Rose Williams as Elizabeth Tailboys, Viscountess Lovell

Josh O'Connor as Henry Howard, Earl of Hertford

Ben Hardy as Peter Tudor (edit: i think this is pierre, Henry VIII's French bastard son that was raised next to his trueborn half-brother, John II)

Michelle Dockery as Mary Boleyn

 

[pandizzy]

Bruges, Low Countries. 13th of February, 1547.​

Bessie rocked Marie in her arms, her second daughter tightly swaddled to ward off any chills. The baby was only a few weeks old, with scrunched up eyes and her father's nose, already loved by all. She tried to keep still, not willing to let the baby wake up even as she felt her limbs shake with her anger.

"The Duke of Lorraine's son?" she questioned. "A grandson to your father's mortal enemy?"

Juan tilted his head, leaning against the sole window in Marie's nursery. "A boy who will inherit the lands standing between the Low Countries and Burgundy," he said. "A boy who ought to be friendly to us."

Bessie looked away. "Mimi is only a baby," she murmured, looking down at her little daughter, named after two of her beloved aunts. Soon enough, she too would be sent to the country to be with her siblings. It was for their health, the Emperor said. A ducal court was a place fit for diseases to flourish and children were best kept away from such things. But all Bessie could feel was that they were ripping her babies from her arms.

"She will grow," said Juan, kicking away from the wall. He walked until he was right before her, towering over her. "As will François de Lorraine. Until they are old enough to be wed." Her husband leaned in to press a kiss to her mouth and Bessie averted her face. Juan sighed, closing his eyes. "Are you angry with me, Elizabeth?"

"How can I not be?" she asked, looking back at him with chilling blue eyes. "You're taking my children away from me. My children!" Mimi whined at her tone and Bessie softened her face, rocking her more firmly until she fell asleep again.

"Is this about my father's decision?" Juan asked. "I regret it most bitterly too, Bess." Bess. That was what he called her when he wanted her to be soft and gentle. Wifely. Obedient. Bessie would not accept it. "They are my children and I think of them every day."

Bessie looked at him with a flashing and angry expression. "You see our children only as remedies for your political headaches," she accused. "Ana de Austria for Philippe, Isabella d'Este for Jean, Wilhelm von Wittelsbach for Anne Élisabeth and now…" She shook her head. "Our children are nothing but pawns to you."

Juan's jaw set back, tense. "You are my political headache," he said and shook his head. "They may have a use for me, but you only see them as tools in your battle against me."

Bessie stared at him for a long moment. "How can you say that to me?" she asked. "At least, I don't clearly prefer one child to the other. One who isn't even your heir!"

Juan opened his mouth to retort just as acidly, but at that exact moment, Mimi began to loudly cry, the sound of her parents fighting waking her up. As she shushed and rocked her daughter, Bessie stared angrily at her husband.

"Get out," she told him with a tense set to her posture. "You've done enough."

"You're so protective of your child," Juan murmured almost mockingly. "Don't forget where you got her." He turned away to leave.

--

Westminster Palace, England. 24th of April, 1547.​

John moved off of her when they were finished, taking his shirt from where it had fallen on the floor. Kitty shifted in his bed, taking the sheets to hide her face in unabashed sleepiness. He chuckled at the sight of her.

"Do I tire you so, wife?" he asked and she smiled, cheeks flushed.

"My lord husband has a strong appetite, that's all," she joked back and John smiled, pulling a dressing gown over his shoulders. He walked away from the bed to fill up a cup with wine, as it was thirsty work to complete his marital duties. Not that he was complaining, of course.

Kitty continued to watch him, dark brown hair falling down her naked back and John watched her back. He watched her until a nervous smile broke her lips and she looked away, unable to handle his stare. He smiled.

She hadn't had a child since Alfred in late 1545, and that was just as well. With two sons and two daughters, they could afford a small break. Allow Kitty's body to heal from so many births in such little time. John wanted more children, his sons would be the only ones able to continue the Tudor dynasty his grandfather and father worked so hard to maintain.

He drank his wine slowly and sat at his writing desk, overseeing his many papers. After the Scottish left Ireland, or some of them did, John had ordered his men to finish their conquest of the emerald isle. He wanted to be King of Ireland, as well of England.

"Husband," Kitty whined behind him, "Come back to bed."

"I can't, my love," he said. "I'm married to my kingdom."

"You're married to me," she complained, huffing against the bed. John chuckled and shook his head, returning his eyes to number about supply lines and more men. Always more men. No one was ever happy. It was never enough.

Kitty sighed, twirling a dark lock around her ring finger. "I received a letter from Nora today," she murmured.

Her husband didn't turn to look at her. "Did you?" he asked.

"Yes, she thinks she is with child," Kitty said and John nodded, still looking at his papers. "Isn't that wonderful? If it's a boy, we might marry Isabella to him."

That made him look at her. "James of Scotland won't accept that," he said. "And neither will I. It will make our grandchildren's blood weaker and thinner." He shook his head. "And our second daughter can do better than Scotland."

Kitty frowned. "Such as what?" she asked.

"Such as Spain," he said, his eyes glittering. "The Prince of Asturias has only one son and all say he won't have another, with the way his wife produced so many daughters. He will want a daughter-in-law from a family known for fertile women."

"Such as mine," Kitty supplied and her husband nodded.

"Exactly," he said. "Your mother had eleven children, my love. You're only twenty-two and already, we have four. Soon to have more." Then, his eyes turned dark, as if taking advantage of something. "And you're related to the Prince's beloved mother, our child born in her natal country. Surely, that counts for something."

"So, it will be Katherine for the future King of Poland," Kitty began, "And Isabella for the future King of Spain."

John nodded. "Our daughters will continue our legacy, my love," he said with a dreamy, faraway voice. "A dynasty of our own, the Tudor rose spreading its roots deep into Europe."

 

[pandizzy]

Vienna, Austria. 7th of June, 1547.​

"Is it finished then?" his father asked, fiddling with his rings. Max nodded as he looked at the contract before him, the signatures at the end. They belonged to the Duke of Milan and the other was his father's, the scrawled and nervous writing that had taken him since the Duke of Württemberg died.

"It is," said Max. "Greta will marry Paolo Sforza." He spoke of his little sister, number nine in the overall list of siblings, Margarethe.

"And Eleonore? Have we found a husband for her yet?" his father asked.

"There is Wilhelm, eldest son of the Landgrave of Hesse," said Max. With the Sforzas expanding their reach across the peninsula, there were hardly any Italian dukes to marry his sisters. It was why Max thought to suggest minor German rulers.

His father made a face. "The son of that bigamous heretic?" he asked.

"Wilhelm is a son from his legal marriage, father," said Ferry, the King's second son. He was supposed to be in Buda, ruling Hungary in their name, but his wife had just given birth to a daughter named Aloisia. Though Max often wondered if his brother delayed his travel because Philippine Welser had not yet accepted his offer of becoming his mistress.

His father nodded. "I suppose that is acceptable, even if the Hessian lands will be divided amongst Wilhelm's many brothers," he said, writing the name down. "Any suggestions for Katharina? Or Barbara?"

"There is Philipp von Wittelsbach, father," Max said. "For Barbara. Son of Cousin Margherita and the Elector Palatine."

"Philipp of the Palatine?" Ferdinand asked. "Is he a Roman Catholic? The Elector has dubious thoughts on religion."

"I understand our cousin does most of the child's rearing," Ferry said. Max remembered hearing something like that. Margherita gave birth some days before her fifteenth birthday and was extremely protective of her only child. She wouldn't let him be raised as anything but a strong Catholic.

"What else?"

"There is also Johann Georg of Brandenburg for Katharina, father," said Max. "He is older than her, but it's in our interests to drive him away from the Lutheran ideas that his family seems to favour."

His father nodded, twisting a ring around his little finger. "And Helena may become a nun," he declared. "To save us the costs of another dowry."

"Perfect," said Max, taking a step back. "Is there anything else you need, father?"

"A Bohemian wife for Karl," his father said. He smiled. "As if that is any easy task."

Max smiled back and didn't say anything. Not when his brother turned to him with a glimmer in his eyes that said he just had an idea.

--

Juanita shook her head when they told her, eyes filling up with tears. "No, no," she murmured, clutching her swollen stomach. The child in her womb moved wildly, as if it too was insulted by what its mother had just heard. The young archduchess stood up, unable to handle so many eyes staring at her as she attempted to process what she was told. "Anna… She is a baby! And he is--"

"Six," said Ferry, her husband's younger brother. The idea was his, Juanita was sure. Her sweet and dear Max could've never considered the matter on his own, and King Ferdinand was too religious to suggest it himself. "And he likes her, I dare say. I've seen how they play together."

"He is her uncle," Juanita hissed out. “This is a crime against God. A dispensation would be needed! The Church couldn’t possibly approve!"

Archduchess Magdalena touched her hand, a gesture that was meant to be comforting, but Juanita could only feel as her skin burned with it. "It's surely God's wish that Anna marry a good Catholic who will care for her and love her, instead of being saddled with a heretic like her aunts."

Juanita shook her sister-in-law's touch off. “It is a horrible sin," she declared. "How could you even suggest that for our dear Anna and say that is best for her? I would sooner see her in a convent than married to her own uncle!”

“Our Iberian ancestors held no such qualms about wedding uncle to niece, dear Juana,” Ferry offered with a patronising tone.

"Careful, brother," Max bit out as a warning. He turned to her then, with offered hands of surrender. "My love, this means Anna will stay close. In Further Austria where we can visit her often."

She wanted to weep, she wanted to march to her uncle and have him swear on the Holy Bible that he would never approve of the match. Her precious daughter would have a finer prince or no prince at all. She couldn’t possibly be matched to her uncle before she could raise her own voice in the matter.

"Max," Juanita began, trying to stay calm and appear composed, but her poor pregnant heart could not accept it. Tears slid down her cheeks and she clutched her stomach, as if she could protect this baby from being married to another close relative. "Don't do this. Don't marry our daughter to your brother." She took a deep breath. "I accepted my niece Fernanda for Ferdinánd, I truly did. I understand our world is ruled by politics and we must strengthen the two sister courts, but Anna for Karl…" She shook her head again. "I cannot abide by it."

“The pleading of an addled pregnant woman doesn’t change the fact that Karl is the best match which can be offered for Anna at the moment, brother,” Ferry interrupted, placing a hand on Max’s shoulder. “She ought to thank us for considering Anna’s future now rather than letting her spend years without suitable prospects.”

“That is quite enough, Ferry," Max said, his face red. "Let me speak to my wife in private."

Ferry looked offended. "Max, I--" But his brother interrupted him.

"You have your own affairs to attend to," Juanita heard her husband say. "Your devoted wife is doubtless in need of your presence, considering she has just delivered your second child. And haven’t you commissioned some trinket or another to fool the Welser girl into letting you bed her?”

Ferry’s face slowly turned to match his brother’s and he shifted on his heels. Before the door to Juanita’s solar gave a resounding slam, he called behind him, “I was only trying to assist, dearest brother.”

Magdalena flinched at her brother's words and looked back at Max, then at Juanita, who was still crying. "Perhaps I should go too," she said. "Let you talk in private." Juanita looked away and she didn't see Max's polite nod, but she heard Magdalena's composed steps carrying her away and the door shutting behind her.

Max breathed deeply as the door closed, leaving them completely alone. “I will not make any decision as of yet," he said. "My father has allowed me complete power over our children's futures, but this…" He shook his head. "This is good."

Juanita felt her knees tremble, weak at her seventh month of pregnancy and she sat down again, her blue skirts swishing against the floor. She remembered sweet and lovely Anna, with dark hair and blue eyes. Anna who could not walk yet, but could say Mama and Papa and Dinánd for Ferdinánd. Anna who was now spoken of as a prize to be awarded to a younger son, her own uncle.

Max knelt before her, his face soft. "My love," he began. "Look at me."

She couldn't. Juanita stared at the floor in front of her, the tips of her shoes peeping underneath her voluminous skirts. Max's fingers twisted around the fabric of her dress and he leaned in even closer.

“The marriage need not take place so soon," he murmured, almost like a whispered sonnet of romantic love. "It may happen many years from now, and perhaps Karl and Anna will grow fond of each other if given the chance." She raised her eyes to look at him. "There is only six years between them. Your sister and the King of Portugal have nearly a decade between them and they are happy, aren’t they? And Karl is a good boy, who will surely grow into a fine man. He will care for our Anna and treat her with the love and reverence that she deserves."

"Max," she began as her tears burned away to anger. "How could you do this to our child?" The realisation hit her slowly and Juanita welcomed it with open arms. The idea might have been Ferry's, but it wouldn't have reached her ears if Max didn't agree.

"I have to," her cousin said. "Karl is my brother. With my mother so ill and my father wallowing in his own misery, I'm the one who must care for them."

“Let Karl marry a Bavarian girl, the daughter of Albrecht and Cousin Nan, then. Or a Hessian. A Brandenburg. If you ask it of me, I will find a bride for him from one of the prominent families. And Anna can wait until a new prince is born, she is only one. Her future husband might be born any day now.” It was a plea, and admittedly a desperate one at that.

"Anna is our eldest daughter," Max said, determined. "If our male-line ends, she may inherit Austria." His jaw grew tense and he looked away.

"And you'd rather Karl become the Emperor than Ferry," Juanita supplied, everything becoming clear in a moment. “Anna is to be the sacrificial lamb to keep the imperial throne from his grasping hands.”

"It was for this family," her husband said.

She laughed at that, a high and fake sound that scratched her ears as it left her mouth. “For this family… When your daughter weeps of her infant children dying in her arms, born sickly and weak, you may remind yourself again that it was all for this family.” Juanita glowered. “When the good pious Catholics of this realm look down their noses at the marriage, and the princes you might’ve overlooked turn their backs to us, you remind yourself it was all for this family.”

"Further Austria is the closest land to Hungary, to the Ottomans, I--I--" His own eyes were full of tears, grasping at her skirts as if he was a beggar and she, a rich lady who refused him coin. "I don't know what else I can do."

"You can not marry your daughter to your own brother!" she screamed, standing up. Max did so as well, stepping back as she suddenly fell upon him with angry slaps and punches, tears sliding down her cheeks. "Where is your love for her? Where is your honour? He's her uncle!" He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly to his chest and her shouts of anger turned into anguished sobs. "My baby…"

They dropped to the floor, her weak knees unable to sustain the weight anymore, and Juanita accepted to be kissed. To be held. For her belly to be stroked as he whispered, "I'm sorry. Please, forgive me."

She shook her head and said nothing. The words that seemed ready to slip out were I can't and she couldn't speak them, because Juanita knew that she would, one day.

 

[pandizzy]

Madrid, Castile. 12th of July, 1547.​

Charles smiled as he ran his fingers over Anne's cheek, bringing a dark lock of her hair behind her ear. His wife blushed and twisted her head to press a kiss to his palm and his heart fluttered in his chest, watching her handsome face looking up at him. Her striking dark eyes, which acted as hooks for his soul, drew him in. Her dainty little nose, her perfect neck. Her chin, her mouth. He thumbed the curve of her lower lip and Anne smiled, exposing her perfectly white teeth.

"How are you so perfect?" he asked, a tightness growing deep into his stomach. He ran the pad of his finger across the rosy spread of her lip and Anne smiled, as if already knowing about the desire bubbling in his loins. "What did I do to deserve such a wife?"

"Maybe you prayed fervently to the right saint," she teased and Charles smiled, even as he felt the mistake in her words. Anne wouldn’t say this, he thought, Anne had thoughts about the saints. His wife thought Christians had grown too comfortable praying to saints, and had forgotten what it meant to truly worship the Lord. But before he could question it, she leaned in to press their lips together, black eyes glinting.

The kiss was everything he had ever wanted, sweet and deep, her tongue stroking his. When she leaned back, the Emperor curled his hand at her neck to tug her closer, not willing to let her go and Anne smiled. She squeezed his shoulders as he continued to kiss her, desperate for the taste of her salty skin.

"I must go," she murmured between kisses, her words something he barely listened to. "My ladies-- Will soon come into my rooms, wondering where I am."

"Your ladies will know where you are," Charles said, pressing his mouth to the edge of her jaw, her neck, then up again. "Another hour, please. I need you badly, wife." He ran his hand down her nude curves and she sighed, trying to shake him off.

"I swear it, Charles," she said, his fingers digging into her behind. "I must go."

"No," he said. "Please." He grabbed her arms, everywhere he could reach. "Don't go, stay with me."

"Charles," she said again, her eyes serious as they looked at him. "I must go."

"Anne, please, " he begged, tears filling his eyes. "Don't." But she leaned in to press a kiss to his forehead, more maternal than wifely.

"I'm with you," Anne whispered against his skin. "All the time, I'm with you."



But when he woke up, Charles was alone again.

 

[pandizzy]

Stirling Castle, Scotland. 27th of September, 1547.​

Her stomach was so large now as to be ridiculous, swollen beyond belief. The physicians calculated a birth for late October and yet, Nora thought there was no way for her skin to continue stretching to accommodate her growing babe. It was only one child, everyone said it, and she looked much smaller than the Dowager Queen with her babies. As if that could be any consolation, when her belly ripped apart before the child was ready.

But everyone told her not to fret, with rolled eyes and disgruntled sighs. Angry at placating this child queen, while Jimmy was made to learn the ropes of ruling so soon. His father had unfinished plans to create another permanent settlement in the Americas with the name of Jamestown, and he was eager to see it done.

When Nora asked from where would the child come out, Mary Fiennes told her, with a disappointed glint in her eyes, that it would be from the same place it entered her. That seemed impossible to her, because how could the baby even pass through it? Nora didn't want her child to be crushed in her entrails and she decided that she must have misunderstood her lady.

Her sister-in-law Kitty was pregnant again, carrying her fifth child. That ought to be good, Nora imagined. Both of them expecting together, even if they were thousands of leagues apart. Jimmy told her that none of their children would marry into England, but maybe he was lying. Maybe he was just teasing her.

She didn’t think so, but there was no reason for it. It didn't hurt to hope.

She hoped it was a boy, a handsome prince that looked like her. Another James, or Robert, or Arthur. A Duke of Rothesay, to fill up her days and give her joy. But Nora knew it didn't matter if the child was a boy or not. She'd be happy with anything.

Boy or girl. James or Anne, she would be happy. Overjoyed, really, because this child was the answer to all of her prayers and to Nora, nothing could make her stop loving it.

--

Madrid, Castile. 12th of October, 1547.​

Felipe signed his name with a flourish, giving his final approval to the legal betrothal of Infante Carlos and Lady Isabella Tudor. She was the second daughter of the King of England, from a long line of extremely fertile women, and a descendant of Reina Isabel and Rey Fernando. And to improve upon the matter, she was English. Her mother was a first cousin to the deceased Empress.

To Felipe, Isabella was perfect.

The paper had already been signed by the Emperor and Joana, who stood behind him with a smile. His wife had the feeling that only a king’s daughter was enough for their precious, and only, son, a sentiment he shared wholeheartedly. To have the English on their side, rather than the French’s was a clear victory for them. Their island was a prime place for ships to be docked if they ever decided to take Navarre back, optimal for naval attacks on the French north. With Isabella by their son's side, Felipe was sure they would have a chance to do so.

With the final signature, Felipe slid the paper forward, so that the English ambassador could see it. The man, named Thomas Wyatt, smiled and read it carefully, as if to commit it to memory. The Prince took advantage of the moment to observe his face, which was extremely familiar. Strangely so, in fact. Surely, the man had been an ambassador to Castile before, and Felipe might remember him from his boyhood days. That distant age when his mother was regent and his father was gone, as he always was.

The Emperor left. Again. To go to Burgundy and be with his precious little duke, now that he had arranged the betrothal of Infanta Ana and the Count of Charolais.

"I'm looking forward to the day when I shall meet the lovely Isabella," Felipe murmured. Lady Isabella was only three and the marriage would not be celebrated until she was sixteen and could bear children for her husband, thirteen long years until then. Fine years that both she and Carlos could spend growing, maturing into two fine youths. Without the worries of being unpledged, Carlos and Isabella might even follow the example of her grandmother and exchange letters. Grow closer. "I'm certain that she will become the future queen that Castile and Aragon desperately need to stand by Carlos."

"My son is a good boy," Joana said. "Intelligent and kind hearted. Lady Isabella will be happy by his side, you can be assured of that, Master Wyatt."

Master Wyatt nodded his head with a gentle, but still cold smile. Felipe dismissed him with a movement of his hand, being left alone with his beloved wife. Joana smiled and leaned her behind against his desk, looking at him. She was twenty-seven now, with long dark hair and glittering eyes marked by laughing lines visible at its corners. They had agreed to stop having children when she gave birth to their fifth, and copulated only on days in which such an act would not result in a pregnancy, and Felipe had to hold himself back from touching her. It was not a good day, not yet anyway.

"That went well," he murmured, leaning back in his chair. "Now only Luisa and Elena are in need of matches."

“Luisa has a sweet and generous spirit,” Joana murmured. “I don’t want to see her with anyone but a man who will care for her and love her.”

“She is also a perfectionist, determined to always do well,” said Felipe. “I’m eager to see her as the mistress of her own court.” Joana snorted and he raised his eyes to look at her. “What is it?” She shook her head and he took her hand. “No, tell me. What’s so funny?"

“Nothing, it’s just,” Joana began. “So many women are living past what was expected now and wherever our girls will go, they shall have to contend with strong mother-in-laws. Elizabeth Tudor, Juanita…” She smiled. “I can only hope to love Isabella as I love our daughters, even if she is married to my only son.”

“Women…” Felipe shook his head. “All of you have a tendency to think that no girl is good enough for your precious little boy.”

“Because no one is,” Joana joked with a roll of her eyes. “But I’m being serious. If we must send our daughters anywhere, it must be with those who will love and care for them. Including kind mother-in-laws."

"Of course," said Felipe. "I won't send our girls to the vipers' nest." He played with his fingers, adjusting the ring around one. "My half-sister Margaretha married the Duke of Parma some years ago. She had twin sons and only one survived, Alessandro. He's two, I believe."

"Our girls can do better than a bastard's son," Joana complained. "Even if she is your sister."

He sighed. "You're right," he said. "As always, you're right."

"What about Carl of Savoy?" Joana suggested. "For Elena. Margarita's son."

"Another first cousin," Felipe complained. "It will weaken our blood, to marry so closely amongst each other."

"Your sisters have married all across Europe, my love," Joana said, squeezing his wrist. "The richest heirs are theirs. We can't deny it."

"No," Felipe said. "We can't." He shook his head. "And with our uncle Ferdinand so prolific in his marital duties, there are hardly any others that may be acceptable for our girls."

"Quite true," said Joana. "Unless the rulers of Europe do as your father and King John did, then our blood will continue to thin out. Stretched beyond its limits." He nodded, rubbing a hand over his face. "But if they do, our daughters and granddaughters will lose matches and husbands for them."

"I'm aware," Felipe murmured. He smirked then. "But if the rulers of Europe do as my father and King John did, then England will soon be completely out of women." She laughed then, a high and free laugh that utterly drowned out the sound of his door opening. A groom stepped inside, handing him a sealed letter on a silver platter, and Felipe sighed as he leaned in to take it.

He laughed. "What is it?" Joana asked, straightening her back.

"The Lord," Felipe began, "truly works in mysterious ways." He handed her the letter and spoke aloud, as she read it, "Our cousin Margarethe, upon being told she'd marry Paolo Sforza, ran from court. When our uncle's men found her, she had already said her vows and became a nun."

A smile curled across Joana's pink lips. "Paolo is only two years older than Luisa and now…" She didn't even need to finish her sentence. They all knew the opportunity that had just been presented to them.

 

[pandizzy]

Whitehall Palace, England. 27th of November, 1547.​

Hardly had little Alfred Tudor taken the toy from his sister did Isabella take it back, to the young boy's great anger. His face grew as red as his hair and he shrieked, throwing his round body forward to take the wooden statuette back. But Isabella was just as much a Tudor as he was and she fought greatly, false tears running down her face.

"No, Affie!" she bellowed. "My toy, mine!"

"Mine!" the Duke of York responded. Kitty chuckled from her seat, struggling to adjust herself with her enlarged midsection pending her forward as two nurses strove to separate the children. "No, Isa-bella stupid. My toy!" Her beloved children. They might love each other, but they certainly didn't like the other. Isabella and Alfred did little else than fight about toys, food or who could sit in which place at the carriages. It was a wonder why the nurses insisted on bringing them together to visit her, when they clearly couldn’t get along.

"Come, sweet prince," said an enlarged woman, taking the struggling child in her strong arms. "Let's give your poor mother some peace." Another offered a hand to Isabella, who held the wooden soldier in her hand triumphantly, a proud set to her chin. They barely even turned to look at Kitty for a goodbye, Alfred still squealing in a strange woman's arms and she watched them go, just as the door to her chambers opened.

"The Duke of Norfolk, Your Majesty," said Lady Isabella Fitzroy, her husband's half-sister as she moved to follow her niece out of the room. Kitty nodded and shifted in her seat to welcome her uncle, who entered slowly. He bowed his head respectfully to her and turned slightly, watching the two squabbling siblings leave.

“How are the children?” he asked in a gruff voice.

Kitty smiled. “Fighting as siblings do,” she said and he nodded. Her uncle took a seat close to her and he reached forward, touching the ragdoll that was forgotten in one of her small, round tables.

He smiled. "If I well remember, my Henry and my Mary could hardly see eye to eye before they came of age," he said. Kitty smiled. "Lord Alfred and Lady Isabella shall grow out of their petty arguments."

"Hopefully," Kitty said, adjusting in her chair. Some of her ladies were surrounding them, sewing while Lady Norris showed off her talents with the virginals. Her uncle looked at her.

"How are you feeling, Your Majesty?" the Duke asked.

"Fat," Kitty admitted and settled her two hands on her stomach. "The King's heirs can grow so large that I'm hardly able to walk." Her uncle smiled.

"I'm certain that the knowledge of your duty to the realm is a small reward for the loss of your figure, my queen," said the Duke of Norfolk. Kitty shrugged. "As long as, of course, the Queen remains with the strong constitution she always had."

"I think so," said Kitty with a gentle expression. "This is my fifth child. I'm not scared of giving birth."

"Of course," her uncle said. "The Queen has a nursery full of children. What is another?" The corner of Kitty's mouth curled up and she looked away, at a table close to her with platters filled to the brim with figs, grapes and cheeses. She took a fig between her fingers and bit into it, chewing slowly. "I heard that Queen Eleanor has given birth to a Duke of Rothesay. They named him Andrew, after the patron saint of Scotland." He paused as Kitty nodded, having already heard all of that. "And that the Duchess of Burgundy is pregnant again."

The Queen looked at him. "Poor Bessie," she murmured. "If this continues, she will next push her own entrails out, instead of a child." Her hand ran down the curve of her belly, as if thinking about her fate. "I wish she would answer my letters. She'd find it much easier to shoulder her burdens with a friend by her side."

"The Duchess' pride has pride. Her unhappy marriage is not your concern," Uncle Norfolk murmured and Kitty looked at him, surprised to see him speaking so brazenly about her sister-in-law. "The Queen is generous to offer a friendly hand, but the Duchess has the right to accept it or not."

Kitty nodded. "You're right," she said. "I know Bessie. She felt her father's loss at an extremely young age and thus, shifted such a love towards the King. It irked her to see him marry someone she did not approve of." She smiled. "Do you know what Charlie told me?"

"What, Your Majesty?" the Duke asked.

"He said that perhaps, the Duchess was angered not just because of the difference in station between the King and I, but rather, because she saw me as something that belonged to her," Kitty said, her face flushed. "That's funny, isn't it? How I could belong to someone."

The Duke of Norfolk hesitated before he said, "You belong to the King, Your Majesty."

Kitty rolled her eyes. "I know that," she said, "And you know what I mean."

"Of course," said Uncle Norfolk.

Kitty looked away, dark hair bound under a white cap. In such intimate settings, with her ladies and kin attending, she didn't wear the restrictive hoods necessary for courtly life. Though the brown curls were not bounding free, it made her look less queenly. More human.

"The King wishes to travel to Burgundy to see how she is," she murmured. "He is probably going to muster up some excuse about a treaty, or a marriage between our children." She looked at her uncle. "I asked him if he could wait until I had given birth, so I could go as well."

"If the King wants something, I'm certain he will get it," said the Duke of Norfolk. "But things such as the meeting of different rulers takes time. Months. It's possible that the Queen might be expecting again by the time a date is set."

Kitty sighed, running a hand down her belly. "You're right," she said. "You're always right, uncle."

 

[pandizzy]

Vienna, Austria. 10th of December, 1547.​

Mária von Österreich opened and closed her mouth as she let out a deep yawn, the force of it so big that it caused her to release some trapped gas in her belly. Juanita giggled as she observed the face of her little daughter, blue eyes wide as she realised what she just did.

"You just farted," said the archduchess-infanta, adjusting her arms around her newborn daughter. "Does your belly feel better?" Little babies such as Mária, who hadn't even seen the end of her third month, couldn't release gas on their own, causing terrible colics. Usually, the nursery's workers would massage the children’s stomach to help them, but her yawn had clearly helped Mária.

Juanita pressed her lips to her round cheek, holding the child close to her chest. Mária had her aunt Isabel's auburn hair, but blue eyes like her father, which made her mother's heart ache as she thought about Mária's father. And how much he hurt her.

"My sweet daughter,” Juanita murmured. “You won’t marry your uncle.” She brought Mária close to her face, pressing their cheeks together. "You won't marry anyone at all, I swear it. You'll become a nun."

"A nun?" a voice asked and Juanita turned, looking at her husband who leaned against the doorway. The smile on her face died. "My father might have something to say about it. Especially with Greta."

"Your father will have to accept it," Juanita said, turning away from him. "Mária will not marry another uncle of hers."

"Juanita," he murmured and she heard his steps, coming to her, "I thought we talked about it."

"You talked," she said. "I listened as you sold our precious baby to your little brother."

"Juana," he began and her heart ached, because he never called her by her given name. Only by her nickname, since the first day they met. "I had to do my duty. I had to protect my line, and my brother."

Maybe it was the moment. Mária's wide eyes staring at her mother, and with her being so close to the day she gave birth, but Juanita felt her eyes flood with tears.

“You spoke as if I could not give you more sons," she murmured. "As if Ferdinánd is our only hope. We are both young and I am sure to give you healthy children. Why should you worry your brother might inherit the imperial throne when my father has yet to place the crown on your father’s head?" The words stopped in her throat, because suddenly, Max was kneeling before her.

“My love,” he said, covering her hand around Mária’s little head, “Please, do not stop me from doing my duty to my family.”

“I’m your family,” she replied. “Ferdinánd, Anna, Mária and I. We are your family. Your first duty must be to us.”

“You and I both know that is not entirely true,” said Max. “People like us have duties greater than our minds can comprehend.” He shook his head. “I always knew that we would marry, that I needed to father children on you so that the blood of Charles V flowed in the veins of my heirs. And you always knew you’d become my bride, and stand by my side, no matter what.” He held her shoulder. “In sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer.”

“And our daughter’s children, when they come, what will they call you?” she asked. “Grandfather or uncle, because you will be both.”

Max looked away. “Your father is mine as well,” he said. “According to the law. You call the King of Hungary ‘uncle’, but you could just as easily call him Father.” He looked at her. “You’re my cousin, and my wife. Mária and her siblings are the Emperor’s grandchildren, but she is also his great-niece.”

“A marriage of cousin to cousin can be forgiven and sanctioned by His Holiness," said Juanita. "A marriage of cousin to cousin is oftentimes necessary for the peace of Europe. A marriage of uncle to niece is an abomination in the sight of God and I will not bend on this, Max. You may press and press but I will break before I bend. I will defend my daughter against this blasphemy until I am dead and buried."

His smile curled and he shook his head. "My proud Spanish wife, what would I do without you?" he asked, stroking her cheek. "But this is my duty. It's Anna's duty to serve beside Karl when he goes to Bohemia as viceroy."

“You speak of duty, but if Ferry is so lax in observing his own, he can be disinherited, can he not?” she asked, desperate to remove the one problem in their situation, that which would solve everything else. “He’s a fool, it’s not difficult to foresee a future where he shames this family and is removed. What of that girl he’s infatuated with? Philippine. He might well promise her marriage and set aside his lawful wife, for all the concern he shows Erzsébet and their children.” Max stood up, shaking his head and yet, Juanita did not stop. She continued, grasping at straws. “You will mock me, you will say I am speaking desperately, but your brother is an impulsive man and I am sure he will not wear any crown.”

Her husband looked away and she saw how his back was tense. “Tomorrow,” he began, “There will be a ceremony. For Karl and Anna.”

Juanita frowned. “What?” she murmured, not understanding him.

“Pope Paul has given his permission for the marriage and wrote a dispensation for them to be betrothed before our daughter reaches the age of reason,” he said, still not looking at her. “If you wish to abstain... Mária is less than three months old and you are hardly churched. People will understand if you wish to rest. I will understand.”

Her back went rigid and she turned her gaze from him. “I will never forgive you for this," she murmured. "I will never give my blessing to this marriage."

He turned to her. "Juanita…"

"I'll hold my tongue, and say nothing against it, but don't expect me to celebrate it," she said. "We both know I will never approve." She looked back at Mária, who was now sleeping in her arms, as babies do. "You may expect my abstaining from the affairs of your family for quite some time. I’m with child again, and I fear my constitution will not allow me to stomach any unholy unions.” She turned to walk away.

"Juanita, please, don't do this," he said and she turned to him, eyes as cold as snow.

“My name is Juana, husband," she murmured and the doors clicked shut behind her as she passed.

--

Bruges, Low Countries. 17th of December, 1547.​

Bessie frowned as she looked at the pile of letters upon her desk, a pile which hadn’t grown for nearly three weeks. Each of them stamped with the personal coat-of-arms of the Queen of England. She knew she only had to open one to see the delicate looping scrawl of her former companion, and her lips twisted into a frown as she picked one up.

The letters had been a nuisance, an incessant bother to tell the whole truth of it, but they had given Bessie something rare. She could look at them and scoff, tell herself the Duchess of Burgundy had no need to read unimportant letters from unimportant people. The simple truth was that she had precious little else to do while in confinement with her fifth child.

The seemingly endless parade of pregnancies she endured kept her from observing many of her duties as Duchess of Burgundy. She spent so often in confinement with her ladies, she scarcely had much to do beyond pen an occasional letter to her brother, riddled with sickly sweet lies about her marriage. As if she could brush away the damned gossip that flooded most of Europe’s courts about the voracity of her husband's tastes. There was even talk of bastards…

She frowned as she ran her thumb along the edge of one letter, eyeing the seal disdainfully. The Tudor coat-of-arms halved with the Howard coat-of-arms, such a hideous pairing. She shook her head, Kitty had never been much the creative sort.

It was sudden, realising she was referring to her old companion by name. It was sour in her thoughts after so long, and she felt half-possessed as she tore open the most recent letter, eyes poring over its contents.

To the most illustrious Duchess of Burgundy

I have heard of your most recent pregnancy and hope that you are well and content. I have recently discovered I am with my fifth child, as you are, and it delighted me to think that we might share this experience as sisters.

It has been so long since I have had the pleasure of speaking with you, but you must not think me upset. I am so very happy to know you are a great lady among those of Europe and doubtless have much to discuss with them. I only wish that we might begin a correspondence, that we might let old wounds mend and revive our friendship. It is my dearest wish that England and the Low Countries remain close friends in this dizzying world of political alliances.

Written by the hand of your loving sister

Katherine the Quene

Bessie stared at the words, reading and rereading them. The sentimental fool. The sweet simpering girl she had known once, it hardly seemed possible that Kitty was not changed by wearing the crown.

She opened another, reading it in its entirety and finding only words of reconciliation and compassion.

Another, an inquiry about Bessie’s children and what they liked so that Kitty might send some presents.

Letter after letter, each conveying sympathy and affection, each ending in a subtle plea to hear news of Bessie, and even forgiving her for not replying and apologising for any inconvenience they caused.

She had half-expected letters boasting of Kitty’s joy and mocking Bessie’s difficult marriage. It had felt only natural that Kitty should wave her happiness in Bessie’s face when the woman had every blessing. A faithful and loving husband, her children close at hand. Bessie had forgotten that her childhood companion had scarcely a mean-spirited bone in her body.

When had she become so accustomed to cruelty? Had she truly forgotten that there was some shred of kindness and decency in the world?

Her cheeks were warm and wet as she put the last one aside. Clearing away the letters, she sat at her desk and reached for a paper and quill, only pausing to consider her words carefully.

To the Queen of England

 

[pandizzy]

Richmond Palace, England. 20th of December, 1547.​

William Tudor shifted nervously in his heels, holding tightly to the longbow given to him by a scrawny servant. John sighed, tapping his fingers against his son's shoulders as they both looked at the large targets before them. Round and painted hay, signalling where to shoot. Placed in the warmest square of the castle's grounds after the morning's light melted off some of the snow.

"It's only as scary as you allow it to be," said the King of England. "The target will not move. It can't bite you, or hurt you."

William huffed, shaking his shoulders. His dark hair curled at the ends of his ears, the same shade as his mother's and John smiled. Even though he didn't want to admit it, he could see how nervous his son was. Scared, really, since this was one of the very first times he was allowed to touch a bow and arrow.

"What is wrong, Will?" John asked, squeezing his shoulder. "Why do you hesitate?"

His son huffed again. "I don't want to miss," he admitted and John smiled, tugging him by the shoulder so he might look at his blue eyes. William was six, already under Sir Henry's tutelage though, with the approaching holidays, he came to be with his family.

"You won't get it right the first time," said the King. "Or the second. Or the third. Or even every time. What matters is that you keep trying, that you never give up." William looked away, pouting. "Do you know what?"

His son looked at him. "What?" he asked with an arched eyebrow, almost suspicious.

"One day, before we were wed, I saw your mother practising archery," said John. "She was terrible at it, in truth." William giggled. "But she didn't give up, not even when I told her that her form was wrong. Don't give up. Be like your mother, for you have the right form and you look exactly like her." He reached forward to pinch his son's cheek before tugging at both of his lobes. "But with funny ears though."

William giggled and swatted his hands away. "Papa…" he exclaimed, shaking his head. "Fine. I'll try it." The Prince of Wales stepped away, adjusting his fingers around the bow. A servant handed him an arrow with a blunted head to keep him safe, no matter what.

"Go on, Your Grace," said Lord Lovell, clapping gloved hands to cheer his nephew on. John turned back to see two of his brothers-in-law walking to them, "No one here was a marksman at six."

"Speak for yourself, brother," teased Lord Hertford, wrapping an arm around Charlie's neck. John only smiled, and turned to his son.

"Ignore them," he ordered. "I have never seen a target your uncle Charlie didn't manage to miss." William giggled again, adjusting his feet as he pulled back on his arm. It took a brief moment where no one spoke, no one even breathed, and then, when William let go of the string, all whooped in joy.

Not because he hit a bull's eye. In fact, it wasn't even close, but rather, he managed to hit the first outer ring and John found himself clapping in joy as William turned to him, eyes wide in search of his father's approval. "Good job!" he exclaimed. "Now, go get your arrow. Can't lose your arrows, they're very expensive."

William ran towards the target and John looked at Charlie, gesturing for him to come closer. It was clear that his brothers-in-law hadn't come out of the warm palace just to spend some time with their royal nephew. The Viscount Lovell walked to him until he could whisper in his ear, mindful of William running back.

"The Queen has given birth to a healthy girl," his old friend said. John took a brief moment to process the information before he nodded, gesturing for him to step back again.

Another daughter. John smiled slightly, his chest growing tight, and nodded again.

"We'll call her Philippa," he declared. "After the Lancastrian queen who mothered the Aviz line." And his ancestor too. John's great-grandmother, Isabella of Portugal, was Queen Philippa's granddaughter. He was certain his mother would be pleased to see him honouring his forebears. Both of his mothers, if they could see him.

William tugged at his bowstring again, the arrow's feathers tickling at his ruddy cheek. John murmured an encouragement, clapping his gloved hands when his son managed to hit somewhat above the last place. "You're doing great!" he said. "All English stags are trembling in fear at this moment."

William laughed, shaking his head. He was distracted and John turned his head slightly, so he could speak privately to Charlie.

"And the Queen?" he asked. "How is she?"

"Recovering well, Your Majesty," his old friend said. "Queen Katherine fell asleep soon after the baby was born and will be ready to receive visitors within a few hours."

"Good, good," John said, looking back at his son. "And your wife? Has she had her child?"

"Not yet, my king," Charlie responded. "The Viscountess has just entered her confinement."

The King nodded. "You should take a leave of absence from court if you'd like to be with her," John suggested. "I swear, I shall not be offended by it."

Charlie's relief was clear on his face and he nodded, smiling. "Thank you, Your Majesty," he said.

--

Lisbon, Portugal. 23rd of February, 1548.​

Ana Leonor stood up in shaky, chubby legs and took uncertain steps forward. One step turned into two, until she ended, giggling and happy, in her mother's open arms. Catalina laughed, pressing a kiss to her child's golden curls, and embraced her tightly.

"You're walking!" she exclaimed, allowing Ana Leonor to step back so she could look upon her beautiful face, with a pink mouth and bright blue eyes. "You're walking, my big girl." She moved to embrace her again.

But her daughter didn't wish to be held. Not when there were places to go, now that she could walk. Catalina straightened up as she watched her baby toddle around, weak legs taking her around her mother's rooms. There was some uncertainty to her, and many moments where she seemed about to fall over, but Ana Leonor didn't seem frightened of it. Instead, with a brave expression often seen on the face of her older brothers, she continued to explore.

"I'm somewhat thankful that she is a girl," Catalina commented to her husband's aunt, the Duchess of Aveiro. "Otherwise, no sooner had she come of age, I'd see my firstborn bounding into a ship to sail the ocean blue."

"The infanta has the blood of Henry the Navigator, even if he is not her direct ancestor," said Dona Eleonora. Catalina smiled, thinking about her child's great-uncle and his ships, exploring and starting the Age of Exploration. "And Portugal is a land of seafarers, as we both know."

Catalina smiled. "I never stepped foot inside a ship," she murmured. "But you did, didn't you? To come here." The story was so romantic. How Dona Eleonora fell in love with Infante Henrique and sought the dissolution of her religious vows so they could be together.

"Only once, my queen," said Eleonora d'Este, eyes moving across the room as little Ana Leonor stopped to play with the fringes of a pillow. "It was terrifying and the sickness was beyond anything I could've imagined."

"Oh," said Catalina. She smiled. "Then no ships for Ana Leonor." Dona Eleonora laughed, shaking her head. The Queen of Portugal was only seventeen, but she found the older woman to be a great paragon of intelligence and virtue. Just as Joana described her, when she first came to Castile a decade before.

She wanted Eleonora d'Este to like her, to be her friend. There were some fifteen years between them, but she was clever. And impressive, with two beautiful sons and a husband who went against the Pope for her. It was so funny, because Catalina was the queen and Eleonora was just a royal duchess, but she felt a deep need for her to be her friend. Her mentor, really.

Catalina looked at Ana Leonor again, the King's first daughter after Jorge and António. She was so pretty, so well loved. A pity that rumours said Isabella Tudor would marry Infante Carlos. Catalina would give anything to have her daughter as the future queen of her native Spain.

But oh well, politics were not the concern of a queen consort, as she knew well. Afonso would choose Ana Leonor's husband, for the good of Portugal and his line. Catalina, as his loving wife, would accept it no matter what.

--

Dijon, Burgundy. 14th of April, 1548.​

Bessie ran her hand down her cheek, cleaning her stubborn tears away before anyone could see them. The child opened and closed her eyes, pink lips parting to let in a weak breath as her fragile set of lungs struggled to work. Blonde hair, blue eyes. A dainty little nose, blue veins running under her skin. She was perfect and yet, at the same time, imperfect. Weak, sickly. A fragility to her bones that seemed clear even a handful of hours after she was born.

"Are you crying?" someone asked her. A warm and familiar hand closed around her shoulder and he shifted to look at her, really look at her. In a way no one had, for so very long. "Bess…"

"Please." She closed her eyes and new, fresh tears ran down her cheeks. "Please, don't say anything about it."

"I wasn't going to," said Juan softly. "Why don't you give Marguerite to her wet nurse, so you may rest?" He squeezed her shoulder gently, affectionately. "It was a hard and difficult labour, Bessie."

"I don't want your pity," said Bessie, adjusting her arms around her child. She didn't even realise that he named her without her input, or think much about it.

"It's not pity," Juan said. "It's assistance." He stroked her face and she was too weak to shake off the touch that she so desperately wanted. "You're my wife, Bessie. The mother of my children. I care for you, and for your pain."

"Our pain," Bessie murmured, looking down at Marguerite, with an open mouth and weak little gasps as she let in a shuddering breath. "She's going to die."

"Bessie," Juan murmured with a clipped voice, almost like a warning. "You don't know that. No one does, only our Lord."

"The Lord will take her from me," Bessie whispered. "He will take all of my children away. All of my precious babies."

"Bessie…" His arms wrapped around her. “I won’t let anyone take our children away. I swear it.” She felt a warm and gentle kiss being pressed to her cheek, without a hint of lust underneath, and fresh tears slid down her cheeks. “If it’s the will of our Lord for Archduchess Marguerite to be with him, then we shall bury her in a place of great respect with her ancestors. Somewhere where we shall join her, one day.”

Bessie nodded and they stayed together, holding each other for hours. Until the end came.

 

[pandizzy]

Emperor Charles V of the Holy Roman Empire (February 1500-) m. Anne Boleyn (1503-May 1536)

1. Felipe, Prince of Asturias (April 1523-) m. Infanta Joana of Portugal (1520-);
   1. Ana de Austria (February 1538 -) b. Philippe d'Autriche, Count of Charolais (December 1543-);
   2. Luisa de Austria (January 1540-) b. Paolo Sforza (March 1538- );
   3. Fernanda de Austria (March 1541-) b. Ferdinánd von Österreich (June 1544-);
   4. Carlos de Austria (June 1543-) b. Isabella Tudor (June 1544-);
   5. Elena de Austria (August 1545-).
2. María of Austria (April 1524-March 1542) m. Afonso, Prince of Portugal (August 1522-);
   1. Jorge de Portugal (April 1540-);
   2. António de Portugal (March 1542-).
3. Juan, Duke of Burgundy (January 1526-) m. Elizabeth of England (June 1527-);
   1. Philippe d'Autriche, Count of Charolais (December 1543-) b. Ana de Austria (February 1538 -);
   2. Jean d'Autriche (January 1545-);
   3. Anne Élisabeth d'Autriche (November 1545-);
   4. Marie d'Autriche (January 1547-);
   5. Marguerite d'Autriche (April 1548-April 1548);
4. Juana of Austria (December 1526-) m. Maximilian of Austria (July 1526-);
   1. Ferdinánd von Österreich (June 1544-);
   2. Anna von Österreich (January 1546-) b. Karl of Austria (June 1540-);
   3. Mária von Österreich (October 1547-);
   4. Unborn child due in Late 1548.
5. Margarita of Austria (March 1529-) m. Emmanuel Philibert (July 1528 -);
   1. Carl dë Savian (March 1546-);
6. Catalina of Austria (November 1531-) m. Afonso V of Portugal (August 1522-);
   1. Ana Leonor de Portugal (February 1547-)
7. Fernando of Austria (August 1533-);
8. Eduardo of Austria (July 1534-November 1545);
9. Isabel of Austria (May 1536-) b. Francoys, Dauphin of France (June 1534-);

 

[pandizzy]

King Henry VIII of England (1491-1535) m. a) Catherine of Aragon (1485-1523); b) Isabella of Portugal (1503-). Affairs with: c) Elizabeth 'Bessie' Blount (1498- ); d) Luisa Borja (1500-1526); e) Katherine 'Kat' Chapernowne (1502-)

1. a) Henry, Duke of Cornwall (January 1511- February 1511). Lived for almost two months.
2. a) Mary Tudor (February 1516-) m. François II, King of France (February 1518- ).
   1. Francoys, Dauphin of France (June 1534-) b. Isabel de Austria (May 1536-);
   2. Catherine de Valois (February 1538 -);
   3. Marie de Valois (June 1540-);
   4. Claude, Count of Angoulême (July 1542-).
3. c) Henry Fitzroy, Earl of Somerset (June 1519-1528). Illegitimate;
4. a) King John II of England (January 1523-) m. Katherine Howard (1524-).
   1. William, Duke of Cornwall (March 1541-) b. Mary of Scotland (December 1542-);
   2. Katherine Tudor (March 1543-) b. Stanisław Jagiełło (January 1543-);
   3. Isabella Tudor (June 1544-) b. Carlos de Austria (March 1543-);
   4. Alfred, Duke of York (October 1545-);
   5. Philippa Tudor (December 1547-);
5. a) Katherine Tudor (January 1523-December 1523). Twin to John, lived for almost an entire year;
6. b) Edward, Duke of York (August 1524-August 1530). Drowned;
7. d) Pierre Fitzroy, Earl of Gloucester (June 1526-). Illegitimate m. Dorothy Stafford (October 1526-);
   1. Henry Gloucester (October 1545-). Twin to John;
   2. John Gloucester (October 1545-). Twin to Henry;
   3. Louise Gloucester (June 1547-)
8. b) Elizabeth Tudor (June 1527-) m. Juan of Austria, Duke of Burgundy (January 1526-);
   1. Philippe d'Autriche, Count of Charolais (December 1543-);
   2. Jean d'Autriche (January 1545-);
   3. Anne Élisabeth d'Autriche (November 1545-) b. Wilhelm von Wittelsbach (1543-);
   4. Marie d'Autriche (January 1547-) b. François de Lorraine (January 1547-);
   5. Marguerite d'Autriche (April 1548-April 1548);
9. b) Henry, Duke of Somerset (September 1529-April 1530). Died a sickly infant;
10. b) Eleanor Tudor (September 1531-) m. James VI, King of Scotland (May 1531-);
    1. Andrew, Duke of Rothesay (November 1547-)
11. b) Margaret Tudor (May 1533-) b. Frederik, Hereditary Prince of Norway (January 1536-);
12. e) Isabella Fitzroy (March 1534-). Illegitimate. Known as Isabella Ashley.

 

[pandizzy]

Chapter first posted on my patreon.​

---

Hatfield House, England. 20th of April, 1548.​

If she absolutely had to say, and had to be honest, then Katherine Tudor would say that she much preferred Mary Stuart than her own sister. Mary was her best friend, a fact that was as much a truth as the colour of her hair, and Isabella was a silly little baby. Like Philippa. And Alfred.

Mary was almost six, just like her. They both had the same red hair and the very same blue eyes. They weren’t sisters in the sense that they shared a mother and father, or even just a father or a mother, like mama and papa had half-siblings, but they were sisters. One day, Mary was going to marry Katherine’s brother, William. And she would be Queen of England. They liked to play with their titles, how both were princesses and the same rank, with expensive clothes and beautiful rings.

“I’m the Queen of Poland,” Katherine declared, strutting around her room. “Kiss the hem of my dress, peasant!”

“Well, I’m the Queen of England,” said Mary with a proud tilt to her chin. “You kiss the hem of my dress!” Katherine giggled and shoved her away, when her friend made as if to shove her dress in her face. Mary laughed, her red hair slipping off her white cap and Katherine observed slightly, because Mary was much smaller than her. “Where is Poland, anyway?”

“It’s in the continent,” Jocasta Howard piped up, the daughter of Katherine’s uncle Charlie. “My father said it’s a vast land of woods and bears.”

“Ooooh,” said Katherine. “I like bears.” Bears sounded like such good fun. One of her ancestors had killed a bear and when she last visited the Norfolk lands, Katherine was able to see the hunting trophy in her great-uncle’s hall. It was a large creature, its skin displayed in the centre of the room as a rug. But there weren't any bears in England anymore. Papa said they all died.

“My father said the Queen of Poland killed her daughter-in-law,” said Jane Dormer with wide green eyes. “Bona Sforza poisoned Elisabeth of Austria, that’s what he said.”

Katherine blanched, frozen with fear. “That’s silly,” said Bella Ashley. She was Katherine’s aunt, as she shared a father with papa and had come very recently into her life. “My lady, please disregard what Mistress Dormer has just said. Queen Bona is a good Catholic. She wouldn’t poison her own son’s wife.”

“But my father said the same!” Jocasta said, her brown hair falling down her back. “He said Bona Sforza paid Barbora Radvilaitė to kill the young queen, because she was jealous of her beauty.”

“I’m beautiful!” Katherine shrieked. Papa said so all the time. He said she was the most beautiful girl in the whole world. “Bona Sforza is going to poison me!”

“No, no, no,” said Bella Ashley, shaking her head. “My ladies, there is no need to fear.”

“I don’t want to die!” Katherine cried out. “Bona Sforza is coming for me!”

“And me!” There were tears running down Jocasta’s red face. “Mama said I’m beautiful too.”

“Queen Bona is not going to hurt anyone, my ladies,” said Bella Ashley. Her eyes were wide as she suddenly realised that she didn’t have any experience in caring for a bunch of crying little girls, who feared for the unknown evil queen. She didn’t even know what to say. “If you are good Catholics, and obedient, Queen Bona won’t come for you!”

Katherine stopped jumping up and down, gulping down her tears. “Really?”

“Really,” her aunt said. “What’s more, she’ll be an old woman by the time you go to your husband, Katherine. She might very well be dead by such a time. She is not a young woman, after all. She’s nothing more than an old widow now with only as much influence as her son gives her. She is hardly of concern, especially for the lot of you.”

“My mother said all witches are old women,” said Jane Dormer with wide eyes. Bella thought to throttle her, as the young girl was clearly not helping. It felt silly to explain sense to children, to tell them that witches were nothing more than a fantasy, that old queen dowagers were nothing more than a meddling presence at any court they were present. It did feel rather nice as well, to be the older and wiser presence for her niece and her companions.

“There is no need to worry,” Bella said again. “The Lord and the Bible keeps us safe from witches, I swear it. So be obedient and pray fervently or…” She didn’t know what else to say.

“Or Bona Sforza is going to poison us all,” Katherine Tudor supplied. The little princess of England nodded and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She could be obedient. She could do that.

 

[pandizzy]

Madrid, Castile. 27th of April, 1548.​

“Here is another report about counterfeit coins within His Majesty’s kingdoms, Your Highness,” said his grandfather as a servant handed him a long letter, detailing the false coinage being given to the population of Asturias. Felipe sighed, scratching the soft skin above his brown and read it again, as if to commit the numbers to memory.

“It’s the way we create such coins that is to blame,” Felipe said. “By hammering them into shape, there is hardly a soul alive who can create two that are identical.” In Asturias, some of the forgery had diminutive changes, such as in the face of his imperial father, changes that the common man would not see clearly. “We must do something about it.”

“Such as?” asked the Duke of Alba, raising an eyebrow. Felipe took a deep breath and sighed, remembering something he wrote. Years before, when he was still a green boy. When his mother was still alive. The collection of papers commissioned by his financial tutor, all his father couldn’t care less for. And his poor broken heart, burning it all.

“Send out a note that any and all coins found to be forged must be confiscated,” he declared. “By the end of the year, those dealing with them shall be fined twice the amount lost with their error.” That ought to encourage the commons to hand over the illegal money. They usually had difficulty trusting government officials with their money, after so many decades of his ancestors stealing their taxes. “And I want a notice to be given, discreetly, for inventors in Italy and the world.”

He’d have his money press, no matter what.

--

Paço da Ribeira, Portugal. 15th of May, 1548.​

Catalina moved carefully down the pews, her two hands over the curve of her swollen belly. Her red skirts swished between her legs, an extra panel added to accommodate her growing form as her golden hair was pinned up under two silk-and-pearl cauls, one on each side of her head as was the Portuguese fashion.

As she stepped closer, the figure shifted to look at her and Catalina saw the face of her sister-in-law, Clemência de Beja. The young duchess made as if to bow, but the Queen gestured for her not to do so. Clemência was heavy with her first child, her skinny limbs straining under the weight of her belly and Catalina didn’t want to see her work so hard to pay the proper respects for her monarch’s wife.

“Please, sister,” she said. “Don’t bother yourself on my account.” She sat next to Clemência, smiling. Clemência was to give birth by the end of July, according to Dom Filipe, and Afonso had asked that his nephew be born in his seat, where Filipe himself was born once. Insisted on it, really. No one thought Dona Clemência would be strong enough to handle a pregnancy, but there she was, rosy-cheeked and seemingly healthy. “How are you?”

“Well, I believe,” Clemência said, placing her hand at the top of her stomach. “He refuses to keep still.”

“Mine is the same,” Catalina murmured. She was only five months along, unlike Clemência, who was ready to pop. “How fortunate we are, to bear cousins so close together. They shall be great friends, I’m sure.” Boldly, Catalina placed her hand over Clemência and the young woman smiled, certainly thankful for the kind touch.

“Dom Filipe has told me that he is certain it’s a boy,” said Clemência. Catalina didn’t know why she spoke so formally of her husband, as they had been quite literally raised together, but she decided not to say anything. Some people took great comfort in the rules of their society. “But I think it’s a girl.”

“A mother’s intuition is always certain,” said Catalina. "My English grandmother told me that. Especially with the firstborn." She smiled. “I knew when I was carrying Infanta Ana Leonor that she was a girl, but with this one, I couldn’t be more clueless.”

Clemência laughed, the sound resembling more the tinkling of bells than a giggle, her reddish-brown hair visible under her white hood. Catalina squeezed her hand. “I’d like to invite you to have supper at my chambers, sister,” she murmured. “Us pregnant women must band together to sustain our growing babes.”

“I’d like that very much, my queen,” Dona Clemência responded with a soft and kind smile.

 

[pandizzy]

Wittenberg Castle, Electorate of Saxony. 30th of May, 1548.​

Ella peered into the wooden cradle from her bed, smiling as she admired the wisps of dark hair and curious pale blue-grey eyes. She turned to look over her retinue, ladies from local nobility keeping themselves busy with needlework, music or reading. The silence was a much-needed respite against the hustle and bustle of the Saxon court, which seemed so many miles away despite being just beyond the door of the Electoral Princess’ chambers.

It brought a slight smile to Ella’s lips to think of Magdalena’s horror at the announcement of her betrothal, some four years past. The Austrian archduchess she had grown alongside practically wailing that the Elector of Saxony was a devout Lutheran, a heretic of the rankest sort. That Ella’s immortal soul and those of her children would be forfeit in such a place. From how she spoke, one would think Ella was being sent into a pit of venomous snakes and not a court renowned for its patronage of scholars and artists.

Her conversion to Lutheranism had come as naturally to her as breathing. She had never held much devotion to the Catholic faith, despite being raised with it, and she felt a certain scepticism to the Roman Catholic Church daring to dictate to those princes and monarchs abroad that the Pope had no way of knowing. Why should some Italian act as if he held the authority to speak for God Himself, when the papacy had been steeped in corruption for decades?

The Electress had warmed towards Ella, both as a daughter and as a potential convert, as soon as she had arrived. And the magnanimous Elector had praised her virtues and insisted a finer bride could not have been found in the whole of the empire. Her dearest Fiete had been the most eager to welcome her, practically stumbling over every word when they first spoke to each other. She had forgiven him for it, for she had never felt so loved as she did with him.

She had always known she was a fine prospect for many German princes. A beautiful face with imperial connections and a substantive dowry, she had little difficulty in attracting potential husbands in her youth. Though she thanked God every day that Karl Ferdinand and their father had chosen Fiete. Her husband who was utterly devoted to her, who appreciated her for herself more than what she had brought him.

An indignant cry erupted from her son’s small pink lips, summoning the wet nurse from her seat and pulling Ella from her thoughts. She made quick work of her little charge, and Ella sighed with relief as the woman set about her work. Although there was a small pang in her heart, for she might have gladly fed her son by herself, had she the ability.

As the boy’s cries died down, there came a sharp knock on the door. Ella knew in an instant that it was her husband, sitting herself up and nodding to one of the ladies to open it.

The Electoral Prince practically filled the frame of the door when he entered, as tall and broad as he was. His eyes, so brown they were almost black, surveyed the room and found Ella amidst the cloister of ladies. The dark moustache and beard he so carefully tended to only rendered his round face more dignified, befitting his station. And while another woman might consider his features plain, Ella found him to be the most handsome man in Christendom when he smiled at her.

“I fear he will wake the whole of Wittenberg when he demands to be fed," he japed as he settled into an ornate chair close to her bed, his large hand seeking out her own, tenderly wrapping around her slender white fingers. “Tell me, what name shall the disgruntled folk cry when they beg us to soothe him?”

“You do not wish to name him?” Ella asked, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. “I had thought it only natural you would name him for yourself and your father.”

“I had thought to do so, but hardly did I hear him cry then I realised that it did not suit him. He could bear my name, and I would be glad and proud of him, but I think he is made of different stuff than I,” Fiete offered.

As if to demonstrate his father’s point, the boy wiggled and squirmed in the wet nurse’s arms. His brow had begun to furrow with the promise of another cry when the woman gently shushed him, stroking his wispy hairs and crooning gently.

“I heard it said once that your father arrived in Germany an impetuous young man, assured of his own ideas and quite fond of sharing them. And there is you as well, my darling. You have made no secret of your disregard for the papacy. I sense the fire in your heart burns in that little bear cradled in his nurse’s arms.”

Ella looked at her son, finally dozing peacefully in the crook of his wet nurse’s arm. The name came to her all at once, and she turned it about in her head before finally speaking it. She already knew it was perfect.

“Johann Georg. He will be Johann Georg of Saxony.”

--

Turin, Savoy. 08th of July, 1548.​

Margarita giggled at the flurry of kisses against her neck, and the hand that attempted to unlace the backing of her dress, shaking off Emmanuel’s warm hold on her. Her husband tried to tug her back to bed, closing his things around her skinny wrist.

“Come on,” he complained, the smell of wine wafting off of his skin. “You never touch me anymore.”

“I’m pregnant,” Margarita said, shifting her hips as if to exhibit the large belly that protruded from her narrow frame. “And you’re drunk.” Emmanuel sighed in frustration, falling face first into her mattress and Margarita laughed again, walking back to tug his shoes off of his feet. He said nothing, even though she knew he was still awake, only raising his legs to help her. "Are you tired?"

"Very tired," he murmured, face squished against her furs.

“Then turn on your back,” she said, stroking his shoulder. She didn’t think he should sleep in the clothes he wore for the feast, but she knew she wouldn't be able to disrobe him alone. Her husband was a man of average size, but compared to her, he was a giant. Emmanuel, thankfully, turned, closing and opening his eyes as he stretched with a sigh.

"Come here," he said again. Margarita smiled, her cheeks flushed and climbed up on the bed with him, as smoothly as she possibly could with the belly. He wrapped his arm around her and she settled against his chest, tightly wrapped around him like a kitten near the hearth.

She could still smell the wine in Emmanuel's breath, his chest rising and falling smoothly as he settled into a deep sleep. Margarita felt safe with him, even though he was drunk. There was a deep feeling in her chest, the idea that nothing would happen to her in her husband's presence.

"I love you," she whispered, even though he could not hear her.

But his arm tightened around her and she thought he could, in his own way. And he answered in kind.

 

[pandizzy]

Antwerp, Low Countries. 13th of August, 1548.​

"No, no," Charles declared, pointing out all the imperfections with his ring finger. "Her nose is incorrect. It was longer. And straighter."

The painter blanched as he looked back at his rough sketch, the defining features of the deceased Empress that scratched the paper in coal. He had never met Anne and had to paint her based on the numerous portraits in her husband's possession, and the medals struck in her image. As well as, of course, his own feedback.

Charles remembered Anne well. Time had not diluted her face in his mind's eye. He could still see her, her smile burned at the back of his eyelids. The curve of her neck, the softness of her chin. Her laughter, her sighs of pleasure as they made love.

A pity that the painting, and its initial drawings, could not capture her levity, her intelligence and pride. By God, but Anne was proud. Not just of her station, but of herself. She'd been raised by a loving family, then handed to his aunt for an education, only to be chosen as one of her favourites. She never had to question herself, or to wonder if she deserved the life she had. She knew she deserved it and would stop at nothing to reach what she wanted.

He loved that about her.

Charles dismissed the painter, so he might work at fixing his mistakes, and returned to his papers. He had been preparing for his inevitable abdication and there were some issues with the Protestants in the Empire that needed to be fixed before Ferdinand could call himself Emperor. And letters. So many letters from his children. His daughter Juana had written to complain about her husband’s dealings with his family, their family, and the betrothal of his granddaughter to his nephew. Charles thought there was nothing he could do, beyond writing a letter to Ferdinand and asking about the merits of the union.

And his brother was quite convincing in saying that Archduke Karl needed a bride with ties to the kingdom of Bohemia if he would become their viceroy, ties that Anna had, since her grandfather was the Bohemian king. His daughter would have to accept it.

Margarita wrote to tell him that she had her second child, a boy named Emanuel after his father. All the reports was that this birth had been easier than her first, and there were no concerns for her health if she continued in the state she was in. That was very good. Sometimes, Charles thought there was no way he’d live if another one of his children perished before him.

At least, Margarita was happy. And Juanita too, despite everything. Most of his children had successes in their matches. Thank the Lord. He closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face, feeling much older than his forty-eight years. Not many men made to the age he was in, even those that were limping and coughing their way through life as he was. Charles thought all it took was another ill-fortuned seizure to take him under, and would that be such a bad thing after all?

The door behind him opened and closed, driving him away from his thoughts. Charles turned slightly to look at Juan, rising from his bow. He said nothing, merely turning back to his papers and his son stepped closer, eyes immediately closing in at the large portrait turned towards them, the black-eyed figure holding tightly to a pair of cream-coloured gloves.

“This one is new,” Juan murmured. Charles grunted in response, wanting to show that he was not in the mood for conversations. “I always thought her mouth was heart-shaped.”

“That’s your grandmother,” Charles responded. “Lady Elizabeth. Anne always had thin lips.” To her great anger. He remembered her pinching the corners of her mouth to make them appear puffier, but her portraits had to be life-like. That was his one demand.

Juan hummed in response. He continued to look at his mother’s portrait, the only way he would be able to see her face after twelve years of her death. And Juan last saw the Empress when he was just two, at the age he was sent to the Low Countries to be raised by the Dowager Duchess of Savoy, and then by the Dowager Queen of Hungary. But Charles decided not to say anything, merely taking his quill to pen another letter for Ferdinand. There were many words that had to be said between them.

“You truly did love her, didn’t you?” his son murmured, looking at his mother’s painted face. Charles raised his eyes.

“I did,” he said. Juan looked at him with innocent blue eyes, the straight and long nose of Anne Boleyn casting shadows over his face.

“What did it feel like?” he asked, eagerness laced in his words. Charles’ heart stuttered as he realised that, despite everything, his son had not yet lived such a love. He was twenty-two, the same age Charles was when Felipe was born. Already a father and a husband. But not a lover in the true sense of the word.

The Emperor did not have to think long and hard about his answer. “In the middle of it, it felt like everything was right with the world,” he murmured. “Like every hurt could be cured by her touch. It felt as if my heart had been removed from my body and placed in her hands, which cared for it lovingly.”

“And when it ended?”

“It hasn’t,” Charles said. “I will go to my grave loving your mother, boy. No matter what.”

 

[pandizzy]

Vienna, Austria. 7th of September, 1548.​

As she neared the end of her fourth pregnancy, Max bought them a large family home in the city, so they could raise their children without his family’s influence. Certainly, he meant for it to be the opening that would make her forgive him. A bribe, almost. As if a house could compensate for all the hurt that he has caused.

Juanita rocked Tamás in her arms, pacing about in his nursery. Her son was only a few days old and she was not supposed to be out of bed, especially since she hadn’t been churched yet, but she couldn’t help herself. Tamás was strong for being born so soon after his sister Mária, with blonde hair like his father and she held him close, suddenly so protective.

She named him after her grandfather. He was still alive, as far as she knew, and Juanita trusted Felipe to let her know if anything happened to him.

When Max commented upon their son's name, Juanita answered him succinctly, “When my mother died, my grandparents were the ones who raised us. I'd be much ashamed if I did not honour them in some way or another.” Their next boy could be Vladislau, if he really wanted to, though she thought he'd wish to honour their shared grandfather instead.

Juanita looked back at her newborn son, his scrunched up face at peace, sleeping deeply with his stomach full of his wet nurse's rich milk. She sighed and felt tears burning at the corners of her eyes, her heart fit to burst with happiness. "If only," she murmured. "If only your father saw your birth for what it means."

Before she could say anything else, the door opened and she turned, looking at Max as he came inside. Her heart still stuttered at the sight of him, foolishly in love, but she tried to mask it. She was still upset, still angry and his charming blue eyes could do nothing about it.

He sighed as he looked at her. "Shouldn't you be in bed?" he murmured, sounding much like her physician. Juanita sighed.

"I can't remain another thirty days laying down," she murmured. "I don't care what the doctors say." He sighed again, rolling his eyes and stepped closer. Juanita hadn't stopped rocking Tamás in her arms, and she didn't move, not even when he stroked her arms and leaned in to kiss her face.

"I just don't want you tiring yourself," said Max. "Give Tamás to one of his nurses." He looked down at their son with a fond smile, moving his finger down to stroke his pronounced chin. "I'm sure he won't even notice the difference."

"I'd rather not," said Juanita. She turned around and placed Tamás back in his cot, wanting to have her hands free and her attention undivided when Max said whatever it was that he wanted to say. "The girls your mother assigned to us are little fools. They hardly know how to care for themselves."

"If you say so, you're free to fire them and hire new attendants, my love," he said calmly. Juanita turned to look at him. Sometimes, his passive nature irked her. How calm he always was, how hard it was to see him worked up. It made her feel unworthy of him, when she herself was easily riled. It was her Boleyn blood, mixed with the inheritance from her grandmother. Ever since she was a child, Juanita had been watching herself for signs of madness. And being married to such a calm man did not, in turn, calm her.

The last thing she wanted was to end up like her namesake.

"I suppose I will," she said, biting down all she wanted to say. "You will have to approve them all, of course, and it will take months for me to be certain that they are qualified." She had no doubt it would be an easy task, however. Working in the Imperial nursery was the best some minor landless nobles could hope for, and the pay was incredible, not to mention with their duties being much easier than many other openings. Even a common peasant would kill to wipe an archduchess' face after a hearty meal instead of breaking their back every day on the fields.

"You must do what you can," said Max and his voice was so finite, so strange, and his expression almost sad, that she frowned as she looked at him. "But I won't be around to approve of your choices myself, even if I'm certain that they shall be perfectly suitable."

Her frown grew deeper. "What do you mean?"

"That bothersome Lutheran league has been causing problems for months," her husband said. "My father and yours wish for me to travel at the head of an army to meet their leaders in your cousin's lands." His face was pale, however, and afraid, an expression that was surely mirrored on her own face. Her heart stuttered, not out of desire, but fright. War, she thought, desperate. He's going to war. He doesn't want to say it, but he is. Juanita had been conceived after her father returned from a war, when her mother had been so happy that she forgot about her rest after Juan's birth and invited him to love her again.

But there had been a great possibility that her father wouldn't return. She remembered her father leaving her whole childhood, and how her mother hid her fear in front of them. The fear that he would never come back.

She felt her face crumble, tears filling her eyes. "Why Württemberg?"

"The Duke and his sister Elisabeth are known to be fond of Luther's teachings, but my sister's presence at his court keeps him Catholic for the most part." Max shrugged. "I suppose the Emperor saw him as a good, impartial voice to be had. He also serves as a reminder of the rewards of supporting Austria."

"And you're going?" she mumbled. "Just like that?"

"It's my duty," he responded. "Your father, the Emperor, told me so." He shook his head. "The Saxons and the Hessians will be there, as well as a representative of Brünswick. We might talk or we might fight, I don't know yet."

“How could you not know yet?” she practically screamed, her voice rising an octave at the intense desire to shake him so he might answer her. “Do you expect to march there with an army and be invited to have lunch with the other men, eating and drinking like old friends if the matter is settled amicably?”

Max raised a hand, silently telling her to calm down. “The Lutheran League might yet be brought to heel,” he said. “My sisters’ marriages may encourage a generation of Catholic German princes and wipe the heretical stain away once and for all, God willing.”

But Juanita shook her head, knowing that such a thing would never happen. Tears splashed down her cheeks, and she grabbed her own hands, lest he saw how they trembled.

“I’ll leave at the end of the week,” Max murmured. “By your leave, I shall start my preparations right now.” He sighed, shaking his head. “If it comes to it, I have a will in place. The children will remain under your custody, and there is a strong chance for you to be regent if my father perishes before Ferdinánd is of age. There can’t be a child emperor, but I’m sure you can manage to have him elected once whoever holds the title passes.” He turned around to leave.

“Wait,” she said almost on instinct, walking to follow him. “Max, you can’t leave like this.” Her hands itched to grab his, fingers closing around his wrist. “Please, don’t leave me.”

He looked at her, blue eyes inherited from Philip of Austria staring sadly at her. “All I have is my duty,” he murmured. “To our house, to our lands, to our Lord.”

At that moment, Juanita realised how foolish she was being. So angry, so insulted. So entitled, to think that everything could be so easy. Max did what she did. Their duty to their family, to their children. Tears flooded her eyes and she took hold of his neck, pulled him down to a kiss that she hoped conveyed everything she was feeling. Every sorrow, every sob torn out of her over Anna’s fate, every laughter that he caused during the first of their marriage.

He could die. He could die and she would still be angry with him. He would go to his grave without them mending what was broken, and where would she be? A young widow, with four fatherless children. Forever blaming herself.

“You’re not going to die in Württemberg,” she told him, leaning her forehead against his. “You’re going to die a hundred years from now, on my bed, surrounded by our grandchildren and great-grandchildren.” She pinched his cheek. “And if the price for that is that some of our grandchildren may also call you uncle, then I shall pay it gladly.” She stroked his face, his blonde hair. “Because I love you, Maximilian. I love you more than life itself.”

He kissed her again, wrapping his arms around her to hold her tightly. “I love you too, Juana,” he whispered, running his hand up to stroke her dark hair. “I love you more than the robin loves the morning.” Their embrace felt like everything was right in the world. There was no need to take off their clothes, and not to mention, she couldn’t so soon after Tamás, but Juanita found that she did not care. Their hearts were bare, in truth.

 

[pandizzy]

Bern, Swiss Confederacy. 17th of September, 1548.​

The rain was cold, slipping through the gaps in his armour, and Ludovico could almost feel his bones shivering at the freezing mud that clung to him. He took in a weak and stunted gasp, air wheezing out of him in all the wrong places. Somehow, he could see the sun, glinting off the armours that piled around him, the smell of death clinging to the air.

“Mother…” he whispered, feeling his chest rise and fall with his words. He could still feel the wound at the side of him, leaking blood and his life’s force. “Catherine…” He looked around himself, at the wounded being removed and the dead being dragged away for burial. Somehow, Ludovico knew that no one would come. No one cared. No one knew who he was, not in this strange land that cared not for him. In these mountains that he tried to conquer, thinking himself to be the image of his father.

They thought he was a common soldier, and all his best generals were either dead or too injured to say anything. Blood continued to pour out of him, the air leaving his punctured lungs. Ludovico opened and closed his eyes, wanting to tear his helmet away so he could breath. But he didn’t have the strength for it.

“Mother,” he called for again, his eyes falling shut. The Dowager Duchess would fix it. His mother fixed everything, she took care of him and everyone when his father died. “Mother, I’m scared.”

“We all are,” someone said above him in a deep, Swiss accent. Ludovico opened his eyes with his sole remaining strength, finding a tall man standing over him, his face slick with blood and mud. “But where you’re going, there is nothing to fear but the Devil himself.”

It was at that moment that Ludovico noticed his knife, and how sometimes, some soldiers roamed about the battlefields to finish off the remaining enemies.

--

Castello Sforzesco, Duchy of Milan, 24th of September, 1548.​

The firewood crackled and hissed as a servant stepped away from the hearth, receiving a gracious nod from Caterina and a silent pointing of the quill to the door by the Dowager Duchess. Caterina frowned as she looked at her children, bathed in the orange glow.

Paolo sat at the Dowager Duchess’ side, his hand working at a quill and a parchment so fast that Caterina wanted to chide him for his excitement. Her precious boy, her eldest, had gotten the idea in his head to write to the Spanish Infanta he was betrothed to. He thought he was at fault for the Austrian archduchess choosing to hide away in a nunnery than sit the ducal throne beside him, and the insidious Spanish bitch had crooned that he should write to “Luisita” to prevent her from doing the same.

She was relishing the betrothal of her grandson to her brother’s granddaughter, and Caterina wished more than anything that she could sink a cinquedea into the hollow void where the old shrew might’ve had a heart. Milan would do well not to have another Spanish duchess, after all.

Ludovica’s hand on her arm turned her attention away from Paolo’s scribblings, and her sweet daughter pointed to Caterina’s own little namesake reading to her younger brother Francesco by firelight. Rina was such a precocious child, and the year and a half between her and little Franco might well have been a decade for how the girl fussed over her little brother in a child’s play at maturity and wisdom.

The silence was pierced in a moment. It was a hideous sound, swollen and guttural, prolonged and painful to the ears.

It came from the thin lips of the Dowager Duchess, her pale blue eyes seeming almost white in the orange glow, hollow as she stood to her feet with her hands gripping an opened parchment. A glossy light overtook them and the ageing woman fell to her knees with a swiftness that surprised Caterina, her thin white hands abandoning the parchment to clasp together as she rocked and began to warble prayers in garbled Castilian and Italian.

“Isotta, take the children and do not allow them back. I will attend to the Dowager Duchess,” Caterina quickly ordered, watching the wide-eyed children be led out from their grandmother’s solar. She could already see Paolo’s dark eyes working, and she knew that he was as aware of what was on the parchment as she.

She picked up the fallen letter, only to confirm her suspicions, and felt a shiver run down her spine. Ludovico was dead, stabbed in the stomach and killed in battle like a common urchin sent to fight for Milan. He had fought alongside his own men, and died alongside them. It was a noble death, she would see to it that men sang of his bravery rather than his folly. He had been kind enough to her to deserve that much.

The same could not be said of his mother.

“Dispense with the tears. There is no use in them.”

The weeping and prayer came to a halt, and Caterina relished the confusion in the eyes of her long-standing rival. The conniving shrew who had worked her husband like a puppet on strings so that Caterina had to endlessly fight to win his respect, who had tried to render her son a puppet as well. Caterina would not stand for it, not now that she finally had the power to speak up.

“You do not weep for your own husband? He was slaughtered like a bleating sheep, cut through in his prime and you—“

“Ludovico knew full well what he was doing when he went off to battle. He told me to protect our children when he rode off. I intend to do so, and I’ll begin by commanding you to leave this castle immediately. I can send you to your dower holdings, and you may visit your kin in Spain and return to Milan as you please. I have little doubt the Prince and Princess of Asturias will be glad to host one of their only remaining aunts. If you’d prefer, I’ll find a respectable convent where you can serve God and perform good works, and make a sizable donation to its coffers so you will be well-kept.”

Power tasted so delicious on Caterina’s tongue, and the indignation on the Spanish bitch’s face only made it taste sweeter.

“You dare address me so? You forget that I am an Infanta of Castile and Aragon, an Austrian Archduchess, widow to Francesco the Second—”

“Were,” Caterina interrupted, enjoying the shock on the older woman’s face. How many years it must have been since anyone ever spoke back to the proud Dowager Duchess. “You speak of all things that you were in the past. What you are now is a tiresome old woman who I will have no part of. I have offered to give you everything you are entitled to as the widow of the late Duke Francesco.”

“You speak as if I should be grateful to be spoken to with such impertinence. You miserable wretch, I suppose I should have always known you would turn against me the first chance you were given.”

“I have observed the niceties expected of me, I never asked that you be grateful for them. Truly, what I want from you is simple enough. Step down and recognize me as the Dowager Duchess. Do not make this any more difficult than it needs to be. I do believe I’m entitled to that much for the many years you held the power that should have been mine as Ludovico’s wife. And do not think I forget that, through your meddling, my son will be wed to the granddaughter of a man whose armies threatened the life of my beloved cousin, as well as myself.”

“While the actions of my brother's armies are regrettable, the suffering of Rome is not on my shoulders. I had no part in it.” The Dowager Duchess’ back straightened and she tilted her chin up, Caterina wished she could bend the old hag double for looking down at her so imperiously.

“No, I suppose you had no part in it. You only convinced your husband to encroach on the territories of those other Italian duchies, bringing about his unfortunate poisoning by the men he ousted.”

The slap stung, but Caterina didn’t let it rattle her. The infanta’s thin fingers were thankfully devoid of any rings to sharpen the blow.

“Massimiliano and Francesco will both aid me in overseeing the years ahead for Paolo," she continued, staring down at the woman. "Francesco is a drunk but he may teach Paolo how to wield a sword, and Massimiliano has experience in matters of state on my departed husband’s behalf. It is only right that they get their chance at having some influence.”

The ageing infanta blanched, and Caterina could tell she had no rebuttal. The woman had only ever shown affection towards her eldest, and now that son was dead, alongside her husband and her father. The Emperor was far too occupied with his precious Duke of Burgundy to even concern himself with her. Her daughter was hundreds of miles away in Germany and her remaining sons had little reason to wish her stay.

Caterina smiled and took a seat at the desk where the Dowager Duchess had sat mere minutes before, turning her eyes towards the older woman as she took up a quill, using it to gesture to a nearby chair.

“Please, sit. We can discuss your new residence, Infanta Catalina. I shouldn’t like my dear departed Ludovico’s mother to live anywhere unsuitable. The place for one so illustrious as yourself, who has so long committed her life to the Duchy of Milan, is none other than the Castello Visconteo. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“The Castello Visconteo was damaged during the wars with France. The French artillery rendered the lords’ apartments completely uninhabitable. Two of the towers were brought down to ruin. How do you expect me to live in such a place when no men have been ordered to repair it in all these years?” the older woman asked, glaring at Caterina from where she stood by the fireplace, ever-stubborn.

“Is that so? How very strange, I had thought you were familiar enough with castles in need of repair.” Caterina saw the realisation dawning in the older woman’s eyes. “After all, was it not the departed empress who lifted you out of the crumbling Tordesillas before your brother wed you to the late Duke?”

 

[pandizzy]

Bruges, Low Countries. 13th of October, 1548.​

Charles wrung his fingers together as he observed the careful tension surrounding the room, enclosing them in a suffocating environment. The snapping of Duchess Elizabeth's fingers as she moved her cutlery about her plate, the careful chewing of Juan's food as he pointedly ignored his wife.

They weren't loudly arguing with each other anymore, thank the Lord. It seemed that Archduchess Marguerite's death snuffed out the fire in them, leaving only cool anger behind. Charles didn't know whether to be thankful about that or not. It was clear that they still had strong resentment for each other, and their position, but they weren't falling into slaps and screams and kisses again. Bessie hadn't even conceived since Marguerite's passing.

"The new Duke of Milan is a boy of ten," Charles thought to comment, wanting to break the suffocating silence they were in. "His mother is his regent."

Juan looked at him. "How does my dear aunt fare with her son's death?" he asked.

"Not well, I imagine," Bessie commented lightly as she spooned some cream into her plate. Juan looked at her for a brief moment before he turned back to his father.

"I don't know," he murmured. "My sister only wishes for my help in securing the Milanese regency for herself against Caterina di Médici." His son snorted. "What?"

"Nothing," Juan said, cutting into his venison.

"No, tell me," Charles demanded. "What is so funny?"

Juan sighed and rolled his eyes. "It's funny that my cousin is barely cold in his grave and yet, his mother and wife are already fighting over his lands," he said. "And that my aunt thinks you will help her. Everyone wants something from you, but hardly anyone wishes to help you, father."

“Should the Emperor even bother with helping his sister secure the regency of Milan?" Bessie asked, swirling her glass of wine around. "She already held that role for her son when the old Duke died. Is the young Duke’s widow to be kept from a position she has as much a right to as the archduchess did those years before?”

"Especially with Savoy," Juan murmured. "They will take advantage of this weakness in Milan to take the Swiss Confederacy for themselves." He smiled. "Margarita might soon be a future queen, instead of just a duchess."

"What a dream," Bessie said sarcastically. Juan stared at her, a message silently conveyed through his expression and she frowned at him, as if ready to pull out an offensive gesture. Instead, she just showed him her two fingers, which confused Charles.

"The Swiss Confederacy is under the control of the Empire," said Charles.

"Only nominally," Juan replied acidly. "And uncle Ferdinand doesn't care about Italy and the Alps. He is only focused on getting Hungary back from Sultan Mustafa and his janissaries."

“Your uncle Ferdinand forgets that dominion over those territories was hard won by our family," Charles said with a curt tone. "And that his multiple ties to Germany do not erase that the Empire expands past the Alps into Italy. Those territories need to be kept secure, same as Hungary.”

His son rolled his eyes. “If you say so,” he murmured. “It’s not as if my opinion truly matters anyway.” Charles sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Not this again,” he said. “The agreement has always been that you would have Burgundy and the Low Countries, Felipe would have Spain and Ferdinand, the Empire.” He looked at his son. “Why must everything be resisted by you, as if to the death? I’m trying to do what is best for this family.”

“The Duke can’t be happy with what he is given, my lord father,” Bessie said, sipping her wine. “He will always wish for more.”

His son snorted again. “Is it so wrong that I feel slighted?” he asked, almost insulted. “I’m granted a mere Duchy while my brother is set to inherit an ancient and prestigious crown with vast territories and my uncle will have dominion over swathes of Europe? Why couldn’t Felipe be given the Empire and I be given Spain?”

“Juan, be careful with what you’re saying,” Charles said.

“The Empire is the jewel of Christendom,” his son said. “The largest plum would go to the eldest, it would only be right, but you give it to your brother instead. And all I am left with is this pitiful tract of land where I must deal with the bellicose French on my doorstep. That is when I’m not sitting idle and overseeing trade with my harridan wife’s foolish brother.”

“Burgundy is my grandmother’s inheritance, that which was stolen from us,” Charles responded, having half a mind to slap the young man’s face. “I took it back and gave it to you. Not to Felipe, or to Fernando, or Eduardo, but to you.”

“What you did was take me away from my mother when I was only two,” Juan replied. “So when she died and everyone had memories of her, all I had were letters and paintings. Because of you.”

“It was for this family,” said Charles.

“Family?” His son laughed, shaking his head. “You dare to speak about family when you weren’t even here? When you took Christina away and sent Aunt Maria to raise me, while my grandparents cared for my siblings in Spain, because you were too busy with your own grief to give a shit?”

“You were a spoilt boy and you’ve grown into a spoilt man,” Charles said carefully. “To think of all I’ve done for you, all the care and consideration I dedicated to your education. Christina had to marry for the sake of this family, she understood her duty, and your whining at these supposed slights I have rained upon you is little more than a wailing brat who has not been given his toy.” He shook his head. “You don’t understand what I lost when your mother died.”

“You’re right,” Juan said. “How could I understand when you ripped me from her arms and handed me to nurses and tutors, when you gave me a grieving widow who could hardly be bothered to offer warmth, when you took my only dear cousin, the only person I had who cared for me? How could I understand?”

“We’ve all had things to sacrifice for this family,” Charles responded.

“What did you sacrifice for this family?” his son asked. “An alliance with England? A marriage treaty with Portugal? Was that truly a sacrifice for you?” He chortled, a sardonic smile cutting across his face. “Now I’m saddled with her,” he pointed at Bessie with his chin, “And my sister María is in her grave. Because of you.”

For a moment, no one spoke. The air was thick with tension, practically sizzling with the rage that simmered about them. Then, Juan rubbed a hand over his face, and sighed.

“I have lost my appetite,” he said. “By your leave, Your Majesty.” Charles didn’t have the strength of mind to stop him.

When the door closed noisily behind him, Bessie stood to her feet, her blue eyes shining as she clutched her gown in her hands. “You see now the cruelty I suffer?” She took a shuddering breath and curtsied. “By your leave, Your Majesty. I must go and soothe my irritated husband or it will only be worse for the servants. And you have my thanks, I’m truly grateful that my children do not see him like this.”

Charles said nothing, merely staring at the empty seats they left behind, the echo of Juan’s words in his mind. It was interesting how he hardly ever spoke to his brother Felipe, even in letters, and yet, they sounded exactly the same. But Juan was more dangerous, less inclined to turn on himself during his tempers. And his ambition could ruin everything.

“The only thing that can take down the House of Austria is itself,” a voice said behind him. He turned and saw an olive-skinned figure sitting by the window, dark hair falling in rings behind her back. Black eyes glinting with love as she looked at him. “Don’t let him affect you. He is just upset, my poor boy.”

“I don’t know what to do,” he told Anne. It wasn’t the first time he saw her. It was the most vivid, however. As if she had been invoked through Juan’s words.

She smiled. “Yes, you do,” she said. “You’ve always known exactly what to do, my love.”

Charles nodded. She was right. As always, she was right.