Zaragoza, Aragon. 5th of September, 1523.
It took a few days for Anne to gather up the courage to confront Germana de Foix.
She knew she was without allies at court. To go alone in the small household of the vicereine of Valencia would certainly end in her loss, as the woman had been in Charles’ life for much longer than she had. For goodness’ sake, they had a child together, a child older than her Felipe, a child Germana dared to call an infanta. Infanta. Daughter of the King.
She was shameless. For once, Anne wished she had not sent her brother away. George would certainly be on her side. He would help her in this. She wished George was with her, at least so she had a friend, an ally. Since Charles and she had that fight, Anne had been feeling as lonely as she ever did.
One reprieve she had was that the gossip around her was fixed to the idea that her argument with Charles had been based on him inviting his old mistress/stepgrandmother to court, a thought that brought her a disgusted shudder whenever she dwelled on it. None knew of her books on the reformation and at long last, some of the ladies even looked at her with pity and sympathy. Some too had unfaithful husbands with bastards running around their castles.
But she was still alone. The hours she did not spend at mass or exercising her Castillian, she spent in Felipe’s nursery. He was around five months now and seemed bigger than ever, large and growing on her arms. He had her dark hair and Charles’ blue eyes, with a pronounced pouty lower lip. Felipe couldn’t do much at the moment, like walk or talk, but he had just started laughing and his giggles lit up an entire room.
She visited him in the morning after mass and kissed his sweet little face, pressing her hands to his hair. He tried to grab her necklace and her hat, which was pinned to her hair, laughing at her. Anne kissed his chubby cheeks and handed him back to his nurses, before walking alone to where she needed to go.
Germana de Foix curtsied when she stepped inside, holding her hands in front of her stomach. Her little daughter was by her side, still wearing an extremely expensive blue dress. When Anne looked at Isabel now, more focused and attentive, knowing what she was looking for, she could see how much she looked like her father. Isabel had Charles’ dark hair and her chin was slightly deformed, protruding forward like his was. There was even some of Felipe in her, from the form of her hands to the curve of her neck, and that almost made Anne weep.
But she didn’t. She bit the inside of her cheek and turned back to Doña Germana. She was supposed to be leaving for Valencia in the following days, but had asked to remain in court for a little while longer, having missed Aragon in the years she spent at the court of her husband’s cousin. Charles was only too glad to permit her request.
“Your Majesty,” said Germana with a hint of poison underneath her words, “How can I help you?”
Anne said nothing. She looked at Isabel again. “Your daughter is very beautiful,” she said instead. It was a lie. Despite her grace and good manners, Isabel was not truly beautiful and Anne didn’t think she would ever be so. There was something in her chin and her protruding eyes that made her rather ugly.
Germana smiled. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” she said, “I believe she takes after her grandmother, Queen Juana.”
Queen Juana was a beautiful woman with clear blue eyes and red hair, even after years in confinement at Tordesillas. Anne saw nothing of her in her granddaughter, except maybe in the shade of blue of her eyes, but it could honestly be anything.
“If you say so,” said Anne. She pushed her shoulders back, determined to do what she had come here to do, “Have you no shame? He was your husband’s grandson.”
Germana’s smile dropped, then came back, full of disdain. She had one of her attendants take her daughter out of the room and dismissed the others. When they were alone, Germana turned to her with anger and offence clear on her face.
“He was the King,” she answered, “It’s very hard to deny a king such as him, as Your Majesty can surely agree.”
“Your husband was not even cold in his grave,” continued Anne. That was the part that most bothered her. Germana had shared a life with King Ferdinand for years, but it did not take long for her to warm his grandson’s bed once he was dead, “He made you a queen.”
“He made me hated,” said Germana, “He married me solely to keep Aragon out of Charles’ hands, though our son died before he could live to be king. That did not please anyone. Queen Isabella had been beloved, adored. I was her replacement and I came up lacking.”
“So, because of it, you got into bed with the new king?”
“Not really,” said Germana, “You should’ve seen Charles when he arrived here for the first time. Only seventeen and so eager. He wanted to please me, as his grandfather had requested him to take care of me in his will. He did.”
“I know how well he took care of you,” murmured Anne. She was disgusted by Germana, appalled by the way she spoke of things. Before her, there was no Vicereine of Valencia, but instead, a common whore.
Germana smiled. “We understood each other, him and I. Two foreigners in Spain, young and passionate. It was only too easy for us to comfort each other.”
“You were his grandfather’s widow,” said Anne, “By canon law, you are his grandmother.” To know that her husband laid with his own grandmother disgusted her. She thought she no longer knew just whom had she married.
“I was his beloved, his uncrowned queen,” replied Germana. She arched an eyebrow, “Charles promised he would marry me, did you know that? He said he would find a way to do so, even threatened to break with the Church to have me. After he promised me, we consummated our relationship and conceived our daughter based on our future marriage.”
Anne stepped back.
“Some would say that such a promise in such circumstances is binding,” continued Germana, “Which makes me the rightful Empress and my daughter the true Infanta, while your boy is only a bastard who calls himself an Archduke.”
She did not hold herself. Anne slapped her, high and quick on her cheek. Germana turned her face and brought a hand to her cheek, cradling the bruised flesh. The Empress took a deep breath and willed herself to calm down while holding herself back from hitting the vicereine again.
“Tomorrow, you and your bastard will leave this palace,” she said, her voice wavering with her emotions.
Anne left her then, shaking. She crossed the corridors outside of Germana’s rooms, breathing hard, unable to calm down. She walked and walked until she was lost, unable to discern the stones around her from the stones in her heart. Her knees buckled and Anne lifted a hand, almost falling into the wall.
Then, her stomach rumbled and she retched, throwing up her meagre breakfast onto the floor. Her throat burned, aching and she pressed a hand to her belly, feeling the hard mass right underneath her navel.
She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. It was too soon, and too late.