Between Two Kings (18 page)

François enjoyed their intimacy, but he also wanted Anne to like it as much as he did. It was also a strange feeling for him that he cared so much about what another woman thought about him. He didn’t know why it was so. Who was Anne for him? What was their marriage like? Was it a pure matter of politics? Or did he indeed want to clear her name and to protect her from King Henry? He was genuinely puzzled with his own feelings.

July 1537, Hampton Court Palace, Middlesex, England

King Henry and his mistress, Lady Ursula Misseldon, were sleeping in the king’s large mahogany bed, covered in the magenta rose tapestry and with the magenta rose canopy above them. As Queen Jane Seymour was around five months along in her pregnancy and couldn’t perform her marital duties, Henry spent many nights with his mistresses, most often with Lady Ursula. The room was dark in spite of the early hour, and no candles were lit.

While Lady Ursula’s sleep was calm, Henry couldn’t boast the same. He dreamed of Anne Boleyn, and it wasn’t a pleasant dream because he saw Anne sharing the bed with another man whose face was unclear. Henry dreamed how that other man’s mouth bore down on Anne’s full lips and kissed her. The King of England groaned in despair and disgust from his dream, feeling as though something wild within him had been unleashed. Henry’s dream continued and he saw how that man kissed Anne again and again and how his hands encircled her sensually as he ran them over the curves and planes of her body.

Henry again moaned in his sleep and unconscionably put a hand on his eyes, as though he wanted to fend off the terrible vision in front of him. Then Henry’s mind reproduced their moans of pleasure and their labored breathing. He heard Anne’s final cry, quiet and simultaneously deep. His dream was so real that he was bathed in sweat and his throat turned dry, his breathing erratic.

Henry couldn’t take the dream any longer. A low, agonized groan tore from his throat, and he awoke. He sat up in the bed and stared ahead in the darkness of the bedchamber. He felt anger simmering in his heart and venom dissolving in his veins as he went over the mind reproduced his dream once again in his mind. He was white with rage, his body coiled in anger. It was a complete nightmare.

He’d had that dream only because Anne Boleyn had betrayed him with many other men. There couldn’t be any other reason why Henry had had such a repulsive dream. He even felt humiliated that he’d dreamed about Anne and a man in the same bed, especially when it looked as though both Anne and the man were enjoying their lovemaking.

What a whore Anne Boleyn was, Henry mused. He gazed up at the canopy and silently cursed several times. He hated Anne with all his heart, but if he had been less emotional and more honest with himself, he would have admitted that he hated her because he loved her with that murderous, destructive love of his.

At the same time, in Venice, the newly wedded couple finished their soft, tender lovemaking, and a man kissed a woman on her lips and then rolled away from her body. A woman closed her eyes and pulled away, to her side of the bed. The couple was King François and his new wife Queen Anne. However, Henry didn’t know about that; he didn’t posses any supernatural talents in predicting and foreboding. If he had known that he had had a prophetic dream, Henry would have been immensely anxious and extremely outraged.

Henry looked at Ursula who stirred and turned onto her back. They had again spent a night together. He’d summoned her to his chambers in the late evening because he wanted to receive a long-awaited emotional and physical release. He had been wildly making love to Ursula throughout the whole night.

Henry liked Ursula very much. Tall, voluptuous, with masses of dark hair, slanting blue-eyes, soft alabaster skin and a sensuous, sulky mouth, Ursula Misseldon had attracted Henry’s attention as soon as she became a lady-in-waiting to Queen Jane.

Unlike many other female courtiers who copied Queen Jane by wearing gowns in the conservative English style, Ursula was one of very few women who still dressed in the French fashion. Ursula Misseldon’s manners and style were so similar to those of Anne Boleyn, but Ursula was not Anne, that whore and that adulteress whom Henry was ready to kill for the second time after he had dreamed of her adultery.

Henry cast the heavy brocade coverlet away as he climbed from the bed when a female sleepy voice stopped him. He sank back beside her onto the bed.

“Your Majesty, where are you going?” Lady Ursula inquired, her eyelids heavy with sleep.

Henry stared at Lady Ursula. “I couldn’t sleep,” he answered simply.

She tilted her head and smiled with an alluring smile. “Maybe I can help you spend time in a more pleasant way,” she coaxed seductively.

Henry leaned forward, closer to his mistress. “How can we spend time, Lady Ursula?” He laughed throatily.

“There are many interesting things to do, Your Majesty.” Ursula ran a finger along his neck.

The king groaned with impatience. “You are a seductress, Lady Ursula!” He kissed her fervently. “You have inspired me.” He moved his own solid arms around her and kissed her again.

Henry decided it was a good idea to have frivolous, passionate intimacy with Ursula for the rest of the night. It was better than thinking about Anne Boleyn. Anne Boleyn was dead; she had paid for her crimes and was in hell. He would no longer let Anne to disturb him, Henry swore.

CHAPTER 9

July 1537, Royal Palace of Madrid, Madrid, Spain

It was night, and the darkness was great; the emperor’s chamber was suffused with the golden light from the burning candles.

The son of Philip the Handsome, the Duke of Burgundy, and Joanna the Mad, the daughter of Isabella and Ferdinand, Spain’s redoubtable Catholic monarchs, Holy Roman Emperor Charles V was spending time in his private chambers, with the collection of maps of Europe tacked up on the walls.

Most of the maps were written over with what looked like routes or directions. The territories of the Duchy of Savoy, the Duchy of Milan, and the lands of Piedmont were encircled in bold black type. On top of the desk, there were many books about war. On the other side of the desk, there was a large statue of his patron saint - St. Charles. Two large Spanish crosses hung between the maps on the walls.

The emperor was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn’t hear Francisco de los Cobos enter the room. The emperor allowed Francisco to be named leader of the Council of State after the fall of Chancellor Mercurino Gattinara in 1528. Since then, Cobos had become the emperor’s constant companion and his right hand in politics.

Francisco de los Cobos bowed to the emperor. “Your Imperial Majesty, I beg my pardon for intruding. I knocked at the door several times, but you didn’t answer.”

Emperor Charles V turned to face Cobos. He was quite a young, relatively handsome man. The features of his face were neither soft nor stern. His appearance showed the quiet authority convictions. The most remarkable feature in his appearance was a protruding lower jaw, a typical Habsburg characteristic. His face was thin and pale, which was redeemed by a fine open brow and the bright speaking hazel eyes. His athletic body was covered by an austere black brocade doublet that was tight and high collared, coming to a point in the front, with the full-length sleeves padded with dark brown cotton. His black trunk hose were knee length and padded with black cotton. Worn above the doublet in accordance with Spanish fashion, the wheel-shaped stiff collar made the emperor’s head appear detached from the rest of the body. The sword belt passed between two panes of the trunk hose in front and behind. The black velvet cap was placed on the emperor’s short golden-brown hair.

Charles had been an heir to the fabulous land possessions since his birth. Through his father, he succeeded to his Netherland possessions and the Duchy of Burgundy. In 1518, Charles was formally recognized as the King of Spain, conjointly with his mother, firstly in Castile and then in Aragon. When he was aged nineteen, in 1519, he added the crown of the Holy Roman Empire to his glittering regalia. Strictly speaking, he purchased it, backed by the great banking dynasty, the Fuggers, to outbid his two powerful contemporaries – King Henry VIII of England and King François I of France. Even in his austere clothing, he embodied power and authority.

“You don’t need to apologize, Francisco. I didn’t hear because I was thinking.”

“I suppose you were thinking about the Italian war,” Cobos suggested.

The emperor glanced down at the map. “Yes.” His hand was on the region of Piedmont. “King François captured Piedmont, but I will make him leave the area. It should be mine.”

Cobos sighed as he saw the angry eyes of the emperor. The hatred between King François and Emperor Charles was very deep and irredeemable. “We must be very cautious, Your Imperial Majesty.”

Charles stared at his companion, his eyes aflame with anger. “Do you have any new information from Venice? Who saved François? Whom has he married? Who was the woman who interfered in my plans?”

“My people checked everything, but it seems that King François is keeping everything a strict secret. Even in Venice, people can only guess who the woman-savior was.”

The emperor stood up from his armchair. “That bastard François annulled his marriage to my sister Eleanor! He married this unknown woman from Venice in fewer than two months after an annulment! Unfortunately, Eleanor fell in love with François, but he didn’t appreciate it. He hurt her in France when he slept with his maîtresse en titre instead of his wife. He publicly ignored her.” His voice took a higher octave. His gaze sharpened. “I will never forgive François because he humiliated my sister.”

Since he had received the news about the annulment of Eleanor’s marriage, Emperor Charles was always angry, but visibly calm and tongue-tied. Only the men from his closest entourage were the recipients of his wrath. The emperor didn’t expect such boldness from François. When Eleanor arrived in Madrid, he questioned her about what happened in such a rude voice that his sister began crying right in front of her brother. When it became known that François had married in Venice, the emperor was furious and showed his temper at his courtiers and ministers.

“I understand you, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“François dared to humiliate us, the Habsburgs! And he is not even the pure Valois! He is from the Valois-Orléans-Angoulême noble house!” the emperor cried out in anger.

“Of course, Your Imperial Majesty has more noble roots,” Cobos flattered him.

“François became the king by a twist of fate. At first, he wasn’t expected to inherit the throne. He became the heir presumptive only because his third cousin, King Charles VIII of France, died young and childless and because King Louis XII didn’t have surviving sons,” Charles finished his angry tirade. “François is just the son of Charles d’Orléans, Count d’Angoulême! He isn’t the king’s son! He is the son of a mere count with some royal blood in his veins! He is only
François I the Fortunate!
He is just parvenu!” the emperor bellowed in an outburst of rage. “He is parvenu!” he repeated.

The emperor called the French King François I the Fortunate by way of analogy to King Philippe VI the Fortunate who was the first cousin of the last direct Capetian King of France – King Charles IV died without a son, which resulted in the beginning of a new dynasty, the House of Valois.

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” Cobos sweetened up.

Charles began pacing the room back and forth. Then he suddenly stopped and stared at the wall. “My stupid sister was unable even to sleep with François. He never consummated their marriage, and she allowed him to avoid marital duties, entertaining with his mistresses instead of his wife.” He turned his gaze to Cobos.

“How is Her Highness Infanta Eleanor?” Cobos asked, trying to press back the revival of the emperor’s anger.

The emperor’s lips twitched sarcastically. “As always, my dear sister Eleanor spends her time with sewing and needlework in her chambers.”

“How does Her Highness feel emotionally?”

Charles emitted a heavy sigh. “Francisco, how can a woman feel after she was thrown away from France like a piece of dirt? She had been the Queen of France for several years, and then her marriage was unexpectedly declared null and void.” There was a hint of bitterness in his tone. He truly loved his sister and was concerned with her fragile emotional state. “As Eleanor learnt that François had married again after getting an annulment, she was very depressed, although she tried not to show her true feelings to me.”

“Her Highness is a strong woman.”

“Yes, she is,” Charles replied. “Anyway, Eleanor is heartbroken, offended, and abandoned.”

“I am sorry, Your Imperial Majesty,” Cobos apologized.

The emperor smiled. “It is fine, Francisco. You are my friend. Whom can I trust if I cannot trust you?”

“Thank you, Your Imperial Majesty.” Cobos managed a smile. “I hope Her Highness will get over it soon.”

“Eleanor is Habsburg by blood. She will survive,” the emperor said, pride evident in his voice.

Francisco de los Cobos sighed before he spoke. “Your Imperial Majesty, many rumors are circulating at various European courts and among the common people that you tried to assassinate King François.”

Charles looked at him then, his forehead furrowed. “People will think that these rumors are ridiculous. The man we hired didn’t confess. Thus, the common people will assume that he was a nationalist who hated François because he invaded Italy and Savoy.” He again felt his anger flare. “It is a great pity that our man failed,” he hissed.

“Our spies confirmed that the man hasn’t confessed the truth,” Cobos confirmed. “As he was executed, Your Imperial Majesty is in no danger.”

“No more attempts on François’ life may be made,” the emperor said. “Further attempts would be dangerous and suspicious.”

Cobos nodded. “We should wait, like a hunter tracking down its prey,” he jeered.

Charles shook his head. “Francisco, we won’t try again. Now we must simply defeat France in the war and capture François and his wife. They must become my captives,” he said sternly. “François will pay me back. I should have killed him when we captured him at Pavia. His new wife will also pay me back, whoever she is.”

August 1537, Venice, the Republic of Venice

The negotiations between France and the Republic of Venice were temporarily put on hold until the French envoys came from the Ottoman Empire. As a result, François and Anne had more time to spend together.

François continued living at the Palazzo Montreuil, and the official explanation was that he had simply moved to the house of his father’s old friend, Count Jean de Montreuil, who resided in Venice after he had stepped down from his diplomatic post as the French ambassador to Venice.

At the same time, many rumors began spreading on the Italian Peninsula that King François had married the woman who had saved him in the cathedral. François made only one public announcement that the king had chosen as his bride, 
le Sauveur du Roi-Chevalier 
or
 the Savior
of the Knight-King
.

François gave no details about his secret wedding even to the French courtiers who accompanied him to Venice. While all the facts of the queen’s biography were unknown, the announcement stressed an important thing – the mysterious Queen of France was the king’s savior. François planned to cultivate the image of a queen-savior.

In Europe, many people were astounded that the King of France had stepped into a new matrimony so quickly after an annulment of his marriage to Eleanor, the emperor’s elder sister. The Spanish were infuriated and condemned François’ actions, the French were astounded and intrigued, while the English were simply intrigued.

Expressing his disapproval, the emperor publicly said that King François had always been an immoral and dishonest man, with fastidious and unlimited interest in ladies whom he had in his bed as many as doublets, hats, and shoes in his wardrobe. The emperor’s speech swiftly spread across Europe; François only laughed at his rival’s waspish mockery. All the people wondered whom the king had married for the third time, making wagers on the true identity of the mysterious French queen.

While a Franco-Venetian alliance was temporary put on hold, the King of France was again planning new alliances. One of them was the revival of the old alliance with Scotland –
the Auld Alliance
. Scotland and France had been friends throughout many centuries. Their friendship had been officially ratified and supported by many treaties of alliance, marriage contracts between the royal houses of France and Scotland, privileges and exemptions in favor of Scottish merchants, and several other things.

As his predecessors had done, François wanted to renew a Franco-Scottish alliance to strengthen France’s old diplomatic and political connections with Scotland. Given that François considered King Henry his enemy, the renewal of an alliance with Scotland was very important for François himself. Moreover, Scotland was eager to deepen friendly relations with France, although the appearance of the Protestantism there threatened the alliance as Protestant lords favored more the links with England than those with France. Solid relations between France and Scotland allowed François to have a certain control over England as its northern border was with Scotland.

François stared at Anne and then at Cardinal de Tournon. Each of them sat in large embroidered chairs near the window. “We need to renew our old alliance with Scotland.”

At the thought of Scotland his heart became black as death as he remembered the death of his daughter. He felt the same pain and helplessness he’d had then when his favorite child, Princess Madeleine, contracted tuberculosis by her sixteenth birthday. When, in 1536, King James V asked him for Madeleine’s hand in marriage, François initially refused the match citing his daughter’s illness and the harsh climate of Scotland. François feared that life in Scotland would prove fatal to his daughter’s already failing health.

Yet, Madeleine and James fell in love and she begged François to approve the match. Despite his warnings and his nagging fears, François finally gave in and reluctantly agreed. As the newly wedded couple arrived in Scotland, Madeleine was already gravely ill. She died soon afterwards in her husband’s arms, in the king’s residence in Edinburgh.

Cardinal François de Tournon nodded. “Your Majesty, it is a brilliant idea.”

“Are you planning to achieve it through a marriage contract?” Anne questioned.

François smiled at her. “It is the first thing on my mind.”

“France doesn’t have a princess of the suitable age for King James,” Tournon noted.

François was silent for a moment as his mind again reproduced Madeleine’s face. Then he finally spoke. “We can offer not a princess, but a daughter of a high-ranked nobleman.”

“Whom does Your Majesty propose?” Tournon asked.

«Marie de Guise, Duchess de Longueville. She was recently widowed,” François answered.

Cardinal de Tournon wasn’t sure that it was the best bride for King James. “The Guises are a powerful and wealthy noble house. However, will it be enough for the King of Scotland?”

François tipped his head to the side. “King James urgently needs to have a wife. He wants a French wife and is interested in a solid alliance with France.” His eyes flew to Anne. “Anne, what do you think?”

Anne had grown accustomed to François asking her opinion right in front of his entrusted courtiers. “I think that it is more a question of dowry. If dowry is as large as if Madame Mary were a princess, King James would eagerly agree to this match.”