Between Two Kings (33 page)

Thomas tried to press Marguerite, but she laughed at him and told him that the demand to arrest any poets in the era of the Renaissance and enlightenment were ridiculous. When Thomas made his last attempt, Marguerite reprimanded him for his stubbornness and insistence. She insulted Thomas and stated that he probably hadn’t received good lessons in gallant manners. She laughed and said she had never expected to see the English king’s brother-in-law treating a foreign monarch in such an impolite manner. Then she stopped the meeting and farewelled Thomas politely. Defeated and enraged with his failure, Thomas decided to meet King François and departed to Piedmont. However, he finished his trip in Provence where he met Charles, who told him about the results of his own unsuccessful and annoying journey.

When they returned to London, they expected to hear bells ringing to honor the birth of the Prince of Wales. However, they were met by a silent and gloomy English court. Soon they learned that Prince Richard had been born deaf and dumb. Charles and Thomas were shocked with the news.

King Henry stared at Charles Brandon. “It seems, Charles, that you failed your king.” He raised his voice. “What did you learn throughout the past two months?”

Charles didn’t dare to meet the king’s angry gaze. “Your Majesty, I visited Turin and had a formal audience with Baron Anne de Montmorency, the Marshal of France. I wasn’t permitted to meet King François because the French king has restricted the number of people who can meet him in private. They are afraid of further assassination attempts,” he reported.

Henry furrowed his brows. “What else, Charles?”

“I gave Anne de Montmorency the gifts from Your Majesty.” Charles lowered his gaze.

“Charles, did you go to Venice?” Henry questioned, a scowl marring his features.

Charles nodded numbly. “Yes, I did.”

Henry’s face was grimaced in an evil sneer. “I suppose that you, Charles, didn’t manage to find out the name of the Queen of France.” It sounded like an assertion rather than a question.

Charles raised his eyes to meet the king’s. “I didn’t learn the queen’s name because everything is kept confidential to protect the lives of the King and the Queen of France,” he explained.

“Maybe you should spend more time at your estates, Charles,” King Henry said bluntly, his gaze still on Charles’ face. “You are banished from the court starting from today.”

Charles bowed. “As Your Majesty wishes.”

Henry’s aquamarine eyes flew to Thomas Seymour. “Lord Sudeley, how was your visit to Paris? Did you see Queen Marguerite of Navarre, the regent of France in the absence of our 
brother
 François?” His tone was cold and condemning.

Thomas Seymour looked into the king’s eyes. He was frightened to speak. “Your Majesty, I had an official audience with Queen Marguerite. I told her about England’s claims against the work of the poet Mellin de Saint-Gelais who is patronized by the French monarchs.”

Henry swallowed hard. “What did she answer?”

“Queen Marguerite said that she wasn’t sure this poet wrote the pamphlets. She also said that it is not criminal for the Renaissance poets to write poems in the era of enlightenment, if these poems are not slandering monarchs and sovereigns,” Thomas Seymour replied. “She also said that she couldn’t arrest their best French poet in the absence of her brother.”

King Henry laughed nervously, with an ugly laugh, his face screwed up. As his laugh faded away, his lips thinned and he sighed before he spoke. “It means that our 
brother
 François most likely knows why these damned poets issued these dirty pamphlets that incriminated and disgraced one of my most loyal servants – Master Cromwell. I don’t know why François is doing this, but it seems that he is doing it intentionally.” He stopped talking and sucked in his breath, looking at Thomas. “You, Thomas, were fooled by this whorish Queen Marguerite. She wasn’t busy all the time you waited for an audience with her in Paris. She was simply waiting for instructions from François.”

Thomas Seymour felt his stomach turning in knots of dread. “Your Majesty, I did what I could.”

“What are the French courtiers thinking about the recent events in England? What have you heard, Lord Sudeley?” Henry continued his interrogation.

“The French courtiers are focused on the preparations for the new stage in the Franco-Imperial war. They also are buzzing about King François’ wedding, making wagers who the new Queen of France is. Some courtiers think that she is from the French nobles. Others think that is from the German Protestant states. Some courtiers are sure that she is Italian,” Thomas Seymour reported.

Henry stared at Thomas. “Lord Sudeley, what do the French think about Anne Boleyn’s case?”

It was the most dreadful question for Thomas Seymour. He decided not to tell the king he had been the laughing stock of all Christendom for executing a woman on trumped-up charges in addition to annulling their marriage. He didn’t wish to feel the king’s wrath. “Your Majesty, I don’t know,” a reply followed.

“But the French must think something about the falsehood in the pamphlets,” Henry insisted.

“They are too busy with the stories about the Queen of France and the war with the emperor,” Thomas Seymour said repeating what he had already told the king.

Henry laughed. “I don’t like all these secrets around François’ marriage! I hate all this secrecy over nothing!” he bellowed, sucking in a deep breath. “I thought that you, my loyal servants, would bring to me much interesting news, but you have both failed your missions.” His voice took a higher octave, his eyes piercing Charles and Thomas in turn. “You both are banished from the court. Go away and don’t come back until I pardon you.”

Charles Brandon and Thomas Seymour exchanged alarmed glances. They bowed to the English king.

While Thomas Seymour had left, Charles Brandon paused at the doorway. “Your Majesty, if you ever need me, it will be my pleasure and great honor to serve you,” Suffolk said with a courtly nod, nearly choking on the small lie. He wasn’t pleased with the whole situation because he had done everything to perform his duty to the king. It wasn’t his fault that King François wasn’t ready or didn’t wish to accept him in Piedmont. Although Henry was his best and closest friend, at times the deals of the royal court irritated the Duke of Suffolk beyond measure. It was not difficult to see how swiftly and randomly those around Henry paid the price when he was under pressure. Charles often mused whether he would ever pay for something if he entirely fell out of Henry’s favor.

The king didn’t answer to him so Suffolk turned around and left.

The Duke of Suffolk returned to the large, well-furnished chamber he occupied with his wife Catherine Willoughby, the Duchess of Suffolk and Baroness Willoughby de Eresby in her own right. She was Charles Brandon’s fourth wife who was the legal guardian of the Duke’s third wife Mary Tudor, King Henry’s younger sister. Catherine was the daughter of María de Salinas, a Spanish noblewoman, a confident and a former lady-in-waiting to Queen Catherine.

Like Suffolk’s wife Mary Tudor, Catherine Willoughby was loyal to Queen Catherine and loathed Anne Boleyn and the Boleyn faction. Charles told Catherine that they were leaving for the Westhorpe Hall, a manor house in Westhorpe, Suffolk, which was the Duke of Suffolk’s principal residence in England.

“Why are we leaving the court?” Catherine Willoughby asked. Looking at Charles’ pale and sullen face she understood without any further questions. Her husband had failed in Italy and displeased the king. “King Henry banished us from the court,” she asserted.

Charles Brandon settled in the armchair near the fireplace. He looked at her and laughed aloud. “Yes, Catherine. I was ordered to retire to my estates.”

“The king is angry because you achieved nothing in Italy,” Catherine said shrewdly.

“It is because of the Boleyn whore,” Charles snapped angrily. “She cannot leave Henry and all of us alone even after she’s been executed.”

“There was a terrible mess after the pamphlets and the critical book about Thomas Cromwell were distributed,” she said, approaching her husband and settling in the armchair near him.

“Yes,” Suffolk confirmed, taking her hand in his.

“Charles, do you think that Cromwell will be arrested and tried?”

“Yes,” he echoed his previous answer. “As soon as the king reads the critical book about Cromwell, he will probably sign Cromwell’s arrest warrant.”

Catherine looked into Charles’ eyes. “The king likes Cromwell and will imprison him only if he truly believes that that the whore was innocent.”

“Maybe, maybe,” Suffolk muttered, glancing away.

Catherine clasped her fingers around his wrist, attracting his attention. “Was she really innocent?” At last, she voiced a question she had wanted to ask Charles for a long time. She would never have dared ask that question aloud if someone else was there, knowing that they could only discuss it in the privacy of their quarters where nobody could overhear them.

Charles Brandon’s eyes locked with his wife’s. He was silent for a minute, holding her gaze, his face tense. He hesitated before responding. “I don’t know,” he finally said.

“The only positive thing at the moment is that Cromwell is disgraced,” Catherine said quietly. “Cromwell may be even executed if the king believes that the whore was innocent.”

“You know how I hate Cromwell, and I will be happy to see his head chopped off. Cromwell likes to spill other people’s blood so much that he truly deserves death. However, if the king believes that Anne Boleyn was innocent, the restoration of Princess Mary to the line of succession will be highly unlikely to ever happen.”

Her response was a scornful look. “Anne Boleyn hated Princess Mary and persecuted her. Whether the whore was innocent or not, she deserved what she got after everything she did to Queen Catherine and Princess Mary,” she said in a decisive tone.

Charles wasn’t astonished with her words. His wife’s opinion about Anne Boleyn had always been a low one, and she had never cared for Anne’s children. “Whatever the case, she still has a great influence over King Henry and the lives of the people who destroyed her.”

“Do you think that the king may legitimize his daughter Elizabeth?”

“As well as his son with Anne Boleyn,” he remarked reluctantly.

“But we are not sure that the boy born at the Tower is the king’s son,” she objected.

“Who knows who the real father of Anne’s child is,” Charles Brandon replied, not wishing to talk to his wife about Anne. Catherine didn’t know that Charles had told Henry about Anne’s indecent behavior with men in her chambers, and he wasn’t intending to enlighten her.

“Charles, what do you mean?” Her voice was concerned. “Did you participate in the whore’s downfall? What don’t I know about the matter?”

“Catherine, I don’t want to talk about it,” Charles said grimly, his voice grave. He shuddered at the thought of what would happen to him if the king learned that Anne Boleyn had been innocent. Instead, he forced a smile. “I don’t know how long we will be in exile in the countryside. Anyway, I am happy that we will spend more time with the children,” he said neutrally.

“Of course, Charles.” Catherine cast a suspicious look at him, but said nothing else.

CHAPTER 17

November 1537, Castello di Rivoli, Turin, Piedmont

King François and Queen Anne maintained regular correspondence, and he was always waiting for her letters. He didn’t forget that Anne had miscarried twice in England, and he was very concerned about her health and the health of their child. Their letters to each other were filled with both personal and political things. Anne always wrote that she was alright and felt well, asking François not to worry about her and their child.

Even on paper they discussed poetry and art in just a few paragraphs, and François adored Anne’s devotion to the Italian and the French Renaissance. They also discussed political things, mainly the situation in Italy and the ongoing war with the Emperor. Yet, there was always an aura of tension and bitterness in their letters because they couldn’t avoid discussing their revenge plan and the events in England. François always informed Anne what his spies reported to him and they exchanged suggestions about what should be done next.

In the early morning, the royal page delivered Queen Anne’s latest letter from Venice, and since then King François’ spirit had plummeted. François was particularly moody and temperate that day, and all his generals and all French courtiers who were with the king in Piedmont noticed it. François was taciturn and absent-minded during the meeting with Cardinal François de Tournon, Anne de Montmorency, and Claude d’Annebault. Feeling that he couldn’t focus on the war on that day, he interrupted the meeting and dismissed everybody with a wave of a hand, telling them he would join them later on for the grand banquet.

François wasn’t feeling comfortable because his wife’s last letter had only been about King Henry, the situation in England, and their revenge on him. Anne had asked him how Henry had reacted to the pamphlets and the critical book. She also wrote a large paragraph about Jane Seymour and the deaf and dumb son Prince Richard. She didn’t ask how François was and simply wrote that she hoped he was well.

The King of France counted Henry’s name nine times in the letter. He knew that his wife Anne wanted to know how King Henry and Queen Jane Seymour lived and how Henry had been treating Jane in the aftermath of her failure to give him a healthy son. François was furious because he was jealous of Henry. It seemed that despite the distance between Anne and Henry the man was always on her mind and many of her actions were explained by her uncertain feelings for Henry. François knew that Anne hadn’t loved him when he married her, and at first he wasn’t so jealous. Yet, in the past weeks something had changed in him, and he was beside himself with jealousy. He knew Anne was his wife, but he still was jealous. There was something less easily dismissed that had passed between Henry and Anne. Before François married Anne and attached her to himself with her approval, Anne had fiercely loved Henry even if that fire had eventually burnt them both. The fire could still have existed between Henry and Anne even at a distance, and it hurt François to think that Anne still loved Henry.

In the evening, François joined his courtiers at the banquet. The major topic of discussion was that John Calvin had promulgated Protestant doctrines in the Aosta Valley that was rather close to Turin. Anne de Montmorency wasn’t happy with the matter and appealed to François to persecute the heretics in Piedmont. Cardinal de Tournon answered that France had been following the policy of religious tolerance, and Montmorency scowled at the cardinal. François didn’t participate in those discussions, emptying many goblets of wine, cognac, and amaretto, and appearing indifferent to the Catholics and the Protestants.

Displaying their French eccentricity, Montmorency and Annebault involved themselves in the unusual game by competing who would drink more wine and remain sober. Montmorency won while Annebault was so drunk that courtiers had to carry him to his chambers. By the end of the banquet, everybody was drunk, including King François and Cardinal de Tournon who could also be an occasional victim of insobriety.

François didn’t know how it happened, but he and his mistress, Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly, Duchess d’Étampes, ended up in the king’s suite. His chambers were adorned with extraordinary wallpaper, bright exotic birds frolicking amidst colorful flowers. The walnut furniture was gilded and ornamented with embellishments on historical and mythological topics.

A lot of vases, devoid of flowers, were standing on 
cassoni
, the so-called Italian marriage chest. Several matching gilded chairs were upholstered in white and red turquoise. The floor was of white and red marble. As soon as they entered the bedchamber, Anne dismissed all the servants, stating that she and the king wanted to be alone. Knowing who she was for the king, the servants obeyed, leaving François and his lover alone. François and Anne sat on the edge of the bed.

Anne de Pisseleu smiled. “The banquet was great, but I dreamed of being alone with you,
mon amor
.” She took his hand and kissed it, first on the knuckles, then, opening it, on the palm.

François gave up his hand to her, letting her play with his fingers. “It was a strange evening.” A giggle erupted through her throat. “François, you and others drank too much tonight. Besides, you drank wine, cognac, and amaretto, and it is a lethal mixture.” She laughed. “Montmorency and Annebault were funny. Only Philippe de Chabot can outplay Montmorency in drinking.”

“Philippe is in England.”

“When will he return to France?” She thought that she would probably need Chabot soon.

“After the New Year,” François replied. He descended his body on the bed, and Anne put a pillow under his head. “I want to rest.”

Hairpins hit her shoulders, and the mass of blonde hair followed heavily to her shoulders, then down her back. She tossed her blonde curls. “If you want me to leave, it means that you have some immediate plans. That is why you are in such a hurry to have me out.”

François shut his eyes and sighed. His thoughts drifted to Anne Boleyn and Henry Tudor. Wine and cognac in particular only strengthened his jealousy and anger of Anne and Henry.

“I have no other plans,” he whispered.

She smiled at him and began to unfasten her emerald brocade gown on the back. Having much experience in undressing by herself when she met her lovers, she was skillful enough to remove her gown and even a corset without the help of her maid. “François, I want you,” she whispered.

“I am married,” François said, his voice turning into a faint whisper.

Duchess d’Étampes laughed. “It never limited your amorous escapades when you were married to Queen Claude. Your reputation of a libertine originated in your early youth,” she remarked.

“It was a long time ago,” he reminded her, his eyes still shut.

“Your debauchery will never be forgotten,” Anne stated with a laugh. “François, you are such a handsome and brilliant man who has always been beloved by women and well-known for your gallantry, courtesy, and charm. You have always been attracted to beautiful ladies, and they have been eminently attracted to you. Passion is in your blood because you are a Frenchman and, even more so, you are the king. You have always complimented women a great deal, being indulgent and libidinous.”

“Many of these ladies loved me, but I broke their hearts. I was very young and didn’t understand what I did.” His tone was halfhearted. He felt dizzy from all the alcohol he had consumed.

“My king, you cannot live celibate for long. You cannot wait until you see your wife next time.” Although the last time she had been intimate with the French king was in June, it didn’t mean she hadn’t been with other men since then. She’d had many affairs with other men. One of her old lovers was Philippe de Chabot, one of the king’s closest friends.

François felt his head slightly spinning. “I indeed drank too much.”

Anne felt inspired as the king’s intoxication would ease her task at being intimate with him. “I want you so much, my dear François, my majestic king. I want you right now and here. I have been dreaming of being in your arms for ages,” she purred in a velvety voice. She was irritated with the necessity of unlacing her own corset, but she continued undressing. She wanted to sleep with him now that he was drunk because at no other time had he showed any willingness to bed her.

François opened his eyes and looked at her. He was angry and jealous, while Anne de Pisseleu was very insistent, seductive, and passionate. “You have the lewd and incurable soul of a courtesan.”

Anne de Pisseleu gave a luscious smile as she managed to be done with the buttons of her gown. “And now I want you, my François.”

The king lifted himself from a horizontal position and pushed down her gown with his hands. Her bosom was opened almost completely. He didn’t know why he did that, but he wanted her at that moment. “You are one of the best lovers I have ever had.” His body stirred against her, a yearning roiled in him.

“I love you,” Anne murmured and took his lips with hers.

At first, François didn’t respond, but then he again remembered his wife’s obsession with revenge and her last letter. Anger was spiraling in his heart, only to be supplanted by an urgent need to express it at once, and he kissed Anne back with a slow and latent kiss. His tongue reached into her mouth, the movement strong and inciting imprudence. Then the kiss grew more temperate and deeper, and he felt Anne removing his doublet. Not parting their lips, she pulled his doublet from his shoulders and threw it on the floor, then concentrated her hands on the buttons of his taffeta shirt. François looked at his lover, but he saw not the blonde-haired woman with green eyes, but the raven-haired lady with deep blue eyes – Anne Boleyn.

“Anne… Anne…” François whispered his wife’s name, remembering the nights he spent with Anne Boleyn in Venice.

Anne de Pisseleu smiled at him, thinking that he meant her. “My François,” she murmured.

They abruptly stood up from the bed, and her gown dropped to her feet. Anne de Pisseleu was left only in her chemise, and he slid his hands under it to press his palms onto her bare skin. He pulled back for an instant and tore apart her chemise from the hem up to the waist. His hands gripped the cool material in the area of the neckline, lacerating the front of the chemise. She helped him get rid of his shirt. Her chemise gathered on the tops of his forearms as he slid his hands up the curve of her hips all the way up her ribs and to her armpits.

François kissed Anne again, his lips bruising hers. His kisses were desperate as he had an urgent need to take a woman as his possession. His hand encircled her back, his other hand moving into full-palmed possession of a breast. Flushes of warmth were running through him, he wished to plunge into wildness and have primitive satisfaction. They sat back on the edge of the bed, and he drew her fully against him into the crook of his legs. His hands were caressing her body, his mouth on her mouth, their tongues entwined. Briefly brushing his fingers against his abdomen, he started undoing the buttons of his Italian pants. He freed his pants from his hips and then was swiftly and deeply inside her.

«Oh, François! Oh, my François! I love you!” Duchess d’Étampes groaned. “I love your wildness.”

François said nothing, kissing her neck and shoulders. Anne murmured again that she loved him. They began to move, but with fell awkwardly from the bed on the parquet floor. He looked at her slender, bare body, glowing white in the dim light, and the desire for release became overpowering. He was on top of her, moving inside her again and again, and she arched harshly and severely into him with every new thrust.

They were in a limbo of exhausted breathing and concupiscence. She clasped him with her legs and moaned. François expressed all his anger and hurt in his encounter with Anne, moving maniacally and violently, entranced by the force of what was happening to him. As she clawed all her nails into his back, he cried out in pain and cursed in French. His right hand encircled her throat, squeezing it lighter and harder, lighter and harder, while his left hand cupped her head and his lips captured hers.

It was a natural copulating, not a tender exquisite dance of pure love. Anne moaned aloud, scratching his back with her long nails. Soon they began to convulse in their tight embrace, heat and pleasure shooting up their bodies like jolts of lightning, blood rushing down their veins, into their fingers and toes, up to the apex of their bodies.

As François and Anne tried to stand up from the floor, they stumbled into the nearby chair and fell again. As Anne trailed kisses down his chest, François groaned and rolled her body over, invading into her, grabbing her legs and throwing them over his shoulders. Everything began from the beginning again as desire swept through them. Later they somehow managed to get to bed and dispose of his pants and the tatters of her chemise that was again torn apart in an attempt to remove it more quickly.

Absolutely naked, they threw the bedcovers on the floor and found their refuge on the bed. Then everything began to whirl around them. They sank into the world of physical lecherousness, into a spill of pleasant sensations that overfilled them, into dissipated and half immoral endearments that François would have thought a lot about before making such intimate experiments with his wife Anne Boleyn. But his lover for that night was Anne de Pisseleu, not his wife, and he didn’t need to be cautious with her, while his mistress, an experienced courtesan, knew what the king wished and liked in the bed.

François awoke to find himself in his bed with the female body. He and the woman were naked, only their legs were slightly covered with tapestried damask bedcovers. The dawn began to make her features familiar, and it was perhaps the familiarity of his lover’s face that made him feel so unusually frightened. He stared at Anne de Pisseleu who lay near him, naked, one knee up, the other dropped.

The realization crushed upon him that he had slept with his mistress, although he hadn’t wanted to do that. During that night, he was thinking not about Anne de Pisseleu, but about Anne Boleyn. He had drunk too much yesterday, and she had used the chance to spend the night with him. He shouldn’t have spent the night with her, and he cursed himself for that.