Epilogue

July 1539, Château de Fontainebleau, Fontainebleau, France

"You won the battle," announced François de Valois with a broad smile. "The troops of the Lady Mary Tudor were utterly vanquished, and her Catholic followers crushed. Now your son, William Tudor, is the King of England, and you can be his regent until his majority."

"Is that really true?" Anne Boleyn inquired in disbelief, hope spurting in her and giving her words a desperate edge. Slowly, her heartbeat and breath steadied, and she refocused. "Is my son finally a monarch, as he should have been after his father's death?"

The ruler laughed at her. "Yes, la belle Anne. That is the gospel truth."

Being friends, they had long dropped the official protocol in private. In most cases, they spoke French, for Anne's command of this language was superb.

Her abashment faded. "How did that all happen?"

"Let's take a seat," offered the King of France. "I will tell you everything."

King François and Queen Anne settled into two marching armchairs, gilded and adorned with leaves of acanthus. A square walnut table separated the armchairs from each other.

They were in the far-famed François I gallery. The chamber was of great length, decorated with grand figures of goddesses and nymphs carved in oak, and had a fabulous plafond that was painted by the most talented Italian masters. It was the King of France's sacred abode, from which he kept the key with himself and where few courtiers were admitted. Here, in the midst of nymphs in languid poses and paintings of mythological creatures, François often spent time in solitude or with his sister, Queen Marguerite of Navarre, and his long-term maîtresse-en-titre, Anne de Piselleu d'Heilly, away from the gallants, who thronged his gay and chivalrous court.

The monarch narrated the events in order. "The Earl of Wiltshire and the Duke of Norfolk are both competent generals. They decided to give the Catholic enemy forces a decisive battle near the town of Towton. In order to conceal the movements of their armies, their troops marched at night through woods and valleys, by the most remote roads, and out of reach of all the inhabited places." He stilled for a split second to let it sink in. "A month ago, your father and uncle reached their destination at dawn and launched a ferocious attack on the opposing party. From a strategical point of view, their plan was brilliant, the disposition of the forces was excellently contrived, and the very utmost of military skill was used."

She speculated, "King Edward IV defeated the Lancastrian army in the exceptionally bloodthirsty Battle of Towton. That is why my father and uncle chose that town."

"Most likely." Stretching his long legs forward, François continued, "Mary Tudor's armies were caught unawares and, hence, were unable to resist the onslaught. It seems that her commander-in-chief, the Duke of Suffolk, realized that they ran the risk of being ruined without fighting, so he ordered a retreat." He paused for a moment, shaking his head in disbelief. "As if undaunted by the prospect of having her men being wiped out before her eyes, Lady Mary said that they would not decline an engagement and make their last stand."

An unnerved Anne took a fortifying breath. "Mary is Catherine's daughter through and through. 'Everything or nothing' is her philosophy. There are no shades of gray in her world."

"It was a foolish decision on Mary's part," opined the king, his voice laced with amazement. "Suffolk attempted to persuade her to yield or escape. Instead, she appeared before her soldiers, dressed in armor and with a sword in her hands, and enjoined them to fight. Mary ignored that her army was inferior to the rival party in numbers, and that no reinforcements could come to her. Above all, her enemy was advantageously positioned. All the odds were in favor of Mary's adversaries, and her soldiers' disorganized resistance contributed to their own ruin."

Questions spilled out of her like a river in flood. "Were many Englishmen killed? Are some of them still unwilling to accept the elder son of his late Majesty as their rightful sovereign?"

The king informed, "The battle was sanguinary but quick. Mary's troops were decimated: most of her Catholic soldiers, including those in the cover of entrenchments, were killed. Your father and uncle were victorious, with minimal losses, although Norfolk was wounded in the shoulder. Out of five thousand under Mary's banner, less than two hundred survived."

A dawning horror painted Anne's pale countenance. Visions of mortality flickered through her consciousness, whirling faster and faster, absorbing her. Men dropping dead or wounded on all sides, mutilated corpses. A handful of survivors, some with an arm dangling, some with a leg injured by artillery fire or cut by sword – all of them limping and crawling away in an attempt to escape death. Then a funereal hush falling all over the battlefield, everyone as silent as if dumb and mute. A sublime, yet doomed, heroism must have pervaded the air in those moments.

"Christ in Heaven!" Anne cried as she wrung her hands in distress. "Wiltshire and Norfolk slaughtered all those hapless men! They didn't even take prisoners!"

While understanding her shock, he considered their actions correct as a ruler. "They ensured that no one would rebel against your son in the near future."

The queen briefly touched her diamond necklace. "And Lady Mary?" Her voice was as faint as the distant whisper of a breeze.

Sighing sorrowfully, François crossed himself. "Dead."

Anne echoed in a detached voice, "Dead."

He elaborated, "Mary and Suffolk are both dead. Those nobles who supported her – Henry Courtenay, Edward and Thomas Seymour, Geoffrey Pole, Edward Nevill, Nicholas Carew, and others – all perished. Now there are no rival claimants to the throne."

Swinging her gaze back to him, she uttered desolately, "I didn't want her to die. I wanted to defend my children's rights for the throne." She swallowed heavily. "If Mary had succeeded in her quest to wrest the crown from William, to whom it belongs by birthright, she would have started her reign with gruesome bloodshed. I think she would have spared my children, for they are too young, but my family and I would certainly have been sent to the block. After England's reconciliation with Rome, she would have burned many countrymen."

He arched a brow. "What would have happened to your boys once they grew up, Anne?"

She was puzzled by his reaction. "What do you mean, François?"

"Henry's sons, whether legitimate or not, would always have been posed a threat to Mary. Sooner or later, they would have been confined to the Tower. At present, your children are safe, and their fates will be glorious, unlike those of the poor York princes, Edward IV's sons."

"You are right." Anne thanked the Lord that her offspring were no longer in peril.

In a philosophical undertone, François affirmed, "God created His Children unique to fulfill His will for all of us. There is the Lord's will for the world and for the individual, and it is absolute. It is His will that now your son is the undoubted English ruler."

"It is the Lord's will," Anne echoed in the tone of a messiah.

"I'm glad that it is over, Anne. You and your children will be home soon."

With an air of affability and gratefulness about her, Anne stated, "François, I thank you for everything you have done for me, for all your support when England and I needed it."

A smile graced his mouth. "I'm pleased for you and your son, King William. I'm happy for France as well, because now our countries might celebrate real peace at last. With the betrothals of our children, we will seal our alliance and make it unbreakable."

Her expression benevolently serious, she avouched, "I will honor and abide by every agreement we have achieved. We will have double weddings in the future: my daughter, Elizabeth, will marry your son, Charles, while the dauphin's eldest daughter, also Elizabeth, will wed William."

A year ago, Catherine de' Medici, the spouse of Dauphin Henri, had given birth to a healthy daughter. Although the French monarch and the dauphin had hoped for a boy, they had rejoiced that she was not barren, knowing that boys would follow soon. King François hadn't been worried at all, for his first wife, Claude, had produced his two departed daughters before the birth of his eldest son, the late Dauphin François, who had passed away in 1536.

His smile broadened. "We are on the edge of a golden world!"

Her spirits rallied to their wonted cheerfulness. "In both France and England!"

"With God's blessing," murmured the monarch as he stood up.

Bewilderment colored her visage. "Are you leaving me here, François?"

His hand played with the ruby chain that dangled from his neck. "Yes, I am, Anne. Your brother arrived at Fontainebleau three hours ago. I spoke to him before summoning you to my presence. That is why I know all the events which transpired in England in the past several months. I will send a page to your sister's and his quarters; now George must be rested enough to see you."

Anne's brows shot up. "Will you permit George and Mary to come here?"

A breezy laugh spurted from him. "Yes, I will. The three Boleyn siblings will have a grand reunion in the inner sanctuary of the art-loving King of France. Do you not like it, Madame?"

"I do love it, sire!" Her laugh flowed to him like a wisp of warm air touching his face.

After the King of France had left, Anne sat quietly, staring at the sculpture of the God Ares. Perhaps it is Ares who beset England and my family with so many afflictions, she mused. Her mind floated to the days when her husband, King Henry VIII, had been alive. Less than one year had elapsed since his untimely passing, but it seemed to her that it was more than an eternity. The time flew as quickly as a bird, and soon she would finally return to England.

Over a year ago, the cohort of Anne Boleyn's enemies had managed to bring her rather close to demise. The Pilgrimage of Grace had almost burned the north of England to ashes, and it could have deprived Henry of his throne. Contrary to the expectations of Anne, her faction, and others, Henry hadn't disposed of Thomas Cromwell in the aftermath. For some odd reason, the baseborn man had ascended to the vault of his political sky, becoming the Chancellor of England, which had led him to assume that there had been no boundaries to his power.

Anne still remembered the night of vehement passion which she and Henry had spent during François' visit to England. Their last time together; the night when she had realized that the distance between them had been unbridgeable, and that her love for him had perished. She had conceived on that night, as if the Almighty had heard her fervid pleas to give her another son. Distracted by affairs, Henry had shown no considerable interest in his queen's new pregnancy, but he had been overjoyed when his spouse had been delivered of healthy twins – Margaret and Edward Tudor.

Afterwards, the Tudor ruler had completely withdrawn his attention from his wife. Whirling in the merry tarantella of his lustful escapades, he had changed lovers as often as his attire, while keeping Jane Seymour as his maîtresse-en-titre. This ill-omened conduct had aroused ire in his wife, accelerating the evolution of her feelings for him from indifference to disdain – deep, visceral, and everlasting. No longer had Anne been full of those romantic ideas which she had found in chivalry books and in memories of their long and happy courtship.

At that time, the winter of Anne's romance with Henry had ended, but no spring had come. Instead, the disconnected sense of nothingness had permeated her entire being. Then the new sun, bright and eternal, had ascended her firmament, as she had watched her children smile and make small talk with each other while playing with her. Anne's new beginning lay in her most beloved, small, and innocent creatures, like nearly all forms of the most sublime sentiment and the most magnificent art had their beginnings in some humble sources of inspiration.

Henry's departure to war soon after the birth of the twins had been welcomed by Anne. The English and French monarchs together had attacked several cities in the Low Countries in deadly earnest. The Battle of Brussels had seen Emperor Charles in full retreat after his failed frontal offensive on King François, and the French army had advanced. The English had been at his flank, and Henry had proceeded with fierce assaults on Catherine of Aragon's nephew. Charles had fought steadily forward for a few days, driving the retreating army as far away from Brussels as possible, but he had eventually been surrounded and later found dead in his camp.

The triumph over the emperor had been so complete and so unexpected that both François and Henry had been swept by insane joy. After his return to London, Henry had hurled himself into an abyss of sybaritic pleasures and moral degradation. At the same time, Anne had totally engrossed herself in the lives of her children, but she had erred that her position would be safe if she birthed another Tudor prince, and if she ceased meddling in Henry's life and politics. A false sense of security had lulled her senses into a sort of sleepy somnolence.

To get rid of Anne, Cromwell had manufactured the charges of multiple adulteries against her and convinced King Henry of her guilt. The Duke of Suffolk, Cromwell's conspirator, had added fuel to the fire: he had confided in his liege lord that his spouse, who had always hated Anne, had seen the queen kissing with another man. The chief minister and the duke had intended to drag down George Boleyn, Mark Smeaton, Francis Weston, Henry Norris, and William Brereton together with Anne. Somehow, Cromwell had procured Brereton's confession of being Anne's lover, which had made the story of her alleged betrayals credible in Henry's eyes.

Fortunately, the Boleyns' spies had enlightened the queen about her upcoming prosecution. However, the bits of intelligence they had collected had included the information only about the arrests of Anne and George, but not several other men. As a result, the two Boleyn siblings had been able to flee from England in time, while others had been apprehended. As King François had once promised her, Anne and George had been granted asylum at the French court; later, Thomas Boleyn, as well as Mary Stafford and her family, had joined them in exile. Jane Parker and George had been divorced a year earlier, so she remained in England.

"Henry," hissed Anne as a tide of rage surged through her, her fists clenching into balls. "Despite all of your love professions, you didn't trust me at all. You easily believed Cromwell that I had cuckolded you. In his mad rage, you wanted to murder me on trumped-up charges. You resolved to annul our marriage and bastardize our four children, even your two sons." Angry tears splashed from her eyes. "How could you admit a thought that our children are not yours?"

If an avalanche of ruin didn't crush Henry, he would have declared our union null and void and would have married that Seymour whore, Anne mused bitterly. In a month after her arrival in France, she had learned that Smeaton, Weston, Norris, and Brereton had all been executed, although the English folk hadn't believed the ludicrous accusations against the queen and the men unjustly condemned. Soon the black crows had delivered more tidbits: King Henry had fallen from his horse and died, freeing Anne from the chains of his earthly existence.

King Henry had been interred at Westminster Abbey during her absence. Nothing was left of him for Anne Boleyn, except for their children. Mortality takes away all things from man, but not the poem of his feats and chivalry, not the lovely moments imprinted onto memory of those who love the dead. Yet, no jovial musical verse about their doomed romance remained in Anne's life, and nightingales didn't sing a mourning dirge in her departed husband's honor.

Once more, Anne's foes had seized the chance to annihilate her. Supported by the Duke of Suffolk and her mother's Catholic sympathizers, Lady Mary Tudor had repudiated the Act of Succession and the Oath of Supremacy. By doing so, she had declared her father's children by Anne illegitimate and herself the rightful Queen of England. Despite being a Catholic, the Duke of Norfolk hadn't backed Mary's faction, wishing to have a Howard-Boleyn descendant on the throne. Norfolk had taken Anne and Henry's four children – Elizabeth, William, Margaret, and Edward – to France, where they had been reunited with their mother.

The English society had been divided. Many had preferred to have a boy king and England ruled by regent or lord protector rather than see Mary crowned as a queen in her own right. The pragmatic Anne had allied with the French monarch, who had fully financed the recruitment of a sizeable number of mercenaries in the army of the little King William III of England. The Duke of Norfolk had also recruited men from his lands, and more nobles had joined Anne's cause. Fortunately, Mary couldn't have secured the emperor's support as he was dead.

The large armies under the command of the Duke of Norfolk and the Earl of Wiltshire had sailed from Calais. In Wales, they had joined forces with those nobles and gentry who had supported Henry's son in the fight for the throne. To her chagrin, Mary Tudor hadn't had any time to prepare for her coronation, as her adversaries had commenced flocking to her doorstep. Within several months, England had gone through the vicissitudes of the civil war for the crown, as the air had roared with the conflict between Mary and William, represented by his relatives.

After Anne's victory, the stillness in the English realm had come distinctly, almost painfully to her senses. In spite of her loathing for Catherine of Aragon, Anne held a grudging respect to the dead rival for her indomitability, inner strength, and stubbornness. She had never wanted Mary Tudor dead, all of her threats to the girl being meaningless, heated words spoken in the grip of rage when the youth had refused to acknowledge Anne as her father's wife.

With a titanic effort, Anne subjugated her foul mood. A smile of supreme confidence worked its way to her lips, and she told herself, "The sun of the new era is climbing the heavens. It has already purpled the stormy clouds. The morning of my royal life as regent of England for my son is stealing on apace. This beauty is the Lord's doing, and this is marvelous in my eyes."

Her brother's English drawl jerked the queen out of her reverie. "Please, deign to forgive me, Your Majesty. But I hope you are willing to have an audience with your loving relatives."

"If you want me to forgive you, George," commenced Anne as she rose to her feet, "appeal to me immediately. Or I will enjoin you to leave so that I can continue life contemplation."

George Boleyn, Viscount Rochford, strutted across the chamber and stopped beside King Henry's widow. Their sister, Lady Mary Stafford nee Boleyn, approached them as well.

Mary jested, "What is better: to be with us or alone, Anne?" She twirled around. "Maybe you have fallen in love with one of these statues so that you don't need us anymore."

Anne's laugh rang like bells. "Ah, my dearest brother and sister! Women are so eager to fall in love, and it is always like having their throats slit." Her expression morphed into dejection. "Sometimes, you break your heart in the right way, if you know what I mean."

George and Mary bobbed their heads in unison. By the end of their sister's marriage to the English ruler, they had been relieved that Anne had fallen out of love with her husband. Henry had brought misfortune everywhere simply by his great and wicked passions, and for that reason, he had lost his place in Anne's life. There was no place for any man in the queen's future.

"Don't dwell on Henry," chastised George. "It is not worth it, Anne."

"I know," the queen agreed. "Henry is in the past. He cannot destroy my life again."

Mary reminded, "We won the war, and now my nephew is a king."

George emphasized, "You, Anne, will be William's regent in years to come."

A tide of celestial joy swept over Anne, washing her and her siblings to the shore of ecstatic happiness. She threw herself headlong into George's arms, and he clasped her in his hug, as if she were the most precious treasure in the universe. Jolts of sprightly energy pulsating through her, Mary rushed to them and blissfully joined their affectionate embrace.

A giddy madness overcome Anne, George, and Mary, the waters of gladness gurgling inside of them. For a handful of heartbeats, the Boleyn siblings froze in such a collective hug. As they extricated themselves from the embrace, a rich laugh filled the air, effervescent like bubbles.

"Ouch!" Anne flinched as George pulled her into his arms once more.

With a smile, Mary commented, "You two have always been especially close."

Her brother's brows jerked upward. "What, Anne?"

"It is nothing," the queen said, her lips curling in a grin. "You crushed me in your embrace. You could have broken my bones like twigs, my awkward brother."

George rubbed his eyes, as if he were about to burst into tears. "Ah, my queen, I beg you to show me some clemency." Taking a step to her, he covered her hands with gentle kisses. "Who could have prophesied this, dear sister, the last time I saw you in France that I will be so happy upon my return from England? So content that I will nearly strangle you in my arms?"

Anne's silvery laugh coated the air like honey. "You are pardoned, Lord Rochford." Her gaze oscillated between her siblings. "Know that I have always loved you both. I shall allow no harm to come to you during the period of my regency, if it is accepted by Parliament."

With an elegant wave of her hand, Anne invited them to sit down. Unbeknownst to herself, Mary settled in the chair which the French ruler had occupied before. Swooning in a waft of airy gladness, George and Anne almost tumbled into armchairs, laughing at themselves.

Mary was the first one to speak. "As we have nothing to fear, we can go back home."

Anne didn't concur. "It is only superficially true. In my tenure as Henry's queen, there were too many people, who hated our family and me in particular. The whole of England empathized with the plight of Catherine and Mary after the annulment of my husband's first marriage." A pause followed as she sighed. "After Henry's death, many of the Catholic nobility wanted to see Mary as their sovereign. They defamed William as the Little Usurper of Queen Mary's throne and my other children as the devil's spawns. They took weapons and fought for Mary."

"I regard us as winners," George protested fiercely. "I participated in the Second Battle of Towton. The confrontation was stern and lasted for an hour, ending with the utter defeat of the Lady Mary's armies. I sincerely believe in God, and I equally believe that it was God's will for us to triumph so that the eldest legitimate son of King Henry could succeed him."

Mary nodded. "I'm of the same opinion, and think that you have done well in England."

Laced with fear, Anne's wavering voice came as if from somewhere else in the room. "I'm frightened lest something go wrong. I should forget about the danger we all were in mere months ago, when we would have been executed if we hadn't escaped to France. But even after William is crowned, there will still be those who will claim that he is a bastard and, hence, is unfit to rule. As a matter of fact, there will always be those who will try to unseat him."

George was unruffled. "That is true, so we shall be careful and vigilant. The wheel of fortune turned in our favor, and we will use this to our advantage." His voice took on a higher octave. "After the shocking accusations against us and the unfair condemnation of several men, except for Brereton, the Tudor monarchy lost much of its prestige in England. The king's actions are seen as blasphemous, for almost no one has ever believed that we are guilty."

Anne's countenance evolved from melancholy into deep meditation. "It is clear to every sane person that we have all been falsely accused of such abominable things. No queen would betray her royal husband, if she has two sons by him!" She flung her hands up in frustration. "The people's faith in the magnanimity and fairness of the late Majesty was shaken by Henry's brutal and illogical actions. But this doesn't mean that they started loving me."

"People's love is fickle," Mary put in, nodding at her sister.

George contradicted, "Anne, you will be surprised that the commoners called for Cromwell's blood when the charges against you became known to the public. The people don't love you, but it seems that they reassessed the king's personality. At present, they blame Henry for the woes of England and even for Catherine's torments more than you. I know for sure that they sympathize with you and are grateful to you for giving England two healthy princes."

Mary emphasized, "Anne, you birthed the late Majesty's two healthy sons. This proves that the monarch's decision to abandon Catherine and marry you was the right thing to do."

"Exactly," George uttered, crossing his arms over his chest. "Most of the populace accepted that the king's first marriage was unlawful and incestuous."

Anne made an inarticulate sound under her breath. "It is good for us, then."

Her brother further put the queen's mind at ease. "As for Cromwell and his cronies, their heads must already be on the spikes in the Tower. At the time of my departure to France, the city of London was secured by our forces. Parliament proclaimed William Tudor the King of England, which was met by exuberant cheers throughout the country." His scrutiny focused on Anne's eyes, he apprised, "The Duke of Norfolk presided over the jury of peers which acquitted you, me, and others of all the charges leveled against us by Cromwell."

Mary effused, "Thanks be to the Lord! The justice has finally prevailed!"

"And Jane Seymour?" Anne's eyes were slitted like a snarling cat's.

George's mouth twisted in disgust. "The Seymour strumpet has long crossed the bounds of modesty. On the first day of our arrival at Whitehall, our father and uncle expelled Jane and her sisters, Elizabeth and Dorothy, from court. They were prohibited from ever returning on pain of death. The surviving Seymours were also stripped of all their titles and lands."

The queen raised her chin in triumph. "I'm completely satisfied, then. All my enemies and rivals are dead or ejected. Now we can return and continue our work in making England a wealthy, powerful, and independent nation that is not subservient to the pope."

There was more good news George itched to share. "Anne, I'm pleased to say that father and uncle think you should become regent and rule for your son with their sound advice."

Anne gaped at him. "I'm surprised, but glad that I will not have collisions with them."

Mary had similar feelings. "That is unexpected."

George coughed briefly. "Anyway, they two want to hold the reins of power in their hands."

Anne's declaration moved the discourse to the closure. "They will not dominate the realm as long as I'm a regent." The granite firmness of her voice astounding, she affirmed, "I am not a simple king's widow. His late Majesty, God bless his soul, placed St Edward's crown upon my head with his own hands, and those who attended my coronation must remember it. This is the evidence of my fitness to rule and sets me higher than any noble, clerk, servant, bishop, or legate. I answer only to God as an anointed queen – nobody and no law can contravene it."

A smile blossomed on George's features. "We shall assist you, sister."

An exhilarated laugh erupted from Mary. "Three Boleyns are against the world!"

They all broke into ebullient laughter that reverberated through the length of the gallery.

Leaping to her feet, Queen Anne ambled to the window, where the sun shone brightly in the cloudless, azure sky. Her expression tinged with a staunch faith in her sacred mission, she vowed, "As long as I live and breathe, I will hold and protect the kingdom for William. For Henry's William and for his other children. No one shall dispute William's right to rule, and if someone dares do it, they shall fall by my sword. William will preside over the Golden Age of England."

The future, uncertain and glorious, stretched in front of Anne in an endless sea of possibilities, like a great unmapped wilderness. Nonetheless, her head had never been so clear, her heart so full of faith in providence, and her resolve so steely, as they were at this stage of her life. The perilous days she had spent in her murky marriage to Henry and in her short exile trained and disciplined her heart, heightened her endurance, and strengthened her will. She was blessed by the Lord who had rewarded her with the recent victory, and the Creator would be with her during her life on earth.

Queen Anne murmured, "God is with my children and me." Her conviction that she was doing the right thing was stronger than ever, as she made the sign of a cross. "I shall not fail."

I hope that you, my dear readers, like the epilogue to Hollow Love.

Now Anne is free of King Henry, and, although we don't know what her future will be like, we can assume that she will successfully rule as her son's regent for many years. Everything else is left to readers' imaginations.

At present, you understand why I needed to introduce King François in this story. The God Ares is the Greek god of war.

I took some historical liberties. Catherine de' Medici had her first child – the future François II, King of France – in 1544. In the epilogue, she birthed a daughter, Elizabeth, in 1537, who in history was born in 1545.