Chapter Fourteen

Bologna

Italy

"M ust I deal with every danger?" Charles muttered as he paced toward Bologna's cathedral. "Suleiman marching on Vienna, Florence under siege, and now Luther's heretic poison spreading down from Germany."

"As emperor, you are one of the twin pillars of the Church, together with the pope." Bishop Gabriel walked quickly at his side, his scarlet robe fluttering around his ankles. He was a young man with a keen mind and sharp wit.

Charles had become accustomed to his company and council of late. And as usual, Gabriel was right in what he said. It was Charles's duty to dampen the fire Luther's thesis had created. "The divisions sparked by Luther have dragged my empire into a religious battle I did not want."

"None of us wanted it," Gabriel said. "It is a black mark on Christendom."

"I am not above some reform," Charles went on. "There is a need for the removal of abuses of many types, our own black marks, but this…this is an open and raw wound that will not heal and is in fact worsening as time goes by." He paused and looked up at the cathedral's impressive portico. It was early morning, the sun only just rising and casting an ochre glow on the pillars and brickwork. There were few people around, which meant Charles could take his morning prayer in peace.

Not that he felt peaceful on this morn.

"I am sure God will give you the answer," Gabriel said calmly.

"Mm." Charles entered the cool shadows of the church. As he walked toward the altar, he admired the frescos once again and thought how Isabella would enjoy them.

Isabella. If only she were with him. He was sure he would find a solution to all of his imperial problems if he could hammer out each with her. Their two minds together were much better than one, more than double, for they were so in tune.

His heart squeezed. He missed her. His arms ached at night when he lay in his bed. And still each morning he rolled over, reaching for her, wishing to find her warm, soft body to hold as the birds started their song.

He took a pew, a commoners' pew, and dipped his head.

Gabriel, respectfully, sat just behind him and to the right.

"Heavenly Father," Charles whispered, holding his rosary. "Please give me strength and wisdom." He went quiet, preferring to have his conversation with God in private.

After several minutes, he opened his eyes and stared at an image of Christ on the cross. "I am going to have to make every effort to unify the Church," he said. "And the first thing I will do is convene a meeting of church council, including the pope, to address these evils that have arisen."

"I hope you are successful."

"You don't sound optimistic." He turned and looked at Gabriel.

Gabriel sighed. "I know they think this is a German problem only."

"It is a problem for all of God's good people."

"I agree." Gabriel nodded and pressed his lips together.

"You appear to have more to say." Charles raised his eyebrows.

"I do not wish to speak out of turn."

"I command you to speak. I trust your judgment."

"I thank you, Your Majesty." Gabriel dipped his head. "I believe it would be wise to do what you can, rather than what you wish to be able to do at this stage."

Charles frowned, sighed, then turned back to the image of Christ. "If Francis hadn't been such a ludicrous and ineffectual king…if he'd taken this protestant problem in hand when I asked, we would not be where we are now."

"That is in the past, a past we cannot change."

Charles let the words settle. Again, Gabriel was right. He also blamed himself somewhat for spending so much time in Spain and also not keeping a dampener on the protestant fire. "So with that in mind," he said, thinking as he spoke, "and if our wish is not to let these ideas spread from Germany to the Low Countries, I must have council also with my brother, Ferdinand, at the earliest opportunity. He is in Vienna, a strategic place for action."

"A wise move," Gabriel said. "Though may I advise one other thing?"

"Naturally." Charles stood and waved his hand in the air. "Tell me."

Gabriel also rose. "Hold your moves close. The waters are volatile and there is much to lose."

"I agree. I need to take a strong line because the risk to our faith is enormous. I must tread as gently as a kitten though be ready to bite like a lion."

A sudden rush of air blustered into the calm space followed by the interruption of banging footfalls.

Charles reached for the dagger he kept in his belt, gripping the hilt. "Who goes there?"

"Your Majesty." A breathless voice. "Your Majesty, an envoy has just delivered this."

A courtier, dressed in red, cloak flapping, rushed down the altar.

"Give it to me." Charles strode up to him, hand outstretched.

He snatched the scroll from the puffing, young man, who immediately bent over double, dragging in breaths.

"It is from the empress," Charles said, tearing at the seal.

His heart skipped and his stomach roiled. If she'd sealed it personally, then she must have fared well through childbirth. Though there was still news of his child to hear.

His hands were shaking as he uncurled it and his stomach clenched. What would lie within?

Barely able to focus, he read the first few words written in her delicate, looping handwriting.

Most beloved and esteemed husband,

I write to inform you of the birth of our son, Ferdinand. He arrived quickly into the world after the first cold night of winter. He is small but loud and already, Philip and little Maria are quite taken with their brother.

I send my prayers daily that you will soon be returned to us.

Godspeed, my love.

Your devoted wife, Isabella.

"A son!" He grinned at the courtier. "I have another son!"

"Congratulations." Gabriel clasped his hands in prayer. "What a joyous blessing for the empire."

"It is, indeed!" Charles dragged Gabriel into a hug.

Gabriel gasped, evidently a little shocked by the intimate gesture, but then slapped his back. "We have great thanks to give."

"We do indeed." He released Gabriel and threw up his arms. "We will feast and drink wine. I will think no more of imperial problems, for today at least." His heart was thumping wildly and he had the urge to dance and sing and run up and down the church aisle.

But of course he didn't. He was emperor, after all. It was only Isabella who would have witnessed him lose control that way.

And she wasn't here.

Which pained him afresh. If only she were, if only they had not had to be parted. But he simply couldn't move his entire family with him when he went away on business. It wasn't practical, not least when she was with child.

"My wife is proving an able regent, but I must go to her soon," he said. "At the soonest opportunity." He flicked his hand through the air. "With the Ladies' Peace in Cambrai now signed, God bless the Archduchess Margaret of Austria, the French wars have finally concluded."

"And don't forget, you must be crowned by Pope Clement," Gabriel said. "And if I may say so, you can now afford to do it with considerable style."

"Exactly!" He turned to the statue of Christ, bowed low, then turned and walked from the cathedral into the cool, morning air. "It is all the more important I am crowned now that I have another heir to the Holy Roman Empire. Ferdinand. Prince Ferdinand, a fine name for a fine boy."

*

Charles woke in Palazzo Comunale to the sound of distant bells. It was his thirtieth birthday and the day of his coronation.

Finally.

It had taken many negotiations with Pope Clement to reach this point. They'd had to settle the outstanding areas of contention in Italy, which had been no easy task—the pontiff had refused to crown him until this point had been resolved.

Fortunately, their talks had been punctuated with splendid festivities, tournaments, horse races, and bull baiting, all of which were public so Charles could show off his prowess and skills.

Because Charles intended to make the most of his traveling to boost his reputation. He'd ordered wood carvings, pamphlets, and medallions to commemorate his visit to Italy and had now become used to the cries of " Carlo, Carlo, Impero, Impero, Cesare, Cesare" when he traveled through the city. Something he wouldn't have gotten in Rome, as his reputation there was still raw after the bad behavior of his army.

He walked to the window and looked out at the piazza. Triumphal arches full of imperial images—victories, generals, Roman emperors—lined the streets. Already, people were loitering, waiting to see him, to shower him in adoration and coins, fruit, and candies.

He turned when there was a knock at the door. "Enter."

Mercurino de Gattinara, Charles's chancellor, stepped in. Tall, stiff-faced and pale he was already dressed in his finery. "I bid you a good morning."

"And you, my friend. You look very becoming in your gold cloth."

"I thank you." He bowed his head. "Emperor."

"It is quite the jostle out there already."

"The people are excited to see you. It is a day that will go down in history."

"As it should." He lifted the lid from a plate and smeared honey on bread. "Antonio is happy with the preparations?"

"Yes, you are to leave from an open window from this building. From it you will take a newly constructed raised, wooden walkway to the top of the steps at the front of the basilica of San Petrino. That way, you will not be touched by the people, but be seen by many from down below."

Charles nodded and poured milk.

"There is a problem?" Mercurino asked.

"No, not at all, it's…"

"What is missing? Please tell me so I can make it right."

"I am afraid even if I tell you that will not be possible."

"I can try."

"I wish," he said, "that my wife were here. She is empress—she deserves to be part of the ceremony."

"Do you wish us to delay it so she can journey here?"

"No. That is not what I mean." He paused. "I just wish she were here." He pressed his hand to his chest. "She is a part of me, if that makes sense."

"I am happy that you have such love in your life."

"I am indeed blessed. But no, we cannot delay. I have promised my brother, Ferdinand, a visit. These pesky problems in Germany do not go away."

"The good people of Italy have every faith that you will find a solution."

Shortly after the clock had struck eight A.M. , Charles's procession climbed through a second story window and set off on the new planked walkway.

Ahead of him were cupbearers, pages, stewards, chamberlains, military officers, councilors, ministers, and envoys from across Europe. He held his chin high as his plain, black robe swished around him. He was devoid of finery, a symbol of purity arriving before God.

He passed tapestries of golden cloth, and a great ball with an eagle on top swung from a tall building, showering his procession in scent.

Just as they'd reached the entrance to the Basilica, there was a crash and a commotion behind him. He turned. "What is that?"

"A collapse, I believe," the Duke of Savoy said anxiously. He placed his hand protectively over the crown he carried.

"We should help," Charles said, taking a step back.

"No, Your Majesty," the Marquis of Montferrato said, gripping the orb. "I urge you to keep going. The soldiers will attend."

Charles fought his instinct to offer assistance as he heard shouts and another crash. Instead, he allowed himself to be bustled past a row of soldiers with pikes into the cool of the Basilica.

Suddenly, calm surrounded him. He took a deep breath and imagined Isabella at his side.

"You couldn't help back there, my love. You would have caused more harm as people rushed to see you, to touch you, to be blessed by you."

He knew that was what she would say and she'd be right in doing so.

He closed his eyes and pictured her pretty face. Her delicate nose, smiling mouth, and eyes that looked at him as though she could see right into his soul.

A lone trumpet sounded and he followed his procession down the aisle.

Pope Clement, wearing his traditional papal triple tiara, awaited him. He was flanked by purple-robed cardinals and old archbishops who looked on sternly.

For a moment, Charles had a rush of nerves, his stomach flipped, but then he heard Isabella's voice again.

"This is your destiny. This is what God wants for you."

He kept on walking and finally drew up beside the pontiff.

The ceremony began. He was invested with a heavy cloak that dragged on his shoulders despite his broad strength. The crown of Lombardy was placed upon his head and pressed down to keep it as secure as possible. He was given the orb and scepter and then mass was celebrated.

When it was over cannons on the city walls boomed, trumpets and drums played in the piazzas, and he and Pope Clement walked hand in hand down the center of the basilica. Charles felt like he were floating, as though he were somewhere between heaven and Earth. He'd achieved his ultimate goal, to create unity between the Church and his empire. Power was now his without question. What could stop him from achieving all of his religious, political, and imperial aims? Nothing. Nothing could stop him.

Or at least that was what it felt like on this splendid day.