On 28 October 1533, 14-year-old Catherine de’ Medici, married my son, the future King Henry II of France. The wedding it self was a beautiful affair.

Pope Clement held the wedding banquet for the newlyweds, and then after a masked ball was held afterwards. Though everyone knew the real fun would begin when the newlyweds finally retired.

Until then, people were just enjoying themselves. Dancing, drinking, and occasionally, someone would belt out a song. I stood there amongst some of the Lords and Ladies, discussing how some of them are lacking the evidence of their unions.

“Any man who’s not beating down his wife’s boudoir until she is with child, can hardly be called a man at all.” I can’t help but chuckle amongst them, as I take another drink of my wine from my goblet.

“Oh I can assure you,” One of the ladies chimes in with a knowing grin, “That a man could be doing his duty most vigorously, and still produce nothing for his efforts.” She raises her eyebrows, her smile only growing in amusement as the other ladies begin to giggle, hiding their smiles and blushing cheeks with their fans.

Some of the Lords take the women’s words as a personal blow to their ego but, not me. I have beaten down many boudoirs in my time, and not all of them were my wife’s. It’s why I have so many illegitimate children. I just can’t help myself.

One of the Lords look curiously past me, his head tilting ever so slightly. “Do you think anyone is beating down her boudoir?” He lifts up his goblet, gesturing to us all to look upon you.