France couldn't see the problem with it.
To have so many women in his bed, endlessly begging him for more. Marriage is a good thing, an act given God's blessing, so why does England frown upon his marriage? It didn't matter that he couldn't remember some of their names. It didn't matter that as time passed, he stayed forever young and his beautiful, fragile wives withered away into old, haggard shells of what they once were. Women were like the most beautiful flowers: You nurture them, keep them happy, admire with them, hold. Once they begin to grow old the only thing you can do is remove it, replacing the carcass with fresh, silk-petaled roses.
It was not wrong of him to seek another and cast aside those that had fulfilled their duty. They had made him happy, and hearing them cry for him and clutching at his clothes was oh so delicious but he knew, he knew that these flowers would decay, and he would watch as the beauty dissolved into a figure so ugly, so repulsive that he would no longer be able to bear looking at it.
To always be surrounded by nameless roses, each one grown from the death of another, would forever be France's greatest pleasure and greatest burden, one he would carry on his shoulders until the end of time.