This is possibly true. But the efforts would be funny all the same...
The Queen is Dead!: Katherine of Aragon dies in 1518
- Thread starter FalconHonour
- Start date
Glad to be back up to date with this story.
Fired, Beheaded, Beaten, Fired Beheaded, Eaten (by a bear…to make the rhyme stick)
I doubt the psychiatrist will fair better than his otl wives.
Fired, Beheaded, Beaten, Fired Beheaded, Eaten (by a bear…to make the rhyme stick)
Glad you're enjoying it! And I think you're right about the psychiatrists too!
*tour guide voice* And if you look to the left here, you can see Bessie screwing everything up...
Succeed in her scheme or not, there's no way that Henry VIII will take her back OR make Hal his heir. Oh, and the little matter of the odds of getting caught are extremely high.
The Blounts are on the path to losing their heads...
Oh yeah, they most definitely are...
That about sums it up, doesn't it?
To be honest, I don't know what Mark was thinking. And believe me, he'll regret he ever said anything sooner rather than later.
How would Henry react if Anne or George took revenge on his bastard son?
Hopefully when Bessie is executed, Hal can be raised in the Suffolk house hold.
Would a nunnery be able to curb her anger and hate.
Henry’s executes a lot more for a lot less.
Except, of course, at this point in time OTL, it was against the law to execute someone who wasn't of sound mind...
Bessie is more than a bit of a mess. She's actually not of sound mind. Which will definitely be mentioned in a later chapter - that I must actually write, thanks for the reminder...
Section CIV - September 1522
This chapter includes one of the first major piece of handwaving I'm doing for this story. The OCs in this chapter are meant to be related to this man, but I have rewritten his descendants substantially, because it suited me to do so when I first wrote this story about five or six years ago. Yes, I could go back and rewrite it, but that would mean losing one of my favourite OCs, so that's not happening...
It was after one of these trips – his first after Edmund was born – that he brought three red-headed girls back with him. One was a comely maiden about his sister Anne’s age, the other two couldn’t have been more than six and four respectively.
“Kathy, darling,” he greeted her quizzical look with a slight laugh, “These are the little daughters and niece of the Earl of Kildare. He died while I was over in Ireland and our family has been given the wardship of his children. Papa kept his son in Ireland to raise him as befits an Irish gentleman, but we’ve been asked to take care of the girls and arrange good marriages for them when the time comes, especially his niece, Mistress Honour Fitzgerald.”
George waved a careless hand towards the older girl and Kathy put out a hand to her, “How do you do, Mistress Honour? I’m Lady Pembroke. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“The pleasure is mine, Lady Pembroke,” Honour answered, dipping a half-curtsy. George nodded, then raised a hand to Kathy and was gone, off to write up his report on affairs in Ireland to present to the King upon his return to Court, so he missed the latter part of Honour’s speech, “I’m honoured to be in England and to join the train of such a glittering star in the firmament of the English Court.”
“Mistress Honour!” Kathy gasped, blushing. “I’m a Countess, not the King! Save your flowery speeches for one who really matters.”
She had no time to say more, however, for the younger of the two girls seated on the carpet before her burst into noisy, fractious sobs.
“I’m tired! And I’m hungry! Want Da! Da! Want Grainne! Grainne!”
“Oh dear!” Never comfortable with tears at the best of times – if Edmund cried, she invariably had to hand him back to his nurse – and all the more alarmed because she had been caught off guard, Kathy could think of nothing else to do but to pick the child up, balancing her on her knee as she wriggled restlessly.
Unsure what to do to quieten her, but desperate to do so anyhow, Kathy signed for a large tray of sweetmeats to be brought over.
“Help yourself, little one,” she murmured kindly. “You too,” she nodded at the other girls.
The youngest didn’t need telling twice. She grabbed a fistful of sugared fruit and stuffed it all in her mouth at once. By contrast, both her older sister and Honour thanked Kathy politely before nibbling restrainedly at a few cubes of marchpane.
“Thank you, Lady Pembroke. I’m Siobhan.”
“I see. And how old are you, Siobhan? That’s a lovely name, by the way.”
“Thank you. I’m nearly seven. My birthday’s in October, you see. She’s Bridget, and she’s only three.”
“I’m really sorry to hear about your father. How did your mother take his death?” Kathy asked gently, trying not to probe too much, but at the same time, eager to know why she and her husband were responsible for the children now.
Siobhan shook her head, “We don’t have a mother. Ma died last winter. She was always ill really and Da said it was better for her to be in Heaven with the angels.”
“But now you’re all alone in the world,” Kathy whispered, before giving herself a little shake. This wasn’t what the girls needed to hear.
“Well, you’ll just have to make yourselves new lives here in England, won’t you?” she said bracingly, reaching out to curl her free arm around Siobhan’s waist and give her a little squeeze.
“As you say, Lady Pembroke,” Honour broke in, “We’re looking forward to it, aren’t we, cousins?”
Siobhan nodded uncertainly. Bridget, now stickily contented and concentrating hard upon yet another sweetmeat, said nothing at all. Kathy glanced to her maid, hovering in the corner.
“Take Lady Siobhan and Lady Bridget to the nursery to meet Lord Branksome. I’ll come and see how they’re settling in later. I need to speak to Mistress Honour alone, if I'm going to present her to the Queen when we go back to Court.”
“Yes, milady,” the maid nodded. She took Siobhan’s hand and hefted Bridget on to her hip, passing her another sugared flower to keep her from wailing in protest. Kathy kissed the crowns of their heads and then beckoned to Honour to follow her as they all went their separate ways.
Raglan Castle, August 1522
Although Thomas Boleyn was still exiled to Dublin, Henry had begun to soften a little towards him in recent months. Not enough to allow him back to Court, but enough for George to be allowed to visit him and help supervise the running of the Ormonde estates from time to time. After all, as George had pointed out to Henry when he was trying to cajole him into agreeing, it would be good if the people of those estates got to know their future Earl as well as their current one.
It was after one of these trips – his first after Edmund was born – that he brought three red-headed girls back with him. One was a comely maiden about his sister Anne’s age, the other two couldn’t have been more than six and four respectively.
“Kathy, darling,” he greeted her quizzical look with a slight laugh, “These are the little daughters and niece of the Earl of Kildare. He died while I was over in Ireland and our family has been given the wardship of his children. Papa kept his son in Ireland to raise him as befits an Irish gentleman, but we’ve been asked to take care of the girls and arrange good marriages for them when the time comes, especially his niece, Mistress Honour Fitzgerald.”
George waved a careless hand towards the older girl and Kathy put out a hand to her, “How do you do, Mistress Honour? I’m Lady Pembroke. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“The pleasure is mine, Lady Pembroke,” Honour answered, dipping a half-curtsy. George nodded, then raised a hand to Kathy and was gone, off to write up his report on affairs in Ireland to present to the King upon his return to Court, so he missed the latter part of Honour’s speech, “I’m honoured to be in England and to join the train of such a glittering star in the firmament of the English Court.”
“Mistress Honour!” Kathy gasped, blushing. “I’m a Countess, not the King! Save your flowery speeches for one who really matters.”
She had no time to say more, however, for the younger of the two girls seated on the carpet before her burst into noisy, fractious sobs.
“I’m tired! And I’m hungry! Want Da! Da! Want Grainne! Grainne!”
“Oh dear!” Never comfortable with tears at the best of times – if Edmund cried, she invariably had to hand him back to his nurse – and all the more alarmed because she had been caught off guard, Kathy could think of nothing else to do but to pick the child up, balancing her on her knee as she wriggled restlessly.
Unsure what to do to quieten her, but desperate to do so anyhow, Kathy signed for a large tray of sweetmeats to be brought over.
“Help yourself, little one,” she murmured kindly. “You too,” she nodded at the other girls.
The youngest didn’t need telling twice. She grabbed a fistful of sugared fruit and stuffed it all in her mouth at once. By contrast, both her older sister and Honour thanked Kathy politely before nibbling restrainedly at a few cubes of marchpane.
“Thank you, Lady Pembroke. I’m Siobhan.”
“I see. And how old are you, Siobhan? That’s a lovely name, by the way.”
“Thank you. I’m nearly seven. My birthday’s in October, you see. She’s Bridget, and she’s only three.”
“I’m really sorry to hear about your father. How did your mother take his death?” Kathy asked gently, trying not to probe too much, but at the same time, eager to know why she and her husband were responsible for the children now.
Siobhan shook her head, “We don’t have a mother. Ma died last winter. She was always ill really and Da said it was better for her to be in Heaven with the angels.”
“But now you’re all alone in the world,” Kathy whispered, before giving herself a little shake. This wasn’t what the girls needed to hear.
“Well, you’ll just have to make yourselves new lives here in England, won’t you?” she said bracingly, reaching out to curl her free arm around Siobhan’s waist and give her a little squeeze.
“As you say, Lady Pembroke,” Honour broke in, “We’re looking forward to it, aren’t we, cousins?”
Siobhan nodded uncertainly. Bridget, now stickily contented and concentrating hard upon yet another sweetmeat, said nothing at all. Kathy glanced to her maid, hovering in the corner.
“Take Lady Siobhan and Lady Bridget to the nursery to meet Lord Branksome. I’ll come and see how they’re settling in later. I need to speak to Mistress Honour alone, if I'm going to present her to the Queen when we go back to Court.”
“Yes, milady,” the maid nodded. She took Siobhan’s hand and hefted Bridget on to her hip, passing her another sugared flower to keep her from wailing in protest. Kathy kissed the crowns of their heads and then beckoned to Honour to follow her as they all went their separate ways.
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Section CV - September 1522
Eltham, September 1522
Mark glanced up as Bessie came back into the parlour after putting Hal down for the night. To his surprise – and relief – she looked happier than she had done since she had first found out the Queen was pregnant, eight and a half long months ago.
“What is it?”
“Prince William is nowhere near as strong as his brother.”
“How do you know?”
“Firstly, they’re feeding him every two hours. Secondly, they’re swaddling him very tightly, even though we’re having an unseasonably warm September. They clearly don’t want him catching a chill. Thirdly, his room is being washed down every time he’s not in it. It’s not allowed to get even the slightest bit dirty. I think that’s evidence enough, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, but why are you so happy about it?”
“Don’t you see? He’s bound to sicken, no matter how careful they are. If he should catch a chill, no one would be surprised if he died.”
Mark jolted. If Bessie was suggesting what he thought she was, then she was talking treason.
“You can’t! He’s an innocent child!”
“He and his brother have taken my son’s place in the Succession! If the boys are lost, then Henry will have no choice but to name Hal his heir!”
“You’re mad! Bessie, you’re mad!” Mark suddenly found himself on his feet, shouting angrily at his cousin, “It’ll never work! The Queen’s not a year older than you; His Grace is strong. They can easily have more children!”
“No they can’t! They’ve been forbidden from sharing a bed!”
“Only temporarily! And even if that wasn’t true, there’s still the Princess Mary. In lieu of any brothers, she’d be Henry’s heiress. Or failing her, the Brandon boy. Either way, Hal will never take the throne. The King will never name him his heir!”
“Yes, he will. He’d never name his nephew his heir, not ahead of a son of his own blood. He’s too vain for that. And Princess Mary is a girl. He won’t want to risk leaving his throne to her, not so soon after the last civil war. No, I tell you, if we strike now, the throne is Hal’s.”
“Until the next time Queen Mary births a son,” Mark reminded her, “Bessie, this is treason. I want no part in it.”
“Haven’t you been listening? Queen Mary cannot birth children, not now she and Henry are forbidden from sharing a bed.”
“What you’re suggesting is treason! I want no part in it!”
“Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet, you lily-livered coward. This was your idea in the first place!”
“I never dreamed this up!”
“You’re the one who reminded me we have ready access to, and power over, the Princes in the first place!”
“Access to, yes. Power over, perhaps. But not the power of life and death! Bessie, please, think this through!”
“I have. I have everything planned to the minutiae. You can stand with me or against me, Mark, but my plan goes ahead at the earliest opportunity, with or without you. Besides,” she added slyly, “I doubt your precious King would take too kindly to anyone knowing about this plan and closing their eyes to it.”
Mark sat down abruptly as his heart sank into his boots. Being unwilling to denounce his own cousin as a traitor, that had indeed been his plan, to let her hang herself and plead ignorance when questioned. Unfortunately, it appeared he was too far in to back out now.
“What do you want me to do?” he sighed.