Balinghem, June 1520
“I still don’t see why you can’t just persuade Francis to let Mary marry François instead of Henri,” Henry grumbles, watching his sister shift her fifteen-month-old son in her arms, “Don’t you want to see your niece become a Queen?”
“Henry, we’ve been over this,” Marie sighs, “You can’t expect Francis to lose out on the chance to annex Brittany to France, which he will the moment he breaks François’s betrothal to Renee. Mary is a beautiful Princess, brother, but she can’t compete with Renee as an heiress, not when everyone knows that she will be superseded in the Succession as soon as she has a baby brother.”
“If she ever does.”
There is a sour note in Henry’s voice and Marie glances up from where she is trying to set Henri in his cradle for a late-morning nap to look at him.
“The boys will come, Henry. Mary has broken your curse and now her brothers will follow.”
“They’re being damn shy about it. And Katherine hasn’t fallen with child since her last stillbirth. That was almost two years ago. She’ll be thirty-five in December. I wouldn’t be surprised if she told me her courses have stopped one of these days.”
The bleak finality with which Henry says this stops Marie in her tracks. She stares at her brother wordlessly.
Sensing his mother’s distraction, Henri redoubles his efforts to free himself from her arms, roaring his displeasure at being told he needs a nap.
Hearing the screams, Henry turns from the window of the wooden palace they are currently staying in and plucks the toddler from her arms. He bounces his namesake in his hold until the furious screams have turned to giggles and then sets him gently on the floor.
Contented by getting his own way, Henri toddles off to play with a wooden horse.
Recovering herself, Marie raises her eyebrows, “Lady Parr is really going to thank you for that.”
“He’s a Tudor. You can see that as soon as look at him. She should know better than to stand in the way of his desires,” Henry shrugs, before a shadow crosses his face, “I’ll never have a boy like him.”
“Of course you will!” Marie has never been able to stand seeing her brother morose. As she did throughout their childhood, she springs to cheer him.
“Not with Katherine as my wife, I won’t.”
“If that’s really the way you feel, then set her aside.”
The words are out before Marie can stop them. Her heart aches with guilt for Katherine as soon as she realises what she’s said, but her brother is looking at her with such a sudden leap of hope in his face that she can’t take them back. She slips her arm through his.
“Sign the alliance, brother. Sign the alliance and help Francis secure his hold on Milan. And when we’ve made sure of Milan for little Henri and your Mary, when we’ve made them a Duke and Duchess twice over, why, then Francis and I will stand at your side as you fight for your annulment.”
Henry looks at Henri for a moment, taking in his coppery hair, his ruddy cheeks, his sturdy limbs. A flash of pure longing passes over his face.
“Do I have your word, Mary?” he whispers, not taking his eyes off the rambunctious little boy.
“You do,” she returns, just as softly, letting his use of her English name go without a murmur. This moment is too important for that.
A heartbeat passes. Two. Then slowly, oh-so-slowly, Henry nods.
Marie squeezes his arm and they stand in silence, watching absently as Lady Parr suddenly realises her youngest charge isn’t in bed as he should be. Within moments, the nursery is filled with screams and scoldings again as she chivvies the fifteen-month-old Duke of Orleans down from the window seat he is trying to climb into and towards his cradle.