Coldharbour, April 1530
“I wish you’d come to Baynard’s Castle with us,” Henry sighs, winding his fingers through Diane’s hair as he speaks. Her long locks are beginning to fade slightly as she enters her fourth decade of life, but they are still as luxurious as ever. He still loves playing with them.
Diane scoffs fondly and shakes her head, “You know I can’t. Mary is Katherine’s only daughter. It wouldn’t be right for me to rob her of the chance to play your hostess for this and to see Mary married. Particularly not in her own home.”
“You could if you were my Queen!” The thought strikes Henry like the proverbial thunderclap and he sits up abruptly, inadvertently pulling Diane with him, for his hand is still tangled in her hair. Blind to her choked gasp of pain, he whips his head round to face her, fixing her with an imploring gaze.
“Marry me. No one would ever question your place at my side again. Our sons could be legitimate. Ned could be Prince of Wales! Please, darling. All you have to do is say yes.”
Diane stares at Henry in shock, thanking God for the tears of pain in her eyes. Blinking them back buys her time to think. Where has this come from? She’d assumed they were happy with their quasi-domestic arrangement.
Oh, she’s always known that Henry will want to marry again at some point. He needs a Prince of Wales, after all. But she’s never once dreamed that he will want to marry
her. That he might seek to change the dynamic that has served them well for so many years so drastically.
Faced with the direct question, however, she suddenly knows, deep inside herself, that she doesn’t want to marry Henry.
Oh, it’s not a question of not
loving him enough. She loves him, there’s no doubt of that. She loves him deeply and fiercely in a way she’s never known herself love anyone. Not her parents, not her children, and certainly not Louis, poor man. She’d tear the world down, if that’s what it took, to maintain her place at Henry’s side.
Yet, for all that, she doesn’t want to marry him. What it boils down to, really, is that she doesn’t want the pressure of the Crown. Not for herself and not for her children. She wants to raise her family as Fitzroys, as children who can be loved for their own sake, free of the duty and honour and
burden of having to take the throne after Henry. The very thought of not being able to do that scares her, scares her so much she thinks she might be sick. She has to swallow convulsively several times before she can speak.
“I can’t. Henry,
mon amour, I am so very flattered that you should even think to ask, but I can’t marry you.”
“Why not?” Henry looks at her blankly, obviously, blessedly, oblivious to her inward turmoil and Diane reaches out to put a hand on his arm.
“Do I need to list the reasons? I’m a fallen woman, a wife who has been put aside for adultery and abandonment. You’d be the laughing stock of Christendom if you made me your Queen. And then there are the children to be thought of.”
“The children can be legitimised. It worked for John of Gaunt and Katherine Swynford.”
“John of Gaunt had a son by Blanche who was alive and well when he married Katherine. Who John’s third Duchess was made no difference to Bolingbroke’s inheritance, and even then he barred the Beauforts from the throne when he became King. If we married now and my next child was a boy, then there would
always be those who questioned Ned’s fitness to wear the crown after you, even if he was legitimised by the Pope himself. Do you want to have to be one who explains to our darling son why people think his younger brother deserves to be King over him? Because I don’t.”
“But – I – They wouldn’t!” Henry splutters, reddening, and Diane tightens her hands over his to keep him focused.
“They would. They would, Henry, and you know it. In your heart of hearts, you know they would. And I love you and Ned both too much to subject you to that. You deserve to have a Prince of Wales whose legitimacy is spotless, whose birth cannot be questioned.”
“But…But I want to marry you!”
Henry’s lower lip juts out fiercely, and, despite the gravity of the situation, Diane has to fight back a laugh. She can’t help it. Henry just looks
so like four-year-old Peggy when she is begging for something that she’s been forbidden.
“I know you do,” she says cajolingly, much like she would to Peggy, “But you can’t. You need to marry someone no one can doubt. Someone untainted by scandal.”
Henry doesn’t speak. He doesn’t make a single sound. He just looks at her, his blue eyes so crestfallen that despite herself, Diane wells with sympathy.
“I’ll choose her for you,” she promises rashly, shifting a hand to his cheek, “I’ll pick you a bride who will bring you a dowry befitting a Queen and who will give you sons you can be proud of. Who will be every inch the heirs you have always wanted. Do you trust me?”
Henry hesitates for several long moments and Diane waits patiently. She can see he is still fighting to come to terms with the idea that he can’t have what he wants, that he can’t make her his Queen. But that’s all right. They’ve got time. They’ve got all the time in the world. She just counts slowly under her breath.
She has made it to fifteen when she sees Henry’s shoulders slump. She pauses and he nods jerkily, exhaling the words she needs him to say on a disappointed breath.
“As you say, my darling. I trust you.”