Sitting amongst a room of sewing women, you would have not thought much of the Lady Grey. Frances, the daughter of a Princess and a Duke (even one as reckless as her father) was one of the highest born women in this room. In many ways, she considered herself the Queen’s equal. But in her billowing blue dress – an Italian style to accommodate her enlarged stomach – she did not feel especially royal. Particularly not when her cousin Maggie was dressed in such beautiful silks and spinning around the room with the Lady Elizabeth in her arms.
Of course, there were reasons for her foolishness. After killing another Howard flirtation for her Scottish cousin, the King was once again considering an Italian marriage for his favourite niece. Frances had been left with the dull Lord Grey, but the one Lady Margaret Douglas was apparently suitable for a foreign alliance.
In Italy, which made the sting less severe, but a marriage of importance!
Granted, Frances knew the game was less for the eyes of man Lord Sanseverino had sent from Southern Italy. Maggie was too precious a commodity to marry to some third tier princeling from Southern Italy. But Elizabeth in her arms…she was a prize for a Prince.
The regular contenders for English brides didn’t want her. France had nobody to offer that hadn’t already taken off the table. But the Lady Grey kept her ear to the ground. A certain French Princess, who’s own religion was whispered to be less than Papal, was looking for a bride to match her son. If Maggie didn’t make it to Italy, maybe little Elizabeth might.
It would make things easier for her and her girl. Baby Jane was already spritely, and she had a sinking feeling the baby in her belly wasn’t a son to replace her precious boy. As her mind wandered, her hands automatically rubbed against her. The girl who kicked too hard against her skin. She’s name her Anne, after the Queen. With her own baby on the way, it seemed a safer bet than the original choice of Catherine.
Kitty Howard was clearly itching to join the duo on the dance floor. Her over-embroidered slippers, heavy on roses and pears, tapped impatiently on the ground beneath her feet. The only person who wouldn’t be able to see her fidgeting was the queen, directly above her, starring placidly at the display. Frances watched as her hands made quick, neat stitches down a shirt pattern, barely taking a moment to glance down. She had basically given up on her own shirt – a tangled mess under her swollen hands. But Queen Anne sewed without thinking. It was a marvellous, if overly domestic, skill.
When the music finally stopped, she happily dropped her sewing on the ground and clapped politely. It must have been showing on her face, because out of nowhere, the Lady Mary slotted herself in the same corner and picked up the sewing.
“How are your hands?” she whispered, beginning to unpick the mess.
“Swollen, and red, and unwilling to co-operate. Yours?”
“Nimble and long.”
“You tease!”
The two quickly stifled snorts while Maggie began rounding up the maids to twirl around the floor. Frances nudged her cousin to stand.
“Frances, no.”
“I hear the Queen has asked that German man back for the birth…”
“Yes, and?”
“You need practice dancing. You move like an old woman now.”
Faced with a stern glare, she picked up the hand of the King’s Daughter, and rubbed along the knuckles.
“Get married and let your fingers swell up like mine, dearest Mary.”
In many ways, nobody should have dared speak so brazenly to the King’s eldest daughter. But the truth was, there were very few people who knew this woman with red hair and a temper like Frances did. Maybe Eleanor, but she was back in the country to give birth. Certainly not Maggie, who she thought was very foolish. That Mary was more often in their cousin’s presence didn’t really cross her mind. It felt obvious to her that their relationship was special. Which was why Mary simply squeezed her hand back, placed the sewing on her lap, and joined the merry circle, where little Elizabeth spun with delight while a gaggle of women held hands around her.
---
Henry was especially joyous tonight. The day had felt crisp, rather than cold. His son had apparently gone sledding, and his Elizabeth had impressed the Italians. They also made comments about young Maggie, but there was nothing for that girl in Italy. Knowing her and her hot Scottish blood, she’d only make a fool of herself. He just wanted her off the bloody Howard boy. The second Howard boy!
He understood the allure of the Howards all too well. His current obsession had stayed behind with his Queen for company. It was too sweet that the woman he loved was so kind to the one he had married. Even if that meant a meal without her lovely company. And the meal was delicious. Pheasant and beef and potatoes stewed in some sort of apple glaze. Sweets would come later, built into visions of forests, knights, and maidens in towers. He had ordered a special one of a witch be made for Elizabeth, in honour of her potential betrothal. It had been made with blackberry drops for eyes. It would be like she was eating her own mother.
It was then that Cromwell finally arrived to the court, and his mind focused on something more important than food.
The man who scrambled to his seat was heated, and all around messy. Henry expected this of many men, but not this one. With his hat askew and his double crumpled, he looked like he had woken up very suddenly and rushed to dinner. His son arrived moments later, storming across the hall to sit as far as he could from his father, the nearly minted Earl of Essex. Curious, Henry sent a page to fetch him. He chucked to himself as the man put down the first bite of the night and scurried up to the King’s side.
“Cromwell, old man, what has happened to you?”
It was loud enough to make a scene for the few close by, but intimate enough to prevent the crowd from looking at them with interest. Plenty jovial. But Henry always kept a threat handy. Sloppiness from his best man was a bad look.
“I apologise, your Majesty. I took some time this afternoon to sort family business, and the evening just…ran away from me.”
“Family business, eh? Nothing too serious, I hope! How is the Lady Elizabeth doing with her newest babe?”
“Quite well, I should say. She should return to court and the service of the Queen before Spring.”
“Good, good…so what family business made you look like you’ve come back from war?
Henry gestured a wristless hand across Cromwell’s general direction, and the man pulled his cloak a little tighter to hide the pulled belt and messy sleeves.
“Just a minor disagreement.”
“You’re fighting your son in my court, Cromwell?”
With that, he burst into laughter, and turned to Brandon. His oldest companion, who had not been listening at all due to an interest in a maid across the hall, turned and bellowed his usual merriment. His little wife, the prim Lady Catherine, gave her usual tight smile, before returning to the carrots she’d piled onto her plate. Henry hated carrots. He wondered why she liked them.
“Lord Brandon, have you ever heard Lord Cromwell to fight?”
“I couldn’t imagine him raising his fists to a fly!”
The two laughed again, and Thomas Cromwell couldn’t help but snap back.
“I was fighting in wars through my youth, as a soldier. I wager I’ve seen more battles in my lifetime than our fair Duke here...your Majesty.”
It was Brandon’s turn to growl, but Henry turned from him completely and ignored the slight on his friend’s honour. His fun had been had, and the truth was the truth. Cromwell wasn’t the athlete that he and his friend had been, but a fighter’s spirit comes in many forms. The Duke of Suffolk, thoroughly annoyed at being humiliated by the upstart, went back to leering at the girl across the room, only to see her in the arms of some little lordling half his age. His wife continued at her meal of carrots – now with the addition of a pheasant she hadn’t touched.
“You’re perfectly right, Cromwell. I would be proud to see you on the battlefield.”
“Thank you, your Majesty.”
“So, what have you fought over?”
Cromwell went back to nerves, and Henry realised his Lord Great Chamberlain was actually uncomfortable. Which was strange. Messy was an oddity, but everything seemed to always work out for him. Even the Queen had been a gamble that paid of.
“You see…I am considering remarriage.”
“And your son is jealous? Happens to the best of children!”
His eyes flicked over to his Mary, currently scolding Elizabeth in a whisper for something he assumed was unladylike – although the girl was just sitting there quietly at the moment. His eldest was always playing the mother to her. Henry wondered if she would ever marry.
She deserves a King. No less.
“Yes – no – it’s complicated. The question isn’t if I’ll marry, but who asked for the marriage.”
“Oh? What impudent girl of the court has thrown herself at you?”
“I would rather say in private, your Majesty.”
This clearly wasn’t happening. Getting Henry to rise from his seat during a feast was impossible. Not just because he thought it unbecoming of a King, but because he was getting to an age where it was hard to stand up from the throne, so he liked to do it with less of an audience. This was positively scandalous. Cromwell never let himself act like this.
“We shall set up a meeting tomorrow, then. Return to your seat, Cromwell.”
The King returned to his food – but his eyes kept returning to the Cromwells across the room. Something was going on.
---
Frances was amongst those asked to remain after the Queen asked the rest to enjoy the gardens. The illnesses of pregnancy kept her from the grand feast the King had prepared, and Frances was one of three who joined her at a more intimate meal. She might have been grateful for the respite from the noise of a large dinner, if she hadn’t realised their meal was primarily fish and porridge. It seems the Queen had decided on foods from her childhood.
“Lady Frances…”
The Queen spoke between a spoonful of lentils and cod. The smell was atrocious.
“Yes, your Majesty?”
Kitty Howard, the other attendee, kept her face down but her eyes locked on the two of them.
“I…I would like to be the godmother to your child.”
Well…obviously.
Frances plastered on a smile, and the Queen returned it. But that was clearly not the end.
“I thank you for the honour, your Majesty. I plan to name it Anne, if it is a girl, after yourself.”
Kitty tried not to roll her eyes. Frances stopped herself from kicking her.
“But I have..a favour to ask…of…you.”
“Yes?”
Kitty watched them intensely. Nobody ate the disgusting porridge.
“Mistress Howard will be married s…soon. I would like you to…v…witness the marriage. To vouch for…th..the match.”
“I am quite happy to attend the wedding,” she turned to Kitty, “but why would you need someone to vouch for the marriage?”
“We will need your support.”
Frances Grey, who was so often overlooked, suddenly realised the Queen and her pet were both staring at her. Shaky breaths and nervous hands, she settled her cutlery on the table.
“Does she has the King’s permission?”
“She will.”
--
After the dinner, Anne settled on her chamberpot. It was the only time she ever felt somewhat alone, and recent tensions had made it an integral part of her day. Kitty Howard was a nice girl, although not nearly as sneaky as she assumed she was. The Queen realised they had a common interest in survival - the same one that had led to her current, swelling position. But it was more than that. She needed to protect herself not just from the King's interest in her, but her own ambitions. The marriage to Cromwell would solve it all.
Her stance was simple. The role of the Queen with a household of maids was to marry them off respectably. It was also, in the court of King Henry, to marry them off quickly enough that the King didn't promise them anything. She knew what she was up against here. Should the child be a girl, then she was at risk. Her faith was that God would save her, but she was certain God didn't mind some help in that regard.
Besides, the niece of a Duke marrying an Earl was a fine and natural match.
The others were easier to deal with. Henry clearly didn't care much for the Bassett girl outside of warming his bed, so she'd just allowed that to continue for now. The Queen considered her a fine choice to send away with the Lady Mary when she finally got that young woman off to Bavaria. She had even less competition from the ancient Browne woman. That was clearly an affair of boredom.
But the pretty girls - that was her issue. She had no illusions of faithfulness from her husband. His piety clearly wouldn't extend that far and she was uncaring of that. But two Englishwomen had made it to the throne as his bride. Anne would not allow a third.
So she made sure she was clean and returned to her bed, where Henry hopefully might return in the next few hours, and sleep by her side. She'd requested it, claiming to helped prevent illness during her pregnancy. But it was less obvious than that. If he came to get used to her scent, her feel, her presence - he might be used to her. Anne didn't love him, but she didn't want repulsion. She waited with Kitty asleep nearby. He never came.
Not even for her.
