Westminster Palace, England. 17th of June, 1534.
Henry moved the letter away from his face, feeling as a flush rose in his neck, the anger boiling his blood. Before he could start screaming or cursing, John and Pierre laughed by his feet, deep into their game of marbles. Bessie was with her dolls close to her mother, brushing out their long hair while Nora and Maggie babbled with their own toys, French hoods hiding their auburn Tudor hair.
The children. He had to think of the children. Henry took a deep breath and closed his eyes, willing himself to calm down. What would his children think if he started cursing at his older sister, who had a son but didn’t even think to name him after her father? Or to ask him to be godfather? It hurt to think about his eldest grandchild being called Francoys, as she and the Breton duke had called the infant, to think about the first heir to his blood being anything other than a Henri. Being a Francoys Valois instead of Henry Tudor.
If his first boy had lived, Henry wouldn’t have to worry about such a thing. He allowed himself to ponder about the heir everyone called The New Year’s Prince, little Henry. He would've been twenty-three that year, had he lived. Married already, with his own children.
Henry looked at John, playing on the floor with his half-brother. They knew each other for hours only and yet, they already played like old friends.
If his older brother had lived, John would be the Duke of York. He wondered whether that life would suit him, away from politics. The eternal spare, waiting for his older brother to die so he could inherit.
He shook the idea off as quickly as it came. John had a good heart, a good head. He'd be a good king and that was his destiny. He was the son Henry waited for nearly fourteen years, the male heir Catherine promised on their first night together. When they lost their first baby, the little daughter that never took a breath. She promised him just as he promised her, "We will have another."
He thought about another piece of news. Another broken betrothal. Margherita Sforza was now to be Countess Palatine of the Rhine instead of Queen of England, as if the son of an elector was any better than the son of a king. The Emperor thought to suggest his niece Christina as a bride to John, as if he didn't know the girl was once thought to become Queen of Scotland, as if his son was less than his nephew. Or to offer to smooth things over with the King of Portugal so that Manuela of Portugal or her sister Margarida could marry John.
Who did they think he was? A fool, to be played with amongst themselves? Henry could practically imagine them laughing themselves sick, tricking him like he was a cat and they were cruel children holding a string. He was a king, just as them! His son deserved just as much, if not more. He deserved a king's daughter.
Thomas Cromwell was still in Edinburgh, haggling over Nora's betrothal to the Duke of Rothesay, but Henry decided he’d send orders to him, so he’d travel to the court of the King of France instead. Francis had a daughter born in the same year as John, Marguerite, by his first marriage. A double bond with the Valois would be suitable, even if he knew that Catherine would hate to see both of her darling children tied to the enemies of her family.
But Catherine was dead and Henry was king. He’d do whatever was needed to protect his family and his own dignity. If another French queen named Marguerite was the answer, then so be it.