Palace of Westminster, England. 15th of February, 1535.
Isabella paced around the room, uncaring about her own health and safety as she twisted her ring around her little finger. She was nervous, practically trembling with anxiety and restlessness. Her heart threatened to slip out from between her ribs, her palms clammy with sweat and Isabella knew that only one thing could calm her: to see John once again and to hold him in her arms.
Her son. Her poor boy. Her poor child. He was now the King of England and France, Lord of Ireland. Fatherless at such a young and precious age, having ascended to the throne at just twelve. Isabella hadn't let the news escape the palace, not until John was told, though she imagined rumours were running wild. Had any of them reached him? Did he know? Was he scared?
He must have been. John was a brave boy, but even he would have been frightened when Lord Dudley arrived with his men in the middle of the night. His father had sent him to Windsor for his health when there was a plague outbreak in London, taking Master Howard and Lord Gloucester when he complained about it. That had been a fortnight before, there were no official plans for him to return, though Isabella sent John Dudley to fetch him either way. Best that she act quickly, before anyone else had the idea to take John into their custody.
This was for the best. With her, John would be with his family, with those who loved and cared for him, instead of someone who'd only use him for their own gains. Isabella didn’t even want to think about the lechers at the privy council, all now trying to wonder who’d be regent for her son. Her twelve-year-old son, now the most important person in the kingdom.
She clutched her throat. Her poor child, her poor sweet and innocent son. The king. John II, King of England. Was there no justice in this world? Couldn’t Henry have waited some years before he rode off like a madman? Why condemn their child to this life, if he would not even live to see him come of age?
The door to her chambers opened and closed, a blonde lady of Isabella’s coming forward on bent knees. “Madam,” she said, “They are here.”
Isabella closed her eyes, tears sliding freely down her cheeks. Thank the Lord. She would never say anything, never admit, not even to herself, but she had been afraid. Afraid that someone would stop them on the road, take her son and do what knows else with him, a fear brought forth by all the legends of the Princes in the Tower. Had one of them not been a twelve-year-old king, coming to London?
She looked back at her servant, cleaning off her tears. “Send them in,” she murmured, feeling awkward about giving orders to one who was now king, but still. Ordering John was familiar, like a warm coat. Isabella relished in it, because the unknown was scary and cold. “Send someone to the kitchens for a hearty breakfast. My son will be hungry.” Isabella had sent John Dudley as soon as Henry’s body returned from the hunt, but the trip to Windsor lasted hours. He would have arrived just after midnight, and Isabella had told him not to delay. To not even rest. And he would have had to obey her, to arrive at that moment, in the early hours of the morning.
John was probably famished.
Isabella turned to look as the doors opened and closed, her heart racing. The boy that entered was five foot one, straight auburn hair hastily stuffed under a hat to protect him from the cold. His blue eyes were wide, the round face inherited from his mother pale save for the reddened-tip of a long nose. When he looked at her, his face crumpled as if he might weep.
"Mother!" John cried out and Isabella swept him into an embrace, pressing his face to her neck. She let out a relieved breath, touching his hair, his warm and flushed skin. When she stepped back, John clung to her hands. "Mother, what is happening?"
"I will explain it to you," Isabella murmured, cupping his face. She turned to Lord Dudley, who was standing awkwardly by the door. "Thank you, my lord, for bringing this precious jewel back to me."
"There is no need to thank me, Your Majesty," said Lord Dudley. His eyes, however, spoke of a different intention, one Isabella knew well. Lord Dudley was once heir to his mother's viscountcy of Lisle, one that remained in her second husband's hands after her death. Isabella had promised him his inheritance if he'd work with her, be her eyes and ear in the privy council and bring John to her as quickly as possible. "I do only what is best for England."
She nodded, and turned back to John. Isabella embraced him once more, holding him tightly to her. She didn't know when she'd be able to do this, to treat him like a little boy, because he wasn't a little boy anymore. He was now the King of England.
When she stepped back, she held his face. His eyes looked up at her, blue and full of love, full of trust.
"Your father, the King, has passed," she murmured. John's face flooded with a mix of emotions: sadness, grief and at last, fear. "Now, you are the King of England."
"What?" John said, frowning. "How can that be?" His eyes filled with tears and he rubbed at them, furious at himself. "How did my father die?"
"A riding accident," Isabella answered, mindful of the most awful details. "Do you understand what this means?"
"I understand that I'm king now," John murmured. "I understand that the Lord has called me to rule England in my father's stead.” His eyes were downcast, full of tears that he wouldn’t dare to shed. “I understand that I won’t be able to rule in truth until I come of age.”
“All of those things are true,” said Isabella, “But no matter what, I will protect you.” She stepped forward, tilting his face up so he could meet her eyes. Blue met blue and Isabella looked at John, at her son’s face. “You’re my son, John. No matter what.”
"And you're my mother," said John, earnestly. "I promise you, no matter what happens, you will always be the Queen of England to me."
She smiled and stroked his face, rubbing her thumb over his cheekbone. He looked so much like the portraits she had seen of Queen Catherine, his mother, but in that moment, Isabella saw his father in him. The strength, the steel even in the face of fear. He was a Tudor. He'd live, no matter what.
"Your father left no will on what to do if he died before your majority,” Isabella started. “Certainly, he expected to live forever, but now, things must be done. You are twelve, my son. You can't be expected to rule without a regent."
He raised his eyes at her. "Do you wish to be the regent, mother?"
Isabella sighed. "They'd never let a Portuguese woman rule England," she said, "But no matter what, I will work to have custody of you and your sisters. You are my children, you belong with me."
John nodded shakily and stepped into her arms once again, placing his head over her heart. Isabella held him tightly, stroking his soft red hair, his cold and clammy skin. He was scared, nervous and he hadn't even cried for his father. Hadn't allowed himself to grieve. She closed her eyes, her heart like the thundering hooves of a horse that killed her husband, and hoped for the best.
No matter what, John had to remain with her. Bessie, Nora and Maggie too. She was still Queen of England until the day John married. She still had power to protect her children. And she'd die before she let any harm come to a single hair upon their heads.
--
London, England. 20th of February, 1535.
Charles handed the reins to a groom at the same time as another helped Harry off his horse. His heart was racing, his mouth dry and his black clothes tugged at his skin, even as he looked around, at the people that moved about.
It was raining, a light drizzle falling over them all, like the Heavens were weeping for King Henry. Charles bit back a curse; the poets would have their hands full with this. Material for ages was handed to them on a silver platter.
He bit back another curse, shaking his head. Henry was dead and his heir was a twelve-year-old boy. A boy still hiding behind his mother's skirts, with no end in sight for a regency. And Charles had been called to London, to the meeting of the privy council and the parliament, which had been called in the wake of King's death. He had missed the first day of both, trying to arrange his affairs in his lands, but Charles no longer intended to be kept away from politics.
Harry approached him. "What are we doing here, father?" he asked with a scowl.
Charles merely looked at him. He had not answered the question since that morning, when he told Harry’s handlers to prepare him for the trip to the capital, though his son did not hesitate to ask again and again and again.
"Your uncle is dead and your cousin is now the King," he said. "We're here to receive our due."
"Our due?" Harry frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"You are in line for the throne," said Charles. "You are a cousin to the King, the only person besides him who is an English male descendant of a Tudor."
"Do you want me to be king?" Harry asked with a glint in his eyes. Charles wanted to slap him.
"Don't say those words," he murmured, grabbing his son's wrist, dragging away from the outer courtyard and into Whitehall, where the council would meet. "You are to befriend the King, to endear yourself to him and advance our family. To even think about you ascending the throne is treason and a sin. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, father," Harry replied, "But I don't want to befriend him. He is a whiny little baby."
"Keep those feelings to yourself," Charles said. "The King can make or unmake you." He closed his eyes, trying to force himself to calm down. "Do you think I was born a duke? Or that my father even had a title?"
"You married a Princess of England," Harry replied.
"Yes, and because the King loved us, we did not lose our heads for this," Charles replied. "But John doesn't love you. He never did. Rest assured that if you step a single toe out of line, you will be punished." He looked around them, at the people that might hear them speak between themselves. "Unless you endear yourself to him."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Fine," he said. "I suppose I can manage that."
"You will have to," Charles responded. "I don't care how, or when, but you will have to manage it." He looked around them once again. "Once the meeting is done, I will take you to Westminster where the King is located, for you to pay your respects and offer your condolences. Hopefully, he has forgotten all that happened between you two."
"Probably," Harry cheekily responded. "He's as dim-witted as a girl."
Charles cuffed him in the back of his head, not even hesitating, and Harry cursed. Eyes downcast, his son brought a hand to his head with a grimace.
"Forgive me, father," he murmured.
Charles stepped forward. "Your mother spoiled you too much, but she is gone now," he said. "You are the Earl of Lincoln, so act like it, instead of the little boy that everyone thinks you are. Be smarter, be better."
"I will," Harry said. "I promise."
Charles looked at him, trying to read his expression and find any other sign of defiance, but he didn't. He couldn't. He sighed and nodded, looking around himself once again. "Go to your rooms," he murmured. "Think about what you will say to the King once we see him. When I'm finished with the council, I will see you."
"Yes, father," said Harry. Charles nodded and embraced him once more, before turning around and continuing on his path alone. He didn't look back, trusting his son to obey him at least for that moment.
Some of the council members were not yet seated when Charles arrived and he thanked the Lord. His eyes met that of John Dudley's, recently added in the final year of Henry's life. Dudley did not like him, he was sure. Even though Charles himself had knighted him when they fought in France. It was hard to know what his goals were, what he wanted.
He'd be a wild card, for certain.
Charles sat close to the empty throne as he always did, being one of the only dukes present in England. His heart raced as he murmured polite greetings, looking over all that were present. Stephen Gardiner, Archbishop of Canterbury. Thomas More, Lord Chancellor. Thomas Audley; Anthony Browne, reportedly present for Henry's death; William Fitzwilliam, Lord Privy Seal. Sir Richard Rich, the King's solicitor. All important men, all who had their own agendas, their own goals. Charles had to be careful.
"Gentlemen," started Thomas More, as Lord Chancellor and unofficial regent, "We stand here to discuss the matter of the King's death and the ascension of his son, King John II. Long live the King!"
"Long live the King," the rest echoed, Charles included.
Stephen Gardiner leaned forward. "I shall take the liberty to begin by saying that, as was my duty and following the request of this council, I travelled to Westminster yesterday to see the King. I found him to be in good spirits and good health." His Grace exchanged a look with Lord Dudley. "Of course, as said before, while Sir John's decision to take the King into the Dowager Queen's custody was sudden and without the leave of this council, I don't think it has harmed the King so far."
"The King should be here," said Charles and all eyes turned to him, "Instead of being surrounded by women. This is the seat of government, where he will learn to rule before he comes of age."
Thomas More shook his head. "Had Lord Suffolk been present in our last meeting, he'd know that King Henry's will of 1533 left any and all of his underage children alive at the moment of his death in Queen Isabella's custody," he said. "This council has no power to stand on at this moment."
"The King's will?" Charles asked and the Lord Chancellor nodded. "I was under the impression that the late King left no will on what to do with the minority of his son.”
“He wrote a new will following the birth of Princess Margaret,” said Anthony Browne as Richard Rich handed Charles a paper. “Though there was no intention of a regency, he made his desires clear concerning the inheritance of his kingdoms.”
The Duke of Suffolk frowned as he began to read. Henry left most of his lands, claims and wealth to his eldest son, John Tudor, Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall and Earl of Chester. His bastard children, Pierre and Isabella Tudor, daughter of Katherine Ashley, were provided for with a part of his wealth as well as a request for the Queen to care for them as well as her own children. That last part must have been written after the birth of young Isabella, who was over a year younger than her sister Margaret.
If John failed to produce legitimate heirs, Henry declared that England ought to be inherited by his eldest daughter, the Duchess of Brittany and her heirs, then that of her sister Elizabeth and her heirs, and so on and on until it reached young Margaret Tudor. Then the descendants of his sisters, whomever found themselves able to take up the mantle. Certainly, Henry hoped to never come to that, especially if John failed to have a male heir, considering all the King’s prayer rested on that one boy.
Charles raised his eyes and looked at the rest of the council. “The Duchess of Brittany is her brother’s heiress?” he asked. “If the King dies, are we to be ruled by the French?”
“Do you wish to discuss the King’s death, Suffolk?” Richard Rich asked with the arch of his brow. It was as if he dared him to commit treason.
“I’m simply saying,” he answered carefully. “The King is a boy of twelve. How long are we to stand with this sword hanging over our heads? Did our ancestors not kick the French back during the reign of the first King John when they tried to conquer our realm?”
“The King is healthy and clever,” said Stephen Gardiner. “The Dowager Queen has already called his tutors to Westminster so that he may continue his studies while this council rules in his name. Last I saw him, the King was praying with Charles Howard and his sisters in the royal chapel, rosy-cheeked and able.” His face was harsh, serious. “There is nothing to fear that he may not grow to produce his own sons.”
“My Lord Suffolk speaks somewhat truthly,” said Anthony Browne. “The King is twelve, but we should not delay discussions of his marriage. It is for the best that he be married at fourteen, so he may have legitimate heirs as soon as possible.”
“The late King was in the midst of signing a betrothal between the then-Prince of Wales and the King of France’s daughter, Marguerite de Valois,” said Thomas Audley. “Mademoiselle de Valois is the same age as the King, only five months younger. She will be able to bear children as soon as he comes of age.”
“We must not forget the fate of the King’s great-grandmother, who was made to do a woman’s duty too young,” Thomas More murmured. “She never bore another child after that.”
“The King can’t have a wife older than him,” said John Dudley. “One must not forget about Queen Catherine, who was twenty-three when she married the King’s father. Only the Lord saved this realm from a female ruler when the King was born, when she was already seven and thirty.”
“Who do you suggest?” Charles asked. “The King is only twelve. He is not able to have children yet.”
“But he will, soon enough,” someone answered. He didn’t bother to see who. “And Marguerite de Valois’ mother produced seven children in eight years, three of whom were sons.”
“And now which of those children are still living?” Anthony Browne replied. “Four, only.”
“Yes, but they include all of the Queen’s sons,” said Richard Rich. He shook his head. “We might argue and argue, but nothing will change that upon the King’s fourteenth birthday, he may refuse our choice.”
“Will the regency even be over by then?” Charles asked and all eyes turned to him.
“When the King comes of canon age, it is our duty to step aside and let him take the reins of government,” said Thomas More. “I hope no one here suggests we betray the King in pursuit of power.”
No one dared to speak and the Lord Chancellor sighed.
“It is for the best that instead of pondering about the King’s future marriage, we worry over England’s present,” he said. “Thus, I begin our concerns with…”
After the end of the meeting, Charles went to his son’s assigned rooms. Harry was playing with some of his toy horses at the ground, certainly bored out of his mind, and when he noticed his arrival, the Earl of Lincoln stood up quickly. “Father, are we to go now?” he asked.
“No,” said Charles. “You will be going home.”
“Home?” Harry asked, frowning. “Why?”
“It’s time you were married to your betrothed, the Baroness of Willoughby,” he answered. Charles thought it was best to have his son married to a rich heiress, even if he was too young to do so. Who knew what might happen then.
