One last chapter to see the year out, because this is such an 'interesting' place to leave the story in 2019, I feel.
Greenwich, October 1522
Ironically, when Henry heard, an hour or so later, as he rode back into the courtyard from a morning hunt, his first thought was for Marie. After all, he was practised at mourning a lost child, having lost five or more with Cata, but this was only the second she’d borne and the first she’d lost. He wanted to help her; to ignore his own grief in order to help her through hers. Leaving his grooms and other attendants gasping behind him, he raced up to her rooms...only to find that Marie was nowhere near as eager to see him.
“Her Majesty is preparing to ride for Eltham, Sire. She has asked that none be allowed to disturb her,” Sarah explained apologetically.
“Lady Sarah, I am your King and her most beloved husband. You will let me in, understand?”
He spoke softly, but there was a definite edge of threat in his voice. Sarah, knowing better than most how unpredictable the King could be, stepped aside.
Henry went past her into Marie’s chambers. Maids bustled about, flinging things into trunks. Marie herself, however, stood by a window, staring out aimlessly, oblivious to the chaos around her.
“Marie, sweetheart,” Henry put his arms around her, expecting her to collapse against him. Instead, she stiffened, pulling away.
“This is your fault,” she said quietly.
Henry recoiled from her as though she’d burnt him. “My fault? How is this my fault? If anyone’s failed William, it was his household and that was your choice!” His temper, always short and already exacerbated by his shock, flared, and he found himself berating her, “You should have been more careful! If you’d chosen his staff more carefully, none of this would have happened!”
If Marie had been a different kind of woman, one more like her younger sister Anne, for example, she would have railed against that accusation, would have torn into her husband for all she was worth. It would doubtless have resulted in a shouting match, but in fact, it might have saved their relationship a lot of grief in the long run. Unfortunately, however, she wasn’t, so all she said was, “This is your fault, not mine,” before walking away into the adjoining chapel, not even bothering to look back at him. Henry stared after her, stunned by her effrontery.
“My God! I come to offer comfort and I’m scolded by a shrieking harridan for my pains. If this is how you treat me, Madam, you can go to Eltham and rot, for all I care!”
He turned on his heel and stalked out. Blind with rage, he crashed into someone as he turned the corner.
“Oh Sire, I do apologise. I should have known better than to stand in the way of so fine a King.”
The softly-accented voice and sugary words were as a balm to Henry’s wounded soul. He blinked, looking down upon an auburn head and a russet satin gown.
“No, my lady. The fault is mine. If I might be so bold as to ask your name?” he replied, extending a hand to help her up.
“Lady Honour Fitzgerald, Sire. I serve the Countess of Pembroke.”
“Fitzgerald? You must be old Kildare’s daughter, are you not?”
“His niece, Sire. My father was his younger brother.”
“Is that so? And if you’re in the Countess of Pembroke’s household, as you claim to be, what are you doing here, outside the Queen’s rooms?”
“Why, Sire, I heard about poor little Prince William and thought it was only right for me to do my best to try to console Her Majesty in her grief.”
“Never mind the Queen. That termagant doesn’t deserve condolence. She blames me for the boy’s death, do you know that?”
“I didn’t, My Lord. I’m sure you’re not to blame. The Queen must just be...”
“Enough!” Henry cut her off, “You’re a fine talker, Lady Honour, and I like that. Come with me.”
“But -”
“Forget the Queen. I order you to console your King.”
With that, Henry marched off, leaving Honour with no choice but to follow.