The Queen is Dead!: Katherine of Aragon dies in 1518

[FalconHonour]

As I managed to sort out two new sections of this yesterday, have an early chapter... This is the last chapter of 1522, we move into 1523 in the next one

Bridewell, December 1522
​

“So, Henry walks out on her at dinner, refuses to consult her about Lionel’s betrothal, spends all his time with the Irish chit and banishes her sister from Court. Does this mean Marie Boleyn’s hold on the King is slipping at last?” The Duchess of Suffolk mused, as she played with her husband’s hair.

He shrugged, “Possibly. But you know what Henry’s like. The slightest thing could still drive him back into her arms. And I must say, she’s behaving well. Taking his philandering with dignity. Not letting him appear to get to her in public. In some ways, she reminds me of Katherine, and I never thought I’d say that.”

“No. But then, I never thought I’d say the way my brother treated her was despicable, but it is. She deserves better than to be shunted aside at the first hurdle they come across.”

“You’ve changed your tune,” Charles remarked, raising an eyebrow, “Two and a half years ago, you were throwing everything you could lay your hands on at me for helping him marry the girl. You swore you’d never respect her as your Queen.”

“Yes, well, she’s done her duty, hasn’t she? Twice over, in fact. It’s not her fault little William died. Has Henry even been told that the boy was smothered by that old harlot of his? Besides, I respect her for having reunited little Maria with her father. Not every woman would love another woman’s child as much as she clearly does Maria.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to support her. I’m not going to openly intercede unless she asks me, but I will show her we’re still friends like we used to be. She’ll take me up on it. She has to; she needs all the support she can get at the moment.”

“You’re not going to give your brother a piece of your mind just yet then?”

“With his unpredictability? I should think not! I’d find myself in the Tower next to Bessie Blount! No, Charles, this requires careful handling. Careful handling and Marie’s full and knowing support.”

Mary sighed, then gave a slight tug on her husband’s hair as she rose, “Come to bed. I want to enjoy the fact that you at least know how to pretend fidelity whilst I’m here at Court.”

She strode into their bedroom and Charles, smiling wryly at her perception, followed suit.

 

[FalconHonour]

York Place, January 1523​

Wolsey looked up at the knock on the door.

“Come in,” he called silkily. To his surprise, the Duke of Suffolk entered.

“Your Grace. To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked, spreading his hands in an avuncular gesture. Brandon grimaced and neatly side-stepped him.

“Spare me your act, Your Eminence. Henry might have liked that, once upon a time, but I never did and you know it.”

“As you wish,” Wolsey bowed his head and let the sharp tone slide, knowing Brandon was too impatient for many niceties to be exchanged between them, “What brings you to my door, My Lord Suffolk?”

“I saw Linacre riding in. I’m no fool, Your Eminence. I know full well he’s coming from the Tower and he’ll be coming straight here.”

“Whatever gives you that idea? Surely Sir Thomas could easily be reporting to His Majesty?”

Brandon scoffed.

“About Bessie Blount’s state of mind? I think not. We both know the King only recalled you from York last year because you’re good at dealing with the unpleasant matters or those that he cares nothing for. Bessie Blount falls into both those categories. No, Linacre will be making his report to you, I am sure of it. And as such, I thought it only wise to bring a couple of our colleagues from the Privy Council to join us in hearing his report.”

Brandon turned towards the door as he spoke, and right on cue, Thomas Lovell and Henry Norris entered, each of them dipping their heads in greeting.

“My Lord Cardinal.”

Wolsey had to hand it to Brandon. He’d handled that very smoothly. Eager to regain the initiative, he said nothing further, simply waved Lovell and Norris to take up a position by the window, and nodded to George Cavendish, who was fairly bristling with ire at how the older gentlemen had manipulated his master.

“Very well, George. You may as well show Sir Thomas up.”

George bowed deeply and swept from the room, his head high.

A few minutes later, Thomas Linacre was standing before them, twisting his hands.

“My Lords, gentlemen. I have been to the Tower and have examined Lady Tailboys in the presence of good Sir Thomas there,” he nodded towards Thomas Lovell, “Unfortunately, I fear my news may not be the most welcome. At least not to those of us who are loyal Englishmen and wish nothing more than to avenge His Highness the Duke of York.”

“She’s mad, then?” It was Norris who spoke, his voice blunt and harsh. He’d always been the type to speak his mind.

“Oh, yes. Utterly and completely.”

The directness of the statement took Brandon somewhat by surprise. He couldn’t help the bark of laughter that bubbled out of him.

“Well, there’s an end to it then,” he said bitterly, “The jezebel will be given a mercy she doesn’t deserve, one she certainly didn’t extend to our dear Prince, purely because she is mad and the law of merry England is too just to let her stand trial.”

“But that’s preposterous!” Norris spluttered, “The harlot murdered an innocent child! Her accomplice’s head is already rotting on a spike! Yet she is to live? How can this be?!”

“Sir Henry,” Wolsey cut in, “Need I remind you that the Privy Council has already overstepped its boundaries in sentencing Master Blount to death without the King’s say-so? At least in his case, we had the law on our side. To judicially execute Lady Tailboys, now that she has been declared mad by a doctor of the realm, would require a change in the law, and that, sir, would be a step too far for us to take without informing His Majesty. And given His Grace’s current behaviour, I think it is quite clear that he will tolerate no word of Bessie Blount.”

Norris grimaced, then turned to Brandon.

“My Lord Suffolk. Can’t you speak to the King? Surely, coming from his own brother…”

“I may be the King’s brother by marriage, Sir Henry, but I am his subject first. I am governed by his whims as much as the rest of you. And tell me true, is there a man in this room who would dare to bring up Bessie Blount before our King, given his current state of mind and that the fact that, as it stands, English law will not allow him to order the death of the woman who very nearly succeeded in destroying the Succession in one fell swoop?”

Brandon let his eyes linger on Norris’s pale, furious face, for a moment, then swept his eyes over the others.

The silence that stretched between them was his answer.

 

[FalconHonour]

Chateau d'Amboise, January 1523
​

The doors of Francis’s Presence Chamber at crashed open and a young couple, muffled to their ears against the cold, but nonetheless caked in mud, evaded the guards and flung themselves at the feet of the King and the Duchess of Alençon.

Francis started and started to sign to have them taken away, but the young girl began to speak before he could.

“Votre Majesté, I beg you, grant us sanctuary here in France. I married the young man Your Grace sees here beside me without royal permission and now we have been forced to flee the English tyrant for fear of our very lives. I came here to you because I remembered that, in the happy days of my youth at Your Grace’s Court, as a favourite of our own dear Duchess, you were the only King who dared to stand against the dangerous King Henry. I also know that a true gentleman such as yourself would never refuse aid to a young couple in such distress, especially if the woman is with child, as I am.”

Here, the young woman flung wide the folds of her travelling cloak to prove her words with the broadness of her stomacher. Francis paused, raising an eyebrow in puzzlement.

“Forgive me, Mademoiselle, but I do not...”

“François!” Marguerite chided, leaping to her feet, “Can you not tell by her voice alone? It is our own petite Boleynette, Annabelle!”

“Percy now, Madame,” Anne corrected, rising and shaking out her trademark raven curls before taking Harry’s hand and presenting him to her former mistress, “This is my husband, Sir Henry Percy.”

Marguerite shook her head impatiently, folding Anne into her arms, “Percy, Boleyn, it matters not. You are still ma petite Annabelle, as you always were. You are still safe here. Is she not, brother?”

This last, she directed over her shoulder at Francis, who still sat on his throne as though stunned. Extricating herself from Marguerite, Anne made a deep curtsy to him, worry sparking for the first time in her dark Boleyn eyes.

Bonsoir, Votre Majesté.”

As he still remained unmoving, she ventured, “Was I right to come here? I only thought...”

“Mais non!” Francis cut her off, “Of course you were right to come here. You are right. Unlike my brother the King of England, I was raised a gentleman. I would never turn away a woman in your condition if she asked for my assistance, least of all one I knew and loved so well. Marguerite is right, Cherie. You and your husband are safe here. Once you are fed and bathed and rested, I shall send some midwives to you. My wife’s own midwives.”

“Sire! You are too generous!” Anne gasped, but Francis waved her off.

“De rien. You deserve naught less, Annabelle. Be welcome back in France.” Coming to embrace her, he whispered, so that only she might hear, “It is good to have you home, ma fille.”

 

[FalconHonour]

Kenilworth, March 1523​

True to her word, Mary began to spend more time with her sister-in-law over the next two months, trying to cheer her in the face of her youngest son’s recent demise and her husband’s neglect.

She knew her brother’s treatment of Marie was bad, but it wasn’t until she spent considerable time with her that she realised just how far things had deteriorated between them.

Henry only visited Marie briefly each day; just enough to still the Court’s gossiping tongues. And even when he did, he would pointedly greet his voice with cool courtesy, kissing her hand and calling her ‘Madam’, while embracing Mary and calling her his “most dear sister”. To make matters worse, Henry would often have his little Irish hoyden at his side, dripping in rose gold and emeralds.

To do the child justice, she never looked entirely comfortable during these visits, as though Harry had forced her into accompanying him to Marie’s rooms so that he could watch Marie’s reaction.

To Marie’s credit, she never once blinked, always treating Honour with as much courtesy as she would any other lady who visited her. Mary hoped that Marie’s clear indifference to Harry’s clear philandering, feigned or not, would eventually shame him into going back to her, but it was not to be. One morning, shortly after the Court had moved to Kenilworth for Easter, she entered the Queen’s Apartments to find that Marie had barricaded herself in her bedchamber. Once she had cajoled her way past Lady Ormonde, who was determined to protect her daughter’s privacy at all costs, she was alarmed to see obvious tear tracks staining the younger woman’s cheeks.

“Marie! Sister, what’s wrong?!” she cried, running to embrace the slight figure who sat dejectedly on the bed.

“It’s Henry. And that Irish girl of his.”

“Lady Dishonour? What have they done now? Honestly, sister, you should know better than to let them upset you.”

“You don’t understand. Honour made a joke last night. She said that instead of crowning a swan and holding out unrealistic hopes for eternal love, I should have kept Katherine’s emblem of a pomegranate. She said it might have brought me better luck in childbirth.”

“What!” Mary’s jaw dropped open in fury, “What did my brother say?”

“He said...Oh, Mary, he said she was the cleverest woman in England and if wit was a permissible reason for granting a peerage, he’d make her the greatest Duchess in the land.” Marie broke down in fresh tears and Mary instinctively tightened her hold around her.

“Oh Marie! You mustn’t let him upset you. Harry’s always liked clever talk full of symbolism. But this takes things too far.”

“How have you not heard this? It’s all over Court.”

“I stopped listening to those slanderers a long time ago. And so should you. You’ve given my brother Lionel and that’s worth more than a thousand unkind words. Mark my words, he’ll come back to you.”

“When?”

“Ah, well, there we may need to give him a bit of help. Dry your eyes and I’ll call Charles. No one knows Harry better than the two of us.”

 

[FalconHonour]

Kenilworth, March 1523 ​

“What I’d really like to do is storm into Harry’s rooms and give him a piece of my mind, but I know my brother well enough to know that that won’t work. Not with the state of mind he’s in,” Mary sighed.

Charles shook his head, “It won’t. So let’s not dwell on that. What could work, do you think?”

“I could bring Lionel and Maria up to Court for Easter. If Henry saw me playing with Lionel and remembered who had given him his heir…”

Mary was shaking her head before Marie had even finished her sentence.

“If the children were already here, that would be the perfect ploy, I grant you, but sending for the children? Without Harry’s permission? It’s not a good idea, not when he already thinks you can’t control your sister or the rest of your household. You have to be the perfect wife right now, and going behind his back to bring the children to Court is not doing that. So, no. Not that this time around.”

Silence stretched between them for several long moments, before Charles suddenly snapped his fingers in triumph. “Of course! It’s obvious! We have to play on his superstitious nature.”

“What do you mean?” Marie glanced from one to the other, nonplussed, even as Mary began to nod eagerly.

“My brother, though he’d never admit it, leans heavily on soothsayers.”

“If I took him riding and an old woman was to cross his path and tell him that if, he was to deny himself the pleasures of his Irish harlot and return to your bed, he’d have a bonny Duke of York by the following year’s end, one with hair as golden as the summer sun and eyes and mind as clear as a noonday sun, he wouldn’t be able to climb back into your bed fast enough. It would be as though the last five months had never been.”

“Dr Linacre does say it’s safe for you to share a bed again, doesn’t he?” Mary glanced at her sister in law, who nodded.

“Good. Leave this to me.” Charles stood up and went to the door. At the threshold, he paused, “I can get him back into your bed, Marie, but after that, it’s up to you. You need to do your part. Whatever you do, don’t berate him. If he wants to grieve your lost son, weep with him. If he wants to pretend he’s forgotten the whole fiasco, then you pretend Lionel is the only child you’ve ever borne. Is that clear?”

Marie nodded, “I shall be sweetness itself,” she promised, “But Charles, Mary, why are you helping me? What have I done to suddenly deserve your friendship like this?”

“You’ve given my brother a son,” Mary explained, rising to her feet, “You’ve done what he wanted most in the world; what he has wanted most in the world since he was seventeen and first took the throne. You’ve done what he wanted and given this country a secure succession. As his sister, it’s my duty to remind him of that from time to time.”

Then she kissed Marie, curtsied, curtsied so deeply that there could be no doubt whom she now regarded as her true Queen, and followed her husband from the room.

 

[FalconHonour]

Fontainebleu, March 1523​

Anne lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The child inside her tossed and kicked vigorously. She sighed.

“Will you be quiet?” she begged, “Maman’s trying to rest.”

Harry turned to her, “The child?”

She nodded, “Won’t stay still for an instant. You’ve sired a real fidget, Lord Percy.”

Harry chuckled, “Are you sure it’s not your Howard blood? Aren’t you always telling me that Howards never look back?”

He came over, placing a hand on her bulging stomach. The two sat in comfortable silence for a moment or two before Anne broke it.

“If it’s a girl, I want to name her Margaret, after Madame Marguerite. And I want Marguerite to be Godmother.”

“Godmother? Anne...you know what Anglo-French relationships are like at the moment. If the King finds out..”

“What? What can he do? He can’t hurt my sister any more than he already has, not without publicly endangering her status as the mother of his heir. He won’t go for George. We’re in France. He can’t hurt us anymore. Please, Harry. Madame Marguerite is more of a mother to me than my own. I want to name my eldest daughter after her.”

Harry hesitated, then sighed, “Only if we can name a boy Charles after the Duke of Suffolk. That ought to appease the English.”

“Henry would appease them more.”

“Yes, but there’s too many Henrys in my family already.”

“No there aren’t. You just don’t want me to have to name my son after the man who’s mistreating my sister so.”

Harry held up a hand under Anne’s searching gaze, “Touché,” he admitted and Anne blushed.

“You’re so sweet, you know that?”

“You deserve it,” he murmured, leaning down to capture her lips with his.

 

[FalconHonour]

Kenilworth, March 1523​

Henry was standing alone in his Privy Chamber when Charles came up to him.

“Harry. Fancy a ride?”

Not having anything else in particular to do, he shrugged.

“Why not? It’s a fine enough day. I’m sure the others can deal with anything that comes up.”

He turned from the window and within half an hour, the two of them were cantering through the woods, laughing and joking like old times.

It was as they paused by a stream in preparation for fording it that it happened.

An old woman dressed in naught but thin rags, with wild hair and eyes like burning embers, stepped out of the trees on the far bank.

“Ahab!” she shrieked, pointing a gnarled, trembling finger at Henry, “Ahab! You call yourself a Christian King, yet the guilty languish unpunished in your cells whilst the innocent suffer. Whilst you cavort with your pretty piece of Irish dishonour, your pearl of a wife’s heart bleeds in silence!”

Charles chanced a look at Harry. He sat like stone in the saddle, has face as white as the great cliffs at Dover. His hands were holding the reins so tightly his knuckles were threatening to pop out of his skin.

“God is testing you, Henry Tudor!” the crone hurled across the water, “God is testing you and if you don’t take exceeding care, the dogs will be licking your blood from your wounds the way they once licked Ahab’s from the ground!”

“What can I do?” he finally plucked up the courage to ask, “Good woman, what can I do to avert such disaster?”

“Return to your wife. Return to your wife and punish the guilty. Do this and, as a sign of His forgiveness, God will bless you with a son. A son with hair as golden as the three suns of York and eyes and a mind as clear and sharp as the noonday sky.”

All of a sudden, the old woman blinked. The odd light vanished from her eyes and she turned and left, leaving nothing but the echo of her words ringing in the breeze behind her.

Henry shuddered, “What a fright she gave me. How did she know? About Honour? About Marie? About me?”

“Old women like that often seem to have uncanny knowledge of those around them, but it’s often little more than lucky guesswork. I wouldn’t think on it, Sire,” Charles soothed.

They rode on in silence for a while, but Charles saw Harry’s jaw working furiously and guessed he was deep in thought. He let him be, knowing that whatever was troubling him would work its way out eventually. He was right.

“What did she mean, “The guilty languish in your cells unpunished?'”

“I told you not to think on her words, Your Majesty.”

Unfortunately for Charles, Harry could be exceedingly perceptive when he wanted to be. He drew rein and glowered at his oldest friend, “Tell me.”

“I suppose she meant Lady Tailboys, Sire,” Charles said slowly, “The Princess Mary committed her to the Tower when they caught her after she smothered the Duke of York and she’s been there ever since.”

“What? You mean she’s gone unpunished for months? She’s been in the Tower since October – on Maria’s orders, no less – and no one saw fit to inform me? Why wasn’t I told?!”

“Harry...” Charles reached out a hand, hoping to calm his friend before he did something he would regret, “You were grieving. We may not have done the right thing, but no one wanted to trouble you further, especially not once you distanced yourself from the Queen.”

“To Hell with that! The woman murdered my son! I should have been told! I should have been told!”

“The woman’s mad, Harry. Dr Linacre examined her himself. He says she’s mad and you know what the law says. Those who are insane cannot be punished for their crimes by anything more than incarceration, no matter how grievous their offences may be.”

“Then the law must be changed! Immediately!”

Harry wrenched his horse’s head around and galloped off in the direction of Kenilworth. Charles turned his horse far more sedately and followed.

 

[FalconHonour]

Kenilworth, March 1523​

Wolsey was a little alarmed by the urgency of the King’s summons. After all, they both knew the dynamic between them had changed with Prince Lionel’s birth. Gone were the long, personal chats between them. That role had been largely taken over by the Duke of Suffolk and the Earl of Pembroke, if not the Queen herself. They only ever spoke on matters of state now, and Wolsey only ever saw the King when he had been summoned to do so. And Harry had been so cloistered recently, with or without the Lady Honour, that he rarely sent for him at all, and only ever absently if he did. An urgent summons like this hadn’t come since before Prince William’s death. He hastily tidied his flowing scarlet robes and made his way to the Royal Apartments.

“You wanted to see me, Sire?”

He bowed, but Henry waved the formality aside impatiently.

“Yes, Yes. I need you to draft a new law for me.”

“A new law, Your Majesty?”

“I need it to be legal for mentally unstable people to be tried and punished according to their crimes the same way those who were sound of mind would be. You will draw this law up immediately, and implement it from the morrow.”

“The morrow?! Sire, that’s impossible. For such a momentous change in the law, Your Grace will have to summon Parliament!”

“Hang Parliament! The old codgers are too slow and demand too much. I needed this law through months ago! You will do it here and now. Use the Royal Prerogative if you must, but make it law by the morrow!”

Wolsey hesitated, “Sire,” he began delicately, “Is this to do with the Lady Tailboys? Surely it would be possible just to force her to take the veil without any of this unpleasantness?”

Henry spun round to face him, flushed with fury.

“That woman killed my son, Thomas. I need her dead and I need her dead now!”

He pounded the table, “God’s death, will I never be free of the Blount bitch and her poison?”

“If that is Your Majesty’s wish, of course it can be done,” Wolsey said silkily, “I shall draw up the necessary documents just as soon as possible. I presume Your Grace wishes Lady Tailboys to suffer the usual death accorded to noble traitors? Or, given the grievous nature of her crimes, is she to be treated as though she is without rank?”

“You mean, is she to be hanged, drawn and quartered?” Henry paused, then laughed; a dry, mirthless laugh that sent chills down even Wolsey’s spine, “No. You’ll change the law so that I may pick a traitor’s mode of death. And it won’t be beheading or hanging, drawing and quartering for Bessie Blount. Neither of those is painful enough for the harlot. I want her boiled alive. Boil her alive. Let her taste the flames that will torment her for all eternity before she even leaves this earth.”

Henry laughed again and Wolsey had to swallow a rising tide of revulsion at the manic glee in his master's voice.

“As you say, Sire,” he replied, “I shall go and draw up the documents at once.”

“No,” Henry countered, “You’ll do it here. I want to see you do it.”

And so it had to be. Wolsey sat at the King’s own writing desk, drafting out the ghastly document in vivid black ink, with the King’s cerulean eyes burning into the back of his skull, glittering and hard as sapphires in his rage. Nothing short of affixing his seal to the still-glistening documents would slake His Majesty’s burning thirst for revenge.

 

[FalconHonour]

Kenilworth, March 1523
​

Honour was used to being summoned to Henry’s rooms, so she knew exactly how he liked her to greet him. She curtsied deeply, peeping up at him through a daring curtain of red hair, her hood discarded in her rooms before she came.

“Honour. Sweetheart,” the King murmured as he raised her up. Honour stayed quiet, expecting him, as usual, to force his lips on hers.

Well. Not exactly force. At fifteen, Honour had to admit that being the King’s paramour had its benefits. She enjoyed riding with him, dancing with him, speaking her mind to him. She adored the jewels he showered her with. Most of the time, he was as attentive and caring as she had always dreamed her husband would be. And after all, what fifteen-year-old girl wouldn’t be excited by the fact that her charms and beauty had snared the most powerful man in England?

But there was always the undercurrent that marred her happiness. The fact that he flaunted her so openly in front of his wife and Court, for instance. The fact that she had to be crueller to the Queen than she was comfortable with to amuse him. The fear that he would suddenly turn brutal.

Honour didn’t think she would ever forget the night he had taken her maidenhead with the ferocity of a beast. True, he had been all solicitousness ever since, but still, Honour always felt as though she was walking on eggshells around him, even if she never showed it. Though she never admitted her fear, she never knew when, like an injured or caged lion, he might suddenly turn vicious.

Luckily, her restraint was so slight that the King never seemed to notice it.

“I have something for you,” he whispered, “Close your eyes.”

Honour did as she was told. She felt his hands busy at her neck, pushing her flaming auburn curls out of the way. Then he took her by the shoulders and steered her to where she knew there was a mirror.

“Look,” he ordered, and Honour opened her eyes obediently. What she saw took her breath away.

A teardrop emerald the size of her fist hung in the low neckline of her gown between the peaks of her breasts. It was attached to a chain of gold links studded with emeralds that was as thick as an adder, coiling twice around her neck and the excess pooling over her slender shoulders.

“Your Majesty!”

“Do you like it? It was my mother’s.”

In truth, it was far too ostentatious for Honour’s taste, but she knew the King loved to see her in emeralds, saying they emphasised her Irish heritage. Besides, she could see the worth of the gift. Not only was it easily the costliest thing he had ever gifted her, if it had belonged to his mother, he must attach great sentimental value to it as well.

“It’s beautiful,” she said at last, “Your Grace attaches far too great a worth to my company.”

“No, darling. Your company has a price beyond rubies or emeralds. It pains me greatly that I will have to forsake it for a while.”

“My Lord? Have I displeased you in some way? If I spoke too boldly, I apologise. I sought only to amuse you with the mere trifles my wit could devise.”

“No, sweetheart. It’s not you. How could a phoenix like yourself ever displease me? No. I’ve been told that, if I seek my wife’s bed now, I’ll be blessed with a son as golden as the three suns of York within the twelvemonth. But don’t fret, my own Irish emerald. I’ll not forsake you. I’d not forsake you for all the land in Christendom. That necklace is my promise. It’s a rope tying your fate with mine.”

“Then I shall treasure it all the more highly, Sire.”

“Henry,” he begged, “How many times, Honour? It gives me great pleasure to hear my name on your lips. Please, use it.”

“Very well, Henry, I shall,” Honour dipped down into a curtsy, then turned for the door, the words she had been about to utter dying and turning to ash in her mouth. At the threshold, she peered back over her shoulder at him.

“You know you are always welcome in my bed, should you seek to find a place there.”

“Bless you,” he murmured, blowing her a kiss. She returned the gesture and vanished.

 

[FalconHonour]

Kenilworth, March 1523​

Marie knew Charles would be doing everything he could to get Henry back into her bed, but it didn’t mean she didn’t jump in shock when Henry suddenly barged into her rooms and announced, “I’ll dine with you tonight, Marie. I’ll dine with you and share your bed. I trust you will make me welcome?”

“Your Majesty is always welcome in my bed, as you very well know, Sire,” she returned, with the briefest flash of Boleyn fire in her eyes, before curtsying, “I look forward to welcoming you into it later.”

Later that night, after a difficult dinner, where conversation was stilted and mainly focused on the children – Maria was learning the lute and the virginals now, and Lionel talking more fluently and stubbornly than ever – they shared a bed for the first time in nearly a year. Though they performed the duties required of them, the easy, pleasurable familiarity had gone out of it. Marie fell asleep feeling more dissatisfied than she had expected...and woke, not two hours later, to find Henry weeping softly.

“Henry?” she ventured, daring to reach out for him. He looked up at her, choking back tears.

“I miss him too, you know,” he whispered. “I miss him more than I thought I would. More than I ever thought possible. He was just a babe, after all.”

“He was your son,” Marie murmured gently, “It’s only natural you should grieve for him. But please, Henry, don’t push me away. I grieve for William too. I want us to help each other through this. Don’t shut me out.”

“I won’t,” he promised shakily, “Not again. How are the children coping?”

“Better than I expected, if I’m honest. Lionel was too young to really notice and Maria, well, she struggled at first, but once I was there, I think she recovered fairly quickly. She was trying to be the strong one and it was damaging her. My going down to Eltham helped. She had someone to talk to about it all.”

“We should visit them again. Together.”

“We should,” Marie agreed, taking his hand. This time, she knew better than to bring up the Duke of Richmond. She just held his hand in silence until he was ready to speak again.

“I’ve changed the law,” he said suddenly, “Being mad won’t protect Bessie any longer. She’ll die for her crimes just as soon as I can arrange it.”

“Good,” Marie murmured, unable to stop herself, “I shouldn’t wish death on anyone, but I must admit, knowing she still breathes has been a torment for me, given what she’s done.”

“Would you like to watch it?”

Marie shook her head at her husband’s offer, “Thank you, but no. Such a thing would turn my stomach. Just knowing it will happen is enough to bring me some peace. Thank you.”

She leaned up and kissed him and when he murmured, “You were right, you know. I never should have trusted her with Hal,” she said nothing more than, “Don’t think on it now. What’s done is done,” and kissed him even more firmly than before.

This time, when they fell back between the sheets, their coupling was much more pleasurable than before.

 

[FalconHonour]

The Tower of London, April 1523
​

Bessie jolted awake as the Constable of the Tower, Sir Thomas Lovell, slammed open the door of her cell.

“With me, Lady Tailboys,” he barked.

“Wha-What?” She struggled into a sitting position.

“Your days are over, madam. I hope you’ve made your peace with God, for you’ve not long before you meet Him.”

Bessie threw her head back laughing as his words began to sink in.

“Good sir, you must be mistaken. Sir Thomas Linacre himself declared me mad. The law forbids the King from doing any more than imprisoning me.”

“Wrong, Lady Tailboys. His Majesty has changed the law. You die within the hour. Prepare yourself.”

He marched her down to the small chapel of St Peter ad Vincula, allowed her a brief time to spend in prayer, then ordered her to dress in dove-grey silk as a sign of her penitence and took her down into the courtyard, where he handed her brusquely to the guards, “Take her, gentlemen.”

“Your confessor is on the scaffold,” the captain of the guard explained to Bessie, before placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, “It’s not going to be pretty, getting up there, milady, but we’ll do it. I can promise you that.”

Bessie nodded, suddenly sick with fear. She’d always known, somewhere deep inside, that one day she’d have to pay for her crimes against the Tudors, but this had come upon her so unexpectedly that she wasn’t prepared at all.

She took a step forward out of the Tower’s protective shadow and was instantly assailed by a barrage of scornful, vilifying curses.

“Whore!”

“Traitor!”

“Child-Killer!”

“May you rot in Hell, you she-wolf!”

One of the young boys in the crowd ran ahead a few paces, then spat at her disdainfully. Bessie twisted her head away, but it was too late to stop his spittle splattering her grey, lace-trimmed coif.

The walk seemed interminable to Bessie, but even once she reached the steps of the scaffold and began to mount them, her torment wasn’t over.

She looked up at the scaffold, expecting to see a block awaiting her. After all, as a Baroness, she had the right to a beheading, not a hanging. To her horror, no block awaited her. instead, a huge cooking pot hung suspended above an enormous, unlit bonfire.

It took a moment, but then the implications of what she was seeing sank in. Her jaw dropped as she screamed, “No! No! I’m a Lady of the realm, I can’t die like this!”

“You’re a convicted traitor. By the new law of the land, your punishment is entirely at the King’s discretion. Up you go.”

The guard behind her forced her up the stairs and she had no choice but to obey. The Misere Mei spilled over her lips as she wept in terror. Kneeling at her confessor’s feet, she sobbed, “I admit to it all. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I endangered the country, drove a wedge between Their Most Gracious Majesties and blackened my soul with the murder of a sinless babe. All for the sake of my own ambition. I admit it. Forgive me.”

The elderly man laid a hand on her head, “May God have mercy on your soul, my daughter.”

Rising to her feet, Bessie turned to the crowd, wondering whether she should say anything or not, but she never got a chance. The captain of her guard placed a hand on her shoulder, “His Majesty has forbidden you from making a speech, Lady Tailboys.”

“But...is it not my right?”

“I’m sorry. He claims that, being mad, you won’t be able to make a coherent speech.”

Bessie bowed her head and went to climb the final steps up to the cooking pot. She could tell the man felt sorry for her and didn’t want to make things worse for him.

As she reached the top of the scaffold, however, she saw the King standing on the battlements of the Tower.

“Henry!” she screamed, “Henry please! For the love you bore me; for the love you bear our boy, don’t let me die like this! Please!”

He turned his head, as though he could hear her, despite the distance between them and the clamour of the crowd. Their gazes locked for an instant. Hope swelled in Bessie’s heart. If he’d heard her and acknowledged her the way he had, surely he couldn’t refuse her? Not his own Lady Blount? Surely?!

Then it sank in how icy his eyes were. Her flickering hope died in her breast.

He held her gaze for a second longer, as if he was taking great pleasure in watching her face crumple in disappointment. Then he pointedly turned his back.

“No! My Lord, please!”

Bessie stumbled, but before she fell, the guards flanking her caught her and lifted her into the pot. She felt her breath catch in her throat and she had to stifle a scream as she heard the crowd gasp. The wood beneath her had obviously been lit.

It wasn't long before she could suppress the scream no longer. The heat was rapidly becoming unbearable. Fortunately for Bessie, her already damaged mind soon gave up altogether. She slipped into the blissful peace of unconsciousness.

 

[FalconHonour]

I have internet back!! Hurray!

Greenwich, April 1523
​

Marie had hoped against hope that Bessie’s execution would draw a line under everything that had happened. That without the shadow of William’s murderer still breathing hanging between them, she and Henry would be able to start again, even if they never forgot their second son.

Sadly, that wasn’t to be. Instead, the execution heralded one of the oddest periods of Marie’s life. When Henry spent time with her, at least publicly, he was charming, attentive, even loving. He no longer ignored her, seeking her advice on domestic matters as he had done before. He even shared her bed on a semi-regular basis. To the outside world, therefore, they were as happy as they had once been.

It was only Marie who knew that there were visits of Henry’s where the two of them sat in awkward silence over dinner, barely knowing what to say to one another. She was the only one who knew that, often, even if she and Henry went to bed together, she woke to find him gone.

The first time that had happened, she had called out; gone in search of him, terrified that he was walking in his sleep, tormented by a nightmare or something. After all, everyone knew that he had thrown up with horror in the yard upon his return from the Tower on that fateful April morning, which suggested Bessie’s execution hadn’t exactly been a normal one. It wouldn’t have surprised her if he’d been jolted away by a nightmarish image of Bessie’s severed head glaring balefully at him. She had opened the door to the passage linking his rooms with hers and started along it, thinking to bring him back to himself with the warmth of human contact, with a reminder that, with Bessie gone, there was nothing to stop the two of them filling the nursery with all the Princes and Princesses England could ever want.

She was halfway to his rooms when she was stopped abruptly in her tracks by the sound of muffled voices. Henry’s and hers.

They had been laughing, joking. Henry had been opening up to her in a way he hadn’t done to Marie for months; except for that one night when he had broken down over William and she had dared to hope that things would get better from there. But it hadn’t.

All of a sudden, there had been a bellow of laughter, “Oh, my precious emerald! Will you never cease to be the wittiest girl in England?!”and then the bed had started creaking unmistakably.

Marie had turned and fled, biting back desperate tears at the obvious rejection.

She never went in search of her husband again.

*** *** ***​

Instead she lived a double life; one in which she was no better than a player in a masque, acting the part of a devoted, happy wife. Meanwhile, she longed bitterly for her belly to fill with Henry’s child. He loved children more than anything. Once her belly filled with his seed with a strong boy to take William’s place alongside Lionel and Maria in the nursery, she reasoned, he’d love her again just as much as he used to. He’d have to.

So Marie counted the weeks. Eagerly, breathlessly, desperately. Through April, May and June. Three times she was late. Three times she dared to hope. Three times she was disappointed. Her belly stayed as flat and empty as it had since William had finally fought his way into the world.

 

[FalconHonour]

Chateau d' Amboise, June 1523
​

Meanwhile, in France, Anne’s belly continued to swell, the baby inside battering her more and more impatiently as the months wore on.

Finally, on the seventeenth of June, after a surprisingly easy labour for a firstborn, Anne gave birth to a beautiful baby girl with her father’s eyes and her mother’s dark fuzz covering her head.

She lived up to her earlier moniker of ‘fidget’, never lying completely still, even when just a day or so old.

Anne, sharp-tongued still, even at sixteen, transformed overnight into a doting mother. She adored little Margaret with all her heart and could barely bear to let her out of her sight. In her desire to involve herself with Margaret’s upbringing as much as possible, she was fully supported by her husband, Lord Percy, who allowed her to feed their little girl with her own milk, even though it went against convention.

Of course, as far as Anne was concerned, there could only be one godmother for such a precious child.

“I’d be honoured, Madame. After all, I named her for you,” she explained on her second afternoon as a mother, as the Duchess of Alençon stood by her bedside, cradling the wriggling Margaret.

“Mais, Annabelle. You name her for me? You ask me to be godmother? Think how this will be received in England. Surely your mother or sister would be a far safer namesake?.”

“Elizabeth is a beautiful name, but it is not the one I want for my daughter,” Anne returned fiercely, “You made me the woman I am, Madame. I can think of no better namesake for my daughter. Please, I beg you. Say you will be her namesake and her godmother at her baptism.”

Anne’s eyes were burning, colour flaming high in her cheeks. Marguerite, loath to distress the younger woman so soon after she had given birth, patted her hand with her free arm.

“Bien, Cherie, bien. If it means that much to you, how could I ever refuse ma petite Boleynette? Of course I’ll be her godmother. I’d be honoured to do so, in fact. I just hope you know how badly this will be received in England.”

 

[FalconHonour]

I feel like the world is going mad and I'm going mad with it... Tudors AUs are my safety net when I'm like this, so have another chapter.

Woodstock, July 1523
​

The doors of Marie’s apartments crashed open and Henry stormed in, face black with fury. He brandished a letter at Marie.

“Your sister!” he growled, clearly too irate to say any more.

“What’s she done now?” Marie sighed, rising to pick up the letter as Henry threw it down in front of her.

“Not only has she fled to that boasting cockerel’s Court, but she’s had the gall to name her daughter after his spoilt minx of a sister. And name her godmother!”

“I see,” Marie murmured, not sure what else to say. Henry glowered at her.

“Do you not have more to say, Madam? Do you not wish to condemn her for her actions? God, I could almost have her branded a traitor for leaving the country without my say-so! What if we'd needed Lord Percy in the north to contain the Scots? Their flight would be dereliction of duty and desertion! I could have him hanged for less!"

“What do you want me to say, My Lord? While I of course sympathise with you, for Lord and Lady Percy should never have left England without Your Majesty’s permission, Lady Percy is my younger sister. Surely, even in your anger, you can see that it is only natural that I should be delighted to hear that she has been delivered of a healthy baby girl?”

Her voice was cool, but had a definite edge to it. Henry stared at her, jaw set as hard as stone.

“I could wish you were an only child, Madam. Perhaps then I might finally have a hope of commanding your full loyalty!”

Words ringing in the air, having been spat out between gritted teeth, she spun on his heel and stalked out of the room.

On his way back to his own rooms, he was hailed by Honour.

“Sire? Might I have a word?”

“Honour, my own emerald!” he cried, throwing an arm out sweep her in towards him, “Walk with me!”

He swept her hair aside and kissed the back of her neck, “You’re beautiful,” he breathed, “I’m so glad you’ve got no family to take advantage of your relationship with me. You’re as honest as the sun, you do know that, don’t you?”

“I thank Your Majesty for the compliment. I can only hope that you will still find me so pleasing when I am the size of a Leviathan or when I have a tempestuous babe squalling at my breast.”

As she expected, her words stopped the King in his tracks.

“Are you telling me you’re with child?” he gasped, spinning around to face her.

She nodded, “Due in November, Sire.”

“November? But then you must be four months at least. Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

“I’ve heard that the first three months are the most dangerous. I didn’t want to raise Your Majesty’s hopes too early in case anything went wrong.”

“All the more reason for me to ensure that the greatest care is taken of you!” he exclaimed, “I’ll send you away to York Place. You can rest there and Wolsey will look after you. He may not approve of our relationship, but he’ll cherish you for my sake.”

He kissed her forehead and squeezed her shoulder, hard and warm.

Honour nodded, knowing it was no use arguing, “Might I have a companion or two in York Place, My Lord?”

“Of course,” he chuckled indulgently, “You’re the mother of my child. I’d not have you bored.”

Contented, Honour nodded again and rested her head on his chest. He slipped his arm around her and the two of them stood together, silently bonded by the child growing in Honour’s belly.

 

[FalconHonour]

Ampthill, August 1523 ​

“What the Hell are you thinking, Harry? Your wife needs you and yet you’re fawning over your teenage whore more than ever!”

“Honour is carrying my child!” Henry looked up at his sister as she stormed into his rooms, stunned that she would rail against him and especially in Marie’s defence, given how much she’d resented their marriage when it had first taken place.

“Your bastard, you mean! Is that really any reason to let her queen it over York Place? If it was Marie, wanting to get away from the progress, I could understand, but...”

“Marie’s not carrying my child!”

“And whose fault is that? Are you even bothering with her at all?”

“I do my duty! It’s not my fault she’s not with child!”

“Is it? Is it really?” Mary’s voice was acidic, “You put so much pressure on her. You must know that pressure is no good for a woman hoping to be with child. Besides, how do you expect God to bless you with a son if you ignore His signs? Ignore His instructions?”

Henry stared at her uncomprehendingly, and she clicked her fingers irritably at him, “Wake up, brother! You swore to forsake your mistress in exchange for a son within the year. Yet I still see you dancing with your teenage harlot. Eating with her, laughing with her. fawning over her. Do you not want a Duke of York?!”

“Of course!” Henry sprang to his feet, flushing.

“Then pull yourself together!” Mary slapped him across the face, furious enough to break every rule of protocol in the book, “Pull yourself together and get yourself back to your wife!”

“She pushed me away! She blames me for William’s death!”

“She has every right to! You insisted on Lady Tailboys being at Eltham, not her! You refused to listen to her advice and let your hatred for your former whore speak out above your common sense! For God’s Sake, Harry! Grow up and learn to take responsibility for your own actions! Stop making everyone around you suffer for your mistakes!”

Mary was screaming now, unable to hold back any longer. Henry, however, roared right back at her.

“Why are you defending Marie?! It’s not exactly as though you were thrilled when I married her! Don't think Charles hasn't told me how you reacted to having to bend the knee to her!"

“She’s done her duty! She’s done her duty twice over! It’s not her fault William died, that was Lady Tailboys. My God, Harry, what does the girl have to do to prove herself to you?!”

Mary paused for breath, then lowered her voice, so that it was barely above a whisper.

“This isn’t the chivalrous behaviour Mama would expect of her golden boy. This isn’t the behaviour my favourite brother taught me was proper. If you forsake her now, if you celebrate your whore’s fecundity over hers; champion your bastard at Lionel’s expense, then I will never forgive you. I swear on St George himself, I’ll disown you. I have never been so ashamed to call you my brother.”

She spun to the door. On the threshold, she half-turned. “Think on this, brother. Forsake Marie now and you lose your only remaining family. Which is more important to you? A bastard who could never take your throne or the family you swore on our parents’ souls you would protect?”

She dropped a mocking curtsy and swept from view, leaving Henry gaping behind her.

 

[FalconHonour]

I got two whole epilogues written last night, so have a new chapter!

Ampthill, August 1523
​

Marie was reading quietly in bed when the private door between Henry’s apartments and hers opened. Surprised, she glanced up. To her alarm, her husband was crying.

“Henry! Love!” She sprang to her feet, pushing back the blankets, but before she could reach him, Henry fell to his knees.

“Forgive me, darling. Forgive me. I swore to have you and hold you, for better or for worse, to cherish you till I died. Yet I ignore you and berate you for your empty belly. This isn’t the behaviour King David would exhibit towards his wife. This isn’t the behaviour I was raised to show to mine. Mother would be turning in her grave if she knew. Mother would be turning in her grave.”

He was panting, choking on his own tears. Marie knelt down beside him and raised his head to look him in the eye.

“Henry. There is nothing to forgive, my love. You are still grieving William. You worry for the Succession without another boy to shore it up. We both do. Your actions are completely permissible, given the circumstances. But remember, I am yours. I am yours, heart and soul. For better or for worse.”

“For better or for worse?” Henry echoed, a note of pleading in his voice. Marie nodded, hiding the pain she was feeling behind a consoling smile. She had promised Charles she would be sweetness itself as and when Henry returned to her bed. She had to live up to that promise. She had to. Whatever Mary had said to her brother earlier had clearly struck home. He was so vulnerable. What she said next could either win him back to her forever or else drive him so far away that she would never get him back. She had to make sure it was the former.

“For better or for worse, husband. I promise. Whatever may happen. And we are both still young enough to secure the Succession with another son.”

“Do you think so?”

“I know so. Hasn’t God clearly blessed our union not once, but twice, in the past two years? Why shouldn’t He do so a third time?”

Marie could hardly believe what she was saying. This kind of reckless confidence was far more characteristic of George or Anne than her, but before she could think any more about it, it worked. Henry leapt up, confidence sparking in his eyes once more.

“Yes. Why shouldn’t He? We’re both still young, after all.”

Part of his confidence, Henry knew, came from the knowledge that Honour was carrying his child, thus proving his current virility, but Marie didn’t need to know that and, anyway, Henry dismissed it, as Marie, filled with a boldness he had never yet seen her display, tossed her golden head.

“Exactly. So we will have a son, My Lord. Come to bed with me and we will have a son.”

Taken aback by her forwardness, Henry couldn’t help laughing, “Who are you and what have you done with my wife?”

But he couldn’t deny the desire that was stirring inside him and he was only too happy to take the hand she offered him.

 

[FalconHonour]

Greenwich, October 1523
​

Perhaps God heard Marie’s prayers, for her belly swelled with child within weeks, as though her child’s spirit had been up in Heaven, just waiting for its new parents to be reconciled before it deigned to come to rest in the world.

Henry, of course, was cockahoop, especially when her belly ballooned so fast that the royal seamstresses were hard-pressed to sew panels into her dresses fast enough to keep her comfortably and regally clothed. It seemed he couldn’t tire of parading her before the Court, praising her fecundity to the skies.

Maria and Lionel were whisked up from Eltham and shown off at every opportunity, hailed as proof that the future of England rested secure.

Little Maria blossomed, thrilled beyond belief to be back with her parents. Marie tried to curb the little girl’s vanity, but even she wasn’t totally immune to her vivacity and charm. She did so love having the children about her and Maria had always been more her child than Henry’s. It was hardly unexpected that she would spoil her a little, if only with her time and affection and not materially. So while Henry fussed over Lionel and took him for many a ride on the back of his destrier or his great Irish hunter, proudly proclaiming to all who could hear that the boy would soon become the greatest rider in Christendom, she spent hours with Maria and her companions, hearing their lessons and playing with them.

She also encouraged Maria in her music, the little girl’s playing being one of the few things that could soothe her in her discomfort.

For she was in discomfort. Even though she was only, as far as the midwives could make out, a couple of months along at most, being due almost exactly on Lionel’s third birthday, she already had a belly as large as a woman at least four months gone with child and the weight seemed almost unbearable at times. Nor could she lie comfortably, but rather, had to toss and turn irritably for hours before her exhaustion would finally allow her to succumb to sleep. Not only that, but, although she had mercifully escaped the morning sickness this time, she was constantly emotional and craving venison at all hours of the day or night.

All of this combined to make her extremely miserable, and, one morning, she startled Henry by bursting into tears during one of his visits for no apparent reason.

“Sweetheart! What is it?” He sprang to his feet and pulled her into his arms, “Don’t cry, darling, please. You mustn’t distress yourself. Think of the child. Don’t cry. Don’t.”

“I’m sorry!” she sobbed, “I’m just so uncomfortable. So tired. I can’t sleep and all I want to eat is venison. I feel like my body isn’t my own any more. I just want it to be May. I want my body back!”

Henry was lost for words. “But darling,” he stuttered, “Surely it’ll all be worth it when you hold our boy in your arms. He must be a mighty strapping lad to give you such a fine belly so early.”

“I don’t care! I want him out!”

Marie began to wail as piteously as a child, as though she were Lionel when he had refused to take a nap and was overtired and fractious. Henry almost scolded her; she was a grown woman after all, but then he reminded himself of her condition and forced himself to be patient.

“All right, darling. All right,” he soothed, “I’m going to send for Dr Linacre. He can make you a calming draught and you can sleep for a while. And we’ll see if he can think of any way we can make you more comfortable.”

She sniffled and nodded into his chest. He held her gently, rocking her back and forth to keep her quiet, until Dr Linacre arrived.

 

[FalconHonour]

Greenwich, October 1523
​

“Now what?” Kathy snapped, stalking into the chambers she shared with George. He looked up at her, “What?”

“Don’t give me that. You know perfectly well what. You may have ignored it thus far, but even you can’t ignore this any longer. Your harlot of a ward has gone into confinement. With the King’s child!”

“So?”

“So? Her reputation’s ruined. We’ll never find a husband for her now. And the rest of us will be tainted by association. I told you you should have forbidden her from entangling herself with the King.”

“And I told you there was nothing we could do once he’d taken an interest. Kathy, will you please stop panicking? This is hardly a disaster. At least my sister’s with child as well.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that Honour is preening about York Place, flaunting a blatantly royal belly.”

“No, but it does keep Marie secure in a way an empty belly would not. We can still turn this to our advantage.”

“How? We’ll be stuck with Mistress Honour and her bastard. She’ll be a spinster, living off our charity. Unless you want to risk another Lady Tailboys incident?”

“Of course not! But the King’s an honourable man. He’ll realise he has to acknowledge Honour’s child, even if he otherwise wants it kept out of his sight.”

“If he was truly honourable, he’d never have sired the brat!”

“Touché. But you don’t think he’d be ready to be grateful to someone who was willing to look after his mistake and teach them to be loyal to Marie and her children in a way that Lady Tailboys never taught His Grace of Richmond to be?”

“What are you suggesting?” Kathy cut George a suspicious look and he shrugged, “How would you like a half-royal bride for Edmund one day? Or a half-royal groom for our oldest daughter, if it came to that?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s perfectly normal, isn’t it? To wed your wards to your heirs? I’d always planned to wed Siobhan or Bridget to Edmund, but now that you treat them like his sisters, I don’t think that’s going to work. We’ll have to find another bride for him.”

“And you want it to be Honour’s child, if it’s a girl?”

“Why not? Doesn’t it solve all the problems at once? We could neutralise Honour by marrying her off to one of our lesser relatives. One of the Sheltons, perhaps. And then we take the child as our ward, raise it on one of our Irish estates. Make sure it’s treated with dignity but also keep it out of the way of my sister and the King and their happy family life with the Princes and Princesses as they come along. The King would be grateful, I’m sure of it. I’m sure we’d get a generous pension towards the child’s upkeep, at the very least. And in twelve, fifteen years time, we tie our family to the King’s even more closely than it already is. We tie our family to the King’s in a way that will last even past my sister’s death or widowhood. What do you say to that, Kathy, darling?”

Kathy looked at her husband for a few moments and arched an admiring eyebrow.

“I don’t know why they always say your father and your uncle are the plotters in the family. They’ve obviously taught you well.”

 

[FalconHonour]

Greenwich, October 1523
​

When Edith Dudley brought Henry news that Dr Linacre had finished his examination of the Queen, he thanked her and immediately sent for the man to wait upon him.

“Thomas! What news of the Queen?” he called jovially, as soon as the other man appeared in his doorway.

“Sire,” Sir Thomas Linacre bowed, “I have given Her Majesty a sleeping draught laced with tears of the poppy for the pain. She is resting now and all seems to be progressing as one would expect in her condition.”

“Thank you, Thomas.” Henry beamed in gratitude, tossing the man an angel.

He caught it neatly, before venturing, “Sire, if I might?”

“Go on,” Henry waved a hand.

“I took the liberty of examining Her Grace once she had fallen asleep. It is my belief what she may be carrying more than one child in her womb.”

Henry’s jaw dropped, “More than one child?”

“Yes, Sire. Of course, until Her Majesty quickens, there is no way of knowing for sure, but my theory might explain why her belly is swelling so quickly and why she is experiencing such great discomfort.”

“By God, if this is true, Thomas, it would be the most joyous news in Christendom!”

“Aye, Sire, but I feel I must warn Your Grace, multiple births are always more dangerous than single births. The chances of your having to choose between the life of the mother and the life or lives of the children will be even higher than normal.”

“Nonsense. God will protect Marie and the children, I’m sure of it!” Henry leapt to his feet, riding high on a sudden surge of glorious confidence. Thomas Linacre bowed his head.

“I hope and pray so, Sire. But I warn you, even if, in His mercy, He sees fit to spare them all, He may not see fit to bless Your Majesties with another child, especially not given the difficulty of Prince William’s birth last year.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Henry said firmly, quashing his own doubts as he spoke, “A multiple birth is a sure sign of the Lord’s favour, Thomas. My children with Marie will usher in a golden world, I’m sure of it.”

“My Lord,” Dr Linacre bowed again and retreated as Henry waved him away. For his part, Henry called for a cloak and went out into the gardens, mind whirling with all he had been told.

 

[FalconHonour]

Greenwich, October 1523
​

“Papa!”

"Uncle Henry!"

Maria and Meg's excited voices broke into his musings and he swung round to see them pelting towards him. Lady Willoughby bustled along after them, trying to restrain them.

“Your Highness! Lady Margaret! You mustn't -"

“It’s all right, Lady Willoughby,” Henry chuckled, sweeping Maria up into his arms, “They're just happy to see me, aren't you?"

Maria nodded vigorously, nestling into his arms as he spun them in a slow circle, as he’d often done when she was very small. It had always made her giggle, even at little more than a year old.

Not so this time, however. She simply burrowed closer to him, as if she wanted to disappear into his embrace. Puzzled, Henry slowly rotated to a stop.

“Are you all right, my pearl? What’s wrong?”

“We didn’t get to see Mama this morning,” Maria pouted, “We always get to see her after our morning lessons, but Lady Bury said we couldn’t see her today. I wanted to see her.”

“I know, darling. But Mama’s tired because of your new sibling in her stomach. She needed to rest. That’s why you couldn’t see her.”

“Oh,” Maria answered, her little face clearing for an instant, “So it wasn’t because we were naughty. That’s good, because we weren't. We were very good, honest.”

Then, before Henry could respond with any more than a brief chuckle, Meg's brow furrowed in thought, “If the baby in Aunt Marie's belly makes her tired, does it make her sad, too?”

“Why do you ask that?” Henry countered, trying to keep his voice light, even as his heart clenched.

“Because she cries a lot," Maria said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, "She tries to hide it, but I know she does. Her eyes are all red. I know she cries when I can’t see.”

“Oh.”

“We need to make her happy again.”

“Yes. Yes, we do, sweetheart.”

“You should send for Aunt Anne and tell her to come back to Court. That would make Mama happy.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes. Aunt Anne’s her sister. Why wouldn’t seeing her make Mama happy?”