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Chapter Text

June 22, 1528, Hever Castle, England

The dark-haired Lady stands by the window-sill, looking down upon the field before her. Surrounded by a moat and spacious greens, Hever Castle is the ideal countryside retreat. For the woman, it is a place where she stews, fallen into the deepest of despair and fear; for England has fallen into a realm of chaos as sickness puts forth her rotten hand.

The sweating sickness, a companion of the previous King (the first of the House Tudor) as he arrived to take his throne, continues to wreak havoc on England and her people. Indeed, already, many in London have fallen ill and taken to their eternal rest. The disease continues to spread, and the woman waits for it to sink its claws into her. For her maid had taken ill only a few days past, and has already been called to her death.

The court, with its King and Queen, has already fled. The King, eager to leave his city, in fear of the disease, continues throughout the country on progress, while the Queen retires to Windsor, sufficiently far away from the bad humors of the city.

This Lady, housed at Hever, asks of God to deliver her, for she fears what may happen if she falls ill. The sweat spares few, and she knows naught what her royal beloved may do. For she is the Lady Anne, for whom the King Henry of England is willing to tear apart heaven and earth. He shall have her, and he is determined that she be his Queen, in the name of God and in his heart. His heart is already hers; all he now wishes for is to join with her in the eyes of God.

Anne turns from the window, her eye falling on the letter Henry has sent her. In it, he entreats her to remain careful of her health, and that he shall be reunited with her soon. He does not know yet, of the danger she is in. Hever Castle’s walls have been breached by the sweat, and even now, she may take ill. There is a knock on her door. A maid comes in, bending in obeisance. The Viscount Rochford, ever aware of his daughter’s increasing status in court, demands it.

“My lady, the meal has been served downstairs.”

Anne nods. “I shall be down shortly then.”

The maid departs, and Anne turns back to the window. Oh, how she longs for court! She misses the liveliness and the games of courtly love. For a woman grown up in the courts of France, and popular in the court of England, Hever is bland by comparison. She leaves her chambers in moments, for it is a simple meal at home. She does not require additional assistance to ensure she is properly attired. Her shift and petticoats are arranged in meticulous fashion, plain and simple, and she is attired in a black overcoat that hides them from sight. She does not bother, while away from home, to dress in elaborate gowns, such as is required at court. Her dark hair-an oddity between women of pale locks-is gathered back in a hairnet, and no hood to cover it. After all, at Hever, she is only in the presence of family.

At the table await her parents.

George, the heir to the title of Rochford, remains by the King’s side as he progresses, while Mary, married with two sweet children, remains with her husband at their estate. Anne acknowledges her parents and sits. Thomas Boleyn watches her with keen eyes, while Elizabeth watches with a furrow in her brow.

“You look pale, daughter.” Elizabeth is of Howard blood, and her sophistication is clear in her words. “Are you well?”

“But a little tired, Mother,” Anne responds. “It is nothing to concern yourself with.”

“On the contrary, Anne. The country is in peril, and we, with one of your maids taken ill, are in immediate danger.” Some of his worse thoughts remain unspoken. She is the King’s paramour, and if she loses her life, the Boleyn family loses any hope of moving upwards in society, closer to the King’s inner circle.

“I am well.” Anne is short, for her temper is easily provoked. “I feel most melancholy, and wish I could return to court.”

“Soon, daughter, soon. When the Sweat recedes, the King will return to London, and we shall join him there.”

The victuals are small in variety but plenty for the three. Freshly baked bread, a haunch of venison with rich gravy, and a custard pie and cake. It is plentiful, and to taste, but Anne finds she does not have much of an appetite. She picks at her portion, forcing herself to swallow more than a few mouthfuls, before she rises and excuses herself. Thomas and Elizabeth Boleyn watch her go with concerned expressions.

June 1528, Hunsdon House, England

King Henry may spend the nights at some nobleman’s home or his own royal property, but he spends the day outside, riding or hunting. It is believed that the country is the safest way to avoid the Sweat, and the King abides by it. Each day is spent with the court riding between new residences, and spending mornings and afternoons hunting. It is during supper that the King remains inside, indulging on the hospitability of his host.

Accompanying him are his men: the Duke of Suffolk, Sir Henry Norris, George Boleyn, and others. The inclusion of George Boleyn is the clear sign of the Boleyns’ favor with the King. It is true that in his fear, the King’s thoughts do not constantly remain with the Lady Anne, but he nonetheless faithfully sends her letters. In comparison, almost no letters are dispatched to Windsor, where the Queen resides.

The news out of London is grim. Every day thousands die, and the country weeps and prays for its lost.

The King drowns himself in the outdoors, but when news comes from Hever Castle, his worries shoot up tenfold. Lady Anne’s maid has taken ill, and the Lady is in danger.

On the 23rd of June, a bright sunny day, an ideal English summer day, comes the news the King and the Boleyn faction has been dreading.

Lady Anne has taken to her bed, and she has fallen prey to the sweat. The King retreats to his chambers after his afternoon meal, composing a letter, which he sends back with the messenger bound for Hever, along with his physician Dr.Butts. He is not willing to part with his chief physician, for in the end, it is the King’s health that must take priority. He is determined, however, that Lady Anne must have the best care possible under the circumstances and so away he sends Dr.Butts.

After his letter is composed, he kneels in his privy chamber, and prays. He prays for his own family’s safety, he prays for the life of the woman he intends to take as wife, and he prays for England’s respite from this terrible illness. When he rises from his prayers to God, the light is beginning to fade, and a supper has been laid out in the hall. He eats sparingly, worry roiling in his gut, and then chooses to retire early. His worry for his lady love will not allow him to rest, and so he determines to halt at Hunsdon for a few more days.

As he is retiring from the hall, accompanied by his gentlemen of the Privy Chamber, a sweaty messenger arrives, having ridden post-haste, to impart dire tidings to the monarch. One of his favored gentlemen, the Honorable William Carey has passed of the Sweat. Henry’s face shutters.

The losses for his royal person will not end, it seems, and God is determined to punish him, by making his people suffer.

George Boleyn, following him, turns pale, and grief colors his face. William Carey had been the husband of his sister, and hence, his brother-in-law. Even now, as his sister and father lie at Hever, at death’s door, another in the family has lost his life, and Mistress Carey is reduced to be a widow, a mother to two young children. He feels sadness for Mary, and even more pity for his young niece and nephew-only four and two in age. He excuses himself from the King’s presence, and returns to his chambers to pen a note to his mother; for Lady Elizabeth is certainly the only one that can be relied upon, while her husband and daughter lie ill, and her other daughter a widow. He also sends a missive to Grimston, where his wife remains, to watch over their estate.

He too prays, just as the King had done, for his family, and for their survival.

Not many in Hunsdon have a peaceful night of rest follow.

Hever Castle, England

Elizabeth Boleyn rises from her bed with the sun; her eyes are shadowed and face pale, and as she is dressed, dread rises up. She is fearful of opening the door to the rooms outside of her chamber, for she might hear of the death of her husband, or her daughter. One daughter is already grieving, and Elizabeth is not sure she could bear the burden of losing any other children.

She may have three living children for now, but she remembers her boys Henry and Thomas, lost far too young. They had been terribly small, her last, and she has never stopped grieving for them. She is scared that she might add another to her list of dead children; this time, it might be her Anne, her brilliant clever girl with her dark hair and onyx eyes. How Elizabeth has agonized over the years, parted from her when she was but a girl of five or six years, only for her to return from the French court as a young woman. In the end, the foreign sojourns have benefited her, but Elizabeth is not certain she will ever forgive Thomas for taking her child from her at such a tender age.

Her maid-the only one she allows by her person-opens the door and slips out. Elizabeth kneels by her bed, praying to God once again for her family’s deliverance from the havoc of this plague. By the time she is done with her devotions, the maid returns, and her face is pale. Elizabeth rises, her heart skipping a beat.

“By God, girl, what is it? What has happened?”

“Lady Anne’s condition has worsened!” the girl cries, her lip trembling.

“The good doctor has asked for her to be given the Last Rites.” Elizabeth’s hand flutters to her chest, where she can already feel it breaking.

“No!” It is a word uttered with scant breath, floating away in the silence of the castle. She cannot believe it. Not her Anne. Please, God, not her daughter!

The King has sent his second-best physician to tend to her child, but naught good it has done! She is dying, and Elizabeth may yet lose the third of her children that she bore in her womb and delivered into this cruel world. Isn’t the loss of her boys enough? Why must He, in all His wisdom, take her Anne as well?

“Send for the priest, quickly,” she whispers, and when the maid has left her alone, she sinks onto the bed, one of her hands clutching at the bed-post. The tears come, hot and burning, and Elizabeth, for all that she is a Duke’s daughter, of noble birth, cannot control them. It is the deepest fear of a mother, to see her child breathe their last, and God is not done with demanding suffering of her. She tries to control her breath, tries to stop her tears.

And slowly, she regains her composure, by which time the priest has been summoned and arrived. The maid informs her of this with teary eyes; she has been with them for a few years now, and become fond of Anne.

Elizabeth rises, adjusts her hood, and steps out to gaze one last time at her daughter, still breathing. The small window barely allows her to see her daughter, but there! Anne lies in bed, her face pale, her chest still rising and falling. That is all Elizabeth can glimpse before the priest blocks her view and gives her daughter her last rites, and no doubt asks her for her confession. Through the barred door, Elizabeth can hear nothing, and she turns away when the priest takes his leave, leaving behind a dying Anne.

It is done, and within hours no doubt, Elizabeth Boleyn will hear the news of her daughter Anne’s death. She walks away, moving towards the room where her husband lies; he too is in a serious condition. Thankfully, for the physician assigned to him, the news is slightly better. He has not deteriorated badly, and he may yet survive. She returns to her chamber, and pens a short missive, which will be later added on to. Abandoning the task after writing a few lines, Elizabeth prays. She prays for a miracle. There are no thoughts of the King in that moment, of the place Anne holds in his heart. There is no musing over what might happen to their rising star should they lose their means of it. No, Elizabeth prays for the survival of husband and daughter. She asks God to spare her family.

Elizabeth Howard Boleyn continues to pray as the day moves on.

June 26, 1528, England

The news comes the day the King decides to move the court to Hatfield.

Many have fallen ill and died, such as William Carey, yet many others have recovered. The King receives the Rochford liveried man in his privy chamber, his face revealing all his worry and fear. Standing in the room elsewhere are his gentlemen of the Privy Chamber, among whom George Boleyn is most eager. Has the Lord decreed a miracle, or has the Boleyn family been robbed of their head and beloved lady? The messenger bows.

“The Viscountess has bade me to inform me, Your Grace, that the Lord Rochford and the Lady Anne both have made miraculous recoveries.”

The King gasps in relief and mutters a thankful prayer to the Lord. “Indeed, it was grave, with my lady Anne having been given the last rites, but God, in his infinite wisdom, chose to spare her, and he did our Lord the Viscount.”

The King says, hoarse and joyful, “You have brought us the most welcome news, boy. Henry, give him compensation and a room in which he may rest.”

Henry bows and departs the Privy Chamber, the messenger following. He has done a job well, and gained the appreciation of his sovereign King.

George asks to be excused, and pens a letter to be sent to Hever. Unlike the one his mother left incomplete, his expresses the joy and relief he feels at having his father and sister safe. This letter reaches Hever, and is sent back with a ensuing reply. Not from Anne, for she is still weakened, but from his father. And so continues the summer.

From time to time, letters come from Ludlow, where stays the household of the Princess Mary, the King’s only surviving child, his heir. The entire court knows how relieved Henry is that Wales is far away and safer, for all that Mary is a girl, she is still the King’s only heir. If she died, then England would collapse. Messages also come and go from Hampton Court, where Wolsey holds his own court and continues the daily running of the government. And there are missives from Windsor, where the Queen has chosen to remain, informing the King of all goings-on. The plague continues, but it feels mildly less threatening.

For a months, almost two, it has ravaged the land, but it must die sooner rather than later. On the 28th of June, when the King has settled at Hatfield, comes the news of the death of William Compton, The King is again struck with melancholy, for he has lost another of his close companions.

And later that same evening comes another letter that changes the course of the country for years to come.

Chapter Text

June 29, 1528, Hever Castle, England

Anne has recovered sufficiently to move out of her bed and around the house. Much of the time, she can be found outside, soaking in the afternoon sun and enjoying the breeze that sweeps through. It does her good, to escape her sickbed and enjoy the simplicity of life in the country. Oft-times, her mother joins her, and the two sit in silence, or discuss matters related to court or family. One of the most important matters is that of Mary; she is a widow now, and it remains to be seen if her husband’s family will provide for her.

William Carey was deep in debt when he passed, and now the burden passes to his widow.

Anne is determined to help her sister, and her mother agrees. It only remains to be seen whether Thomas Boleyn will allow his daughter to be assisted, for in his mind, she is the concern of her husband’s family, and not his any longer. However, Anne holds the King’s heart in her palm, and he would not deny her anything, especially after her near escape from death. Her father will have to make do. Mary Carey will be supported, as soon as Anne is in the King’s presence again. She has mentioned the matter in her recent letter, sent off just this morning; she has felt strong enough to finally write back.

When she and her father are strong enough to withstand the travel, they will return to court. And there the King’s Great Matter will continue; if anything, Anne knows the uncertainty of the Sweat will only have strengthened his resolve to annul his marriage to his Spanish wife and marry again. He must have a son, a strong boy to inherit after him.

“Anne!”

She startles; her mother did not join her outside, opting instead to rest, and she was meant to be alone.

“Anne, there has been a missive from Windsor!”

She jolts up. Windsor. Windsor, where the Queen is. Her father stops across from her, a piece of parchment clutched tightly in hand.

“What is it? What does it say?”

“As you well know, I’d kept a man there to keep me abreast of-"

”For God’s sake, Father, I’m well aware. Tell me now, what does it say?”

Thomas lowers his eyes, before meeting her own; he looks serious. “The Queen,” he pauses, searching her gaze. “Has taken to her bed of the sweat.”

Hatfield House, England

Master Carey. Master Compton. Countless maids and groomsmen. And now, the sweat has claimed its highest victim: the Queen of England herself. King Henry, in an unusual display of weakness, had staggered back when the news was brought to him, shock and fear mingled together on his face.

Now, he remains in his Privy Chamber, alternating between prayer and writing letters-sent mainly to Wolsey and Windsor. The response to Lady Anne’s letter remains forgotten. He has more pressing matters of import.

He has wanted to set Catherine aside for another, for he knows he will no longer have a son by her. But the part of him that was but a young man, the one who had been infatuated with his brother’s bride, feels sadness and fear for her. He may lose his wife; England may lose its Queen. It is unthinkable to imagine, to know that she no longer breathes in this world, but has passed to her eternal rest. So he prays, for he does not wish for her to suffer. He feels sadness, not just on his account, but on behalf of their Mary. She loves her mother dearly, and no one can ever doubt Catherine of Aragon’s encompassing devoted love for her daughter.

Even now, Catherine may be drawing her last breath. The message sent had been grim; it said the Queen had rapidly become worse, and her fever was high, only within hours of feeling ill. Their daughter might be motherless, as he was once, after the death of his mother Queen Elizabeth. It is the thought of Mary, more than anything else, that makes his eyes burn with tears. His poor child.

“Your Majesty?” He looks from where his gaze had fixated upon the wood, and sees Henry Norris in the doorway. The man bows. “Your Majesty, I am loath to interrupt you and yet…”

“Is there news from Windsor?”

“No, Your Majesty.” He falls silent, unsure on how to proceed. “I have done as you asked. The messenger is on his way to Windsor even now.”

Oh, yes. Henry has dispatched another of his physicians to Catherine’s side; she is the Queen, and although she has her own physician, he would feel at ease if one of his own were overseeing it. Surely…suddenly, Henry realizes the absurdity of his own situation. Only but a few days ago, he had rejoiced at the miracle God had bestowed upon him, by ensuring Anne recovered from the illness, saving her from the very throes of death. He surely blessed their future union, for why else would He protect Anne the way he had? Anne is meant to be Queen of England, to be his wife, to give him the heir he so desperately needed. He was willing to do anything for her, and he would start by setting aside his barren current Queen. After all, had their marriage truly ever been legitimate, when she had been his brother’s widow and not a virgin on their wedding night? Now, he is praying that she survives. Henry knows that it would be much easier to marry Anne if he were a widower, and the Sweat…the Sweat has…even to himself, he cannot voice the thoughts running amok in his mind.

“Leave us be, Norris,” he commands, and the man bows and withdraws. Henry is alone again.

His regret is fine enough company.

Windsor Castle, England

The Queen’s rooms are silent as death, with the few ladies cloistered there trembling in fear and anguish for their mistress. Most of the ladies-in-waiting have been dismissed, for the Queen in her kindness wished them to be with their family in times of such uncertainty. It is only the maids-of-honor that remained, and some attendants to see to the Queen’s every need. There is a high chance that they all will become ill, but it is a risk the loyal are willing to take.

And of course, ever present is the Queen’s most loyal lady.

For the Baroness Willoughby, it is a scene reminiscent of more than twenty years ago. María de Salinas remembers those days when they had resided in Ludlow Castle. The future had seemed so bright then; they had arrived safely to their new home, and Catherine was wed to the Prince of Wales. Ludlow was a living reminder of the destiny of the youngest daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella. She was to be Queen of England, be at Arthur’s side and build a magnificent Tudor dynasty.

María remembers that spring day when all hopes and dreams had crumbled. Arthur fell ill, and then Catherine herself. María had been at her side then, and she remains by her side now. She had been the Princess of Wales then, and woken to find herself a widow, with her husband having attained his eternal rest. And yet, even in times of uncertainty, Catherine’s will had remained strong, and María had continued to serve her, believing in her mistress’s dreams.

When Henry the new King had come to Durham House, proposing marriage, all their travails and sufferings had ended, and Catherine finally received the crown of Queen of England that was her destiny. Katherine the Queen had been ill once before and she had survived, and so she must survive this as well. María prays for deliverance and for the life of her beloved Queen.

She is not a fool; she has played the games of court for many a year. She knows that this new dalliance the King engages in is different from the others. Her Queen, and her position, is in real danger. Not only Catherine, but Mary also is at risk of losing her position as Princess of Wales. His Majesty has not bestowed her officially with the title, but her household sent to Ludlow is a clear sign of his intent. She is heir to his throne, she is the future Queen regnant. She is more than capable, but the King seems determined to have a male heir; thus all the fuss over Mistress Boleyn.

There is a stir from the bed, breaking through the troubled thoughts in her mind. María abandons her position in the corner and kneels at the Queen’s side, taking her clammy hand in hers.

“Your Majesty?” It is dangerous to be so close, according to the physicians, but María would die a thousand times over before abandoning her mistress. Catherine’s eyes flutter open, and she turns her head with difficulty. When her gaze lands on María, something like a smile quirks her lips.

“Sweet María," she says, in Spanish. “Have you remained by my side still?”

“I would never leave you alone, my Queen. My place is by your side, doing whatever you command of me,” the Baroness Willoughby answers, in the same language.

“Sweet María,” Catalina says again.

Her hand comes to rest on her lady-in-waiting’s cheek. After a moment, the hand drops and Catalina turns away, breathing heavy. She is still in the grip of the fever, with the physicians’ faces growing longer every time they treat her. María de Salinas stays kneeling at her mistress’s side, the harsh breaths taunting her, all while the continued rise and fall of the Queen’s chest comforts her. Catalina will not die. The battle is not yet over, and neither is the war.

Hampton Court Palace, England

There is a knock on his door in the late afternoon. Wolsey lays down his feather, and bids the visitor enter. One of his manservants set foot inside his study, bent in obeisance.

“Speak, man.” He is anxiously awaiting a message from Windsor. One of his informants in the Queen’s retinue has sent him daily notes regarding the Queen’s doings, ever since the King’s Great Matter had begun. With the news of Catherine of Aragon taking ill, those notes became all the more important.

In his long road to be a consummate politician, Wolsey has learned information is the most valuable weapon one can wield. Countries can rise and fall on the basis of few sentences. Marriages can be broken if the answer is just ‘aye’ or ‘nay’. Whichever man gets his hand on this elixir, is the one who controls the destinies of thousands. The death of its Queen holds great ramifications for England. If…if Catherine of Aragon passes into God’s embrace, the King is free to take a new wife, and father the Prince of Wales he so desperately needs. Princess Mary may be a healthy child, but she is the only heir and a girl besides; England could fall into chaos should she come to the throne.

There is self-service in Wolsey’s thoughts as well; he is not a fool. Should he fail to grant the King his divorce, his ascendancy will fall, for the King’s pleasure is a fickle thing. One moment, you may be part of his inner circle, privy to his most private thoughts, and the next, jailed in the Tower or exiled to some ramshackle country house. For someone like Wolsey, the man only second to the King in power, the price of failing is the price of his life. The King, before the Sweat began, had shown signs of discontentment at the slow pace of Wolsey’s work. The plague may have given him some reprieve, but he knows he will not have that leniency again. He will succeed in procuring a bull of the annulment, or his days at court are numbered.

The servant hands over the sealed parchment, and Wolsey takes it into his possession and is left alone again. He sets it in front of him, hesitates, and then breaks the wax seal.

My lord Chancellor, The Queen’s condition deteriorates daily. My source tells me the physicians have lost any hope of her recovering. It is said that instructions for a funeral and burial have already begun. It will not be long.

It is a succinct note, but Wolsey smiles with satisfaction. Oh, indeed, it is a sorry thing that the mighty Catherine of Aragon should fall to the Sweat, she who has survived wars and miscarriage and the birthing bed seven times. She, who was born the daughter of monarchs, brought to death by fever. Wolsey feels sorry for the King; the loss of his wife of almost twenty years will be a bitter blow, no matter how much he wished to set her aside. And of course, there is the young Princess Mary as well, who will no doubt be devastated at the loss of her mother. The Sweat has wreaked havoc, killing thousands, and it is determined to take the highest lady of the land as well. Wolsey cannot fight against God’s will. He pulls out a fresh sheaf of paper and begins to write a note to one of his clerks. The work of governing the country is never done. The Crown must prepare.

June 30, 1528, Windsor Castle

Cardinal Wolsey is by no means a kind master, but he does pay well. And for that payment, he gets the information he wants and needs. The stable boy in his service has managed to befriend a maid in the Queen’s household. From this network of maids and stableboys and such, the news spreads across the country. First to the King and to Wolsey, then to Hever Castle, where the young Lady Anne awaits, to York, to Canterbury, to the Northern lands. Queen Catherine is dying of the Sweat. There is naught that can be done for her.

The royal rooms stink of death. Catherine’s fever has continued to increase, and of last night, she has begun mumbling in her sleep, unaware of her surroundings. María de Salinas is by her side constantly, as is the Lady Elizabeth Darrell. The two women care for their queen diligently, assisted by the few maids that remain. Everyone knows it will not be long. The curtain separating the bedchamber from the privy chamber is brushed aside as the physician enters to conduct his daily examination of the Queen. Lady Willoughby rises from where she has been sponging Katherine’s face, trying to keep the fever down, and gives him the space he requires.

A few minutes later, he turns to face María, his face grave. “It will not be long,” he says, gently. “It is best for Her Majesty to receive unto herself the last rites.” Tears spring to the gentlewoman’s eyes.

“Is there nothing you can do?”

“If I could, Lady Willoughby, I would. But the Queen is past my power of help, and even I must surrender to the will of God, who beckons for his most loyal child to be returned unto Him.”

“Thank you, Doctor. The Queen would be grateful for the care you provide her, even though she cannot express it so now.”

“Her Majesty’s kindness is well known,” is his answer, and he tilts his head and leaves the chamber.

María calls for one of the maids. The young woman enters, her face pale. They must have some inkling, surely, of what is coming.

“Send for the priest,” she tells her, and the girl blanches.

It is only after María sends her a glare that she hurries to carry out her given task. It is not an enviable task; it is the worst news that could have been given. The final anointing means that the ill is already halfway to death’s door, and there is naught to be done. María can feel the grief begin to settle in her bones. She has been with her Spanish Infanta for more than twenty years. They both had been young girls; so naïve and bursting with excitement at the sight of England’s shores and the thought of the marriage to Prince Arthur. When the new King had come to their home, proposing marriage…how they celebrated! Catherine had won, finally; she was to be Queen of England as her destiny had ordained. Now, her time as Queen is at an end.

María can only ask the Lord for her safe deliverance into His arms, and she can promise her mistress that her daughter will be well-cared for. Yes, she can do that. María resolves that as long as she should live, she will do anything and everything to further Princess Mary’s cause as Princess and future Queen.

“I promise,” she whispers, bending close to Catherine’s bedside. “I promise, for as long as I breathe, I will do everything to see your daughter take her rightful throne. It is my only duty from this moment forth, and I will do it with pride and honor.” María de Salinas has been by Catherine of Aragon’s side since her journey to becoming Queen began. She will be there when it ends. Her head remains bowed; she prays.

July 1, 1528, Windsor Castle

It is the slightest of changes in breathing that alerts Lady Willoughby. She immediately straightens, tilting her ear closer to catch any words the Queen might say. When none are forthcoming, she turns to the outer chamber and calls for one of the ladies to fetch the physician. The sudden rustle of skirts informs her the command is being fulfilled, and she turns back to Catherine.

The sun is just rising and through the gap in the heavy curtains, beams of sunlight pattern the floor. An early morning mass, subdued in light of the grim happenings in the castle, will most likely be taking place. None of that matters to María de Salinas right now. She grips her mistress’s hands in her own, and squeezes.

Her voice cracks as she speaks, “My queen?” There is the faintest of pressures from the fingers she is clutching; the only indication that Catherine has heard her. “Your Majesty, what is it?”

Catherine’s eyes open slowly; she does not seem aware of her companion, instead fixing her gaze in a far corner. Her mouth opens and she exhales, the word a whisper on her breath. “Mother.”

María begins to weep. “Your Majesty, the physician will be here…I am here!” She brings Catherine’s hand to her lips. “Catalina...” Catherine’s gaze has swiveled to her now; Maria meets it with her own and is blessed by a faint smile. She turns away again, and in the periphery, María can hear the commotion as the physician presumably arrives in the Queen’s apartments.

“Mary…my sweet child...” Catherine breathes out. 

She does not speak again. Her eyes remain open; that lovely blue…like the sky on a sunny cloudless day. Her chest does not rise with a breath again. When the physician enters the Queen’s bedchamber, it is to find Lady Willoughby clutching her mistress’s hand, weeping piteously. All in the vicinity can hear her sobs, and they know. Catherine of Aragon, the daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella, the wife of Henry Tudor, mother to the precious Mary, beloved of her subjects, has passed into the hands of God.

England is no longer possessed of its Queen.

Chapter Text

July 4, 1528, Tyttenhanger House 

Three days after the Queen’s death, the King’s secretary writes to Cardinal Wolsey. Since the news of the death at Windsor Castle, the King has withdrawn from public, remaining in his apartments at Tyttenhanger House. His reaction after receiving the news is unlikely to ever slip Heneage’s mind; how melancholy it had been.

When the King took in his hands the paper, his hands shook; his exclamation upon reading the words is notable: “He in all His wisdom has taken from this Earth a goodly woman! And yet now we are free.” There is no doubt in any courtier’s mind who-and what-he speaks of.

George Boleyn dashes off a letter to Hever Castle, reserved in his behavior as is appropriate. The time for jubilance is not yet arrived; England has lost its Queen, and their family has not yet become a victor. The King allows only his closest companions to attend to him, and thus George takes to riding the grounds in the mornings and keeping his eyes and ears open for rumors and gossip in the evenings. Knowledge is the most powerful weapon a courtier can have; this is a lesson he has learned well from his father and uncle.

The reason for the secretary’s letter is revealed soon; the King sends his good regards to his chancellor, who it is rumored is also ill with the sweat. The King descends even further into sadness. He has lost his Queen, and he might lose his right-hand man, the man who truly runs the country. The entire court waits with bated breath to see what will occur next. There are still some in the retinue at Tyttenhanger who have taken ill, and they are watched with hawk-like eyes. The King is at risk, and his royal person must be protected with all might.

The King also sends one of his physicians to Ludlow Castle, where his precious daughter resides; the messenger carrying the dreaded message has commands from the King to the physician, demanding that the Princess be kept in the best of health.

George, in the periphery, gathers all this information and sends it to Hever Castle. His father will make good use of it.

The midnight after the Fourth of July, the King attends a subdued Mass, where the priest prays for the soul of the late Queen. His groom Heneage is the one who hears him whisper his own prayers for his late wife. It is a moment of startling vulnerability from the monarch, especially considering his affection for Katherine had cooled. Immediately after receiving the news of her death, he had announced that there would be forty days of court mourning, with masses arranged to pray for her soul. There will be no state funeral, but he is determined to do right by his late wife.

Henry is the first to accept communion, and he retires to his privy chamber. He summons George Boleyn to his side as he does so. The courtiers take note; the Boleyns are still in favor, it seems. Once ensconced in his privy chamber, Henry dismisses most of the servants. Only two are allowed to stay, tasked with making the King comfortable and pouring wine for his companion Master Boleyn.

Henry takes a sip of his wine before speaking. “We have been busy, George, or we would have summoned you sooner.” George tilts his head in acknowledgement. “How is your sister?”

Ah, so that is why he has been summoned. “She is well, Your Majesty, and getting stronger every day.”

“Thanks be to God. Is she well enough to accept our letter and write back?”

“She would be delighted to have Your Majesty write to her. Our mother the Lady Rochford tells me she misses you greatly, and wishes for a token of your appreciation and affection. It would comfort her a great deal.”

Henry smiles. “We too miss her greatly. As soon as is possible, we must make the journey to Hever Castle.”

“Our family would be honored to host you.”

“And Lord Rochford? How does he fare?”

“He is faring well, Your Majesty. He too wishes to return to court, and to your side, as soon as possible.”

“We will be glad to accept him.” He waves the man away. “You may leave us.”

George backs out of the presence chamber, straightening when he is outside. He double-checks his doublet and strides away. Anne still holds the King’s attention. He is eager to reunite with her and flames of passion are alight within him. It is likely they might win the war. Not all hope is lost.

Henry summons Heneage to his side. “Have our well-wishes been sent to Cardinal Wolsey? It is our hope he is well.”

“Indeed they have been, Your Majesty. As soon as a response is received, I will ensure it is before you.”

“Very well. You may go.”

Heneage retreats, and Henry is once again alone. It is a familiar feeling, despite being surrounded by people who exist to follow his every beck and call. The plague has taken so many that reside close to his heart, and it seems the loneliness will not abate. Perhaps it is the fate of a King: to be alone despite being surrounded by others.

July 7, 1528, Hever Castle, Norfolk

Anne takes her morning meal in her chamber; Thomas and Elizabeth Boleyn take theirs in the dining hall. Once her plate is mostly empty (her appetite is slowly growing, but she still finds food to be repulsive on some days), she sits at her desk and pulls out parchment and ink. Since her recovery, she has received various letters, including one from the esteemed Cardinal Wolsey. She writes him a response, thanking him for his kind wishes. She owes him that much courtesy, and even though it rankles, she signs off as his humble and obedient servant, Anne Boleyn.

In truth, she does not think she can ever forgive him for how he interfered and ended the understanding between herself and Henry Percy. She is happier now than she had been then; after all, she is the woman King Henry is in love with, and she is in love with him too.

But she cannot easily forget that first flush of young love. Henry Percy had charmed her easily, and it had gone quickly from a game of courtly love to what she had hoped would turn into a love for a lifetime. And no doubt it was a advantageous marriage: if it had gone through, she would have been Countess of Northumberland. Thanks to Wolsey, it never came to be. She will never forget this slight easily. For that alone, she would gladly watch Wolsey fall from his pedestal. She can guess that had he failed to get the Pope to annul Henry’s marriage, she would have seen his fall from grace, perpetuated by Henry himself.

With Katherine’s death however, the need a divorce is unnecessary. Her Henry is a free man, and free to wed again. She ponders over her letter once more, before setting it aside to be sent to the Cardinal later. She turns her side to the stack of letters sent by George.

Her brother has been diligent in keeping Hever up to date with court happenings, and she is thankful for him. There is not much of import; the court is at a standstill, engulfed in mourning Katherine. The King has retreated from public and mourns his wife privately. She wonders if it would be welcomed if she sent him a letter expressing condolences.

She has other matters she wishes she could discuss with him as well. Her sister wallows in widowhood, with her late husband’s family refusing to give her the respect and dignity she deserves. They threaten to take away her children, for they do not wish to ‘taint’ the Carey name any further. William Carey had been kind, but his family has always seen their marriage as an insult. After all, Mary is known as the ‘Great Whore’. The Careys wish to keep her children far from her, so that they are not influenced by their mother. The very thought of separation makes Anne’s blood boil. How can they be so cruel as to separate a mother from her beloved children, and only because she was pushed into Kings’ beds on the orders of her father and uncle.

She hopes Henry is receptive to her concerns, and that he can ensure Mary remains with her children.

As of now, Anne is willing to do anything for her sister’s happiness.

In the afternoon, Anne steps out for a walk in the garden. The physician seemed to think it dangerous, but Elizabeth Boleyn has seen how it does her daughter good. Anne knows that the physician has been banned by the mistress of the house from advising against the time spent in fresh air. In her chamber, her maid-newly placed in her service-helps Anne with her outdoor shoes and hood. The parasol is brought out; it is bright and sunny, a beautiful Norfolk afternoon.

To her surprise and delight, as she comes downstairs, she finds Thomas ready and waiting, evidently joining her on her excursion outside. He holds out his arm, she takes it, and together they walk out to the garden. The heels of her shoes sink into the grass and her gown’s train drag behind her; yet Anne feels free, the sun against her face, a breeze brushing past, birds chirping in the trees. Court has its own thrills, but country life is peaceful and invigorating. She feels much stronger. She has recovered so well that to anyone who had not seen her might have thought her illness false.

“How fare you, Father? Does the cough still bother you?”

“I am getting stronger every day, and you know it well, Anne.” He smiles, indulgent of her teasing. “I was told you were sending letters. Where, if I may inquire?”

Another might demur and refuse to answer, but Anne has learned her lessons well. Together, no one can get the better of them. The reason the Boleyn family has succeeded at court is because they have all worked together, for better or worse. For them, family is first, and its loyalty is absolute.

“The Cardinal Wolsey very kindly enquired about my health. It would be rude not to reply.”

“You are the epitome of a gracious lady, my daughter. It is a wise move.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Thomas gazes into the distance; he seems to be collecting his thoughts. Taking a deep breath, he speaks. “I know you dislike him, Anne, although I think it unwise to make an enemy of him.”

“You do not care for him, either, Father. There is no need to pretend otherwise.”

“Anne,” he says, gravely. “The Queen is dead. There is no need for a papal court or a divorce. Wolsey has been discharged of that duty.”

“I do not…”

“It means, Anne, that you…we…will be in close scrutiny.” He meets her eyes. “You are the King’s sweetheart. He would do anything to have you. Now, his path to wed the woman he loves is clear.”

“You think…I would be Queen?”

“Is that not the goal? Has it not always been?”

“But now that he’s widowed, he might want to wed a woman with royal blood.”

“You have royal blood too, my daughter. You are no less…indeed, you are finer than many Queens this world has known.”

“You flatter me, Father.”

“Do not make an enemy of Wolsey. He is the King’s right hand, and we must tread carefully. Do you understand, Anne?”

“I understand perfectly well. Has George sent you any letters? Anything perhaps that he might not have mentioned to me?”

“The King is cloistered away, but that is it. The court is at a standstill.”

Anne nods and looks away, towards the horizon. There is no summons yet from court, nor does the physician think they are sufficiently recovered to make the journey. She wonders how the atmosphere will have changed; for the Queen is dead now, and her shadow will not hang over them, taunting and dangerous. It is likely, too, that the King will marry again. And the obvious candidate will be herself.

“Shall we send for a seamstress?” she asks, suddenly struck by the possibilities that await her.

Her father thinks over it for a moment. “I think not. We must appear humble when we return court. If we do not, your reputation in the people’s eyes will only worsen.”

“They would not-“

“You know how they feel about you already, Anne. We must not give anyone ammunition. We will remain humble, every inch the King’s servants, until he himself deems that we be raised up.”

She nods in understanding. She does not speak again, indicating that she has no desire to speak on it any further. All she can do is hope the King sends for her, and that when he does, their fortune will be made.

July 9, 1528, Ludlow Castle, Wales

In the three years since her father the King sent her to the Welsh Marshes, the young Princess has blossomed. She has always been a precocious intelligent child, but she has grown into a young adolescent-clever, witty, and just. For her mother, her child’s success in academics is proof that she is more than capable of being England’s queen. The girl’s desire to make her parents proud and to achieve the ultimate dream: the English throne, spurs her to strive for excellence. The people of Wales adore her; every day after Mass, a crowd gathers just to catch a glimpse. For them, she is the Princess of Wales, their future Queen. It is an honor to be in her presence.

There are rumors from court, of deteriorating relations, a bewitching lady, of annulment proceedings. At Ludlow Castle, it matters not.

Lady Margaret Pole, bequeathed the charge of the Princess Mary when she was but a babe, folds the missive she has received and dismisses the manservant. She kneels at her prie-dieu and utters a quick prayer for the soul of the woman Margaret has long considered to be her mistress and friend. She has known Katherine since she arrived in England, a young girl ready to wed Arthur the Prince of Wales. To know that her soul has ascended to the heavens; that she no longer breathes, is no longer on this Earth, is a knowledge painful to bear. Even worse is the knowledge that the now widowed King expects her to break the news to the now motherless Mary.

Margaret grieves to give her the news; the Princess will be devastated to hear of the demise of her most beloved mother. As the only living child Katherine had been blessed by, the Queen had put all her efforts into ensuring that her daughter was reared to be a Queen. Mary, on her side, has always been deeply devoted to her mother, sending letters and embroidery while at Ludlow, and spending most of her time in the Queen’s apartments while at court.

Margaret Pole rises.

This is not the first time she has faced grief in her life; besides, Plantagenet blood runs through her veins, and she will act with the dignity befitting one with royal blood. The King her kinsman has given her this duty, and she will carry it out.

The young mistress of the castle is in her chambers, praying. Ever since the spread of the plague, they have been sequestered in the castle, taking all care to ensure the health and safety of the inhabitants.

A kind girl-with a gentle heart that ached for her subjects-Mary has begun to spend her days at her prie-dieu, praying to God to spare her countrymen from this scourge and also for Him to preserve their Graces the King and Queen from ill health.

It breaks her heart to disrupt her from her penance and give her the news that will change her world forever.

Since her birth, Mary has been beloved by her parents. She is their first surviving child, and her health and vitality were of the utmost importance to Henry and Katherine. She may not have been the much desired son, but she was still the Tudor dynasty’s only legitimate heir. It was unlikely Queen Katherine would ever bear another child, and thus Mary was protected most dearly by her parents and entourage. Katherine’s death changes it all.

Margaret has heard the rumors; everyone knows the King has taken fancy of a young woman in court, and that the matter will not finish when he makes her his mistress. Mistress Anne Boleyn has determinedly avoided that fate, insisting that she will not participate in anything untoward that besmirches her virtue. The King is so determined to have her, to make her his, that for the past few months, there have been rumors that he will petition the Pope for an annulment. The Pope was unlikely to ever grant it; but Katherine is dead now, and Henry is a widower. He is free to take another wife, and sire a son by her. If he has a boy, Mary is unlikely to ever become Queen of England-as her mother so desired for her.

She enters the chambers of the Princess, and finds her seated embroidery in hand. Mary looks up at the rustle of skirts, and her face brightens when she sees her governess.

“Lady Salisbury,” she greets. “Is there news of import?”

Mary has no idea her mother had been ill; the King had strictly forbade it, for fear it might damage her health. Besides, Katherine’s rapid deterioration had been unexpected; everyone expected the daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella to fight the illness with all her might. Privately, Margaret thinks Katherine was far more tired than she let on-her failure to bear sons and her deteriorating marriage had taken a heavy toll on the Queen.

“Indeed, Your Highness. I must ask that you remain calm.”

Instantly, fear clouds the girl’s face. Her knuckles turn white as she clutches the embroidered cloth, but she does not utter a word. She only gazes at Lady Salisbury in mingled fright and anticipation.

“The King your father has written you. He thought it best that the news come from his own words.” Mary does not say anything. “Around a fortnight ago, Your Highness, the Queen your mother took ill. The plague,” Margaret whispers, answering Mary’s wordless query. “It was…very quick. The physicians did everything they could but-“

“No!” Mary bursts out. She is up on her feet, embroidery thrown to the floor, hands in fists. “No, do not speak any further, Lady Salisbury! I will not hear another word of these lies!”

“Your Highness, I would not dare lie to you. It is the truth, I am sorry.”

“No…no…”

“Come sit, Your Highness.”

Salisbury wraps an arm around her charge’s shoulders and gently seats her in her chair. Then she herself takes to the adjacent chair. Mary dissolves into tears and buries her face against Salisbury’s shoulder, her entire body shaking with grief. Margaret does her best to hold onto her and soothe her. Losing a parent is difficult for anyone, but for Mary, who enjoyed a abnormally close relationship with her own mother, it must be unbearable. She wonders idly if Mary will come to realize how Katherine’s demise affects her own security in the line of succession. Having become a widower, Henry is now free to wed again-and no will doubt him for it, for England needs a male heir, no matter how suitable Mary is. There is already a suitable candidate, as rumors from the court indicate; suitable for the King, although not for his advisors, who will push for a foreign match. Lady Anne Boleyn must be delighted, Margaret thought; her ambitions would finally come true if the King stayed infatuated with her. How terrible, that He should her with such an honor, and take Katherine from this life in which she had done such good.

“I want…” Mary gulped, and Margaret’s attention returned to her. “I wish to see my mother.”

“I’m afraid that is not possible, Your Highness.”

“I wish to see her. During her funeral, I can be there. I am her daughter; I must be by her side.”

“It would take many days to travel, Your Highness, and your father is adamant that you remain here. Your health is of the utmost importance to him.”

“I will write to him then. He cannot deny me this. I will write, and he will grant me permission to mourn at my mother’s funeral.”

“Your Highness, there will be no funeral.”

The details of the demise of the Queen have broken her heart; a Queen such as Katherine deserved the greatest of honors. She deserved to lie is state, to have her people mourn her, and she deserved to have her burial in a great cathedral-forever venerated as Queen of England. A woman of her esteem deserved nothing less than a grand funeral, and instead she received one conducted in great haste.

“What do you mean? My mother’s soul…she will need to be interred properly-What do you mean by no funeral?” Mary’s voice has risen again, and she is white in the face but for her blushing cheeks in fury.

In that moment, Margaret is reminded viscerally of a young Henry in the throes of a temper.

“The Queen was taken by the sweating sickness…and to avoid the risk of others falling ill, the physicians advised that she be buried as soon as possible.” No response comes. “Her Majesty was buried in St. George’s Chapel the day after her passing.”

Mary’s face is shadowed with horror. “And my father allowed this impugnment?”

“He had given orders to ensure that the spread of the disease was controlled, Your Highness. The physicians did what they believed was best, in an effort to follow his commands.”

“Nay, it cannot be…you lie, Lady Salisbury…”

Mary is in denial. Salisbury is out of her depth, unsure how to comfort her. It is a worse than shock; it is the complete breakdown of an otherwise jolly life for the only Princess England is blessed with. All she can do is take the young girl into her arms and provide comfort. God took the kind gracious Queen, and left behind is a husband who eyes his future prospects with a hungry eye, and a daughter utterly inconsolable at the loss of her one constant. 

July 11, 1528, Ludlow Castle

The Princess has taken to bed in her grief, whisper the servants.

Mary knows they gossip about her state, her weakness, her inability to face the future which lies before her, but she cares not. Her mother is dead. How can she be expected to continue as though it were not fact? As she is ruminating in her thoughts, the door to her chambers opens. Lady Salisbury glides in, bending down in obeisance before straightening, her face set in stern lines.

“I have been told you are not feeling well, Your Highness.”

From anyone else, it would be an inquiry, a way of showing concern, but with Lady Salisbury, it is the opposite. She sounds disappointed. Mary sits up, pulling her robe tighter around her. Her companions stand in the corners, looking nervous. Lady Salisbury is a kind loving woman, but when disappointed, she is not someone to be crossed. Mary, however, does not care for her governess’ disappointment. In truth, her emotions have gone from shock, to denial, to anger. Yes, she is angry. Angry that God would take her beloved mother from her, angry that the physicians did not do enough, angry that she was not allowed to see her one last time.

“We are in mourning, Lady Salisbury,” she responds coldly. Her governess frowns, just for a brief moment. “I trust it is not something you take offense to?”

Oh yes, she is indeed her parents’ daughter. Margaret is well acquainted with that anger, that fiery righteous anger Tudors carry in their blood. She has seen the pride too-for Katherine had been the same. It was that pride that had kept her head up all through the years she languished at Durham, abandoned by her father and ignored by the English court. Mary has inherited the best of her parents, and then some.

“I do not take offense at all. It is only natural that you grieve, Your Highness, for you have lost your dearly beloved mother. I only…”

“Then you will not object to my taking to the bed? This grief makes me unwell, and I wish to rest.”

“Leave us.” Salisbury’s command has all of the girls fluttering away, leaving Mary alone with Margaret. She understands Mary’s grief, she does; but she does not think Mary herself understands what awaits her now. For all that she is clever, Mary is but a young girl, with too little experience to understand the politics already at play.

“Speak plainly, Lady Salisbury. What is the meaning of this?”

“I know you grieve, but you must keep in mind this: your position is now more unstable than ever.”

“My position? I am the King’s daughter, there is nothing…”

“And there you speak with little experience.” Margaret steps forward to sit by Mary’s side, taking her hands into her own. Mary clutches at her, her mouth pursed. “You see, until now, you were the King’s only heir. His Princess of Wales, the future Queen.”

“And I still am, am I not?”

“Not for long. The King, now that he is a widower…will be required to wed again. And he will do so, to produce a male heir, regardless of how much he loves you.”

“But I am the future Queen.”

“You cannot say and make it so. Therefore, Your Highness, if you wish to fulfill your late mother’s wish that you become Queen of England, you must not allow yourself to drown in grief. Try to spend your energies elsewhere, in proving to your father that you are the only heir he needs. Your mother believed in you and your ability, and now your duty must be to convince your father the King of this.”

Mary stares in silence, tears brimming in her eyes. Margaret sits beside her, quiet but comforting. It is all she can do right now. 

Chapter Text

Late July 1528, Palace of Placentia, England

The anticipation is palpable. The court, influenced by the mood of the King, is bubbling with excitement, waiting eagerly for a carriage to arrive at the palace. It carries his beloved Lady Anne, miraculously saved by the hand of God. She had been at death’s door, but He had saved her. And now she returns to him; when he will greet her, for the first time in two months, he will be a free man, free to serve her and love her the way she deserves.

It is that thought that sends anticipation flying down his spine. She could be his wife now, with no impediments.

As if on cue, there is a knock on his privy chamber door, and a page steps in, bowing. “The Boleyns’ carriage has been spotted, Your Majesty. They will arrive soon.”

Henry springs to his feet. “Lead the way, man! I will greet and welcome her myself!”

The page leads the way out, followed by the King and a Gentleman of his Privy Chamber.

They arrive in the courtyard just as the carriage comes into view, and Henry breaks into a smile. It is so close, their moment of reunion. He can just imagine her; cheeks flushed, eyes bright, all alight with joy and energy. She is such a bright soul, his Anne. Too bright to be snuffed from this world. He wishes her quips to fall on his ear, for her hand in his, for her smiles to be gifted only to him. He puts his hands behind his back, nervous suddenly to behold his sweetheart’s face. He feels like a young boy again, feeling the first flutters of love in his heart.

The carriage door opens, agonizingly slowly. Lady Elizabeth is the first to step out. She seems startled to find him standing before her, before schooling her features and bending down.

“Your Majesty,” she greets, and then steps aside.

Immediately, Henry’s eyes are drawn to the figure stepping out of the carriage, like a moth to a flame. The atmosphere becomes even more charged, and Henry’s heartbeat goes faster as Lady Anne Boleyn steps out; her royal admirer feels his breath stop when he lays eyes on her for the first time in months. She is dressed in a fine gown of green silk, her kirtle made of the darkest blue. Her hood is carefully embroidered with seed pearls; she has pinned a gold brooch to her gown, complementing her beloved pearl necklace. Her hands, long and pale, are clasped together, and when she sees Henry, her mouth quirks up in a bewitching smile.

Oh, that smile! How he has longed for it; to see her lips move, to see the blush of life on her cheeks, to see her eyes dip from his as she bends into a curtsy. Oh, those dark eyes that watch and see into his soul! So enchanting and rare, so hypnotizing. In a court filled with pale girls, his Anne is the unrivalled beauty, the exquisite being who God created to charm the people of England!

“Your Majesty,” she whispers, and her voice is like honey, sweet and pleasing to the soul. “It is an honor to be greeted thus!”

She reaches for his hand, brings it up to her lips. As she steps back, he tucks her hand into the crook of his arm. “It is nothing less than you deserve, sweetheart. Shall we stroll in the gardens for a bit? We wish to hear everything.”

Elizabeth Boleyn trails after her daughter and the King, only to be stopped by Henry Norris.

“He has asked that I accompany him as chaperone, my lady.”

Elizabeth allows herself to be led inside, all the while bristling. There is a part of her that is smarting at the King’s request, another bursting with curiosity, and yet another filled with worry for Anne. It will not do for her to be lambasted with rumors of ill will. Still, the King has commanded it, and his will is law. Elizabeth settles in her own chambers, and awaits her daughter’s return.

August 12, 1528, Windsor Castle

In the second week of August, the court moves to Windsor.

The graveness of it is not missed, and there are shared glances as they arrive closer and closer to the last resting place of the King’s wife. The King himself is in a dour mood, isolating himself with only his Gentlemen of the Privy Chamber. Lady Anne Boleyn, returned to court with much delight, trails behind the King’s retinue, flanked by her brother and mother. She does not seem to be put out by the King’s disregard her; her pale face shines with joy, and her chatter can be overhead by those close to the family.

And why should she not be pleased?

Her rival, the Queen herself, is dead. No one stands between her and the throne; the King will seek to make her his wife soon. She has been striving for it, and now stands on the cusp of achieving it all. Despite the jovial mood the Boleyn party seems to be in, the mood of the rest of the court is grimmer. All know why the King has chosen to move the court to Windsor for a reason. A Queen of England lies in St. George’s Chapel, buried hastily without proper rites. Now that the danger is passed, the proper respect must be shown to her.

Upon arrival, Henry immediately retires to his rooms.

He changes from his travelling outfit to a fresh set of garments; Norris awaits him in the study, documents laid out neatly on the desk. “Your Majesty. Cardinal Wolsey wishes to ask you to-“

“Not now, good man.” Henry strides out to the privy chamber. “We wish to go to the chapel to pray. Please ensure that we can be alone there, without any disturbance.”

Norris bows and begins to move. “As Your Majesty commands.”

As he does so, Henry sinks into an armchair situated near his table. 

The softness of the chair’s cushions is a welcome relief from the travails of horseback. Time marches on; Henry can no longer deny that such undertakings do not have a physical toll on him. At least, to himself. To the court, to his subjects, he must appear athletic as ever. He is a King, divinely ordained. Mortal woes do not touch him. Yet, even as God’s own, he is not blessed. He has no son to carry on his line. He has lost so many children before they could even draw a breath. From childhood his life has been plagued by grief. What sins must he have committed in a past life, to be punished thus?

Thoughts of Katherine come to his mind. Regardless of her failure in her most important duty, she had been a loyal, kind wife. She had been everything a Queen must be. She is lost to him forever, and he must come to terms with that. An annulment and death are two opposite matters. When the Pope would have granted him what he desired, he would have made sure Katherine was honored as the Dowager Princess of Wales, most beloved wife of his late brother. She would have gotten lands to do with as she pleased, and never would she have languished in penury as she had as a young woman.

As King, he would have made sure of it. She deserved no less. Yet she is dead now, and for evermore will be honored as Queen of England. Queen of a country to whom she failed to do her duty. All she has given the English people as a prospective ruler is a girl. Mary is clever certainly, but she is not fit to rule England as sovereign. He will ensure she makes a magnificent marriage, but she is not the heir he desperately needs.

He must have a son. He will have a son.

And by his side will be the Lady Anne-as his wife and Queen.

Ludlow Castle, Wales

His Majesty’s instructions are clear. The household at Ludlow is to be dismissed, and the Princess Mary is to have a new residence. Margaret, upon reading the letter, is immediately struck by dread, for the princess will not take kindly to it. Ludlow has been her home, the very clear sign that she is her father’s heir, and now it seems, it will be taken away. Nevertheless, the King commands her, and Mary must obey.

Margaret gives out the first instructions to begin packing, and then heads to the Princess’s chambers. In the days since learning of the Queen’s death, Mary has prayed. Day and night, from every waking moment to sleep, she has prayed for her mother’s soul. She has found comfort in God, and Margaret is loath to take that comfort away.

“Your Highness,” she announces her presence, and Mary turns to face her.

“What is it?”

“I have news, Your Highness, from his Majesty the King.”

As expected, Mary does not take her father’s instructions kindly.

“He himself sent me here, to rule as Princess of Wales, and now he seeks to send me away.”

“No, Your Highness, it is not so. He only wishes for you to be closer to court, for he knows you are in mourning. He is your father, and has taken such a decision for your comfort.”

“He must know my mother would have wanted me to remain here.”

There is a stubborn look on her face, fooling no one. No matter how much Margaret tried to hide it from her, rumors of her parents’ troubled marriage have reached Mary’s ears. She knows well of the cooled affections and Henry’s intention to divorce Catherine. She knows, also, that there is another woman.

“In this time of great sadness, His Majesty wishes for you to reside at Beaulieu, so that you may be closer to him. It is very kind of him to do so, and we must do as he says.”

Mary’s lips purse; she nods and turns away, saying nothing. Margaret breathes out. Part of the difficult task is complete. Now to see through the King’s orders and set up a household worthy of an heir at the Palace of Beaulieu.

Chapter Text

September 1528, Hampton Court, England

Wolsey is more than alarmed when one of his spies brings him the details of the King’s new commission. A jeweler in London, the man reports, commissioned to make a new set of jewels-including a ring. He is not a fool; life at Court has taught him how to read between the words that sprout daily. He has learned the power gossip holds. He has learned the difference between truth and lie. It has taught him that no rumor comes about without a grain of truth in it.

Since Lady Anne’s return to court, there have been endless whispers of speculation on the nature of the King’s relationship with her. Only the most naïve had believed the King’s reasons for convening an annulment tribunal-that he required a male heir, that his marriage to Queen Katherine was illegitimate, that he could not remain married to she who had been his brother’s wife. Everyone knew the true reason for his fight for annulment.

Wolsey remembers the chit of a girl she had been. Daughter of an ambassador, with blood of the Howard family in her veins. That, at least, gave her some prestige. But her bloodline was nothing when compared to Queen Katherine, who had been the daughter and granddaughter of Kings. It is a sobering thought; he, the son of a butcher, think a daughter of nobility unfit for a crown. That too when taking into account his…distaste for the late Queen’s meddling in politics.

How times have changed!

But he mis-likes Lady Anne Boleyn, and he will do everything in his power to ensure that his master the King marries a woman who might bring a much-needed alliance to the country. He has put forth suggestions, of course, and the King has heard him out…but for him to commission a new set for his paramour, while Wolsey tries to find him a royal bride… It is certainly a statement. He does not like what it entails.

Late September 1528, London, England

“I am glad you could come,” Mary whispers, hugging her sister close.

“Of course I would.” Anne steps back, looking around the hall. “Is everything to your liking? Are you comfortable? And your children as well, are they-“

“Oh, Anne, you have done more than enough by asking us to come to London. It is a great relief to be…it is a relief to be near my own.”

“They did not mistreat you, did they? If they did, you must tell me…I will take care of it.”

Mary’s face shutters. “Sweet sister, there is nothing you can do. This is but a temporary reprieve.” She drops her arms, steps back. “Nothing can be done.”

“They cannot mean to separate you?! Catherine and Henry are so terribly young!”

“They are their darling William’s children, and I am but the Great Whore.” Mary turns away, but Anne sees the distress on her face. It is awful beyond words that Mary’s past in France haunts her to this day. She was pushed into kings’ beds for the gain it brought to their family, and when she outlived her use, discarded. Francis and Henry have put from their mind the trysts with Mary Boleyn, and yet still, she suffers.

“I will not allow it to happen.”

“You cannot do anything, Anne.”

Mary is resigned to it, and it angers Anne. She is a mother; it is her right to be by her children’s side as they grow. She has more right to their persons than the Carey family. And how heartless William’s family is, to tear asunder two young, fatherless children from their mother.

“Perhaps I cannot, but the King most certainly can.”

“Anne…”

“If I asked him, he would not refuse me.” Anne grasps Mary by the elbows. “He would do as I ask and make sure that you remain with your children.”

“Even if you succeeded, I do not have the funds to support the life that they deserve. I cannot care for them as I have been able to…I am ruined, Anne!”

“I have the funds. I will ask Henry to give me their wardship, and he will not refuse, I promise you this. Catherine and Henry will be raised as children of Boleyn blood deserve to be. Do not worry.”

Mary clings to her sister tighter. “Sweet Anne.” Anne squeezes her, and they remain, clasped together, surrounded by the vestiges of Mary’s new life.

Anne returns to the palace the next day with determination in her veins.

When the King summons her-for he surely will-she must speak to him about her sister and her children. For not a single moment more will Mary suffer. Not while Anne breathes on this Earth. Sure enough, the King asks for her company during his evening meal. She goes, accompanied as always by a chaperone; her brother, this time. It would not do, even now, to be in the King’s presence alone.

When she arrives, Henry is standing by the fire in his private solar, fiddling with a box in his hands. He looks up as she enters, a smile growing on his face.

“Sweetheart!” She curtsies and rises, looking around the room as she does so. “Is all well? How was your visit to your sister?”

“That is what I wished to speak with you about.” She allows him to take her hand and press a kiss to it. “All in good time, I suppose.”

Henry laughs, a short booming chuckle. “Come sit. Let us dine, and then you can raise your concern.”

George joins Henry Norris in the next room, all while being within eyesight. It gives them privacy, but will not spark any rumors of clandestine behavior.

Anne seats herself at the table, Henry following a moment later. His gentlemen have already laid out dishes of all kinds, all fit for a King. The grooms set out to serve them, and Anne tries to gather her thoughts. It is a delicate topic to broach. Henry does not like to speak of Mary. Anne tries not to bring her up in Henry’s presence as well; it is still somewhat of a sore spot, the reminder that Mary was once Henry’s mistress.

It is a thing best left in the past.

“Speak then, sweetheart. What troubles you so, regarding Lady Carey?” He is careful to never call her by her given name.

Anne hesitates before beginning. “Mary’s husband has passed.”

“William Carey,” Henry says, nodding in recognition. There is regret on his face; he has lost so many people close to his person to the Sweat. “He was a good man.”

Indeed, a good man, Anne thinks bitterly-somewhat uncharitably, she must admit. She feels sorry for his death, but she is not particularly pleased with the state of affairs he has left to his wife. But mortal illnesses wait for no one, and it had been God’s will. All Anne can do now is ensure Mary does not remain in the humiliating position she has found herself in. Her sister has faced enough humiliation for a lifetime.

“He left behind great debts.” She must be careful in how she phrases her request; it would not do to make Henry feel she is taking advantage of her closeness to him. It would gall him, especially when she is in the role of a supplicant and he the King. “My sister cannot pay them, and is in such a state that they are trying to separate her from her children, although it is a matter that should shame them.” She nearly spits out her last words, so furious is she.

“And who is they?” Henry is smiling just a little; he finds her shows of emotion charming; that she knows.

“Sir Thomas.” She does not name Lady Margaret; if asked why, she would not be able to explain it. “As Mary must pay off her late husband’s debts, she is not in the best position to care for her children. And so, Sir Thomas insists that the children be raised in his household, away from their mother.”

“And you do not wish for that to happen.”

“Of course not. No child so young should be separated from their mother. It is a terrible ordeal for both mother and child.” Absent-mindedly, she adds, “I would hate for it to happen to my children. To be taken away so that I might never see them, and to know that they will never truly know their mother’s loving embrace.”

In the light of the fire, Henry’s profile is half cast in shadow. His eyes are soft; his loving gaze reserved for her. He reaches for Anne’s hand and brings it to his lips. She flushes at the display of affection, still so rare, and gazes back at him. To think, a King like him had fallen in love with her. He wished for her to be his companion and his advisor in matters of importance. To be the one who saw the side of King Henry kept hidden from the public. And he wished for her to be his wife, and the mother to his-

Oh. Well, that must be why he had become so overwhelmed.

“Darling Anne,” Henry murmurs, bringing her hand to his lips again. “Speak so that I may help. I hate to see you so upset.”

“I thought perhaps…if the Careys do not wish for Mary to have the guardianship for her children, it should go to another? Someone who will not forbid Mary from seeing them whenever she desires, but also someone who has the means to make certain they can grow in a household where they can be supported.”

“And you have such a person in mind.”

Yes, she does. When Anne leaves Henry following their meal, he has promised to give the wardship of Catherine and Henry Carey to her.

London, England

Henry summons Wolsey to him three days after.

The last time they spoke in person was before the outbreak, and it has been months since he has seen his Chancellor. There have been letters, of course, but letters pale in comparison to the real thing. Wolsey too had taken ill, but he has recovered quickly. Now, he stands in his privy chamber, awaiting Wolsey’s arrival. He has no doubt the man will come prepared with a whole list of topics to discuss, and for the first time, Henry does not feel burdened, but somewhat interested. The plague this past summer has done much to change his mindset when it comes to ruling his kingdom.

“The Lord Chancellor, Your Majesty,” says a groom, and steps to the side, allowing Thomas Wolsey to enter.

The man looks hale, and Henry accepts his bow with a gracious nod. “Cardinal Wolsey.”

“Your Majesty,” Wolsey murmurs. In his hands, he is holding a docket – no doubt of important correspondence that requires his attention. “England is grateful that her King has come through unscathed.”

There is no mention of the other losses England has faced. And, well, if there is one thing Henry knows of Wolsey, it is that the man is a master of diplomacy. He knows which cards to play and when to play them. It is why he makes an excellent Lord Chancellor.

“Let us get down to business, Lord Chancellor,” Henry responds, and they begin.

It is a grave situation England – and most especially, London - finds herself in; the plague has caused chaos not since for many years. There is much to oversee as winter approaches, and Henry hopes Wolsey and his band are up to the task. He has other matters on hand to fulfill. He says so to his dear Cardinal, whose face goes through a number of emotions before going blank.

“And would those matters relate to a union, Your Majesty?”

Henry rubs a hand over his face; a union – his never-ending trial. How many years had he been married? And with not a male heir to show for it. His reaction seems to give Wolsey the answer; the cardinal begins to speak.

“Your Majesty, if I may…I have been giving your matter some thought, and perhaps, after Christmas, we can begin entertaining ambassadors.” He pauses. “There are many royal women fit to be Queen of England.”

Henry fixes Wolsey with a sharp look. “We did not ask you to do so.”

Having tread the stormy waters of court for many a year, Wolsey is diplomatic. “Your Majesty, it is no secret that you wish for a Prince of Wales. I only wished to ease the burden of finding suitable matches.”

The man’s words stir anger within him. For someone who has been at court for decades, he is either blind to or chooses to willingly ignore the feelings Henry has for Anne. He intends to marry Anne, as soon as it is appropriate to do so. There will be no foreign matches, no marriage of duty. Anne lives, by the grace of God, and it is for a reason. She is destined to be his Queen. Anne alone will be the mother to his heir. He will accept no other.

“Lord Cardinal,” he says, voice biting. “I will explain this once, and never again.” He waits until he is certain Wolsey is hanging onto his every word. “I have made my mind up in regards to my marriage. I will marry Lady Anne, and no other. There is no need for your assistance.”

Wolsey goes pale. “Your Majesty-“

“Take our words as a command, for we will be less pleasantly inclined should this topic come up again. Lady Anne will be my wife, and the Queen of this country. You may accept it, or you may leave our service.” He does not mean to say those words exactly; once they are out, he realizes he means them. Either Wolsey will accept Anne as his Queen, or he will leave this court. “Are we in accord?”

Wolsey swallows; he seems to have recovered from his faux-pas, if the look on his face is anything to go by. “As you command, Your Majesty.”

“You are dismissed.”

Once he has left, Henry calls for his own valet. Fresh air will do him good; it will calm his simmering rage. And it is there, that he realizes he has missed something important. Mary has been at Beaulieu for almost a month now, and he has yet to visit her. His daughter, his pearl, the girl that gave him hope for sons to follow. She cannot be alone, not now, when she no doubt grieves for her mother. And so he resolves to do so, as soon as it is possible to do so.

October 1528, Palace of Beaulieu, England

On a crisp fall morning, Mary is woken by an anxious Lady Salisbury.

“Quick, Your Highness, you must ready yourself. The King asks for your company at the morning meal.”

“The King?” Mary sits up, confused. “What…when did he arrive?”

“Late last night, Your Highness. You had already retired, and hence the King did not wish to disturb you. But he asks that you break your fast with him.”

“I see.” Mary is suddenly gripped by panic.

She has not seen her father for many months. And that too since before her mother passed. She is not entirely sure how she should behave around him. All while her maids dress her, she ponders over the meeting she will have with the King. Ruminating in her thoughts, she heads to the hall, with her ladies behind her.

Before being sent to Ludlow, she had not been to court often, and thus official appearances before her sovereign had been rare. Her father instead used to visit her at Hatfield, and that had been a far more informal affair. She rises and curtsies as soon as King Henry enters the room. Her father…looks well. Perhaps a little tired, but well. Mary knows she has changed. She has grown, and her ill health after the death of her mother has taken its toll. He stops at the head of the table, crossing behind her to reach the chair beneath the canopy of State. He does not sit, and so neither does she. Neither speaks. Mary keeps her gaze lowered. His silence makes her uncomfortable; is he not pleased with her? Finally, after long moments, she makes up her mind. Let him take it as a slight, but she must speak to her father. This quiet will not do.

“Your Majesty-“

Evidently, at the same time, Henry makes up his mind. “Daughter-“

They both stop, Mary from deference to the King, and Henry from shock. Mary sneaks a glance up, and is rewarded with a growing smile.

“Daughter,” Henry Tudor says. “You have our leave to speak.”

Mary realizes with warmth that the look on his face is of pride. She cannot help the smile that grows on her face.

Before Mary can speak, Henry seats himself. She has grown, this daughter of his. She is the image of a Tudor, her back straight, elegant as a lady of the realm ought to be. He gestures for her also to sit, and she does, hands clasped in her lap. In the early morning light, her hair shines, and he is suddenly struck by a vision of twenty years ago.

Catherine had once looked the same; pale blue eyes fixed on him, hair shining like gold in the light of the sun. How like her mother Mary is turning out to be.

“It is an honor to host you here, Your Majesty,” his daughter says eagerly, and Henry jolts out of his thoughts. “Would we have known you were to come, we would have made better preparations.”

“It is no matter. We came only to see you.” He reaches across the table, and Mary gives him her hand. “Are you well, Mary? Ludlow was far enough away to spare you, but the Sweat has taken much.”

He does not specifically name Catherine; Mary does not comment on it. He is King, and he has reasons of his own. She is far more delighted at the prospect of being able to bask in her father’s presence. After all, she is only twelve, and the affection of her father means much to her. “Speak, child. Let us hear everything you have to say.”

The first thing that bursts out of her mouth does not surprise Margaret Pole, who has settled in a corner of the hall. “May I visit my mother?”

Henry’s friendly expression shutters. He does not know why he is surprised; Mary’s devotion to her mother is well-known. Was it not he who had grieved only a few months past, saddened by the thought of Mary motherless. Still, the words sting. He presses the hurt away; thinks of how grief had carved a place in his heart upon hearing of the death of his beloved mother. He had been Mary’s age then. He thinks he understands well what his own daughter feels.

“You may,” he acquiesces. “But not immediately.”

He will have her safely ensconced here for a while more, until it is certain the danger has passed. Mary is too precious to him and to the country. In answer, Mary’s beam lights up the room. Seeing it, Henry is glad to have made the decision to come see her. There is much to discuss, but for now, this is enough. “In the meantime, as we have come this far,” and now he takes a lighter tone. “You must tell us all about how your learning is progressing.”

Her brilliant smile is his reward.

The King departs Beaulieu that afternoon.

Margaret Pole bids him goodbye, standing at the side of his daughter, and when his retinue has disappeared from view, she follows Mary back inside. A chill has settled in the air, and it is a relief for her aching bones to be inside in front of a fire. They settle in the princess’s solar, and Mary, for the first time in many days, takes up her embroidery. Margaret smiles at the sight, and returns to her own papers. After all, running the household is no easy task; every day, new expenses come up that must be meticulously noted down, new supplies must be ordered, an eye must be kept over all in the retinue…the list continues.

“Lady Salisbury?”

“Hmm?”

There is a brief pause before Mary says, “The King has invited me to court for Christmas.”

Margaret looks up in surprise; it is not what she has said, but the tone with which she has done so. “Your Highness, that is hardly a surprise. After all, you are his beloved daughter. Of course, his Majesty will want you at court.”

“I…yes, you are right, certainly, but…” She falls silent, flustered. In a quieter voice, she continues. “I did not think he would want me there this year.”

“Don’t be foolish, Your Highness. This year, of all, will be the one where the King wishes for you to be by his side. He knows the loss you have gone through, and he will not want you to be alone during the festive season.”

She is not satisfied by this answer, but Salisbury resolutely turns back. It is good the King has reconciled with his daughter – even though when thinking rationally, he has never found fault with her. In this fragile period, it will have to be enough.

Chapter Text

Anne spends much of October in limbo. Henry has gifted her Durham House, and she spends much of her time there, organizing the household, preparing a wardrobe, and quietly agonizing over Henry’s decisions. She is to be his wife, that he has said clearly, but a clear action-the proposal-is yet to come. The lack of it prompts Lord Norfolk to visit Durham House one fine day, and Anne greets him as politely as possible, hiding a grimace all the while.

She is not pleasantly predisposed to her maternal uncle.

He is a man determined to gain power and prestige, and he has settled on Anne being the pathway he needs to do so. After all, she is perhaps the closest person to the King in all of England. Her success means Norfolk’s success. And for that, he is willing to do anything. Anne receives him in her sitting room.

“My lord, it is a pleasure.” She hides behind the wall of pleasantries. “What is it you wish to discuss?”

“Niece.”

He, too, inclines his head; it is a brief moment of mutual respect. Despite all his posturing as the premier duke of the land, Thomas Howard is still intimately aware of the tides of court. Disrespecting Anne gains him no favors in the King’s eye, and he is always careful not to cross such a line.

“Uncle.”

She is careful to make sure he is the one who must make his point first. She will not give away any of her cards. Instead of answering, Norfolk takes a seat in one of the armchairs. He looks up at her, so at ease, and smiles. Two can play the game. Pursing her lips, Anne follows suit.

“I am returning to my estate tomorrow,” Norfolk begins. “And I thought I would speak with you before departing.”

“On what matter?”

“The matter of your marriage, my dear niece.”

Anne barely hides a grimace. Only days ago, George had told her that members of their family were becoming fretful over the King’s reluctance to officially propose marriage to her. She had laughed and waved off the concerns airily.

“The King will propose when he thinks it best. I am not worried, brother, and neither should you be,” was what she’d said, and that was that.

Now, however, she is regretting all her bluster. The Duke of Norfolk will not accept the answer she gave to her brother, and he will not leave until she gives assurance. She cannot refuse to answer either; for all that she is the King’s sweetheart, Thomas Howard is her kinsman, and higher in rank.

“My lord,” she begins, careful, testing the waters. “Both you and I know it is up to his Majesty. I assure you, I await the day with anticipation.”

“And you cannot….persuade him to embark upon that journey quicker?”

“In a matter so important to the country, no, I cannot.”

“Country?” Norfolk has a way of speaking that makes the trivial pressing, and the most important matters trivial. He does so now, and Anne wants to give in to the urge to shout.

“Of course, the country, my lord. I will be Queen, and mother to a King. It will not do for our marriage to be unseemly, and his Majesty is most keen to avoid any opposition to the union.”

“Is that the answer he has given you?”

Anne glares at him. “What you suggest could be seen as treason, I would remind you.”

“Your suggestion goes too far. I am only looking to protect your future, niece.”

“And no, my lord, I am well aware of the politics at play. I would rather wait for years to tie myself to the King in marriage, than marry in a hurry and be tainted by the scandal.” She meets his eyes and holds his gaze. “For I alone will not bear it, but my children made to suffer as well – for a fault of their parent. I will not push such a burden upon them. And so it is better to be patient, my lord Norfolk, and reap the rewards when they come. You would do well to remember that.”

Her uncle rises to his feet. In a move born of stubbornness, Anne remains sitting. Upon noting the action, Norfolk’s face darkens just a touch, but before he can launch a scathing answer, the door to the room opens, and in comes Mary. Her sister stops short upon catching the gaze of their uncle.

“Lord Norfolk.”

“Niece, how nice that you seem to have found shelter. How are your children, if I may be so kind as to enquire?”

Mary stiffens. “They are well, thank you, Your Grace.”

For all that he is their mother’s brother, Thomas Howard does not care much about their feelings, but only for what they bring to him in riches.

“I should certainly hope they are raised well, given the King thinks you capable of doing so.”

Mary tips her chin up. “You will find that the King gave the guardianship of my children to my dear sister, who I believe is a refined woman. I trust her to ensure my children are raised well.”

“Yes, your dear sister.” His gaze turns back to Anne. “I hope that while you play about in this household, you do not forget the true reason for your advancement at court. Do whatever you must, however you must, but you must please the King, and you must have his ring on your finger before the year ends. If not, then you are a ruined woman. Good day.”

He smiles at them both – the sharp grin of a dangerous man – and departs. Anne sinks down to her chair, breathing deeply.

“Pay no heed to his words, sister,” Mary urges. “You know what he is like. Do not let what he says affect you.”

“I’m not!” Anne snaps back.

Mary raises a brow; it is such a familiar look, the one an elder sister gives to the younger, one that Anne has seen countless times. The years have passed, and now, instead of causing frustration, that look only brings fondness to her heart. So she rises and embraces her sister.

“The King will propose sooner rather than later,” Mary says. “Just you wait and see.”

Anne pulls away but does not meet her eyes. Her subsequent sigh says more than her words. Not for the first time, she is glad that Mary has escaped the scrutiny the King’s attention bestows upon the women of the court. Mary steps back further.

“I was coming to find you, to see if you could spare some of your precious time for your niece and nephew, oh my dear lady.” At her teasing tone, Anne lets out a short burst of laughter.

Hooking arms, she leads Mary out of the sitting room.

“My lady Carey, it would be my greatest pleasure.”

They head towards the nursery, and Anne tries to let the sharp words of their uncle fade from her memory. The King’s proposal will come when he deems it appropriate. Until then, as his loyal courtiers, they are resigned to wait in limbo.