Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

March 1520

"Will, thank you for coming to see me so quickly," Henry clapped the younger man on the shoulder, a jovial smile spread over his face.

William bowed, "To be honest, Your Majesty, I was relieved to have an excuse to escape my wife and her women. Moving rooms has them all in a flutter."

Henry chuckled, "Well, you'll not have to worry about keeping out from underfoot for long. It's difficult to be under someone's feet when there's an entire sea between you."

William blinked. An entire sea, between him and Mary? What? How on Earth…

"Sire?" He had to pitch his question just right, for while questioning the King might be allowed, at least for those Henry Tudor trusted, any hint that you didn't trust the King's state of mind or judgement was most certainly not.

Fortunately, the King was too pleased with himself to notice any qualms William might be having, "I'm naming you my envoy to Portugal with immediate effect, Will. You're to quarter in Lisbon for the foreseeable future. I daresay it would please the Queen were you to push for a match between the Princess Mary and one of her Portuguese cousins."

Now William's eyebrows did go up, "But Sire? I thought Her Highness was to be betrothed to the Dauphin. Is that not why Your Majesties are sailing for France this coming summer?"

The King spread his hands. "This is true. However, Her Highness and the Dauphin are still only children and it's a long way between betrothal and the altar. Things may change in the coming years before my daughter is ready to become a wife and mother. There's no harm in putting out some feelers to try and read the situation. Besides, even if the Princess Mary remains destined for a French match, well, I have nieces, do I not? And God Willing, the Queen's belly will yet quicken with a son one of these days."

"God Willing," William echoed, but the words were automatic rather than fervent. Quite apart from the fact that the Queen was sadly reaching an age where another pregnancy would be more akin to an act of God than anything natural, his mind was somewhere else. It was putting pieces together that he had stubbornly refused to see fitted for the past few months. They were making a jolly uncomfortable picture.

He'd become a Gentleman of the Privy Chamber at Christmas. Mary had been assigned to the Queen's household. He and Mary had just been granted some new rooms, far closer to the King's apartments than their old ones. William had chosen to see all such things as a sign of favour, a reward for all his hard work in the diplomatic sphere. But now he was to be sent away. He was to be stationed in Lisbon and from the way the King was talking, Mary was not to be accompanying him. The implication of that was suddenly, disgustingly clear.

Gall welled up in him, acidic in his throat as he forced himself to dip his head.

"As Your Grace pleases."

As the last word left his mouth, William broke protocol and flashed his eyes back up to the King's face. If the man was really planning to take his wife from him while he was abroad and unable to do anything about it, then surely, the least he could would be to look him in the face and admit it.

The King said nothing, but William caught the slightest softening of his shoulders, as though His Majesty was relieved that William hadn't kicked up a fuss.

"I'm glad to see you so amenable to travelling, Will. Who knows, perhaps if things go as I hope they will, I might be persuaded to ennoble you for your efforts. Baron William Carey of Hunsdon, perhaps. How does that sound? Do you think your wife might like to be a Baroness?"

William paused, letting his eyes meet the King's, gaze direct as he answered.

"My Lord, I believe my wife will be grateful for whatever favour you choose to bestow. How could she know to be otherwise?"

Underlying meanings hung heavy in the air between them. William almost saw the wheels turning in the King's head as he searched every syllable of Will's response for any hint of insubordination. He was mightily relieved when, at last, he was waved away with instructions to prepare to leave for Lisbon by the end of the week.

Upon returning to his rooms, he found Mary arranging her gowns in her clothes press. For a moment, he simply watched her, struck not by her beauty, but by the seeming sadness in her movements.

In that instant, he realised that, unlike most of the girls at Court, she hadn't been hoping and praying this day would come. She wasn't fire and ambition and everything every simpering minx seemed to be these days. She'd married him hoping for a comfortable life, nothing more and nothing less. And he'd failed to give her that. He'd failed her.

He sighed bitterly. Alerted to his presence, she glanced up.

For a moment, they simply looked at each other. Her grey eyes met his blue, a silent frisson of resignation passing between them.

"I have my orders. I'm to embark for Lisbon by the end of the week."

Mary said nothing, only nodded.

Moments passed. He crossed the room to her, cupping her cheek in his palm, enjoying the roundness of it in his hand for what was most likely the final time.

"I am sorry, you know," she whispered, "I didn't ask for any of this."

"I know you didn't," he assured her, "I know you didn't, love. And, for what it's worth, I'm sorry too. I keep replaying that hunt in my mind. If I hadn't taken you, hadn't reminded him that you were raised in France… who knows what might have happened."

"You weren't to know, Will."

"No. But I should have known the idea of charming someone who lived in France, who knew King Francis and his family the way you did, would catch his attention."

"It is what it is," The words came out on a rush of air, "It is what it is, Will, and we shall have to make the best of it. I will play my game and you will play yours and we shall see what comes of it."

There seemed little Will could say to that. He lifted her hand to his mouth for a kiss.

"My Lady," he breathed, formal in a way he hadn't been with her for months.

The day was barely started when Will found himself in the yard of Richmond Palace, preparing to set off for Dover. He was just overseeing the securing of his trunks on to the cart he was taking with him to the coast, when he heard footsteps flying behind him.

He turned around. Mary stood behind him, her golden curls rumpled with sleep and flying in the breeze. Her gown was laced haphazardly, as though she'd been in too much of a rush to send for her maid.

"I thought I'd missed you!" she gasped.

"Mary," The disbelief was clear in his tone, "I didn't think to see you here."

"I couldn't let you go. Not without saying goodbye."

Instantly, Will's guard went up. Not because of her, but because of how this would seem. The King had become more and more blatant in his favour of Mary in the past few days. Everyone knew only too well that Mary was his now, for as long as he wanted her to be and that, once Will left, it was only a matter of time before it was made official. And King Henry was possessive of his women. He would not take kindly to this, however innocent a farewell Mary meant this to be.

Quickly, Will dismissed the stable hands. He stepped toward Mary.

"Mary, please. I know you mean well, but…," He trailed off. There was nothing he could say. The words just wouldn't come. "Go back inside," he managed at last.

She flung herself at him before he could say another word. Her arms came round him, her cheek pressing tightly into his shoulder.

"Promise me one thing," she choked. "Promise me that, when this is all over, when the King tires of me, we will start again. We will remember that neither of us had any choice in this and we will start our marriage afresh, without either of us holding any of this against one another. Promise me that."

Will sucked in his breath. Did she know what she was asking?

As soon as the question entered his mind, he dismissed it. Probably not. Mary was refreshingly innocent despite her French upbringing. He tipped her face up to him, fighting back the urge to kiss her.

"We will try," he said solemnly, "I promise you, we will try."

He held her at arm's length for a moment, drinking in every last inch of her, and then released her.

Not a moment too soon.

Just as William stepped back, the King strode into view around the corner of the palace.

"What, Master Carey, not yet away? You've a hard ride ahead of you if you're to make your boat!" he called.

William inclined his head, "Indeed, Sire, I am aware. I assure you, I ride at once. Mistress Mary was just being gracious enough to wish me well on my journey."

The King checked at his words, glancing between the two of them. For a moment, suspicion hung in the air, but then it was pushed aside in favour of a tight smile.

"Aye, well, Mistress Mary is an uncommonly gracious lady. I'd say there's few her peer in England. Have no fear, Master Carey. We shall take great care of this jewel while you are away."

So saying, the King took hold of Mary's hand and pressed it to his sleeve. There was no mistaking the proprietary gesture. William had no choice but to bow and know himself dismissed.

He refused to let himself look back. He didn't want his last image of the Court to be Mary, his fragile, gentle Mary, swamped by the shadow of the great, hulking King.

Chapter Text

April/May 1520

Mary didn't want to betray Will. She didn't. But, by God, the King was making it hard to resist him.

She'd hoped that, if she held him off for long enough, the King would get bored and move on to an easier target – one of the Seymour mice, for example – but instead, the opposite seemed to have happened. The King seemed to be enjoying the challenge of wooing a reluctant woman, of playing the 'secret' lover for once.

It seemed that, wherever Mary turned, small trinkets littered her surroundings, deliberately designed to brighten her day. She found posies of flowers and rolled-up poems tucked into her stirrups as she went to mount her pony, expensive glass goblets on the table in her rooms when she sat down to dine, fresh scented pomanders or enticing sweetmeats tucked beneath her pillow before she retired.

God forgive her, but she couldn't help but enjoy the attention, just a little. She loved William, but their courtship and marriage had been a whirlwind one, really, little more than a few months all told. They'd been under time pressure, knowing Will would have to return to England sooner rather than later and they would have to wed before he did, if she was to go with him. Will hadn't had the time to court her in quite the way the King was doing, even if he'd wanted to.

So yes, Mary enjoyed the attention and the trinkets well enough. But then, they were easy enough to repay – the odd stolen kiss here or there, a dance or a private supper in the evening, always well-chaperoned, of course, maybe even just the wearing of a brooch His Majesty had given her with a smile or two of thanks directed his way. She could play that game as well as the next woman. Her years in France had taught her that.

But as the spring wore on, the King began to up the stakes. His gestures of affection grew larger, bolder. And that, more than anything, frightened Mary, for she knew that, the more direct the King was in his affections towards her, the more he would want in return.

Oh, she wasn't stupid. She'd known, even when the game began, that she couldn't hope to hold the King off forever. But she had thought she'd be able to decide the timing of the affair a little better than it seemed she would. And while she wasn't entirely like her younger sister, who liked to control every tiny aspect of her own life and was alarmed when she couldn't, to lose control of this, when reputation was everything to a woman, did frighten her.

But it was the King who was pursuing her. Who was she, Mary Carey, to say no to a King?

"Lady Carey! You'll come with me!" The King called across to her jovially as they left Mass one morning, beckoning her as he spoke.

Mary's heart skipped a beat, and she glanced ahead to the Queen, who had looked back at her husband's voice.

The two women shared a look for a moment and then the Queen gave the minutest of nods, dismissing Mary from her train.

Mary sank into a curtsy as the older woman left, allowing the King to help her up.

"Of course, Your Grace," she whispered.

King Henry laughed, "Always so formal, my sweet. How many times must I tell you, call me Henry. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to hear my name on your lips."

"Once more, Your Grace, as always." Mary held her breath as she retorted softly. There was a heartbeat of silence, but then the King laughed and, in a deliciously heady moment, she realised she had found exactly the right response.

He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, "You are a vixen, Mary Carey. Now come, I have a gift for you."

He began to lead her away. For a split-second, Mary glanced back. Reading her silent signal exquisitely, her younger brother George quickly peeled himself away from the other pages in the Cardinal's household, and followed.

She breathed a quick sigh of relief. Even though she knew the King would never hurt her, not when he was trying to prove himself a gentleman, she always felt safer with her brother at her back.

Minutes later, they emerged into the tiltyard, blinking in the bright April sunshine. A groom stood by the mounting steps, holding a bright bay horse by the rein.

The animal was tossing its head, snorting as its mane whipped in the breeze. It was a glorious colour, a deep, deep bay with four white socks and a white streak high on its head.

Mary caught her breath.

"Do you like her?" The King glanced down expectantly.

Mary's mouth dropped open, "She's for me?"

His Grace shrugged, "Your horse is pretty enough, but she's too short in the back for you. You needed another. And this darling is from the Emperor's own stables in Granada. Only the best for my lady love."

At the King's words, Mary's pleasure at the possibility of owning such a beautiful animal dimmed considerably. Her horse wasn't too short for her at all. But it had been a wedding present from Will, so the King was using an excuse to rid of her of it. He hated the thought of her riding another man's horse while he was pursuing her. That his possessiveness and jealousy should go so far scared her.

But, there was no denying the mare's beauty. The horsewoman in Mary sang at the thought of being able to ride such a wonderful animal.

She forced a smile, "She's gorgeous, Sire. Thank you."

Lest he fear she wasn't being utterly sincere, she tugged her arm from his and crossed the yard to the mare, taking the halter and rubbing the nose that came down to nuzzle at her inquisitively.

"Hello, beauty," she crooned, "Hello."

As it often did when she was around horses, her heart began to ease and the tension to slip from her shoulders, only for them to tighten again as the King called across to her, "What do you intend to call her?"

Her mind whirred in panic for a moment, only for her lips to quirk up into a half-sardonic smile as a thought occurred to her. The King was an educated man. He knew his classical mythology. Let him make of the name what he would. It would be her private rebellion.

She turned to him, tossing her head as she had seen many a Frenchwoman do when wishing to exude confidence, "I think perhaps… Daphne."

In that instant, as she watched realisation flicker across the King's face, Mary knew she would cherish the moment forever. The King might eventually succeed in taking her body, but he would never take her soul.

"We'll sit in a circle, and Mister Wilder will play some tunes for us as we pass this bundle of rags around," The King explained, "However, he will break off unexpectedly, "Whoever is holding the bundle when Master Wilder stops playing may unwrap a layer. But only one, understand? Whoever unwraps the final layer may keep the jewel."

With much giggling and many excited looks, the young ladies and gentlemen of the court arranged themselves in a loose circle, leaving a space for the King. Mary found herself seated more or less opposite him.

Waiting until her back was turned, Henry whispered a final few instructions to Master Wilder and then took his own seat, tossing the lumpy parcel to Knivert. "Begin!" he ordered.

The tension mounted as the parcel was passed from hand to hand, becoming smaller and smaller at each interlude. It took several minutes, but finally there was only one layer left.

As instructed, Master Wilder waited until Mary took it off her neighbour, young Katherine Stafford, and then abruptly stopped playing.

"Oh, Mary, how lucky! Open it!" Katherine squealed, clapping her hands.

Mary looked across at the King and raised an eyebrow. She was only too aware this wasn't luck. He'd fixed the result, or at least, Master Wilder had known only too well that letting her win would please the King.

The King met her eye coolly and shrugged, "Rules are rules, Mistress Carey. I congratulate you. Open it up."

Mary fought to hide it, but her fingers trembled slightly as she undid the wrappings. What they fell open to reveal took her breath away.

This was hardly just a jewel. This was a full-on headpiece that resembled a crown, made of beaten silver and set with sapphires and large creamy pearls.

"Sire..." she began, but the King cut her off, rising from his seat to come across the circle to remove her hood and set the piece in her hair himself.

The intimacy of the action froze Mary in her tracks. She glanced round the circle, but no one would meet her eye. They all knew better than to intervene when the King had his sights set on a particular woman.

"It would give me great pleasure, Mistress Carey, if you would wear this to the May Day joust tomorrow and if I might ride in your colours rather than the Queen's," he breathed into her ear as he straightened up.

Mary didn't see that she had a choice to do anything but nod.

If the fact that the King didn't stop to ask the Queen for her favour when he rode out to challenge the Duke of Suffolk in the joust, but instead already had a black pennant adorned with white flowers attached to his lance wasn't enough to set the court ablaze with gossip, then the fact that the Duke not only bowed to Her Majesty, but also dipped his head to the young woman sitting a box over to the left certainly was.

About to run and prepare for his own joust against Sir Edward Seymour, George Boleyn caught his breath and squeezed Mary's shoulder.

"Suffolk just acknowledged you," he gasped in an undertone.

"I know," Mary's smile was tight as she looked over him, though it deliberately softened and widened as she caught the King's eye.

"That means he knows. The King's spoken to him of you. Which means he's serious. You won't be able to hold him off for much longer."

"Believe me, George, I know!"

Mary's voice was as close to a shriek as was safe under the circumstances. George could hear how she was to hysteria and knew better than to push her.

"I'd better go," he murmured. "Take care, sister."

He dropped the lightest of kisses on her temple and was gone. Mary would have turned to watch him go, wishing he could stay and protect her from the gossip, but the King was preparing to ride and there would be hell to pay if she wasn't watching him.

She fixed her eyes on the pennant fluttering from his lance, at the Carey flowers, bold against the bright sun, wishing with all her heart that they were enough to protect her, not just from the gossip, but from the inevitably impending culmination of the King's advances.

Mary knew the knock would come one day, and soon, but she hadn't been expecting that night. When she opened the door to see George, dark and handsome in his new royal livery, for the King had made him one of his cup-bearers just that past month on his sixteenth birthday, as a mark of favour, her heart sank.

"He wants me, doesn't he?"

George nodded, eyes grave.

"I warn you, sister, he's drunk. He's not going to take no for an answer. Not tonight."

Mary swallowed, forcing down the nausea that rose in her at her brother's words.

"Very well," she managed at last, "We'd better not keep him waiting."

She never knew how she got through that walk to the King's chambers. It seemed interminable and yet was over far too quickly, as George hugged her one last time and pushed open the doors, saying, "My sister Lady Carey to see you, Sire."

"Mary! My Sweet Mary!" The King lurched towards her, catching her hand and pulling her to sit by the fire with him, "Come and play a game with me."

"A game, Sire?" Mary's mouth was dry.

The King waved a pair of dice at her haphazardly, "We both roll," he slurred, "The one who rolls lowest has to remove some clothing."

Taken aback at the brazenness of his suggestion, Mary might have turned and fled, had she not heard the door click shut behind her. It reminded her forcibly that the King was well within his rights to do this, that there was nowhere she could go.

Trapped, she pulled up a stool and sat obediently opposite the King.

She lost her first roll, and the second, and the third. By the time the King was in his shirt and hose, she was in nothing but her chemise.

The King was watching her intently as she picked up the dice to roll again.

"One more loss and you're out," he slurred huskily.

Mary's fingers slipped at the reminder and the dice clattered to the table, skidding to a halt. A one and a three. Four. Not good enough.

"Ha! Ten! I win!" King Henry laughed triumphantly.

Blinking back tears, Mary stood and turned her back, fumbling with the strings at her neck. Suddenly she ripped the thing off, willing herself not to lose her courage entirely.

Silence reigned in the room.

"Mary. Mary, look at me," Suddenly magnanimous in victory and sobered by desire, the King turned surprisingly gentle, standing to cup her chin in his hand and force her to lift her head so that he could get a better look at her.

"How beautiful you are," he whispered.

"Sire… I am not a maid," Mary pleaded, hoping that that fact, at least, might stay his hand at the last moment.

"Good," King Henry said bluntly, "At least this way I know that if you should fall with child, it will have a name, come what may."

Transformed, once again, into something almost more animal than man, he swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed before she could utter anything more than another squeak of protest.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

November 1520

George was worried about Mary. His older sister had never been the most outgoing of people – he and Annie seemed to have inherited all their mother’s vivacity, if not necessarily her charm – but now Mary seemed to be in danger of disappearing into herself entirely. George couldn’t remember the last time she’d said a spontaneous word to anyone but the King. And she only spoke to the King because she couldn’t avoid doing so, not when the King was doting on her every move, solicitousness personified. The King was always like that with a woman when she was carrying his child.

For there was no doubt that Mary carried the King’s child now. Four months into her pregnancy, her belly was swelling enough that it had begun to be unmistakable. Moreover, the baby had begun to kick. The King had been delighted when Mary had confided that particular piece of information.

Indeed, considering this was His Majesty’s eighth prospective child, and one who would be born a bastard at that, George was surprised to see just how much time the King was willing to spend with Mary. His Grace spent hours at a time with George’s sister, often content just to sit with his hand cupping her burgeoning belly, whispering sweet nothings to the unborn child.

Perhaps, George thought, some part of the King had realised that Mary didn’t exactly welcome this child, and was trying to infect her with enthusiasm by being uncharacteristically tender. If so, he wasn’t having much luck.

George had always assumed that Mary would be delighted by the thought of being with child – she’d always enjoyed mothering her dolls more than Annie ever had as a child – but the evidence of his eyes seemed to suggest otherwise. He never caught Mary’s hand straying to her stomacher, or saw her gazing off into the distance with a fond smile on her face.

Quite the opposite, in fact. These days, Mary only mustered a smile around the King, and even that was a strained smile born of politeness. She flinched every time the baby kicked and could barely restrain a grimace or a groan every time she had to excuse herself to use a close stool.

George bore this shell-shocked, prickly version of his older sister for no more than a couple of weeks before he decided to prod her.

He visited her late one night, dismissing her waiting woman with a careless wave of his hand. Pulling his sister up to stand before her looking glass, he slipped his arms around her waist beneath her bump and waited.

It didn’t take long. Although George couldn’t feel the baby move beneath his sister’s gown, he felt her flinch.

“He’s a lively one, isn’t he? The King must be pleased.”

George kept his voice deliberately light. Mary stiffened.

“Not you too, George, please. Not you too!”

Despite himself, George recoiled at the desperation in his older sister’s voice.

“What’s wrong, Mary, what’s wrong?”

“What isn’t, George?! This child has completely taken me over. I feel as though I have some kind of animal in me, leeching all my strength. I can barely eat a thing without suffering indigestion, I can barely sleep, and my back aches as though someone has rammed a hot poker up it. Oh, and the King will scarcely let me out of his sight because he is so cock-a-hoop at having fathered another child. The thought of another four or five months of this… I feel like I’m suffocating!

George had never heard Mary sound so bitter in his life. He blinked and gulped.

“I always thought you’d want to be a mother,” he managed at last, not knowing what else to say.

“Not like this!” Mary exclaimed, “Not like this! If I was carrying Will’s child – Will’s heir – it might be different, but this is another kettle of fish entirely. This isn’t my child, George, this is the King’s child!”

Mary looked as though she wanted to say something more, but her emotions suddenly got the better of her.

Breaking off with a wordless shriek that screamed her pain, she turned into George, pushing him away from her. She flung herself on her bed and burst into tears so fierce George feared they might break her.

Before he knew what he was doing, he had turned on his heel and strode off in search of the King.

Henry mused over George’s request, rubbing his chin as he did so.

“You want me to send for your sister Anne to wait on the Lady Carey? But why not simply engage another maid from the girls here at Court? Surely any one of the waiting women can fulfil the whims of a pregnant woman as easily as your sister.”

“Ah, but Sire, none of the girls here in England are Mary’s sister as Anne is. Surely a young woman must have her family about her as she goes into confinement.”

“That’s as may be, but if all you want is to send for your sister, why come to me with this request? Why not speak to your father?”

George hesitated, “With all due respect to my father, My Lord, he is a busy man. He does not know or care for the ins and outs of my sisters’ relationship and vagaries of mood as I do. He would not see the benefits in bringing Anne home to serve Mary at this delicate time, when she could just as easily stay in France and contract a good match for herself there. But I do, and I know Your Majesty will understand that a woman with child often needs humouring or distracting from the discomforts of her body. I am confident that Anne’s presence in Mary’s household would help my older sister in that regard. Please, Sire, say you will send for Anne.”

For a moment, Henry scoffed lightly at the younger man’s words. But then, he considered them more closely. There was some sense in what George said about women wanting those they trusted about them when they were with child. Katherine had always sent for Lady Willoughby and Lady Pole whenever she found herself with child, and his own mother had sought solace in the presence of his aunts Cecily and Katherine. There was no reason to assume that his Mary would be any different in wanting her sister at her side when she gave birth. Besides, George was a good lad, eager to please and willing to learn. Why shouldn’t he grant the boy a boon and send for young Mistress Anne, if that was what he wanted?

He waved a hand.

“Write to your sister and tell her it would please us greatly if she was to return to her natal land to serve her sister at this delicate time if you wish, Master Boleyn. I certainly have no objections.”

Knowing that was the best he would get, George bowed a fulsome thanks and hurried out of the room to write to Anne.

February 1521

 “Brother, if I have asked you this once, I have asked you a thousand times! Why did you persuade the King to send for me? If it was to please Mary, I’m afraid you’ve erred grievously. Nothing I do is right for her!”

Anne slammed into the chamber George shared with two young men of the Court, clearly in a temper.

Raising an eyebrow, George turned on his stool and caught her eye.

“Hello to you too, dear sister,” he said coolly.

“George!”  Anne protested, “You could at least try to have a little sympathy. Mary is being impossible again.”

“Our sister is seven months gone with child, Annie, with a child she did not want in the first place. I rather think she’s earned the right to a little capriciousness.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You’re not the one who has to dance attendance on Mary every hour of every day. She changes her mind as easily as a cloud scuds across the sky. None of her other maids can bear her either, not for any longer than they have to. So, because I’m the youngest and her sister, I’m the one stuck with attending her at night. I’ve not slept a full night in weeks. She’s up almost every hour of the night, wanting help to the close stool or demanding her hair be brushed to ease her headache. Why, just ten minutes ago, she was screaming at me because I couldn’t rub her back exactly to her liking, when she was the one fidgeting at my lightest touch.”

George couldn’t help himself. He smothered a laugh.

“It’s not funny!” Anne swiped at him wildly. He ducked easily, still chuckling.

“Yes, it is! This is precisely why I wanted you home, Annie. Mary had withdrawn into herself three months ago. So much so, in fact, that I was worried we’d never get her out again. You come back from France, and she immediately starts sniping at you just the same way she’s always done. You’ve no idea how much of a weight that is off my shoulders.”

“Oh, well, I’m glad you’re finding so much amusement at my expense, George,” Anne snapped, but her eyes were several shades lighter than they had been just moments earlier. She and Mary might fight like cats over the slightest thing, but George had always been able to ease the both of them. Even just ranting to him had made her feel a lot better.

George reached up to put his hand on her shoulder.

“I know this isn’t easy on you, Annie, but just think. Two more months and then Mary will be the mother of the King’s son. We’ll be the greatest family in England just by virtue of the boy’s birth. Isn’t that worth any bit of unpleasantness now?”

“Two more months,” Anne echoed. Her voice was hollow with disapproval, but her dark eyes were gleaming with ambition now and George knew he had her. She’d do anything she needed to, for as long as she needed to, just as long as she got to call the King’s son her nephew at the end of it.

He squeezed her shoulder and she choked out a laugh.

“Right, I suppose I should go and see how Mary’s doing. No doubt Her Ladyship has decided she wants about four more things from me by now.”

“Good luck,” George offered, deciding to ignore the sarcasm in his younger sister’s voice, and Anne raised her eyebrows.

“I’ll need more than luck, brother. I’ll need a miracle.”

She slipped out of the room and back through the passages to her sister’s apartments. If she was lucky, the King would be visiting, and Mary would be keeping her temper in front of him. If she wasn’t, Mary would no doubt have it in for her for having left to visit George without her permission.

True to form, no sooner had she come through the door, than Mary turned her head to her, a deep scowl marring her usual blonde prettiness.

“Is that you, Anne? Where have you been?” she demanded peevishly, “Jane had to take me to the close stool, and you know I don’t like anyone but you doing it. I’m too ungainly.”

Anne said nothing. It was always best to say nothing when Mary was in a temper like this. It wouldn’t be long before something else distracted her sister.

As expected, the baby kicked and Mary’s scowl morphed into a pout.

“Little fidget bottom,” she groaned, “Will you never let me be?”

Lifting her head, she glared at Anne, “Well, come on then. Come and help finish the baby’s layette. You may as well make yourself useful, now that you have deigned to appear again.”

Biting her lip against the unfairness of that response – she’d been with George a matter of minutes, nothing more! – Anne nodded and went to join her sister and the maids.

“Two months.” she reminded herself, “This will all be over in two months at the most.”

Chapter Text

April 1521

"Lady Carey has given birth to a healthy boy, Sire."

The words reverberated in Henry's skull, echoing over and over until he couldn't be sure he'd heard them correctly.

"A boy?" he breathed, scarcely daring to hope.

Dr Linacre smiled, nodding.

"A boy, Sire. A boy as healthy as anyone could hope to see."

Henry's heart leapt. A son! He had a son!

"And Lady Carey? She is well?"

"A little tired, perhaps, but no more so than is to be expected, so the midwives tell me. I'm told she is eager to show her son off to his father."

Henry needed no second urging. He leaped to his feet.

"Send word to the Tower. Have them fire the cannons in thanks. And tell Westminster and St Paul's I want those bells ringing and I do not want them to stop!"

He didn't even wait for an acknowledgement. Within seconds, he was gone, haring down the passageway to do something he'd begun to think he'd never get to do. To go and see his son.

There was no need for the King to be announced when he reached Mary's rooms. She heard him long before she saw him.

"Where is he? Where is my son? Let me see my son!"

She nodded to the two maids in the room. One of them helped her to sit up, propping copious pillows behind her back. The other reached into the lavish cradle at the foot of the bed, rocking the startled baby slightly to calm him before placing him in Mary's arms.

When the King burst into the room seconds later, the two curtsied and withdrew without a word. They knew the new parents would want to be alone for this.

Mary mustered a smile and looked up at the King. She proffered the baby for his father to see.

"Your son, My Lord," she whispered.

"My son! I have a son!" The King swept the little one into his arms, his touch vigorous yet gentle enough one might have been forgiven for thinking the boy was made of glass. His father was certainly looking at him as though he were that fragile.

He said nothing for several moments, drinking in the sight of the tiny boy, revelling in the strength of his kicks against his swaddling bands. A grin so wide it split his face in two spread across his face.

"Lady Carey, I do declare you are the best girl in England. You've made me the happiest man in Christendom. What shall we call the lad?"

"How could he have any name but his father's?" Mary responded instantly, knowing Henry's sense of self-worth was too great to allow for serious consideration of any other name for this, his first-born son.

And indeed, his grin grew even wider at her words, "Henry. You do me honour, sweetheart. Henry Fitzroy he shall be. Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond and Pembroke."

He heard Mary gasp at his casual bestowal of a double dukedom upon a boy not even an hour old, but in truth, the thought was not a new one. He'd spent many of the weeks of Mary's confinement musing over what he would do provided Mary gave him a son.

He wished he could do more for his son, but there was no escaping the fact that Mary was married, so, even assuming he could annul his marriage to Katherine, there could be no marrying her and legitimisation of their son. Which made making the boy a Prince impossible. The Richmond and Pembroke titles, on the other hand, were both old family titles, first granted to his grandfather and great-uncle by that King of blessed memory, Henry VI of Lancaster. There could be no shame in granting them to his son.

As for Mary herself, well, he had it in mind to make Carey a Viscount. Viscount Hundson, as he'd once suggested to Will before he sent him to Portugal. At the time, he'd suggested a barony, but that would make Mary a Baroness, equal in rank to Bessie Tailboys, and Bessie had only given him a girl. The mother of his son deserved a higher title than the mother of his daughter, particularly since he'd never claimed the girl in the first place.

And wasn't her father Sir Thomas angling for the Ormonde title? Wasn't there some talk of Mary's sister marrying her cousin to tie up the competing claims? Well, they needn't worry about that now. He'd grant Sir Thomas the title outright, in gratitude for the birth of his son.

When he told Mary his plans, her jaw dropped.

"Your Majesty is far too generous!"

"Nonsense! You've made me the happiest man in Christendom, darling. You deserve to be rewarded."

Something sparked in Mary's eyes, but before Henry could consider what it might be, she had laughed brightly and leaned forward to rest a hand on the baby's head.

"A double duke indeed! He'll have every man and woman in England angling to be his godparents if Your Grace continues to show him such favour."

"I thought Wolsey for his godfather at the font, and Brandon for his godfather at his confirmation. I'll ask my sister Mary and my aunt Catherine to be his godmothers, if you have no objection."

"How can I think to object? Your Majesty knows the ins and outs of court politics far better than I. I'm sure you would not do your son wrong by choosing inappropriate godparents."

Mary smiled up at Henry, then, and his heart swelled. That was the most natural smile she'd given him in weeks. It seemed their son was breaking down the walls that had sprung up between them since she'd found herself with child.

Impulsively, he leaned across over their son and kissed her.

"Lady Bryan can be his Lady Mistress, as she was Mary's. The Princess is five now, it's high time she had a proper governess anyway. And we'll not send him too far away, not while he's young. I thought Durham House would make a fine residence for him, what do you say?"

"Whatever you think best, My Lord. I know you've had plans for a son for a very long time."

"I have, my darling, I have. And now you've finally allowed me to put those plans into practice. How can I ever thank you?"

"You can thank me too much, you know," Mary chuckled lightly and Henry shook his head.

"Nonsense! Nothing is too good for you now, sweetheart. But listen to me going on. You must be exhausted. I'll take our son to meet his wet nurse and get him some lunch. You just rest, and when you've thought of something you want for yourself, you just tell me. Whatever it is, it's yours for the asking."

His tone brooked no argument, and Mary slid obediently beneath the eiderdown and closed her eyes, much as a child might. Henry looked down at her indulgently for a moment or two and then bent and kissed her.

"God Bless you, Mary Carey. You are the best girl in England," he said softly, before straightening up and carrying his son – his son! – out of the room.

Of all the boons Henry had thought Mary might ask of him as a reward for birthing him a son, this was most certainly not one that had crossed his mind.

He blinked at her, "You want me to recall Will from Portugal and send you both to the country?"

"Please, Henry, please! Why not? I've done what you wanted and given you a son. I've given you well more than a year of my life. Just let me go, let me be. Please."

Her eyes were round, swimming with unshed tears. She caught at his sleeve, every inch of her body pleading with him.

In the back of his mind, Henry registered the fact that this was one of the few times she'd felt bold enough to call him by his Christian name. She'd never done it before Hal was born, no matter how many times he'd begged it of her. Motherhood had clearly made her bold.

Part of him knew only too well why she was asking. To his chagrin, he wasn't entirely blind to the fact that Mary had felt forced into sharing his bed, that he hadn't always been a fully-fledged gentleman towards her. And, if he was honest with himself, he had no carnal need to keep her at his side, not now she'd given birth. Motherhood changed a woman, changed how she was in bed. Henry had never found himself to be particularly fond of the changes. Oh, he'd kept trying with Katherine, of course, but then, she was his wife. His Queen. That was a different kettle of fish entirely.

But whether he had any intention of calling Mary back to his bed or not was a moot point, at least compared with the babe squalling in the cradle.

"How can I let you go, Mary?" he asked bluntly, thrusting himself to his feet and pacing the room as he spoke, "How can I let you go, when you'll want to take Hal with you? Do you really think I am the kind of man who could let his son be raised by another man? Do you truly expect me to allow Hal to call Will 'Father', when it is only too obvious that he is my son?"

"No. You can have Hal! You can take him to Durham House and let Lady Bryan raise him, just as you planned. I'll never lay claim to him again, I swear it. I swear it on whatever you wish me to swear it upon! Just, just let me go, Henry, please!"

Henry reeled back at her words. Every fibre of his being wanted to rail at her, to call her unnatural for not wanting to mother her son, but as he whirled round to stare at her, something in her eyes, something feral, stopped him.

His voice dropped. "It means that much to you, that I would let you go? You are willing to bargain your son for your freedom? Did my affection for you truly sting so much?"

The old Mary would have cowered at the danger in his voice, would have dropped her head and murmured something placatory. But not this Mary. She raised her head, met his eyes with steel in her gaze.

"I would barter my son for my marriage."

Her words rang in the air, leaving only a heavy silence behind them. Henry searched her face for any sign of duplicity. Finding none, he sighed and spread his hands.

"On your head be it. But be warned that I'll not tell him of you. You'll not get a second chance."

Something flickered in Mary's gaze then, before she controlled herself.

"I am aware, Your Majesty. But, if God is good, He will see fit to grant me other children when the time is right."

King or not, Henry couldn't find the words to compete with the finality in her tone. He stared her down for several more seconds and then, for the first time in their relationship, yielded.

"As you wish, Lady Carey. I'll write to your husband myself."

He turned on his heel and strode from the room before she could form the words to thank him.

"My God, Mary, I knew from the day your siblings were born that you would never be the cleverest in the family, but I didn't ever consider you'd be this much of a fool. You had the King eating out of your hand, you could have asked him for anything in the world, and you asked him to let you go? What were you thinking, girl?!"

Thomas Boleyn stared at his eldest daughter in consternation, part of him wondering whether it was too late to shake some sense into the chit.

He was so lost in his thoughts that it took him quite by surprise when Mary suddenly slammed down the lid of her travelling chest and turned to face him.

"I was thinking, Father, that I had served the Boleyns and Howards quite long enough, and it was well past time I put my mind to doing something for the sake of my marriage," she said acidly.

Despite himself, Thomas gaped at Mary. He wasn't used to the quietest of his three children challenging him quite so openly. The action only lasted a moment, but it was quite long enough to give Mary an opening.

"Oh, honestly, Father! Aren't you Earl of Ormonde now? Isn't George Viscount Rochford? Hasn't the King made my son a Duke twice over? You can't stand there and tell me that wasn't more reward than you ever dreamed we'd get from my dalliance with His Majesty when it first started. All right, so we haven't found a match for Anne yet, but she's only just fourteen. There's plenty of time to find a husband for the new Lady Anne Rochford. And do you really think His Grace could really be persuaded to be much more generous, even to me? The shine of his son will wear off in time, once he remembers that Hal can never wear the crown. And I, for one, don't intend to be here when that happens. I never wanted to be here in the first place. You can stay and fight with the rest of the dogs for a bone of favour if you wish, but I am done. I have given what should have been the happiest time of my life – the first year of my marriage – to the King instead of to my husband and I am tired. I am tired of the game and sick to my stomach at everything that has happened in the last year and a half. I am going to the country and nothing you can do or say will stop me."

With that, she pushed past her father, counting on the fact that he knew she was scarcely out of her lying-in to make him yield. She snapped her fingers at the page hovering behind her, "Take my trunk down to the yard and send it to Aldenham. I am going to Durham House to take my leave of my son and will leave from there."

"Yes, Lady Hundson," the boy murmured, starting at the unusual hauteur in the new Viscountess's demeanour. Mary swept down the passage without another word.

It wasn't until she was well clear of her father that she let herself stop. She leaned against a tapestried wall, suddenly realising how fast her heart was beating. How much she was shaking.

She'd never challenged her father like that before. Never.

Hal snuffled in his sleep, whining slightly as his little legs kicked. The early summer sunshine streamed through the nursery window, picking out the hints of copper in his downy hair.

Mary leaned over the cradle, rocking it slightly to send him back into a deeper sleep. For a moment, she longed for nothing so much as to pick him up and cuddle him close to her.

Before she could act on the impulse, however, Lady Bryan entered the room, dipping her knee just slightly.

"Lady Hundson. Mistress Joanna told me she'd shown you up. How wonderful to see you. I trust you find everything to your liking?"

"Indeed, Lady Bryan. I can find no fault at all."

Swallowing, Mary lowered her hand into the cradle, resting it on Hal's back for just the briefest of moments, before drawing herself up and turning to the older woman.

"And His Grace? How do you find him, Lady Bryan? Does he eat well? Sleep well? Behave for the most part?"

"He does, Madam," Lady Bryan glanced down into the cradle, a smile softening the hard corners of her mouth as she looked at the sleeping baby, "He has the lungs of a lion on him when he's hungry, but other than that…"

"Hmm," Mary scoffed lightly in amusement, "He's a Tudor, then. There's no doubt of that."

Silence fell between them for a moment or two before Mary put out her hand and clasped Lady Bryan's wrist.

"Take good care of His Grace, Lady Bryan. At this point in time, the Duke of Richmond and Pembroke is the most precious boy in England."

Lady Bryan looked askance at Mary's formality with her own son, but the truth of the younger woman's words was too strong to deny. She nodded.

"You have my word, Lady Hunsdon."

"Good. I know His Grace will be in safe hands with you, Lady Bryan."

There was nothing more to say. Mary went to the door of the nursery. She glanced back. She nodded at the older woman. She hovered for a moment, then physically tore herself away.

She'd made her choice. Hal was Henry's son, not hers. She'd made her choice. Hal was Henry's son, not hers.

Mary kept telling herself that as she walked down the gallery, descended the steps and nodded to her young son's Steward, John Chapman, before climbing to her litter.

No matter how hard she tried, though, her composure didn't last past losing sight of the gates of Durham House. Shielded by the thunder of her horses' hooves and the curtains surrounding her, hiding her from prying eyes, she broke down into floods of tears.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Summer 1527

"Honestly, Mary, she's impossible! The longer she has the King at her beck and call, the more arrogant she becomes!"

Anne flung herself down in the grass beside her older sister, huffing in exasperation. Mary paused to bite off a trailing bit of embroidery thread and raised an eyebrow.

"Are you pretending you wouldn't be? If you had the most powerful man in England lovesick as a green schoolboy and granting you anything your heart desired, wouldn't you be a little arrogant too?"

Anne bit the inside of her cheek, waving to Cate as she ran past, flower crown askew on her sandy hair, her two-year-old cousin Meggie toddling after her, alternating between giggles and lisping plaintively for Cate to wait for her.

"No," she said at last, "No, I can't say I wouldn't be. But, since I will never be in her position, that doesn't mean I can't find the woman's conduct repulsive. She's been swanning around Court, demanding a precedence that isn't truly hers. She's demanded rooms of her own, a household to rival the Queen's. And the King's just rolling over and giving it to her. I can't imagine why!"

"I can," Mary muttered acerbically, "Have they actually shared a bed yet?"

That gave Anne pause. She considered for a moment, before shaking her head, "Not to my knowledge."

"Well, there's your answer then! Henry always showers his girls in gifts until they give into him. You mark my words, the moment they share a bed, he'll begin to tire of her sharp tongue.

"I wish they would, then. It might sweeten the Lady Mary's temper somewhat."

"She's not the easiest of mistresses, then?"

"Not from what I hear, no. Half her household seem to be in tears on any given day. Dorothy's in her household and she says working for Mary Talbot is like running around after an over-indulged child. The Lady Mary, as most of the Court call her, finds pleasure in nothing and fault in everything, just because she likes having everyone walking on eggshells around her."

Mary's eyes widened. "And the King allows this?"

"Allows it? He downright encourages it. Oh, not by anything he says or does, but everyone knows he'd marry Mary Talbot tomorrow if he could get an annulment from the Queen. That, in itself, goes a long way to having people fawn over the Lady, even if nothing in her conduct suggests she's worth fawning over."

"But he'll never get his annulment. Not now, not with Clement Charles's prisoner."

"No. You know that, I know that. But has it made a blind bit of difference to Mary Talbot? Do you know what she said when the news came?"

"No," Mary shook her head.

"She said she wished all Spaniards were at the bottom of the sea, for at least then they couldn't interfere with her betrothal."

Mary's jaw dropped, "She said that?!"

Anne nodded, "In public, no less. Not in front of the King, at least, but it was public enough. It was all round the Court in hours."

"And she considers herself betrothed to the King?"

"Apparently."

Mary's jaw worked, but nothing came out. At last, she said nothing more than, "Promise me one thing, sister. Promise me you'll never make an enemy of Mary Talbot."

Her words fell into silence. She hadn't expected anything less. If Mary Talbot was even half as arrogant as the stories painted her to be, not making an enemy of her might not be a promise Anne was able to keep.

With an effort, Mary pulled her shoulders back and pasted a smile on her face, "Anyway, let's talk of something more cheerful. Cate, come here, darling."

She beckoned to her daughter, who ran over, laughing, "Yes, Mama?"

"Tell Aunt Anne what I told you this morning."

Mary took her daughter's hand and squeezed it encouragingly, but Cate needed no such encouragement. She beamed at the thought.

"I get to be a big sister!" she squealed, leaping in the air in excitement.

Now it was Anne's turn to gasp. Her eyes flashed to Mary's face, "Truly?"

Mary's answering grin was as wide as her daughter's. "I had the midwives confirm it just before you came. I'm due in midwinter."

Two or three years earlier, Anne would never have been as excited for her sister. But motherhood had changed Anne. It had given her insight into aspects of Mary's character that she'd never understood before.

Laying her sewing aside, Anne stood and crossed the few paces to her sister, pulling her gently up into a hug.

"Congratulations, Mary. I know how much you and Will have wanted a big family."

Chapter Text

Henry felt the wood of the table bite into his palms, warming beneath his skin. He looked at Katherine, his blue eyes boring into her darker ones.

"No, Katherine. You are going to Wales to join our daughter at Ludlow. That is an order."

"Henry, I am your Queen. My place is at your side, especially in this time of crisis. Please. Do not send me away."

To his surprise, Henry found himself mesmerised by the way Katherine's mouth shifted as she spoke. How things changed. In the early years of their marriage, her accented English had seemed enticing to him. It had glittered with promise, with the sense of something exotic, something half-forbidden. Now it just annoyed him, particularly when she was resisting him.

"Your place, Madam, is wherever I decide it is. You will order your household to begin packing for Wales immediately."

"And leave you to play summer sweethearts with the Lady Mary? With your northern rose? I think not!" Katherine's eyes flashed with a hint of her old fire.

"This has nothing to do with Mary!"

Rage bubbled up in Henry and it took all his self-control to stop himself back-handing Katherine across the face. Why did she always have to make everything so difficult? He might not love Katherine anymore, but he still had respect for her. He still acknowledged her as the mother of his only legitimate daughter. He was trying to do the best he could for her. Why couldn't she see that?!

With an effort, he controlled himself.

"This has nothing to do with Mary," he repeated tightly, "I am sending her north to Sheffield, if you must know. I am trying to keep us all safe, Katherine. All of us. Won't you help me do that? And if, God forbid, anything should happen to me, our daughter the Princess will need you. Would you deny her a mother's love and guidance in this time of turmoil?"

Silence stretched between them, awkward and full of difficult undertows. At last, Katherine sighed.

"For our daughter, then. But only for our daughter."

She made Henry a stiff half-curtsy. He nodded stiffly, barely holding back an exhalation of relief.

"Thank you," he said softly, "I pray God you'll both be safe in Wales."

The rider burst into the courtyard at Tyttenhanger, their sweat-lathered horse almost collapsing out from under them as they wrenched to a halt.

"The King!" They bellowed, "I must see the King!"

So clear was their urgency, that even now, at this time when everyone feared nothing more than contagion, they were ushered into His Majesty's presence without even stopping to change their sweat-soaked clothes, despite it being the middle of the night.

Henry had been soundly asleep, and was still blinking his drowsiness away when the rider was ushered in to meet him, but the gravity and urgency in the rider's face woke him as suddenly as a drenching with cold water would.

"What is it? What news do you bring?"

The messenger fell to the floor.

"Your Grace, it is the Queen! She lies deathly ill at Ludlow!"

The silence was suddenly so thick one could have cut it with a knife. The colour drained from Henry's face. He swayed on his feet, scarcely aware of the courtiers who had begun to crowd into the room, despite the hour.

"Your Grace."

No one was ever sure who dared speak first, but they were forever grateful to them for breaking the stifling deadlock. Their murmured words spurred Henry into action.

"Get Butts in here, now!" he snarled, racing to the portable medicine chest that he kept with him at all times. "I want him to take the new tincture I made up yesterday and ride for Ludlow as soon as its light!"

William Butts had never ridden so hard or so fast in his life. He knew every hour, every minute, was of critical importance. He had to be able to say he'd done everything within his power to keep Queen Katherine alive.

In his bags were trinkets from the King – a bottle of tincture, a letter assuring the Queen of his undying respect and affection, a rosary made of jasper to be hung around her neck and try to promote healing.

William had to admit he was surprised at how fearful the King was for Queen Katherine's life, how solicitous he was being of her. Everyone knew how desperate the King was for an annulment, how much he longed to be able to marry Lady Mary Talbot. It would solve all His Majesty's problems at once if Queen Katherine died this summer.

But that was treason, so William stifled the thought and spurred his horse all the harder.

Ludlow was a jewel of a castle. Cream stone nestled against a backdrop of deep green forest, towering above the town that clustered close by.

William had just processed that thought when a young woman gowned in jet-black velvet appeared in the castle doorway.

She appeared without fanfare, but that didn't mean William didn't recognise her. Her regal bearing and curling red-gold hair gave her identity away as clearly as any number of blaring trumpets.

Sliding from his horse, William swept forward into a deep bow.

"Your Highness. My name is Dr William Butts. I have come from Tyttenhanger, from His Majesty the King. I have come to see what I can do for Her Grace Queen Katherine."

There was a pregnant silence. Deep in his bow, William heard the young Princess swallow audibly.

"My father is kind," she said at last, "You must thank His Majesty for his consideration. Sadly, Master Butts, God rode faster than you did. He took my – He took Her Majesty to join his train of angels in the early hours of this morning."

For several long moments, nobody dared move. Nobody dared speak, think or even breathe.

Suddenly, William's medical instincts jolted him. He straightened from his bow and moved towards the Princess in one swift step.

The guards behind Her Highness moved with him, but he was faster. As such, it was his arms that closed around the Princess, holding her up, as her legs, weakened with grief and shock, gave way under her.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Christmas 1528

“Her Highness the Princess Mary!”

The heralds’ trumpets echoed through the hall, and the twelve-year-old glided down the hall of Greenwich Palace, the skirts of her dove-grey woollen gown pooling out around her as she curtsied to her father.

“Papa,” she greeted, and a surprised murmur rippled round the hall at her words, for Mary was a woman grown, far past the age where she could really get away with greeting her father so informally in public.

Henry, however, didn’t move to chide his only daughter. It was, after all, Mary’s first appearance at Court since her mother’s death, and he knew his pearl well enough to know that, despite her façade of poise, she was only one ill-timed comment away from breaking down completely.

“My precious pearl,” Rising from his throne, he clasped her in his arms, kissing her on both cheeks, “How good it is to see you. We shall have a merry Christmas together, shall we not?”

It took Mary a moment to respond, and, indeed, those closest to the dais, such as the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk, saw her shoulders heave with effort before she managed to nod, “Yes, Papa. Mama would want us to celebrate Christ’s birth with all due honour.”

“It pleases me to hear you say that,” Henry replied, squeezing Mary to him for a moment, before turning her round to face the plump, dark-haired woman seated on the steps of the dais, “I agree with you, darling. Your mother, bless her soul, was ever one for piety and duty. As such, I know she’d be pleased to see me marrying again so that England may have a Prince and be spared the horrors of a repeat Cousins’ War. May I present my sweetheart, the woman who will be your new mother, the Lady Mary Talbot?”

The Duchess of Suffolk winced to hear her brother bring his paramour into things so quickly and publicly. Had her brother no tact at all? Even agreeing to try for a merry Christmas had clearly cost her niece nearly everything she had to give, and now she had to face her new stepmother immediately? Couldn’t Henry see that this was bound to go disastrously?

The silence stretched uncomfortably, the two young women all too obviously sizing each other up. The Court waited with bated breath, wondering which of them was going to blink first. Mary Tudor was a Princess born, but Lady Mary Talbot was the future Queen. Which of them would bend the knee to the other?

In the end, Her Grace of Suffolk needn’t have worried. Queen Katherine and Lady Salisbury had taught Mary better than to collapse, no matter what the men in her life asked of her. Reading the room in the tick of her father’s jaw and the mulish set of his shoulders, the young Princess swept down to the floor.

“My Lady. It is a pleasure to meet the woman who plays such an important role in my father’s life. Please, allow me to present you with a gift for the season. You too, Papa.”

The young blonde clapped her hands, and a page scurried forward, bearing a pair of matching caskets, one slightly bigger than the other.

Henry took them in his hands, passing the larger one to Mary Talbot as his daughter directed him too.

They opened them together, and Henry gasped in pleasure at the sight of his gift. It was a finely tooled belt of emerald leather, thickly embroidered with blackwork in the shape of roses and pomegranates entwined together.

Emboldened by his obvious pleasure in his gift, Mary leaned her head on his arm, more affectionate than she usually was in public, “I did the embroidery myself, Papa. I know Mama always liked to bless you before you rode out hunting, so I thought, this way you could take her with you forever.”

“Oh, Mary,” Henry’s breath caught in his throat, and, for a moment, tears gleamed in his blue eyes, before he collected himself and looked up to the dais, to Mary Talbot, “What have you been gifted, my darling?”

Mary leapt in, beaming, before her mother-to-be could form a word to reply, “Oh, I embroidered her a hood to match your belt, Papa. After all, you said it yourself, Mama would want you to marry again and sire a legitimate son. As such, I thought my new mother should have Mama’s blessing too, and Lady Salisbury thought it was a lovely idea.”

Mary’s tone was as sweet as honey. Her blue eyes sparkled as she looked up at the woman who would become her stepmother in a matter of days.

The plump brunette was trapped and she knew it. However distasteful she might find such a brazen display of her predecessor’s emblem, to refuse the Princess’s gift would be seen as outright churlish, particularly if she did so in front of the Court, who still adored Mary beyond all reason. And given she’d already omitted to curtsy to Mary… she couldn’t afford to make a scene. At least not here and not now.

She gritted her teeth, managing a thin smile for her betrothed’s sake.

“How…thoughtful, Mary, darling. I’m sure we’ll be very good friends before long.”

Forcing herself to her feet, she crossed the room to the younger woman and pecked her lightly on the cheek.

“Well, isn’t that a pretty picture?!” Henry burst into applause at her actions, and the Court, ever sycophantic, followed suit.

Whatever their private thoughts on the matter, the two Marys had no choice but to smile sweetly and acknowledge the praise.

Chapter Text

“Your Majesty’s cousin, the Princess, was a credit to all her sainted ancestors when she met her new stepmother, my lord. Her Highness might have her father’s colouring, but she has her mother’s grace in abundance. She greeted the Lady Talbot with far more poise and politeness than the latter deserved, given she didn’t so much as rise to greet Her Highness.

As for the immediate past, King Henry married the Lady Talbot this very morning, and she processed to Mass as Queen not an hour later. The King’s young niece, Lady Margaret Douglas, carried her train, and His Grace of London, who celebrated the Mass, exhorted us all to pray for Queen Mary and to beseech God to see fit to soon grant her a son of the King’s blood.

I bowed my head so as not to stand out, of course, but as God is my witness, I would rather see Princess Mary on the throne of England than any number of male brats the Talbot harpy may spawn…. “

Chapuys to Charles V, Christmas Eve, 1528

“My dearest brother,

I pray this letter finds you in time. Do not come to Court for Easter, not if you value your life. Smallpox has broken out, and it is sweeping through us as fiercely as any of the plagues Our Lord ever sent against the Egyptians.

I only wish I knew what we’ve done to displease Him so. We must have done something. After all, why else would He punish Portugal so, taking Catarina in childbirth and Afonso not three months later?

And now we must suffer this scourge too. I only pray His righteous anger will be sated after this. If it is not, well, I fear for our beloved country.

Please, Luis, as you love and honour me, stay away. Stay away and save yourself, for, if God Forbid, anything should happen to me, Portugal will have need of you.

Deus te abençoê.

Joao III of Portugal’s last letter to his brother Luis, Duke of Beja, April 1529

To my dearest cousin, King Luis,

Forgive my boldness in writing to you uninvited, but I felt I must, for I thought it no more than my Christian cousinly duty to send Your Grace a sign that you are not alone with your new responsibilities, however dark and overwhelming they must feel at the moment.

It is less than a year since I lost my dear mother, Queen Katherine, so I still remember those early days of unremitting grief far too well. My heart aches for Your Majesty, having lost your dear older brother so suddenly. I pray that Your Grace will know that you are in my prayers and feel even the slightest bit uplifted by them.

If I may presume a little further upon Your Majesty’s indulgence, I have enclosed a small crucifix, one I was willed by my late mother, Queen Katherine. I only hope that Your Grace will see fit to use it, and that, whenever you look at it, you will know that I remain, now and forever,

Your loving cousin,

Mary of England

Princess Mary to King Luis of Portugal, June 1529

My dearest cousin Maria,

How good it is to know that, even in the darkness of my sorrow, I have a friend who knows what I am suffering and cares enough to write.

Yes, it was bold of you to strike up a correspondence, but I take no offence. We are cousins, after all, and our natal countries are long-standing friends. It would give me great pleasure to get to know you better, so please feel free to write whenever you so wish.

Sadly, I cannot promise to always reply, but then, I’m sure an intelligent Princess such as yourself will understand. After all, you must know the rigours of duty that govern our lives only too well, especially when one is as new to one’s role as I am.

Know, however, that I use your crucifix daily – and think of you every time I do so.

With every blessing,

Your cousin Luis

Luis of Portugal to Princess Mary, August 1529

“Dearest Luis,

I write on Martinmas, in the hope that my brief note will reach Lisbon in time to wish you a wonderful Christmas season. May Christ’s birth be a fresh start for you, as it was for my father last year.

Perhaps you might look to wed once your mourning is over? After all, your people would no doubt relish the joy that a royal wedding always brings after so many months of mourning, and Portugal would benefit from the security that comes with a secure Succession.

Oh, don’t misunderstand me, I’m sure you are doing all you can to steer Portugal safely through her current turmoil, but you are only one man, and a man without an heir at that. Now that I am old enough to spend most of my time at Court, I see how his worries for the Succession consume my father. He is desperate to spare our beloved England a return to the dark days of the Cousins’ War. I only hope that my Lady Stepmother will be able to give him the son he craves when she is brought to bed at Easter. Perhaps then he might return to the more jocular man I remember from my childhood.

And you too would benefit from a wife, my dearest cousin. Forgive me for speaking so boldly, but you know I only do so out of regard for you. I am always happy to advise you, of course, as any cousin should, but I am young and untried, and besides, I am too far away. You need a partner who will always be at your side, one who can learn to know and love Portugal just as you do.

I pray you will find her, sooner rather than later. In the meanwhile, I remain, as always,

Your loving Maria

Princess Mary to King Luis of Portugal, November 1529

Chapter Text

Bridewell Palace, April 1530

“Her Grace has given birth to a healthy baby girl.”

At the herald’s determinedly cheerful announcement, it took all Henry had not to snarl in fury.

Mary promised him a son! She promised him a boy, a healthy, squalling boy to be his Prince of Wales, and he married her on the strength of that promise. He married her, when he could have had any Princess or Lady in Europe after Katherine died! God, Charles, Joao, and Francis must be laughing themselves sick already.

And that wasn’t even the half of it. Not only is Mary of lower birth than is ideal for England’s Queen and not only has she broken her promise, but she’s not even a decorous consort. In the eighteen months since their Christmas wedding, she’d quarrelled with at least half the lords on his Council. Henry had had to appease more than one of them, making excuses about how hard her new royal state and pregnancy was being on his darling. Christ, he felt a fool, knowing how he’d pandered to Mary’s every whim, particularly over the last few months, quashing any doubts about her conduct with the thought that her fractiousness just proved how strong their son was growing within her.

All this for a girl! Another useless girl!

He turned on his heel without a word, stalking away from the still-chattering page.

The hours passed, and still Henry did nothing about his new-born daughter. Oh, he knew he ought to at least visit and name the child so that the announcements could go out, lest tongues start wagging, but he couldn’t bring himself to, not when the baby’s sex was such a crushing disappointment.

At last, as Vespers neared, he knew he could put it off no longer. With dragging feet, he presented himself at the door of Mary’s lying-in chambers.

Mary was asleep. Her sister, Lady Dacre, flushed when she told him, pleading excuses about it having been a hard birth, one that went through the night and most of the morning, but Henry waved her excuses away with no small degree of relief. At least he wasn’t likely to lose his temper with Mary and risk unbalancing her already precarious humours even further.

“Don’t trouble yourself to wake the Queen, Lady Dacre,” he shrugged, “I’ll come and see her again, when she’s rested. But if you could point me in the direction of England’s newest Lady, I should be most grateful,” he waved a hand and relief flashed in the younger woman’s eyes.

“Of course, Your Grace,” she curtsied, “Her Highness is over there, in the cradle.”

She nodded him in the direction of the fine beech cradle standing in the window embrasure and Henry crossed the room to look down at his new daughter.

Unlike her mother, she was awake, and gurgled up at him, her big blue eyes blinking intently.

She was long for her age, and the fuzz that showed through her lace mobcap was dark – darker than that of any of Henry’s other children – suggesting that she was going to be a brunette like her sharp-tongued mother.

Still, despite her resemblance to Mary, Henry found his heart softening at the sight of her. She might be a girl, but at least she was here and alive. That was a good sign for the future. After all, a healthy daughter was more than Katherine managed at the first time of trying. And Mary was still young. There was no reason the next one shouldn’t be a boy.

“Elizabeth,” he spoke for the first time since laying eyes on the infant and Lady Dacre jumped to attention.

Not for the first time, Henry couldn’t help but chuckle to himself at the absurdity of just how many young women at Court bear his mother’s name.

“Not you, Lady Dacre,” he clarified, nodding towards the cradle, “Elizabeth. We’ll name her Elizabeth, for my mother. Tell the Queen when she wakes.”

“My Lord,” Lady Dacre curtsied and Henry paused, lost in thought for a moment, before exhaling.

“Well, I suppose if we can have a healthy daughter, we can have a healthy son.”

He left Mary’s apartments without another word.

Windsor, June 1530

Mary Talbot sat in the Queen's throne in the tiltyard, surrounded by her ladies. Newly released from her lying-in-chambers after giving birth to her daughter, the Lady Elizabeth, she was still somewhat exhausted - and the heat of the day was doing little to help keep her awake.

However, when the trumpets blared and Henry trotted up to the pavilion, lowering his lance to her, she was as alert as she could be. She rose, untying the lace from around her waist, and tied it around the lance.

"So that my King might win the day," she said, leaning forward to kiss Henry’s cheek.

He clapped a hand against his chest in salute, then trotted back and took his place, eyeing his next target - the Queen's brother, Francis, who had made comments about his waistline during little Elizabeth’s christening feast.

"His Majesty makes the challenge, à la guerre!" declared the herald.

"Here we go again," sighed Norfolk.

Next to him, Brandon smirked, "Even though his sister is married to the King, Talbot must remember he cannot criticise him."

"Not all of the court is as loyal as you, Suffolk," Norfolk replied, though Brandon was smart enough to know the Duke wasn’t talking about himself. For all of Norfolk's many faults, disloyalty to the King was not one of them.

Down came the lances, Talbot and the King adjusting themselves on their horses. On the wave of the flag, the poor standard bearer ran backwards for his life and the two thundered down the lists.

They were halfway down the lists when it happened. The cloud above parted, exposing the sun. Talbot was blinded through the gap in his visor. So was Henry. Talbot yanked his horse back, attempting to stop the charge. The intention was a good one, but unfortunately, unable to see, all he achieved was to make his horse rear in shock. His lance wobbled in his hand as he fought to keep his seat.

Still, that’s more control than the King managed. Though His Majesty tried to rein back, it was too late and his horse collided with Talbot's. Henry's lance clattered to the ground; King and courtier were thrown; Henry sideways, crushed under his horse and Talbot's; Talbot backwards, lance leaving his grip as he hit the ground with an audible ‘thunk’.

The lance flew high into the air, over the gasp of the crowd who had all risen at the King and the Queen's brother having fallen from their horses.

Henry's scream pierced the air and Francis Talbot's heart simultaneously. He knew even before he had fully regained his senses that something had gone terribly wrong, but the court realised the full extent the disaster before he did. By the time he’d pulled himself together enough to rise, shakily, and look around him, chaos had struck. When he realised exactly what had happened, he barely managed to open the visor of his helmet in time to avoid soaking his own face in vomit as he heaved and retched at the sight before him

The King’s codpiece had come loose in the fall and Francis’s lance had impaled one of the King's testicles, splitting it open, blood pouring from the wound and pooling in a scarlet lake beneath the King’s prone form.

Of all the things to happen today, this was one of the worst. Still not quite with it, he fainted, clattering to the floor in his armour, vision swirling as courtiers heaved the King off the lists and into a nearby tent, the royal physician rushing ahead, shouting for his medicine box to be brought at once.

Chapter Text

Windsor, June 1530

“What news? Dr Butts, what news?”

Brandon all but accosted the other man as he came out of the King’s makeshift sickroom, willing him to say that all was well, that the disaster they had all witnessed two short hours ago was nothing more than a horrific nightmare.

Dr Butts sighed, running an exhausted hand through his hair. His fingers disturbed several loose strands and they drifted down to rest on his lapel, where they gleamed greyly in the fading summer light.

It suddenly occurred to Brandon that Dr Butts seemed to have aged several years in the last two hours.

“I have staunched the bleeding and bandaged His Majesty’s groin with honey. The King has been dosed with poppy tears and is currently sleeping. If all is well, His Grace ought to wake in an hour or so.”

Brandon exhaled, a long, deep breath he didn’t even realise he’d been holding.

“William Butts, you are a bona fide miracle worker. We all feared the worst. You mark my words, you’ll be made a knight for this, if not a Baron!”

Dr Butts’ mouth twisted at Brandon’s praise and he drew him away, a little apart from the rest of the milling courtiers. Sensing the gravity of the situation, Brandon quickly motioned to his wife to join them. Henry was her brother, after all. She deserved to hear this too.

“I – I couldn’t remove Lord Talbot’s lance from - from His Grace’s -” Dr Butts coughed lightly and reddened, clearly embarrassed to be having such a delicate conversation in front of a Queen, even if said monarch is a dowager. In the end, tired of his stalling, the Duchess of Suffolk said it for him, though thankfully, she did no more than breathe the offensive word.

“Balls. You don’t need to mince your words for my sake, Butts. I am a married woman, you know.”

“Well, - yes,” Butts coughed again and then continued hurriedly, obviously eager to get this excruciating conversation over with as soon as possible, “I feared the instrument might splinter and cause an infection. In the end, therefore, I saw no other cause of action if I was to save His Majesty’s life.”

“No other course than what, Butts?” The Duchess hissed impatiently.

“I had – had to – cas – castrate His Majesty.”

Dr Butts could hardly form the words. They emerged from his lips haltingly. Nonetheless, being spoken reluctantly robbed them of none of their devastating power.

Brandon had to take a step back from the force of them. He exchanged a horrified look with his wife. This was even worse than any of them dared imagine. Henry – the King – castrated? Henry, with two daughters and an acknowledged bastard boy, but no Prince of Wales – and now no chance of ever getting one? Nothing could be worse, for neither Princess Mary or Lady Elizabeth could ever hope to hold the throne. The nobles would never stand for it. Not after the chaos of the Anarchy, and not with the Cousins’ War barely fading from living memory.

A gentle hand on Brandon’s arm drew him out of his spiralling thoughts. He and his wife had one of their swift, silent conversations, several sentences passing between them in the space of a few seconds.

“Hal could be King.”

Mary shook her head, “My brother’s too proud for that. He’ll want his son. He’ll push Parliament to accept Lord Pembroke.”

“Henry! How are we going to tell him?”

“Let me worry about that. Go to Durham House and fetch my Godson. Now! However my brother finds out, he’ll take the news better if he can see Lord Pembroke.”

Knowing his wife was right, Brandon pressed the first coin he found in his pocket into Butts’s hand and nodded to her, leaving the tiltyard almost at a run, heedless of the whispers he left in his wake.

Chapter Text

Durham House, June 1530

Harry heard Lord Suffolk long before the Duke actually entered the schoolroom.

At once, he knew something was up. The Duke could be boisterous, more like a playmate than an uncle, but he never forgot his manners. Harry had never heard him shout at a woman before… and yet His Grace was shouting at Lady Wyatt.

“I don’t care that His Grace is at his lessons! This is an emergency, woman! We need Lord Pembroke at Court. NOW!”

Before Harry could process those words, the door to the schoolroom flew open. Lord Suffolk stood in the doorway, grey and dusty with haste. There was a strange look lurking in the corners of his steely brown eyes.

Harry’s heart lurched. Was that fear he saw in his uncle’s eyes? He hoped not. He didn’t think Lord Suffolk was scared of anything at all.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the Duke didn’t give him a chance, only nodded to him, quickly and jerkily.

“Lord Pembroke. Have your cloak and boots fetched and order your pony to be saddled. Your presence is required at Court. At once.”

Lady Wyatt twittered, shocked at how abrupt the Duke was being, but Harry’s heart leapt. Court? Court, at last? He hadn’t been to Court since his birthday and that was ages ago. He could ride much better now. And speak some French. He’d been paying more attention in lessons now that he was a big brother as well as a big boy. After all, he’d have to be able to teach baby Elizabeth things when she got bigger. That’s what big brothers did, and it would make Father proud of him. Maybe he’d finally give Harry that Irish Wolfhound puppy he’d been begging for. After all, now that he was both nine and a big brother, he must be old enough to look after a puppy, surely?

All of this flashed through Harry’s head in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, and he leapt to his feet, sending his inkwell flying, so that its contents splattered his dove-grey tunic.

His tutor, Sir Henry Wyatt, tutted disapprovingly, but Harry didn’t give him a chance to start scolding.

“You heard Lord Suffolk, Sir Henry! We ride for Court at once!”

“Lord Pembroke! That is no way for a Duke -”

“My pony! Now!”

Harry knew that, were the matter not clearly so urgent, he’d be roundly punished for daring to speak to Sir Henry so, particularly in front of a visitor from Court, but even at just nine, he could tell that some of the usual rules could be flouted today. And he was right.

Though Sir Henry gaped at Harry’s boldness for a moment, something changed when he caught Lord Suffolk’s eye over Harry’s head. He shut his mouth, sighed bitterly and hurried from the room.

They were on the road within the half-hour.

Windsor, June 1530

Court was different. Harry could tell that as soon as they rode in. Whenever he’d been to Court before – Christmas, Michaelmas or his birthday – the palace had reminded him of the beehives Lady Wyatt tended in the gardens at Durham House – warm, busy and humming with happiness.

This time, however, Windsor Castle seemed more like a church; grey, quiet and sad.

Harry didn’t like it. It made him shiver.

He tugged at Lord Suffolk’s sleeve and the older man looked down at him.

“Uncle Charles? What’s wrong? Where are we going?”

Harry tried hard not to let his voice shake as he spoke. Dukes weren’t supposed to be scared little boys, after all.

He can’t have been very good at hiding his fear, though, because Lord Suffolk spoke very kindly and very gently when he answered, “We’re going to see your father, Lord Pembroke. He’s been jousting and he’s been very badly hurt. He’s also had some very bad news, so you’re going to need to be very gentle and very brave around him. Can you do that, do you think?”

Harry scoffed. He hated it when Lord Suffolk treated him like a baby. Of course he could be gentle and kind to Father if the latter was ill. He was a knight, after all. All knights were brave and gentle, it was in their very vows!

He didn’t say any of this, though, just nodded, and Lord Suffolk’s lips twitched into something that might passably be called a smile.

“Good,” he replied, before picking up his pace again, so that Harry had to trot to keep up.

Harry’s beloved godmother, Aunt Mary, met them at the door to his father’s rooms. Her eyes were red and swollen, as though she’d been crying for hours, and she sighed audibly at the sight of Harry.

“Oh, thank goodness. You’re here. Your father will be so pleased to see you.”

“He’s awake, then,” Lord Suffolk asked, and Aunt Mary nodded, “And in considerable pain. The poppy tears wore off a few hours ago and Butts doesn’t want to give him any more for a while, in case he becomes dependent on them.”

Harry listened eagerly, but that was the only thing Aunt Mary let slip. A moment later, she looked down at Harry and collected herself.

“Come on, Harry. Let’s go and see your father. Charles, make sure we’re left alone.”

Harry promised Lord Suffolk he’d be brave, but even so, the sickroom made his stomach turn,

It was dark, but not so dark that he couldn’t make out his father’s bulk, propped against a mountain of cushions. Father’s legs were stretched out on the bed in front of him, and his groin was unnaturally huge, swollen out of all proportion with what looked almost like a baby’s swaddle, except that it was seeping blood.

Tears came to Harry’s eyes, and only Aunt Mary’s grip on his shoulders, painfully tight, stopped him from bolting from the room as his father groaned like a dying bear.

“Henry. Henry. Open your eyes, brother. Harry’s here to see you. Charles went to Durham House to fetch him. Isn’t he the bravest, comeliest boy you’ve ever laid eyes on?”

Aunt Mary’s fingers dug into Harry’s shoulders. There was a note of desperation in her voice, but her words did the trick. Harry’s father’s eyes flickered open, gleaming sapphire in the gloom.

“Harry,” he croaked, voice much hoarser and gravellier than Harry remembered, “My boy. My precious boy.”

He gestured weakly with one arm, and Aunt Mary pushed Harry forward. Harry hardly had time to register what was going on before he was crushed against his father’s breastbone, the older man’s arm across his back so tightly that he was worried it might snap him in two.

Blood and unguents mingled cloyingly in Harry’s nose until he could hardly breathe, and his thick fair hair began to drip with his father’s tears.

Crying. His father was crying. Harry had never seen his father cry before.

He didn’t quite understand what had happened, nor what was really going on, but that didn’t matter. He knew enough to know it was important.

He knew enough to know it had changed everything. Forever.

Chapter Text

London was no place for Court. Not in the summer. Everyone knew that. The capital was too hot, too dusty, too dangerous.

But, with King Henry too ill to travel except by litter or barge, there was little anyone could do. The only thing they could do was scatter, spreading themselves through the outskirts of the city so that, with any luck, any plague or other illness would spare at least some of them.

Princess Mary escaped to her favourite manor of Beaulieu, and little Elizabeth was sent to Eltham. Harry was dispatched back to Durham House to join his companions, the Earls of Surrey and Lincoln, and the Hastings and Worcester heirs.

King Henry, meanwhile, went to Chelsea, to recuperate at the home of his old friend, Sir Thomas More. Queen Mary asked to go with him, but he brusquely refused. Piqued, Her Majesty didn’t wait to be told twice. Overnight, she packed up her household and fled to Richmond, where she soon called her family together for a council of war.

“What am I to do? I can’t go on like this. Henry has scarcely spoken to me since the accident, and now we’re not even in the same castle!”

“Whose fault is that?” Her younger brother William scoffed, tossing an apple diffidently from hand to hand, “You’re the one who threw a tantrum when he wouldn’t let you go to Chelsea with him. You could have sweettalked him, but no. You picked up sticks and ran, just like you always did when we were children."

“Oh, William! Use your head!” Mary snapped, “I was hardly going to go where I wasn’t wanted! Henry doesn’t need to recuperate at Chelsea! He’s only gone there because he wants to be close to the Pembroke brat!”

Even the worst of Queen Mary’s critics couldn’t accuse her of being slow-witted. The colour drained from her plump cheeks as a horrible thought occurred to her.

“Christ, what if he wants to legitimise the boy? Wolsey’s not going to say no, and nor will the Howards, not when he’s one of them. Is this what it’s come to? Will we have to go cap in hand to a bastard to keep what’s rightfully ours?! That can’t be right! I’m the Queen, for heaven’s sake! We should be the first family in England!”

“Do?” George Talbot looked up at his daughter, his voice carefully schooled to boredom. He understood Mary’s frustration, of course, but a tiny part of him couldn’t help but think that this was just punishment for her overweening pride. Why couldn’t she get it into her head? Sulks and temper were for mistresses, not wives. Mary ought to be caring for the King as though he were made of glass, not railing at him like a fishwife.

“Do, Madam?” he repeated, as Mary turned her head to him, “Nothing. Nothing at all. Right now, it is best for all of us if we do nothing that might rock the boat, and the sooner you learn that, the better.”

“Nothing!” Mary gaped at her father, cheeks red with anger, “You suggest we do nothing? Are you out of your mind? We can’t -”

“The King has become a eunuch!” George shot back, no longer caring that it was lese-majeste of the highest order to interrupt his Queen. Indeed, he itched to shake her. He’d thought his daughter was clever. Was she really so incapable of understanding the new rules which now govern all their lives? Did he really have to spell it out? “He’ll never sire another child; do you understand that? And that means you’re lucky!”

“Lucky!” Mary spat, “Lucky?! When my husband can barely bear to lay eyes on me?”

“Yes, lucky! His Majesty knows he’ll never sire another child. He may not yet want to admit it, but he knows it well enough. And that means he’ll never seek to set you aside in the hope of a son. Your daughter will never run the risk of being branded a bastard, as Princess Mary would have been, had Queen Katherine not died at Ludlow. Any other girl would give her eyeteeth to be where you are right now. Christ on the Cross, Katherine would have done so! So, for once in your life, stop carping like a fishwife and start counting your blessings!”

George was panting by the time he finished. Fury coursed through his veins. His fingers twitched at his side.

Not trusting his self-control to hold much longer, he shoved his chair back violently. It crashed to the floor behind him as he stalked to the door, not waiting to be dismissed.

At the door, a thought occurred to him and he whirled on Mary, fixing her with a glare of ice.

“Just so Your Majesty knows, your husband demanded I disinherit Francis for his part in June’s fiasco. He has banished him to Ireland in perpetuity. So, remember that next time you’re inclined to bemoan your fate. Your brother will never inherit anything he’s been raised to. Never.”

“God’s wounds! Is there nothing those old codgers will let me discuss other than my marriage?!”

Luis stalked into his brother Fernando’s rooms, lips pressed tight with barely restrained fury. The younger man arched an eyebrow and set his book aside, “Don’t let Henrique or Afonso hear you cursing like that. You know how they like to flaunt their piety.”

Luis threw his brother a poisonous glare, “I’m King! I’ll bloody well curse if I want to! Joao has barely been dead a year! We’re barely out of mourning. Surely there’s no need for me to rush to the altar? We’re not exactly short of Princes!”

Fernando held up a conciliatory hand, “There might be five of us, brother, but think of it from the Council’s point of view. Henrique and Alfonso are hardly likely to renounce their vows, so, in practical terms, the next generation is going to have to come from you, me, or Duarte. And Duarte’s not even fifteen. After what happened to Joao and Catarina, can you blame them for being at least a little cautious?”

“Well…no...” Luis conceded, although he did so through gritted teeth, clenching a fist in his thick red hair to stop himself punching the wall., “I just wish they’d stop flogging a dead horse. You’ll be wed to Guiomar before the year’s out. I have no doubt you’ll have children. Why can’t the Council be content with that?”

“Is it really such a dead horse, though?” Fernando arched an eyebrow, shooting his brother a pointed look, “Is there really no woman you can see seated at your side as Queen? None at all?”

At Fernando’s words, a vision swam unbidden before Luis’s eyes. A young woman, clad in mourning black, with his mother’s sapphire eyes, and masses of demurely coiled strawberry-blonde hair, garnished with rubies the colour and size of pomegranates.

He felt the heat rush to his cheeks and loins and coughed, quickly turning away before Fernando could see. After all, with only a year between them, the brothers were as close as equals as it was possible for a King and his subject to be. Fernando would never let him live it down if he realised Luis had been dreaming about their young English cousin Maria.

“Now that you mention it…” he trailed off and swiftly changed the subject, “But look at the time! I’m late to dine with the Braganzas! I promised Jaime we’d discussed Duarte’s marriage to young Isabel this afternoon!”

With that serving as his hurried farewell, Luis scurried out of the room before Fernando could press him.

His behaviour wasn’t kingly, he knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. For some reason, any thought of Cousin Maria unmanned him completely. He felt like nothing so much as a green, lovesick schoolboy every time she crossed his mind. Which was ridiculous; he’d never even met the girl!

All he had was fourteen months of letters and a miniature she had sent him for Christmas. That wasn’t enough to fall in love.

Was it?

Chapter Text

The trumpets blared and a fair-haired boy of about ten strolled into Whitehall’s great hall, his head held very high and an arrogant blue gaze darting everywhere.

Teodosio de Braganza watched with some confusion as the crowd parted for the boy as though he were a Prince born and bred, for he knew only too well that he was not. King Henry might dress the lad in silks and satins, his rich blue doublet setting off his golden hair and blue-grey eyes beautifully, but Lord Pembroke was no Prince. Teodosio had made a point of learning as much as he could of the English Court during his voyage from Porto, and it was an open secret that King Henry had no legitimate son, and no chance of getting one, given that his physician had had to castrate him in order to save his life after his jousting accident at midsummer.

Legitimate or not, the King and Princess Mary looked delighted to see the boy, the Princess’s blue eyes lighting up as she bent to embrace him, and the King forcing himself to his feet to swing the boy into the air, though he had to suppress a grunt of pain as he did so.

Deciding his best option was to play the clueless foreigner, Teodosio nudged his neighbour and nodded towards the dais, “Who’s the boy? I was under the impression that His Majesty had no son. Is that the Earl of Lincoln?”

“Lord Lincoln?” His neighbour glanced towards the dais and shook his head, “That’s Lord Pembroke, His Majesty’s son by Lady Hunsdon. Mark him well, sir. My father is his governor, and he swears blind that Henry of Pembroke will be our next King.”

Teodosio couldn’t help it. His jaw dropped. Lord Pembroke, King of England? It couldn’t be!

“But that’s impossible!” he breathed, “Bastards cannot inherit their father’s titles. Surely, in lieu of a son, the Princess Mary must be first in line to the throne, with the Lady Elizabeth after her?”

His neighbour turned to face him, a supercilious sneer curling his upper lip, “That might be how you’d do things in Portugal, Lord de Braganza, but, here in England, we are not quite so sanguine about the ability of a woman to rule. The horrors of the Anarchy and the Cousins’ War have seen to that. No, King Henry is taking no chances. He has sent His Eminence Cardinal Wolsey to petition His Holiness to allow him to legitimise Lord Pembroke.”

Teodosio had to stifle a smirk at those words. He highly doubted that gamble would pay off, not with Pope Clement the Emperor’s prisoner. His Imperial Highness would never allow his cousin Maria to be set aside in favour of a Viscountess’s bastard, even if said bastard was a boy.

But it wouldn’t do to puncture the Englishman’s bubble, not now, not when his father was clearly a man of some influence at King Henry’s Court, and Teodosio was here with strict instructions to try and warm relations between England and Portugal.

Instead, therefore, he simply nodded to the other man, clicked his heels and departed with a cordial bow before he could do or say anything to betray his inner feelings.

“My Master King Luis is pleased to offer himself as a groom for Her Highness Princess Mary,” Teodosio proffered King Luis’s letter, “Now that his year of mourning for his sainted brother has passed, the Council are keen to see him wed, and quickly, for the sake of Portugal. Sadly, His Majesty is not much inclined towards the state of matrimony.”

King Henry’s face clouded at those words, and Teodosio kicked himself. He should never have been so honest. He ought to have sung the Princess’s praises, to have sworn blind that his master was overwhelmed by Her Highness’s grace and beauty and desired nothing more than to wed her, He hurried on, “However, King Luis has been writing to Her Highness for some time now, so he feels he already knows her, at least a little. He has stated outright, that if he must wed, then the Princess Mary is the wife he desires.”

There was silence at his words, and, for a moment, Teodosio allowed himself to breathe. He had salvaged success from disaster, he was sure of it.

His pride only lasted an instant, for, when the King opened his mouth, it was with a roar loud enough to shake Whitehall to its foundations.

“King Luis has been writing to my pearl?! Without asking my permission? How dare he?! King of Portugal or not, he holds her honour cheaper than any true gentleman. I won’t have it. How DARE HE treat Mary so?! How DARE HE?!”

Teodosio hadn’t been an envoy for long, but he was a seasoned enough courtier to know better than to remain where he so clearly wasn’t wanted. Scrambling for his papers, he swept them into his arms and all but ran from the room, scarcely pausing long enough to sweep King Henry something that might passably be called a bow.

The last he heard of the English King was a bellow “Get me the Princess Mary and the Lady Salisbury! NOW!”

Henry scowled blackly at Lady Salisbury as she and her charge curtsied before him.

“What’s this I hear about King Luis writing to Her Highness, Lady Salisbury? Mary’s of age; it is most unseemly for her to be engaging in any kind of relationship with an unmarried one, particularly one more than a decade her senior. You ought to know that; you should never have let this happen!”

“Well… I – I didn’t see the harm – I didn’t think anything could-” Lady Salisbury stuttered, her usual Plantagenet poise deserting her in the face of Henry’s mulish temper. After all, she knew better than anyone how fragile one’s position at Court can be, how much it depended on courting royal favour.

Fourteen-year-old Mary, however, had no such qualms. Leaping up from her curtsy, she interposed herself between her father and her governess, winding her arms around Henry’s neck with the kind of confidence peculiar to adored eldest daughters.

“Oh, you mustn’t be angry with Lady Bury, Papa. My correspondence with Cousin Luis was my own idea. It was forward of me, I know, but I truly didn’t think anything would come of it. All I had in mind, when I wrote my first letter to Luis, was that we were cousins and that I knew what kind of pain he would be in, having lost his brother so suddenly. I saw it as my Christian duty to comfort him, for does it not say in the book of Sirach that we should give grace and kindness to the living, and mourn with those who mourn?”

Mary tilted her head back to gaze up at her father, blue eyes deliberately wide and innocent, “I didn’t think any more of it, honestly, but then he wrote back. I was so pleased when he did. He thanked me and said I could write again if I wanted to, that he’d be delighted to know more about me, his only English cousin. I thought Mama would pleased to think of us getting along, so I decided it would be rude not to write again, after he’d asked it of me so nicely. You’re not really angry, are you, Papa?”

Faced with Mary’s sweet smile, Henry’s fury melted away. His pearl was so young. She’d only wanted to do her best by her cousin. How would she ever have realised how damaging this might have been to her reputation? No, this wasn’t her fault. Lady Salisbury should have guided her better.

He tapped her nose indulgently, setting her back from him, “No, my pearl. I’m not angry with you. You’re the best daughter a man could ever ask for. And you’re a lucky girl. Whatever you’ve been talking to King Luis about, it’s clearly pleased him. I’ve just had Lord de Braganza in here. Luis wants to make you his Queen. Would you like that?”

Mary’s mouth fell open, “Cousin Luis wants to marry me?”

A moment later, she remembered herself and curtsied demurely, “I’ll marry wherever and whomever you think best, Papa.”

However obedient Mary tried to be, however, flush in her cheeks and the light in her azure eyes betrayed her true feelings. The fourteen-year-old had all too obviously been dreaming of nothing more than being Luis of Portugal’s Queen.

Henry couldn’t help but laugh. He ruffled her hair.

“Go on, then. Why not? It’ll do us good to shore up the Treaty of Lisbon anyway. I’ll see what I can do.”

At that, Mary couldn’t hold back her delight any longer. She squealed rapturously and flung herself against her father.

“Thank you, Papa! Thank you!”

For the briefest of moments, Henry contemplated explaining to Mary that Parliament would doubtless insist on her signing away her rights to England if she married Luis. No one would want another Empress Matilda and Geoffrey of Anjou, after all, or to see England subsumed into the Portuguese Empire.

But she looked so happy, he just couldn’t bring himself to mar her mood. Instead, he simply kissed her, and stroked her hair, before raising a goblet to her as though she was a married woman already.

“My Lady Queen. May you be very happy in Portugal.”

Chapter Text

Castello di Angelo, Christmas 1530

His Holiness Clement VII leaned back in the papal throne, steepling his fingers.

The English legate, Cardinal Wolsey, had just left, leaving him with much to think about.

Wolsey, and through him, King Henry, was pushing hard for Lord Pembroke to be legitimised and named heir to the English throne.

Clement sympathised with their position, he really did. No man, except perhaps a cleric, who, strictly speaking, chose the path for himself, wanted to know that he would never father another child, and it was only ten times worse for Kings, who carried the hopes of an entire nation on their shoulders. And it must be worse again for King Henry. After all, everyone knew England had scarcely recovered from the dreadful depredations of the Cousins’ War. It was hardly surprising King Henry was clutching at every straw that would prevent his country from slipping back into that nightmare, even petitioning for the legitimatisation of a child who had not even the fig leaf of an excuse for such a promotion.

Clement understood. Really, he did. But there was no getting around the fact that Lord Pembroke’s elevation to princely status would displace his half-sisters, Princess Mary and Lady Elizabeth, in the Succession.

This wasn’t so much of a problem where the little Lady Elizabeth was concerned. After all, her mother was no more than an English subject. A high-ranking one, admittedly, but a subject nonetheless. But the Princess Mary, now… she was a different story. No one could deny her lineage was impeccable, not when she was a granddaughter of the Catholic Monarchs and a first cousin to the Emperor himself.

Four or five years ago, this wouldn’t have been so much of an issue. Clement would have been able to honour King Henry’s request to legitimise Lord Pembroke without fearing Imperial repercussions, but, since the Sack of Rome three years ago, things were very different. In allowing his troops to ransack the Holy City without reprimand, Charles had made it all too clear that he, not Clement, was the de facto head of Christendom. And the prideful Emperor would never stand aside and allow his beloved cousin to be displaced as heiress. By a legitimate half-brother, yes, but, not by a child that all knew to be a bastard.

So, given all of that, Clement couldn’t possibly accede to the suggestion that he legitimise Lord Pembroke.

Although… Clement’s astute political mind began to whirl. He might not have to. King Richard II of England hadn’t had a son either, had he? The English Parliament had passed an Act that gave him permission to name his own heir presumptive, or at least, had been making moves to do so when Henry Bolingbroke seized power. Perhaps that could be the compromise. Yes. That would do nicely. Clement would intimate to Wolsey that Rome would raise no objections, were his master to emulate the late King Richard’s precedent and urge Parliament to allow him to name his own heir.

A cough recalled Clement to himself and he looked up. His secretary stood discreetly in the shadows of the doorway.

“Yes?”

“The Scottish Envoys Lord Albany and Sir Richard Maitland are here, Holy Father. They have come to pay Your Holiness King James’s compliments of the season.”

“And, if I know Lord Albany, to press me to allow his nephew to wed our mutual niece,” Clement muttered acerbically, before chuckling. Why shouldn’t his little Duchess marry King James? They weren’t that far apart in age, after all, Catherine being eleven to King James’s sixteen, and no one would be able to say he hadn’t done his avuncular duty to Catherine, if he made her Queen of Scotland.

Moreover, it would be a match that no one could really refuse. The Emperor would be delighted, as it would deny his sworn enemy Catherine’s plum French and Italian inheritance. Yet that very same inheritance meant that there was at least some argument for considering Catherine a French proxy, meaning that, in wedding her, King James would still be honouring his obligation to wed a French Princess, as stated in the 1517 Treaty of Rouen.

“Yes,” Clement mused, “Wedding our little Duchess to James of Scotland may slay several birds with the one stone.”

Nodding to himself, he wiped his fingers on a corner of his silk robe and laid aside the orange he was eating.

“Very well, Lorenzo,” he waved agreement to his secretary, “Show Their Excellencies in.”

Chapter Text

Kinlet. April 1531

“ Court is rife with talk of the King’s new Device for the Succession, as it has been since His Eminence Cardinal Wolsey returned from Rome last month. Everyone knows that His Holiness has agreed not to stand in the way of King Henry’s choosing his own heir. What no one truly knows, however, what that truly means. Will His Majesty choose Lord Pembroke, as many expect him too, even though His Holiness has declined to legitimise the boy, or will he decide that, given England’s recent history, it would be safer to choose King James of Scotland or Lord Lincoln, and wed whichever he chooses to Princess Mary?”

A shriek of delight broke into Bessie’s concentration and she set her cousin’s letter aside. Rising, she crossed to the window, looking down to see her beloved daughter Margaret playing with her brindle puppy, Gwain, in the gardens below.

The spring sunshine played in Margaret’s hair, for the saucy minx had discarded her cap, and the teenager’s flaxen curls flared regal gold as she dangled an old hat feather above Gwain’s snapping muzzle.

A surge of envy rose in Bessie’s chest, despite her best efforts to quash it, and she couldn’t stop the whisper that sprang unbidden to her lips.

“Oh, my darling. If only you’d been a boy.”

If Margaret had been a boy, then it would be Margaret who was Lord Pembroke. It would be Bessie who was feted all over England as the mother of the King’s only son. She’d be a Viscountess, maybe even a Countess, with a suite of rooms available to her in every single one of England’s palaces.

As it was, Lady Hunsdon had that honour. Lord Pembroke was half-Howard, rather than half-Blount. His grandfather, uncle and aunt basked in the accolade of being family to the only quasi-royal Duke in the country, and Lady Hunsdon herself, as his mother, would have been the heroine of England, had she only chosen to play up to the accolade.

Bessie, on the other hand, was nothing more than her family’s greatest shame. She was trapped behind the walls of Kinlet so completely that she might as well have taken the veil. Indeed, she most likely would have been expected to do exactly that, had her father only had the money for her dowry. As it was, without the King’s favour, she was trapped at home, tainted forever by being spoiled goods.

Margaret was her only joy, but Margaret was fourteen, plenty old enough to wed, for all she still played as happily as a child. Indeed, Bessie’s father had mentioned only the other day that his old comrade in arms, Sir John Seymour, was looking for a bride for his middle son, Henry, and that he was minded to offer them Margaret. After all, an unacknowledged bastard couldn’t hope for more than a solid match, no matter what her heritage.

 Bessie knew she should be pleased that her father was bestirring himself on Margaret’s behalf at all, given everything, but when she thought about the kind of match Margaret would have been able to expect, had she only been born a different sex, or had the King only seen fit to claim her as his, despite everything, then the second son of an unremarkable gentry family, one old enough to be her father, seemed an awfully miserly match.

Perhaps it wouldn’t have stung so badly, but by all accounts, Lady Hunsdon didn’t even want any of the soft power her son could have given her. Mark said it was common knowledge at Court that she’d scarcely even laid eyes on the boy since she was churched over a decade ago. Bessie couldn’t believe any woman could ignore her first born so, but her cousin swore it was true.

“Oh, Lady Hunsdon! You didn’t know how lucky you were! I would never have thrown away what you had!”

Bessie groaned bitterly, burying her hands in her hair, trying to grip the locks tightly enough to stifle the pain in her heart by drowning it out with physical pain.

Chapter Text

“Your Majesty?”

“Yes, Thomas?” Henry turned from the window, leaning surreptitiously on the stick tucked under his arm. The physicians had done a grand job with his injury, but even the best treatments couldn’t quash the pain and stiffness in his thighs entirely. Some days were better than others, but still…

The Cardinal coughed lightly, “I apologise for disturbing Your Majesty, but since Your Grace intends to invest His Grace of Pembroke with the Succession upon his birthday next week, my secretary Master Cromwell has had an idea that I thought Your Majesty might find worth considering.”

“Oh, yes?” Henry arched an eyebrow, and Wolsey beckoned the dark-haired man at his shoulder forward, “There you are, Master Cromwell. Speak your piece. Put your case to the King.”

Wolsey would never have admitted it, but he was mightily relieved that it was Cromwell who had had the idea, not he himself. Though the suggestion was an eminently sensible one, he doubted the King was going to take it well, and, by putting the idea on Cromwell’s shoulders, he put the younger man firmly in the firing line.

Master Cromwell gulped slightly at being pushed in front of the King so abruptly, but he soon regained his self-control, shuffling the papers he held for a moment before glancing up.

“Well, it occurred to me, Sire, that it might be prudent to wed young Lord Pembroke to a lady of the blood royal so that she might shore up his claim to the throne, as indeed Your Majesty’s father married the late Queen Elizabeth.”

The King’s shoulders stiffened instantly. His head whipped round and he fixed Master Cromwell with a glare of sapphire flint.

“Marry Harry to a lady of the blood royal, Master Cromwell? Are you saying that my son is not fit to rule on his own account?”

Master Cromwell paled visibly at the King’s displeasure and Wolsey wondered momentarily if he ought to intervene, but decided against it. If Master Cromwell wanted to advance at Court, he would have to learn to withstand the King’s ire.

And, to Master Cromwell’s credit, he bore it well, barely missing a beat before he shook his head and dropped his gaze respectfully.

“Of course not, Sire. I would never dare suggest such a thing. And indeed, if it were just England Lord Pembroke had to rule, I wouldn’t say a word. But I am thinking of His Grace’s standing on the international stage. If His Holiness had been gracious enough to agree to Lord Pembroke’s legitimisation, this wouldn’t even be an issue, but as he did not, well…I can’t help but think that, perhaps, wedding His Grace to the Lady Margaret, the Lady Frances or Lady Eleanor would be no bad thing.”

A long, pregnant pause followed Master Cromwell’s words. The King turned to face them fully, chewing the inside of his cheek as he thought.

“Not Margaret,” he said at last, jaw solid as an oak with tension, “Her mother is sworn to Scotland. She should have been made to renounce her rights to England when she married King James. Had my father only been half the King my grandfather was, he would have insisted upon it. I’ll not have the proud lions of England yoked to a chain of thistles. Besides, the Lady Margaret is a full seven years older than Harry. If, IF, I do allow Harry to marry a cousin, it will be the Lady Frances or the Lady Eleanor. Is that clear?”

“Of course, Sire,” Wolsey answered quickly, before Cromwell could say any more.

The King nodded, and turned away again in a clear, silent, dismissal. Wolsey glanced at Master Cromwell and ushered him towards the door.

They were only halfway there, however, when the King spoke again.

“Master Cromwell.”

“Yes, Sire?”

“You’ve a bold tongue, by God, but your mind is sharp. And you’re not afraid to say what you think. I like that in a man. A King must have people around him who will tell him the truth. I intend to make Lord Pembroke’s household larger when I invest him with the Succession. I’ve a mind to appoint you his Vice-Chamberlain. What do you say to that?”

Had Wolsey not been such a consummate courtier, his jaw would have dropped at the King’s casual generosity. Master Cromwell had no such training and looked utterly dumbstruck, but, when the Cardinal nudged him sharply, he managed to bow and answer, in a voice that was only barely shaking, “Your Majesty is too generous. I would be honoured to help mould Lord Pembroke into the kind of King England needs him to be.”

“I have news from London, My Lord. King Henry has elected to invest Lord Pembroke as his heir. The new Act of Succession has placed Lord Pembroke above the Princess Mary and the Lady Elizabeth. His Grace has also been betrothed to the Dowager Queen of France’s eldest daughter, the Lady Frances.”

“Lady Frances? Why not the Lady Margaret? Is the Dowager Queen of Scots not the older of King Henry’s two sisters? Does she not have the senior claim to England?”

Luis’s musings, however, were drowned out by Teodosio’s exclamation, “Perfidious bastard!”

Luis may not have been as pious as his late older brother, but even he was shocked at how unbridled his young cousin’s tongue was, particularly in front of him, Portugal’s lord and sovereign. If Teodosio spoke so in front of his betters, who knew how coarse his tongue could be in private?

He whirled on Teodosio, lips pressed so tight they were white.

“My Lord Braganza! I’ll thank you not to speak of my future father so!”

Teodosio’s jaw dropped, “But, Sire! Your Grace cannot possibly mean to wed the Princess Mary now?!”

“Why shouldn’t I? The new Act does nothing to demean Cousin Maria’s suitability as my bride. The betrothal stands!”

“Does nothing… It changes everything! Your Grace offered yourself to the heiress of England, not a mere infanta! Maria was to be the greatest match in Christendom, and now she has been shunted aside by a mere bastard! How can you say…”

“Portugal has no need of English land,” Luis cut across Teodosio’s protest, ice crackling through the air as he spoke, “We have enough income, enough cares, with our lands in the New World. We all see how our Imperial cousin Charles overstretches himself with his multiple crowns. What do we truly want with a cold backwater on the other side of Europe? It would never be more than a drain on Portugal’s resources. No, sir, mark my words and mark them well. Mary of England shall be my Queen. I swear by Her Highness’s Virgin namesake that I shall have no other.”

Teodosio looked gobsmacked at Luis’s words, as indeed did half the rest of his council, but Luis didn’t give them time to marshal a response. He stalked from the room, his fierce declaration hanging pointedly in the air behind him.

Chapter Text

“Filipe de Lancastre challenges Sir Francis Bryan, a la guerre!”

The cry reverberated around the tiltyard, a hubbub of whispers breaking out in its wake. The ladies seated in the royal box, surrounding the Queen, Princess Mary and the future Queen, Lady Frances, exchanged startled glances. Lady Northumberland was no exception.

“Filipe de Lancastre?” Anne muttered to George, who stood behind her, “Is this another Portuguese envoy?”

“It can’t be,” he replied, shaking his head almost imperceptibly, “Papa would have told me if someone had been sent to replace Lord Braganza. And they wouldn’t send someone now, not when Her Highness is due to sail for Lisbon next summer anyway. Why would they needlessly imperil someone like that?”

“Besides,” Lady Frances leaned back in her seat to break into their conversation, “I’ve been studying the Portuguese nobles with Her Highness ever since the betrothal was agreed. There is no Filipe de Lancastre. You may take my word on that, Lady Northumberland.”

Had Frances not been the betrothed of the King’s only son, Anne might have taken umbrage at a girl a decade her junior breaking into her private conversation with her brother uninvited, but as it was, she merely chewed the inside of her lower lip, deep in thought.

“But then…who is he? A knight under some pseudonym, clearly, but who? And why isn’t he jousting under his own name?”

“Who is the newcomer?” was the question on everyone’s lips, but the man himself seemed unmoved by the ripples he was causing.

Riding a handsome dappled bay destrier, he carried himself with grace, even as sweat dripped from beneath his helm and the blue eyes visible through his visor glinted with determination.

He was brave and sporting, fearlessly breaking lance after lance against all comers. Indeed, were it not for the fact that his gaze kept flickering toward the Princess Mary, always lingering a moment or two longer than was strictly appropriate, his conduct would have been considered that of a perfect gentleman.

But then, if they were honest with themselves, there were more than a few Englishmen, who, had Mary not been Caesar’s daughter, would have sneaked a second glance at her themselves. Or even a third. After all, the Princess had dressed with care to mark the occasion of her father’s fortieth birthday, and her golden-red hair shone beneath a circlet of emeralds and diamonds, gleaming against her gown of green and white quartered silk.

Her cheeks were pink with pleasure, and, though she sat decorously at her stepmother’s side, a beringed hand resting lightly on the arm of her seat, a merry hint of mischief shone in her eyes as she leaned over to her father to share a joke Lady Frances had just told her, lighting them up like sapphires shine under candlelight.

Unknown though he was, no one could dispute Lord de Lancastre’s skill with a lance. With the King no longer riding, and Lord Suffolk kept from entering the lists by a sprained shoulder sustained in a hunt the previous week, no one could match him.

As the shadows began to lengthen and people’s minds turned towards the hours of supper and dancing that were to come, Filipe de Lancastre was crowned the victor of the King’s birthday joust.

There was a decent smattering of grumbling among his opponents that a foreigner had managed to outshine every Englishman in the field at their own’s King’s birthday joust, but that was not the case in the stands, except perhaps where the King himself was concerned. Every woman in the stands simply held their breath, taut with anticipation to finally discover who was behind the dusty helm.

Riding to the box, the young man removed his helmet, shaking out a head of thick, red-brown hair that dripped with sweat, sweat which threatened to blind the dark blue gaze he had focused, unerring and steely, upon the Princess Mary.

A heartbeat passed. Two.

And then, with a stifled gasp, Mary leaped to her feet. She dropped to the floor of the royal box in a deep, respectful curtsy.

“Your Majesty!”

Luis laughed, face breaking out into an ear-splitting grin that took years off his face. He waved Mary to her feet and beckoned her forward, leaning from the saddle to straighten her circlet and take her hand, grazing her knuckles with an affectionate kiss.

“Meu anjo,” he breathed, making Mary’s cheeks tint a deep rose with pleasure.

Then, without so much as releasing Mary’s hand, he switched his iron gaze to her father, holding the older man’s gaze for almost long enough to unnerve the older man.

“Uncle Henry,” he called, pitching his voice so that it rang out around the tiltyard, echoing off the wooden stands, “I have come to claim my bride!”

Chapter Text

“You have some nerve, nephew, coming to claim your bride a whole year early.”

Henry glared at Luis, his gaze frosty as wintered steel. Many a courtier had quailed beneath that look, but, as a King in his own right, Luis was no such an easy target.

He met his uncle’s gaze coolly, he reached out and curled an arm around Mary’s waist, pulling her close against his waist. Knowing her part in this tableau, she nestled into him without being told to, daring her father to say anything.

Bolstered by her confidence, Luis shrugged, “What can I say, Uncle Henry? My council were getting impatient, and I feared that, should I not come and claim Maria immediately, they would press me to break our betrothal in favour of another. I did not want that to happen. Maria does not deserve that.”

He paused to drop a light kiss on the crown of Mary’s head, and spread his free hand, “What else would you have done in my position?”

“Oh, Papa, please say yes,” Mary pleaded, fixing Henry with her most innocent smile, “Can’t you see? It’s perfect. I can get married at St Paul’s, like Mama did when she first came to England. Harry can escort me, like you escorted her. Wouldn’t it be something for the people, to see their new heir escorting their Princess to their wedding? Why, Meg’s marrying Lord Dorset next month. We could make it a double wedding. I’d love to share my day with my cousin, and Luis wouldn’t mind, would you?”

At this, she turned her beseeching gaze upon her betrothed and he chuckled, running his free hand over her red-gold hair.

“If that’s what you want, Maria.”

“Maria,” she echoed softly, turning fully in Luis’s arms to give him a beaming smile, “I like it when you call it Maria. Mama used to call me that.”

“Then I shall have to call you that more often… Maria,” Luis replied, looking down at her with such affection, that, for a moment, Henry was reminded of how he himself had looked at Katherine in the early days of their marriage, before time and the need for an heir had soured their marriage irrevocably.

He coughed lowly, enjoying the shock on the young couple’s faces as they sprang apart, remembering where they were. He reached out and cupped Mary’s cheek in his palm.

“Look like the innocent flower, but be the vixen under it, eh? You know how to please the people, don’t you, my darling? Very well, it shall be as you say. You and Meg shall have a double marriage at St Paul’s.”

The noise was deafening. Bells were ringing, horses whinnying, and, it seemed, all of London thronging the streets, dressed in their best to honour their Princess and her cousin, the Lady Margaret.

Despite the cacophony and the crowds, however, it was easy to tell where Mary and Meg for were, for the already raucous cheering redoubled into a veritable wall of sound for as long as anyone could clap eyes on them.

Mary headed the procession, as was her right as England’s Princess. She wore her red-gold hair loose beneath a net of amethysts, and it spilled to her waist, covering the back of her gown of cream and gold alexander.

Her mount also shone in the sunlight, for it was the rarest of rare, a palomino Arab gelding with the coat the colour of newly-churned butter.

At her side, Harry was putting his best foot forward, smiling and waving to the crowd atop a richly-caprisoned dapple-grey pony.

Too pale to wear the cream and gold that Mary carried off so beautifully, he wore a doublet of Pembroke blue, trimmed with purple velvet to emphasise his new status as heir presumptive.

They made a pretty picture, even before Harry drew rein at the base of Ludgate Hill and leaned over to kiss Mary’s cheek, brushing her skin with his lips as tenderly as any brother might a beloved sister.

That sent the crowd into redoubled raptures of delight.

Behind them, at a carefully calculated distance, close enough to clearly be part of the bridal party, but not so close as to outshine Mary and Harry, rode Meg and their young cousin, the Suffolk heir, Lord Lincoln.

Like her younger royal cousin. Meg was a russet-haired Tudor beauty and she played up to it, dressing in vivid peacock blue studded with large creamy moonstones and a crown of bright, fresh cornflowers sitting atop her flowing veil. Lincoln, meanwhile, took after his dark-haired father, and so wore cream silk embroidered with the Brandon arms to escort his cousin.

Unfortunately for the young Earl, however, their horses were a matched pair of bays given to Meg as a wedding present by her doting aunt and uncle of Suffolk. Being meant for Dorset, the stallion was far too large for Lincoln to manage comfortably. However, the little boy had such an endearing look of concentration on his face, determined not to disgrace himself at such an important occasion, that no one dared laugh, only smiled and clapped encouragingly as he trotted doggedly by.

The quartet drew rein at the steps of St Paul’s and, at the top, Luis and Henry Grey, Marquess of Dorset, turned to look down at them. Dorset looked fine enough in soft dove grey embroidered with the scarlet rounds of Dorset, but he was outshone ten times over by Luis, who glittered in cream silk with the arms of Portugal picked out in gold.

Mary lit up as Luis’s eyes met hers. She beamed up at him, scarcely seeming to breathe as they looked at each other.

So focused on Luis was she, in fact, that Harry had to cough twice before she managed to realise that he had dismounted and was holding out his hand to help her from the saddle.

Meg was nowhere near as radiant a bride, but the brittle smile she was wearing for the sake of the people melted into a mischievous grin as she realised how besotted Mary was by Luis.

She elbowed her cousin and murmured something that no one else could hear beneath the cacophony, but which made the fifteen-year-old laugh and embrace her, much to the delight of the watching Londoners.

The crowd were so obviously thrilled by the cousinly affection, in fact, that Mary, born and raised to please the people, instinctively wrapped her arm around Meg’s waist and pulled her with her as she turned to mount the steps towards their husbands-to-be.

Following Mary’s lead, Harry and Lincoln fell into step beside them, Harry on their right, Lincoln on their left.

As though by some prearranged signal, the four of them dipped simultaneous obesiances to acknowledge the crowds’ acclaim and then climbed the steps together to Mary and Meg’s double marriage.

Chapter Text

Harry drew rein in Hatfield’s courtyard, patting his dapple-grey pony on its neck as he dismounted, “Good boy, Jester!”

“I still don’t understand what we’re doing here,” Henry Howard groaned, “I know you want to be a good brother to Lady Elizabeth, Harry, but she’s only a baby. We only saw her a few weeks ago at the King’s birthday celebrations. Do we really have to visit again?”

“I told you, Hal, it’s not Lillibet we’ve come to see. It’s Lady Bryan. I need to ask her something important, but I didn’t want to do it in front of the rest of Court. But if you don’t want to be here, you don’t have to. You can ride back to Durham House. Link and I will see you back there.”

“Don’t be daft,” Hal snorted, “Of course I’m coming. My father would kill me if I didn’t.”

So saying, he swung down from the saddle and arranged himself importantly at Harry’s right shoulder, using his age and height to shoulder Henry Lincoln aside.

Harry rolled his eyes at the older boy’s arrogance and led the way inside.

Sir William Talbot, Lillibet’s uncle and steward, greeted them with some surprise.

“Lord Pembroke. Lord Surrey. Lord Lincoln. How nice to see you. We didn’t expect to see you again so soon. What can we do for you?”

“Lord Talbot,” Harry nodded to the older man, “Forgive the intrusion, but I need to speak to Lady Bryan. Might I be able to see her, in private, ideally?”

William Talbot’s face twisted into what might possibly have been called a grimace for a moment, before his habitual good manners reasserted themselves and he bowed.

“Of course, Lord Pembroke. I’ll take you up to the nursery. Though I warn you, Her Highness is most possessive over Lady Bryan at the moment. If my niece is awake, you’ll be lucky to snatch so much as a word with Lady Bryan, let alone one in private.”

Harry exchanged a confused glance with his friends, who shrugged and followed him up the stairs.

Hatfield’s nursery suite was a bright, airy, set of rooms, tastefully decked out in the Tudor colours of green and white, though the cornices and wood such as the bedposts, were largely carved into prominent stars and lions. Hal whistled. “Well, the Queen isn’t letting anyone forget Lady Elizabeth’s Talbot ancestry, that’s for sure.”

Harry heard him, but said nothing, for, at that moment, Lady Bryan walked in, Lillibet in her arms.

Harry’s little sister was clearly only half-awake. Nestled against her governess’s chest, the sixteen-month-old was blinking sleepily, her thick dark curls ruffled with pillow down. Harry smiled at her and crossed the room to kiss her cheek.

“Hello again, Lillibet. Do you remember me?”

“It’s Lord Pembroke, isn’t it, My Lady?” Lady Bryan’s voice was high, encouraging, and Lillibet smiled shyly as her governess continued, “We’ll enjoy playing with him when you’re more awake, won’t we?”

“While my sister wakens, might I have a word with you in private, Lady Bryan? I have a question you might be able to help me with.”

“Of course, Lord Pembroke. I’d better not leave the nursery, but we can go over to the window. Come with me. Susanna…” Half turning away from Harry, Lady Bryan gestured to one of the nursery maids tidying away Lillibet’s toys, “Come and take Her Highness for me.”

Susanna paled for a moment, but curtsied amiably enough and stretched out her arms as she stood up, “Yes, Lady Bryan.”

Lillibet murmured slightly as she was passed across to the younger woman, but was too sleepy to do more than that. Without missing a beat, Lady Bryan turned back to Harry, took him by the shoulders and steered him to the other end of the room.

“Right. You have all of two minutes before Lady Elizabeth wakes up enough to realise I’m not waiting on her hand and foot and screams the place down. What can I do for you?”

Faced with such a direct question, Harry’s courage faltered.

“I…I…,” he stuttered, before blurting it all out in a rush, “Mymotherwhydidn’tshewantme? I’mherson,didn’tsheloveme?”

His gabbled question felt into a silence as heavy as night. Unable to bear looking at Lady Bryan, Harry squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing hard.

“Mary adored Queen Katherine,” he muttered, forcing himself to calm down enough to speak more clearly, “Mary adored Queen Katherine, and Queen Mary might have wanted a boy rather than Lillibet, but even she plays with her at the big Court feasts. I don’t think I’ve ever even spoken to my mother!”

“That’s because your mother never comes to Court. Lady Hunsdon prefers the peace of the country.” Lady Bryan’s voice was tight, but she wasn’t entirely forbidding in her manner. Screwing his courage to the sticking place, Harry dared to peep up at her.

“But… but… I’m her son. Shouldn’t I come first?”

Lady Bryan blew out her cheeks and laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“It’s not that easy, Your Grace. Of course Lady Hunsdon loved you. I’d wager she still does. You’re a fine boy. Any mother would love you. But Lady Hunsdon was newly married when she met your father. Yes, of course she loved you, and she loved the King, as any loyal subject must, but she also knew she had a duty to Lord Hunsdon. All wives owe a duty to their husbands, and Lord Hunsdon sacrificed a lot when His Majesty took a shine to Lady Hunsdon.”

Lady Bryan paused for breath, but, before she could continue, a scream tore the air.

“Muggie! Lillibet want Muggie!”

“Now, Your Highness, Lady Bryan is busy. She’s talking to Lord Pembroke. I’m sure she’ll come back to play with you in a minute. Why don’t we get your spinning top out while we wait, hm? You love your spinning top, don’t you?”

“No! Lillibet want Muggie! Lilibet want Muggie!”

Startled by the sudden noise, Harry glanced back. Lillibet was writhing in her nursemaid’s arms, pink with temper. Fascinated, Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away. He’d never seen his sweet sister act like this. Lillibet was kicking and bucking like a wild pony. Even as he watched, Susanna lost her hold on her, dropping her to the floor with a pained gasp.

The sudden fall silenced Lillibet for a moment, before she scrambled to her feet, wailing ever louder.

“Muggie! MUGGIE! Lillibet want up! UP!”

Lady Bryan rolled her eyes, “What did I tell you, Your Grace? She wants no one else.”

Drawn by her governess’s voice, Lilibet ran over, stretching her arms up to be carried.

“Up! Muggie, Lillibet up!”

“Now, Your Highness. Temper and I want don’t get. I’m busy with Lord Pembroke, I’ll pick you up in a minute. Go and play with your spinning top, there’s a good girl.”

Lady Bryan attempted to be firm, but Lillibet was having none of it. Quick as a flash, she threw herself on the ground. She caught Lady Bryan’s trailing skirts between her teeth, and hung on, sobbing and kicking the floor with all her might.

“MUGGIE! MUGGGIIEEE! MUGGIEEE, UUUPPP!”

“Oh, for…” Lady Bryan groaned, “Very well, Your Highness. I’ll pick you up. But I need to finish with Lord Pembroke, so you have to be good. No wriggling and no crying. Is that clear?”

As though a fountain had run dry, Lillibet beamed and nodded. Lady Bryan sighed and heaved her up into her arms, rolling her eyes as Lillibet laid her head on her shoulder, humming contentedly.

“Vixen. She knows how to get what she wants. It’s a shame she’ll never have a younger sibling. She could do with someone dislodging her crown as England’s cossetted darling. Anyway, Lady Hunsdon. She had to choose, Lord Pembroke, between her duty as a wife and her duty as your mother. The only way she could honour both was to let His Majesty raise you as befitted your station as his eldest son. She knew His Majesty would be able to offer you more than she ever could. But in choosing to let you be His Majesty’s son, she knew she would have to stay away. To do anything else would be to risk ill-feeling, either between yourself and the King, or between herself and her husband, and Lady Hunsdon is too dutiful a wife and subject to risk that happening. And, though you don’t know Lady Hunsdon personally, it is still your duty to honour her as any son would honour his mother. Respect her choices. Let your loyalty be to the King, and to your sisters, as Lady Hunsdon wishes it to be.”

Harry felt tears of fury and despair rising in his throat at Lady Bryan’s words, but he fought them back. Lady Hunsdon didn’t want him? Fine! He wasn’t going to waste his tears on her either!

“Dukes don’t cry, idiot!” he snapped at himself, before he was pulled out of his thoughts by Lady Bryan placing her free hand on his arm.

“I’m sorry, Lord Pembroke. I know this must be hard to hear. But believe me, I would swear on England herself that both His Majesty and Lady Hunsdon believe that this is the best course of action.”

Harry was nearly undone by her kindly words, He bit his lip, using the pain to focus himself.

He bowed crisply to Lady Bryan, so formal he almost clicked his heels.

“Thank you, Lady Bryan. I appreciate you being honest with me. Lillibet.”

He choked out his sister’s name and swung for the door, beckoning Hal and Link to join him.

Hal was reluctant to leave, as he was enjoying teasing a buxom dark-haired maid, who was giggling and dimpling at him. Still, he was sensible enough to come when Harry growled his name a second time, though he sighed and rolled his eyes as he did so.

What Harry didn’t realise, as he rushed down the stairs from the nursery, determined not to show anyone else his turmoil, was quite how much like his mother he looked. Lady Bryan, who had once watched a young blonde leave a royal nursery under similar circumstances, recognised the dejected shoulders, the trembling set of the head, and had to swallow sharply to stifle her own cry of upset.

“Poor lad,” she murmured, “I hope this doesn’t ruin him forever.”

Before she could say any more, though, Lillibet wriggled imperiously in her arms, screwing up her face with an uncomfortable whimper.

With a practised ease the kind of which Mary Talbot would never acquire with her little daughter, Lady Bryan bore Lillibet off to the nursery’s dark bedroom. Her young charge needed to empty her bowels, but she would only do that in the small private space behind the curtains of her four-poster bed, no matter how desperately she needed to go.

Lady Bryan had never known anything like it, but such were the foibles of toddlers, and Lady Elizabeth, was, as yet, too young to be smacked when she was disobedient, awkward or naughty. For the moment, at least, the household was stuck, held hostage by their little mistress’s every whim.

Chapter Text

Porto, October 1531

“Rei Luis! Rainha Maria! Viva as suas majestades! Viva! Viva! Viva! Rei Luis! Rainha Maria!”

The roar of a delighted crowd woke Mary, drifting as it did across the water and through the window that Luis had cracked open to catch the harbour breeze the night before.

She rolled over, nuzzling into Luis’s shoulder with a sleepy murmur. He chuckled throatily, putting out an arm to draw her closer into his side.

“Good morning, Maria.”

“Good morning,” she replied, tilting her head to kiss the curve of his neck, “Welcome home. Your people are clearly glad to see you.”

“I think you’ll find, Rainha Maria, that it is you they are truly glad to see,” Luis stole a quick kiss as he spoke, “Portugal has sorely missed her Queen since Catherine died.”

“I suppose there is something to be said for the possibility of a secure Succession.”

Something in Mary’s tone set Luis’s heart fluttering. He pushed himself up on one elbow, searching her face. His young wife said nothing, merely smirked at him, winding a sleep-ruffled copper curl around two fingers.

“Maria! Are you saying what I think you’re saying? Already?”

“I’m not certain,” Mary hedged, “I’ve never been particularly regular anyway. But yes, I am late, even for me…and well, we try often enough, don’t we?”

“We certainly do,” Luis nipped at her ear playfully, then pulled them both into a sitting position, burrowing his nose into Mary’s bright hair as she leaned against his chest.

“If it’s a girl, we’ll name her Catarina, for your mother and my sister,” he promised huskily. Mary smiled, then twisted in his arms and put her hand to his cheek.

“Catarina Luisa. And a boy will be Luis. I want my first child to be named for their father.”

Luis caught his breath, but before he could respond, a ‘thunk’ echoed through the ship. The gangplank had crashed on to the quayside. A moment later, there were running footsteps and then a hammering on the door.

“Your Majesties!”

“They’re ready for us,” Mary breathed, starting to shift in Luis’s arms. He tightened his grip, freezing her in place with her arms by her sides.

“Just where do you think you’re going, Madam?”

“To call for Susan. I need to get dressed. Your subjects are waiting for us.”

“Our subjects,” Luis corrected, nuzzling her again, more fiercely this time, “And you don’t need Susan. If you think I’m letting you out of my sight, given what you’ve just told me, you’ve got another think coming. Stay here.”

Laughing, he fell gently back on to the pillowed bed, tugging Mary with him so that she fell back on to his chest.

“Luis, stop it! Everyone’s waiting!”

Despite her weak protests, Mary was enjoying the moment too much to actually force her husband to make it end. It was a full hour before they emerged on deck, sparkling-eyed and pink-cheeked with laughter.

Luis wore nothing but his hose and blackwork shirt, gaping at the neck so that the bowing sailors could see right down to his waist. His thick hair gleamed russet in the autumn sunlight, too tousled to even politely be called windswept.

Mary was little better. Though she had at least attempted to dress more fully than her husband, her stays were loose, her sleeves incorrectly laced and her hood was missing entirely.

A ripple of scandal passed through the watching crowd, but Luis paid it no heed. He merely kissed the crown of Mary’s bare head and swept her up into his arms.

Mary’s shriek of surprise reverberated round the docks.

Thus encouraged, Luis whooped like a boy half his age, and galloped down the gangplank, only pausing once his feet reached Portuguese soil.

“My Lords, My Ladies,” he cried, pitching his voice so as to make it carry through the crowd, “May I present to you my beloved wife, your new Queen, Rainha Maria!”