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“Tell me it was a lie.”
Henry doesn't need to speak louder than a whisper. They are both awake. Sleep no balm to the House of Tudor tonight. Nor, she suspects, for many nights to come.
Her brother- Richard is dead. Teddy with him. England is safe. Henry is safe. They have secured Spain as an ally. Catherine of Aragon is betrothed to their son. Europe will not dare speak out against Henry's rule now.
And yet, the comfort does not sink in. The whispers remain. Not aloud, even Maggie would not dare speak it now, but in their minds.
The curse.
Not a curse. A widow and a virgin hurling oaths. Nothing more.
Elizabeth has lost count of the times she has said so. To Henry. To herself. She will lose count of the times she will say it again.
Of how many times it will have to be before she will believe it without doubting. Without fear.
She turns, rests her head on Henry's chest. Feels the soothing thump of Henry's heart under her ear. It is strange now, to think how she never wished to marry him. She cannot bear now the thought of ever being separated from him.
Henry runs his fingers through her hair, holds her a little closer.
She looks up at him. Remembers how he called her the grace of his life. How he had begged her to make peace with Richard. How he had been willing to die if it meant-
No.
She smiles, finding it comes easy to her lips. Ready for Henry. “It was a lie, my love. Nothing more.”
Whatever had been in their hearts, in her heart, when they called down the curse on the murderers of the princes, Elizabeth knows - does believe, must believe - that it will not take. Not to her own blood.
Nothing will happen to her sons. Not to Arthur, her sweet, golden haired boy. Not to Harry, as shrewd and brilliant as both his grandmothers. Nothing shall happen to her girls. And nothing shall happen to Henry.
Perhaps her mother had a talent for curses, using her craft for ill. But Elizabeth is her daughter, and if she possesses her craft at all, she will use it for love. And Elizabeth's love is stronger than any curse. Far stronger, for while hate withers, her love only grows stronger every passing day.
Elizabeth reaches up, cups Henry's face. Prays he can feel the strength of her love in her touch.
“It was just a lie.”
Henry closes his eyes, comforted again at her words. His lips press warm against her temple, returning her unspoken love tenfold.
When he speaks again, his voice is still a quiet whisper. The fear is gone. In it's stead a new kind of hope.
“We will be happy?”
“Yes, Henry,” Elizabeth swears, as fiercely as she loves her children. As she loves him. “We will be happy.”