My first story here. I intend (by the grace of Fictionpress) to publish a new chapter at least once a month.

April 21, 1509

Richmond Palace, Surrey

He left the room, pushing his way past the kneeling lords, ladies, prelates, and councillors, leaving them to their mourning. He would not mourn: he could not, now that he knew the truth.

Six years lived inside a lie.

When they'd told him the King, his father, had a few last words for his ears alone he'd expected one last morsel of advice, or perhaps an exhortation to look after his grandmother and younger sister – as if he would throw them out on the streets otherwise. The last thing he'd expected was a confession.

The old man hadn't even bothered to show remorse for what he'd done. Repentance, yes: he'd wanted the matter scraped off his soul. But even as he lay on his deathbed gasping for breath he'd refused to understand what his six-year-old crime would mean for his son or Catalina, had refused to acknowledge that it would change things - change everything.

He'd been drunk the day it happened, the bastard had said. Drunk, resentful that Catalina lived while Arthur and his beloved Elizabeth did not, furious at her cries of poverty – he'd lost control. It had been brutal, violent, punishing. She'd fought him tooth and claw to no avail; she'd been too small, too weak to withstand his lust. And in the same breath – the very same tortured breath in which he'd dismissed the greatest sin of his life as a 'regrettable act' – the thrice-damned son-of-a-bitch had ordered him to marry the girl. 'Get a dispensation', he said. 'The Holy Father will understand.'

Perhaps he would, he thought, but I will not. And I will never humiliate Catalina by parading her shame throughout Europe. She is the greater victim here. I lost my bride the night you raped her; she lost everything.

He stopped in his tracks and snorted a bitter laugh. As if I could have been a proper husband to her in the first place.

He'd spent years convincing himself it was possible. She was a friend and he'd loved her dearly, had loved her ever since she arrived from Spain to marry his brother. It wasn't until his voice deepened that he realized he could only ever love her as a sister, not as a knight should love his lady. He had pushed that filthy truth away: he'd pretended with his friends, had joined in their ribaldry, had said all the right words. As a natural player he could mimic Brandon or Compton effortlessly. But it was indeed just a play; he couldn't understand what they saw in women.

Or, better put, he could, just not in women.

He'd promised himself above all that he'd do right by Catalina: he'd force himself to do right by her if necessary. And if his father – his predecessor – hadn't been the monster he'd surely been, perhaps he could have succeeded...perhaps.

But Catalina's plight meant that the sickness in his soul, the sickness years of prayer had never conquered, could very well end the Tudor dynasty. For how could he sire an heir on a woman he barely knew?

He laughed again, the sound ashes in his ears. How you delude yourself, Your Majesty. How could you sire an heir on any woman when you wallow ears-deep in sin?

He took a candlestick from one of the tables in the long gallery and entered his father's cabinet. It contained all the old man's treasures – the chairs he'd brought from France, his prie-dieu, his desk…oh how the old goat had loved that desk…

It had happened right here, right in front of the window.

He wondered if the courtiers had seen.

By then his father's grooms – no, his grooms now – had arrived. One was building a fire in the fireplace while another was placing candles in the sconces. Good men, he thought absentmindedly; they don't ask questions, don't need to be told what to do, don't need me to even look at them, thank God.

Before they left he asked them from over his shoulder to remove Henry Lancaster's painting from the room. They obeyed immediately; he heard them unhooking it, turned to watch them carry it out – and caught sight of the back of a tall, lithe young man, blond tresses spiralling down over his shoulders, livery uniform tight across—

No.

He strode to the door and turned the key in the lock.

Fifteen minutes later every piece of furniture in the room was reduced to kindling.

He was Henry, by the Grace of God King of England and France, Lord of Ireland, eighth of that illustrious name.

He was a sodomite.

God help him.