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1513
The only record of her death is a brief message of condolence from Margaret of Austria to her father; the only record of her life a letter she wrote him just months ago, on her arrival at Mechelen. Perhaps a winter fever took her, perhaps some other infectious disease. Who can say?
And so she vanishes from the pages of history, like so many women before her and so many after. Whatever faint traces she left on the narrative fade away as surely as marks on the sand, effaced by the relentless, churning tide of time.
1528
The King's second-best physician arrives too late. By the time he reaches Hever, the Sweat has claimed Anne as its victim.
In the end, the woman who captured the King's heart, dazzled the court with her French manners and set the whole country in a roar dies a perfectly ordinary death, along with thousands of others.
A judgement from God, her opponents claim. Surely the King will see the error of his ways, now that bitch no longer has him under her spell. Surely he will return to his wife.
In this, as with many other things, they are mistaken. For all his fear of divine retribution, Henry has never doubted, not for one second, that the Almighty takes his side. He may well put on a heartrending, sackcloth-and-ashes display of grief for Anne, and for all the sons they will never have, but the Great Matter continues apace.
Wolsey heaves a sigh of relief, because perhaps, just perhaps, the Pope will grant an annulment more easily if the King pursues a strategic alliance with a French princess. And perhaps, with Anne gone, his slow, steady slip from favour will halt in its tracks. Who knows, he might even gain ground again.
(He is wrong on both counts.)
1533
Anne has had a difficult pregnancy—so difficult, in fact, that Henry ordered the physicians to spare the life of the mother over the child, if it came down to it—and a no less difficult birth. Though Elizabeth is healthy enough, a good omen for the sons that are to follow, it soon grows apparent that her mother is not.
A headache becomes a fever becomes delirium, and with every passing hour, the hope of future sons fades beyond the realm of possibility.
The midwives and court physicians can do nothing, no matter how hard they try.
Messengers are dispatched to every corner of the country, bearing promises of a rich reward for anyone who can find a cure. They come back empty-handed.
Nothing short of a miracle will save the Queen's life now.
God chooses not to perform one.
Her funeral costs the treasury a fortune in black drapes alone. They lay her to rest in the chapel at Windsor, and the King declares he will be buried beside her, when the time comes. Let no one doubt that she was his true and lawful wife.
(Chapuys writes that the Londoners rejoice at her death, even jeering as her coffin passes through their streets, but it's hard to say if he's telling the truth)
Nonetheless, after three months of mourning, Henry looks to marry again. With only one legitimate daughter, he cannot afford to stay a widower for long. Besides, discontent is rising. Too many of his subjects are whispering that he should return to Katherine, or worse, that he will return to her now God has shown whom He favours—as if she was ever his wife in the first place! No, he must marry, and soon. He'll be damned if he doesn't get his son.
1540
Henry falls in the tiltyard days before their son's sixth birthday and strikes his head. After two hours of unconsciousness—two hours that feel more like two years and two minutes at the same time, two hours of desperate prayer, two hours of hasty letters and fevered conversations, two hours of trying to trap the news in a net so it won't get out— he passes into the world beyond.
Once upon a time, Anne was fool enough to hope she'd be able to breathe again, once he was gone.
But no, here she is, hurtling towards Hatfield with George, Jane and Lady Latimer, to tell her children their father's dead. And that's only the start. Hal will have to be moved to London for the coronation—King of England at five, may God help him. She must call the Council, break the news to those who haven't already heard, and after that, someone will need to inform the public, arrange for masses to be said for the King's soul, organise the funeral—though they'll have to move the body first, a hard task in itself. Henry did not moderate himself at the table, these last few years.
Only the need to focus on the road keeps her from laughing hysterically. God, she always said the jousts would be the death of him some day, if not to his face. But so soon, so soon.
She is named Regent in the latest copy of his will. That was something she had to fight tooth and nail for; indeed, she hardly thought it possible after the business with the Seymour girl (banished, but not without a struggle), or the dispute over the monasteries (she'd like to imagine the people think better of her for the hospitals and schools that have sprung up in their stead), or the rising of the North (mercifully blamed on Cromwell, not her).
Not after the Lady Mary landed herself in the Tower and Henry nearly brought the wrath of the Emperor down on their heads. At least she is in Bavaria now, married to a Lutheran who will never set his children up as the true Catholic heirs to the English throne.
Not after the time two years ago—she still shudders to remember it—when she feared for her very life: isolated at court, under taint of heresy, married to a man who'd long since tired of her, even if she was mother to his son.
He spared her. He spared her, but by God she had to grovel for it.
Ever since he laid the crown of St Edward on her head—no, before that—she's been sailing between Scylla and Charybdis, trying to keep clear of perils on every side. No calmer seas await her, she is certain; that is not the way of the court. But at least now she gets to steer her own course.
They've reached Hatfield. Hal and Bess will be at their lessons. She's loath to shatter their ignorance, but she dismounts and steels herself for what she must do.