Preliminary Notes:

To the followers of my other stories: I have been very busy in my new job which kind of forced me to stop writing altogether. Especially for God Works in Mysterious Ways I can say that I would need more time to really focus on some very important scenes I've been working towards for many chapters, but I don't really find that time. Instead, I decided to share this story of short snippets with you, which is just about as much as I can manage to write on my way to work atm. Hopefully, things will get better in summer though. Please stay tuned!

About this story: Henry VIII had a sister named Elizabeth, who was only one year his minor, but history forgot about her since she died very young. But what if she hadn't? How would it change Henry, England, and Europe if Elizabeth Tudor remained on the chess board? Find out in this story in which Elizabeth herself will tell you about her life and the people who shaped it. Who is Elizabeth Tudor? How did she change the course of history?

ONE – Henry and me

When I think of my father, I often wonder who he really was. This of course is not meant to doubt my paternity – it is abundantly clear who my father was, if not by grace of my mother's unquestionable virtue, then by looking at my eyes. Nobody fails to notice and eventually mention that their shape and greyish shade look exactly like his. Unlike many other children of my time, I know for certain who my father was – King Henry VII. But I still ponder the question of what this man was really like.

Today, he is known as a former king of England and founder of the Tudor dynasty without a doubt. But I vividly remember that things didn't use to be like that during his reign when he had to fend off pretenders and rebels calling him a usurper of the throne. Even though I do not doubt my father's God-given right to rule England, I can understand their cause. His claim to the throne was weak at birth, but when he took the crown, there was no other Lancastrian claimant left, and I think there can be little doubt the Yorkists were the real usurpers. It may sound harsh to speak this way about the people who were my mother's family, but I have grown used to speaking hard truths over the years. King Richard was no rightful king and it was my father's right to depose him.

But people did not love him. Many tried to rise against him and even today, he is mostly thought of as an old miser who knew nothing but dusty books with tiny little numbers in them. It hurts me to hear people say such things not only because misjudge the good his parsimony did to this country, but mainly because they didn't know him at all. Did I know him? That's the real question.

I know some things for sure: That he was a thoughtful man who placed reason above whims and duty above pleasure. That he was very close to his mother, Lady Beaufort, who had worked hard to keep him safe and foster his career. And that he loved my mother. It might seem strange to think that a man as sober as my father was capable of love, but I cannot think it otherwise remembering how he treated my mother with such care and respect. Unlike most kings, he never took mistresses, and always showed great interest in her well-being and happiness. He was as good a husband as any noble lady could wish for.

He was also no bad father, even though his royal duties kept him away from us most of the time. Today I know it is only natural for a man of his position to be hardly involved in his children's upbringing, but at the time I often wished he would spend more time with us and was miffed when he didn't. Still, I remember many incidents that lead me to believe he loved each of us indeed. At three, I fell dangerously ill, and even though he was forbidden to come to my sick bed, he had a groom watch over me night and day and report him back, and when by some sort of miracle I did survive, he rushed to my side as soon as the physicians said it was safe.

Whatever people say, he did care for us and we meant something to him. When my brother Arthur died, I recall him sending for the rest of us to come to court for the comfort of my mother, but when we arrived he hugged all of us more tightly than ever before. I could see in his face that we were also there for his comfort, even if he never dared to utter that.

A year later, when Margaret was sent off to Scotland, he asked her for a private audience and would talk to her for more than half an hour, which was very unusual. I never knew what they had spoken about, but from what would happen later I guess he was expressing his pride and love for her in the only way he knew: He wasn't a man of many words, but of good council, and that was his way of doing things. Perhaps his lack of words was also fostered by the fact that mother had died just a few months before Margaret left the country. He hadn't had many words then either – a messenger arrived in Greenwich to inform Margaret, Harry, Mary, and me about our little sister's stillbirth and our mother's childbed fever. By the time we arrived at court, she was already in God's hands. That was what my father told us: "Your mother's soul is in God's hands now. Pray for her." Back then, I was furious at him for being so distant, but remembering the look on his face now, I understand that he was trying to be strong for us. Inside, clearly, he was broken and would never be mended again.

So who was he? I'm asking myself this question because these days, I feel compelled to think about the most important private conversation we ever had, which is odd. Why am I remembering this now? Perhaps because it changed my life?

"Elizabeth," he said to me when I had entered his office. Yes, he had an office just like a clerk, and it was usually stuffed with papers and books and dimly lit by what seemed like a thousand candles. "Tell me what you know about the French and Spanish ambitions in Naples."

"I know the French lost two years ago. Naples now belongs to Aragon," I dutifully told him everything that I, a girl of fourteen, knew about these political matters. I had not heard about my father's inquiries into the recently widowed Queen of Naples's beauty then.

"And you know that our relationship with Aragon has been difficult since your brother's death?"

I silently nodded. I did not know every detail of the problems surrounding Catherine of Aragon and her plight in the countryside then, but I understood that there was some trouble that needed to be resolved.

"Good," my father said. "Then you understand that we cannot neglect these Italian matters."

I nodded again, this time lying. I did not understand why Italy should be any concern of ours, but I trusted in my father's wisdom as a man and a king to know better than me. He rewarded me with one of his rare, wry smiles.

"You look more and more like your mother."

"Do I? People often say I have your eyes," I returned surprised.

"You do, but your smile is hers, and your brows, and your hair. She gave you the best she had to offer."

I blushed. It was childish, perhaps, but I was only a girl and enjoyed being praised for my beauty by my father. Every girl wants to be their father's princess, I presume, even real princesses.

"When she married me, it was not for love, but for the sake of her family and the greater good. She did it for England, you see?" He suddenly said in a different voice, his eyes wandering off to the light of a candle. "And the Lord rewarded her with many beautiful children and a good life as queen, even though he decided to call her away. But her faith in him and dutiful behaviour were repaid. We are all repaid for our goodness when the time comes."

His words baffled and shocked me. I had never heard such philosophical thoughts from him before and for a second feared that he was dying and trying to share some wisdom with me before it was too late. But then he added:

"When the time comes, you must be like her, Elizabeth, and have faith, too."

And then I understood completely, and I nodded. I had known before that this day would come, the day he told me I was going to be married.

"Of course I will, father. If my future marriage can help you and England, I will not doubt it and trust in your good care. I know you would never choose a husband for me who is ungallant."

"No, I wouldn't," he replied, but oddly it sounded more like a question. "You will have a good life."

"May I ask if you have anyone in mind, Your Grace?" That was my notorious curiosity getting the better of me.

"Italy," he said, now making it clear to me what his previous questions had been about. "The Medici family has been driven out of Florence when the French dashed through on their way to Naples, but they are sitting in Venice waiting for their return. They are still well connected and very rich, especially with one of them being a Cardinal, and with the Naples situation being such, it is only a matter of time until they regain Florence. We might do well allying us with them. Their financial support could be crucial."

We both sat there in silence now. I was wondering if he had said similar things to Margaret a few years ago when he promised her to the King of Scotland. What he thought at this moment I will never know, but after some time, he added:

"Lorenzo de Medici is your age and grandson of Lorenzo the Magnificent. I hear he is a talented musician also."

There was something hopeful in his voice, but also something excusing. I knew this was the closest he would ever get to asking my opinion about the matter, and it warmed my heart to know that he cared for my happiness.

"I hear Italy is lovely at this time of the year," I replied smiling.

Now he looked at me again, his wrinkled eyes looking satisfied and relieved. "Yes, I believe so, too."

A month later, Lorenzo and I were officially betrothed. That was in 1506, but it was agreed that I would not leave for the continent until I was older. Today I think my father was buying time to see how the wars and struggles in Europe would continue. Perhaps it was also due to the fact that he was rumoured to think of marrying Catherine of Aragon himself then, but I think he would have never actually gone this far. In fact, while her youth and family background made her a desirable bride, her affinity to my brother would always remain a bar to any other Tudor marriages. My father even once made Harry swear he would never marry Catherine, though we all know how that came about later. Sometimes I think my father should have been stricter and more serious about this matter and we'd all been spared a lot of trouble.

The day I set sail for Italy was a cold and windy day in late January 1509. My father did not escort me to Dover claiming that important matters requested his presence in London, but he held a feast in my honour and gave me a slender, silver bracelet as a personal gift before I departed. I treasure it to this very day just as I treasure what would end up being the last words he ever said to me:

"May your voyage be pleasant, or if God has other plans, may it be the least unpleasant he sees fit."

I like to think that he was not only referring to my passage to Italy, but to my entire life, for all we do between our birth and death seems like one big voyage to me. Of course, back at the time I thought nothing of the sort, but I didn't know these would be the last words I would hear from him, either. When we parted, he placed a fatherly kiss on my forehead and nodded sternly at my brother Harry, whom he had entrusted with escorting me to my vessel and making sure I left England in good spirits. I looked out of the carriage one last time as we left the courtyard, not knowing that only a few months later, the King I called my father would be dead.

Hope you enjoyed the first short chapter. I'll try to update this once a week until it's done. So stick around for chapter number two, in which you will learn about Elizabeth's early days in Italy and her growing involvement in the powerful Medici family! Please feel free to leave a short review! Cheers, Rahja