A word of warning. This is the sequel to my previous story in my Matriarchy Universe, Lionesses Regnant. Please read that first or this will make no sense at all!

Lisbon, 1536

"So, we're agreed. Lady Arabella will marry Your Majesty's youngest brother the summer after her sixteenth birthday," Anne stretched languidly in the window seat and beamed across at the Portuguese Queen.

Queen Isabel nodded, "Indeed. I am delighted, Cousin Anne, to know that our countries are re-establishing their traditional alliance at last."

"As am I," Anne replied, reaching out to touch the other woman's hand. She knew she was acting with startling informality, but then, this wasn't a formal state banquet. They'd have one of those tomorrow, when Arabella had formally been betrothed to Lord Charles. This was just a chance for the two Queens – and their Consorts – to get to know each other.

For all her regal training, Anne was struggling to hide her impatience to have the ceremony over with. She'd be mightily relieved to have her second daughter's future assured at last. It had been up in the air for far too long. Arabella was already of age and most second daughters were either betrothed long before that or earmarked to enter the Church. The matter of Arabella's marriage had been a most ticklish one, however. Her husband had to be high-ranking enough to be worthy of her as a daughter of Albion, but not powerful enough that, should either of them get any ideas in their heads about pressing her claim to the throne of Scotland, they would actually have enough might behind them to suit their actions to the word.

It had been a difficult yet crucial balance to strike, especially given the difficulties Rachel and David seemed to be having filling the nursery at Ludlow. It was six years since they'd begun to live together as husband and wife, yet they had only one child to show for their efforts. One miscarriage, two stillbirths and a single living child. A girl, thankfully, albeit not the healthiest.

Anne cut that gloomy train of thought off before it could go any further. Whatever the state of her granddaughter's health, she was alive and Rachel and David were still young. They had plenty of time to provide little Elizabeth with a sister or two.

Suddenly painfully aware that she'd been lost in thought for a shamefully long time, Anne turned back to the Portuguese Queen. Her lips parted as she prepared to say something, but she was interrupted by the entrance of their husbands.

The men were windblown and ruddy-cheeked with exercise, clearly sharing a merry joke, James's wiry arm slung jovially over Prince Francis's shoulders.

At the sight of the women, Prince Francis disengaged himself and came across to Anne, lifting her hand in his and saluting her fingers with a gentle kiss.

"Madam, as I promised, I bring your husband back to you in one piece. Indeed, I dare to say that we are worse off now that we ever were outdoors, for, though we have been in the sun all day, we are only dazzled now. Your beauty is ten times greater than any sun's light could ever be."

Anne scoffed lightly, chuckling, "For shame, Your Highness! You would seek to charm me so in both my husband's presence and that of your wife?"

"Ah, but ma reine, my sweet Isabelle knows that we French cannot control our passions for any beautiful women. And surely your husband can only be pleased to hear such compliments being paid to Your Grace, knowing as he does that he himself is the man lucky enough to be your husband," Francis breathed back, before straightening up with laughter in his eyes and crossing the room to salute his wife. James raised an eyebrow at his back and kissed Anne's cheek before flinging himself down beside her on the divan.

"You look like you've had a good run," she commented and he nodded.

"You'd have loved it. The woods are simply thick with game around here."

"Once the treaty's concluded tomorrow, I'll make sure I come out with you before we leave," Anne promised and James smiled at her.

"You do that."

Their tender moment was broken as Queen Isabel leaned towards James.

"No doubt, Sire, you are in need of some refreshment after the gruelling hunt my Francis tells me he took you on today. I must insist you try this, both of you." Queen Isabel clicked her fingers for a maid as she spoke, and the young girl handed Anne and James cups of a rich, dark, faintly steaming liquid, "It's chocolate, brought over by our explorers to the New World."

Anne sniffed hers experimentally. Bitter, but not unpleasantly so.

She raised her goblet in answer to Queen Isabel's toast, "To our countries!" and took a draught.

Leaning back against her husband, she began to relax, but then the breath shortened in her throat. That didn't feel right.

"Anne?" James turned to look at his wife as the conversation lulled and he suddenly realised she was wheezing, "Are you all right?"

Even as he watched, her beautiful slender neck, one of her finest features, began to swell. Her face turned blue and then purple as she struggled for air. The goblet she still held slipped from her hand, upending its contents and staining her lavish cobalt blue gown irreparably as she clawed at her skin, trying to get some relief from the horrible rash that was spreading rapidly across her face and neck.

"Anne!" James bellowed, pulling her down into his lap and fumbling with her stomacher, not caring that it was completely against protocol. All he cared about was giving his wife a chance to breathe more freely.

So far, Queen Isabel and Prince Francis had done nothing but watch, frozen in horror. At James's bellow, however, Prince Francis leapt to his feet.

"I'll get a physician!" he shouted over his shoulder as he threw the door open and thundered from the room.

"Hurry!" Isabel shrieked after him, "For the love of God, hurry!"

James was grateful to the Prince for trying, but it was too late. He knew it was too late. He didn't know how he knew, but he did. The very marrow of his bones was telling him that there was nothing more they could do for Anne.

He wasn't going to let her see that, though. Adjusting her thrashing body in his arms so that he could hold her better, he began crooning sweet nothings to her, as he had done countless times before when she had woken from a nightmare and sought his comfort.

"Hang in there, darling. You'll be all right. Prince Francis is getting help. You'll be all right. Do you hear me, Anne? Just relax. I've got you. It's going to be fine. I've got you. I've got you."

At last, she stilled in his arms. Her eyes focused.

"James," she croaked, "I'm going to see Cecily, aren't I?"

Tears burned in James's eyes. In that instant, his world shrank down to contain nothing but the two of them.

Somehow, he found the strength to nod and tighten his arms around her, "You are, my heart. You are. And she's going to be so pleased to see her mother. So pleased."

He pressed his lips to hers, sealing all he could never say into that single action. Even as he did so, the death rattle sounded in her throat. Her laughing dark eyes drifted shut, never to open again.

James pulled her up into a sitting position, leaning her against him. He buried his face in her ebony hair and inhaled her scent for the last time. By pure strength of will, he managed to restrain his tears from falling until Anne's laboured breathing had ceased forever.