(A/N) I own nothing. Nada. zilch. Shall we proceed?
the story is a sort of re-imagining of the episode after Jane's death, with Anne as the King's only confidante instead of the fool.
…...
He opened his eyes and there she was, just as lovely as she had been the first time she had caught his eye; her chestnut hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders.
She sat on the chair in left hand corner of his bed chamber, half in shadow and half bathed in the golden glow of the flickering firelight.
There were dried tear-tracks on his face. Henry could feel them there like an itch on his skin. He had locked himself away from all visitors. How had she gotten in?
"Get out," he ordered. "You're dead."
The corners of Anne's lips curled in a slow smile.
"Yes, I am dead," she said this without care, almost laughing. "And so is Katherine and Mark and my brother, and now Jane."
"Jane!" Henry couldn't stop the cry from escaping his lips.
"Poor Jane," Anne cooed without sympathy. "Her death was your fault."
"No. She died from childbed fever." Henry shook his head. "It was out of our…my control."
"But it was your child in her belly, was it not? Your son who killed his mother. He did her a favour really. And you. Now you don't have to invent some lie to have her killed, or to cast her aside, a discarded once-wife."
"You lie, witch," Henry said, his hands fisting in his bed sheets. "I would never have harmed her. I loved her as she loved me. Our love produced a son."
Anne's nostrils flared, incensed. "I carried sons for you. Katherine carried sons for you, but God would not grant them long life outside the womb. Your bastard, Henry Fitzroy, died a mere infant, and this I promise you: Jane's boy will not be too long in this world."
Henry wanted to throttle her. When had the adulteress turned prophet?
"Do you know why?" Anne stood and moved closer to the bed, mockery on her face. "Do you know why your sons die? You blamed it on me, but it was never my fault. I writhed in pain and lost my sons because of you. Because God does not want your likeness, your male heir, to rule this land. Because you are not a good man. You are neither good Catholic nor good reformer, neither good friend nor good husband, nor good man."
Henry lunged and grabbed for her dress, but she danced away, almost translucent for a moment. He blinked and she was solid again, as infuriating as ever. Anne had always challenged him; kept him at arms length and made him want her.
"I loved you," he spat angrily.
She looked at him with her cat-like eyes and there was real pain in them.
"I did believe that once," she pursed her lips. "When you sent me pretty words and pretty tokens. When you swore eternal devotion. But I think 'love' is a cheap word for you, my lord. I think you have never loved anyone. If you are in love at all it is with your own self, your own lusts and desires. Your fickle and ever-changing whims."
She had grown angry. There were twin spots of pink high on her cheeks and her stance, her pointed finger, was accusing.
"No Anne," her named burned on his tongue, "I loved you. It was you who destroyed my love, you who betrayed me."
"What a mind you have," Anne gasped in false awe, "to be so fully able to convince yourself of your own lies. How marvellous."
Her eyes flickered over his body, taking in his receding hairline, the new lines on his face, and the ugly, aching wound on his leg.
"There is a clarity that comes when one's head rests on the block, seconds away from the axe man's swing. I fear you will never have that clarity. I saw my life, my sins; vanity, pride, my coveting of the crown that was my father's sin first. I stole another woman's husband. Perhaps a better woman than me. I should not have taken the path I did. I should have married Thomas Wyatt, who knew what love was. As I am happier dead than with you, I know that I would have been happier with him than as your Queen."
There were tears pricking at the corners of Henry's eyes. How dare she insult him? How dare she come here and cause him pain when his pure and virtuous Jane had so soon died?
"You have locked yourself away. There is fighting in the streets and between your lords and ministers."
"How can I rule?" he begged, "how can I continue without her?" He was going mad. Could she not pity him?
"There are a good many Janes, Annes and Katherines in this world. A good many maids and whores for you to choose from. But there is only one King of England."
She leant down, her face inches from his, and touched her small, pale hand to his cheek.
"Do not pretend that you are here in this hell, for it is hell, I know that now, for any other reason than your self-love, your self-pity. One day I pray you will see the evil you have done, the evil you do," she paused, "but this is not that day. On this day you will get up, send for our dear," she almost hissed the name, "Mr Cromwell, and reassure your kingdom that, at least to all outward appearances, you are well. If you stay here in the dark, I will stay here with you. I will not leave, and neither will they."
'They' had surrounded the bed; pale and deathly spectres who would never, never leave him.
She would never leave him.
Henry reached up and tightened his hands around her slender neck, intending to throttle, but her head came away in his hands and fell into his lap, her blue eyes staring accusingly up at him.
"I do beseech your Majesty," her lips moved, "I do beseech your most gracious Majesty, I do…"
Henry closed his eyes and then, with a great shuddering breath, he awoke.