This is a missing moment, let's say so, about the death of Catherine of Aragon and the way it affected Thomas Cromwell. Yes, it's a bit strange, but after some researches it was impossible to me not to write something like this. Well, I'm also starting to see them as a pairing, but I assure you it's not the case LoL! Hope you like it:)
The honest admiration of an enemy
Thomas Cromwell walked in a hurry that morning; it was Christmas time but the sumptuous celebrations at the Palace didn't exempt him from the hard business in that situation that seemed to run even faster than him. He walked quickly, almost ran, with some documents under his arm and the uniform of Lord Chancellor that never seemed to fit him so well; he sharply stood aside some people who were asking for his attention and reached for his office in his chambers warning his servant to let nobody in, closing he door behind his back. But the door opened again just a few minutes later and the same servant peeped out sheepishly, maybe still afraid of the dark character that his master was and unsure of what reaction he could have had to have broken his command.
"Forgive me, Sir, there's doctor Edmund Bedingfield" he started after some seconds, making a slight bow.
Cromwell looked up from the papers just to glare at the poor boy.
"I've expressly told you that I didn't want to see anyone!" he simply said with a heavy sigh; he was too busy to really get angry.
"It's abaout the Princess Dowager of Wales, Sir…" added then the young man in a new try, this time succeeded because hearing that name, his master left definitively any other duty.
Even under another title and after years, the awe that woman could cause in any person, one of his relentless enemy included, seemed to have remained unchanged.
"Let him in!" he nodded, unwillingly joining the hands under his chin nearly as a form of pray.
Then he slowly stood up and received the newcomer, ejecting another heavy sigh at the sight of the expression on the physician's face; he had the distinct impression that the year that was coming would have marked an epochal change, and maybe the one that was ending, would have took away one of the woman that, even unwillingly, had been a protagonist of it.
The news of the death of Catherine of Aragon didn't arrive on that last day of 1535 and not from the mouth of her physician, but some time later from one of her few loyal friends left, the ambassador of the Emperor, Eustace Chapuys. By his words, she passed away on the evening of 7 January after a fake and brief recovery, and it was like everything in England passed away with her. Even Cromwell, that should have rejoiced for the defeat of a such great rival, couldn't not feel in that victory a strange sense of loss.
He had won, it was true, but the game had been uneven and the White Queen in her place on the chessboard was meant to loose since the start. And yet it had took so many black pawns to actually catch her: the cardinal Wolsey, Anne Boleyn and her family, the archbishop Cranmer, Henry: they were some of the enemies that took the field to destroy her, but she, with a bravery and a determination worthy of a true Queen, had perfectly stood her ground.
"I'm sorry…" he murmured after moments of silence, bowing slightly his head as a sign of respect.
"Really?" Chapuys asked ironically, not repressing his astonishment.
"You see, your Excellency, I believe that Nature provided her wrong in no making her a man…" honestly answered the Lord Chancellor "But for her sex, she would have surpassed all the heroes of History"
And in the end, she was the one to win: one of the few women who could have defeat an army of men, one of the few fighters who could boast to live this world with the honest admiration of an enemy.