even if you cannot hear my voice
Title from Run, by Snow Patrol
Westminster, February 28 1511
Fortune's Wheel has come crashing down again.
In the space of a week, red velvet and gold have given way to black, exuberant joy to deepest mourning. Her son, her boy, England's heir is gone, and that fact alone is enough to send her into uncontrollable tears.
She muffles her face in a pillow to avoid waking her husband. He has returned to her bed tonight for the first time since she was churched, more out of duty than any sense of desire. After all, they cannot afford to lose time.
Ever since the news reached them from Richmond six days ago, he has thrown himself into preparation for war with gusto. Whatever grief he may feel is buried beneath a layer of stoicism, as is the way of men. No doubt her frailty would only pain him, reopen old wounds. And yet she can no more stop crying than Noah could have stopped the Flood.
With every passing minute, her sobs grow louder, her breaths more ragged, until she can barely breathe at all.
Henry stirs.
Her heartbeat grinds to a standstill.
"What is it, love?" he says, his voice groggy with sleep.
She inhales deeply to steady herself. "Sorry for waking you, my lord. If—if you wish to return to your chambers…perhaps you will be less disturbed there."
"Were you crying?" He lays a hand on her arm.
"It was foolish of me. I shouldn't have."
"Was it about…?"
She nods. Her voice, when it comes out, is little more than a strangled choke.
"Yes. Yes, it was."
He draws her into his arms without hesitation. "Come, love. We are young yet, are we not? We will have plenty more children."
"I know. That is what everybody says, and I pray it may be so. But—but what use is it to talk of more children when our only son is dead? Dead before he even had a chance to live."
"I—I confess I have felt the same, sometimes." He sounds quieter now, less sure of himself. "There must be some reason behind it—who am I to question God's will? And yet…"
Only when the silence lingers does she realise he is crying too.
Now it is her turn to hold him, whisper sweet nothings, run her hands through his hair. She searches her mind for any appropriate words of consolation. But the only ones she can find are those lines from Job—patient, longsuffering Job, who watched as his livestock, status, beloved children were ripped away from him, one by one, and yet did not curse God.
The Lord gives and the Lord takes away: blessed be the name of the Lord.
(And how He will take, in the years to come)
Bridewell, June 23 1525
"The river is down."
Henry murmurs assent, though he does not take his eyes off the path.
"This weather cannot be good for it."
"No. I doubt it is good for anything."
She offers him a tentative smile. "At least there is shade here."
"Indeed." He smiles back. "Though I wouldn't be surprised if a storm's coming."
What storm? The sky above is untarnished blue, the air below fresh and cool, with none of the heaviness it usually has when something's brewing. No, he must be mistaken, or else searching for some inoffensive statement to make, some kind lie.
Since the events of last week, neither of them have delved beyond empty pleasantries. They dare not.
"Nor I." Two can play at the game. "But we will weather it. We always have."
He furrows his brow. "Well said, my dear."
Emboldened by his confusion, she continues. "Whatever storms God has visited upon you—upon your reign—He has always given you the strength to endure them. And this…situation is no different."
Now he understands. His grip on her arm tightens. His pace quickens—no doubt he wishes to escape the earshot of her two ladies, following behind.
"So that is what you speak of!"
"My lord, I did not wish to cause you offence—."
He clears his throat, on the brink of interrupting, but she cuts in first.
"Only to point out that Mary is the only child of ours God has seen fit to spare. He must have intended her to inherit your throne." She cannot keep the emotion from rising in her voice. "And I would not have her suffer any obstacle we can prevent."
Oh, a treacherous series of obstacles lie ahead for Mary. Her sex, her betrothed's endless haggling over conditions, and now the Fitzroy boy, highest peer in the realm in spite of his bastard blood. But her father will not, must not be one of them.
Her heartbeat quickens when she sees his darkening face. Perhaps she has been too forward with him, pushed him too far. After sixteen years, she should know how rigid, how inflexible he can be when his will is set.
"I have not forgotten that, my dear," he says, through gritted teeth. "But you, of all people, should understand…"
"We must be careful, I know! But to treat that boy in such a way—it is beyond—"
"He is my son, my only son, and I will treat him as I please!"
She flashes a glance at Mistress Carey and Mistress Boleyn. They haven't heard, thank God, or at least they are pretending not to.
"Very well." She lowers her eyes to the ground in a show of deference. "I ought not question your judgement, husband. But remember Mary, that is all I ask."
"Of course." He squeezes her hand, his good humour somewhat restored. "As if I would ever forget her."
In spite of his assurance, she cannot quell the lingering unease in the base of her spine, the sense that, as surely as the meanders in the river, fortune is turning again—and not in her favour.
Still, when, a month later, he at last sends Mary to Ludlow, she counts it a victory.
Windsor, July 14 1531
She should know better than to hope, but hope she does, when he enters her apartments that morning.
What brings him here? This whole month, she has hardly seen him at all; he is always out hunting with Lady Anne and a few select attendants—as if she were his queen! But perhaps his conscience is troubling him; perhaps God has awakened him to the peril of his soul, the dangers of flirting with schism and heresy. Perhaps he realises, at last, that she has only ever sought to be a true and obedient wife. Perhaps, perhaps. These conditionals, these daydreams are all that keep her afloat.
His eyes are still averted from her gaze, and he's playing with one of the richly-jewelled rings on his finger. He only does that when he's feeling sheepish.
"My lord." She lays down her needlework. "I pray God keeps you well."
"He does." He clears his throat. She keeps silent a few seconds, waiting for an 'And you?' It never comes.
She scours her mind for something, anything she can say before he leaves, before this moment trickles away.
In the end, all she can think of is, "I am glad."
"We shall be leaving soon," he declares, as if she had never spoken.
So this, this is all he had to tell her.
Of course, he hasn't specified who the 'we' is referring to. He doesn't need to.
She raises her head, smooths her features into a blank mask and fixes her eyes on his.
"I see. Where are you going?"
"Chertsey. They have better pickings there."
"You must have cleared Windsor dry, with all the hunting you've been doing lately."
A low blow, but it sticks. He falters. "Indeed."
"Well, may God grant you a safe journey."
"Thank you." He shifts on his feet, as if about to go. "And—and goodbye."
"Goodbye, husband." She takes care to place extra stress on the last word. Then she holds out her hand.
He has no choice. He takes it and kisses it.
Relief surges through her veins. There. She has made him acknowledge her. She has made him take his leave. Let him go hunting with his mistress. In this battle, at least, she has won.
She will never see him again, but she does not know that yet.
Durham House, April 28 1509
His brother's widow greets him in the reception room, her ladies flocked around her like Artemis' nymphs. Red hair peeps tantalisingly through her hood; he imagines it splayed out in its full glory, thick and long, imagines running his fingers through it, letting it fan out across his chest as she curls into his side.
"Does your Majesty desire anything of me?" She lowers her eyes and gazes coyly up at him through half-closed lids. The minx. She knows perfectly well what he desires, or at least she hopes she does.
Your hand in marriage, he nearly replies.
He is King of England now. He answers to no man's orders but his own. Whatever he wants, he can have it—and God knows he has never wanted anything as much as he wants her.
What is there to stop him? All he needs to do is speak.
But the words die on his lips.
Perhaps Archbishop Warham's grumblings at yesterday's council meeting are what stop his mouth, perhaps Father's words to Fuensalida last winter. My son and I are free. Perhaps some dimly-remembered passage from Leviticus intrudes on his conscience, about the dangers of marrying one's brother's widow. Perhaps it is none of these things.
Whatever the cause, he says nothing.
Within a month, the Dowager Princess has returned to Spain, where she marries not a prince but the Church. At first, she declares she will surely die soon, from the wrong done to her by the cruel king and his crueller son, but slowly her heart—and pride—recover. In time, she becomes an abbess, renowned far and wide for her piety, learning and strength. And if there are moments when she questions if she ever had (has) a vocation, moments when she wonders what might have been had her betrothed kept his word, she chooses not to dwell on them. She is dead to the world, and dead she must remain.
As for Henry, he heeds the advice of his councillors and marries her Habsburg niece. Young Eleanor lands on English shores the following summer, seasick, homesick and all of twelve years old. She receives a chilly welcome.
The portrait, it turns out, concealed the extent of her protruding chin.
For weeks afterwards, Henry rages and fumes. Why did his servants lead him into such folly, he demands? Why did they allow the artist to wilfully misrepresent the truth? Perhaps he should send his bride back. Certainly he cannot be expected to consummate anything with her!
If only he'd seen sense and married his brother's widow instead.