A/N: I have always been fond of Henry's fourth wife, I found her interesting as a person and as a potential power. 'The Tudors' only made me love her more. So, after long considerations and battles with myself, I decided to write a short AU piece in which the death of Kathryn Howard makes Henry turn to a more reliable Queen, which is his one-upon-a-time-but-not - really wife Anne of Cleves. This story takes its main inspiration from the series 'The Tudors'. So to those of you that cringe when history is butchered to fit some author's ideas, I hope you may forgive the inaccuracies - both for characters portrayal and action - and still read the story with some pleasure.

Disclaimer: I do not own 'The Tudors', of course. I am simply a fan looking to have some fun with its engaging characters.

Enjoy


Henry was not certain what had led him to this woman's bed. His most beloved sister. How laughable! God would punish any brother that ever lay thus with his sister. But before being named sister, she had been his wife. His wife. Henry traced the swell of her hip and smelled her scented hair, not without feeling a stirring. What was it that made her appealing now, after all this time?

Kathryn had failed to become quick with child. After many beddings she showed no signs of new life within her.

Anne – or Anna as she told him her name to be – stirred lightly, pressing her body firmer to his. Nay, his thoughts were not brotherly, nor decent. What had started as feather-light touches turned into strokes. Had he really though her a mare? It all seemed like some distant dream. Christmas had made all the difference, and this woman, so honest and untouched by the cruelty shown to her, was finally deemed desirable. A murmur, a light hiss of contentment left her as his palm passed over the dip of her waist. Henry closed his eyes and draped his arm over Anne's middle. She was warm, solid proof that he was not alone. He could not be alone.

Jane had brought all this on with her death. It had been too soon for Anne. Henry wished he could turn back time. If only he had had the time to properly grieve his beloved Jane. She had left a hole within his heart; his very soul had been torn by her demise. Henry had not known how to properly fill the void. Women did not leave him. He tired of them; he grew to despise their tricks. Nay, women did not leave him, he left them. What he wanted he got. Except for when that which he desired he came to understand too late. Such was the case of Anne. Her he could not touch now, not with a clear conscience, not without a heavy heart.

Henry had been surprised when she handed the ring back. Her wedding ring. It seemed to him that she was trying to sever some sort of tie that had up until that point escaped his notice. A thing of no importance, she'd called it. But it had meant something to him, having the gold piece in his hands. Henry hadn't told her, nor was he likely to, but the ring was not destroyed. He kept it as a reminder of what could have been.

No matter, Kathryn was his wife, young and sweet and innocent. Anne would remain his secret. Creeping into this bed with her, holding her for comfort, it would have to be enough. He would only ever know this half-fulfilment, and they were all the better for it. This sudden urge to have her would pass. Embracing her was enough. Henry wanted to prove to himself that even so close to temptation he could hold back. For Kathryn, he could do it. Anne understood he did not seek to perform with her. She took his hold for what it was and drifted to sleep in his arms. Such was her innocence. She trusted in him.

How long was it since a woman placed her trust in him, truly? In him, and not in her own sway over him?

The anger would pass. Henry held onto Anne just a little tighter than before, willing her presence to soothe him. Sleep would not come if he kept wandering inside his mind. Henry stilled his thoughts, suppressed them until nothing passed the thick shroud of darkness that had descended. Dreams took him to places unknown.

When Anne awoke the sun had not yet risen. The pale morning light bathed her rooms, illuminating what had been previously in the dark. Somehow and sometime during the night positions had been shifting. Anne found herself facing the sleeping monarch, one of his legs between hers, caught in the many layers of her shift and covers. One hand pillowed her head, fingers tangled in her light brown hair, the other encircled her, palm resting on the small of her back.

This was as intimate as she had ever been with her former husband, Anne realised with a queer wave of sadness shooting through her. They had shared a bed before, yet they had not touched like this when there was nothing to be gained by it. She felt his muscled leg between her own with a sense of incompleteness. As if something was missing. Strange. When he had tried to consummate their union, she had not felt this thrill at his skin touching hers. Anne had been afraid and shy, not at all warmed by his invasive touch. Now it felt different. Pleasant. She hummed softly

In proper light she could see the hair at his temples had started to grey. Had he had silver streaks when they first met? Anne did not remember. In fact everything about those first few meetings was confused and hazy. What she did recall to this day was the unmistakable sense of danger rolling off of the man.

To Henry women were prey. He was, as many others of his sex, a conqueror, or so he desired to believe. The women willingly played the game with him. They were to be seduced with soft words and evidence of passion. Having seen him thus, Anne did understand the appeal. He was no young gallant, but he was still handsome in his dignified way, she ruminated absently, gently brushing a silver strand away. She could not blame those women that fell for his charm. Hadn't he convinced her to allow him to sleep in her bed using said allure?

He might not have taken her maidenhead, but Anne did not doubt he had felt some sort of attraction to her then. He had to. Henry was the one to ask permission to join her in her rest. To tell the truth, she had been slightly disappointed when he showed no sign of wanting anything more than an embrace of her. Yet she was not so foolish as to demand more than was her due. She was no longer wife to him.

He took on a silly little girl to be his Queen. Anne held no malice in her thoughts. It was a simple observation, based on what she had seen of Queen Kathryn. She was lively and sweet and very, very young. She hoped Henry found comfort in her. For all her silliness, she might love the King. He showered her with gifts and affection, and for a girl so taken with these worldly gains, Kathryn was sure to return his affections.

Allowing such thought inside her head would do her no good. What was done was done for better or worse. Warm brown eyes looked with kindness upon the sleeping man. She kissed his brow and made to remove herself from his hold as easy as she might. He must have been tired. She had seen it in his face. She'd heard it in his voice.

"You think to leave me before I wake?" he questioned, startling Anne just as she was about to lift his arm off her waist. Yet Henry did not give her the chance to do more than squeak in surprise.

"Your Majesty," she said softly. "Good morning." A smile played on her lips. Had this been the days of their marriage she would have most likely gone red and stuttered out a reply. But a far less shy Anne accepted the kiss to her cheek with grace. "I hope you have rested well."

"Very well," Henry replied, taking her hand in his. In a not so distant past he would have rolled out of bed and been about before she could gather her courage and reciprocate. This time though he was content to hold her hand until her lips found his own unshaved cheek.

It was her first kiss that had woken him from his light slumber. These days he found himself waking early and pushing his body to its limit, hoping that keeping fit would enable him to better satisfy his young wife. But lingering abed with the warmth of Anne held in his arms proved too big a temptation. Kathryn would have to wait on his pleasure.

The newfound playfulness pleased him. This woman understood him better than he thought she once did. As if sensing he was in no hurry to leave her presence, Anne settled back in his arms, careful of the leg she knew bothered him. "Where are you headed for, Your Majesty?"

Distractions worked best. "I plan to see my son." There was a certain pride in his face when he spoke of his son. But joined too was sorrow. It seemed that he could not think of the son without remembering the mother. "He will be turning four years old." Anne had not seen Edward, Henry recalled. "I should like to introduce you two one of these days."

"Nothing would make me happier," she murmured, pleasantly burying herself into his chest. "Whenever it is deemed appropriate." Her accented voice proved oddly soothing.

Only later after they had separated ways and Anne was left to her thoughts, only then was the struck by the enormity of it all. After the annulment of their short-lived marriage – and the humiliating, emotionally scarring attempts to bed her – Henry had not sought her out at first. But then the most amazing thing, he visited her out of the blue. Anne had learned to expect the unexpected. She learned not to hide her smiles. She learned to relax in his presence, and all was well.

For her it seemed most natural to keep a close relationship with his children. Even if briefly, she had been their stepmother, and she had grown exceedingly fond of both shy, reticent Mary and lively, naïve, sweet Elizabeth. She would never have children of her own; she no longer had a husband, yet she could dote on those presented to her by the King in good cheer. Mary was perhaps more her friend than her daughter, a lady of strong opinions and kind-hearted, if timid. But it was understandable of a person who had gone through what she had endured. Elizabeth glowed, unstained by the treachery of court. She was smiling and dancing and generally a happy girl, though aware of the potential danger to her life should she anger her father. That made her careful of him.

Edward was yet unknown to Anne. Whispers painted him as a healthy boy with his mother's looks and his father's constitution. He enjoyed playing and was shy of strangers. He was content in the care of his many caretakers and delighted in his father's visits and gifts whenever he benefitted of them. By all accounts a delightful child who would make his father proud, and had his mother lived she would have been in agreement.

Anne spent the rest of her morning on a piece of embroidery, knowing well enough that Elizabeth would relish in the chance of having the time with her father. It was a pity Mary could not join them too; she would have liked it without doubt. Despite their differences, despite the demise of their mothers, the two girls loved their father. Anne imagined they could do little else when they witnessed those instants in which he proved his affection for them too.

Growing up, she had not been close to her own father, Johann the Duke of Jülich-Cleves-Berg. In her case it had nothing to do with an estrangement from her mother, but rather with the simple fact that she was a girl, and women before marriageable age were of little to no interest to their fathers. She could not complain of that. Yet he had died before he saw her married – and shamed then divorced; Anne took comfort in that. Her mother hadn't been all that affectionate with her children either. Duchess Maria was, in her own words, a strict Catholic and an even stricter mother. She had raised three proper daughters, giving them whatever lessons she deemed necessary.

Her sisters, Sibylle and Amalia, had loved her well, and in turn Anne had loved them too. They had been close in age and for a time the best of friends. Until Sibylle was married they had been an inseparable trio. Anne found herself missing the connection. She would look out the windows in her rooms and sigh, wishing to be back in her parents' home, back to playing with her sisters, occasionally stealing out before the household woke in order to swim in the lake. What a pity childhood could not last longer. The English court suited her now, but in those first months she had been lost without the kindness of her sisters.

Wilhelm had been perhaps the sibling she got along with least. As their father's heir he thought to lord his position over all of his sisters, from a very young age presuming to give them orders. Father had been amused, and simply though the boy would play his role well when it came the time. Mother had simply informed them it was their duty to submit to the head of the house. And since Wilhelm was not yet head of the house, they always found some trick or another to pay him back.

Her childhood might not have been filled with adventure, but Anne loved it nonetheless. She had been happy and protected during her father's life. She had not known insult or shame, not until she stepped into Henry's court. Anne wondered briefly what would have been had she married Francis, not yet Duke of Lorraine, only of Bar. Would they have had children by this time?

In truth it had been Wilhelm to insist on her marriage to Henry. Anne had heard tales of gruesome quality about her would-be-husband. She had been afraid. And she had been right to fear him, a man who set aside his first Queen, beheaded the second, and had the third die birthing his child. What met her was not what she had expected. Despite being older than her by much he was still a handsome man. She could have grown to love him, she thought now as the needle pierced the gauzy material of the kerchief she was embroidering. The previous night had proved that much.

"It is of no use, Anna. Turn your thoughts," she advised herself.

"My lady?" one of her maids reacted, probably thinking she had been speaking to them.

"Nothing, Lady Isabella." She smiled to assure them not one thing was amiss. "I think we should have something to drink. I am awfully thirsty."

Her maids had a way of fretting over her every need. They seemed to think that unless her commands were carried about in a blink of an eye she would be displeased. Anne had tried dissuading them, yet the notion remained fixed in their minds. On this day more than any other. Instead of trying to stop them, Anne sat back and waited for her goblet to be filled.

The door opened to admit Henry and his daughter. Anne rose and fell into a curtsy in time with her ladies. She attempted to act as if nothing out of ordinary had passed between them – for in a way it had been a repeat of their conjugal habit of sharing a bed. She surprised even herself with the steadiness of her own voice. "Your Majesty."

"Lady Anne," he said, and she understood the silent permission to rise. He nodded to her ladies, a bit impatient. "I would have words with you, my lady."

Dismissing her women with a nod, Anne wondered if Elizabeth was to stay. But Henry sent her to whatever activities would suit her. Knowing Elizabeth, it would be her new Latin book. "Your Majesty?" What a chance it was from the man he had been mere hours ago.

"My daughter had been singing you praise this whole morning," he noted with a serious voice, yet not at all displeased. Her slightly flushed face brought a smile to his visage. "You have cared well for her. I am grateful to you."

"I have made my sentiments know when it comes to your delightful children." Careful words for unbidden sentiments. Anne smiled, and folded her hands demurely to her front.

"Elizabeth will be visiting with her brother in a two months' time. Should you like to join her, she would be most welcoming." He waited for her answer and was not disappointed by her reaction.

Anne stepped forward and took his ringed hand, bending to ghost a kiss atop his signet ring. "Your Majesty is very kind. I shall tell Lady Elizabeth that I would be greatly pleased to join her."

In this light her hair looked almost blonde, Henry though, biting back the urge to run a hand through the loosely bound strands. How soft they had felt between his fingers. Almost as pleasant as her body in his arms.

"Now, I must make haste and be on my way." Or else he would not be tempted to leave for a longer period. Anne could not fathom what thoughts ran through his mind then, entwined with her amid silken bed sheets. Henry would leave, before he risked anymore than he had. England did not need more enemies.

Elizabeth and Anne saw him off, both in good spirits. They waved and smiled, and he promised to visit with both on another occasion, a visit which would be longer. Perhaps he would be able to sort out his feelings for Anne and this desire she woke in him. He was willing to reflect on the changes that had taken place. Anne of Cleves, how had he dismissed her as being beyond his notice? Henry shook his head to dislodge the thought. He was going to see his son. It seemed utterly inappropriate to think of his never-truly-wife when he ought to think of his truest Queen.

Windsor boasted a lively court of women around his son. Henry found the boy much improved now that words left his mouth in an intelligible manner. No thoughts of female companions bothered him when he put the boy on his knee and gave him the gift he had prepared. Edward was a happy child, and for that Henry was glad. They boy was offered the best, from clothing to toys, and he relished in the attention of others.

Jane would have loved to see him like this. Henry looked at the golden curls of his son, untamed still, and reminiscent of his mother. He could see very much of Jane in his face, around his eyes and mouth. They were alike in temper too. Or perhaps the boy was yet shy of him. Having learned from past mistakes, Henry employed every ounce of patience he possessed – which granted was not a lot. But his son brought out the best in him, so he weathered the occasional sullen lapses into silence with good humour. Edward would not start a conversation on his own, but he answered when questioned and thanked when proper. Once he was comfortable he would venture out a few short sentences at a time.

Henry was glad for having come to see him. He could already picture the child as he got older. He would have his father's stature, and his mother's patience; the best of them both. Under diligent guidance he would be prepared to assume his position when he would need to. Henry hoped to see him grow and become a young man loved by those he met.

Perhaps having Anne, Mary and Elizabeth around him would do the trick. Sweet Kathryn was Queen, her presence was needed elsewhere. She needed to produce a son. And then, once she was a mother, Henry would see about allowing her a say in his children's education. Yet even in his mind it made for a comical image. Nay, if Henry thought better of it, Kathryn would not be all that concerned. Anxiety did not suit her, she would rather dance.

Unwittingly he compared her to his first wife. That Catherine had been born to be Queen, graceful and dignified, with an eye for politics. Her only fault had been her incapacity to give him a male heir. Such a pity. He had been fond of her, even thought he loved her for awhile.

The other Anne had not been so much a Queen as she'd been a lover. And Jane, his dear Jane, she had been perfect, biddable, sweet and docile. If she had not died, none of them would be in this situation. Why did God see fit to give with one hand and take with other? Henry smiled at his son. For the first time in a long time the question did not leave a bitter taste in his mouth. It was what it was.

"Come see what other gifts I have brought you," the King encouraged.


If you would be so kind as to share your thoughts, I would be very grateful. :)