A/N: All in italics is excerpted from the wonderful novel, The Other Boleyn Girl. I do not own the Tudors series...please proceed. (:

A MOTHER'S LOVE

/a tudors series fanfic/

She pointed at my belly. "That is the problem for me," she said baldly. "All anyone can think of in this family is that you might be carrying the king's son. I have written to Father half a dozen times and he has had his clerk reply to me once. He doesn't think about me. All anyone cares about is you and your fat belly."

It was nerve-wracking, to be frank. She could not keep her mind off the baby because no one else could keep their mind off the baby, because they knew that after these months and months of worry and precautions, it could still turn out to be a girl, and that would be good for no one. Mary Boleyn knew that if a little prince – a bastard prince, but a prince nonetheless – was growing inside her womb, she'd have nothing to worry about. The only reason she'd have any problem would be if she was mothering a girl.

She hated the feeling of everyone's eyes on her, as if they could not look away. Even as she walked amongst the other courtiers, she could not hold a conversation with anyone – anyone – without their eyes slowing turning bored and glazing over and drifting downward, downward, until at last they had reached her round stomach, where her hands were still folded upon her stomacher as if protecting the child from the scrutinizing glares of the people. And if hiding from the public was hard, what was worse was concealing herself from her own family. Her father, with his absurd demands; her mother, with her bothersome monotone; Uncle Howard, with his snide comments; George, with his brotherly concern and constant warnings; oh, and Anne, with her bitter, jealous remarks. Every time her full lips fashioned Mary's name – even if it was meant in a sisterly way, which Mary knew it would never be – the cold hint of a French accent twisted it until it seemed that it was out of hatred.

She was not ready for this child.

She was a girl. Despite all those months of hoping and whispered prayers and even special Masses said in Hever and Rochford church, she was a girl.

But she was my little girl. She was an exquisite little bundle with hands so tiny that they were like the palms of a little frog, with eyes so dark a blue that they were like the sky above Hever at midnight. She had a dusting of black hair on the crown of her head, as unlike Henry's ruddy gold as anything one could imagine. But she had his kissable rosebud mouth. When she yawned she looked like a very king, bored with insufficient praise. When she cried, she squeezed real tears onto her outraged pink cheeks, like a monarch denied his rights.

Was she really the only soul overcome with joy that her little Catherine was healthy and beautiful? What a foolish inquiry, coming from a girl who'd been fairly educated…of course she was. Everyone had been hoping for a boy – the next little prince, bastard or no. She began to feel as vulnerable as the snow that blanketed the ground at Hever in winter, melting quickly in warm, reddened hands. She did not stand a chance up against her family. Their eyes – their matching, cruel dark eyes – analyzed her every move, as if wondering how to make her more fertile. They knew that their very future was based on the idea – the fantasy – that a little boy could develop and grow and become strong with only her womb enveloping him. At least, this was the height of most of their worries. Anne was simply envious (she'd never admit it).

Henry seemed pleased enough, though she could not help but imagine that deep down, under his kingly exterior, he was sobbing. She comforted herself with the thought that (though she loved the queen) she was more fertile than Katherine, and that was all that His Majesty need realize before he opened his arms to Mary and whispered how beautiful their daughter was.

But that still didn't give him a son.

I missed my course in May, and in June I missed again. I told George who put his arm around me and pressed me close to him. "I'll tell Father," he said. "And Uncle Howard. Pray God that it's a boy this time."

And so it was a boy. She had a son – a beautiful, tiny, cooing son, whose little face she could not peel her gaze from. He was perfect in every way, and like his sister, would blend perfectly with the setting of rich tapestries and a large throne to rest upon. They who were fathered by the king lived as such.

"Of what matter is it?" Anne sneered. "He's no better than Bessie Blount's illegitimate waste of space. If the king wanted a bastard, he wouldn't be in such a rush." Mary shot her a glare.

"Do not speak of my son that way," Mary commanded. "A mother's love is something that you would never understand, not even if your very own babe was laid upon your breast. Go, cruel sister. Your presence is not desired." Anne simply snorted.

"Look at you!" she cackled. "Acting as if the throne is yours. It will be mine someday, little sister. Wait and see. And as for you – you're just a mistress, Mary. Another of the king's toys. You are no queen. Forgive me if I say that arrogance certainly does not suit you." And she left.

She did not desire the throne. If she were but a poor countrywoman living in poverty with a poor husband, her children would be all she needed. It was easy to ignore her sister with little Henry smiling up at her.

"The thing is," Anne said lightly, turning her collar up against the cold wind, "I thought I would adopt Henry."

"You thought what?"

"I thought I would adopt little Henry as my own."

I was so astounded, I could only look at her. "You don't even like him very much," I said, the first foolish thought of a loving mother. "You never even play with him. George has spent more time with him than you."

Anne glanced away, as if seeking patience from the river and the jumbled rooftops of the City beyond. "No. Of course. That's not why I would adopt him. I don't want him because I like him."

Slowly, I started to think. "So that you have a son, Henry's son. You have a son who is Tudor by birth. If he marries you then in the same ceremony he gets a son."

She nodded.

Slowly but surely the king's interest in Mary began to wane. The undying love he had once proclaimed for her was now looked upon as but a childish remark, something one might declare after having gone giddy with pleasure. The desire in his eyes whenever he saw her now faded. Now, he wanted Anne.

Mary had known she would see this day. Who couldn't predict it? Henry never liked mysterious women, but slowly, Anne's dark features, alluring accent, and French charm won him over. He was enchanted, as were all of the other men at court. Anne was a queen in her own right. If Katherine had worried for her marriage when her husband's eyes were set on Mary, she must now be tortured to know that his blue irises darkened with lust as they feasted on Anne's beautiful face. And while Mary still yearned for the warmth of the king's arms around her, she had other things to worry about.

Even George had been in on it. George, who she turned to with her deepest confessions. She had finally lost one of her best friends to the game itself – the competition for the throne.

"I don't understand it," she admitted to Anne one night before bed.

"What?"

"Every family wants the throne, and that's all they want," Mary explained. "It makes no sense to me. Why should you want the throne when you could have so much more?" Anne seemed to think Mary had gone quite delirious.

"What more could you have than fame, fortune, and power?" she demanded.

"Family," her sister answered simply.

"You'd still have family."

"No," Mary said. "You wouldn't. Not the right sort of family, anyhow. See the king's distrust in his wife. See how he frolics along, picking up mistress after mistress, while she's left to sulk. See how he minds his daughter, the Princess Mary – with no love or affection. It is as if family is of no importance."

"And it's not."

Easy for you to say…you've only taken my son.

I smiled as she came and sat beside me, looking down at the buckles on her shoes, clearly struggling to say something.

"What is it?" I asked her. "Tell it, Cat, you look ready to choke on it."

At once her head came up. "I want to ask you something."

"Ask it."

"I know that Henry is to stay with the Cistercians with the other boys until the queen orders him to court."

"Yes." I gritted my teeth.

"I wondered if I might come to court with you? I am nearly twelve."

"You're eleven."

"That's nearly twelve. How old were you when you left here?"

I made a little grimace. "I was four. That was something I'd always wanted to spare you. I cried every night until I was five."

"But I am nearly twelve now."

I smiled at her insistence. "You're right. You should come to court. And I'll be there to watch over you. Anne might find a place for you as one of her maids in waiting, and William can watch for you as well."

She had hoped that she could still spare Catherine. Anne had long since taken her greedy share of Mary's life – her lover, her child – and now young Catherine should have to experience the awful life of a courtier as well. She only hoped that the horrible gossip did not embed itself too deeply in her daughter's fragile mind. It was awful enough, what people were saying about Anne. Catherine need not hear it, too.

This was England. This was expected. Of course Catherine would become just another Boleyn girl.

She was rather excited about going to court. If only she knew what to expect (because Mary still didn't).

Both of her children thrown into a world of no mercy…and her left with no way to help. But a mother's love is stronger than one might think. It surpasses the limits set by the human race. A mother might do anything to protect her children.

Anything at all.